Hardcastle's Burglar

by Graham Ison

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The new DI Hardcastle mystery June 1916. Hardcastle is sent to investigate the murder of Colonel Sir Adrian Rivers, Bt. It seems the baronet's second wife, much younger than Rivers, is neither distressed by the murder, nor able to assist in the investigation. It is up to the dogged Hardcastle, aided by DS Charles Marriott, to question an array of characters and narrowly avoid being killed in a Zeppelin raid, before the killer is eventually unmasked.

Release date: July 1, 2008

Publisher: Severn House Publishers

Print pages: 240

Sample

‘Great Naval Battle off Jutland – Kitchener drowned – read all about it.’ Outside Westminster Underground station,
a lad with an armful of newspapers was shouting the news.

Wondering what a field marshal had been doing at a sea battle, Ernest Hardcastle alighted from the tram that had brought him from Kennington Road. In his hurry to reach the pavement – the
trams crossed Westminster Bridge in the centre of the road – he narrowly avoided being knocked over by an errand boy on a bicycle.

Hurriedly thrusting a halfpenny into the young newsvendor’s hand, Hardcastle seized a copy of the Daily Mirror. It was not his favourite newspaper – he normally took the
Daily Mail – but he was anxious to know the details.

That morning, the sixth of June, 1916, the nation had been stunned to learn that HMS Hampshire had struck a mine off Scapa Flow at twenty minutes to eight the previous evening, and that
the Secretary of State for War, Field Marshal the Earl Kitchener, was among those who had drowned.

The famous poster of Kitchener’s pointing finger, and the exhortation: ‘Your Country Needs You’, had recruited millions to the service battalions of the British Army in France
and Flanders. It was difficult to comprehend that the man was now dead, as were so many of those he had encouraged and cajoled to join the Colours.

As for the Battle of Jutland – which proved to have nothing to do with Kitchener – the full details were only just emerging. Although acclaimed as a victory for the Royal Navy, the
losses were stark. The British had lost 7,000 men and fourteen ships, against the Germans’s 3,000 casualties and eleven ships.

Still reading the detailed accounts of both incidents, Hardcastle walked down Cannon Row to his police station. The awesome building, and the grim, grey edifice of New Scotland Yard opposite,
had been constructed of Dartmoor granite hewn, fittingly, by convicts.

‘Good morning, sir. All correct.’ The elderly policeman, his four stripes testifying that he was a station sergeant, stood up. ‘Have you heard the news, sir?’ The officer
placed the charge book on his desk.

‘Yes, I have.’ Assuming that the sergeant was talking about Kitchener, Hardcastle spoke tersely; he had a feeling that everyone at the station was going to pose this same question.
But to him there were other matters more pressing. As the divisional detective inspector of the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police, he made it his practice to examine the charge
book every morning. Sitting down in the station officer’s chair and putting on his glasses, he thumbed through the pages of the large volume, seeking information of any arrests that had been
made since he had left the station the previous evening.

Satisfied that three drunkards and two petty thieves did not warrant his immediate attention, Hardcastle went upstairs to his office.

Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott was waiting. ‘Have you heard the news, sir?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ snapped Hardcastle. Never one to waste words, he assumed that Marriott, like the sergeant downstairs, was talking about the loss of Kitchener. ‘And you can tell the rest
of ’em in there,’ he added, cocking a thumb in the direction of the detectives’ office, ‘that I’ve read all about Kitchener, and I’ve read all about Jutland, so
they won’t have to keep pestering me with the same stupid bloody question.’ He could foresee a day of people enquiring whether he had heard about the field marshal’s death, and
the naval engagement in that area of the North Sea the Germans called Skagerrak.

‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott rapidly surmised that his DDI was not in the best of moods this morning. But what he was about to tell him would, Marriott feared, only make matters
worse.

‘Anything happening?’ It was a question Hardcastle asked his first-class sergeant every day on his arrival at Cannon Row. He sat down behind his desk and began to fill his pipe.

‘Yes, sir. Mr Fitnam’s gone sick.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Hardcastle, glaring at his sergeant. ‘What the blue blazes has Mr Fitnam’s state of health got to do with me, Marriott?’ he demanded. Arthur
Fitnam was the DDI in charge of the Criminal Investigation Department of V Division at Wandsworth, some five miles away from Scotland Yard.

‘A sergeant from Commissioner’s Office brought a message across from Mr Wensley, sir, not ten minutes ago. There’s been a murder at Kingston, and Mr Wensley’s directed
that you investigate it.’ Marriott placed a sheet of paper on the DDI’s desk.

