Empty Vessels (3 page)

ʻIʼve done what you asked, sir. Iʼve questioned some of the people that said they thought they saw something, or heard something, but, you know how it is – absolutely nothing. Fancy a cuppa?ʼ

ʻI wouldn't say no – and thanks, Boase.
Weʼll get the formal inquiry underway and just hope it all comes together nice and quickly. I donʼt like it, Boase, I donʼt mind telling you, especially with Norma Berryman missing – where is she?ʼ

Missing persons and murders were so rare in the town that Bartlett couldnʼt help the nagging feeling in the back of his mind – did the disappearance of Norma Berryman have something to do with this? The fact was that, at present, he knew very little about either of the cases. But, there was Boase – and Bartlett knew he was going to be thankful for his sharp wits. The two men got on so well that Bartlett was glad the young constable had been brought to him. Superintendent Bertram Greet had been in charge of the station since Bartlett had first arrived in the town. Bartlett couldnʼt bear the man and the two agreed on nothing. Greet wanted everything immediately, while Bartlett took time and care and valued precision. But the two men tolerated each other – Greet knew he had a good man and Bartlett didnʼt expect to be working under him for much longer. For the time being it would do – one good thing to come of it was that Archie Boase had been assigned to work as Bartlettʼs right-hand man and that was definitely working well for everyone.

They werenʼt alike, not in the least, Bartlett and Boase; the younger man had been born and brought up in Redruth, he was an only child and had had quite a good education. Bartlettʼs family had been very poor and large; growing up in the East End of London had not been easy in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, and while some meagre elements of an education had been taken up, Bartlett had no qualifications and had never had any intention of becoming a police officer. When little else presented itself and money was short his parents thought it would be a very good career for their son, and so they pushed him into it. Bartlett had only just begun to find real satisfaction and happiness in his work since moving to Cornwall. He regularly pointed out the opportunities that could become available to Boase, and how lucky he should feel living in such a wonderful place as Falmouth, with all that refreshing sea air. Boase had never been to London. He had never even had a proper girlfriend. He liked Irene Bartlett, though, and he knew that her father wanted him to like her. Living alone in rooms in Melvill Road, Boase welcomed the frequent invitations to tea and dinner at the Bartletts' – partly because the food was so much better than his landladyʼs (although she did her best, it was pasty, stew or roast most days of the week, with the occasional saffron cake), but mainly he liked seeing Irene. He liked the way Bartlett asked him to help her with the washing-up after their food. Probably the best part was being alone with Irene in the scullery. He was very nervous of her and awkward and as much as he wanted to please her, he never attempted to change his appearance or try to impress her. Irene was glad – she liked him just as he was.

Boase brought Bartlett a strong cup of tea, the way he always took it, with two large sugars and just a splash of milk. He stooped and put the cups on the desk. His height always made Bartlett laugh and his first comment to the younger man when they met had been ‘
How
tall are you?' Boase, at six feet one, was almost six inches taller than his superior. His slim frame, contrasting with Bartlett's larger build, blond, wavy hair and green eyes reminded Bartlett of his son – at twenty-five, Boase was the same age now as John had been when he was killed. The older man, strangely, didnʼt resent the other; in fact, he felt rather paternal and wanted Boase to succeed. Unlike Boase, though, John was never much of an artist, or a birdwatcher, though he had always enjoyed woodwork and showed promise as a cabinet maker. Bartlett didn't really understand why Boase was embarrassed about his hobbies, but he respected the boy's privacy and left him to it.

‘I should think this is as bad as trying to catch Jack the Ripper, isn't it, sir?'

Boase grinned and sipped his tea.

‘Yes, well, you may mock, but I tell you, I almost had him … I was so close.'

‘Of course you were, sir.'

As Bartlett finished his tea, the door to his office burst open and the desk sergeant, flushed with excitement, stood on the threshold.

ʻPardon me, sir, weʼve just had a positive identification of the dead woman. An officer found her handbag amongst the rocks about a hundred yards away from the body. Constable Hawkins was right, itʼs Ivy Williams.'

ʻThatʼs good news,ʼ replied Bartlett, rising to his feet, ʻare we sure itʼs her handbag?ʼ

ʻSeems fairly certain, sir – there was an address and note book with her name in it too. Itʼs all just being sent to you now, sir.ʼ

ʻRight, Boase, Hawkins thought he knew her, he recognised her clothes. Apparently, he saw her in the town last night; he was having a drink with his wife and this woman was there in the pub – making a spectacle of herself, in drink. Hawkins asked his wife who she was. It seems Mrs Hawkins had a run-in with her a couple of months ago. Still, she didnʼt deserve this.ʼ

Bartlett gathered some papers together on his desk and told the younger man to put his overcoat on.

