On Armistice Day 1918 DI Ernest Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police finds himself in familiar territory when he investigates the murder of a prostitute whose body is found beneath Brighton's Palace Pier. Is it a casual robbery or are there more sinister motives for her death? A beach photographer and an army officer involved in the 1917 mining of the Messines Ridge both feature high on Hardcastle's list of suspects. And, in a parallel enquiry, a Westminster alderman makes an allegation of blackmail. Is there a connection?
Release date:
October 14, 2015
Publisher:
Orion
Print pages:
208
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The maroons had been detonated at precisely eleven o’clock, set off by a constable experienced in such matters, from the roof of Cannon Row
police station opposite New Scotland Yard. Across Bridge Street, the chimes of Big Ben sounded the hour, for the first time since the outbreak of war.
In his office on the first floor of that police station, Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle sighed, took his watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it and stepped into the
corridor. ‘Marriott!’
Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott appeared in the doorway of the detectives’ office. ‘Sir?’
‘How many on duty in there, Marriott?’
Marriott glanced back into the office over which, as the first-class detective sergeant, he presided. ‘Seven, sir.’
‘Get them all in my office and tell ’em to bring their own glasses.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, unable to disguise his astonishment.
Moments later, those members of the detective staff of the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police who were stationed at Cannon Row filed into the DDI’s cramped office, each
clutching a glass and shuffling noisily on the bare boards.
‘The Armistice has been signed,’ said Hardcastle gruffly. ‘There’s a bottle of Famous Grouse in that cupboard over there, Marriott. Get it out and pour it. Look lively
now.’
Quickly, Marriott dispensed the whisky, being careful to serve the DDI first in case he changed his mind.
Hardcastle raised his glass. ‘Well, lads, it’s all over,’ he said, and took a sip. ‘Thank God.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Marriott earnestly. Each of the eight men in the room had lost at least one relative in ‘the war to end all wars’ and now, on the
eleventh of November 1918, none of them could really believe that the fighting had finally stopped.
Hardcastle in particular was relieved. His sister’s boy, Harold, had been killed on the first day of the battle of the Somme, back in 1916, but Hardcastle’s only son, Walter, had
been too young to enlist. His threat to put up his age and join the army had been countered by Mrs Hardcastle’s own threat that she would ‘march down to the War Office with your birth
certificate and get you out again if you ever do anything so foolish, my lad’. But with his nineteenth birthday looming – next January – there would have been nothing to stop him.
Save the Armistice.
‘How about a toast to Ted Kimber’s memory?’ suggested Marriott.
Ted Kimber, a promising young A Division detective, had been commissioned into the Suffolk Regiment within weeks of the war starting, and had fallen while leading his platoon in the desperate
attack on Neuve Chapelle in March 1915.
There were murmurs of ‘Ted’ as Hardcastle and the others raised their glasses to their former colleague.
Breaking the brief sombre mood, Hardcastle glanced at the bottle. ‘Well, no sense in leaving any. Do the honours, Marriott.’
Marriott, astounded at his boss’s generosity, to say nothing of his open incitement to breach the draconian discipline code, hurriedly poured more whisky. But this was, after all, a
special occasion.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ An ageing station sergeant stood in the doorway and glanced, somewhat thirstily, at the bottle.
‘Yes, what is it, Skipper?’
‘There’s a woman in the front office, sir. Seems vexed about her lodger what’s gone missing. Seems to think she’s been done in.’
Hardcastle scoffed. ‘Well, it’s Armistice Day, Skipper. I daresay she’s out enjoying herself.’
‘I suggested that, sir, but she says she’s never done the like of it before. Been adrift for a few days apparently and she seems to think that something dreadful might have happened
to her.’
Hardcastle laughed. ‘Aye, I wouldn’t wonder at that neither,’ he said, ‘what with all these soldiers and sailors about. I shouldn’t think any woman’s safe out
there today.’ He turned to Marriott. ‘Nip down and put her mind at rest, Marriott. And you’d better leave your glass on my desk where I can see it, or one of your leery
comrades’ll have it away.’
‘Right, sir.’ Marriott nodded. He could not recall ever having seen the governor in such an affable mood.
‘I’ve put her in the interview room, Charlie,’ said the station sergeant, when the pair reached the public part of the police station. ‘Seems quite upset, she
does.’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Marriott.
The station sergeant glanced at the pad on his desk. ‘Mrs Kathleen Dyer. Lives in Davos Street, off of Horseferry Road.’
