Empty Vessels (8 page)

As he lay in bed looking out, he heard footsteps on the stairs and presently a door opened and closed. Seconds later Topper appeared in the garden with his red rubber ball. Boase watched as he threw the ball in the air over and over again, pawprints appearing on the fresh snow. One more throw into the air and the ball landed in the middle of the pond. Topper stood watching it, his head on one side and ears cocked. The sound of the door opening again and there stood Irene with Bartlettʼs old coat over her dressing gown. Boase watched as she and Topper mulled over how to retrieve the ball. Presently Irene found a long stick and proceeded to tap the ball until it reached the edge of the pond, whereupon she pulled it out and handed it to Topper who had been waiting patiently. He barked his gratitude and the two returned inside. Boase lay back on his pillows. Irene was so beautiful – he could watch her all day.

When Boase came downstairs it was about half past eight, and the smell of food was all through the hall leading to the kitchen. The Bartletts were up and dressed and Caroline called him into the dining room.

ʻMerry Christmas. Are you hungry, Archie? Did you sleep well?

ʻYes, I am rather, and yes I did sleep very well, thank you. Merry Christmas to you too.ʼ

ʻGood morning, Archie, come and have some breakfast, my boy.ʼ Bartlett was already at his place drinking a cup of tea. As Boase sat down, Irene came into the dining room carrying a tray of food.

ʻGood morning, Archie, Merry Christmas, I hope youʼre hungry.ʼ She pecked him on the cheek and his heart fluttered.

ʻMerry Christmas to you too, Irene,ʼ he almost stuttered. Irene put a large plate in front of her father and the same for Boase … bacon, eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, tomatoes, and mushrooms, with lots of fried bread. Caroline and Irene sat down but ate only toast, butter and home-made jam with several cups of tea.

ʻWe normally open our presents at lunchtime, Archie,ʼ said Caroline pouring four more cups of tea. ʻIs that all right with you?ʼ

ʻOf course, that would be lovely,ʼ replied Boase.

Bartlett stood up, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

ʻMe and Topper are off for our constitutional, Princess – we wonʼt be long in this snow.ʼ

His wife kissed his cheek.

ʻIʼm going to keep an eye on the lunch and the youngsters can have some fun together – Irene, Iʼve brought out some gramophone records. If you and Archie roll back the rug, you can dance.ʼ

Boase looked mortified – he had never danced.

Irene sensed his anxiety.

ʻItʼs all right, Archie – I know all the latest steps; Iʼll teach you.ʼ

Boase felt relieved. Heʼd seen these ʻmodernʼ dances where you got to hold your girl really close; heʼd learn to dance all right.

At Killigrew Street, the Pengellys were making the most of the festive season and the two days they all had off work – the only time of the year that ever happened. Rose had been up early as usual to prepare the food, but the girls had sent her back to bed with a hot cup of tea and one of their magazines.

ʻWeʼre doing everything for you today, Ma,ʼ Kitty had told her, ʻyou just relax and enjoy Christmas Day with Dad.ʼ Even Jack was up early, lighting the fire and helping to prepare the vegetables. Kitty and Ruby shared the kitchen chores and cooked a very large Christmas meal. Bill had managed to get hold of an enormous turkey and this was prepared with roast potatoes, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, carrots, gravy and stuffing. A foreign ship had docked at Falmouth the previous week and, as a thank you for her speedy repair, the captain had given tins of fruit from his cargo to the men who had done the work. Bill wasnʼt even sure where the ship was from, but it didnʼt matter – the captain had generously given him four tins of pineapple, four tins of peaches, and two tins of pears. The family had never seen so much fruit all at once.

ʻI wonder what ʼappened to Frank,ʼ Kitty asked her sister.

