Hardcastle's Soldiers (16 page)

‘That's very kind, sir,' said Hardcastle. ‘A drop of Scotch wouldn't go amiss.'

Mansfield busied himself pouring drinks, and then turned to face the detectives. ‘I'm surprised young Geoff never laid hands on this chap. He's pretty good at hand-to-hand fighting, so I've heard. And he was a useful rugby player. Got a Military Cross, you know. In Arras, that was. Anyway, what did you want to see him about? Need him at the trial, do you?'

‘That'll be in the future,' said Hardcastle, fervently hoping that there would indeed be a trial, but knowing full well that Lieutenant Mansfield would not be required to give evidence. ‘But right now I was wondering if he could add anything to what he told us at the time.'

‘Well, you'll have to nip across to Arras if you want to have another chat with him. But keep your head down,' added Mansfield, with a chuckle.

The DDI permitted himself a brief smile. ‘I doubt that Mrs Hardcastle would be too keen on that,' he said, as he stood up. ‘But I daresay I can arrange for the military police to obtain a statement from him. Well, thank you both. I'll not take up any more of your time.' He added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘When did your son return to the Front from leave, Major?'

‘The tenth of July.'

Hardcastle expressed surprise. ‘Oh, I'd heard that he was in England until the fourteenth. Never mind, I must've got it wrong.'

‘I hope you catch the bugger, whoever he is,' said Oscar Mansfield, as he shook hands with Hardcastle.

‘Never fear, Major,' said Hardcastle. ‘He'll be taking the eight o'clock walk sooner rather than later.'

After Hardcastle and Marriott had left, Major Mansfield looked at his wife. ‘That's a damned queer business,' he said. ‘I read about that murder, and it was on the eleventh of July, the day after Geoff went back off furlough. It strikes me the police don't know what they're doing.'

T
he two detectives were at Twickenham railway station before Hardcastle spoke.

‘That Oscar Mansfield seems a rough and ready sort of bloke for a major, Marriott.'

‘Commissioned bandmaster, sir. Worked his way up from the ranks. That's how most of them become a director of music.'

‘You're full of useless information, Marriott, but did you notice them pictures on the bookcase?'

‘Yes, sir, but what about them?'

‘See anyone you knew?'

‘I can't say as I did, sir.'

‘Well, Marriott, there was a photograph of a young floozy in a wedding dress clutching hold of a young man.'

‘Yes, I did notice that, sir.'

‘Well, Marriott, a pound to a pinch that young man was Jack Utting. If he ain't, then Kaiser Bill's my uncle. And Utting was the bloke who took a day off on the day that Herbert Somers was topped. If you remember, Utting told the bank manager that he'd been knocked down by a bicycle, but he told us that he'd had a bilious attack. I think we need to have another word with Master Utting, Marriott.'

‘It looks as though the Chief Constable of Lichfield did make a mistake over the date of Mansfield's return from leave, sir.'

‘Yes, it looks that way, Marriott, but then you know what I think about country coppers.'

That afternoon, another avenue of enquiry was closed with a telephone call from Captain McIntyre, the military police officer at Aldershot.

‘I've had a word with Stacey, Inspector, and he cannot recall whether there were any officers in the pub the night he had his cap stolen. But I doubt there would've been. Officers tend to stay away from the pubs of Aldershot. Especially those patronized by the common soldiery.' McIntyre emitted a short laugh. ‘They might get involved in a fight, and that would never do,' he added.

The revelation that Jack Utting could, in some way, be related to Geoffrey Mansfield caused Hardcastle to ponder what he was to do next.

‘If Utting is Mansfield's brother-in-law, Marriott, it might begin to shed some light on this murder of ours.'

‘That's assuming that the young woman in the photograph was Mansfield's sister, sir.'

‘Yes, that's true, but I can't see why else they'd have that snap on their bookcase,' mused Hardcastle. ‘Unless they're in the habit of going about taking pictures of weddings. Anyone's wedding. Is Wood back yet?'

‘Yes, sir. He's in the office.'

‘Fetch him in, then, and we'll see what he's learned. If anything.'

Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood entered Hardcastle's office clutching a sheaf of paper.