‘I wonder why didn’t she go into Rochester Row, then,’ mused Marriott. ‘That’s the nick that takes Davos Street. Duck-shovelled it off on us, have they?’
‘I asked her that, Charlie, but she said as how this nick was more convenient.’
‘Oh well,’ said Marriott, ‘I’d better go and see what it’s all about.’
Mrs Dyer was about forty years of age. Seated demurely in the interview room – a cheerless, draughty room – she was attired all in black: a hat of Spanish straw, a shapeless, faded,
full-length coat and button boots. She had a sad look about her, and Marriott deduced, correctly as it happened, that she was one of the thousands of war widows to whom the Armistice would bring
little comfort.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Marriott. Mrs Dyer, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you live at Davos Street, the station officer tells me. What number?’ Marriott sat down and opened his pocket book, resting it on the scarred and ink-stained wooden table.
‘Number twenty-seven.’ The woman frowned as the noise of cheering in nearby Whitehall penetrated the small room.
‘And I understand that you’re concerned about your missing lodger, Mrs Dyer.’ Marriott looked up.
‘She’s more than a lodger, she’s a friend. We used to work together on the trams, you see.’
‘Perhaps we’d better start with her name, then.’
‘It’s Fanny Horwood, and I’m very worried about her, Sergeant.’ Kathleen Dyer had a grave expression on her face, and her hands, clad in black woollen gloves, were
clasped tightly together. ‘I’m sure something dreadful’s happened to her.’
Marriott wrote down the name. ‘And when did you last see her?’ He knew what the station officer had told him, but he wanted to hear the precise details for himself.
‘Saturday morning, about ten o’clock, I s’pose it must have been.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Marriott closed his pocket book. He had assumed that Mrs Horwood must have been missing for a longer period than that to have alarmed Mrs Dyer so much. ‘Is it
possible that she’s out, celebrating the Armistice? Everyone knew it was coming off, so to speak, and the celebrations have been going on for a day or two now. In advance, like.’ He
paused, as a thought struck him. ‘She’s not, er . . . she’s not a war widow, is she?’ That, he knew, would have made revelry on the missing woman’s part unlikely,
though not out of the question.
‘No, she’s not. At least, not as I know of. Come to think of it, she’s never mentioned a husband. And when I told her about my Gerald – he was killed last year at Arras,
you know – she never said nothing. I mean, if she’d suffered the same way as me, she’d have said, I’d’ve thought.’
‘Well, Mrs Dyer, there’s probably a satisfactory explanation for her not coming home on the Saturday night—’
‘Oh, I knew she wasn’t coming home on the Saturday night, but it’s two nights now, Sergeant, not just the one,’ said Mrs Dyer. ‘She’s a sober woman
and she’s never done nothing like it before. I’m sure she’s been murdered.’
‘Dear me, Mrs Dyer, I do think you’re worrying too much,’ said Marriott. ‘Now, you said you weren’t expecting her back on the Saturday night. Why was
that?’
‘Because she said she was going to Brighton and staying the night.’
‘Did she mention that she was going with someone, a man perhaps? Or did she say where she’d be staying?’
‘I never asked,’ said Mrs Dyer sharply. ‘I’m not one to mind other people’s business.’
‘So, she’s only been missing the one night. Last night, in fact,’ said Marriott, rising to his feet. ‘People do go missing, often for a quite good reason, you know. Like
as not, she fancied staying down a second night. Bit of a lively place is Brighton. She’s probably out enjoying herself, what with the Armistice and all. I’m sure she’ll turn up,
and we can’t very well start searching for her, not this early, if you take my meaning. For one thing, we wouldn’t know where to start. Brighton’s a big place and, as you
don’t know exactly where she went . . .’ He smiled, attempting to lighten the woman’s obvious distress. ‘I daresay quite a few people will get themselves mislaid over the
next few days, but she’ll turn up, you mark my words.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ Mrs Dyer stood up too, shaking her head. ‘Like I said, she’s never done aught like it before.’
‘How long has she lived with you, Mrs Dyer?’ asked Marriott, putting his hand on the knob of the interview-room door.
Kathleen Dyer gave the question some thought. ‘It must be about six months now, I s’pose. She come to live with me straight after the baby died.’
Marriott relinquished his hold on the door handle. ‘Baby? She had a baby, did she?’ His detective’s mind was starting to take an interest in what could be a possible motive for
murder: a woman who had never mentioned a husband, but who had had a baby, might just be expecting another.
Mrs Dyer nodded. ‘Only a tiny mite, it was. Barely two months old when it died. It was the ’flu, you know.’