Hardcastle donned his spectacles and read through the brief note from Detective Chief Inspector Frederick Wensley, the head of the CID at Scotland Yard. It informed him that Colonel Sir Adrian
Rivers had been found murdered at his home on Kingston Hill early that morning, and concluded with the instruction: ‘In view of DDI Fitnam’s incapacity you are hereby directed
immediately to undertake the investigation.’

‘God dammit!’ Hardcastle was furious that Wensley always appeared to take the view that nothing of importance ever happened on A Division, and that its DDI could be spared for
out-of-town jobs. But only those serving on what was known informally as the ‘Royal’ A Division appreciated its problems. With Buckingham Palace, St James’s Palace, Parliament,
Downing Street, Westminster Abbey and the government offices in Whitehall all within his area of responsibility, Hardcastle was aware that it was the most sensitive division in the whole of the 800
square miles of the Metropolitan Police District. But he said nothing of this to Marriott. It would be most improper to criticize a superior officer to a subordinate.

‘Easiest way to get there, sir, is a train from Waterloo to Norbiton and then a taxi.’ Marriott, knowing that Hardcastle would want to know, had already checked in Bradshaw, the
comprehensive railway timetable, and had details of the route at his fingertips.

Hardcastle grunted, and glanced at his chrome hunter pocket watch before dropping it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I suppose we’d better go and see what this is all about, then,
Marriott.’ And seizing his umbrella and bowler hat, he made for the door.

The Grange, Sir Adrian Rivers’s imposing ivy-clad house, was in Penny Lane, a quiet turning off Kingston Hill. A gravel drive wound its way around the edge of a spacious
front lawn to a flight of steps that led up to the front door. That and the windows were gothic in design, the entire façade giving the impression that it had originally been a parsonage.
But a tower had been added to one side of the house at a later date, the effect of which was to lend the dwelling a lopsided aspect. To the right, and some way back from the building line, was a
stable, the doors of which were open to reveal a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.

‘There’s a bit of sausage and mash here, Marriott,’ was Hardcastle’s only comment as they mounted the steps.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ A policeman stepped in front of Hardcastle, barring the way.

‘DDI Hardcastle of A, and I’m here to look into this here murder.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The PC stepped back and gave the bell pull a sharp tug.

The man who answered the door was attired in black jacket and pepper-and-salt trousers.

‘Good morning, sir. May I help you?’

‘Police,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Are you the butler?’

‘Yes, sir. Beach is my name.’ The butler half bowed, exuding deference.

‘Good. Where’s this here body?’

‘Sir Adrian is in the main bedroom, sir.’ Beach raised his eyebrows, clearly taking exception to what he perceived to be a lack of respect for his dead master.

‘Lead the way, then. I haven’t got all day.’ Hardcastle pushed past the butler and stopped in the tiled entrance hall. There were several doors leading from it, and a winding
staircase to one side. At the foot of the stairs stood another policeman.

With a sniff and a raised chin, the butler mounted the stairs and indicated a door. A third policeman was seated on a chair outside.

‘What are you supposed to be doing?’ demanded Hardcastle.

Sensing that he was in the presence of authority, the policeman stood up. ‘Er, guarding the scene, sir.’

‘Is that a fact?’ commented Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘Well, you won’t do it sitting on your arse.’ It was an unfair comment, but the DDI was still incensed that he
had been saddled with a murder enquiry that was rightly the responsibility of V Division’s detectives. And in the absence of the DDI, the investigation should have fallen to Fitnam’s
deputy, Detective Inspector Edward Robson. If a similar situation had arisen on A Division, Detective Inspector Edgar Rhodes, Hardcastle’s second-in-command, could certainly have been
entrusted to deal with it. What Hardcastle did not know, however, was that Robson was already investigating a serious crime on the other side of the division.

The room that Hardcastle entered was spacious. Heavy crimson velvet curtains were drawn across the windows so that it was difficult to see.

A man scrambled to his feet from an armchair. ‘I take it you’re Mr Hardcastle, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Atkins from Kingston. We was told you was coming.’

‘Were you the first on the scene, Atkins?’

‘Not exactly, sir. I was the first CID officer to get here. After the PC on the beat had attended, that is.’ Atkins paused. ‘Have you heard the news about Kitchener,
sir?’

‘Yes, I bloody have,’ snapped Hardcastle, ‘and you can pull those curtains for a start. I can’t see a damned thing in here.’

