A Fool and His Money (23 page)

‘If we're being honest, sir, no one saw eye to eye with him. He was very difficult to get along with.'

‘Yes, he was that.'

Bartlett looked at Boase.

‘Why are you looking at me, sir? Have I got food on my mouth?'

Boase wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘No, my boy. I was rather wondering what you're going to do about Irene. She came home the last time she was with you vowing never to speak to you again. I thought you two had big plans. Are you just going to leave things as they are?'

‘I don't know, sir. I haven't decided.'

‘You haven't decided – that's very childish behaviour, if you ask me. You two were very serious about each other, engaged to be married. Now you stand there and say you haven't decided what to do. Well, I wouldn't hang about if I were you – if you want to go back to how you were, you need to get a move on. You know how single-minded Irene can be. Downright stubborn, in fact.'

Boase looked at Bartlett and wondered where on earth Irene's stubbornness could have come from. Stubborn? George Bartlett had invented stubborn.

‘Well, what can I do, sir? I really upset her and she's saying she doesn't want to see me again.'

‘Just go and see her. Maybe don't tell her you're coming, just turn up one evening and take her out for a walk or something. I don't know but you two need to talk. You surely can't throw everything away just on one quarrel.'

‘I suppose I have been a bit stupid, haven't I? But that business with her hair – it just really upset me.'

‘Well, you'll never control Irene. You must already know that – yes, she's her own woman and I'm very proud of her for that. She's honest, she speaks her mind and she's loyal. So, if you can't handle her then …'

‘Who says I can't handle her? I'll be round at six – don't tell her I'm coming.'

Bartlett sat back in his chair and grinned. He'd get this patched up yet.'

At half past one, Ernest Penhaligon knocked on the door or Bartlett's office and entered. Bartlett looked up.

‘What is it, Penhaligon?'

‘Sir, Superintendent Greet's family have just arrived. They want to speak to you.'

‘Tell them to wait a moment.'

He turned to Boase.

‘Blast them. What do they want
me
for?'

Boase stood up behind his desk.

‘I don't know, sir, but I'm with you, whatever it is. Have they come to cause trouble?'

‘Don't see why. Show them in here, Boase.'

Bartlett and Boase introduced themselves to Superintendent Greet's family. His widow was accompanied by her two sons, Albert and George. The younger, George, Bartlett couldn't help noticing, looked exactly like his father and this unnerved him. This particular Greet spoke first.

‘Inspector Bartlett. I wanted you to know how dismayed we are at your treatment of our father, your superior. I know I speak for all three of us when I say that my father found you extremely difficult to work with, insolent and downright awkward. I understand that you made a very serious accusation against my father, in fact several accusations, and I wish you to know that I am lodging a formal counter-complaint against you. My father found you wanting in every respect and I, we, hold you entirely responsible, through your recent actions, for the fate that befell him.'

Bartlett stood up from his seat.

‘Now you look here …'

The elder Greet, who had been standing next to his brother and behind their mother, stepped forward.

‘There is nothing more to say on this matter, Inspector Bartlett. Out of courtesy we are advising you of the actions we will be taking against you. There is nothing further to discuss. I bid you good day.'

The widow, who had not spoken a word, looked up as her elder son offered his hand to her and she rose from the chair she had occupied during this brief meeting. Boase held the door open for the pair and, as the last of the three left the office, Boase slammed it firmly shut.

Archie Boase, wearing his best navy blue suit, walked in the direction of Penmere Hill and the Bartletts' house. As he turned at the top of the hill, he paused, brushed his jacket and adjusted his cuffs. He walked another fifty yards then stopped in his tracks at the scene which met him. Coming up the hill was Irene Bartlett with a man. Her arm was through his and he appeared to Boase to be more than attentive. They were too busy to have seen him and didn't avert their gaze on each other until Boase was standing feet in front of them. Irene blushed slightly.

‘Archie! What are
you
doing here?'

