Empty Vessels (5 page)

ʻIʼll be there in a minute, Princess.ʼ

ʻGeorge, I need help, now.ʼ Caroline could see the couple wanted to be alone and she didnʼt want anyone to spoil it for them. She liked Archie Boase. Irene could do a lot worse. Bartlett rose from his seat and, closely followed by Topper, went into the kitchen.

The four were presently seated in the dining room which looked out over the back garden. It was dark now but the moonlight shone down and was reflected in the small pond in the centre of the lawn. The four ate a meal of beef stew with potatoes and dumplings, followed by a treacle pudding with custard, while Topper lay under the table at Bartlettʼs feet hoping his master would let something slip from his plate.

ʻI hear you and Dad are off to London tomorrow, Archie.ʼ Irene had always been interested in her fatherʼs work from when she was a small child and now, having a good knowledge of the town and its people, she had even more reason to follow his activities.

ʻYes, thatʼs right.ʼ Boase hastened to finish his mouthful of food; he felt self-conscious when he was eating with other people. ʻYes, weʼre going up in the morning. Long day ahead.ʼ

Irene continued, ʻI hardly remember London now – I said the same to you, didnʼt I Dad?'

ʻYes, you did,ʼ Bartlett nodded in agreement, ʻbut you should always remember where you were born even if you canʼt remember what the exact house or street looked like, because itʼs your heritage – never forget that, you youngsters.ʼ The pair considered themselves told and giggled. Bartlett was very proud to be a Londoner and hadnʼt lost his East End accent at all. He missed the old place although he had suffered many hardships there over the years, especially as a boy. Cornwall was better for a man of his age; it was quieter, the air was fresher and, above all, Caroline liked it here. She had never really settled in London, although she always maintained that her home was wherever her beloved husband was. Yes, Falmouth was definitely the nicest place they could ever imagine living in.

Caroline got up from the table and began stacking the plates. ʻLeave that, Mrs Bartlett, Iʼll do it,ʼ Boase volunteered, his motive not being entirely for the benefit of the older woman.

ʻWell, all right, but come and have a sit down by the fire first and finish your drink.ʼ All four moved towards the fireplace where Topper, knowing the nightly ritual, was already on the rug warming himself. Bartlett patted the dogʼs head. ʻYouʼre a goodʼun, Topper, mate, come and sit by your old man.ʼ The dog obliged.

ʻGeorge, you treat that animal better than your family sometimes,ʼ grumbled Caroline.

ʻThat, Princess, is because he is my family, and well you know it.ʼ Topper let out an approving sigh.

ʻDad, Mum, tell Archie how you met, itʼs so romantic,ʼ Irene sat on the floor at her fatherʼs feet.

ʻIʼm sure Boase isnʼt interested in that old nonsense,ʼ said Bartlett, semi-embarrassed.

Caroline snorted. ʻYou never
used
to think it was nonsense.ʼ Bartlett looked more embarrassed still.

His wife continued. ʻI had gone to London with my mother because she had a consultation there at the Eye Infirmary with a very good and highly recommended doctor. Sheʼd been troubled with eye problems since a child. Anyway, while I was waiting for her, someone stole my bag with our return train tickets in and all my money. While I was frantically trying to sort it out, George turned up with something in his eye. Heʼd been outside when something flew up off the road and hit him – a stone or something. He was, fortunately, soon sorted out and he waited with me. My mother came out in the middle of it all and George made himself known to her and gave us the money to return home. He said if I gave him my address, he would see that my bag was returned if anyone handed it in – it never was and he knew it wouldnʼt be, but I received a very nice letter from him, we met again and my mother allowed us to marry on my eighteenth birthday, just four months later.

Bartlett grunted from the depths of his armchair, ʻHmm, you never did repay that money.ʼ

ʻGeorge!ʼ A slap on the arm was forthcoming, whereupon Topper crawled forward a little nearer to his master.

ʻIsnʼt that just too romantic, Archie? And so Bohemian.ʼ Irene thought this was the stuff of fairy tales.

ʻI ought to get on with the plates.ʼ Archie stood up. ʻThe supper was lovely, Mrs Bartlett, thank you.ʼ

ʻIʼll help you, Archie.ʼ Irene was by his side in an instant and the two carried the crockery into the scullery. ʻDad, remember next time, you promised to tell us about your Jack the Ripper days again. Thereʼs so much we havenʼt heard yet.ʼ

ʻAll right, next time. Itʼs getting late now, Iʼm almost ready for my bed.ʼ

At about eleven oʼclock Boase left for home, having arranged to be in bright and early next morning for the journey to London.

