Empty Vessels (13 page)

Bartlett and Boase inspected the area and the body themselves. Boase took a notebook from his pocket to make some sketches and to note details. As he did this a photographer arrived and began taking pictures, under Bartlettʼs instruction. Boase bent over the body and looked up at his superior.

ʻOh my word, itʼs one of the Hattons, sir – Iʼve no idea which one.ʼ

ʻWell, unless theyʼve swapped cars, itʼs Rupert. One of the constables spotted the motor parked across the lane – itʼs his but weʼll need a positive identification.ʼ

Bartlett and Boase continued to survey the murder scene. The discarded cigarettes were observed as was the bullet wound through the victimʼs head. Boase bent to the ground and, with the assistance of a large white handkerchief, picked something up. He wrapped the object carefully.

ʻSir, itʼs a revolver. A Mark VI Webley. Iʼll see if we can find out anything about it.ʼ

ʻRight you are, Boase.ʼ

Bartlett continued to tread carefully around the vicinity of the body, his eyes scanning the ground.

ʻLooks like he was here a while waiting for someone, judging by the cigarettes he smoked,ʼ remarked Bartlett, pointing to another stub.

ʻI know, Iʼve seen them, sir – maybe two people stood here smoking – weʼll check for footprints. Do you think he killed himself, sir?ʼ

ʻUnlikely – check for the footprints, and whatever you do, donʼt disturb too much or youʼll lose any evidence,ʼ came the reply.

The body was removed and Bartlett and Boase took a trip to Penvale Manor. On the way there Bartlett asked of his assistant, ʻDid you notice anything unusual, Boase?ʼ

ʻHow do you mean, sir?ʼ

ʻWell, you asked if he killed himself and I said I thought it unlikely but, you checked and told me there were no other footprints in that mud except the victimʼs. Isnʼt that a bit strange to you?ʼ

Boase had to admit that it was and maybe they were, indeed, looking at a suicide case. No doubt time would tell. The two men arrived at Penvale Manor and on ringing the door bell, Annie Bolitho answered their call.

ʻGood morning, miss – are either of the Hatton twins at home?ʼ Bartlett enquired politely.

ʻYes, one of them is – heʼs taking breakfast with Lady Hatton but I didnʼt actually see which one; I just saw his back as he went through the door to the breakfast room. Sorry.ʼ

ʻThatʼs all right, miss but itʼs very important that we speak with him and his mother.ʼ

Annie Bolitho asked them to wait while she went to interrupt the Hattons. Presently she returned and asked them to follow her to the breakfast room. She showed them inside where one of the twins was at the table, eating with his mother. They both stood up as the men entered the room. Lady Hatton walked over to Bartlett.

ʻGood morning, Mr Bartlett, what brings you here this fine day?ʼ

Bartlett looked at her son.

ʻForgive me, sir – which are you? Youʼre so like your brother.ʼ

The twin stepped forward.

ʻIʼm Algernon – is there anything we can do for you, Bartlett?ʼ

ʻIʼm afraid I have some bad news for you both. Early this morning a body was found at Swanpool; we have reason to believe it is Rupert's.ʼ

Lady Hatton sank down into an armchair and Algernon gasped.

ʻNo, you must be mistaken – not my brother, no, I donʼt believe you. Look you damned fool, whatʼs going on here? Coming round here with these ridiculous ideas and stories about bodies – why are you doing this?ʼ

His mother looked up at him, her eyes wet and red.

ʻShut up, Algernon, for once in your life, shut up.ʼ

Algernon looked shocked at his motherʼs tone and he obeyed. Bartlett addressed him quietly.

ʻIʼm so sorry, sir, but I will first need someone to identify the body and I really donʼt think it would be fair to expect your mother –ʼ

ʻNo, she canʼt do it, I will. I canʼt believe this, Inspector Bartlett. Everything was all right yesterday, how can this have occurred? Do you know what happened?ʼ

ʻWe know nothing just at the moment, sir, but obviously weʼll keep you informed. When youʼve seen the body, Iʼd like you to come to my office – if you donʼt mind, sir, just to fill in any details which might be helpful.ʼ

Algernon nodded.

ʻYes, of course Iʼll come.ʼ

The two policemen left the room while Algernon comforted his mother.

Later that afternoon, Algernon Hatton came to see Bartlett in his office. He had identified the body as that of his brother, Rupert.

Bartlett offered him a seat and a cup of tea; the latter was declined.

