A Fool and His Money (22 page)

‘George!'

Caroline had crossed the lawn from the house just in time to hear this outburst from her husband. She sat down next to him.

‘I hardly recognise you when you say things like that, George. Don't be like that, dear. So, what time are you and Irene going out, Archie?'

Boase looked at his watch.

‘Well, we really should be going now.'

‘Well, Irene is in the kitchen – she's a little upset about you not liking her hair.'

Boase walked into the house.

‘Is it OK to leave now, Irene?'

‘Of course it is, Archie. I've been really looking forward to this. Finish your beer and we can go.'

Irene waved at her parents from the kitchen door and she and Boase left.

In the garden, Caroline looked at her husband.

‘George – you can't afford to get so worked up about things, dear.'

‘I know, Princess. I thought when Greet was put out that things would be better. Look, he's still causing trouble. No wonder he hasn't got a wife – shouldn't think anyone would take him on.'

‘Stop it now, dear. Come on, finish your beer. Have a look at your paper. Forget about work for one night.'

Bartlett shook open the newspaper and, pulling his reading spectacles from his top pocket, settled down in the garden to read.

Irene slipped her arm through Boase's as they walked down Killigrew. He didn't speak.

She squeezed his arm and looked up at him. Still nothing.

‘Archie. Don't be angry with me. I didn't cut my hair to upset you.'

‘Well, you may as well have.'

Irene stopped walking and looked up at her fiancé.

‘Archie – you really
are
behaving like an idiot. This is nothing. Why shouldn't I be able to cut my hair if I like? It's my hair and I shall do as I please with it.'

‘Well, you always do as you please, don't you, Irene? Anything you want, you get. You're such a spoilt little girl.'

‘Archie Boase! Take that back immediately. What a horrible thing to say.'

‘No, actually, Irene, I'm not going to take it back. I mean every word of it.'

‘Well, if you don't take it back, you can go on your own.'

‘There you go again – being childish.'

‘Well you're not exactly being an adult, are you?'

‘Not being an adult? Not being an adult? How dare you, Irene Bartlett. You have no idea of anything in your silly, sheltered little life, have you? When I was in France I saw things that would make your stomach turn over. Things that I can never forget seeing and hearing. All those young men, dying in pain, in agony, calling for their mothers. You have no idea of life, Irene. No idea of this world at all. Young men – no, boys – who will never come home again to England, to Cornwall. They will never hold the women of their dreams close to them all night and wake up with them in the morning –'

‘Archie Boase, that's disgusting talk. I'm ashamed of you.'

Irene dealt Boase a sharp blow across the side of his face. He drew back in surprise.

‘I don't care if I never see you again. I don't know how I ever got involved with you. You're a horrible person and I'm just glad I found out about you before it was too late.'

Holding back the tears which were now pricking her face, she turned and walked back up Killigrew and she was gone. Boase put his hand to his face. It was still stinging, so sharp was the blow.

Chapter Seventeen

Over the coming days, Bartlett and Boase made out their reports on the new and recent findings at Hunter's Path and this was investigated with gravity. Greet's replacement was anxiously being awaited.

Bernard Pellow sat on the steps of the Passmore Edwards Free Library on the Moor. He pulled a copy of the
Falmouth Packet
from his delivery bag and looked at the front page. As he began to read, Michael Crago walked past, pushing his bicycle.

‘Come on, Pellow – I don't pay you to deliver my papers and then expect to see you sitting on the steps reading them. Get on.'

‘I'm sorry, Michael – didn't expect to see you walking past.'

‘Obviously.'

Bernard folded up the paper and returned it to his bag. He stood up, unsteadily on his feet.

‘You all right, Bernard?'

Michael Crago put out his hand for support.

‘Yes, thanks, Michael – it's just these blasted dizzy turns. I thought I'd be feeling better now but I'm not. Can't get rid of the sound of the guns. What is the point of war? Why did we all have to go through that?'

