Hardcastle's Traitors (29 page)

Hardcastle and Marriott entered the hall as the maid disappeared through a door at the rear.

‘She's no maid, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘If she ain't Miss Dubois' madam, I'm a Dutchman.'

‘You know this Simone Dubois, then, do you, sir?'

‘No, I don't, Marriott. But the name is too good to be true. Odds-on, she's a high-class whore.'

‘Please come this way, gentlemen.' The maid returned within seconds and conducted the detectives into the room she had just left.

Simone Dubois was reclining on a chaise-longue, a box of chocolates on her lap, and made no attempt to stand up. Perhaps no more than twenty-seven, she was attired in a low-cut silk emerald green tea gown that matched her eyes, as did her silk slippers. Her chestnut hair, worn loose, tumbled around her shoulders. But at the sight of Hardcastle she sat up sharply. ‘Oh my Gawd, it's you, Mr Hardcastle.'

‘That's right, Poppy Shanks, it's me. And this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott. You've changed your name since you were a frequent visitor at Vine Street nick.'

‘What d'you want?' The woman masquerading as Simone Dubois quickly recovered and glanced at Marriott apprehensively. ‘I hope you haven't come to tell me I've been a naughty girl, Mr H.'

‘I can't imagine why you should think that, Poppy.' Hardcastle cast his gaze around the opulently appointed sitting room. The furniture was of good quality, some of it apparently genuine antique, and the floor was covered in a thick pile Wilton carpet. ‘You seem to have come up in the world, Poppy. Bit of a change from Shepherd Market. Getting too cold there, was it? Now it's winter.'

‘I was getting nicked by them C Division rozzers too often,' said Poppy, and abandoning all pretence, added, ‘but then I got set up here by a kind gentleman.'

‘He wouldn't be a kind gentleman by the name of Sinclair Villiers, would he?' asked Hardcastle.

‘Oh, you know him, then. Is he in trouble?' Poppy swung her legs off the chaise-longue and stood up. ‘I think I need a gin. Fancy one, do you?'

‘No thanks,' said Hardcastle, as Poppy crossed to an Edwardian satinwood cabinet and poured herself half a tumbler of neat Holland's. ‘Your benefactor was unfortunate enough to have had his car stolen, a car that was used in a robbery and a murder.'

‘Oh Gawd! How awful for poor dear Sinclair. When was this?' Poppy, holding her glass of gin, returned unsteadily to her seat.

‘On New Year's Eve.'

‘How dreadful. As a matter of fact, he spent New Year's Eve with me. Left the next morning.' Poppy Shanks fixed Hardcastle with an unwavering, and slightly amused, expression. ‘If only he'd stayed at home it might not have happened.'

‘How did he get here?'

‘In a cab, of course,' said Poppy. ‘He's very discreet, is Sinclair. He doesn't like to leave his car outside all night. He says it might get me a bad name.'

‘Bit late for that,' murmured Hardcastle. ‘Does he visit you often?'

‘As often as he can afford to.' She paused. ‘Afford the time, I mean.'

‘Come off it, Poppy. It's a copper you're talking to, and I know you've been on the game since you were seventeen. What's more, I'd put money on Villiers not being your only client.'

‘What
do
you take me for, Mr H?' Poppy contrived, unsuccessfully, to appear coy and a little offended.

‘Has Mr Villiers visited you since New Year's Eve?' asked Marriott.

‘Yeah, he was here about a week later,' said Poppy.

‘What day was that?'

‘A Thursday. The seventh of January it was. I remember the date 'cos he reckoned he was going to stay the whole weekend and take me to a show on Saturday, but he only stayed the one night. Left here on Friday, about midday, I s'pose. I was real fed up when he got here and said as how his plans had changed, and he had to go to Worthing on urgent business.'

Hardcastle laughed as he and Marriott stood up. ‘You just make sure you stay out of trouble, lass. We'll see ourselves out.'

‘Well, sir, that takes care of the days that Reuben Gosling and Stein were murdered,' said Marriott, as he and the DDI made their way along Eaton Square.

