A Fool and His Money (7 page)

Bartlett rose from his seat.

‘I think I find it strange now.'

Caroline looked at him.

‘What's strange, George?'

‘Well, that I still call this young man – soon to be my son-in-law – “Boase”.'

‘Well, that
is
my name, sir.'

‘
And
that you call me “sir”. I think we shall have to stay as we are at work but, other than that, I will call you “Archie” – if that's all right with you?'

‘Of course it is.'

‘And you – well, what do you think, Princess?'

George Bartlett looked at his wife.

‘I did say before, George, that Archie should perhaps call you “George”.'

‘Well, that
is
my name – yes. “George” it shall be. That's that sorted then. Would you like a Leonard's, Archie?'

‘Yes, I would, please … George.' Boase felt uncomfortable with this arrangement but knew things had to change now.

Bartlett handed over a bottle of his beloved Leonard's London Beer and a glass.

‘Here you are – why don't we sit in the comfortable chairs – I've had enough of cards for now, Irene.'

‘All right, Dad. I'll put them away – I'm just going to make some tea for Mum and me.'

Bartlett and Boase sat by the fire and Topper sat on the floor between them.

‘I can't believe that we still light a fire at this time of the year, my boy – but Caroline feels the cold rather a lot and I don't want her to be uncomfortable.'

‘I think it's rather nice, sir – I mean,
George
. I like a nice fire.'

Boase looked into the flames.

‘Do you think there'll be another war, sir?'

‘I hope not, my boy. I certainly hope not. And I don't believe there will be – surely we've learned something after the last lot. Maybe in the distant future but not in my lifetime. They've got to leave time to find something else to get worked up about. I hope you never see the likes of that again – nor your children, should you have any.'

‘I'm not so sure. I hope you're right but people are always fighting, aren't they? And who knows what sort of new modern world is waiting for us?'

‘Well, I'm quite happy with the old one – the modern one can wait until I've gone. Now, where's my tobacco?'

Irene brought in a tray and laid it on the table. Caroline had been listening to the conversation and was glad when it ended. Losing a son to the last war was more than any mother should have to bear and she certainly never wanted Irene to experience the distress that she herself had gone through with their son, John.

Bartlett had found his tobacco and now sat happily with his pipe and his beer. He looked at Boase.

‘That's a queer business with that clown, right enough. I don't know where to begin and no error.'

‘I can't believe that someone would kill that poor old man, Dad. Archie and I were looking forward to seeing him at the circus. Why would anyone do something so horrible? I was reading about it to Mum from the
Packet
. It's terrible.'

‘Yes, it is, Irene. Archie and I have got our work cut out there. But we'll find out what happened; we'll find out who killed the old man.'

Eleven o'clock came all too quickly for Boase and he reluctantly had to leave. Leaving was something he hated doing whenever he was with Irene but it wouldn't be forever. With that thought firmly in his head, he said his goodbyes and left for home.

‘Any news on Aitchinson?

Bartlett addressed the desk sergeant and a constable as soon as he came through the front door of the police station. By now, everyone there had heard about the note and the mysterious Mr Aitchinson. The sergeant shook his head.

‘Sorry, sir. We were on it all afternoon yesterday but nothing so far.'

‘Keep looking – we need to know. It's urgent.'

Boase was already in the temporary office and had made Bartlett and himself some tea.

‘Morning, sir. Cuppa?'

‘I wouldn't say no – thank you, Boase. What's that there?'

‘Oh, just a pork pie, sir – want a piece?'

‘Well – no, because that is not breakfast, but I was rather referring to the piece of paper
under
the pie.'

‘Oh this?'

Boase slid the paper out and showed it to Bartlett. It had one word written on it:

AITCHINSON

‘Go on.'

‘Well, nothing really – I was just playing with the name. I even wondered if it was an anagram. But it isn't. I was just looking at it again while I was having a snack and waiting for the tea to brew.'

