a refit at Chatham. He could be your man, Inspector.’
‘How do we find him, Lieutenant?’
De Courcy smiled, and arranged the files into a neat pile. ‘Go down to Chatham and ask the ship’s captain, I should think.’
It was three o’clock that afternoon when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Chatham Dockyard. A Metropolitan Police constable of the Dockyard Division and a sailor armed with rifle and fixed bayonet stood in front of the closed dockyard gates.
‘All correct, sir.’ As the two detectives approached, the policeman saluted even before Hardcastle had spoken a word.
‘How d’you know who I am?’ asked Hardcastle suspiciously.
‘You’re DDI Hardcastle of the Royal A, sir,’ said the PC with a grin. The informal name for the Whitehall Division was a recognition that five royal palaces fell within its area of responsibility. ‘I’m PC Ledger, sir, and I served at Rochester Row up to a couple of months ago.’
‘Well, Ledger, as you’re such a clever officer you can tell me where I can find HMS Epsom .’
‘Certainly, sir. I’ll just get my mate to relieve me, and I’ll show you the way.’ Ledger shouted to another constable in the gate office. ‘Harry, give us a blow while I show Mr Hardcastle the way to Epsom .’
PC Ledger pushed open the huge gate, and led Hardcastle and Marriott confidently through the labyrinthine dockyard, eventually arriving at the gangway to HMS Epsom . A khaki-clad Royal Marine stood guard.
‘This Bootneck will want to have a glim at your brief, sir. Suspicious lot, the Bootnecks,’ said Ledger, nodding towards the Royal Marines sentry. ‘Couple of police officers to see your skipper, mate.’
FIVE
T he officer of the day, a youthful sub-lieutenant with a telescope tucked beneath his left arm, stood at the top of HMS Epsom ’s gangway. Hardcastle and Marriott, having been alerted to naval traditions by Ledger, the dockyard PC, raised their hats as they stepped on board. The DDI explained who he wished to see, and the two detectives were conducted to the captain’s cabin.
‘Henry Cobbold, Inspector. I’m Epsom ’s skipper,’ said the young lieutenant-commander, once Hardcastle had introduced himself and Marriott. ‘How can I help you?’ He stepped across the cabin and shook hands with each of the detectives.
‘I understand from Lieutenant de Courcy at the Admiralty that a Petty Officer James Nelson is a member of your crew, Captain,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Yes, he is,’ said Cobbold. ‘The Admiralty sent me a signal saying that you’d be coming. De Courcy said that you think Nelson might know something about a murder.’
‘Indeed.’ Hardcastle told the captain about the murder of Annie Kelly that he was investigating, and that Petty Officer Nelson might be able to assist him. ‘But first, Captain, can you tell me where Nelson was on the night of Sunday the twenty-fourth of September?’
‘Certainly.’ Epsom ’s captain stepped across the cabin and referred to a duty state displayed on a bulkhead. ‘He was here, Inspector,’ he said, glancing back at Hardcastle. ‘He returned from shore leave on Tuesday the nineteenth of September. He’s been aboard ever since then.’
‘Is there any chance he could have slipped ashore and gone to London? Last weekend, say.’
‘Certainly not, Inspector,’ said the captain firmly. ‘In fact, I saw him several times over that weekend.’
‘That rules him out, then,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Would it be possible to have a word with Nelson, Captain?’
‘Of course.’ Cobbold opened the curtain at the entrance to his cabin. ‘Pass the word for Petty Officer Nelson,’ he said to the marine sentry.
‘You sent for me, sir?’ Minutes later a smartly dressed, well-built rating appeared in the entrance of the cabin, his cap tucked beneath his left arm.
‘Come in, Nelson,’ said the captain. ‘These two gentlemen are police officers from London, and they want to ask you a few questions. At
‘How do we find him, Lieutenant?’
De Courcy smiled, and arranged the files into a neat pile. ‘Go down to Chatham and ask the ship’s captain, I should think.’
It was three o’clock that afternoon when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Chatham Dockyard. A Metropolitan Police constable of the Dockyard Division and a sailor armed with rifle and fixed bayonet stood in front of the closed dockyard gates.
‘All correct, sir.’ As the two detectives approached, the policeman saluted even before Hardcastle had spoken a word.
‘How d’you know who I am?’ asked Hardcastle suspiciously.
‘You’re DDI Hardcastle of the Royal A, sir,’ said the PC with a grin. The informal name for the Whitehall Division was a recognition that five royal palaces fell within its area of responsibility. ‘I’m PC Ledger, sir, and I served at Rochester Row up to a couple of months ago.’
‘Well, Ledger, as you’re such a clever officer you can tell me where I can find HMS Epsom .’
‘Certainly, sir. I’ll just get my mate to relieve me, and I’ll show you the way.’ Ledger shouted to another constable in the gate office. ‘Harry, give us a blow while I show Mr Hardcastle the way to Epsom .’
PC Ledger pushed open the huge gate, and led Hardcastle and Marriott confidently through the labyrinthine dockyard, eventually arriving at the gangway to HMS Epsom . A khaki-clad Royal Marine stood guard.
‘This Bootneck will want to have a glim at your brief, sir. Suspicious lot, the Bootnecks,’ said Ledger, nodding towards the Royal Marines sentry. ‘Couple of police officers to see your skipper, mate.’
FIVE
T he officer of the day, a youthful sub-lieutenant with a telescope tucked beneath his left arm, stood at the top of HMS Epsom ’s gangway. Hardcastle and Marriott, having been alerted to naval traditions by Ledger, the dockyard PC, raised their hats as they stepped on board. The DDI explained who he wished to see, and the two detectives were conducted to the captain’s cabin.
‘Henry Cobbold, Inspector. I’m Epsom ’s skipper,’ said the young lieutenant-commander, once Hardcastle had introduced himself and Marriott. ‘How can I help you?’ He stepped across the cabin and shook hands with each of the detectives.
‘I understand from Lieutenant de Courcy at the Admiralty that a Petty Officer James Nelson is a member of your crew, Captain,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Yes, he is,’ said Cobbold. ‘The Admiralty sent me a signal saying that you’d be coming. De Courcy said that you think Nelson might know something about a murder.’
‘Indeed.’ Hardcastle told the captain about the murder of Annie Kelly that he was investigating, and that Petty Officer Nelson might be able to assist him. ‘But first, Captain, can you tell me where Nelson was on the night of Sunday the twenty-fourth of September?’
‘Certainly.’ Epsom ’s captain stepped across the cabin and referred to a duty state displayed on a bulkhead. ‘He was here, Inspector,’ he said, glancing back at Hardcastle. ‘He returned from shore leave on Tuesday the nineteenth of September. He’s been aboard ever since then.’
‘Is there any chance he could have slipped ashore and gone to London? Last weekend, say.’
‘Certainly not, Inspector,’ said the captain firmly. ‘In fact, I saw him several times over that weekend.’
‘That rules him out, then,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Would it be possible to have a word with Nelson, Captain?’
‘Of course.’ Cobbold opened the curtain at the entrance to his cabin. ‘Pass the word for Petty Officer Nelson,’ he said to the marine sentry.
‘You sent for me, sir?’ Minutes later a smartly dressed, well-built rating appeared in the entrance of the cabin, his cap tucked beneath his left arm.
‘Come in, Nelson,’ said the captain. ‘These two gentlemen are police officers from London, and they want to ask you a few questions. At
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