Free Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison

identified?’
    â€˜Yes, skipper, she was a local tom called Ivy Huggins,’ said Fitnam. ‘She was well known to police, and had been arrested quite a few times. Her usual haunt was the Richmond Road, so I reckon that’s where she was picked up. Incidentally, Cowleaze Road – where the bakery is – is a turning off Richmond Road.’
    â€˜I wonder how the killer got hold of Stacey’s keys,’ mused Hardcastle, ‘unless it was someone else who’d worked there. Or even the baker himself.’
    â€˜Thanks, Ernie,’ said Fitnam sourly. ‘What I thought was an easy job to solve has now become very complicated.’
    â€˜Be so good as to keep me informed, Arthur,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott rose to leave.
    â€˜I don’t know what I’ll have to inform you about, Ernie,’ said Fitnam mournfully.
    As usual, Hardcastle arrived at the police station at exactly eight thirty. Following his customary practice, he examined the crime book, noting that DC Carter had arrested a pickpocket on Trafalgar Square the previous evening. Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he put his head round the door of the detectives’ office. ‘Marriott, a moment of your time.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.’ Marriott put on his jacket and followed the DDI into his office.
    Hardcastle sat down behind his desk, and spent a few silent moments scraping out the bowl of his pipe. He opened a drawer and took out a chicken feather that he then drew through the stem of the pipe. Noticing Marriott’s puzzled expression, he said, ‘Can’t get proper pipe cleaners these days, but fortunately my neighbour keeps chickens. Apparently the wire they used to make pipe cleaners has been diverted to the munitions factories to make shells to pound the enemy with. Talking of which, did you see the report in yesterday’s linen drapers about Fritz using mustard gas at somewhere near Wipers?’
    â€˜Yes, I did, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘They reckon that two thousand men were affected, and eighty-seven died. I just hope my brother-in-law’s not among them.’
    â€˜Using gas ain’t playing the game in my book.’ The DDI spoke as though the war were a cricket match. ‘There was also a bit in the
Daily Mail
about the King changing the Royal Family’s name from Saxe-Coburg to Windsor. Seems a funny business.’
    â€˜Apparently the King thought Saxe-Coburg sounded too German, sir,’ said Marriott.
    â€˜Well, the Royal Family
are
Germans, aren’t they?’ said Hardcastle, in a tone that suggested the whole exercise had been pointless. ‘Anyway, sit down, m’boy. Smoke if you want.’
    â€˜Thank you, guv’nor.’ Recognizing that Hardcastle was about to indulge in one of his little chats about the Somers case, Marriott adopted the less formal mode of address. He took out a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes and lit one, dropping the dead match into Hardcastle’s ashtray.
    â€˜Those things won’t do you any good, m’boy,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You ought to consider taking up a pipe.’ It was something that Hardcastle said every time he saw his sergeant smoking a cigarette.
    â€˜Yes, I’ve thought about it,’ said Marriott. ‘I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.’ Which is what he always said in reply.
    â€˜Something a bit funny is going on down at Aldershot, m’boy,’ mused Hardcastle, having at last got his pipe alight satisfactorily. ‘You know how to use that telephone thing in the front office, don’t you?’ It was one of the DDI’s little foibles that he pretended ignorance of the telephone and its workings. In fact he was thoroughly conversant with it, and even had one on his desk, but often said that he didn’t keep dogs to bark himself. ‘Nip downstairs and give Captain McIntyre a call. Ask him to have a word