Empty Vessels (15 page)

The Pengellys and the Rashleighs got together for a game of cards before it was time to leave.

They all said their goodbyes and Kitty and Eddy left for home.

Norma Berryman was soon installed back in her old job at the Falmouth Library. The head librarian, a very nice woman called Alice Treleaven, of whom Norma was very fond, had had to take on someone temporary but she had kept Normaʼs job open. She told her that she had always hoped she would come back and that giving her job to someone else would feel like an admission that something serious had happened to her. Norma was extremely grateful. She was already feeling much better and being back home with her parents was aiding her recovery. On her first Monday back, Miss Treleaven came to speak with her.

ʻNorma, dear, Iʼm so pleased to have you back.ʼ

ʻIʼm very pleased to be back, Miss Treleaven – and thank you for keeping my job for me; not many would have done that.'

ʻYouʼre very welcome, my dear. Now, I have a little favour to ask, but only if youʼre feeling up to it. The lady that took your place in your absence, although very kind and well-meaning, wasnʼt particularly efficient and, as a result, I have a rather large backlog to deal with. I was wondering if youʼre well enough to stay behind tonight to help me with it? Of course, Iʼll allow you an extended lunch break in addition to the overtime.ʼ

ʻI donʼt see why not, Miss Treleaven. Iʼll just let my parents know when I go home at one oʼclock.ʼ

ʻThank you, Norma. That will be such a big help to me. Take from one till three if you wish.ʼ

Norma continued her day until the library closed, then she sat with Miss Treleaven to have a cup of tea and to get her instructions. There was certainly a lot of work which had been left undone and the two women just about finished at half past nine. Miss Treleaven locked up the library and said goodbye to Norma as she went towards her home in Lister Street. Norma left the library and walked in the other direction. She carried on until she reached the top of the thoroughfare known locally as the Rope Walk. As she started on to this road she heard footsteps behind her. It was dark now and she felt a little nervous. She quickened her step, breathing rapidly. Still the footsteps came behind. Then nothing. She gained enough courage to look behind her. There was no one. She stopped and smiled to herself; she had imagined it – after all she still wasnʼt completely recovered from her illness. She carried on in the direction of her home which was quite close now. Then she froze. She distinctly heard a voice. A very audible voice but yet a whisper.

ʻNorma.ʼ

She hurried on now, a feeling of terror inside her. She was running, she didnʼt look behind. The footsteps were there again, quicker now.

ʻNorma.ʼ

She could see her house. She ran faster than ever, flying through the garden gate and up to the front door. She couldnʼt find her key. She hammered on the door, still fumbling in her handbag. A light appeared in the small glass panel at the top of the door which was quickly opened. There stood her father.

ʻHello, Norma, love, I was just coming to meet you – itʼs getting a bit late. Come in now.ʼ

Norma went inside, not daring to look behind her out into the garden.

Chapter Eleven

The day of Rupert Hattonʼs funeral arrived and it was a warm and sunny one. The service was to be held at Budock Church, followed by interment in the churchyard there. The church was very close to Penvale Manor and this was where the family worshipped. Sir Charles Hatton had himself been buried here quite recently. Bartlett and Boase arrived at ten minutes to eleven and sat at the back of the church. Bartlett didnʼt want particularly to meet anyone but was interested in who might show up. The funeral service began at eleven oʼclock. Lady Hatton sat at the front next to her sonʼs coffin, her one remaining son by her side. Shortly after, the funeral procession was led outside and there Rupert Hatton was laid to rest in the family grave. Bartlett looked at his assistant.

ʻI donʼt see anything or anyone unusual here, do you, Boase?ʼ

ʻDonʼt think so, sir.ʼ

As the mourners prepared to follow Algernon Hatton and his mother back to Penvale Manor, Boase walked across the neatly cut grass to the chauffeur-driven car. Hatton, seeing Boase approaching, got out of the car.

ʻThank you so much for coming, Constable Boase. I hope you and Inspector Bartlett will come back to the house for a drink?ʼ

ʻThank you, sir, that would be very nice.ʼ

Boase walked back across the grass to where Bartlett was standing.

