Hardcastle's Traitors (23 page)

‘Before we do anything hasty, we'll make sure that what Colonel Frobisher told us is the truth.'

‘But how do we do that, sir?' Marriott could not understand why the DDI should doubt the APM's word. He thought that Frobisher's personal knowledge of the Wheelers, together with the photograph of their wedding was sufficient proof.

‘We go to Esher and find out, Marriott. I should've thought you'd have worked that out for yourself.'

Marriott had worked it out, but he also knew that if he had suggested it, Hardcastle would have dismissed it as a waste of time. That said, he knew that the DDI would always check what others had told him. And then check it again.

The train journey from Waterloo railway station to Esher in Surrey took half an hour. Fortunately, there were several cabs waiting on the station forecourt.

The Wheeler house was a large white double-fronted mansion set in its own spacious grounds. ‘This is some place, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, as the cab stopped at the end of a long winding drive. ‘I reckon the Wheelers weren't short of a bob or two.'

‘Good afternoon, gentleman.' The butler, immaculately attired, spoke with the deference of his profession combined with an air of superiority.

‘I'm a police officer,' said Hardcastle, ‘and I'd like a word with Mrs Wheeler.'

‘Certainly, sir. I'll enquire if the mistress is receiving visitors today.' The butler paused. ‘I trust there's no trouble, sir,' he said, with a slight lift of his eyebrows.

‘No, not at all. It's just an enquiry that Mrs Wheeler may be able to assist me with.'

‘Very good, sir. Perhaps you'd step inside.'

Hardcastle and Marriott entered a large temple-tiled hall. There was a large round table in the centre upon which, neatly arranged, were copies of
The
Times
, the
Morning Post
and the
Daily Mail
. Several portraits adorned the walls, most of which depicted soldiers in Guards uniform.

‘It looks as though the army is a Wheeler family tradition, Marriott,' commented Hardcastle, looking around. ‘And I wouldn't like to have to clean that, either,' he added, glancing up at the crystal chandelier that dominated the hall.

‘This way, gentlemen,' said the butler, returning a few moments later. ‘The mistress is in the drawing room.'

The woman who greeted Hardcastle and Marriott was, by any reckoning, a beauty who had yet to reach her thirtieth birthday. Her upswept brown hair was immaculately coiffed, and her red silk dress rustled as she crossed the room with her hand held out.

‘I'm Victoria Wheeler, gentlemen,' she said, as she shook hands with each of them. ‘How may I help you? Do please sit down,' she added with a smile, and indicated one of two leather chesterfield sofas that faced each other at right angles to a roaring log fire. She sat down opposite the detectives, leaned forward and opened a pewter box. Taking out a cigarette, she fitted it into a long holder. ‘Please help yourselves if either of you smoke.' She pushed the cigarette box across the small table that separated them.

‘I'm a pipe smoker, madam,' said Hardcastle, who was still unaccustomed to the sight of a woman smoking, even in her own home. ‘If you've no objection, that is.'

‘None at all. Please go ahead. My late husband was a pipe smoker, and I grew to like the aroma of it.'

‘I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, madam, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. And I'm investigating two murders.' He took out his pipe and began to fill it.

‘Good heavens!' exclaimed Victoria Wheeler, holding her cigarette holder aloft as her face expressed concern. ‘Not here in sleepy old Esher, surely?'

‘No, madam, in London.' Hardcastle directed a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.

‘Oh, what a disappointment. Nothing like that ever happens here. Actually, the only exciting thing to have happened in the last couple of years was when our curate ran off with the wife of one of his parishioners.' Victoria Wheeler giggled and fingered a gold neck chain that caught the glimmer of the fire's flames, enhancing the marble-whiteness of her skin. ‘How can you possibly think that I can help you, then?'

‘I don't want to weary you with the details, Mrs Wheeler,' said Hardcastle, realizing that he had to be somewhat circumspect in his questioning, ‘but the name of Sinclair Villiers came up in the course of our enquiries. His butler, a very unreliable fellow in my view, suggested that Mr Villiers was a friend of yours, and sometimes visited you.'

