Empty Vessels (6 page)

As Kitty let herself into the still-dark shop, a noise stopped her in her tracks. She stood still and listened. ʻPssst, PSSSSSST!ʼ The sound grew more intense.

ʻWhoʼs there?ʼ She called out again. ʻWho is it?ʼ

She knew Mrs Williams wouldnʼt be down from the upstairs flat for about twenty minutes yet and she felt nervous. There was never anyone around when she got to the shop in the mornings.

She couldnʼt see much in the gloomy interior; she asked again, ʻWhoʼs there?ʼ

Kitty stepped forward, closing the door behind her. Her heart began to race. A loud thump came from behind the counter and she let out a scream.

ʻI know youʼre there – I ʼeard you … who is it?ʼ

Another loud thump came this time with some scrambling of feet.

ʻItʼs me. Itʼs me – Norman.ʼ From behind the counter appeared the head and shoulders of Norman Richards, one of the shop assistants who worked with Kitty. She rushed across to the back of the shop to put a light on.

ʻNO! Donʼt put the light on, sheʼll see me.ʼ

ʻNorman, what on earth are you talking about? Whoʼll see you? Why are you here, youʼre not due in for almost another hour?ʼ

ʻMrs Williams donʼt know Iʼm ʼere, Kitty. Iʼve been ʼere all night.ʼ

ʻNow youʼre being ridiculous – all night? Why?ʼ

Kitty was beginning to wonder what Norman was talking about when he emerged fully from under the brown wooden counter. His hair was sticking up all over the place, his braces hung loosely down by his sides, and he clutched his Fair Isle jumper and jacket in front of him in an attempt to cover up the worst bits, which, at that moment, were probably all of him. He spoke in a low voice, urgently.

ʻLast night, when weʼd all gone ʼome, I was taking a walk into town and thatʼs when it ʼappened.ʼ Kitty listened, bemused. She knew Norman liked to walk – everyone in Falmouth must have known it. A lot of people liked him, others were really irritated by him. He had a habit of following people around, trying to be one of their group or gang. Whenever they turned round, there was Norman. He would spend his money on them – buying flowers or small items of jewellery for the girls and penknives or beer for the boys.  As a child, the other boys had used him terribly – in fact, they still did. When he was younger they would get him to steal things from shops: sweets, cigarettes, money. When he came out, and was a safe distance from the shop, they would be waiting to take everything from him. He put up with it because he was anxious to have them for friends and to have their approval; of course they never did make him a friend or one of their gang, they just carried on using him. Occasionally they'd accepted him, but usually they'd ridiculed him.

Norman was slightly backward from complications arising at his birth, but he got on all right – although Kitty hated to see him being taken advantage of. He often did stupid or childish things in an attempt to make people laugh so that they might like him. He was so kind-hearted and he and Kitty liked each other a lot. Sometimes Rose Pengelly would invite him round for tea – how he could eat! Eighteen years old, he was always well-dressed, clean, and tidy with jet black hair which had a centre parting that looked like he had cut it with a razor blade. Cheap hairdressing preparations made it gleam blue-black. He always wore a tie and a Fair Isle sleeveless jumper. He lightened Kittyʼs day with far-fetched stories of boy heroes and high seas adventures.  He lived mostly in a fantasy world of film stars and their characters – cowboys, gangsters, pirates. Now,though, he looked awful, and Kitty waited for what he could possibly say next.

ʻI was walking past the shop when I saw someone inside – ʼere beside the counter – they must have been tryinʼ to pinch fags or something. I knew Mrs Williams would be in danger if she disturbed ʼem so I went round the side and slid open the little window – look, Iʼll show you.ʼ

Norman pointed to the small window and Kitty felt herself wondering how anyone over about five years old could ever get through this window. Norman went on with his story.

ʻI got in but there was no one ʼere – they must have just escaped. Anyway, I ʼeard a noise and the window slammed shut – that could have been them – and I couldnʼt open it and I knew I was trapped. So, I just had to stay ʼere all night. Mrs Williams donʼt know. You wonʼt tell, Kitty, promise you wonʼt tell.ʼ

Kitty had to try hard not to laugh – poor Norman.

ʻOf course I wonʼt tell – youʼd better get ʼome and make yerself presentable, youʼre due to start work in less than an hour. My, you almost gave me a heart attack.ʼ

ʻIʼm really sorry, Kit – I didnʼt mean to scare you.ʼ

Norman gathered his things and ran out of the front door at top speed. He knew he could count on Kitty.