ʻCan you tell me if your brother had any enemies, sir, anyone who would want to hurt him? Had he upset anyone recently?ʼ

Algernon Hattonʼs lip curled as he snarled, ʻOh
yes
, Inspector, yes I think I know of someone.ʼ

ʻGo on please, sir.ʼ

Hatton now felt he had nothing to lose.

ʻWhen my brother and I were in France, we spent the whole four years there. From 1914 to 1918. I had a batman by the name of Francis Wilson, as I believe I told you last time.ʼ

Bartlettʼs ears pricked up at the mention of this name; he had been wondering when it would come up.

Hatton lit a cigarette.

ʻIʼm sorry – do you mind if I smoke? Iʼm a bit on edge at the moment, you understand.ʼ

ʻI understand perfectly, sir, you go ahead.ʼ Even Bartlett couldnʼt help feeling sorry for the over-privileged cad.

ʻWell, where was I? Oh, yes, well, he was my batman and he seemed a decent enough sort of fellow, we rubbed along all right together and looked out for each other. Those were terrible, dark days, Inspector – I couldnʼt wish it on any man.ʼ

Bartlett nodded, half thinking that the likes of Hatton had probably had quite an easy ride compared to his dear son John. John didnʼt get the chance to come back alive; wouldnʼt ever have the chance to fall in love and have children, would never have the chance to wake up with the woman of his dreams in his arms. He continued to listen as Hatton went on.

ʻAnyway, one day in June 1917, there was a bit of trouble and, well, to cut a long story short, Wilson was charged with the murder of a man – Private Tremayne was his name. He denied everything, and heʼd been loyal to me – very loyal, saved my life once in fact – so naturally, I felt I should intercede. Luckily I was in a position to do this and he was let off. We hadnʼt really heard much about him until the end of last year when he started to ask for money – I said that enough was enough, Iʼd got him off a murder charge, yes – but that didnʼt mean we would be the best of chums for the rest of our lives. I turned him down flat for the money and then the next thing we knew, he pitched up here at Christmas, threatening my mother, my brother, and myself with a gun.ʼ

Bartlett wasnʼt going to let on that he had already heard part of this story – he wanted to hear Algernon Hattonʼs version of it.

ʻI told him the same again – no money, and there was no point in him coming back again. Rupert said after that he thought we should give him something to make him go away – but where would it stop, Inspector? What if he kept coming back for more? Anyway, we later received a letter from him demanding that we leave money for him –'

ʻHave you still got the letter, sir? Bartlett enquired.

ʻNo, I threw it on the fire. Later, Wilson accosted my brother when he was leaving his club. He apparently threatened him again and said he wasnʼt happy to find we wouldnʼt pay him. He told Rupert to follow the instructions in the letter and said that if we didnʼt comply, he would come after Rupert, myself, my mother, and even Rupertʼs friend.ʼ

ʻRupertʼs friend – who would that be, sir?ʼ

ʻHeʼs a chap called Harry Watson-Booth, heʼs a bandleader, plays at the Magnolia Club usually. He and my brother had become quite good friends by all accounts. Anyway, Wilson said that he still wanted the money and that we were to leave it at the original place that he had instructed.ʼ

ʻHow much?ʼ

ʻFive hundred.ʼ

ʻAnd when were you supposed to drop this money?ʼ

ʻItʼs tomorrow night – midnight at the cemetery. Do you think you might catch him there, Inspector? If you do, you might save the rest of my family from the hands of a killer.ʼ

Bartlett stood up.

ʻWell, sir, Iʼd be very interested in meeting up with Francis Wilson, for a number of reasons, but I donʼt think we should jump to any conclusions at this early stage.ʼ

ʻBut doesnʼt all the evidence point to him, Inspector? And we know that he was the last person to be seen with the murdered woman too. Heʼs a bad lot, mark my words.ʼ

ʻWell, we wonʼt trouble you any further today, sir. Just you take care of Lady Hatton and weʼll be in touch. Good day, sir.ʼ

Bartlett opened the door of his office and Algernon Hatton left, Bartlett settled back into his chair.

ʻBoase, Iʼd like you to go and see this Harry Watson-Booth – try and find out what he knows about all this business – about Wilson threatening Hatton. If you go now you could have a drink at the Magnolia Club – you neednʼt come back here then, not unless youʼve got some really interesting news that wonʼt wait until tomorrow. Mind youʼre in early in the morning though – I want to plan something for tomorrow night at the cemetery. Frank Wilson is bound to turn up looking for his money and Iʼd really like to speak to him. See you tomorrow, my boy; good luck at the Magnolia Club.ʼ

Boase took his hat and coat and left the station. 