ʻWhat was all that about?ʼ

ʻHe asked if we would go back to the house for a drink. I hope you donʼt mind, I said we would. Weʼve found nothing here – I thought we might get the opportunity to snoop a bit at Penvale Manor.ʼ

ʻAll right, Boase, weʼll go.ʼ

When they arrived at the manor house, many of the mourners had already arrived. Maids and footmen wearing black armbands lined the entrance hall bearing trays of glasses. There was everything – mulled wine, whisky, sherry, brandy, Boase had never seen so much drink. He walked through into another reception room which was laid out as if for a banquet. There were about fifty people milling around, talking, drinking, eating. Bartlett and Boase had a look around and weighed up the guests. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening. Bartlett couldnʼt help but think that he had never seen so many wealthy people in one place; no one here was short of a bob or two. These were exactly the same types as those who had taken advantage of Maude Mockett. Their sort never changed. No, Bartlett had no time for these people; he didnʼt like them and he didnʼt feel comfortable with them. He had grown up in an area where people didnʼt have enough money to eat, couldnʼt feed or clothe their children, and where the infant mortality rate was so high that in many families a child was lucky to see the age of five.

Bartlett had asked one of the maids if he and Boase might have some tea and this was promptly brought to them and placed on a side table where, conveniently, there were two chairs. The two men sat down and watched the people moving around. Finishing his tea, Boase stood up.

ʻI think Iʼll get some fresh air, sir.ʼ

ʻIʼll join you, Boase.ʼ

They both left by the front door. Bartlett lit his pipe and stood at the front of the house admiring the parkland. Boase took a walk around the back. He wanted to see the rest of the grounds. By going around the side of the house, he found himself in a courtyard which was lined on one side with the stables. All the doors were open and some very expensive-looking motor cars were parked inside. Boase strolled over to them. There were about ten cars in the stables. No one was around so he wandered amongst them – he wouldnʼt get the opportunity to see so many fancy cars like this again. As he was admiring a fast-looking little two-seater, his coat brushed against something hanging from the wing mirror. He stood back to see what it was. It was a green, rubber bag, like a sort of washbag which sealed shut. Boase had never seen such a neat little bag before. It appeared airtight and watertight. He wondered what this had to do with motor cars; perhaps it was for tools or something. He picked it up and looked at it and then replaced it on the mirror. He could have done with something like that in the trenches to keep his things dry –  just the job that would have been. He carried on walking to the end of the line of cars then went back to the front of the house to meet up with Bartlett.

ʻSee anything?ʼ Bartlett asked.

ʻNo, not really, sir, just some very nice cars garaged up in a stable block.ʼ

The two said their goodbyes to the Hattons and left to return to the police station.

At Mrs Williamsʼs tobacco shop in High Street, Norman was in trouble again. Mrs Williams had asked Kitty to check the dayʼs takings and they were found to be short.

ʻNorman, come in ʼere,ʼ Mrs Williamsʼ voice boomed from the shop. Norman dropped the broom with which he was sweeping the stockroom floor and ran into the shop.

ʻYes, Mrs Williams?ʼ

ʻNorman, we are missing two and fourpence – can you account for it?ʼ

ʻNo, Mrs Williams … well …ʼ

ʻWell, what?ʼ

Norman started to shake and get confused.

ʻIʼll try anʼ sort this out, Mrs Williams, you go up and ʼave your tea,ʼ Kitty offered.

ʻI will not. This idiot is always making mistakes and costing me money and now ʼeʼs gone too far.ʼ

The miserly shopkeeper frequently forgot that she had to make allowances for Norman, and also that she was paying him next to nothing anyway.

ʻA man came in for some tobacco, anʼ ʼe gave me a ten bob note, anʼ then ʼundreds of people came all at once, anʼ I must ʼave got mixed up.ʼ

ʻWell, weʼre two anʼ four short and itʼs cominʼ out of your wages each week until itʼs paid back.ʼ

Mrs Williams left the shop and went upstairs.

Norman look devastated. Kitty put her arm around him.