ʻThanks, Kit – I wonʼt forget thisʼ he called behind him.

Kitty smiled and prepared the shop for opening.

At the police station, Bartlett and Boase were worn out. Their trip up to London the previous day had been a complete disaster and neither of them could think what to do next. It seemed that every time they felt they were getting somewhere, things became more involved or more difficult. Bartlett lit his pipe.

ʻLetʼs go round to see Percy Williams again – thereʼs something heʼs not telling us, Boase. He never mentioned that Ivy was adopted; could be a clue.ʼ

ʻBut why wouldnʼt he tell me about her, sir?ʼ

ʻLetʼs go and find out.ʼ

The two men walked across the Moor, along Market Street, Church Street and Arwenack Street and made their way to the Falmouth Dockyard. Stopped at the gates by the duty policeman, who didnʼt recognise them due to their plain clothes, they were soon admitted and they asked for directions to Percy Williamsʼs workplace. The yard was busy this year with plenty of repair work, and, happily, overtime. Bill Pengelly, coming out of one of the dockyard buildings, saw the two men and touched his cap in acknowledgement. Presently they arrived at the right shed and went inside. Percy Williams was teaching some apprentices the finer points of his trade but left them when he saw the two policemen. He walked across to them.

ʻWhat is it now? I told you I donʼt know any more about Ivy.ʼ

Bartlett reassured him. ʻYou may not know anything about your daughterʼs tragic death, Mr Williams, sir, but we feel you havenʼt told us enough about her background, which might be vitally important.ʼ

ʻWhat else do you want to know?ʼ

ʻIvy was adopted, wasnʼt she?ʼ

Shocked that they knew this much, the man sat down on a bench and rested one elbow on the table next to it. Approaching sixty, Percy Williams didnʼt know how he was going to make it until his retirement at sixty-five. He was tired of work, heʼd been in ship repair man and boy – he was tired of life. He hadnʼt had much luck over the years, all in all. His hands, old and brown, were the hands of a grafter. All heʼd ever wanted was a quiet life and a nice family; heʼd had that once, now it had all been taken away from him. He looked up at Bartlett and Boase.

ʻYes, yes, Ivy was adopted. How did you know?ʼ

ʻWe found out during our enquiries.ʼ Bartlett wasnʼt going to let on about the money and the solicitor. ʻPlease tell us as much as you can now, it may be important. We really want to catch whoever did this to your daughter.ʼ

Percy walked over to the apprentices. ʻIʼm goinʼ to be busy for a bit – you go anʼ ʼave yer croust.ʼ The boys, who were starving by now and happy to oblige, left the shed and Percy returned to the bench.

ʻIn 1896, my dear wife, Mary and me were expecting our first child. We were so happy. We loved each other so much and really wanted a family. I thought the world of ʼer. Well, to cut a long story short, the baby was born, a beautiful little boy, we called ʼim Nathaniel. Mary suffered during the birth. The midwife was with ʼer anʼ I was sent for from work. I could ʼear ʼer screaminʼ ʼalfway down our street – she was in so much pain. I felt so useless, waiting downstairs. What use are men at a time like that? Anyway after about ten ʼours the midwife bid me come up and there was my beautiful wife and our baby. We couldnʼt ʼave been ʼappier. I ʼad a lovely son.

ʻAll of a sudden, the baby went stiff in ʼer arms and then ʼe went blue. I called the midwife over but it was too late – our little Nathaniel was gone, ʼis short little life snuffed out like a candle after only about an ʼour. We were distraught. The doctor who came said it was just one of those things that ʼappens – but Mary never believed that; she blamed ʼerself. The little boy ʼad come early like. The pains came while Mary was lifting a huge pan full of water for the laundry. We didnʼt ʼave much money at that time and she used to take in washing – I didnʼt like it, mind, I said weʼd manage, but she was very strong-minded was Mary and always said a few shillings extra would come in ʼandy, ʼspecially what with the new baby on the way. She had such ʼigh ʼopes for our baby, Mr Bartlett. Boy or girl, she said, theyʼd be successful, get on and make a name for theirselves, you know, do better and ʼave more than we. She thought she brought the little boy into the world too early because she ʼadnʼt been sensible and that ʼe didnʼt ʼave a fair chance because ʼe was so small. I tried to ʼelp ʼer through it, but ʼow can you? We got through the funeral, it broke my ʼeart to see ʼis little coffin lowering down into that grave; ʼeʼs buried in the cemetery at Swanpool – with ʼis mother now, God rest their dear little souls, anʼ I go there every week, regular, to see ʼem both.ʼ

