Empty Vessels (12 page)

ʻHave you thought any more about Ivy Williamsʼs murder, sir?ʼ

ʻI think of nothing else my boy – I still donʼt trust those Hattons and I bet any money that Frank Wilson was their visitor.ʼ

ʻWhy didnʼt we question the Hattons about that visit after we spoke to their mother, sir?ʼ

ʻMainly because I donʼt want them to know that their mother let us in on what happened – Iʼm not sure yet that I even trust them to take care of her and, also, Iʼm not so convinced that Frank Wilson is a danger – if heʼs got something to hide, why was he still in the area at Christmas?ʼ

Boase thought that this made perfect sense. He made himself and Bartlett a cup of tea and sat at his desk proceeding to unwrap a large piece of saffron cake. Boase shared his superiorʼs office as there was limited space in this part of the station and also because Bartlett wanted to keep Boase under his watchful eye – this young man had great potential he had thought to himself, much like himself in his younger days, although, alarmingly, Boase was the quicker-witted of the two. The younger manʼs part of the office was small and occupied the back wall in the corner; the two desks faced each other although Bartlett, naturally, was nearer the fire in winter and, the window in summer. The two men got on remarkably well together – complemented one another and made a very strong team.

As Boase reached the end of his saffron cake he looked across at Bartlett.

ʻI was wondering, sir …ʼ

ʻYes, Boase, what is it?ʼ

ʻWell … well … nothing really.ʼ

ʻYou know I hate it when you do that, man – what do you want to say?ʼ

Boase wished he had never started this conversation.

ʻWell, sir, I was wondering … I was wondering, well, if you thought that Irene might like to come to the fair with me tonight?ʼ

Bartlett smiled.

ʻWell, you should really ask her, not me. Why donʼt you come round later – what time does this fair start?ʼ

As Bartlett spoke he looked out of his window – the fair was outside on the Moor and was preparing to open for the afternoon. He watched the fairground workers going about their business; it reminded him of the fairs in London – they were different years ago, mind. The rides were cheaper, the food was better, how things had changed since his younger days.

ʻWell, about seven oʼclock is a good time to go, sir.

ʻWell then, why donʼt you come to the house and I will tell Irene to be ready?ʼ

ʻWhat if she doesnʼt want to, sir?ʼ

Bartlett raised his eyebrows.

ʻI really donʼt think thereʼs any danger of that happening, my boy. Now, get these men together and prepare for a trip to Truro.ʼ

As Bartlett and Boase collected their coats, the desk sergeant knocked on the door and entered with a letter, announcing it had just come as a special delivery. Bartlett opened the envelope and read:

Dear Sir

I have some information which may help you with your enquiries following your visit to my office. Jane Perkins (or Norma Berryman) I have discovered is living at 17, Lemon Street in Truro. She has a room there. I wish you well.

Yours faithfully

Thomas Trevanion, Livestock Auctioneer

Bartlett couldnʼt believe his luck.

ʻBoase, we'll have our first stop at 17 Lemon Street today – here, read this.ʼ

The two men, together with two constables, arrived in Truro at eleven oʼclock. Boase was keen to find Norma Berryman but his mind wasnʼt on the job. He couldnʼt wait to see Irene – what if she said she would come to the fair with him? They could get into a swingboat together and he would be close to her again; how could he live without her? He looked at his pocket watch – less than eight hours, but what a long day this was going to be; every minute seemed like an eternity, why couldnʼt they be together all the time, never have to go home, never have to write to each other – just to look up and there theyʼd be, always?