ʻDonʼt know, donʼt care,ʼ came the reply – ʻI donʼt want my Christmas ruined thinking about ʼim now, do I?ʼ

ʻCourse not, Rube – Iʼm sorry I mentioned ʼim.ʼ

Ruby was still upset; she had liked Frank a lot – what had he been up to since she last saw him? Definitely not murder; she didnʼt believe that, not for a minute.

Jack had set a very nice table with the best cutlery, dinner service, and even Christmas crackers, and the whole family sat down to eat at about two oʼclock. After their meal, Bill and Jack washed up, Rose went to have a lie down, and the two girls sat by the fire eating oranges and looking at the presents they had opened that morning. Ruby pulled on a woollen hat with matching scarf and mittens.

ʻIt was so nice of Ma to knit these, donʼt you think, Kit? 'Specially with her bad fingers anʼ all. Funny, I never saw ʼer doinʼ ʼem, did you?ʼ

ʻNo, no I didnʼt – pʼraps she did ʼem when we was at work. Look at all this sewing she did for me, four tray cloths and two embroidered pillowslips – definitely for my bottom drawer. Dʼyou think she liked the things we got ʼer?ʼ

ʻI know she did,ʼ the other sister replied – ‘just wish it couldʼve been more.ʼ

Jack appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. ʻI got washday ʼands,ʼ he laughed. ‘Whoʼs for a cuppa?ʼ

Kitty stood up, folding her tray cloths. ʻAll round, please, Jack – donʼt forget one for Ma if sheʼs awake.ʼ

Bill came in from the kitchen and lit the new pipe he had received from the girls.

ʻIs it all right, Dad?ʼ asked Kitty anxiously. Bill puffed on the pipe for a moment and looked at the two girls through the smoke.

ʻIʼd say that that woman you work for, Kitty, does a very good line in pipes – and this must be the finest. All in all, I think this has been a very happy Christmas Day.ʼ

At Penvale Manor the grounds of the house looked like a picture from a Christmas card with much snow and high winds causing drifting. It was unusual for this part of Cornwall to experience such weather and the local people were unused to it. Inside the manor house, the Hattons were at home. Lady Hatton had returned from Switzerland and Algernon from London. An enormous Christmas tree had been cut which measured about twelve feet in height and it stood in the hall reaching almost to the ceiling. The Hattons were in the dining room enjoying their customary fine food and drink and the servants were in the kitchen preparing for the evening house party.

Outside, a large figure, struggling to progress through the howling wind and driving snow, and clutching fruitlessly on to a wide-brimmed hat, stopped on turning a bend in the road and surveyed the front of Penvale Manor. The figure, hurrying as quickly as was possible in the appalling conditions, crossed the large lawn and, hesitating only to look behind, ascended the front steps and made its way around the terrace, pausing at each and every window and peering inside. Finally the stranger reached the invitingly lit dining room. Yes, there they all were, eating, drinking, enjoying themselves – not a care in the world. The door leading from this room to the terrace was, conveniently, unlocked and so the stranger entered. As the door opened, the wind howled through and extinguished the eighteen candles which had been merrily burning in two silver candelabra. The twins looked up, Lady Hatton looked up and the four stared at each other in silence.

Rupert Hatton sprang up from his chair.

ʻWhat are YOU doing here? Get out or Iʼll call the police.ʼ

Frank Wilson smiled as he pulled a revolver from his pocket.

ʻCall them – Iʼm sure theyʼd like to hear all about you, about both of you. Now get your mother out of here; we need to talk.'

Lady Hatton, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and sobbing, walked to the door helped by Algernon.

ʻOh, by the way, donʼt try to call the police – for your sonsʼ sakes.ʼ

Algernon returned to the centre of the room.

ʻLook here, Wilson, what are you playing at?ʼ

ʻItʼs easy – Ivy Williams is dead; I didnʼt kill her, but you got your way and, to keep me quiet, I want paying.ʼ

ʻWell even if I was going to pay you, I canʼt get money on Christmas Day,ʼ Rupert looked indignant. ʻAnyway, who did kill her?ʼ

ʻThought you might know the answer to that one, Duke,ʼ replied Frank insultingly.