ʻWeʼve got a start, Boase. Get together everyone we can spare for making enquiries – I want this maniac caught as soon as we possibly can and before anyone else comes to harm.ʼ

Boase had already left the office, a surge of anticipation welling up inside him. This could mean better things for him if he played his cards right – and who knows – maybe for him and Irene?

Chapter Two

Almost the full complement of Falmouth police officers gathered together at the station to hear Bartlettʼs instructions.

ʻGentlemen, your efficiency this morning has started to pay off. We have a positive identification of the dead woman, a Miss Ivy Williams, of 42, Kimberley Park Road. She was temporarily renting a room there, the owner being a William John Gibbons. She was paying rent, as far as I know, from her earnings as a barmaid in the Grapes public house, supplemented by prostitution. She had been known to offer her services in Falmouth and Penryn so we must keep an open mind; she must have known plenty of men, and, possibly, their wives. We need to think of anyone with an axe to grind. We also need to speak to Gibbons at length – get on to it will you Boase? And take Penhaligon with you – his questioning techniques are severely lacking – show him how itʼs done. Oh … and, Boase – letʼs speed this up a bit shall we? I know Iʼm normally a patient man but I really canʼt tolerate Greet breathing down my neck much longer … heʼs threatening to call in the Met. if we donʼt wrap this up quickly. And, another thing, heʼs said he wants us to ditch the uniform – apparently itʼs upsetting people and he thinks weʼd be more successful in mufti.ʼ

Boase and Penhaligon took the short walk from the station to Gibbonsʼs house. They walked up the gravelled path to the front door. Boase knocked and waited then knocked again. Upstairs a window opened and a dishevelled figure peered out.

ʻMr Gibbons – Mr William Gibbons?ʼ Boase looked up, craning his neck.

ʻYes, I know why youʼre here; wait, Iʼll come down.ʼ

The two policemen stood on the doorstep and presently, after much turning of keys in locks and withdrawing of bolts, the man opened the front door.

ʻYouʼd better come in,ʼ said Gibbons.

He led the way into the front parlour. Boase noticed he walked with the aid of a stick, his right leg slightly bent. He was about thirty-six years old, short, with thick brown hair and a thick moustache neatly trimmed. The parlour was generously furnished, with about two dozen photographs in gilt frames displayed on the walls giving the room a distinctly cluttered, Victorian feel. Penhaligon wandered across the room looking at each of the pictures.

ʻItʼs about that Williams girl, isnʼt it?ʼ Gibbons invited them both to sit down.

ʻYes, sir, no doubt youʼve heard the news then?ʼ

ʻI have.ʼ Gibbons looked uncomfortable. ʻCan I give you some tea?ʼ

ʻThat would be very nice.ʼ Penhaligon rushed back across the room, never one to miss an opportunity.

ʻNo thank you, sir, we wonʼt.ʼ Boase wasnʼt there to pass the time of day. He continued his questions – he was here for information, not to take tea. Penhaligon would do well to learn a lesson or two from Boase – he had been taught by Bartlett, after all, and that was about as good as you could get.

ʻMiss Williams was found murdered this morning and weʼre making enquiries. You were obviously one of our first ports of call, being her landlord, and all that.ʼ

Ê»What do you mean, “and all that”?ʼ

ʻNothing at all, sir, just a figure of speech.ʼ Boase couldnʼt work this character out.

ʻYou think Iʼm involved?ʼ Gibbons lit a pipe.

ʻNo, sir, we just want to ask you a few questions.ʼ

ʻWell Iʼm afraid I canʼt really tell you anything, she kept herself to herself – out most of the time, too.ʼ

ʻYou a military man, sir?ʼ interrupted Penhaligon, completing his examination of the photographic collection.

ʻYes, yes I was. Durham Light Infantry – invalided out though; my legs – donʼt like to talk about it.'

Boase, ex-military himself, could sympathise with that philosophy and motioned to Penhaligon to let it drop. He reverted to questions about Ivy and Gibbons began to look uncomfortable again.

ʻWhen did you last see Miss Williams, sir?ʼ

ʻOh, must have been about three oʼclock in the afternoon, on Friday – yesterday.