While Boase had been thinking of Irene, Bartlett had sent the constables off – he didnʼt want to frighten the girl – and so he and Boase had arrived outside 17 Lemon Street. It was a smart house with a flight of steps up to the front door. The two men went up and rang the bell. A young woman opened the door. Bartlett and Boase identified themselves. ʻCould you tell me if a young lady is living here in a room at the moment, please Miss?ʼ Bartlett enquired of the girl. It then became apparent that the girl was French and spoke barely any English. Bartlett tried again, to no avail. Boase, looking somewhat embarrassed, addressed the girl:

ʻPardonnez moi, mademoiselle, nous cherchons cette fille. Elle sʼappelle Norma Berryman ou, peut-être, Jane Perkins. On mʼa dit que nous pouvons trouver cette fille ici.ʼ

Bartlett pushed his hat back above his forehead in amazement – a man of many talents was his assistant; what else was he hiding? The girl was so relieved that she began to speak at high speed, enthusiastically gesticulating as she did so and smiling broadly at Boase whom she had obviously taken a shine to. He turned to Bartlett. ʻNorma Berryman does live here, sir, but sheʼs gone away for a few days. Weʼve been invited to look at her room if we want but sheʼs definitely coming back next week.ʼ

ʻWell. I donʼt think we need to see her room, Boase – sheʼs obviously around so we can come back. Make sure you ask this lady to contact us if Norma decides to leave – but donʼt let her say weʼve been here. Oh, and tell her Norma hasnʼt done anything wrong; just helping us with our enquiries – I donʼt want the mademoiselle to think sheʼs harbouring a criminal or anything like that.ʼ

In perfect French, Boase obliged and the two men descended the steps, the ʻMademoiselleʼ smiling and waving to the younger man.

ʻWell, where did you learn that my boy?ʼ

ʻOh, itʼs just a bit of schoolboy French, sir.ʼ

ʻWell, you certainly had a better education than I did,ʼ came the reply.

At half past six exactly, Archie Boase knocked at the Bartletts' front door and stood waiting with an enormous bunch of spring flowers. Spring came early to this part of the world and snowdrops and daffodils and tulips poked their heads up several weeks before the rest of the country, often completely finished before the north of England had seen its first bloom. Caroline came to open the door.

ʻArchie, how lovely to see you again – come in, Ireneʼs just finishing getting ready.ʼ

Boase followed Caroline through to the parlour where Bartlett was sitting smoking his pipe. Topper looked at Boase, his head cocked on one side – he didnʼt need to get up, this chap was no threat to his master.

ʻHello, my boy, sit down. We even had dinner early so Irene could go the fair with you.ʼ

ʻOh, Iʼm sorry, Mrs Bartlett, I didnʼt mean to inconvenience you.ʼ

ʻYou didnʼt in the slightest – and call me Caroline. Now where is that girl? Irene, Irene, Archieʼs here waiting for you.ʼ

A few minutes later Irene came into the parlour. Boase couldnʼt take his eyes off her. She wore a green woollen dress which matched the colour of her eyes with a short black fur-trimmed jacket over the top and a cloche style hat which came down over her ears and made her face look like that of an angel. She was wearing Archieʼs bracelet which he had given her for Christmas – she wore it every day. He stood, just staring at her.

ʻWell, come on then, Archie – we donʼt want to miss all the fun.ʼ

Boase offered her his arm.

ʻAre you sure youʼll be warm enough – itʼs quite cold out?ʼ

George and Caroline Bartlett looked at each other. There was no doubt that Archie Boase cared a lot about their daughter and they were pleased. The young couple reminded them of themselves years before; they hoped that they would be equally happy if they decided to make their relationship more permanent.

The fair was in full swing when the couple arrived and they had such a lovely time. They rode on everything, they ate nearly everything and they won almost everything. At half past ten, Boase walked Irene to her door. As they stood on the step, Irene gave him a big hug. As he caught the scent of lilacs in her hair, Boase held her close, her soft cheek next to his. She turned her face and kissed his lips.

ʻGoodnight, Archie – thanks for a lovely evening.ʼ

As she turned her key in the lock and opened the front door, Topper appeared – he never went to bed until his family were safely in their beds. The dog licked Boaseʼs hand and disappeared inside with Irene. The door closed and the key turned. Boaseʼs legs were trembling – heʼd never kissed a woman before, not on the lips, anyway. He never wanted to kiss another, of that he was positive.

Chapter Eight

Annie Bolitho came around the corner of Penvale Manor on her way back from the kitchen garden, a basketful of vegetables in her hand.

ʻBOO!ʼ

She jumped and dropped the basket, its contents falling to the ground. She had come face to face with Patrick McGinn.