Chapter Nine

Boase arrived at the Magnolia Club, which was just opening for the night. He approached a young girl at the cloakroom desk.

ʻExcuse me, miss, Iʼd like to speak to Harry Watson-Booth, is he here at the moment?ʼ

The girl put down the coat she was holding.

ʻNo, Iʼm sorry, we havenʼt seen him for a couple of days. He didnʼt turn up last night to play either.ʼ

Boase looked puzzled.

ʻHow strange – I understood he played here most nights.ʼ

ʻThatʼs right, but we havenʼt seen him or heard from him.ʼ

At that moment a tall, slim man entered through the revolving door and approached the desk. He was, Boase thought, about twenty-eight years old, clean-shaven with curly, jet black hair and small round glasses. He carried an instrument case.

ʻI say, Patricia, could I just leave my clarinet here while I make a telephone call? I really donʼt want to lose it again.ʼ

Patricia agreed.

ʻFreddie, this gentleman was asking about Harry …'

ʻWho might you be?ʼ asked Freddie, looking Boase up and down.

Boase, who had already glanced at Patriciaʼs name badge when they met said politely, ʻThank you for your help, Miss Penrose.ʼ

He pulled the young man across the lobby.

ʻI am Constable Boase and I want to ask some important questions about Harry Watson-Booth. Can I talk to you?ʼ

Freddie apologised.

ʻOf course you can talk to me, Iʼm sorry – Freddie Giles, I didnʼt realise who you were. In fact Iʼd be very pleased to tell you about Harry. Let me buy you a drink.ʼ

The two men sat at a corner table in the bar.

Freddie took a sip of his drink.

ʻI wondered how long it would be before you came.ʼ

ʻWhat do you mean, sir? Is there something you wish to tell me?ʼ

ʻYouʼre looking for Harry, right?

ʻRight.ʼ

ʻWell, heʼs gone and heʼs not coming back. Heʼs left the band, gone away – I donʼt know where, but Iʼm the only person who knows why he went.ʼ

ʻGo on.ʼ Boase was becoming more interested.

ʻHarry told me he was threatened by someone and couldnʼt stay – he was fearing for his life. He didnʼt say where he would go. He didnʼt even say if he was staying in the country. But he did give me this to show you if I thought anything was wrong – in fact he said to show it to the police if he was found dead. I hope Iʼm doing the right thing.ʼ

Freddie Giles pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Boase. It was a small, square blue piece of paper with black writing on one side. It read:

I know about you and your boyfriend. Iʼve seen you together. Men like you make me feel sick. Rupert Hatton should know better, a man of his standing. Iʼve always hated him and now I hate him even more. He wronged me many years ago. Unless you want some of what heʼs got coming, youʼll go away and never come back. Youʼll read about him in the papers and be glad you didnʼt hang round.

Take some good advice when itʼs offered.

Boase read the letter with interest.

ʻDo you mind if I keep this, sir?ʼ

ʻNo, please do. I say, Constable, do you think Harryʼs in danger? What does this letter mean?ʼ

Boase smiled. If anyone couldnʼt read between the lines of a letter like this, they must be pretty thick. He stood up.

ʻI canʼt say if Harryʼs in any danger just at the moment, sir, but you did right to give me this letter. Thanks for the drink. Youʼll let me know immediately if he shows up again?ʼ

ʻYes, of course I will.ʼ

Boase left Freddie Giles standing in the lobby of the Magnolia Club and headed for home.

At eight oʼclock the next morning, Bartlett and Boase stood in their office. Bartlett lit his pipe.

ʻAbout tonight, Boase. I hope you havenʼt made any plans? I intend to be at the cemetery at midnight to meet up with Mr Wilson. Iʼm going over to Budock to see Hatton this morning and I shall arrange for him to make his drop at the required place as instructed. When Wilson turns up for the money, weʼll have him. Weʼll have to be careful though, he might be armed and heʼll probably be watching when Hatton leaves the package – we canʼt afford to be seen. I want you to meet me here at eleven oʼclock tonight – Iʼll give you the final details then.ʼ

ʻRight, sir, Iʼll be here. Before you go out, I need to speak to you about last night at the Magnolia Club – I didnʼt come back here because I thought it would keep until today, and anyway, it was getting late when I left. You need to know about this, sir. I met a man who plays with the Havana Orchestra, with Harry Watson-Booth. Freddie Giles heʼs called. He said Watson-Booth hasnʼt been around since he got this threatening letter.ʼ

Boase handed the letter to Bartlett. He read it quickly.