ʻI want you out of here, and not a word to anyone – we know plenty about you, donʼt forget.ʼ Algernon looked at the gun still in Frankʼs hand. ʻPlanning to use that, were you? Well, just you remember that I saved you from that court martial back in ʼ17 – Iʼm beginning to wish I hadnʼt bothered.ʼ

Frank put the gun back into his pocket.

ʻI never killed Private Tremayne and everyone knew it.ʼ

ʻYouʼre a liar – we know that – and the worst batman I could have had.ʼ Algernon pointed to the doors through which Frank had entered the room.

ʻGo on, get out.ʼ

ʻOkay, but Iʼll be sending you instructions about my payment – look out for them.ʼ

Frank disappeared through the terrace doors and Algernon closed and locked them behind him.

Back at the Bartletts', Christmas had turned out to be the best Archie Boase had ever spent. He and Irene had spent the morning together and he had learned the latest dances. Irene was thrilled when she opened his present to her – it was a beautiful golden bracelet with a tigerʼs head in the centre and two sparkling green eyes. Boase told her it had reminded him of her green eyes. She, in return, had given him a pocket knife which had everything a man could possibly want, including a bottle-opener, comb, and a small fork. Boase thought it was the best and most useful thing he had ever seen. On the outside of the knife she had had engraved: A.B. 1921.

The Bartletts, with Boase, continued to enjoy their Christmas break and by the 27th of December, everything was back to normal; all except one thing, that is. Everyone had returned to work, most of the shops had reopened, the dockyard was again buzzing with activity , but, as for Boase, well – he had realised that he was in love with Irene Bartlett and nothing would ever be quite the same again. This was something he would have to get used to, but he knew he was going to enjoy it. 

Chapter Five

Bartlettʼs first day back at the station was a disjointed one. He couldnʼt seem to settle into anything. He thought over and over about Ivy Williams, Norma Berryman, everything surrounding them and whether there was a link that he had overlooked.

Boase came into the office, whistling and looking very happy.

ʻGood morning, sir, thank you for a lovely Christmas holiday. Cuppa?ʼ

ʻThank you, Boase, I havenʼt had one since I got here. We were very pleased to have you staying – it was nice for all of us. Listen, I think thereʼs something more to those Hattons than meets the eye. One of them is the father of that dead girl and they say they know nothing – they must be able to tell us something. Mind you, do they know who she really was? I donʼt think I want to bring that up just yet – even so, I vote we go back again. Rupert Hatton lied when we spoke to him; they both know Francis Wilson all right and I mean to get to the bottom of it.ʼ

ʻGood idea, sir. Are you hungry, only Iʼve got an extra pork pie here if youʼd like it?ʼ

Bartlett shook his head. ʻYouʼre going to end up in hospital the way youʼre carrying on. There isnʼt a scrap of meat on you and you never stop eating – you need a woman to look after you.ʼ

Before long the two detectives arrived at Penvale Manor. Bartlett rang the bell and almost instantly, the maid they had met before appeared in the doorway. Before Bartlett had a chance to speak, he heard loud voices from inside the hall. He peered over the maidʼs shoulder and saw the Hatton twins both standing on the staircase. They were shouting and gesticulating and, as Bartlett watched, one took the other by the lapels and shook him vigorously. The older detective barged past the maid and stood at the bottom of the staircase. The argument continued with Bartlett still unseen. The underdog in the pair was leaning back precariously against the banister and yelling loudly and hysterically.

ʻI told you this would happen; I said donʼt get involved. Youʼre always the same, you think you know everything. Well – do you know what? You know nothing.ʼ

The other twin, who had been holding on to his brother's lapels, suddenly released his grip. ʻMaybe I do know everything, maybe Iʼm sick of you telling me what to do all the time …ʼ

Seeing Bartlett and, by now, Boase, observing them, the twins stopped, straightened their attire and descended the staircase.