Daylight revealed that the room was surprisingly Spartan, a simplicity that Hardcastle attributed to Colonel Rivers’s military background. Although there was little in the way of
furniture, the walls were covered almost entirely with pictures, mainly prints of racehorses. A mound beneath the eiderdown on the huge bed indicated the presence of a body.

‘Who did that?’ demanded Hardcastle, pointing at the sheet that had been drawn up to cover the occupant’s face.

‘I believe the butler did it, sir.’

‘I hope you’re not trying to be funny, Atkins,’ said Hardcastle, fixing the Kingston sergeant with a hostile stare.

Standing by the door, Marriott smiled; unlike Atkins, he was accustomed to the DDI’s bizarre sense of humour.

‘Oh no, sir,’ said Atkins hurriedly. ‘I meant that I imagined the butler pulled the sheet up to cover Sir Adrian’s face.’

‘Imagined, eh? I don’t like officers who go about imagining things, Atkins. Tell me what you actually know. By the way, this here’s DS Marriott, my first-class.’

The sergeants acknowledged each other with a nod.

‘PC 62 Draper was the first officer on the scene, sir. He’d come on early turn at six o’clock this morning, and arrived in the lane about half past. On his bicycle, sir. The
butler – that’s Beach, sir – was standing at the gate, looking up and down the lane. He called Draper and told him that the colonel had been shot, sir.’

‘Fetch Draper up here.’ With an eye for detail, Hardcastle had noted that the PC on duty at the front door wore the divisional number 62V on his collar and his helmet plate.

‘I’ll go down and get him, sir.’

‘Don’t you go, man,’ snapped Hardcastle irritably. ‘Send that PC who’s idling outside the door. Seems to me there’s bloody coppers all over the place doing
bugger all. He can relieve Draper on the front door until I’m through with him. And while you’re about it, tell Beach I want to see him.’

While he was waiting, Hardcastle uncovered Sir Adrian Rivers’s face. A wound on the victim’s forehead was commensurate with the entry of a bullet, and a puddling of blood on the
pillow implied that there would be an exit wound at the back of the skull. But Hardcastle forbore from examining the body too closely. He was no expert in the finer points of determining the cause
of death, and knew that he would have to await the arrival of a pathologist.

Atkins returned to the room, and, as if reading Hardcastle’s mind, said, ‘By the way, sir, Dr Spilsbury’s been sent for.’

‘Good. How long ago?’

Atkins took out his watch and glanced at it. ‘About seven o’clock, sir.’

Hardcastle grunted an acknowledgement. ‘Should be here soon, then.’

‘Have you seen the pillow, sir?’

‘Don’t talk in riddles, Atkins. What are you going on about?’

‘There’s a pillow on the floor on the other side of the bed, sir. There’s a hole in it, and powder marks. Looks as though it was used to muffle the sound of the
gunshot.’

‘Leave it there. I’ll look at it later.’

PC Draper appeared in the doorway and coughed deferentially. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Sergeant Atkins says that you were the first officer on the scene, Draper. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Draper extracted his pocketbook and thumbed through the pages. ‘I was patrolling my beat on a bicycle, sir, and approached The Grange – that’s this house, sir – when I
was accosted by Mr Beach, the butler. He informed me that there had been a suspicious death, namely that Sir Adrian Rivers had been found in his bed, shot, sir.’

‘Was it Beach who found him?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘You don’t know? Well, didn’t you ask him, man?’

‘Er, no, sir. I thought it was a matter for the CID to ask those questions. Anyway, I attended the bedroom – this bedroom, sir – and satisfied myself that Sir Adrian was indeed
deceased.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘I felt for a pulse, sir, but there wasn’t one. I then telephoned the police station for assistance, sir.’

Hardcastle sighed and shook his head. ‘You might as well get back to the front door, lad. And when Dr Spilsbury arrives, bring him up here.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Looking somewhat relieved, PC Draper departed.

‘Did you question anyone about who discovered Rivers’s body, Atkins?’ Hardcastle was beginning to get more and more exasperated at the apparent indolence of the V
Division officers.

‘No, sir. Once we was informed that you was on your way, I thought it better to leave it.’

‘I don’t know, Marriott, it seems to me that a lot more than murder has to happen on V Division before anyone gets too bloody excited about it.’ Hardcastle was about to add
that he was surprised that Arthur Fitnam allowed such slackness, but kept that thought to himself.

‘I understand you wished to see me, sir.’ The butler stood in the doorway.

‘Did you pull that sheet up over Sir Adrian’s head, Beach?’

‘I instructed the footman to do it, sir. Out of respect for the dead, so to speak.’

‘Well, you’ve interfered with a murder scene, and I won’t have it, d’you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Good. Did you touch anything else?’

