Hardcastle's Soldiers by Graham Ison

treated to yet more of what he termed army hocus-pocus.
    â€˜The president of the mess committee, sir,’ said Marriott, trying to stave off any further show of bad temper on the DDI’s part. ‘He’s usually a major or a captain. He’s responsible for the good running of the mess.’
    Hardcastle grunted. ‘Well, let’s hope we can get a half sensible answer from him.’
    â€˜Archibald Grayson, Inspector.’ The booted and spurred captain crossed his office, and shook hands with Hardcastle and Marriott. ‘I’m the battery commander of A Battery. How may I help you?’
    â€˜I understand you’re President of the Mess Committee, Captain Grayson,’ said Hardcastle, who had quickly mastered this latest piece of army terminology.
    â€˜That’s so. Do take a seat, gentlemen.’ Grayson was a tall, fair-headed officer, immaculately attired in khaki service dress tunic and sand-coloured breeches. Above his left breast pocket was the ribbon of the India General Service Medal, preceded by the Distinguished Conduct Medal. It was an indication, did Hardcastle but know it, that Captain Grayson had received the award prior to becoming an officer, and had, therefore, been commissioned from the ranks.
    Hardcastle related briefly the circumstances of Herbert Somers’ murder, and his desire to trace one of the witnesses, namely Lieutenant Geoffrey Mansfield of the North Staffordshire Regiment who had claimed to be staying at the barracks.
    Grayson opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a slender book. ‘Mess accounts,’ he said, glancing briefly at the DDI. ‘Yes, there is a record of a Lieutenant Mansfield, North Staffs, having booked into the mess for the night of Tuesday the ninth of this month, for an indeterminate period.’
    â€˜But did he actually stay here, Captain Grayson?’
    â€˜Ah, that I can’t tell you. One of the army’s regulations is that officers on furlough from the Front must leave an army address with their commanding officer so that they can be recalled should the necessity arise. The officer in question must then, in turn, leave details with the PMC of that local mess of any private address at which he might stay. To be perfectly honest, Inspector, it’s a rule that’s more often honoured in the breach. He certainly didn’t leave any such address with me.’
    â€˜Is there anyone here who might know?’ Hardcastle was beginning to become frustrated at what he saw as military intransigence.
    â€˜One moment.’ Grayson lifted the receiver from the ‘candlestick’ telephone on his desk, jiggled the rest, and asked for the officers’ mess sergeant. ‘He’ll ring me back as soon as they find him, Inspector. Won’t be long. I hope.’
    Marriott’s long experience of working with Hardcastle told him that the DDI was becoming increasingly frustrated at the casual way that the army appeared to deal with police enquiries. The army, however, had a war to prosecute, and that, in Marriott’s view, probably took precedence. However, he attempted to fill the conversational void.
    â€˜Are you back from France, Captain Grayson?’ he asked.
    â€˜Good God, no. As a matter of fact, I’ve only just returned from India. I finished up commanding a screw gun battery at Chitral on the North West Frontier,’ explained Grayson. ‘The irony is that although we’re fighting the Hun, I was wounded by a Pathan, of all people, and was repatriated to England.’
    Hardcastle was not greatly interested in Captain Grayson’s experiences, and had no intention of asking what a screw gun battery was. He had been treated to long, and meaningless, explanations about the army before.
    The telephone rang, and the PMC snatched at the receiver. ‘Captain Grayson. Ah, Sergeant Broad, did we have a Lieutenant Mansfield of the North Staffs staying in the mess?’ After a