Hardcastle's Soldiers (2 page)

Few of the civilians on the station afforded a second glance for those wounded men who, in 1914 and 1915 and even in the earlier months of 1916, they had hailed as ‘our brave boys', and had cheered and encouraged with cigarettes and chocolates. But now, especially since the Battle of the Somme, the human mind had become numbed to the carnage. And there were no longer military bands to greet them.

Although the victims of frequent air raids, the civilian population had not experienced the horrors of front-line trench warfare, nor had they learned much of them. A soldier returning to his family wanted to forget the mud and the shells and the screams of the wounded, and the sight of a friend blown to smithereens when seconds before he had been talking to him. Kith and kin did not want to hear how he had wiped the man's brains from his tunic before getting on with the war.

People rarely spoke of the conflict now, but were only too conscious of the mounting losses, and were beginning to wonder what had gone wrong, and to ask if the slaughter would continue until there was not a man under forty left alive in Britain.

Hardcastle and Marriott forced their way through this throng, and eventually reached the kiosk that was about to become the centre of Hardcastle's latest investigation.

A railway policeman stood in front of the booth, one of three small huts constructed of wood with corrugated iron roofs, above which was a large sign that read: FRENCH MONEY EXCHANGED HERE FOR OFFICERS & SOLDIERS IN UNIFORM.

‘This kiosk's closed,' said the constable importantly, as Hardcastle and Marriott approached. He nodded at the closed hatch as if to emphasize his point.

‘I'm DDI Hardcastle, Metropolitan, come to clear up a crime for you.' Hardcastle stared pointedly at the PC whose thumbs were tucked under the buttons of his tunic breast pockets.

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.' The railway policeman hurriedly assumed a position of attention and sketched a salute. ‘Your two officers are inside the hut, sir, and this here officer saw a man running away, sir,' he said, suddenly affecting an air of obsequiousness as he indicated a young army officer standing next to him.

‘I'll be with you in a moment, Lieutenant,' said Hardcastle, recognizing the officer's rank from the two stars on each of his shoulder straps. That insignia had long since been transferred, unofficially, from the cuffs, in an attempt to make it more difficult for enemy snipers to identify officers in the trenches. But, in the face of that widespread practice, it had, this year, been officially sanctioned.

‘While you're hanging about,' said Hardcastle to the railway PC, ‘ask if any of these soldiers saw anyone running off. Meanwhile, I'll get on with finding out what's what.'

The DDI pushed open the door of the kiosk. Face down on the floor lay the body of a man. The back of his head was a mess of blood and hair, and Hardcastle did not need the services of a doctor to tell him that the man was dead, and that he had been the victim of a savage blow. Scattered across the floor, near to the man, were abandoned bank notes, both British and French.

‘Learned anything, Catto?' demanded Hardcastle of the detective constable who was standing near the body.

‘No, sir,' said Henry Catto.

‘That don't surprise me,' commented Hardcastle, who, unreasonably, had no great faith in the young detective's abilities.

‘But the army officer outside apparently saw someone legging it, sir,' said Catto, and then pointed at a revolver lying on the floor. ‘That firearm was at the scene when we arrived, sir,' he added.

‘I hope you haven't touched it.' Hardcastle shot a censorious glance at Catto.

‘Certainly not, sir.'

‘It's interesting though,' mused Hardcastle, ‘I wonder what it's doing there.' He knelt to make a closer examination of the body. ‘It don't look as if he was shot, and there's blood on the butt of the revolver.' He stood up again. ‘Well, there's not a lot we can do until Dr Spilsbury gets here. In the meantime, I'll have a word with this army officer.' The DDI paused at the door. ‘And arrange for a van to remove the body, Catto, once Dr Spilsbury's conducted his examination. I daresay the railway police have got one of them telephone instruments in their office, and we don't want the deceased taken through the streets on a hand ambulance. It don't look good.' The DDI despised the introduction of the telephone, believing, in common with other senior officers, that it was a flash in the pan that would not last.

‘Yes, sir,' said Catto, and hastened to do Hardcastle's bidding.