Marriott did know. Thousands had already died in the influenza pandemic, and more were to do so before the outbreak was brought under control. ‘What was the child’s name, d’you
know?’ He brought out his pocket book again.
‘Blanche, I think. But why d’you want to know that? It’s Fanny as is missing.’
Marriott smiled again. ‘It’s a policeman’s failing, Mrs Dyer,’ he said. ‘We take notes of all sorts of things. Just in case.’ He paused, pencil poised.
‘Did she have a man-friend, at all? Walking out, was she?’
‘Not that I know of. She’d have mentioned it, I’m sure, if there’d been someone.’
‘And no husband that you know of?’
‘No.’ Mrs Dyer paused, thoughtfully. ‘Mind you, what letters she had was always addressed to Mrs Horwood, but, like I said, I never heard tell of no
husband.’
‘She wasn’t pregnant, I suppose?’ Marriott floated the question lightly.
‘No, she was not,’ said Mrs Dyer adamantly. ‘I told you she was a sober woman, and she knew how to behave herself.’
‘Well, if she’s not home by tomorrow, you’d better let us know,’ said Marriott, sensing that the woman was unhappy that the police seemed unwilling to do anything about
finding her friend.
‘I shall, Sergeant,’ said Mrs Dyer, with a show of spirit, ‘you can rest assured of that.’ She wrinkled her nose slightly, certain that she could smell alcohol on the
detective’s breath.
‘Well, Marriott, anything in it?’ asked Hardcastle, when the detective sergeant returned to the DDI’s office.
‘Difficult to say, sir,’ said Marriott, picking up his glass. He summarized what Mrs Dyer had told him, and shrugged. The police knew only too well that the war had upset the normal
pattern of social behaviour, and missing persons were not uncommon, even women. They had been known to run away with soldiers, or had got themselves in the ‘family way’ and, too ashamed
to admit it, had left home to have the child somewhere where they were not known. And Marriott was not wholly convinced by Mrs Dyer’s denial that Fanny Horwood was pregnant, a denial that had
come a little too readily. But even when such people were eventually found, regulations prevented the police from telling worried friends and relatives, just in case the missing person did not want
them to know. ‘I had the station officer make a note of it in the occurrence book, sir.’
Hardcastle nodded. ‘Just have to wait and see,’ he said. ‘No doubt she’ll turn up in a month or two, more than likely with another kid.’
But the next day, the matter of the missing Fanny Horwood took a much more serious turn.
At nine o’clock that following morning, Detective Sergeant Marriott had no sooner taken off his jacket and settled himself behind his desk than the station-duty constable
appeared in the CID office. ‘Excuse me, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but there’s a Mrs Dyer at the counter asking for you.’
With a sigh, Marriott donned his jacket again and went downstairs to the front office. Mrs Dyer was waiting, dressed exactly as she had been the previous morning.
‘She’s not back, Sergeant.’
‘All right, Mrs Dyer,’ said Marriott, ‘I’ll get someone to look into it. Will you be at home if I send an officer round?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Mrs Dyer tartly. ‘But what d’you want to send someone round for?’
‘To have a look at her belongings, see if there’s anything that might tell us where she’s gone.’
‘I told you where she’d gone. She went to Brighton.’
‘Yes, Mrs Dyer, but she might not have been telling the truth.’
‘She always told the truth,’ said Mrs Dyer with a toss of her head.
But Marriott was far from convinced of that. ‘Do you have a photograph of her, by any chance?’ he asked.
Mrs Dyer thought about that for a moment. ‘Yes, I think there is one. She had one of them studio pictures took with the baby, poor little soul.’
‘I’ll have an officer round to you in about half an hour, then.’
‘Good,’ said Mrs Dyer, and turned on her heel, satisfied that, at last, the police had been goaded into doing something about her missing friend.
Back in the CID office, Marriott looked around for a suitable officer, his eyes eventually lighting on Detective Constable Henry Catto. ‘What are you up to, Catto?’
‘Dealing with a string of thefts at the Army and Navy Club in Pall Mall, Sarge.’ Catto contrived to look busy. ‘They reckon it’s one of them new maids they took on a week
or two back.’
‘That can wait. Get round to twenty-seven Davos Street, see a Mrs Dyer. Her lodger, Mrs Fanny Horwood, is missing from home. Have a look round, see if you can see any indication of where
she might have gone. Like as not, she’s gone off with some bloke, a swaddy probably. Oh, and Mrs Dyer reckons there’s a photograph of the woman there somewhere,’ he added, as
Catto rose from his chair. ‘Make it look good, like we’re doing something, but try not to waste too much time on it.’
