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with the butt of an army pistol.’
    â€˜Well, I knew that, and that’s what he told us yesterday,’ muttered Hardcastle testily. ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t the good doctor say so?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Marriott, knowing how inadvisable it was to encourage one of the DDI’s criticisms, confined his response to monosyllables. He could have said that that is exactly what Dr Spilsbury’s report stated, but decided that the safer course was to keep that opinion to himself.
    A PC knocked on Hardcastle’s open door. ‘Excuse me, sir.’
    â€˜Yes, what is it, lad?’
    â€˜A telephone call from Colonel Frobisher, sir. He has some information for you, when you care to call on him.’ The PC stepped into the office and laid a message flimsy on Hardcastle’s desk.
    â€˜Ah,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, ‘perhaps we’ll hear something that might help us to push this enquiry along a bit further. And not before time, either. Come, Marriott.’ He seized his hat and umbrella, and swept out of the office, followed by Marriott.
    As Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at the APM’s office, a mounted troop of Life Guards entered Horse Guards Arch to change the guard. Their ceremonial scarlet tunics, silver-coloured helmets and breastplates, white breeches and knee boots, had been replaced by sombre khaki with puttees. And no ceremony had attended the guard change since the outbreak of war.
    â€˜I’ve traced your man Stacey for you, Inspector,’ said Frobisher.
    â€˜Splendid, Colonel. I hope he’s not too far away.’
    â€˜No. You’ll doubtless be relieved that he’s in Aldershot,’ said the APM. ‘I spoke to the officer in charge of Army Service Corps records, and he confirmed that Private Edward Stacey, with the same regimental number that was inside the cap, is in his fourth week of training at Buller Barracks on Queen’s Avenue. He’s one of Lord Derby’s conscripts apparently. He tried pleading that he was a conscientious objector, but the tribunal turned him down.’
    â€˜Don’t surprise me,’ muttered Hardcastle, who had no high opinion of ‘conchies’ as he called them.
    â€˜I arranged for Captain Hector McIntyre of the Gordon Highlanders – he’s one of my military police officers – to take Stacey into custody as soon as I learned he was the man you wanted,’ continued Frobisher. ‘You’ll find him in the guardroom at Salamanca Barracks. McIntyre is expecting you.’
    â€˜But I thought you said he was at Buller Barracks, Colonel.’ As ever, Hardcastle was finding difficulty understanding the military.
    â€˜That’s where his training battalion is stationed, Inspector, but I thought it advisable to have him removed from among his own comrades. Anyway, Salamanca Barracks is where Captain McIntyre has his offices. When are you thinking of going down there?’
    â€˜I’ll go and talk to him immediately, Colonel.’ Hardcastle rubbed his hands together. ‘With any luck we’ll get a cough from Stacey, and have the case all done and dusted by nightfall.’
    â€˜A cough?’ queried Frobisher, as unfamiliar with Hardcastle’s argot as Hardcastle was with that of the military.
    â€˜A confession,’ explained Hardcastle.
    â€˜I see. I’ll have you met at Aldershot Station. You’ll find a military policeman there to take you to Salamanca Barracks.’
    â€˜What about the revolver, Colonel?’
    â€˜No luck there, I’m afraid, Inspector, and I doubt there will be. As I said the last time you were here, the number of revolvers that are lost on the battlefield makes it almost impossible to keep track of them.’
    â€˜A pity, that. It might have led me to Somers’ killer, not that I think there’s any doubt that the man Stacey was responsible. I wonder how he got hold of a revolver, though,’