ʻGo on, Boase.ʼ

ʻWell, apparently, Watson-Booth showed this to Freddie Giles but told him not to tell anyone unless anything happened – or if he was found dead. He obviously felt the threat was a serious one and heʼs gone. No one knows where.ʼ

Bartlett, who had stood to put on his hat and coat, sat back down.

ʻWho do you think wrote this, Boase?ʼ

ʻIʼm really not sure, sir. I suppose it could be Frank Wilson.ʼ

ʻWhy?ʼ

ʻPerhaps he wanted Watson-Booth out of the way so he could kill Rupert Hatton. If heʼd already murdered Ivy Williams, he didnʼt really have much to lose.ʼ

ʻBut why would Frank Wilson kill Rupert Hatton?ʼ

ʻBecause the Hattons wouldnʼt give him the money, sir?ʼ

ʻIf youʼre right, Boase then it means that Algernon Hatton could be the next victim. For some reason, the killer let Harry Watson-Booth go. Why? Is Watson-Booth someone to the killer? We need to find that out. But why kill either of the Hattons? Didnʼt Algernon say that when his brother was threatened by Wilson, he gave him another chance – tonight – to drop the money? Why kill him? This person is playing strange games and I donʼt like it Boase, and thatʼs a fact.ʼ

Bartlett finished getting ready to leave.

ʻWhile Iʼm at the Hatton place, Iʼd like you to enquire about Norma Berryman again. That French bit in Truro said she had only gone for a couple of days so she should be back by now.  I hope you catch up with her – try and get her back; it would mean so much to the Berrymans.ʼ

ʻWell, Iʼll try, sir but I canʼt make her come back, can I?ʼ

ʻMake her. Itʼs more important than you know.ʼ

Bartlett left the station and Boase settled down to plan how he was going to find Norma Berryman and then get her to come home to her parents.

As Boase drank his last cup of tea before heading for Truro, the desk sergeant knocked on the door.

ʻExcuse me, Archie These post-mortem details were just hand-delivered.'

He handed Boase a large brown envelope addressed to Bartlett. Hoping that the senior man would want him to open it, Boase did so. They really had already known the results, this was now just confirmation; Rupert Hatton had been killed by a single shot through the head. Inside the envelope was a smaller one marked
Found on deceasedʼs body. Give to police.
Boase opened this also. It was the letter to Rupert Hatton arranging for him to meet his killer. It was signed by Harry Watson-Booth. Boase thought intently for a minute or two, then, putting the letter in his pocket, made his way to the Magnolia Club.

Arriving about fifteen minutes later at the club, Boase knocked repeatedly on the locked door. It was quiet now, so early in the morning – although some revellers often didnʼt leave until the early hours. He tried to peer through the glass doors, suddenly out of the corner of his eye he saw some movement. He hammered on the door again and the figure stopped and looked towards him. It was a cleaner. She came to the door and Boase held up his identification to the glass. The cleaner hurriedly unlocked the door and he entered.

ʻIʼm so sorry to bother you, miss, but I really must speak to Mr Freddie Giles.ʼ

ʻNone of the band is ʼere now, theyʼve all gone ʼome, they donʼt ʼang round once theyʼve finished,ʼ the cleaner replied.

ʻThis is police business – can you tell me Mr Gilesʼs address?ʼ

ʻWell, I donʼt know it – I donʼt ʼave nothinʼ to do with the band, I just clean up after ʼem, anʼ a right mess they can make at times, I can tell you.ʼ

Boase was growing uncharacteristically impatient.

ʻCould there be a written record of the playersʼ addresses kept in the club?ʼ

ʻWell, sir, I donʼt know. Thereʼs some books up in the office but I donʼt know what they are – you could ʼave a look if I unlock it.ʼ

ʻIʼd be much obliged.ʼ

The cleaner led the way up a steep flight of stairs. At the top was a door. She slowly went through a large bunch of keys on an enormous ring. Boase sighed.

ʻIʼll be there in a minute, just you ʼang on – I always ʼave trouble with these keys, ʼere you are, this is it.ʼ

She unlocked the door and Boase entered the small room.

ʻIʼll leave you to it, the cleaner said, ʻbut Iʼm goinʼ ʼome in fifteen minutes, you shall ʼave to go when I do.ʼ

Boase was already wading through a large pile of papers and ledgers. After nearly ten minutes he saw a file marked
Contact Details/Addresses
.