ʻHow could you – I almost jumped out of me skin,ʼ she knelt to the ground to retrieve the produce.

ʻNow that would have been something to see, you jumping out of your skin.ʼ The young postman was grinning from ear to ear.

ʻJust you get down ʼere and ʼelp me pick all this up.ʼ

Patrick McGinn obliged and tried to steal a kiss as he did so.

ʻYou stop that now,ʼ Annie Bolitho said crossly, getting to her feet and smoothing her uniform, ʻand give me the post.ʼ

She snatched the letters from the postmanʼs hand, picked up her basket of vegetables, and, sticking her nose in the air continued her journey back to the house.

Once inside, she sorted the post; one letter for cook, none for any of the other servants, the rest for the masters. She placed those remaining four letters on the silver tray and left it on the hall table as usual.

At half past nine, Rupert Hatton came down the stairs and, on his way to the breakfast room, stopped to collect the post. Only one was for him and, feeling hungry, he took it to the table with him to open after his breakfast. He helped himself to a very large plate of food from the silver dishes on the sideboard and took it to his usual place at the table. As he ate, he looked at the envelope – he thought he recognised the handwriting, but he didnʼt know who it belonged to. Finishing his breakfast, he picked up the envelope and, sliding a knife under the seal, he opened it and read:

Dearest Rupert

Iʼm in a spot of bother, old man – you know Iʼve had trouble with my landlady and my tenancy is now up. I really must see you as I need your help. I donʼt want anyone to see us as I know you still want to keep us secret. Meet me at Swanpool – I shall be waiting at the western end of the pool at eleven oʼclock tonight (Monday). Please, please come – I need you.

Yours always

Harry

Rupert folded the letter, replaced it in its envelope and quickly put it in his pocket. What could be wrong with Harry? Why, hadnʼt he told him only last week that he could come and live with him at Penvale Manor? It was probably nothing – Harry did tend to overreact; Rupert put it down to his musicianʼs temperament. Anyway, he would go and meet him, in fact he was looking forward to it – perhaps Harry would come back to the house with him and have a few drinks, maybe stay the night. Rupert continued with his breakfast and made his plans for the evening ahead.

With the rare opportunity of a day off presenting itself, Archie Boase packed a pair of binoculars and a travel watercolour box and pad. Today he would try and relax and think – think about Irene Bartlett of course. He was still in shock at the events of last night and couldnʼt believe that he, Archibald Boase, had, a few hours ago, kissed the most beautiful girl in the world; no, she had kissed him. There was no way he could have worked today even if he had had to. No, today he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and there was no better way than to do a spot of bird-watching and maybe some painting or sketching. Setting off from his lodgings in Melvill Road, he walked the circular route along the sea front, down past the cemetery and headed towards Swanpool. Reaching the beach he sat for a few moments but couldnʼt see anything he really wanted to paint – there were too many people around anyway so he set off again to find somewhere quieter. He made his way across the cliff path that led from Swanpool and gave uninterrupted views of the bay. Feeling better for the exercise and his head clearing, he continued on towards Maenporth. He soon arrived at the small beach and, seeing no sign of human life, but much bird activity, he settled down to paint. Maenporth had always been one of his favourite beaches, not much more than a cove really with a couple of cottages looking out to sea and dominated by the Crag Hotel above, this was the ideal place to be alone with oneʼs thoughts.

Boase wondered what he should do next about Irene – what did men do when they had kissed a girl on the lips? Perhaps he should leave it to Irene; she always seemed to know what to do. She must like him to have done that. He felt in his pocket and pulled out the multi-bladed knife that she had given him for Christmas. He opened the largest blade and proceeded to slice an apple which he had brought for his lunch, together with a pork pie, a large piece of cheese, a slice of ham, and a currant bun.