‘I had hoped you were going to tell me something incredible but true and we'd be arresting the killer by lunchtime.'

‘Sorry, sir.'

Bartlett laughed and sipped his tea.

‘Are we sure Penhaligon heard him correctly?'

‘Yes. I asked him again – that's definitely what he heard.'

‘Accent?'

‘None that he could discern – not local, not anything really, he thought.'

‘Why would the caller want to incriminate Edward James – is it someone who has had some past dealings with him?'

‘Maybe it's just the truth, sir, and the caller is doing his civic duty but without wishing to involve himself any further.'

‘But by being covert, it makes it appear
untrue
, don't you think?'

‘I don't know what to think at the moment. Come on, sir, drink your tea while it's still hot.'

Bartlett complied and stared out of the window.

‘Can we move back in today, Boase? There's nothing to see out of this window – I miss my own view.'

‘Yes, we can go back in after lunch apparently, sir.'

Boase swivelled on his new chair and took another bite from his pork pie.

At the recreation ground, everyone was miserable, particularly Chester Martin who wasn't making any money. Superintendent Greet had forbidden the troupe to leave the town. However, he
had
given them permission to continue with their shows. Apart from the recent events putting a dampener on everything within the circus, the people of Falmouth had obviously decided that they wanted nothing more to do with it. And so it was that Chester Martin reluctantly pasted a sign outside saying that there would be no more performances in the town.

Anne Warner hadn't been able to sleep. She had lain in bed all night getting more and more angry, tired and upset. Now morning, she turned and looked at the small alarm clock beside the bed. It was half past ten. She was usually up and about by now but today she didn't feel like it. She really missed her dear friend, Clicker. She sat up and wondered why anyone would do something like that. He was such a lovely man. She'd bet any money that his daughter had something to do with this.
Clicker must have told her that he knew about Margaret Field
. And what of Edward James?
He never liked Clicker
– the old man had told her so many times that the two didn't get along. Clicker just put up with him for the sake of being close to his daughter. He had waited for years to see her for the first time and had been prepared to do anything to keep her in his life – yes, even so far as to give her all his money.

Anne got up and made some tea. Her sisters had left a note propped up against the mirror saying they'd gone shopping and didn't want to wake her. She had been awake and heard them go but didn't feel like striking up a conversation with them. They meant well and they both loved her very much but, at the moment, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. To the two older sisters, she had seemed to be so upset and tired over the last couple of days and they were growing more worried for her.

Anne drew her dressing gown tighter and sipped her tea. She hadn't eaten anything,
couldn't
eat anything. She felt hungry but didn't want anything. The last time she had felt like this was when her parents died – and Clicker had helped her to get over that a little. Now she was going through it all over again. As she watched the rain trickling down the caravan window, she saw someone hurrying across the grass. She looked closer. The woman was holding a raincoat over her head. As she watched, the figure disappeared from her sight. Seconds later there was a knock at the door. Anne rose and went to see who it was. As she opened the door, a gust of wind blew over a small vase on a nearby shelf. She pushed the door further and was surprised to see Molly James standing there. This was someone she liked less now than she had before.

Molly seemed far from pleased to see Anne. She spoke first. ‘I was wondering if Betty or Joan were in?'

‘No. They're not. What do you want?'

‘They said before just to look in if I needed anything.'

The woman was holding a small jug.

‘Milk?'

‘If you can spare any – Edward hasn't had a cup of tea yet. He's going mad because I forgot to get milk yesterday.'

‘You'd better come in – I do have some.'

‘Thank you.'

The woman removed the coat from her head, shook it outside and came in. She looked uncomfortable and so did Anne, who worked quickly to fill the jug, spilling some of it onto the counter. Molly glanced around the small caravan, trying to avoid looking at the girl. The jug was filled and handed back.

‘Thanks – you're very kind.'