‘Well, I
was
coming to see you, Irene. But it looks like you're busy.'

Boase stared hard at the man.

‘Archie, this is Gerald Tregidgo; we were at school together. We're just going to the pictures.'

‘I thought you liked
me
taking you to the pictures?'

‘But we didn't go and I want to go now. Gerald offered and I said yes. Is there a problem?'

‘I'd say so. Irene, I think you should tell Gerald to run along home.'

‘No, I won't.'

At this, Gerald stepped forward and, being of a similar height, stared Boase in the eyes.

‘Why don't you leave Irene alone. You've already upset her enough, from what I've heard.'

‘So we have no private business either, Irene?'

Gerald put his hand on Boase's sleeve and Boase pushed him away.

‘Don't you lay a hand on me – or my girl.'

‘She's not your girl.'

Their voices were becoming louder now and Irene stepped away from the two men. Gerald tried to push Boase and, now beyond anger and all reason, Boase landed a punch straight to the other man's jaw. Irene, horrified, drew back further. Gerald, put his hand to his lip and, on seeing a bright red streak of blood, came back at Boase and threw a punch straight to his stomach. The pair wrestled each other to the ground as Irene ran back to the house to fetch her father. By the time Bartlett had come the short distance up the hill, Gerald was lying on the ground, not moving and Boase was standing over him. Bartlett knelt down on the ground and inspected the casualty.

‘Boase, what are you playing at? Why did you do this?'

Gerald was now moaning and had his hand clasped to his head. Irene pushed Boase in the chest and he winced.

‘Archie – how could you do this to my friend?'

‘I thought
I
was your friend, Irene – you don't need him.'

‘He's just a friend and I thought I made it plain to you before that I won't be upset by you. And all this just because I cut my hair. Archibald Boase – you don't own me!'

At this, Irene marched off back down Penmere Hill and into the house.

‘Help me to get him up, Boase. I hope for your sake he doesn't make a complaint.'

Together, they managed to lift Gerald to his feet.

‘We'll have to take him to our house and try to clean him up a bit – you're such an idiot, Boase!'

‘Why didn't you tell Irene to expect me?'

‘I seem to remember you telling me not to.'

Gerald Tregidgo lay on the couch in the Bartlett parlour. Irene made him some tea. She sat with him and held the teacup to his mouth. She looked up at Boase.

‘Archie, I think you should leave now. You've caused enough trouble.'

Bartlett followed Boase to the front door.

‘Well, that didn't have the desired effect, did it? She's with him and you're out on your elbow. You're such a fool, Boase. Get off home and hope no one finds out about all this.'

Boase walked slowly back up Penmere Hill. His ribs were hurting and the stitching was coming apart on his best blue suit. He stopped at the top of the road and sat on a wall. He'd only worn the suit for Irene. She always said how handsome he looked when he wore it. Now it was ruined and so was his life with her. What on
earth
had he been thinking? Scrapping in the road like that – and in front of the love of his life? This could never be put right. Boase sat with his head in his hands and a tear rolled down his cheek as he thought about what he'd now probably lost for good. For ever. The one thing he'd wanted for so long.

Three long days passed and Boase had heard nothing from Irene. Worse, to his mind, Bartlett had not spoken about her or the incident in Penmere Hill – other than to say the following morning that he thought Boase to be a fool to risk so much – his future happiness with his wife and possibly even his job and his reputation. To be fair, Bartlett had not held it against Boase once he had said what he needed to say and the subject wasn't mentioned again. Bartlett had been young once and, while probably not so hot-headed as Boase, he could understand why his colleague had got so fired up when he saw Irene with another man, albeit it a friend.

So, for three days, the subject remained closed. On the fourth day, Bartlett surveyed Boase from his desk. He held a piece of paper aloft.

‘You got lucky, Boase. You got very lucky. Gerald Tregidgo – he put in a formal complaint against you but it says here that he retracted it later.'