Boase finished the food and washed it down with a pint of milk. For the first time ever, he couldnʼt concentrate on his painting – the thing he loved most in life, painting birds; well, it
had
been the thing he loved most in life, now things were different; there was nothing above Irene Bartlett. What was happening to him? He had never felt like this before; it was a nice feeling but it worried him slightly. How could a woman have such a strange effect on a man? Puzzled by his own thoughts, Boase picked up his bag and headed for home, back along the cliff path towards Falmouth. As he rounded the bend in the cliff path, passing Henry Scott Tukeʼs cottage, he saw Swanpool in front of him. He jumped down onto the sand from the rocks. As he looked up he could see Norman Richards at the other side of the beach with a man. Boase squinted as he walked in their direction. He had known Norman for a year or two, only through buying Mint Imperials for his landlady as a weekly treat on a Friday – they were her favourites and Boase thought it was a nice gesture, she was always so kind to him. Norman always had a strange assortment of friends, Boase had thought and that man was someone he was sure he recognised but he couldn't quite remember who it was. He carried on his way, puzzling over the man's identity.

As Boase walked across the beach he paused halfway. This was the exact spot where the body of Ivy Williams had been found. Boase looked around him. Who did it? Why didnʼt Bartlett know yet – why didnʼt he himself know yet? There was something missing, probably something obvious. Theyʼd have to do better than this, this case was going on too long now; the murderer must be caught. Neither he nor Bartlett wanted Greet to send someone down from up-country to work on this case, but that was looking more and more likely the longer it went unsolved. It was only being left to them now on account of Bartlettʼs outstanding work in London previously – Greet had a good man and he knew it, but pressure was mounting now from all directions.

There were several people walking across the beach, some with dogs, others with children. The tide was coming in now and the weather was turning worse. As Boase reached the other side of the small beach, he stood on a large rock looking out to sea and the rain began to fall. First it started slowly, just a slight drizzle, then, in an instant, it absolutely poured out of the sky. It was torrential. That seemed to be a strange feature of this town – rain appearing almost out of nowhere, with no warning. Boase didnʼt mind, in fact, he quite liked it. No one else at Swanpool today seemed to though – they all disappeared hurriedly, like cockroaches when a light goes on.

At precisely twenty-five minutes to eleven, Rupert Hatton walked across the courtyard at the back of Penvale Manor and entered the stable block. Almost all of the buildings had been converted to motor garages to house the twinsʼ rapidly growing collection of cars. The stable block was quiet and the moon lit the interior through the semi-circular windows up near the roof. Rupert felt in his pocket for his keys and, after unlocking the vast double doors and slipping through a narrow gap, he turned, pushed them wide open, and approached a small two-seater motor car. He fumbled in the darkness to start the car and, after a couple of attempts, success was his. The engine rumbled as befitting a powerful little racing car and Rupert stopped in the courtyard and ran back to close the doors – he didnʼt want anyone to ask the next morning where he had been. He paused before closing the doors and looked up at the array of windows which faced down on to the courtyard – they were all darkened. He looked up at the moon which was just disappearing behind a cloud and then he was in complete darkness. With some difficulty he returned to the car wishing he had put its lights on. Slipping into the seat he set off down the long drive at top speed. Shortly before five minutes to eleven, Rupert Hattonʼs motor car purred along the sea road at Swanpool; he stopped at the west end of the beach behind the pool and got out of the car. The moon was illuminating the dark, murky water and Rupert stopped to light a cigarette. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette holder but it wasnʼt there.

He lit anyway.

Extinguishing the light and dropping the match to the ground he walked on in the direction of the pool. There was no one around and the nearby houses were all in darkness. A dog was barking in the distance and the only visible lights were those coming from a ship in the bay. Rupert continued on and stepped into the dense shrubbery which bordered the edges of the pool. He felt a little nervous – he hadnʼt seen Harryʼs car anywhere; perhaps he had decided to walk, maybe he was going to be late. More likely he had changed his mind; Harry could be so impulsive. Rupert decided he didnʼt want the cigarette and dropped it onto the mud beneath his feet. Now he lit another. There had been rain early that morning and although the sky had become clear now, the ground was damp and the mud clung to his calfskin boots. He looked around him although the bushes were thick and he could see nothing. He had heard men in the trenches whistling to keep their spirits up but he didnʼt want to break the deadly silence. He walked forward a few yards and reached a small clearing from where the pool was visible. As the moon emerged from behind a cloud he reached for his gold pocket watch and, opening it, squinted at the hands – two minutes past eleven. He couldnʼt believe Harry could mess around like this. If he didnʼt come within the next few minutes he was going home. As thoughts churned over in his mind he wondered what could be done about Frank Wilson and the money he was demanding. He wanted it on Friday night. Rupert shuddered as he remembered the night he had left the Magnolia Club and Wilson had threatened him.