No reply was offered as the door was opened, and the woman hurried back out into the rain. Anne felt shaky and sat to finish her tea. She took a biscuit from the tin but after only a small bite threw it down on the table. She wished her sisters would hurry up. She didn't like being alone here now.

Bartlett and Boase finished putting everything back into their newly painted office, including Boase's recently acquired swivel chair, which he ceremoniously placed behind his desk with a satisfied grin. Bartlett stared at him.

‘Are you just going to stare at it, or actually sit in it to do some work?'

‘Well, sir, much as I'd love to sit in my new chair, I was thinking about going back to the circus to see if I could speak to anyone else – I'm sure there's something obvious we've missed. I need to know about Aitchinson. I've asked Penhaligon again if he can remember anything else but he says everything the man said to him, he wrote down. I thought, if it's all right with you, I'd go up there and then go straight home – unless you need me to come back?'

‘Well, no, and I haven't got any better ideas. I've got to go up and see Greet in a minute or two, so if you think you'll be more use doing that, then you go ahead.'

‘Righto, sir. I'll just finish this piece of cake and I'll be on my way.'

Boase didn't go straight to the recreation ground. Instead he went into the town. He never took a proper break but he thought he'd have half an hour now so that he could collect a gift he'd reserved for Irene, just to remind her that he loved her. He walked through the streets until he came to Bendix and Hall, the jewellers in Arwenack Street. He entered and waited his turn. There was a rather stout woman in front of him.

‘Mr Bosustow – this is not up to the usual high quality service my husband and I have come to expect from you. Now, did I tell you that my husband bought this ring from Hatton Garden – that's in London you know – especially for our fortieth wedding anniversary? That is tomorrow. I expected to have this alteration done by today and now you tell me it is not ready. I am very distressed, Mr Bosustow. Very distressed indeed.'

Boase smiled and felt rather sorry as Mr Bosustow drew himself up to his full height of about five feet six inches and addressed the woman looming over him.

‘Mrs de Vere, in the first place, quite obviously, I know where Hatton Garden is. Madam, I am a jeweller. In the second place, I told you perfectly well that your ring would be altered and ready for collection tomorrow. May I have your receipt docket please?'

Mrs de Vere rummaged through a voluminous handbag and presented the man with a yellow slip of paper. He unfolded it and held it up in front of her face and said merely one word.

‘Look.'

Mrs de Vere did indeed look and now began to speak very quickly.

‘Well, of course, you see it's your dreadful handwriting; shocking, that's what it is.'

‘Maybe your eyesight is not what it used to be, madam. I also would not have told you to collect today as I only have two repair days each week. Now, if you would like to return tomorrow, you may collect your ring at nine o'clock, if that would suit?'

Mrs de Vere was now reversing out of the shop and bumped into Boase who had been looking at some watches in a cabinet. He touched his hat. She made a small attempt at a curtsy and left the shop. Quentin Bosustow brushed the front of his coat and returned to his place behind the counter.

‘Good day, Mr Boase. How are you?'

‘Good afternoon, Mr Bosustow, looks like you had your hands full there.'

‘Well, Mrs de Vere is a very good customer and has been for more years than I care to remember. However, she can be, shall we say, just a little trying.'

Boase smiled.

‘Have you come to collect your necklace?'

‘Yes, please. This is really very kind of you.'

‘Well, my father-in-law started the practice of instalments and I could see no reason to discontinue. Not all of my customers have unlimited means and why should they be deprived of a little luxury?'

‘Quite, Mr Bosustow.'

The jeweller unlocked a drawer underneath the counter and withdrew a small brown envelope. He laid the contents onto a blue velvet pad.

‘This is such a pretty necklace, Mr Boase. I just know your fiancée will be extremely happy with it. Are emeralds a favourite of hers?'

‘Well, she has green eyes …'

‘Oh, well then this will be just perfect. Wait a moment and I'll put it in a box for you. How about a green one?'