The DDI turned to DC Lipton. ‘Put that revolver in a bag once the pathologist has finished, lad, and take it to Detective Inspector Collins in the Fingerprint Department at the Yard,
tout de suite
. And make a note of the serial number, and let me have it before I leave.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Lipton.

Hardcastle, in common with older CID officers, was only just coming to realize the value of fingerprints, introduced into English policing from India by Sir Edward Henry, now Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. It had been as recently as 1905 that this newfangled science had been accepted by the courts for the first time. When Albert and Alfred Stratton, the two murderers of Mr and Mrs Farrow, a Deptford oil shop proprietor and his wife, had been convicted on such evidence, it was regarded as a significant advance in criminal investigation.

Emerging from the booth, Hardcastle turned his attention on the young army officer. Although he was wearing a cap, the officer was holding another, the reason for which was shortly to be made clear.

‘Perhaps we could start with your name, Lieutenant,' said Hardcastle.

‘Geoffrey Mansfield, the North Staffordshire Regiment.'

‘What can you tell me, Mr Mansfield?'

‘It's the most extraordinary thing, Inspector. I've been waiting here to meet my fiancée. The ticket collector wouldn't allow me go on to the platform without a platform ticket, and I was about to—'

‘You weren't on the troop train that just came in, then?'

‘No, not at all.' Mansfield glanced at his watch. ‘I think her train must be running late. However, I was standing quite close to here when I saw a soldier come out of the bureau de change there.' He pointed at the booth wherein the cashier now lay dead. ‘He saw me but didn't salute, so I challenged him. Discipline seems to have gone all to Hades since this damned war started.'

‘What happened next, sir?' asked Marriott, fearful that Hardcastle might lose his temper with the young army officer's vacillation.

‘I thought the fellow must've been up to no good. After all, he came out of the door at the side of the booth. If he'd been exchanging his francs for pounds, he'd've done what we all do and queue up at the hatch there.' Mansfield pointed, and gave a brief, nervous laugh. ‘Well, not the officers, of course. We go straight to the front of the queue.'

‘Would you get to the point, Mr Mansfield,' said Hardcastle, his mood rapidly turning to one of impatience.

‘I chased after him, and shouted to a couple of military policemen to stop him, but I doubt they heard me. As he was escaping, he dropped his headgear.' Mansfield handed Hardcastle the army cap he was carrying. ‘I picked it up and was about to give chase again, when this troop train unloaded. Well, Inspector, you can see how many men are milling about. Quite frankly, I lost sight of him. One moment I had the chap in my sights, the next minute the place was flooded with the common soldiery, eh what?'

‘Did you hear a shot, by any chance?' Hardcastle was satisfied that the cashier had been murdered with the butt-end of the revolver that had been found, but he wondered if it had been discharged prior to the murder, perhaps by accident, or with the intention of frightening the man who now lay dead in the booth.

‘A shot? Definitely not, Inspector, and believe me, I know what a shot sounds like. There's a lot of it going on in Arras.'

‘I suppose you would,' said Hardcastle, glancing at the ribbon of the Military Cross on Mansfield's tunic. ‘What time was this?'

The officer glanced again at his watch. ‘Ten twelve ack emma, Inspector. Forty-five minutes ago.'

Grunting a response, Hardcastle turned his attention to the cap. Inside, in heavy black ink, were written the name Stacey and a regimental number. ‘What regiment is this, Lieutenant?' he asked, pointing at the brass badge.

‘The Army Service Corps, Inspector,' replied Mansfield promptly.

‘Well, as we've got his name and number here, he shouldn't be too difficult to trace.' Hardcastle turned to his sergeant. ‘Marriott, find somewhere quiet and take a statement from this officer. Then he can go.' As Marriott drew Lieutenant Mansfield away from the crush, the DDI next addressed himself to the railway policeman. ‘How did you get to hear of this, lad?' The policeman was not much younger than Hardcastle, but the DDI always called constables ‘lad'.

‘There was a bit of a to-do at the kiosk, sir. The swaddies waiting there was complaining something cruel that they wasn't getting served. And the hatch was shut. Most unusual, that.' The railway constable paused thoughtfully. ‘I suppose the murderer must have shut it,' he suggested. ‘Anyhow, these swaddies was in a nasty mood, sir, and I apprehended there might be a breach of the peace. So, I pushed open the door to see what the hold-up was, and found the cashier lying on the floor. Then this officer come up to me and told me about some swaddy he'd seen running away. That's when I sent another officer to call the Metropolitan copper off the traffic point outside.'

