Empty Vessels (4 page)

Bartlett had stood up and wandered over to where Penhaligon had prostrated himself, and was now blowing gently into the fireplace. Bartlett tutted and bent down to pick from the top of the pile of newspapers where he had spotted an unfinished crossword. He shook the paper open and returned to the chair behind his desk. His brow furrowed as he looked over the puzzle; within a minute he had thrown the paper down on the desk. He stared at it. Then he stared closer.

ʻGood God!ʼ Bartlett jumped to his feet, knocking over his empty teacup.

Boase was glad of some reaction.

ʻCalm down, sir, now look, youʼve broken your favourite cup.ʼ

ʻGood God, man, never mind that, take a look at this.ʼ Bartlett was frantically folding the paper to present to the younger man.

Boase took the newspaper and read the page that had been held in front of him.

ʻWould Miss Ivy Williams, daughter of the late Maude Mockett, and last known to be living in Falmouth, Cornwall, on reading this, please contact the following firm regarding a matter of the utmost importance.ʼ

Bennett, Bennett, Thornton & Bennett

127, Oxford Street

London

Boase frowned. ʻWhat does this mean, sir?ʼ

ʻIʼve no idea, Boase,ʼ replied Bartlett, ʻbut I intend to find out – come with me.ʼ

Leaving Bartlettʼs office and pausing only at Superintendent Greetʼs open door to leave a hasty message, the two men crossed the lobby. As they reached the main door, a short man entered from the other side. Round in the face with a hat at least two sizes too small perched on his head, and wearing a grey raincoat with a tartan scarf around his neck, he held the door open for his wife who was slowly making her way to the entrance. She was small and thin with grey hair and wearing a brown felt hat and brown overcoat. Her face looked almost blue. She paused at the door and seemed to have difficulty breathing.

ʻCome on, love,ʼ the man beckoned his wife. ʻYou can sit down for a minute now.ʼ

Bartlett and Boase immediately recognised the couple as Mr and Mrs Berryman, the parents of Norma.

Bartlett looked at his assistant. ʻOh no, I want to get to the railway station, quicklyʼ he muttered, half under his breath, knowing he was now likely to be delayed. He had a great deal of respect for the Berryman couple and felt, at least, he should listen to what they had to say.

Mr Berryman approached them.

ʻOfficer, Mr Bartlett, sir.ʼ

ʻGood morning, Mr Berryman, Mrs Berryman. What can I do for you?ʼ

ʻYou can find out whatʼs ʼappened to my daughter, thatʼs what.ʼ Mrs Berryman, having regained her breath, seemed suddenly rejuvenated and lunged forward at the senior officer. Her husband put his arm around her, half heartedly trying to restrain her.

ʻDonʼt, Peggy. Itʼs not Mr Bartlettʼs fault.ʼ

ʻIt bloody is. All of you in this police station, doinʼ nothinʼ. You should ʼave found my baby by now. Call yerselves policemen?ʼ

Her husband kept his arm round her, trying all the while to reassure her.

ʻIs there no word at all, Mr Bartlett, sir?ʼ

Bartlett put his hand on the manʼs shoulder.

ʻIʼm so sorry, Mr Berryman, thereʼs still no news of your daughter, if we learn anything, anything at all, you have my word Iʼll let you know immediately. I admit I was confident to begin with, I really thought weʼd have news by now but please donʼt give up hope.ʼ

Bartlett led the way into his office and Mr Berryman, leaving his wife in the lobby, followed. He lowered his voice. He looked pale and drawn and it was obvious that he had had very little sleep.

ʻItʼs Peggy,ʼ the man removed his small hat and was turning it over and over in his hands, ʼshe … she says sheʼs sure our Normaʼs … our Normaʼs … 
dead.ʼ
As he spoke the final word he clutched his chest and sighed as if a pain had struck right through his heart. He was grimacing now as he fought back the tears.

ʻPlease, Mr Berryman, you mustnʼt think like that, you must have hope.ʼ

This was one of the rare occasions that George Bartlett didnʼt know how to reassure and wasnʼt comfortable trying. His own daughter was the same age as Norma Berryman and he knew how it would affect both his wife and himself if they were ever so unfortunate as to be in this terrible position. He remembered how he had felt waiting to hear of his son John during the war. Months and months had gone by until he had received such devastating news. Caroline Bartlett had never got over the death of her beloved son, and never would.

The Berrymans left the station and Bartlett called Archie Boase into his office.