‘You think so, do you, Marriott?' said Hardcastle, stopping and turning to face his sergeant. ‘Well, I'm not prepared to take the word of a tom who gives Villiers an alibi, even if you do. It all came out too pat; she'd been told what to say by Villiers.' He carried on walking. ‘Not that it matters a damn,' he added. ‘He'll be hanged anyway.'

With a sigh, Hardcastle pushed aside the report of the case against Peter Stein that he was writing for the DPP, and took out his hunter. It was five o'clock on Monday evening and he decided that he had done enough, apart from which there was another, more pressing reason why he did not want to stay late at work. He dropped the watch into his waistcoat pocket, crossed to the detectives' office and opened the door.

Much to his sergeant's amazement, Hardcastle announced that he was going home; Marriott had never known the DDI to leave that early on a weekday, and glanced at the clock.

‘Don't look so surprised, Marriott. It's Wally's sixteenth birthday today and I've promised him his first taste of Scotch.'

‘Are you sure about that, sir?' asked Marriott, who had stood up the moment the DDI had appeared.

‘Of course I'm sure, Marriott. I do know when my son's birthday is.'

‘I didn't mean that, sir. I meant are you sure it's his first taste of whisky.'

Hardcastle laughed. ‘You might well be right, Marriott. There's no telling what these lads get up to at that office of theirs, but I doubt they can afford whisky.' Ever since the age of fourteen, Walter Hardcastle had been employed as a telegram messenger at the local post office. Regrettably, he now spent most of his working hours delivering telegrams to the loved ones of men killed in action, wounded, reported missing or taken prisoner.

‘Give the lad my best wishes, sir.'

‘Thank you, Marriott, I will.'

‘Another three years and he'll be old enough to join the Force, sir.'

‘Over my dead body,' growled Hardcastle.

The disruption to the tram service from Westminster to Kennington, occasioned by frequent alerts to Zeppelin raids, some of which were false alarms, meant that Hardcastle did not arrive home until almost six o'clock.

He hung up his hat, coat and umbrella and, as was his invariable practice, checked the accuracy of the hall clock against his hunter. Satisfied that it was keeping good time, he pushed open the door of the parlour.

Alice, Kitty and Maud were seated around the fire, the two Hardcastle daughters having managed to change their shifts in order to be at home.

But of Walter there was no sign.

‘Where's Wally?' asked Hardcastle.

‘He'll be here shortly, Ernie,' said Alice. ‘He dropped by earlier on to say that he'd got some extras to deliver. He said something about there having been a lot of our lads killed and wounded at a place called Hanna in Mesopotamia a day or two ago.'

‘Another pointless campaign, and for what?' exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘They've put that General Townshend in an impossible situation trying to hold on to Kut. You mark my words, he'll have to surrender before the relief force gets to him.'

But before Alice could tell her husband to stop talking about the war, the door of the parlour flew open.

The Hardcastle family clapped and began to sing
Happy Birthday, dear Walter
…

Walter responded by sweeping off his uniform kepi and sketching a deep bow.

‘Time for a drink to celebrate,' said Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together and crossing to the cabinet where he kept the alcohol. He poured glasses of Amontillado for Alice and the two girls, and turned to Walter. ‘Well, Wally, now that you've reached sixteen, I think it's time you had a drop of whisky.'

‘I'd rather have a brown ale, Pa,' said Walter. ‘I don't much care for the taste of Scotch.'

For a moment or two, Hardcastle, holding a bottle of Johnny Walker aloft, was speechless, despite what he had said to Marriott. ‘You've had it before?' he asked eventually.

‘Once or twice, Pa. The last time was when I took a telegram to a retired colonel the other day. It was to tell him that his son, who he'd been told was dead, had only been slightly wounded and was in hospital in Hazebrouck. He insisted on taking me indoors and giving me a whisky to celebrate.'

‘It seems Marriott was right,' muttered Hardcastle, a comment that had no significance for the family. ‘Well, now, I think we might just have some birthday presents for you, Wally,' he added, glancing at the womenfolk.

Alice, Kitty and Maud stood up as one and left the room. Returning moments later, bearing parcels wrapped intriguingly in brown paper, they handed them to the sixteen-year-old.

‘Golly!' exclaimed Walter, and spent the next few minutes opening his gifts and admiring them.

