Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison Page B

his black glass-like ammunition boots and saluted. Both his highly burnished brass crown-in-laurel-leaves rank badge and his regimental cap badge shone in the shaft of sunlight coming through the commanding officer’s window.
    â€˜You wanted me, sir?’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Punchard. These gentlemen are from the civil police. They wish to ask some of our recruits questions regarding a matter that I’m sure they’ll tell you about.’ Fuller turned to Hardcastle. ‘RSM Punchard will take care of everything, Inspector. Anything you need, he’ll deal with.’
    â€˜Thank you, Colonel, most kind,’ murmured Hardcastle. But secretly he was infuriated by the indolent attitude of army officers who seemed unable to grasp the urgency of the matter with which he was dealing. He was not altogether surprised at Fuller’s stance, but felt that McIntyre – a military police officer – should have had a greater awareness of what the police were trying to do. And a greater sense of urgency.
    â€˜Perhaps you’d be so good as to accompany me, gentlemen,’ said RSM Punchard. Tucking his pace stick under his left arm, he gave the colonel another quivering salute, turned and marched out of the commanding officer’s office.
    Hardcastle, Marriott and McIntyre accompanied RSM Punchard across the vast parade ground that, he told them, was called W Square.
    â€˜Why is that?’ asked Hardcastle unwisely.
    â€˜All the barrack squares in Aldershot are given letters,’ said Punchard. ‘God knows why. You see, Mr Hardcastle, I was a Coldstream Guardsman, and I was trained at Caterham Barracks, the Guards depot. We knew how to do things there. I haven’t always been in Ali Sloper’s Cavalry.’
    Once again, Hardcastle was mystified by army terminology. ‘What on earth is Ali Sloper’s Cavalry?’ he asked.
    It was Captain McIntyre who provided the answer. ‘It’s an army nickname, Inspector,’ he said with a laugh, ‘using the initials ASC, which really means the Army Service Corps.’
    â€˜I see,’ said Hardcastle, determined that he would ask no more questions about military customs and terminology.

FIVE
    T he four soldiers, who had admitted being with Stacey on their illegal visit to an Aldershot pub, had been assembled in one of the classrooms, along with Stacey himself, now released from custody.
    â€˜Privates Stacey, Ash, Joliffe, Stone and Paterson,’ said the RSM, scowling at the five conscripts, all of whom were standing rigidly to attention. ‘Right, my lucky lads, this here is a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, come to ask you some questions. You will tell him the truth. Understood?’ he added, screaming the last word at them.
    In unison, the recruits shouted, ‘Yessir!’
    Hardcastle did not bother to correct the RSM’s statement that he came from the Yard; indeed, it tended to reinforce his authority. He turned to McIntyre. ‘I think it might be best if Sergeant Marriott and I interviewed these soldiers alone, Captain. In that way they might tell me more than if you and Mr Punchard were present.’
    McIntyre grinned. ‘You may well be right, Inspector,’ he said, ‘but they are already facing charges for being out of barracks without a pass. Not that they would’ve got one.’
    Once Captain McIntyre and RSM Punchard had left, Hardcastle took out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco. ‘You might as well sit down, lads,’ he said to the soldiers. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
    â€˜D’you mind if we smoke, sir?’ asked Private Ash.
    â€˜Not at all,’ said Hardcastle, lighting his pipe.
    It was not the most ideal of places to conduct interviews, but Hardcastle had already decided that these five young conscripts had had nothing directly to do with Herbert Somers’