ʻI donʼt like it, Boase, none of it.ʼ He sat with his head in his hands and looked desperate.

Boase sat on the corner of the desk.

ʻWhat now, sir?ʼ he asked, sensing the other manʼs frustration.

ʻWeʼre off to London, Greetʼs given us permission to go – we might just be in time for the train.ʼ Bartlett grabbed his hat and coat and stuffed a brand new pair of reading spectacles into his top pocket – he didnʼt like them but needed them. When he grew tired of squinting he put them on.

The two men made their way to the railway station. They entered and approached the ticket office. Bartlett pulled some money from his pocket and addressed the clerk through the small arched window.

ʻIʼd like two return tickets to London Paddington, please.ʼ

The official was a thin man of about sixty years with a long, pointed nose, and what thinning grey hair remained was swept over the top of his head in an attempt to make him look younger. It didnʼt work. He peered over his half-moon glasses and smiled.

ʻIʼm sorry, sir, that train left just ten minutes ago, thereʼs repairs going on this week – thereʼs only one train today,ʼ the smile turned to a smirk as the clerkʼs lips curled up at the sides, ʻand that was it. You can go tomorrow, if you like.ʼ The smirk broadened.

Bartlett flushed and held identification up to the glass. ʻLook here my man, you are impeding official police business; I wish to travel to London, by train
today.ʼ

ʻWell Iʼm very sorry to ʼear that, sir, very sorry I am, but, as I said, no trains today.ʼ With that the window closed sharply almost shattering the glass.

ʻDamned impertinence,ʼ muttered Bartlett. ʻWe canʼt wait till tomorrow, Boase, weʼll have to see what we can find out by telephone first. I know a couple of chaps in the Met. who could help me out if necessary – you know, make enquiries for me.ʼ

The two men made their way back to the police station, Bartlett more than a little agitated. ʻGet on the telephone to that firm of solicitors, Boase. Tell them weʼre investigating the girlʼs murder and weʼll be up tomorrow to discuss any information they may have to help with our enquiries. Weʼve missed the blasted train now but weʼve got other things we can be doing today. How did I miss that notice in the paper?ʼ

ʻRight you are, sir, Iʼll get on to it now.ʼ Boase left the room and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Bartlett feeling angry with himself.

There must be something Iʼve got wrong, he thought to himself. He drew a sheet of paper from his desk and wrote in large letters at the top:

MURDER OF IVY WILLIAMS/DISAPPEARANCE OF NORMA BERRYMAN

He began to sketch out the events of the past few weeks; the disappearance of the girl, the murder of Ivy Williams, the disappearance of Francis Wilson, the strange photograph in the powder compact. It just didnʼt add up. The sun had burst through the clouds about half an hour previously and Bartlett felt the heat on his face through the window; he felt uncomfortable and sweaty. The fire lit earlier by Penhaligon was ablaze and the room was now far too hot. Bartlett loosened his collar and mopped his face and neck with his voluminous handkerchief. He got up from his chair and walked to the door to go out into the street for some fresh air. He didnʼt feel too well. As he reached for the door knob he jumped back quickly as the door burst open and Boase rushed through into the office. His face was flushed red and his eyes glowed with excitement.

ʻSir, sir, youʼll never believe this one ...ʼ he stopped, savouring his moment.

ʻWell, come on man – surprise me.ʼ Bartlett rubbed his chin in exasperation and went back to his chair to await his assistantʼs news.

ʻIʼve just spoken to the solicitors in London; I told them what was happening and that weʼd be coming up to London tomorrow, just as you said, and then …ʼ, he paused again, enjoying the delicious feeling of triumph, ‘and then …ʼ

ʻThen what?ʼ Bartlett was becoming more irritated.

ʻThen, they told me that Ivy Williams had been to their offices
last week
! Boase stood tall and proud at the effect his findings were having on his superior.

ʻAre you quite sure about this, Boase? There must be some mistake, must be some mistake.ʼ

ʻNo mistake, sir. She turned up last Thursday with the copy of the newspaper and they said to me that they had been satisfied with her means of identification. They wouldnʼt discuss it further on the telephone but theyʼd be glad to see us tomorrow if weʼd like to go up .ʼ

ʻIf weʼd like? Weʼll be there. But …ʼ Bartlett paused, frowning, ʻbut what do they mean, she went there last week – the girlʼs been dead almost a fortnight.ʼ

Bartlett had a headache.