Bartlett removed his hat.

ʻGood morning, gentlemen, Iʼm sorry to disturb you, but I really needed to speak to you again.ʼ

Rupert Hatton walked across the hall.

ʻAlgie, Iʼd like to introduce you to these two policemen, Bartlett and er … Boast.ʼ

Bartlett hurriedly put them straight on his assistantʼs surname.

ʻGentlemen, weʼd like to speak to you about the death of Ivy Williams –'

‘Dear Lord, not this again,ʼ interrupted Rupert Hatton.

Algernon indicated towards the back of the hall. ʻPlease come into the drawing room – would you like some teaʼ?

ʻNo, thank you.ʼ Bartlett beckoned to Boase to follow.

The drawing room looked very welcoming with a huge log fire and comfortable leather armchairs and sofas. Bartlett thought that each chair would probably cost him a yearʼs wages.

ʻGentlemen, it is becoming more urgent that we find out about the events surrounding Ivy Williamsʼs murder and I implore you to think of anything that you can – however trivial or irrelevant it might seem.ʼ

Rupert stood up and moved towards the fireplace. From a tortoiseshell box on the mantelpiece he took a long cigarette and from a small table next to him he picked up a slender cigarette holder. As he pushed the cigarette home, Bartlett couldnʼt help thinking what a feminine holder this was for a man to be using, and what small, pale hands Rupert Hatton had. He looked across at the other twin who was fiddling with a silver cigarette case, apparently undecided whether to light a cigarette or not. By comparison, his hands looked almost normal. Bartlett collected his thoughts.

ʻIs there anything at all, gentlemen, that you could tell us?ʼ

ʻLooks to me like youʼre getting pretty desperate,ʼ volunteered Algernon, ʻfrom what my brother tells me.ʼ

ʻI say, Iʼm in a blasted rush, Bartlett,ʼ ventured Rupert. ʻIf I hear anything that might help you, Iʼll contact you immediately, howʼs that?ʼ

ʻOff somewhere nice, sir?ʼ enquired Boase.

Algernon finally lit his cigarette and drew long and hard on it.

ʻOff to meet your gentlemen friends at your club, no doubt? Give my regards to Harry, old sport, wonʼt you?ʼ

Rupert extracted his cigarette from its holder and, throwing it on the fire, marched towards the door.

ʻIʼm sorry, but I really do have to go. Goodbye.ʼ

Bartlett turned to Algernon Hatton.

ʻWhen I recently came to see your brother, I asked him if he knew anyone by the name of Francis Wilson – he said he didnʼt. Do you, sir?ʼ

ʻNo, the name doesnʼt ring any bells with me either. Sorry.ʼ

Bartlett persisted.

ʻOh, I think it must – he was your batman, wasnʼt he? Why are you denying all knowledge of him?ʼ

Hatton looked flustered.

ʻAll right then, have it your way – yes, yes, I knew him – unfortunately for me. He got into some very serious scrapes, not least being charged with murder. I got him out of it, back in ʼ17 and I havenʼt seen him since, thatʼs all there is to it.ʼ

ʻWell, thank you for being so honest with us, sir – eventually. Good day.ʼ

Bartlett and Boase returned to Berkeley Vale and walked into the police station. As the younger of the two opened the door, Peggy Berryman crossed the lobby towards them. This time she was alone.

ʻGood morning, Mrs Berryman, how are you?ʼ Bartlett enquired politely.

ʻOw dʼyou think I am?ʼ the thin, ill-looking woman answered. ʻWhat do you think itʼs been like all over Christmas without my daughter, not knowing where she is, whether sheʼs …ʼ at this she paused, ʻdead or alive. Iʼm begging you Mr Bartlett, sir, please do something to bring ʼer back to me. Itʼs the not knowing thatʼs so ʼard.ʼ

ʻIʼm really doing everything that I can, I assure you, Mrs Berryman. Boase, fetch Mrs Berryman a strong cup of tea. Have a seat, wonʼt you? Stay as long as you like; youʼre all out of breath. Would you like me to get a car home for you?ʼ

The tired old woman sat on a long leather bench seat. ʻIʼll take the tea, thank you, but Iʼm quite capable of getting ʼome.ʼ She coughed vigorously into a handkerchief.