‘No, sir, that’s all I did.’

‘Is there a Lady Rivers, Mr Beach?’ asked Marriott.

‘That there is, sir,’ said Beach, turning to face the sergeant. ‘Muriel, Lady Rivers. They was only married a couple of years back. In 1914, I think it was. Lady Lavinia, Sir
Adrian’s first wife, died of the consumption. Only a young woman, she was. Tragic. Daughter of the Earl of Aubrey, you know. Give the colonel a couple of sons, she did. Ewart –
he’s the eldest – is a general now, and heir to the baronetcy. And Gerard’s a colonel. Both over the other side, of course. All Surrey Rifles: the colonel and the two
sons.’

‘Distinguished soldier, was he, Beach?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘Sir Adrian, I mean.’

‘I’ve known him for years, sir. I was his orderly, through thick and thin. Oh yes, me and the colonel was with Kitchener at the conquest of the Sudan back in ’98, the battle of
Omdurman. But the regiment was sent down to Mafeking in time for Bobs – that’s Lord Roberts – to take part in the relief.’ Beach paused. ‘Month o’ May, 1900,
that was. The colonel’d’ve been fair upset to hear about Lord Kitchener, and that’s a fact. I s’pose you’ve heard about Lord Kitchener, sir?’

Hardcastle ignored the question. ‘How long were you a soldier, Beach?’

‘Did me full time, sir. I ’listed as a boy bugler back in ’87, and come out in 1912. Couldn’t find a billet, as you might say, and so I called here to see if the colonel
could help out. I mean, I wasn’t looking for a job here, but the colonel said as how he was short of a butler and he took me on the strength. The Surrey Rifles is not only a regiment, but a
family, as you might say. Well, I’d better get about my chores.’ Beach paused, glancing at the body of his late master. ‘What’s going to happen about the colonel,
sir?’

‘There’ll be an ambulance arriving shortly to take him away, Beach.’

‘I’d better be getting on, then, sir. I’ve plenty of jobs to occupy me, though God knows what’ll happen to us now. I doubt that her ladyship’ll want to stay here.
Anyway, I’ll be about the house if you need me.’

‘Don’t you go rushing off just yet,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Where is Lady Rivers?’

‘In her room, sir, with the doctor.’

‘Doctor? What’s the matter with her?’

‘I’m afraid the news of Sir Adrian’s death took her rather queer, sir, and she was overcome with the vapours. I deemed it best to call the doctor, sir.’

‘Really?’ said Hardcastle, unimpressed with Beach’s description of Lady Rivers’s indisposition. ‘Well, I’ll have to see her at some time.’

‘How many staff have you got here, Mr Beach?’ asked Marriott, pocketbook at the ready.

‘I’ve only got the one footman now, sir, on account of the war. He’s called Digby. The second footman joined the Grenadiers and got hisself killed in Wipers. Then there’s
the parlour maid, Daisy Forbes she’s called. Mrs Blunden’s the cook, and the coachman’s name is Daniel Good.’

Hardcastle looked up in surprise. ‘Unfortunate name for a coachman,’ he commented. Daniel Good was the name of a notorious coachman who had been hanged over seventy years previously
for murdering his pregnant common-law wife in Roehampton, some four miles away. ‘Who drives that Rolls-Royce, then?’

‘Daniel Good does, sir. But the colonel always called him the coachman. I don’t think he thought much of them new-fangled motor cars, but her ladyship insisted on having one. Cost
nigh on fourteen hundred pounds, but Sir Adrian never denied her ladyship a thing, sir.’ Beach lowered his voice, as though in fear of being overheard. ‘I’m afraid Sir Adrian
wasn’t the man he used to be, sir. His memory had gone, you see, and sometimes he talked gibberish.’

‘Did the doctor ever see him about it?’

‘That he did, but there was nothing that could be done, so he said.’

‘Is that the doctor who’s with Lady Rivers now?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In that case, I’ll have a word with him before he goes,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but in the meantime, I’ll need a room where I can interview the staff. Can you arrange
that?’

‘Indeed, sir. Probably the best place would be the library.’

‘Good. Now then, who found Sir Adrian’s body?’

‘That was Digby, sir. He always brings the colonel a cup of tea at six o’clock sharp every morning. Quite took aback, sir, he was, to find the colonel lying there dead. He called me,
of course, and I went out looking for a policeman. Luckily, it was Charlie Draper. He’s often on this beat and usually comes in for a cup of tea round about half past six.’

‘Does he indeed?’ Hardcastle’s tone implied critici. . .