The day dragged on slowly and mundane enquiries continued. Bartlett called Boase into his office.

ʻDoing anything tonight, lad?ʼ

ʻNo, sir, nothing.ʼ

ʻMrs Bartlett asked if youʼd like to have supper with us tonight – I forgot to ask you what with everything going on today. Not too short notice is it?ʼ

ʻNot at all, sir. Iʼd love to come.ʼ Boaseʼs thoughts turned to Irene.

ʻWell, good. Come over about eight then?ʼ

ʻThank you, sir, Iʼll look forward to it.ʼ He walked on air from the office. He knew heʼd be doing the washing-up with Irene, alone in the scullery.

Bartlett looked at the handbag which had been found on the beach. It was old and cheap. The leather was cracked and it had definitely seen better days. He thumbed through the address book. It was almost empty, save for a couple of grocery items where the book had been converted for use as a shopping list. The few names therein had already been eliminated. He turned to the notes section at the back, nothing there either. What was the point of an address book with no addresses? Mind you, how sad if the dead woman really had had no friends, he thought.

At about seven thirty Boase, dressed in his decent suit and carrying a bunch of flowers for Mrs Bartlett (although they could never compete with George Bartlettʼs home-grown blooms), left his lodgings, walked up Melvill Road and headed for Penmere Hill. Arriving at the house he knocked at the front door and waited, straightening his collar and smoothing his hair. A figure was visible through the glass, walking slowly to the door. Caroline Bartlett appeared, smiling. A slim woman in her late forties, she was always well dressed although not particularly fashion-conscious. Her long, mousy-coloured hair was always in a loose but tidy bun. She wore ankle-length skirts with high-necked blouses and always a gold pin at the centre of the collar. She was quite a contented woman now but things were very different and her life had changed so much, especially since the death of John. Secretly, Bartlett was very, very proud of his wife – she had her own opinions and ideas and that was one of the things that had made her attractive to him in the early days. Not so many years ago she had been such a lively young girl and in the peak of health. Nowadays, she had difficulty getting about but he still often caught that old spark of determination in her eyes. Outwardly, she was quiet, respectable and demure.

Today Caroline was wearing her gold pin as usual. Irene had told Boase that her father had given it to her mother when they were young sweethearts; it was in the shape of a small crown with a diamond in the centre to remind her that she was George Bartlettʼs princess, a name he always called her by – never ʻCaroline', unless her was speaking about her to someone else.

ʻArchie, oh how lovely to see you again, do come in, how are you?ʼ Boase handed her the flowers and she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He blushed.

ʻGeorge, Irene, heʼs here.ʼ Caroline led the way into a very neat parlour, still Victorian in style but comfortable. There were houseplants everywhere. Caroline had very green fingers but, often finding the garden difficult, she had turned her attentions to greenery and flowers in her home. Bartlett stood up from his favourite armchair.

ʻHello, my boy, come in, sit down.ʼ The older man looked more relaxed now in the comfort of his own home as he drew on his pipe and supped a pint of London Ale. Beside the chair lay Topper, asleep. He had stood up when Boaseʼs knock at the door came but Bartlett said reassuringly, ʻAll right, boy, itʼs only Boase,ʼ and Topper took up his place again. Now he managed to open one eye and raise an eyebrow, but there was no threat to his master and he remained still. Topper was Bartlettʼs constant companion, never judging him like almost every human did.

Bartlett spoke, still with his pipe between his teeth;

ʻPrincess, whereʼs Irene, whatʼs that girl doing? Sheʼs been upstairs for ages.ʼ

Caroline, standing behind Boase, glared at her husband. Her daughter would not want anyone to think she had gone to any trouble – women were like that. Just as Boase sat down, the door opened and there stood Irene. She wore a simple dark grey dress in a woollen fabric with a silver grey collar and silver grey shoes. Around her neck was a simple pearl choker. Boase immediately got up from his seat. He thought she looked beautiful. Irene came into the centre of the room.

ʻHello, Archie, how are you?ʼ

ʻIʼm very well thanks, Irene; here, have my seat.ʼ

The girl sat down on the arm of the chair and patted the cushion beside her.

ʻYou sit here, then we can talk.ʼ Boase nervously took his place in the armchair next to her. He could smell her perfume – it was just like lilacs. He quite liked it. Even if he hadnʼt liked it, it didnʼt matter because he was close to Irene. Caroline walked to the door. ʻGeorge, could you help me with the plates?ʼ Bartlett sank into his chair.