His mother had given him a silver cigarette case engraved with his initials; Kitty had found an accordion at Gamages, the department store in Holborn; and Maud had bought him one of Kodak's latest Brownie box cameras.

‘Crikey!' Walter, usually the most talkative of the family, was able only to utter that single word. Crossing to his mother, and then Kitty and Maud, he kissed each in turn, murmuring his thanks.

‘And now,' said Hardcastle, handing his son a carefully wrapped package, ‘here is my present. And many happy returns of the day, Wally.'

Walter stripped off the paper to reveal a small leather covered box. Inside was a half-hunter pocket watch. Although the watch had been priced at six pounds, almost twice Hardcastle's weekly pay, Mr Parfitt, the jeweller in Victoria Street, had given him a generous discount. But it had still meant Hardcastle having to save for some months prior to the boy's birthday.

‘Gosh, thanks, Pa.' Walter turned the watch over in his hands, examining every aspect of it before holding it up to his ear. ‘It's super,' he exclaimed.

‘This one,' said Hardcastle, producing his own pocket watch, ‘was given me by
my
father on
my
sixteenth birthday, and has kept perfect time ever since. But be sure not to overwind it, Wally. That's a sure way to break the spring.'

‘Gosh!' said Walter again, and shook hands with his father.

Alice had used up almost the whole of the week's ration to provide a magnificent meal, and Hardcastle produced a bottle of Rioja that had set him back a shilling, with which to round off the evening.

The next morning, Hardcastle decided that he would, after all, charge Henwood with furnishing a false character reference, and with obstructing police in the execution of their duty.

The Bow Street magistrate listened carefully to Hardcastle's evidence, pursed his lips and pronounced a verdict of guilty. He frowned when Hardcastle gave details of Henwood's previous conviction.

‘Have you anything to say?' he asked.

‘I'm very sorry, sir.' Henwood did his best to appear apathetic. ‘But I was only defending my master.'

‘I was considering a custodial sentence,' the magistrate began, staring fixedly at the ex-butler. ‘However, I am informed that it is the army's intention to conscript you with immediate effect and that, in my view, will be punishment enough. You are remanded to await a military escort.'

It was three weeks after Quinn had interviewed Sinclair Villiers and Irma Glatzer that they, together with Captain Haydn Villiers, were arraigned before a general court martial at the Tower of London held in camera before Major General the Lord Cheylesmore.

Hardcastle, there at Quinn's invitation, but only as an interested spectator, was amazed when Sinclair Villiers was escorted into the courtroom. Gone was the arrogant Chelsea resident. Three weeks confinement in Brixton prison had turned him into a shuffling, round-shouldered, broken man. He had lost weight and his clothes hung on him as though they had been tailored for someone much stockier. His hair, once slicked flat with pomade, was now longer and comparatively unkempt.

By contrast, Irma Glatzer wore a grey tweed costume with a flared jacket and a skirt the hem of which was at least six inches from the ground. Glacé-kid court shoes and art silk stockings completed the picture of a well-dressed woman, and gave the impression of a wealthy socialite rather than a German spy.

Captain Haydn Villiers was in uniform, but deprived of cap, sword and Sam Browne, the military bearing had vanished, and his face had taken on a greyish hue.

The indictment against all three defendants was that of committing a felony under Section One of the Official Secrets Act 1911: communicating information of use to the enemy. Predictably, each entered a plea of Not Guilty.

Quinn and the other Special Branch officers who had been involved in the investigation were called to give evidence, together with a number of shadowy figures from MI5.

Three days later, Sinclair and Haydn Villiers, father and son, and Irma Glatzer were found guilty.

Sinclair Villiers began an impassioned but rambling plea in mitigation from the dock about the need for a Jewish homeland, and what he described as the treachery of the British government in evading any commitment to that end.

But after five minutes, he was cut short by the president of the court. ‘This is no place for political speeches, Villiers,' said Lord Cheylesmore curtly.

Irma Glatzer had nothing to say, but Haydn Villiers once again protested his innocence.

After sentence of death had been pronounced, the prisoners were escorted to the condemned cells. The court adjourned and the witnesses made their way out of the gloomy chamber that had seen three more spies convicted. They would not be the last.

‘A very successful outcome, Mr Hardcastle,' said Quinn, as he and the others left the Tower.