Bartlett followed Boase into their office.

ʻThat womanʼs not well. I wish I could find the girl for her, Boase.ʼ

ʻMaybe weʼre barking up the wrong tree, sir,ʼ said Boase.

ʻWhat do you mean?ʼ Bartlett was removing his hat and coat.

ʻWell, think about it. That day we went up to London, you said you followed a girl because you thought it was Norma Berryman.ʼ

ʻI was having a bad day – and it was very early in the morning.ʼ

ʻRight, but why did you decide it wasnʼt her after all?ʼ Boase persisted.

ʻBecause I lost her in the crowd and I suddenly realised how stupid I was being – wishful thinking and all that.ʼ

Boase took Peggy Berryman her tea and returned immediately.

ʻListen,ʼ he went on. ʻWeʼre assuming that something terrible has happened to her, if weʼre honest, right?ʼ

ʻGo on.ʼ Bartlett was listening.

ʻWhat if nothing terrible has happened? What if sheʼs just run away from home?ʼ

Bartlett sat down behind his desk.

ʻThatʼs not likely – she was a very nice young woman; she wouldnʼt do something like that to her parents, she was devoted to them.ʼ

Boase perched on the end of Bartlettʼs desk. ʻYouʼre doing it again, sir.ʼ

ʻDoing what?ʼ

ʻWas, was, was. You keep referring to Norma Berryman in the past tense – havenʼt you thought that she might just not want to be found?ʼ

Bartlett puffed out his cheeks with a long sigh. ʻSo, you think weʼre on the wrong track?ʼ

ʻI think weʼre looking too hard. Letʼs go back to the beginning, stop looking for a dead body and start thinking that she might still be around. This may seem a bit radical for around here but what about a campaign?ʼ

ʻWhat do you mean, a campaign?ʼ

ʻLetʼs distribute pictures of her all around, letʼs say, the major county towns, Truro, St Austell, Bodmin – to begin with. Maybe someoneʼs seen her in another town.ʼ

ʻYou just might have an idea there, Boase my boy.ʼ

Bartlett was looking out of his window, watching Mrs Berryman struggling down the road, pausing frequently to catch a breath.

ʻIʼll go round to the Berrymans' later and suggest it to them. Well done, Boase.ʼ

For Boase, the rest of the day passed by slowly; he didnʼt know when he was going to see Irene again and he was beginning to miss her. He wondered how this could be – he had never felt like this before. Archie Boase, always independent, happy in his own company, now craving being with a woman. He used to like Amber Cosgrove when they were at school but that wasnʼt like this; he was fifteen and Amber Cosgrove fourteen. He liked her for almost a year then she left school and got married. Amber Cosgrove – whatever happened to her? He wondered where he would be ten years from now. Would he still be friendly with Irene? He hoped so – he couldnʼt imagine being with anyone else. Irene was lovely.

At five oʼclock George Bartlett knocked on the door of Number 7, Railway Cottages and waited, admiring the neat front garden. Presently the door was unlocked and opened and Arnold Berryman appeared.

ʻMr Bartlett, sir. How nice to see you – have you some news for us?ʼ

Before Bartlett could reply, Peggy Berryman appeared in the hall, patting her wispy hair into place and smoothing her apron.

ʻCome in, Mr Bartlett – I didnʼt expect to see you this evening.ʼ She beckoned him into the warm kitchen where they had obviously just begun their meal.

ʻSit yourself down – would you like a cup of tea?'