Chapter Three

The morning soon came and it was a sunny and cold one. There was a strange atmosphere in the town. As usual at this time, people were beginning to think about Christmas and to make plans, but something was different this time – people appeared more subdued than they might otherwise be. But then, they knew that a killer might still be in their midst.

Bartlett and Boase met up at the police station, and made their way from there to the railway just in time to catch the London train. They settled into their seats and prepared for the journey; both looked and felt a bit bleary-eyed on account of a later than usual night the previous evening, and an early morning – it was still only a quarter to seven. Boaseʼs landlady had been up even earlier and packed some food for him, as she had felt sure he didnʼt want to be ‘buying eatables from any Tom, Dick, or Harryʼ. After three or four minutes, as the train pulled out of the station, he opened up a small brown paper bag which he had pulled from his pocket and leaned forward to his superior who was sitting opposite.

ʻHard-boiled egg, sir?ʼ

ʻNo thank you. Havenʼt you had any breakfast?ʼ

ʻDidnʼt have time this morning, sir, overslept a bit.ʼ

Bartlett sighed. ʻYou need a woman to do for you, thatʼs what you need, good cook, good company. Itʼs time you thought about settling down.ʼ The older man suddenly felt paternal.

ʻMaybe youʼre right, sir – pork pie?ʼ

The train pulled into Truro station, where there was to be a fifteen-minute wait and a change. This change being quickly effected by the pair, Bartlett jumped quickly out again on to the platform and ran to buy a newspaper. Boase watched him from the compartment window and yawned. The sunshine was bright and the carriage was warm. The station was busy already and people rushed here and there, some getting on the train, some getting off. Others stood on the platform waiting. A train on the other line was being unloaded – there was milk and newspapers and, out from the guardʼs van jumped a dog exactly like Topper. People at this end of the country often bought dogs after seeing advertisements in the papers for them and, having sent their money, their chosen animal would travel from up-country by train.

As Boase continued watching the activities, half asleep, he was startled to see William Gibbons running for all he was worth along the platform. He stood up looking through the cloudy glass, not believing his eyes as the man ran to the station exit and disappeared. Why, heʼd recently interviewed the same man about the murder of Ivy Williams, a man who could barely walk without the aid of a stick due to his war injuries. What was going on?

As Boase sat back down, completely puzzled, the guard began to close the doors, and seeing him about to put his whistle to his already pursed lips, he panicked. Where was Bartlett? Boase didnʼt want to end up in London on his own; he hadnʼt even been there before. At that, the object of his worry bounded into view and the guard opened the door and pushed him in. Bartlett was panting as he readjusted his attire.

ʻDamned cheek, pulling my coat like that, I had plenty of time.ʼ

ʻI donʼt think so, sir.ʼ The younger man grinned at the sight of his superior looking so unusually dishevelled. ʻWhere were you?ʼ

ʻDamned ridiculous. I ran after a girl, could have sworn it was Norma Berryman. This case is taking it out of me, I donʼt mind admitting it, Boase. Weʼre going round in circles and weʼre running out of time – letʼs hope today comes up trumps.ʼ

ʻRunning out of time, sir? Why?ʼ

ʻThink about it; weʼve got one girl dead, another one missing, possibly dead – God forbid. We canʼt afford another casualty. And, according to Greet, weʼll be the next casualties if we donʼt sort this mess out sharpish. We need to see if these two girls are linked in any way or if itʼs all just a horrible coincidence. We donʼt need another murder.ʼ

The two men sat back in their seats and Boase proceeded to tell Bartlett about his strange sighting of William Gibbons.

Some hours later the train pulled into Paddington Station and the two men quickly set off for Oxford Street and to the offices of Bennett, Bennett, Thornton & Bennett. Boase was absolutely amazed at the sights he saw. The shops were enormous, there was so much traffic, and so many people – he liked it in a strange sort of way but he didnʼt think he could ever live there; there was no sea for a start and, apparently, nowhere to go to be alone. Bartlett, however, was back on old ground and expertly led the way to the solicitorsʼ offices without putting a foot wrong. It was like he had never been away – he still thought it had changed over the last ten years though.

