Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison Page A

– in Hardcastle’s view – social niceties of coffee and biscuits were completed, McIntyre took the DDI and Marriott out to his staff car, and together they drove up Queen’s Avenue to Buller Barracks.
    â€˜Colonel, this is Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police, and his assistant, Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
    Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Fuller was at least sixty years of age, if not older. He had a grey complexion, a drooping grey moustache and a stooped posture. As he crossed his office to shake hands with Hardcastle, the DDI noticed that he had a pronounced limp.
    â€˜Valentine Fuller, Inspector,’ said the colonel in what proved to be a deceptively soft and croaking voice. ‘I’m what they call a “dugout”. I retired from the army in the year ten, but I was called back in 1914 to replace a fitter officer who went off to the war and got himself killed.’ Fuller punctuated this comment with a brief, bitter laugh. ‘Incidentally, the limp is thanks to some damned fool of a subaltern who shot me in the leg on a tiger shoot in India years ago. He wisely resigned his commission sometime later, and went off to do something with stocks and shares in the City. The last I heard of him he was a millionaire. Do sit down, gentlemen.’
    Hardcastle, Marriott and McIntyre took seats on the hard-backed chairs that the army provided for the colonel’s guests. The DDI glanced around the austere office, taking in the photograph of a group of officers wearing tropical kit and pith helmets. In front of them was a dead tiger.
    Fuller noticed Hardcastle’s interest. ‘Taken at Poona in oh-one,’ he commented. A faraway look came into his eyes. ‘Those were the days,’ he said. ‘Now, Inspector, how may I help you?’
    Hardcastle explained the circumstances surrounding the murder he was investigating.
    â€˜Well, surely, that’s a matter to be dealt with by the military, ain’t it, eh what?’ Fuller appeared to be somewhat nonplussed by the DDI’s presence in his office, and glanced at the military police officer. ‘General court martial, eh what, McIntyre? I mean the cashier at this, er, booth or whatever it was, was quasi-military, so to speak, and if the man’s killer was a soldier, well, there you have it.’
    â€˜Not so, Colonel,’ said McIntyre. ‘The Army Act is quite clear on the subject. It states categorically that if one soldier kills another soldier in England, even on military property, and even in time of war, it is still a matter for the civil police. And, in any event, this murder was on Victoria railway station, and the cashier was a civilian.’
    â€˜Really?’ Fuller sounded disbelieving, but he had never been very conversant with
King’s Regulations
or the
Manual of Military Law
. ‘Well, in India that sort of thing would have been dealt with by a field general court martial, eh what?’
    â€˜I agree, Colonel,’ said McIntyre patiently, ‘but we’re not in India, sir.’
    â€˜Oh, well, I suppose you military police wallahs know about these things,’ mumbled Fuller. ‘So what d’you want me to do about it, eh, Inspector?’ he said, directing his question to Hardcastle with a raised eyebrow.
    â€˜I should like to interview the soldiers that Captain McIntyre has identified as having been with Private Stacey the night his cap was stolen.’
    â€˜Very well. If you think that’ll help.’ Fuller shook his head, stood up, and limped across to open the door of his office. In a surprisingly loud voice, he bellowed, ‘Sarn’t-major.’
    â€˜Sir!’ came a distant reply from down the corridor.
    Moments later, the regimental sergeant-major appeared on the threshold. Magnificently turned out in immaculate service dress with a highly polished Sam Browne belt, he snapped to attention with a crash of