‘Wasn't the door locked?'

‘No, sir. I always thought it was s'posed to be, but perhaps the murderer busted it open. There was one other thing, sir …'

‘Yes?'

‘That army officer, sir. It wasn't quite right what he told you. I was walking towards the booth when I almost bumped into him.'

‘Are you suggesting that he wasn't running after anyone?' Hardcastle was aware that witnesses' statements often conflicted, and attached no great importance to what the policeman had said.

‘Didn't seem to be, sir, but I might've got it wrong.'

Having gauged the efficiency of the railway policeman, Hardcastle thought that that was quite likely. ‘My sergeant here will take a statement from you later on,' he said, not at all happy with the constable's knowledge of what had occurred. There was, however, some truth in what the PC had said earlier about the entrance to the booth. The DDI's brief examination of the door to the kiosk indicated that the flimsy lock had been forced, and the jamb splintered, probably by bodily pressure. He turned away, and then paused. ‘And did you ask if any of the soldiers saw anyone running away?'

‘Yes, sir. I enquired, but they never saw nothing.'

‘There's a surprise,' grunted Hardcastle.

Two military policemen arrived at the kiosk and approached Hardcastle.

‘Everything all right, sir?' asked the senior of the two, a corporal, having been told who Hardcastle was by the railway policeman.

‘Apart from the cashier having been murdered, yes,' said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘But now you're here, you can stand guard on this place until someone arrives to take possession of the cash. Is it an army arrangement?'

‘I'm afraid I don't know, sir,' said the corporal. ‘But it does turn up here every morning with a military escort.'

‘That officer over there,' began Hardcastle, indicating Lieutenant Mansfield who was sitting on a bench next to Marriott, ‘says that he shouted to you to apprehend a running soldier. Is that correct?'

‘Didn't hear nothing, sir,' said the corporal.

‘Don't surprise me,' muttered Hardcastle, turning away. But any further criticism of the military was curtailed by the arrival of Dr Bernard Spilsbury. A tall, impressive, tail-coated figure, he wore a top hat and carried a silver-topped cane with which he was tapping soldiers aside as he made his way purposefully towards the little knot of police officers.

‘Good morning, Hardcastle.'

‘Good morning, Dr Spilsbury,' responded Hardcastle, and raised his bowler hat.

‘Where's the cadaver?' Spilsbury always referred to a dead body as a cadaver.

‘In the hut here, doctor.' Hardcastle led the pathologist into the small kiosk.

Spilsbury put down the small Gladstone bag he was carrying and rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation of something interesting. Kneeling down, he examined the wound on the back of the dead man's head, and then glanced at the revolver, still lying on the floor a few inches away.

‘I'm in little doubt that it was the revolver that did the deed, Hardcastle, but not used conventionally.' Spilsbury gave a brief laugh. ‘Bludgeoned on the back of the skull with the butt of the thing, powerfully enough to fracture it severely.' The doctor stood up. ‘No point in taking temperatures. I gather that you know the time of death, give or take a few minutes.'

‘Indeed, doctor. About an hour ago.'

‘Splendid. Be so good as to have the cadaver taken to St Mary's Hospital at Paddington, Hardcastle, there's a good chap. I'll conduct the post-mortem this evening at six o'clock sharp, but I'm sure that my original diagnosis of the cause of death will stand.' And with that, Spilsbury picked up his Gladstone bag, waved a cheery goodbye and departed.

‘This cashier, lad,' said Hardcastle to the railway policeman who had returned after making his statement. ‘Is he a military fellow, d'you know? Those army policemen don't seem to know.'

‘No, sir. He's a teller from Cox and Company's bank in Albemarle Street. The cash comes here every day in a van with an army escort, and he meets them here. Then, every night, he checks the money and sends it back to the bank, again under escort.'

‘I'm glad to see someone knows what's going on,' said Hardcastle, offering a rare word of praise.