On reaching the very modern building, they entered through two huge glass doors. The decor and furnishings were also very stylish and modern … Bartlett didnʼt like it one bit.

ʻLook at this rubbish, Boase. All glass – itʼs like being in a goldfish bowl. When Iʼm on official police business, I donʼt want people out in the street staring at me.ʼ

A gold sign with an arrow pointing upstairs indicated that the offices they were looking for were on the first floor. The two men went up the stairs and, as they reached the top, a huge reception area lay in front of them. Approaching the main desk, they were greeted by a tall, slender middle-aged woman with thin black hair scraped into a bun that sat neatly on top of her head. She wore a black two-piece suit, black stockings and shoes, and heavy black eye make-up. Boase didnʼt know whether she was young and looked old or was old and looked young. Around her fairly scrawny neck a rather large diamond was suspended from a black velvet ribbon.

ʻGood morning, madam,ʼ Bartlett approached the womanʼs desk and introduced himself and Boase, ʻwe are here on police business and I believe we are expected.ʼ The woman stood and gestured to two modern red seats underneath a large window.

ʻWait, please.ʼ The woman sat down again, lifted a telephone receiver and spoke into it.

After two or three minutes a large door opened slowly behind the womanʼs desk and a grey-haired man, slightly bent with a small, neat, grey moustache and wearing a tail-coated suit appeared and came towards them. The distance across the room, to him, must have seemed interminable and the further he walked the more he seemed to stoop. Boase couldnʼt help thinking that this man must be at least ninety. He wore half-moon glasses from behind which, two blue, watery eyes strained to see what was going on around him.

ʻEr … good morning, gentlemen, and what a pleasant one. Do come into the office. Iʼm Bennett Senior – very senior, Iʼm afraid.ʼ

Shrinking more, the man led the way back across the room to the office from which he had just emerged.

ʻWe had expected to meet with Mr Thornton,ʼ interrupted Bartlett.

ʻYes, Iʼm sorry. My nephew was unable to come in, at the last minute, to see you. He telephoned a little while ago to ask me to step in for him as it were. Heʼs told me what you wish to know. Iʼm the head of this firm now. I started working for my grandfather in … in, let me see now …ʼ Bartlett sighed and drew up a chair to the old manʼs desk, ʻ… in 1872, I do believe. I donʼt do too much these days – getting a bit long in the tooth. I leave it to my son, nephew and grandson.ʼ

ʻDo you have some information for us, sir?ʼ Bartlett leaned forward impatiently on the desk.

ʻWhat? Oh yes, do forgive an old man going on. Yes, about the Williams girl. Well, you see, she replied to our notice in the newspaper and fortunately came up straight away to see us.ʼ

ʻAnd why did you want to see her?ʼ

ʻWell, this becomes a little … shall we say, delicate,ʼ the old man replied.

Bartlett drew in his breath sharply – he hadnʼt come all this way to learn nothing.

ʻPlease, sir, itʼs very important that you tell us as much as you can, our enquiry is in connection with a murder investigation.ʼ

The solicitor sat back, with difficulty, in an enormous burgundy leather armchair from which his feet, which must have been no more than a size four or five, dangled a few inches above the floor.

ʻThis firm had a client, who sadly is now deceased, but we had the pleasure to represent him for many, many years. He was the natural grandfather of Ivy Williams.ʼ

The two men looked at each other, startled. Percy Williams, Ivyʼs father, hadnʼt mentioned anything about this when Boase had interviewed him. He had been reluctant to get involved at all.

ʻGo on, sir.ʼ

ʻIt seems that you donʼt know much about Miss Williams, gentlemen, and, if it wasnʼt police business I wouldnʼt be at liberty to tell you this. Ivy Williams was illegitimate, and she was adopted a couple of weeks after she was born. Her poor mother gave birth to her in the Falmouth Union Workhouse, dying the very next day of post-partum fever. It seems that she had been working – following her own parentsʼ and younger brotherʼs death in a house fire – for Lord and Lady Hatton of, um … er … Budock, is it? Yes, thatʼs right. Lord Hatton had two fairly indiscreet sons, Rupert and Algernon, and when he found out that one of them had fathered this child, he felt he had to make sure that no one ever found out that a member of the Hatton family, of some standing, too, had liaised in that way with a mere servant girl. They had a reputation to keep and the boys were always under pressure to uphold the familyʼs good name. The girl was very young, about fifteen or sixteen, but nevertheless Lord Hatton had her taken to the workhouse. Some years later, he visited me and told me he had some instructions for me that were never to be made known to his wife, Lady Cordelia.  He explained that he had felt dreadfully guilty about his actions and often wondered how his grandchild was – she would have been about nine or ten at the time, I suppose. He wanted to make provision for her – it was too late for her poor mother, but he could help the child. He wanted me to provide, from his estate, on his death, the sum of one thousand pounds for every year the girl had lived to the time of his passing – which finally amounted to twenty-four thousand pounds. We were satisfied with her documentation yesterday and she took the money.ʼ