ʻDonʼt worry, Norman, Iʼll make a deal with you. Seeinʼ as it was partly my fault too ʼcos I was too busy to ʼelp you, Iʼll go ʼalves with you, all right?ʼ

ʻIt wasnʼt your fault, Kitty. I canʼt let you do that.ʼ

ʻYes you can – anyway, Iʼm a married woman now, Iʼve got pots of money.ʼ She winked at him and he smiled.

Back at the station, Boase was putting on his coat to go home. Bartlett looked up.

ʻDoing anything tonight, my boy?ʼ

ʻNo, sir, nothing.ʼ

ʻCome round for your tea if you like – Mrs Bartlett mentioned it this morning and I forgot to ask you; half past seven all right?ʼ

ʻYes, sir, thank you, sir.ʼ

Bartlett knew that Boase wouldnʼt refuse – he also knew that if he had told him that morning, the young man would not have got half as much work done as he had. Caroline Bartlett had told her husband what a special relationship Boase and Irene had. ʻAs if I hadnʼt noticed,ʼ Bartlett had thought to himself. No one really would ever be good enough for his beloved Irene, but Archie Boase was a very good candidate.

Boase arrived at the Bartlett house at half past seven, eager to see Irene again; he hadnʼt seen her since the night of the fair when they had kissed. How would she be with him tonight? Irene answered the door. She looked lovely and she beamed when she saw him standing on the step.

ʻHello, Archie, Iʼm very pleased to see you,ʼ and she kissed him on the cheek.

ʻHello, Irene. You look nice.ʼ He stood there, not quite knowing what to say.

ʻWell, come on in then, you silly goose,ʼ she laughed and pulled him into the hall where she took his hat and coat and hung them on the hall stand.

ʻMum and Dad are in here. Supperʼs ready.ʼ

They both went into the dining room. Topper came over to Boase, sniffed his hand and lay back down again by Bartlettʼs chair.

Caroline came in from the kitchen carrying two plates of food.

ʻHello, Archie. How are you? You can come to the table now if you like – everythingʼs ready.ʼ

The three Bartletts and Archie Boase sat down to a supper of fish, boiled potatoes and peas followed by a homemade treacle pudding with custard. Boase stood up to clear the table.

ʻThat was lovely, Mrs Bartlett, thank you.ʼ

ʻI told you before, Archie, itʼs Caroline – and donʼt thank me, Irene did nearly all of it – sheʼs becoming quite a good cook these days, arenʼt you dear?ʼ

ʻStop it, Mum.ʼ Irene looked embarrassed.

Bartlett stood up from the table.

ʻDonʼt you be ashamed of being a good cook, my girl, never. Since the war, and donʼt any of you get me wrong, but since the war, with all these women going out to work and taking on men's jobs, well, they seem to have lost interest in domestic life. We couldnʼt have won the war without them, I daresay, but thereʼs something right about coming home to a good woman and a good dinner on the table. These days, young couples, both working, hardly ever see each other. Do you know, thereʼs one man in Falmouth, comes home from work every night and cooks for his wife and the nippers while sheʼs out cleaning offices. Can you believe it? She comes home and her dinnerʼs ready and the children have already been put to bed by him. I ask you – who ever heard of such a thing, and making a fool out of her husband like that; why, he must be the talk of Falmouth. So, no donʼt you be ashamed to cook, especially good, plain, English food. Now, thereʼs another thing …ʼ

Irene nudged Boase and stifled a giggle. Her dad was starting on something now. He had very fixed ideas and opinions and didnʼt mind who knew!