Bartlett felt for the man – he knew how he himself felt when he found out that John had been killed. He touched the rough, clenched fist which lay on the table;

ʻPlease go on, Percy.ʼ

ʻWell, after that, I still wanted children – so did Mary really, but she was too afraid that it would ʼappen all over again.ʼ He looked up at Boase, ʻIʼm sorry to say this in front of you, young man, but, after that, she wouldnʼt let me go near ʼer, you understand these things, Mr Bartlett, sir, she was that afraid. I knew she was desperate to have a child but she was just too scared. Anyway, after about a year, someone we knew who worked at the Union told us there was a little baby girl who ʼad been born there and, poor little thing, ʼer mother ʼad died giving birth to ʼer. Well, we was lucky enough to be offered the child and we adopted ʼer. It made both of us so ʼappy – she brought joy to our lives like I canʼt tell you. Mary even seemed to be getting over Nathaniel a bit. Ivy was such a lovely girl growing up and then, suddenly, she changed. She must ʼave been about eighteen or nineteen. She would stay out all night, always out with soldiers that was ʼere durinʼ the war; she was rude to ʼer mother and me – in short she was uncontrollable. Then, about three years ago, we found out ʼow she was makinʼ ʼer money. Well, I think thatʼs what finished Mary off. She was such a respectable woman and we brought Ivy up to be the same. In the end, Maryʼs ʼeart got so bad, she was taking pills for everything and she couldnʼt carry on no more. I lost ʼer two years ago next April.ʼ

Bartlett stood up.

ʻDid the workhouse indicate to you who Ivyʼs natural parents were, sir?ʼ

ʻNo, Mr Bartlett, they didnʼt – we didnʼt want to know really, we were just glad to ʼave the little girl.ʼ

Bartlett apologised.

ʻIʼm sorry we had to pry. I know that was hard for you. Weʼll leave you alone now.ʼ

The two men left the shed and, walking back through the dockyard, returned to the station. Bartlett sat at his desk while Boase went to find some tea. They sat down together to have their drink and the younger man produced a brown paper bag from his pocket.

ʻFancy a sausage roll, sir?ʼ he asked, offering the bag.

ʻNo, I told you before, you need a woman – you canʼt carry on eating like that; donʼt you ever sit down to a meal apart from when youʼre at our house?ʼ

ʻI get a meal at my digs in the evening – not as nice as Mrs Bartlettʼs and Ireneʼs cooking though.ʼ

ʻIʼm sure youʼre right, Boase.ʼ Bartlett was looking at the small photograph of the servants he had pulled from his drawer. He leaned across his desk and picked up a large magnifying glass to examine the photo more carefully. He concentrated for several minutes while Boase finished his sausage rolls.

ʻBoase, do you remember a man by the name of Samuel Hoskins?ʼ

ʻShould I, sir?ʼ

ʻHe used to work for my father-in-law in his saddlery business – course, that was before your time wasnʼt it? Sometimes it feels like weʼve been together for years, you and me.ʼ

Boase wondered if this was a compliment or not.

ʻI remember him visiting my mother-in-law some years back when she was ill. He was a nice chap, if I recall, brought Carolineʼs mother some flowers from the garden. He was very fond of my wifeʼs parents.ʼ

ʻWhat about him, sir?ʼ

ʻWell, I only saw him a couple of times when we were visiting but, one thing I always remember was what a ridiculous moustache he had, it was enormous, really thick and bushy.ʼ

ʻSo?ʼ

ʻSo, I think heʼs in this photograph – in fact Iʼm sure of it. If thatʼs so, it means I can identify this picture. Samuel Hoskins left the saddlery business and became a blacksmith. Later on he got a job at a big country house – he came back to tell us all about it. He worked at Penvale Manor, the Hattons' place out at Budock – we know now that old man Hatton was Ivyʼs grandfather. If this is Hoskins, then this would have been taken in about 1895 or 1896, so maybe Ivy Williamsʼs real mother is in this photograph and thatʼs why she had it. If so, she must have known that she was adopted. If this fits, Boase, we might be nearer to a motive and a suspect.ʼ

ʻWhat do you mean, sir? That perhaps the Hattons murdered Ivy Williams? But even so, what has all this got to do with Norma Berryman?ʼ

ʻI donʼt know yet, I need to think. Iʼm going to knock off now, itʼs been a long couple of days – I suggest you do the same, and get your thinking cap on tonight, weʼll be looking for some answers in the morning.ʼ