‘Right, Sarge.’
But as Catto opened the door of the office, he was confronted by the DDI. ‘And where are you off to in such a lather, Catto? If it’s Bow Street Court, you’re late.’
‘No, sir, I’m just going to Davos Street. Job for Sergeant Marriott. Missing-person enquiry.’
‘Well, just you hold on.’ Hardcastle looked beyond Catto to where the first-class sergeant was seated behind his desk. ‘Marriott, come into the office. You too, Catto.
I’ve just had word from the Brighton police. They found a body underneath Palace Pier the day before yesterday that they reckon is this Fanny Horwood. She’d been strangled
apparently.’
Hardcastle led the way back to his office and, sitting down behind his desk, took his pipe from the ashtray. He spent a moment or two teasing tobacco into it and then lit it, filling the office
with the dark smoke of his favourite St Bruno. Somewhere beneath them an underground train rumbled out of Westminster station.
‘Seems some lunatic ventured down on to Brighton beach on Sunday morning at about six o’clock, intent on going swimming.’ Hardcastle shook his head. ‘Must be raving mad,
going sea swimming in November. Anyhow, he came across this body underneath Palace Pier and called a copper straight away.’
‘How did they know it was Fanny Horwood, sir?’ asked Marriott.
‘I’m coming to that. She never had any belongings on her. No handbag or jewellery. Nothing like that, but apparently’ – he picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and
glanced at it – ‘a Mrs Phyllis Edwards – she’s a landlady who keeps lodgings in Sussex Street in Brighton – went into the nick on the Sunday, a bit later on, and told
them that one of her lodgers, a Mrs Fanny Harris, hadn’t come back on the Saturday night.’
‘How’s that tie up with Fanny Horwood, then, sir?’ asked Catto.
‘Just hold on, Catto,’ said Hardcastle testily. ‘The Brighton lot went round to Sussex Street and searched her room. Apparently they came across a photograph which they
promptly identified as the dead woman. They also found some letters addressed to Fanny Horwood at twenty-seven Davos Street, London SW – in her suitcase they were – and they put two and
two together. Not bad for those yokels down there.’ The DDI had no great opinion of the Brighton Borough Police.
‘But that still doesn’t make a connection, sir,’ persisted Catto. ‘How did they work out that letters addressed to Fanny Horwood in this Fanny Harris’s belongings
mean that she was actually Fanny Horwood? I mean, she could have nicked them.’
Hardcastle nodded slowly. ‘I can see you’re coming on a treat, Catto,’ he said. ‘You’re right, of course. Somewhere along the line, we’re going to have to get
someone to identify the body.’ He stood up. ‘So, look up the times of the trains from Victoria to Brighton, Marriott. You and I are going to the seaside for the day. And you, Catto, get
on round to Davos Street and see what you can find. But don’t mess anything up and don’t tell Mrs—’ He broke off. ‘What’s that woman’s name,
Marriott?’
‘Mrs Dyer, sir. Kathleen Dyer.’
‘Right. And don’t say anything to Mrs Dyer about her friend having been found dead at Brighton, Catto, because we’re not sure. Not sure by any means. All right?’
It had begun to snow when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Brighton’s central railway station, but a fierce wind deterred the flakes from
settling. Outside the station, pedestrians bent against the biting weather as they struggled along the narrow pavement, one of them wrestling with an umbrella that had blown inside out. Near the
station entrance, a staggering drunkard – doubtless still celebrating the Armistice – was attempting to sing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’.
Hardcastle turned up the collar of his Chesterfield overcoat, and muttered angrily as he and his sergeant clambered into a waiting taxi.
The headquarters of the Brighton force was above the police station next to the town hall in a road called Bartholomews. Within walking distance of Palace Pier, where Fanny Harris’s body
had been found, it was little more than half a mile from the Sussex Street lodgings where she had stayed the previous Saturday.
Hardcastle, already in a bad mood at having had to make the journey from London, strode into the public entrance of the police station and, failing to receive an immediate response from the
sergeant on duty, rapped sharply on the counter with the handle of his umbrella.
The sergeant looked up, frowned, and then ambled across to deal with this apparently troublesome caller. ‘Dear me, we are in a sweat this morning. So, what can I do for you?’ he
demanded sarcastically.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police, and I don’t have any time to waste. I want to se. . .
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