ʻ… yes, another thing,ʼ he went on. Whatʼs all this business about foreign food, eh? Tell me that. I heard that in London now they eat snails. Can you believe it, slimy snails, of all things? I wouldnʼt give you a thank you for them – Iʼve got them all over the garden and theyʼre a perishing nuisance, thatʼs what. Iʼd rather starve. Give me a nice bit of steak and kidney pudding anytime.ʼ

ʻOh, do stop going on, George.ʼ Caroline had had enough. ʻThe youngsters donʼt want to listen to you moaning on. Sit in your chair and Iʼll get you a nice drop of Leonardʼs – thatʼs English, I take it?ʼ

ʻDonʼt you mock London beer, Princess, thereʼs nothing like it, get one for the boy as well. Youʼll join me wonʼt you, my boy?ʼ

ʻYes, thank you.ʼ

Caroline brought two bottles of Bartlettʼs favourite tipple. He had drunk Leonardʼs London beer for years and was never known to drink anything else. Brewed in the East End, it was a strong, dark ale – a real manʼs drink, Bartlett called it. Sadly there was only one public house in the area that sold it – happily, the Seven Stars was about a one-minute walk from the police station. Bartlett never sat and drank in pubs but he always liked to have some beer at home, so he often called into the Seven Stars on his way back from work to pick up half a dozen bottles for himself and a couple of pale ales for Caroline; it would do her good, he told her, and she often had one before going to bed at night.

Bartlett and Boase sat beside the fire drinking, with Topper lying across the hearth rug enjoying the warmth. Bartlett put down his glass.

ʻI hate to talk shop, my boy, but what did you make of that funeral today? I really expected to see someone or something that might help us.ʼ

ʻI donʼt know what to think; all I saw was some expensive motor cars, as I told you – they must have an awful lot of money to burn, thatʼs all I can say. Youʼll laugh, but I found a bag hanging on one of the car mirrors and I was just thinking what a handy thing that would have been in the trenches. Iʼve never seen anything like it – completely airtight and watertight, a really good invention. Couldnʼt think what it was used for though. Tools, maybe, although I donʼt know why youʼd want to keep your tools dry and airtight.ʼ

ʻDonʼt know either,ʼ mused Bartlett. ʻHow big was it?ʼ

ʻWell Iʼd say … wait a minute.ʼ Boase put down his glass and leaned forward in his chair. Topper sat up and looked at him.

ʻIʼd say it was revolver-sized.ʼ

ʻWhat? What do you mean, revolver-sized?ʼ Bartlett looked at him enquiringly.

ʻWell, Iʼve just had a really mad thought. Just listen before you say anything. There were no footprints on the bank, right? What if the murderer swam through the water with the gun in that bag, or a bag like it? I had real trouble keeping my gun dry in the trenches and that crossed my mind when I saw that bag hanging on the car mirror. The killer could have shot Rupert Hatton from the water and then swam away again, leaving no footprints.ʼ

ʻSeems a bit far-fetched to me.ʼ Bartlett finished his beer. ʻSo, are you saying that the murderer used that bag to keep a gun dry then hung it on a mirror on that car in the Hattonʼs motor garage?ʼ

ʻWhy not?ʼ

Bartlett looked perplexed.

ʻSo you think someone who lives or works at Penvale Manor killed Rupert Hatton?ʼ

ʻMaybe – maybe not. We know that Frank Wilson turned up there some time ago demanding money and threatening the Hattons. Maybe he went back there and left it to try to implicate Algernon Hatton. He got rid of one of the twins, perhaps he thinks he can despatch Algernon by laying his brotherʼs murder at his door.ʼ

ʻPerhaps. But where does that leave us?ʼ

ʻI donʼt know. Maybe we should go down to the pier and river to see if anyoneʼs seen Frank Wilson – they must all know him, heʼs been running ferries and tugs there for years. Someone might have seen him; we know heʼs still around.ʼ

ʻThatʼs not a bad idea, my boy. Weʼll go down there tomorrow, ask some questions.ʼ

The clock in the hall chimed eleven. Boase stood up.

ʻI really must be going now.ʼ He turned to Caroline.

ʻThank you again, Mrs Bartlett.ʼ

ʻIʼve told you before, Archie, call me Caroline. And youʼre very welcome. I hope you come again soon.ʼ

ʻGoodnight, sir, see you in the morning.ʼ

ʻGoodnight, my boy. Irene, see Boase out, will you?ʼ

Irene was already waiting with Boaseʼs hat and coat. She handed them to him and he put them on. She opened the front door and they both stood there.

ʻThank you for a lovely evening, Irene, and for the food.ʼ