ʻPlease let it be here, please, please,ʼ he said to himself. He leafed through several pages and there it was:

Freddie Giles, Clarinettist

14, Norfolk Road, Falmouth.

Boase heaved a sigh of relief and, leaving the office, ran back down the stairs, thanking the cleaner on his way out. He made his way through the alleys and up the steep hills until he reached the smart Edwardian terraces which were Norfolk Road. Reaching number fourteen, the second house in the row, he knocked on the door. Presently a large, round woman opened it.

ʻIʼm sorry to bother you, madam, does Freddie Giles live here?ʼ

ʻOf course he does, heʼs my lodger. Iʼll call him. Mr Giles, Mr Giles – someone to see you.'

Freddie came to the door.

ʻHello again, Constable Boase, nice to see you.ʼ

On hearing this address, the landlady stepped forward.

ʻI donʼt want any trouble here, Mr Giles – this is a respectable house.ʼ

ʻI can assure you, madam, that Mr Giles is in no kind of trouble, believe me, heʼs merely helping me with my enquiries.ʼ

ʻHmmm – thatʼs what they call it now, is it? Helping the police with their enquiries. Well, Iʼll leave you to it, but, any trouble, youʼll be out.ʼ

Boase wasted no time in showing the letter to Freddie Giles.

ʻI need to know if you think this is Harryʼs handwriting, and is this his signature?ʼ

ʻNo, thatʼs not his writing. Itʼs similar, I suppose. I should know – when I went overseas for six months, we used to correspond and Iʼm quite used to his handwriting. No, thatʼs not his.ʼ

ʻAre you absolutely sure?ʼ

ʻLook, Iʼll give you one of his letters if you like – to compare. I kept a couple of them. Wait, Iʼll go and get one.ʼ

Freddie Giles returned with a letter which was about one year old and gave it to Boase.

ʻYou can keep that if you like, if itʼll be of any help to you.ʼ

Boase took the letter.

ʻThank you, sir, youʼve been more help than you can imagine.ʼ

Boase left. He still had to catch up with Norma Berryman today. Heʼd call in at the station first; he wanted to make sure these letters were safe and it might be a good idea to pick up his pork pie and chicken leg since it was almost lunchtime.

As Boase entered the police station, Bartlett met him in the lobby. Boase took off his hat.

ʻIʼve got some really interesting news for you, sir.ʼ

ʻItʼll have to wait for now, Boase. Iʼve seen Hatton and arranged everything for tonight but, listen, thereʼs someone you should see in my office. Go in.ʼ

Boase walked through the door and a young woman rose from his chair. It was obvious to Boase immediately. It was Norma Berryman.

ʻWhat good news, my boy, eh? What good news.ʼ Bartlett was ecstatic.

ʻNorma and I have had a long chat which Iʼll tell you about in a minute. Meantime, she was just saying how sheʼd like to powder her nose and weʼre going to get a bit of something for her to eat and then weʼre taking her home.ʼ

He turned to Norma.

ʻOff you go, young lady, your food will be here in a minute.ʼ

The girl smiled at Boase, picked up her handbag, and left the office.

ʻYou wonʼt believe this, Boase. That French girl we were speaking to in Truro, well, should I say, you were speaking to, gave Norma your card and when she returned to her room, she decided to contact us. Iʼll tell you something, you wouldnʼt believe what that girlʼs been through. She was shopping in Truro, just minding her own business – and when she was crossing the street she was hit by a motor car. Well, she was taken to hospital in a very bad way – in a coma and not expected to live. She wasnʼt carrying any means of identification so no one knew who she was – couldnʼt contact her next of kin or anything. Anyway, it turned out that she made a good recovery, under the circumstances, but had no memory of her own life; didnʼt know who she was, who her parents were, where she lived – nothing! When she got better the matron on her ward set her up with a job at the livestock auctioneers and arranged for her to take the room she was living in. It seems that when she heard about us and saw your card, something happened to slowly bring back her memory – after all that time – would you believe it, Boase? As soon as sheʼs eaten, Iʼm taking her home to her parents; sheʼs a bit worried about seeing them on her own so she asked me if Iʼd go with her. Personally, I canʼt wait to see their faces.ʼ

Boase was trying to soak all this up when Norma Berryman returned with some sandwiches the desk sergeant had fetched for her. She spoke as she ate, ʻI saw the stories in the newspapers about Ivy Williams and it was only a couple of days ago that I remembered who she was.ʼ