Bartlett couldnʼt believe how complicated this was becoming. He thought back to the photograph in his desk drawer – now that part, at least, was clearer; those servants must have been the Hatton householdʼs staff.

ʻHow did she take the money – cheque?ʼ

ʻOh, no, sir, we offered a cheque but she asked for cash. We had a right old time of it, trying to get that much at short notice, but she absolutely insisted and, Iʼm afraid, we complied.ʼ

ʻSo that woman walked out of here yesterday with twenty-four thousand pounds in cash?ʼ

Bartlett could hardly believe it.

ʻYes, sir, she did.'

Bartlett and Boase thanked Mr Claude Bennett and made their way out into the street. Bartlett paused to light his pipe. As he squinted through the pipe smoke he looked at Boase.

ʻWell, what do you make of that?ʼ

ʻI donʼt understand, sir, how could that have been Ivy Williams, here yesterday, when sheʼs already dead?ʼ The older man drew long and hard on his pipe. He looked around the old, familiar streets and buildings and paused for a moment while he tried to think of a sensible response.

ʻThe answer must be one of two things – either the dead woman has been wrongly identified by us, or,ʼ he paused, ʻ… or the woman here yesterday is an impostor and if thatʼs the case, I honestly donʼt know what to do next. Is it possible that someone could have masqueraded as Ivy Williams just to get the money? If thatʼs so, it must be someone with inside knowledge and someone who could either get hold of the right documentation, or forge it well. Weʼre talking about an awful lot of money – a fortune, in fact.ʼ

Bartlett and Boase began their journey back to Cornwall, arriving home in the very early hours. They both slept fitfully until morning, the mysterious events of the day playing on their minds.

In the basement flat in Killigrew Street, the Pengellys had spent the previous evening decorating the parlour and Jack had brought home a very fine Christmas tree, which was soon potted up and taking pride of place in front of the window.

The next morning, as the smell of the dayʼs bread pervaded each room and weak sunlight filtered through the curtains, Kitty and Ruby got up and dressed and went into the kitchen for some breakfast, where Rose was just taking some loaves out of the oven.

ʻMorning, you two. Ruby, move that stuff over, love, let me get the bread onto the table. Thereʼs a pot of tea ready and Iʼve done you some bread and dripping; thereʼs no butter or jam ʼtil I go down the street this morning. Make sure youʼre back nice and early tonight, Ruby – you know you said youʼd ʼelp me write the Christmas cards. The arthritis is worse today, thereʼs no way I can do all that. You donʼt mind?ʼ

ʻʼCourse I donʼt, Ma, Iʼll make sure Iʼm back by five, then I can ʼelp you with the tea as well.ʼ

ʻThanks, love.ʼ Rose looked exhausted already and the girls knew she was suffering so much with her arthritis; she worked too hard and had done all her life. Years spent working in the laundry, standing on a stone floor washing other peopleʼs clothes, had taken its toll on her. Her daughters admired her so much and wished they could be as strong in character as she was. They helped themselves to the food and a couple of cups of tea each before grabbing their coats, kissing their mother goodbye and leaving for work. Outside, Ruby ran to catch up with Kitty.

ʻDonʼt walk so fast, Kit … wait.ʼ

Kitty slowed down and waited for her sister.

ʻYou ʼeard from Frank yet, Ruby?ʼ

ʻNo, I already told you, I ʼavenʼt. I just want to try anʼ forget the whole thing – I donʼt know whatʼs ʼappenin'.ʼ

ʻIf you believe the
Packet
, neither do the police,ʼ came the reply.

The two girls went their separate ways on the Moor – Ruby to the shipping office in Church Street and Kitty to Mrs Williamsʼs tobacco and sweet shop in High Street.