ʻWell, thank you, that would be most acceptable, that is, if Iʼm not interrupting, you appear to be about to eat.ʼ

ʻDonʼt you worry about that, Mr Bartlett.ʼ Peggy Berryman was rushing around making an enormous pot of tea – Bartlett, a great tea drinker, approved. ʻIʼve got a couple of extra chops in the oven, Mr Bartlett – would you like to join us?ʼ

ʻThatʼs very kind of you, Mrs Berryman, but my wife will have my dinner ready and Iʼm going straight home from here. She wouldnʼt be too pleased if I didnʼt have room for her meal. It does smell rather nice though.ʼ

Bartlett installed himself in a very large armchair by the range whereupon an enormous black-and-white cat crossed the kitchen and jumped into his lap. Mr Berryman smiled – ‘Thatʼs Sydneyʼs chair, as a rule; but donʼt you mind ʼim, Mr Bartlett, push ʼim off. Go on Sydney – shoo.ʼ

Bartlett stroked the cat, who obviously had no intention of vacating his position, and man and feline decided to share the armchair.

Mrs Berryman patted Sydneyʼs head as she handed Bartlett a cup of tea.

ʻʼEʼs fourteen now – we got ʼim as a kitten for Norma, when she was a little girl; ʼe still waits at the top of the road for ʼer, evʼry night, waiting for ʼer to come ʼome from work. She was five when we got ʼim. She said to the farmer out at Maenporth who we got ʼim from, “Whatʼs his name?” “Sydney – with a Y,” ʼe replied. “Then I shall call ʼim Sydney with a Y too,” she said.'

Mrs Berryman looked upset, thinking of better times.

Bartlett put down his cup and saucer.

ʻIʼve had an idea, well, my assistant has – itʼs something new; Boase has got lots of fresh, young ideas – some good, some not so good; you know what youngsters are like, think they know the secrets of the universe. This idea, though, might just help our enquiries.ʼ

Bartlett put forward the plan he and Boase had talked about and the Berrymans, glad of another avenue to explore, agreed. Bartlett left the Berryman house and walked home to Penmere Hill. He arrived just as Irene was taking a very large casserole from the oven.

ʻHello, Princess, Iʼm back. Hello, Irene.ʼ

ʻYour dinnerʼs just going on the table, George,' Caroline called back from the kitchen, ʻcome and wash your hands, please.ʼ

Bartlett smiled. He loved the way Caroline treated him like a child sometimes – she was the same with Irene who, now a young woman, hated it.

New Yearʼs Eve 1921 came with an unexpected thaw giving a break in the harsh weather over Christmas. Revellers planned to dance and drink like never before – especially the younger members of the community. That night saw all the dance halls full – Kitty, Ruby, and Jack Pengelly were at the Magnolia Club in Arwenack Street where a new dance band were being introduced: Harryʼs Havana Orchestra led by Harry Watson-Booth, a twenty-two-year-old musician from Oxford. A talented concert pianist, he had now diverted his attention to setting up his own orchestra which had successfully travelled up and down the country for over a year. Now, however, something was keeping the players in Cornwall where they were experiencing more popularity than ever; they were quite happy to follow their leader and, as far as they were concerned, Harry Watson-Booth was in charge.

At around eleven oʼclock, while the band were being inundated with requests, a very drunk Rupert Hatton fell up the front steps of the Magnolia Club and, in a bid to negotiate the revolving glass door, managed to almost encapsulate himself permanently therein. As he continued rotating, a doorman, who had been seeing someone into a taxi cab, saw Hattonʼs plight, stopped the revolving door, and pulled the drunk out by his coat tails.

ʻI say, old man, no need for that, what! Blast you, mind the suit – canʼt a fellow get a drink here?ʼ Rupert Hatton was indignant. The doorman pulled him further towards the club entrance.

ʻIʼm sorry, sir, I think itʼs time you went home, donʼt you? Shall I call a taxi cab for you, sir?ʼ