‘I don't know the answer to that, my friend. What I do know is that I'm glad you were with me in France. I couldn't have got through without you. You really need to see your doctor again about all these turns you keep having. I'm sure there must be something he can do for you. Now, how much more have you got in that bag? Let's have a look. Oh, you've almost finished. Look – why don't I take these few and finish up for you?'

‘Because you're my boss, Michael.'

‘You were my boss in France, Bernard – you helped me.'

Bernard handed over the bag containing the newspapers and Michael took it, attaching it to the back of his bicycle.

‘I won't ever forget what you did for me over there, Bernard. Never. Now, why don't you finish for the day – go home and see how your mother is. Give her my best, won't you?'

‘I will. Thank you, Michael.'

Michael pushed off on his bicycle, only turning once to call out.

‘Tell her not to forget that pasty she promised me!'

Bernard smiled and thought how lucky he was to have a good friend like Michael – and how grateful he was for him giving him a job in his newsagent's shop.

Michael Crago delivered the last few newspapers, all but two. They were out of his way a little and so he had left them until last. He walked along Penwerris Terrace, climbing the high pavement halfway along and lifting up his bicycle.

As he reached the first of his two customers' houses, Number Ten, he laid his bicycle against the front wall and walked through the front garden gate. He checked the name pencilled on the top of the newspaper and realised that this was an overdue bill. He checked the name again … he thought so.
Superintendent Greet. It wasn't like him to leave his bill to mount up. Maybe with all that business at the police station, he had forgotten
. Michael hoped that the superintendent hadn't already left town without paying him. He'd heard what the police were like sometimes – not always whiter than white.

He knocked at the front door and waited. He turned to look out across the harbour, watching the gulls circling over the small boats. He waited a little longer then decided that the superintendent must be out. He drew a piece of paper from his jacket pocket together with a small pencil and began to write a hasty note detailing the outstanding debt. As he stood on the doorstep, writing, a woman opened the front door of the house next but one and called to him.

‘Hey, mister.'

Michael turned to see who was calling to him.

‘Yes, madam. What is it?'

‘That man. The policeman 'oo lives there …'

‘Yes, madam. What about him?'

‘Well, 'e's disappeared. No one 'as seen 'im since the night 'e was thrown out the Seven Stars. You can knock as loud as you like – 'e's not there. We always saw 'im goin' back and forth – but no … no sight nor sound. So – if it's money you're after, don't bother. He's vanished, I tell 'e.'

‘Well, thank you for that, madam. I bid you good morning.'

The neighbour disappeared and Michael folded the piece of paper into two. He leaned forward in order to post the note through the letterbox – just in case Superintendent Greet had not absconded and was, indeed, still living at this address.

As Michael Crago pushed open the small letter box, his eyes were drawn to the back of the hall. He closed the letter box quickly and it snapped shut, almost trapping his fingers. He turned away from the front door, unsure of what he had seen. He regarded the sea and the harbour, took a deep breath and, after this respite, turned to look through the tiny letter box again. Surely this time he would see something else?

No. Everything was exactly the same as the first time he had looked. He dropped the note he had just written and ran back down the garden path. Grabbing his bicycle, he mounted it and cycled off at top speed on the raised pavement, heading towards town.

Reaching the police station, Michael Crago ran inside and up to the desk. He addressed the sergeant.

‘I want to see Inspector Bartlett – please, quickly.'

The desk sergeant looked at him.

‘Well, I really think you should calm down a little, Mr Crago. What's the hurry?'

‘I just need to see him – or Archie Boase. Quickly, please. It's so urgent.'

‘Wait 'ere.'

The sergeant knocked on Bartlett and Boase's door and walked in.

‘I'm so sorry to disturb you both – Mr Crago's outside. You know – the newsagent chappie. Says 'e 'as to see you urgently.'

Bartlett removed his reading spectacles and looked up.

‘Well, send him in.'

Michael Crago entered the office.

‘Good morning, Inspector Bartlett. Hello, Archie.'