ʻDid she say or do anything unusual, have any visitors, say where she was going?ʼ

ʻNo, no she didnʼt.ʼ

ʻWell, was she behind with her rent at all?ʼ

ʻNo. As I said, she kept herself to herself, she was a quiet person while she was in the house and she always paid her rent – on time. Always on a Friday evening.ʼ

Boase couldnʼt help thinking that something wasnʼt right. ʻSo, did she pay you yesterday?ʼ

ʻNo.ʼ

ʻHow did you feel about that?ʼ

ʻI didnʼt feel anything, I knew Iʼd get it.ʼ Gibbons fidgeted in his chair. Boase stood up.

ʻBut you didnʼt, did you? Mind if I take a look at her room, sir?ʼ

Gibbons, walking with difficulty, led the two men up one flight of stairs, across a small landing and up a second, smaller staircase which reached a door. Gibbons pointed to it.

ʻThatʼs her room, there.ʼ

Boase entered the room, almost surprised to find it unlocked. He wondered why Gibbons hadnʼt offered him a key – had he known it wasnʼt locked? It seemed strange that a tenant would do such a thing. Walking across the room, Boase soon realised that there was little in the way of possessions there. A bed stood on one side of the room, a chest of drawers under a small recessed window, and a rag rug on the floor. An old gilt-edged mirror hung on the wall next to the bed.

Boase turned to Gibbons who was waiting on the landing.

ʻDid she ever bring anyone back here, sir – any men?ʼ

ʻThis is a respectable house, not a knocking shop. No she didnʼt. Iʼll leave you to it.ʼ

The landlord negotiated the descent to the ground floor and left Boase and Penhaligon checking the room for any clues to Ivyʼs murder, or even anything at all about the woman herself. After several minutes of searching the small bedroom, the men had found nothing. A few clothes in the drawers, a bit of make-up and scent on the dressing table; just the usual things any woman might have but much less of it.

ʻDidnʼt have much, did she?ʼ remarked Penhaligon, looking out of the window down on to the well-kept gardens.

ʻDoesnʼt make much senseʼ, replied Boase, ʻitʼs almost as if she wasnʼt planning on staying here much longer.ʼ He sat on the bed and rose again immediately.

ʻLook at this, Penhaligonʼ. He had drawn back the pink satin eiderdown. Underneath lay a womanʼs sequinned evening bag. Boase opened the clasp and emptied the contents onto the bed; a pair of nail scissors, a comb, about five shillings in loose change, and a powder compact.  Boase turned the compact over and over in his hand. It was enamel, quite cheaply made. He opened the lid. Strangely, there was no trace of powder inside and where the mirror should be was a photograph, carefully cut out into a little circle and pressed inside. Boase stared at the photograph, while staring back at him were about twelve servants in Victorian dress. There they all were – butler, footmen, parlour maids, scullery maid, cook. Through necessity, on account of the size of the compact, some of the servants were missing, but this didnʼt look like a small household. Boase wondered what a woman of Ivyʼs lowly status could want with a photograph of what looked like a country house and its staff. He muttered to himself, ʻWe identified this woman from her handbag … now hereʼs another.ʼ

He quickly stuffed the small bag and its contents into his pocket; heʼd show it to Bartlett when he got back to the station.

The two policemen thanked Gibbons, who watched them walk down the front garden path, and made their short trip back to the station. Within ten minutes Boase was standing in Bartlettʼs office showing him the handbag. On the other side of the door the whole building was buzzing with activity. Reporters from the
Falmouth Packet
were beginning to irritate the desk sergeant who had been given strict instructions to say nothing. The streets had become quieter now and an atmosphere of shock seemed to hang over the town.

Ruby had had no word from Frank.

The first day of December brought wind and rain and a thick mist hung down like a grey blanket over the bay. On the water little boats bobbed up and down; they wouldnʼt be going out today, the weather was far too dangerous and uninviting. Fishermen sat on the quays repairing nets, however desperate for work and food they were, they couldnʼt afford to take too many risks when their families depended so much on them. Theyʼd seen too many tragedies over the years and didnʼt have any desire to add to the number. Around the bay and docks, small, plucky tugs continued about their work, hauling their large sea mates in and out of the harbour.

It was now ten days since the mutilated body of Ivy Williams had been discovered, and there was much disquiet in the town. The police were the main target – they should be doing something; they should have caught the killer by now. Ordinarily, most of the locals couldnʼt have cared less about a cheap prostitute and barmaid, but this was an opportunity to cause some trouble and make life difficult for the local constabulary. Some real troublemakers had even smashed the windows of the station late one night – they probably didnʼt care about Ivy Williams either, but it was an excuse to cause a scene.