‘How intriguing.' Victoria Wheeler looked Hardcastle straight in the eye. ‘I do have one or two gentlemen admirers, Inspector, but your Mr Villiers doesn't feature among them. What sort of age is this man?'

‘He's about fifty or so, I'm led to believe.'

‘Much too old,' said Victoria, dismissing the prospect with a gay laugh. But then she stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, I didn't mean to imply that being someone of that age is old, Inspector, but that he would be too old to interest me. In fact, my father is about the same age.'

‘This butler fellow also claimed that you and your late husband – Major James Wheeler, I believe – were family friends of Mr Villiers.' Hardcastle had decided to put all the blame for his story on Henwood, rather than complicating the conversation by mentioning the other Mrs Wheeler.

‘James was certainly my husband, but he was killed at Givenchy at the beginning of the war, so that would be impossible. I'm sorry, Inspector, but Mr Villiers's butler must be confusing me with someone else.'

‘So it would seem, Mrs Wheeler, and I apologize for having troubled you,' said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘But these matters have to be followed up, especially in so serious a case as a double murder.'

‘I quite understand, Inspector.' Mrs Wheeler rose and once again shook hands. She crossed to a bell pull and summoned the butler. ‘These officers are leaving now, Cross.'

‘Very good, madam. This way, if you please, gentlemen.' When they reached the front door, the butler asked, ‘May I call you a cab, sir?'

‘No thank you, Cross,' said Hardcastle. ‘I asked my cab to wait.' Firmly believing that his interview with Mrs Wheeler would not take long, he had had the foresight not to dismiss the taxi.

‘Very wise, sir,' commented the butler.

Less than hour after arriving, he and Marriott were back on a train bound for London.

‘I think I'm going to have to tread carefully, Marriott, because this whole business seems to be developing into a matter that Special Branch ought to be dealing with.' Hardcastle would have been quite content to pursue his enquiries on his own, but he had tangled with the political branch before, and it was not a pleasant experience. And it was particularly inadvisable to make an enemy of Superintendent Patrick Quinn. He took out his hunter. ‘Half past six. I suppose Mr Quinn might still be there.'

Marriott was surprised at the DDI's decision. He knew from past experience that Hardcastle was loath to have dealings with Special Branch.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hardcastle?' Superintendent Quinn was standing by the hatstand in his office. Already clad in a raincoat, and holding his top hat and umbrella, he was on the point of leaving.

‘I'm sorry to bother you so late, sir, but a matter has arisen that I think is urgent and may be of interest to Special Branch.'

‘I see. Well, make it as quick as you can. I have another appointment.'

As succinctly as he was able, Hardcastle explained the curious matter of the bogus Victoria Wheeler in Worthing and her association with Sinclair Villiers. He mentioned also the sudden disappearance of Villiers and, finally, he reported the outcome of his interview with the real Mrs Wheeler in Esher.

‘You'd better sit down, Mr Hardcastle.' Quinn placed his top hat on a bookcase, and took off his raincoat, his appointment forgotten.

Hardcastle went on to remind Quinn of the murder of Peter Stein in Bow and that he was aware that a Morse code transmitter had been removed by Special Branch detectives.

‘How did you know that?' demanded Quinn, his bushy eyebrows lifting in surprise.

‘The DDI at Bow Road told me, sir.'

‘Did he indeed,' responded Quinn crossly, but the impression was one of irritation with his own men for making that information known to the Bow Road police.

‘I presume that the equipment was examined for fingerprints, sir, and I was wondering whether Sinclair Villiers's were found anywhere on the machine.'

‘We don't happen to have Villiers's fingerprints,' Quinn reluctantly admitted.

‘I do, sir, or at least, Mr Collins has them.' Hardcastle explained the subterfuge he had employed in order to obtain those prints.

‘I'm beginning to think that you're quite a resourceful officer, Mr Hardcastle,' said Quinn, affording the DDI a rare smile. ‘In that case, I shall arrange to have the equipment examined forthwith. In the meantime, I shall inform MI5 of what you have discovered. In fact, I think you might have uncovered more of the espionage network that we were already familiar with. But we will have to move quickly if we are to arrest this Mrs Wheeler. The Mrs Wheeler in Worthing, of course, not the one in Esher.' He paused. ‘Although I fear we may be too late.'