‘Sit yourself down, Wood, and tell me what you've found out.'

Wood took a seat, and spent a moment or two sorting through his papers before looking up.

‘Jack Utting, born the fifth of May 1892, was married to Nancy Utting, née Mansfield, on the sixth of January this year, sir. Nancy Mansfield was born on the twenty-first of February 1897, and is shown as an actress, and she's the daughter of Oscar and Carrie Mansfield.'

‘Ha! You see, Marriott, I was right about that photograph,' exclaimed Hardcastle, banging the top of his desk with the flat of his hand. ‘Seek and ye shall find, Marriott.'

‘Did you think there was a connection between the killer and Lieutenant Mansfield, then, sir?' asked Marriott.

‘Of course I did. There had to be.' In truth, Hardcastle had not had the faintest inkling that the Mansfield family might be somehow associated with the murder. ‘Yes, go on, Wood,' he said, turning to his other sergeant.

‘Jack Utting also has a sister, sir, name of Cora, but I couldn't find any marriage for her. Mind you, she's only eighteen. She was born on the twenty-third of June 1899.'

‘This is beginning to get interesting, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together.

‘What do we do now, sir?'

‘We go and see Utting again, and give him a bit of a firm talking to.' Hardcastle glanced at Wood. ‘Well done, Wood. You might just have helped to solve our topping for us.'

‘Are you going to let Mr Fitnam know, sir,' queried Marriott, once Wood had left the office.

‘All in good time, Marriott, all in good time. I don't want to get his hopes up. You never know, but once we've shaken up Utting a bit, we might persuade him to confess.'

‘Yes, sir.' Marriott was by no means convinced that, simply because Utting was married to Geoffrey Mansfield's sister, he had murdered Somers. He had to admit, though, that if Utting was not involved, it was a bizarre coincidence. But Marriott knew his DDI, and was bound to acknowledge that he was a master when it came to securing convictions for murder.

Half an hour later, Superintendent Hudson entered the DDI's office.

Hardcastle immediately stood up. ‘Good morning, sir.'

‘Good morning, Ernie,' said Hudson, taking a seat, and waving Hardcastle to do the same. ‘I've had a telephone call from the Chief Constable of Lichfield.'

‘Oh?'

‘He told me that he was looking through the notes he made when he saw a Captain Murdoch at Lichfield Barracks on your behalf. Does that mean anything to you, Ernie?'

‘Yes, sir. He was asked to make enquiries about Lieutenant Mansfield, the officer of the North Staffordshire Regiment who claimed to have seen the murderer of Herbert Somers running away from the kiosk at Victoria Station. But he seemed to have made an error over the date of Mansfield's return to the Front.'

‘Yes, that's what he said. Apparently when he was going through his notes again, he found that he'd mistakenly told you that Mansfield had returned to the Front on the fourteenth of July when, in fact, he'd returned on the tenth.'

‘I'd already discovered that, sir. But I wonder why he telephoned you and not me.'

Hudson laughed. ‘The chief constables of small forces are very rank-conscious, Ernie. Lichfield's chief only rates as a superintendent by the Met's standards, so I suppose he preferred to speak to me.'

‘Thank you for telling me, sir,' said Hardcastle, but refrained from expressing the opinion that he felt about the chief constable's slipshod approach to enquiries. ‘I don't suppose they have many murders to deal with up there.'

The following morning, Hardcastle was in his office at eight o'clock, and sent for Marriott immediately. ‘The sooner we have that chat with Jack Utting the better, Marriott. And there's no time like the present. Find out when he finishes his stint at the money-changing place at Victoria, will you? On the other hand, I suppose we could speak to him there. But it's best to ask the manager at Cox and Company. What was his name?'

Marriott grinned; Hardcastle was playing his usual game. ‘Mr Richards, sir.'

‘Yes, that's the fellow. But don't let on that we fancy Utting for the topping of Somers.'

‘Certainly not, sir.' Marriott sighed inwardly. He had long since grown accustomed to Hardcastle telling him how to do his job, apart from which he thought that suspecting Utting of Somers's murder was tenuous to say the least.

But Hardcastle was in for a surprise when Marriott returned.

‘I spoke to Mr Richards, sir, and he told me that Utting had resigned from the bank.'

