Hardcastle's Traitors Read Free

tomfoolery.’
    â€˜The glass showcases have been broken into, sir, and they’ve been emptied,’ said Marriott. ‘Quite a haul of jewellery, I’d’ve thought, although they’ve left some cheap stuff behind, along with all of the stuff that had been pledged, as far as I can tell. It seems as though they knew what they were looking for.’
    â€˜We’d better take a glim at this here corpse, then.’ Closing his umbrella, Hardcastle pushed open the door with a gloved hand.
    The body of an elderly man lay face down in the centre of the shop floor, arms outstretched, his head a mass of matted blood. He was dressed in striped pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers. An Ever-Ready electric torch – still switched on – lay close to the man’s right hand, and a pool of his blood had spread across the linoleum-covered floor. But blood had been splashed everywhere: on the front of the counter, on the walls and on the showcases.
    â€˜They must’ve given him a good whack, judging by the amount of blood, Marriott. Looks like an abattoir,’ said Hardcastle, hands in pockets as he glanced around. ‘I reckon he disturbed these villains and was bludgeoned on the head for his pains.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Marriott confined himself to a simple answer, as he always did whenever the DDI stated the obvious. ‘I’ve sent for Doctor Spilsbury, sir,’ he said, anticipating the DDI’s next instruction.
    â€˜That PC said this man’s name was Gosling.’
    â€˜Yes, sir, Reuben Gosling. He’s owned this establishment for nigh on thirty years.’ It was Marriott’s job to possess such local knowledge. ‘He’s a jeweller as well as a pawnbroker.’
    â€˜I gathered that from the sign outside,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘Is he married?’
    â€˜I believe he’s a widower, sir. I had heard that his wife died about ten years ago, but I don’t know for sure.’
    â€˜And he lived over the shop, I suppose.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.
    â€˜Where’s this witness Partridge, the one that Dodds mentioned?’
    â€˜He lives above the outfitters next door, sir.’
    â€˜In that case we’ll have a word with him while we’re waiting for the good doctor to arrive.’ Hardcastle turned to the two DCs. ‘You wait here for Dr Spilsbury. Have a look round and see if you can find anything of importance, but don’t touch it if you do. Understood, Catto?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Catto was an experienced detective and did not need to be told how to conduct himself at the scene of a murder, but for some reason that Catto had never been able to fathom his abilities were always called into question by the DDI.
    The window of the outfitter’s shop next to Gosling’s establishment contained a number of mannequins attired in the latest men’s fashions. Hardcastle looked around the doorway of the shop until he discovered a bell handle high on one side. He pulled at it several times.
    Eventually a window on the floor above the door was flung open and a tousled head appeared.
    â€˜Who the devil’s that at this time of the morning disturbing decent folk when they’re trying to get some shut-eye?’ The speaker was clearly in a bad mood.
    â€˜Police,’ said Hardcastle, stepping back from the doorway and looking up.
    â€˜Oh, right. Hang on, guv’nor.’ The head disappeared and moments later the shop door was opened by a man in a nightshirt over which he wore an overcoat. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know it was you,’ he said. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s a bit of a dirty night out there.’
    Leaving their umbrellas on the step, the two detectives entered the shop and Marriott closed the door.
    â€˜You’re Mr Sidney Partridge, I understand,’ said Hardcastle.
    â€˜That’s me, sir.’ Partridge stood with shoulders slightly rounded and