‘Will you require my assistance, sir?'

‘I most certainly will, Mr Hardcastle, given that you know what she looks like,' said Quinn. ‘You weren't thinking of going home, were you?'

‘No, sir.' Hardcastle had been intending to do just that, but deemed it politic to make himself available for further duty. ‘I have my sergeant standing by, as well, sir.'

‘Good,' said Quinn. He pressed a bell-push on his desk and seconds later an officer appeared. ‘Ah, Mr Strange, this is DDI Hardcastle of A.'

‘Detective Inspector John Strange, sir,' said the officer as he shook hands.

‘Mr Strange, get hold of Mr O'Rourke, wherever he happens to be,' said Quinn, ‘and Sergeants Shaughnessy and Colter and Detective Constable Lacey. I want to see them here immediately.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And bring me a form for an OSA written order.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I propose to go to Worthing immediately, Mr Hardcastle, and search this house,' said Quinn, once Strange had departed, ‘and I want you and your sergeant to accompany me and my officers.'

‘But won't you need a search warrant, sir?' asked Hardcastle, somewhat bewildered by the speed at which Quinn was moving things along.

‘I shall sign a superintendent's written order to search under the Official Secrets Act of 1911, Mr Hardcastle. That was the form I just asked Strange to bring me.'

Within minutes of Quinn's summons, his office seemed to be full of officers.

‘I'll get Mr Hardcastle here to explain what he's discovered,' said Quinn, ‘and then I'll tell you what I propose to do about it.'

Hardcastle repeated the details of his discovery and was pleased to see that the assembled Special Branch officers were taking a keen interest.

‘We shall now go to Worthing and conduct a search of this woman's house,' said Quinn. ‘But first, I must give Mr Collins instructions.' He picked up the receiver of his telephone, tapped the rest sharply and asked to be connected to the officer in charge of the Fingerprint Bureau. Having told Collins to make an urgent comparison of Sinclair Villiers's prints with any on the Morse code equipment, he stood up. ‘You ought to get a telephone in your office, Mr Hardcastle,' he suggested. ‘A very useful piece of equipment.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Hardcastle, deeming it unwise to say that he regarded the telephone as an infernal instrument that would not last.

Strange returned with the form that Quinn had requested. Scribbling his signature on the document, he handed it to O'Rourke.

‘One more thing, Mr Strange. Arrange for a message to be sent to all ports regarding Sinclair Villiers. He is to be detained if he attempts to leave the country.'

‘Very good, sir,' said Strange.

‘Although God knows where he'd go in time of war,' added Quinn.

As the result of a telephone call to Basil Thomson, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, Superintendent Quinn had been afforded the immediate use of two high-powered motor cars. Consequently, Hardcastle, Marriott and the group of SB officers arrived at West Parade, Worthing at nine o'clock that evening. By that time it was pitch dark and pouring with rain.

Having sent Shaughnessy and Lacey to the back of the house to guard against any possible escape by its occupants, Quinn, accompanied by Hardcastle, O'Rourke, Strange, Marriott and Colter, marched up to the front door and hammered loudly. There was no reply.

‘Break in, Mr Strange,' said Quinn.

‘Yes, sir.' Strange took his detective's stave from his pocket and smashed the glass panel in the front door. Putting his hand through the gap, he undid the Yale rim lock and opened the door.

Quinn led the other officers into the house. They were greeted by a loud scream, and were confronted by a young girl cowering at the back of the hall.

‘Calm yourself, miss,' said Quinn. ‘We're police officers. Who are you?'

‘I'm Sarah, the maid, sir,' said the girl who, understandably, had been terrified by the sound of breaking glass and the fearsome sight of the bearded, top-hatted Quinn leading other officers into the house from the darkness.

‘Why didn't you answer the door, colleen?' asked Quinn gently.

‘The mistress told me not to answer the door to anyone, sir.'

‘And where is your mistress? I presume you're talking about Mrs Victoria Wheeler.'

‘Yes, sir, but she's gone.'

‘Gone where?'

‘I don't know, sir.' Sarah suddenly recognized Hardcastle and pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘It was just after that gentleman had left this morning that she went, sir.'