Free Hardcastle's Frustration by Graham Ison Page B

Having served in France at the beginning of the war, he spoke the words confidently enough, but without any attempt at a French accent. ‘That’s what the French call the East Cemetery.’
    â€˜When was he killed?’ Marriott had his pocket book open, and had begun to make notes.
    â€˜The seventh of May last year.’ Glover took a sip of his tea. ‘It’s always a good idea to check the casualty lists first when we’re looking for a name. Apparently he got run down by a gun carriage team in the base ordnance area at the Port of Boulogne. He was killed instantly.’ He glanced up with a wry smile on his face. ‘They’re bloody careless at times, these artillery drivers.’
    â€˜Presumably his wife was informed at the time of his death.’
    â€˜Bound to have been.’ Glover looked back at his file. ‘Yes, the War House was signalled by the port commander at Boulogne on the eighth of May 1917, and they in turn advised his wife, a Mrs Daisy Benson, by telegram on the eleventh. At the time she lived at Gordon Road, Kingston upon Thames.’
    â€˜Yes, I know, and she’s still there, but she told us that he was still alive.’
    â€˜When was this?’
    â€˜Last Monday, Cyril.’
    Glover laughed. ‘Got a fancy man, has she?’
    Marriott laughed too. ‘I think she’s got more than one, Cyril, but you army coppers are terrible cynics.’
    â€˜That’s rich, coming from a civvy copper,’ said Glover. ‘Anything else I can do for you, Charlie?’
    â€˜No, not at the moment, Cyril, and thanks for the tea.’
    â€˜I can tell you how to get to that cemetery if you want to pop over and make sure, Charlie.’
    â€˜Thanks very much, but I think I’ll give that a miss. My Lorna wouldn’t care for that idea at all,’ said Marriott, and returned to Cannon Row keen to report this latest twist to the DDI.
    Hardcastle applied a match to his pipe and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘There’s obviously more to our Daisy Benson than meets the eye,’ he said, once Marriott had finished telling him of Staff Sergeant Benson’s death. ‘I think we’ll have to have another chat with her.’
    â€˜But how will that help us, sir?’
    â€˜We won’t know until we ask, Marriott.’
    It took a few moments for Daisy Benson to recognize the two men on her doorstep.
    â€˜Oh, it’s you, Inspector,’ she said eventually, and glanced nervously over her shoulder.
    â€˜Yes, it’s me, Mrs Benson.’
    â€˜Good Lord, it’s about Sid this time, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve come about. I can feel it in my bones. Is he dead?’
    â€˜I’m afraid so, Mrs Benson.’
    â€˜Oh dear God!’ Daisy took hold of the doorpost and contrived to appear shocked by the news. As charades went, it was not very convincing. ‘When did it happen?’
    â€˜Ten months ago, on the seventh of May last year, to be exact. As you well know, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle coldly. ‘You had a telegram from the War Office on the eleventh of May, four days after he was killed.’
    â€˜You’d better come in, Inspector.’ With unseemly haste, Daisy Benson ushered the two detectives towards the parlour, but it was too late. A man descended the staircase, putting on his jacket.
    â€˜I’ll be off, then, Daisy.’ The man glanced apprehensively at Hardcastle and Marriott. He had encountered the police before, and was fairly certain that he had just done so again.
    â€˜Oh, this is, um, Mr Smith, one of my lodgers, Inspector,’ said Daisy.
    â€˜I’ve left the, er, rent on the dressing table, as usual, Daisy,’ said ‘Smith’, with a broad wink, and hastened towards the front door.
    â€˜Such a nice man,’ said Daisy, but she could not control the flush of embarrassment that was rising slowly from her neck.
    Waiting until Daisy