More than ten minutes had passed now.

As he stood and prepared to light yet another cigarette he heard something close by him. He turned and the moon instantly came out brighter than ever. A figure was beside him. Rupert dropped his unlit cigarette.

ʻWhat the hell are you doing here? How did you know Iʼd be here? Go away, Iʼm waiting for someone.ʼ

The moon disappeared behind the clouds and the pool was again in darkness.

Boase was back at his desk early the next morning. He stood and stretched then wandered out to the main desk and picked up Bartlettʼs newspaper. He glanced at the headlines then threw the paper back down. He'd just remembered something; that man with Norman Richards – that was Jan Rowe! He knew it. Mrs Williams's godson. But wasn't he in prison? Well, no, obviously. Boase remembered him from before, he was a bad lot, all right. He was always trouble for his godmother. He remembered at least four occasions when he had been drunk and disorderly and in the station. But, if he was out of prison, why would he come back here? Boase smiled to himself, thinking that nothing would surprise him about that man. At that moment the front door of the station was flung open and Ernie Penhaligon ran up to Boase.

ʻSir, I was just on my way back to the station when a young woman who had been walking her dog out at Swanpool came up to me in a hysterical state. She said she found a body by the side of the pool.ʼ

ʻWhere is she now?ʼ Boase asked.

ʻSheʼs outside with her dog – sheʼs a bit shook-up too – shall I bring her in?ʼ

ʻYes, of course, bring her in – immediately.ʼ

Just as Boase finished speaking, Bartlett arrived.

ʻWell then, Boase, whatʼs all this mayhem?ʼ

Boase explained what he knew and the young woman was taken into Bartlettʼs office while Penhaligon looked after her dog in the lobby.

Boase offered the woman a seat. Bartlett sat next to her.

ʻNow, miss. Iʼd like you to tell me your name and whatʼs happened – as clearly as possible please.ʼ

The young woman took a deep breath.

ʻMy name is Betty Trevaskis and I live at number two St Thomas Street, Penryn. Iʼm a waitress at Georgeʼs Cafe in Arwenack Street. For the last three days Iʼve been staying with my aunt – sheʼs a cripple and she hasnʼt been very well so I offered to help look after her. She lives round the back of Swanpool, you see. Sheʼs got a greyhound called Polly and usually her neighbour, a very nice man, walks Polly, but heʼs gone away for a month and my aunt couldnʼt manage. Anyway, this morning, I was taking Polly around the pool for her constitutional before I left for work. Polly ran off – which she never does – and she ran into the bushes. I followed her but she wouldnʼt come back. Anyway, when I found her –ʼ

Tears began to trickle down Betty Trevaskisʼs face.

ʻGo on please, miss,ʼ encouraged Bartlett.

ʻWell, there was a man, dead, just lying by the side of the pool – it was horrible. I didnʼt know what to do so I just ran, then I bumped into that nice young constable while I was running along and he brought me here.ʼ

ʻAnd where was this, Betty?ʼ

ʻI met him on Western Terrace – thatʼs how far I had come when I saw him.ʼ

ʻWould you take us to where you saw the body?ʼ

ʻWell, I donʼt mind but Iʼm supposed to be at work – Iʼm so late already, I canʼt afford to lose my job.ʼ

Bartlett patted the girlʼs shoulder.

ʻDonʼt worry – Iʼll send someone down to Georgeʼs, you wonʼt be dismissed. Besides, you shouldnʼt go to work – youʼve had a nasty shock.ʼ

Bartlett and Boase took Betty Trevaskis to Swanpool; she led the way and, sure enough, the body was exactly as she had left it, almost hidden in the undergrowth. Bartlett arranged for someone to take her home and to make sure she was all right – there would be nothing more she could tell him at this stage. She had already said she hadnʼt seen anything or anyone around – it was early when she went out and Swanpool had been quiet.