‘Resigned!' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘When?'

‘Last Friday, sir. It was all quite irregular apparently. Utting didn't turn up for work on the Friday, but Mr Richards received a letter from him in that morning's post tendering his resignation with immediate effect.'

‘Well, if that don't beat cockfighting. That'll be guilty knowledge, Marriott. You mark my words. Did you see this letter? What did it say? He's involved, Marriott, he's involved. I can feel it.' Hardcastle emitted the string of short sentences like the staccato firing of a machine gun. He stood up and began to pace around his office, puffing furiously at his pipe.

‘Mr Richards got his secretary to make a copy of it, sir,' said Marriott, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket.

‘Well, read it then. Read it.'

‘It was brief, sir. Utting said: “I'm sorry to have to submit my resignation as from today, but my wife doesn't want me to work at such a dangerous job any more. Not after the murder of Mr Somers.” And that's it, sir.'

‘Dangerous? What's so bloody dangerous about being a bank clerk, eh, Marriott? What did Richards have to say about it all?'

‘He was extremely annoyed, sir. He said that he'd be unable to give Utting a reference, because the bank's policy required a month's notice. He also mentioned that Utting's departure would involve him in a lot of unnecessary work.'

‘Oh dear, it must be hard being a bank manager, worse than being in the trenches,' said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘No doubt he'll have to write a report for head office. Here we are investigating a murder, and he's carping about a bit of paperwork.'

‘What do we do now, sir?' asked Marriott.

‘We go and see the young bugger, Marriott, that's what we do. And we find out why he really left the bank.'

It was precisely ten o'clock when Hardcastle rapped loudly on the door of the Utting residence at Gloucester Street, Pimlico. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time.

‘I've got a nasty feeling about this, Marriott.' Hardcastle walked on to the garden at the front of the house, and peered through the windows of the parlour. The room was devoid of furniture.

‘The little bastard's done a flit, Marriott.' Hardcastle sounded exasperated.

‘Look's like it, sir.'

‘He's up to something, Marriott, you mark my words,' said Hardcastle, not for the first time.

The DDI turned from the window and saw a constable patrolling his beat on the opposite pavement.

‘Here, lad, come over here a minute.'

The PC strolled across the road, irritated at being summoned peremptorily by someone he thought was a somewhat impertinent member of the public. ‘And what are you all in a lather about, mister?'

‘I'm DDI Hardcastle of A, lad, and I don't get in a lather, as you call it, about anything.'

‘Oh, I'm very sorry, sir. I didn't recognize you,' said the now contrite PC, and saluted. ‘All correct, sir.'

‘Well, you might think so, lad, but I've got news for you. It looks as though the residents of this here house have done a moonlight flit.' Hardcastle pointed at Utting's house. ‘What d'you know about the people who lived here?'

‘Not very much at all, I'm afraid, sir. To the best of my knowledge the occupants have never come to the notice of police.'

‘Well, they have now,' muttered Hardcastle. ‘D'you know who owns this property?'

‘It's one of the big insurance companies, sir. They own most of this street, if not all of it. It's the Mutual Life with offices in Baker Street.' The PC took out a small pad and scribbled down the address. ‘There you are, sir,' he said, tearing off the slip of paper and handing it to the DDI.

‘When you get back to the nick, ask the station officer to speak to the men who were on this beat from Thursday last. I want to know if any of them saw a furniture van being loaded outside number five. If any of 'em have, I want to hear about it
tout de suite
. Tell the station officer to pass any results to the DDI at Chelsea, and I'll speak to him later.'

‘Very good, sir.' The PC saluted once more.

Hardcastle waved his umbrella at a passing taxi. ‘Baker Street, cabbie,' he said. ‘The Mutual Life Insurance Company's offices. It's not far from where Sherlock Holmes lived,' he added impishly.

The young clerk manning the counter in the front office of the insurance company looked up. ‘Can I help you, sir?' he asked, running a finger around the inside of his celluloid collar. It sounded as though he was speaking through his nose.

‘I'm a police officer,' said Hardcastle, ‘and I want to know about a Jack Utting who occupies one of your houses in Gloucester Street. Number five it is.'