At a quarter past eight in the morning, a well-dressed woman stepped from the London train at Falmouth Station. She looked anxiously around her as she walked along the platform and as she came through the station doors she quickened her step, pausing once or twice to look over her shoulder. Although she appeared by her manner not to want any attention, she must have attracted plenty, simply by her clothes. Hers was not the usual attire for most local women, and anyone watching would have surmised that she was not returning to Falmouth but coming from London or some other large town or city. About five feet five inches, with wavy auburn hair straight from a Paris fashion magazine, her face was immaculately made-up.

She wore a small hat, which made no attempt to cover her forehead, and a long, camel-coloured coat with a very expensive fur collar. The ensemble was finished with cream silk stockings, and beige shoes with quite high heels and straps fixed with two mother of pearl buttons. She carried a beige handbag which hung down by her left side and, on the other side, a small grip which, presumably on account of its limited capacity, looked ready to burst.

The woman made her way towards the dockyard entrance and proceeded to walk past the elegant sweep of houses known as Bar Terrace and on towards the town. As she continued through the streets, people stared, they stared hard. They nudged each other and came out of shops to look at her. She was aware of this and felt uncomfortable. Looking at them and their clothes, she couldnʼt help feeling a little over-dressed. Reaching Church Street and seeing a sign which advertised ʻRooms to Letʼ, she entered the building over which it hung and went up the stairs. Thirty minutes later, she re-emerged to be met by a group of boys, mostly schoolchildren, but some errand boys also. They stood, again staring at her. As she moved forward, they parted either side of her and let her through. How strange these people were, she thought to herself as she quickened her step and returned back the way she had come earlier. After about a fifteen minute walk, the woman stopped outside a large house in Avenue Road. Again, she looked nervously over her shoulder, opened the gate and walked up to the front door. Pausing for a second, she looked on the ground then quickly bent to lift a large stone from under which she pulled a key. She went up two steps, turned the key in the lock and let herself in.

George Bartlett sat in his office at the police station looking exasperated. He unlocked the top drawer in his desk where the compact with the photograph from the dead womanʼs second handbag lay. He wished he knew what connected Ivy Williams to the servants in the photograph. She certainly wasnʼt old enough to be one of them. Boase had called on her father soon after the murder but, because of her recently discovered occupation, he didnʼt want anything to do with the investigation. He couldnʼt even help the police with information. Perhaps Bartlett would pay a visit himself – Boase was very good with a brilliant and analytical mind but Bartlett had more experience with people. Yes, perhaps heʼd see Williams himself. There was always the possibility heʼd forgotten something or withheld it, thinking it unimportant. Bartlett wasnʼt convincing himself much – he was really clutching at straws, but at the moment there wasnʼt much else. He finished his cup of tea and looked at the clock. Ten to nine. There was a knock at the door and Boase came in, grinning.

ʻMorning, sir, not so nice today – might brighten up later though, eh?ʼ

ʻShut up, Boase,ʼ barked his superior.

ʻWhatʼs up, sir? Bit under the weather?ʼ risked Boase handing over Bartlettʼs newspaper.

ʻI am not under the weather, over the weather, or in any other meteorological position,ʼ came the sharp reply. ʻIʼm fed up, man – almost a fortnight now and not a single clue to the Williams murder, not one lead. The whole thing is preposterous and Iʼm fed up, fed up and I donʼt mind who knows. Itʼs preposterous.ʼ

ʻSomethingʼll turn up, sir – it always does.ʼ Boase didnʼt like seeing Bartlett feeling so dejected. If anything, it made the younger man feel insecure.

ʻNo, Boase, youʼre wrong; it doesnʼt always turn up, and well you know it.'

ʻItʼs quite cold in here this morning, sir, shall I ask Penhaligon to light a fire?ʼ

ʻIf you like.ʼ

The older man put down his newspaper and tried to ignore his assistant. Boase sent for Penhaligon to light the fire and within minutes the young constable entered the room armed with a stack of newspapers and kindling. He knelt on the floor and began his work.

Boase thought it best to keep quiet when his boss was like this, although it didnʼt happen very often. Bartlett was usually so easygoing. A real family man, he liked nothing better than tending his garden, particularly his roses – Boase thought he treated them almost like children, such was the attention he lavished on them. When he wasnʼt gardening, he was walking across the cliff tops and the beaches with his dog. Topper was an Airedale terrier and a very good friend to Bartlett. When his master wasnʼt working, Topper was always beside him, walking at his heel or lying next to him in the garden. Bartlett was, for the most part, even- tempered at work too, but today that was different. Boase hoped it would be short-lived and carried on with some paperwork.