‘Well, he's got a blasted cheek if you ask me, sir. Making a complaint when he had stolen my fiancée right from under my nose.'

‘Boase, I think you should count yourself very lucky. You've got away with it this time – and I would say that this retraction has more than a little to do with Irene. And, you shouldn't be surprised at her actions … stepping out with Gerald. He's just an old friend of hers but, whoever he is, you had no right to do what you did. Anyway, we should drop it now. You're an idiot – let's leave it at that, shall we?'

‘He had it coming …'

‘Boase!'

Bartlett had had enough and Boase realised it was time to stop.

Chapter Eighteen

Constable Ernest Penhaligon spat hard on his boots and polished them vigorously. Boase watched him as he stood in the doorway of the makeshift kitchen and boot room. He waved a piece of fruit cake in Penhaligon's direction.

‘I've got some more of this, if you want a piece, Penhaligon?'

‘No thanks. I'm going to make some tea now – all this business is proper drying me out.'

‘Why are you being so diligent over your boots anyway? You don't usually bother.'

‘Well, actually, I consider my boots to be the most highly polished boots in this station and, as you already know, we're meeting the new superintendent this morning.'

‘That's today?!'

‘Yes.'

‘Crikey – I thought it was tomorrow.'

‘No. He's coming today at one o'clock.'

Boase walked swiftly back to his office and stood in front of George Bartlett's desk. Bartlett looked up.

‘Yes? Why are you standing there staring at me, Boase?'

‘Did you know it was today, sir?'

‘Did I know what was today?'

‘The new Superintendent is coming here – today.'

‘Today? No, I most certainly did not. And how do you know?'

‘Penhaligon told me.'

‘And how does Penhaligon know before us?'

‘I dunno, sir.'

‘Right, well we'd better get some sort of order in here – the place is a mess. When is he arriving?'

‘At one, sir.'

‘Right, well that only gives us two hours – go round and make sure everything looks all right, will you, Boase? Don't take any nonsense from anyone. We don't want to get off on the wrong foot with this one if we can help it. Now's our chance to make this station a better place for everyone to work in – especially us.'

Superintendent James Bolton stood in front of his police officers. He walked up and down the line and studied them hard. He stopped in front of Constable Eddy and, with one hand, swiftly brushed across the officer's shoulder. The two men looked at each other and Bolton moved on.

‘All I have to say to you gentlemen is this – if you fall in with me, then I'll fall in with you. I know my predecessor was not an easy man to get along with and you didn't see much of him, but I think you will find me different. In the first place, my door is always open to you. I will back each and every one of you – always. But, if one of you is found to cross me and not be backing me in return, and in my efforts to run this station then, well, then things will begin to look a little different. So, what I'm saying is that I'm counting on you and you're counting on me. We need to make this work – just remember that there are enough people at the top waiting to knock us down without us doing it to each other here in Falmouth. I hope I've made myself clear to you.'

The group was dismissed and went about their business. Bartlett and Boase went into their office.

‘Well, what do you make of him, sir?'

‘Well, I'm not sure – he's a bit different from Greet, don't you think?'

‘Yes, I think so. We might find him a bit easier to get along with – hopefully.'

‘Yes, Hopefully.'

A knock at the door was followed by the desk sergeant's head appearing round it.

‘Excuse me, Inspector Bartlett, Superintendent Bolton would like to see you, now, please.'

‘Righto – I'm coming.'

Bartlett stood up and brushed off his jacket. He looked at Boase.

‘Wonder what he wants me for?'

‘Only one way to find out, sir.'

Bartlett left and went upstairs.

‘Come in, George. Can I call you George – is that all right?'

‘Well, that's my name, sir. Yes, of course you can.'

‘Good. Sit down, George.'

‘Why did you want to see me, sir?'

‘I wanted, firstly, to say hello to you away from everyone else – I've heard good things about you, George, here at Falmouth and in London and I don't want to lose you.'

‘Well I don't think you'll be losing me quite yet, sir.'