‘What's happened, Michael? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

Bartlett offered the man a chair and he sat down.

‘Inspector Bartlett, I think something terrible has happened. You need to come with me, at once.'

At this, Michael Crago began to shake uncontrollably.

‘Boase, fetch him some tea.'

‘No, Inspector. You must listen and then we must leave immediately.'

Bartlett sat back in his chair and waited patiently. He didn't much like the theatrical dimension now being lent to this conversation.

Within fifteen minutes, a car carrying Bartlett, Boase, Coad and Michael Crago had stopped outside number ten, Penwerris Terrace. Boase looked through the letter box.

‘He's right, sir – he's in there.'

Boase, with the help of Coad, forced open the front door and they both ran into the hall. Bartlett followed. As he reached the staircase, he looked down to see Superintendent Bertram Greet lying on the floor. Next to his outstretched hand was a pill bottle.

‘How long do you think he's been here, sir?'

‘I have no idea, Boase. We need to find out if he did this to himself, though.'

‘He must have, sir. You don't suspect foul play here, do you?'

‘Not necessarily – but we have to look at every possibility, you know that, Boase. See to it that this is sorted out here, will you?'

Bartlett walked back through the hall and out into the sunshine. He sat on the wall. Michael Crago came and sat next him.

‘Did he kill himself, Inspector Bartlett?'

‘Well, I can't actually discuss that with you, Michael. Why don't you get along now? Thank you for letting us know about … this. Will you be all right?'

‘Yes, of course I will. Thank you. I'll be getting along then. Goodbye, Inspector Bartlett.'

‘Goodbye, Michael.'

Boase came back out of the house.

‘You OK, sir?'

‘Yes. Yes, Boase. What did he want to do a damn fool thing like that for? What an idiot.'

‘You mustn't blame yourself, sir.'

‘What? I'm not blaming myself, Boase. Why should I? I'm just saying the man was an idiot. That's all.'

Boase turned away from Bartlett momentarily and gathered his thoughts. He turned back again.

‘Sir, if you don't mind me saying – I think you need to put all this behind you now. I know he made things difficult for you.'

‘Difficult? Difficult doesn't cover it, Boase. That man in there …'

‘Sir! That man, in there, is lying dead. Now that's a terrible thing for anyone, especially if he has done this to himself, which looks likely. Surely now you can find some compassion? You really need to stop this now, sir – for your own sanity … and dignity.'

At this, George Bartlett put his head in his hands and wept.

Boase knelt down next to Bartlett.

‘Sir? Sir … what on earth has happened? Talk to me, sir.'

‘Boase – look what a terrible person I'm turning into. That man is lying in there, dead – and all because of me. Because I couldn't be tolerant. Now look at the trouble I've caused. And you're right, even now I'm showing no compassion. What would Caroline say? She'd be so ashamed of me.'

‘Well, you've been under a lot of strain recently, sir. You know that. You probably haven't been able to look at things with a clear mind. Don't let it get you down – you'll drive yourself mad with it all. You really need a rest – you shouldn't have come back early from Perranporth.'

‘Well, I had to. I had work to do.'

‘I know, sir. But I can see what a strain this case has put on you – you're doing too much.'

Bartlett stood up and walked back to the car.

Where should he go from here? He felt at such a low point in his life now.

‘What's the verdict then, sir?'

‘It's definitely suicide, Boase – nothing fishy happened. That's for certain. Greet killed himself when he was not in his right mind due to nervous exhaustion and stress.'

‘So, what happens now?'

‘Well, nothing. His family is coming down to take his body back to … I don't know. Where is he from, Boase?'

‘Manchester, I think, sir.'

‘Yes, that's right, Manchester, I knew it was a long way away – yes, I remember him telling me. They're expected later today. There's his widow – I understand they were estranged at the time of his death – and two sons. I'm sorry it's all ended like this, Boase. I know I didn't see eye to eye with Greet about – well, really about anything, his methods or ideas about policing. I didn't even like the man but, still, this is a bad business.'