Empty Vessels (7 page)

Bartlett arrived home at about six, much to Ireneʼs horror.

ʻOh, Dad, youʼre early – I was going to do the cooking tonight and Iʼve barely started.ʼ

ʻIs your mother all right, Irene? Where is she?ʼ

ʻSheʼs upstairs, Dad, having a lie down, she had a bit of a headache. I was just about to start peeling the vegetables – I didnʼt expect you for ages yet.ʼ

ʻThatʼs all right. Iʼll just go up and see her, donʼt worry about dinner – Iʼm not hungry yet, anyway, Iʼll look forward to it whenever itʼs ready.ʼ

Bartlett climbed the stairs and crossed the landing to his and Carolineʼs bedroom. He tapped lightly on the door – he always did; he respected his wifeʼs privacy. Caroline laughed whenever he did it and sheʼd say: ʻIʼm your wife, you donʼt need to knock,ʼ but he always did. He peered round the door; she was lying with her back to him. Quietly he crossed the room and went around the other side of the bed. She was sound asleep. He thought how beautiful she always looked and how much he loved her. He wanted to wake her up to let her know that he was back, but it seemed such a shame, especially if she wasnʼt feeling well. He almost hated her being asleep because he wanted to spend every moment possible in her company; it was such a waste when they werenʼt together. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then went back out on to the landing. He looked at his pocket watch – it was ten past six. He went downstairs into the kitchen where Irene was chopping some onions.

ʻYour motherʼs still asleep, I think Iʼll take a little walk if you donʼt mind – about an hour or so.ʼ

ʻThatʼs all right, Dad, dinner should be about ready when you get back. Perhaps Mumʼll be feeling better then too.ʼ

Bartlett put on his old raincoat and as soon as Topper heard the rattle of the coatstand he appeared. He came to the door when Bartlett had arrived home and then went back to sleep. Now he was ready; if his master was going out in his old coat that meant he could come too.

ʻAll right, lad, go and fetch your lead.ʼ

The dog obliged, running into the kitchen where a little hook, just at his height, held a tartan lead. He brought it back at top speed, sliding along the runner laid over the wooden floor in the hall. ʻAll right, steady, now letʼs straighten this mat before your mother sees it. Right, come on, weʼre off.ʼ

Topper ran back to his basket in the kitchen and appeared with a red rubber ball in his mouth, his head cocked enquiringly on one side.

Bartlett looked at him. ʻIf you take that, you carry it all the way.ʼ Topper, who had an uncanny knack of locating the ball even yards and yards away in the dark, followed his master out of the house and down the path. Man and dog walked up Penmere Hill and headed for the sea front. It was dark by now, but there was no rain at the moment and the two walked briskly enjoying the fresh breeze that was coming in off the sea.

Arriving at Gyllyngvase Beach, Bartlett released Topper from his lead and watched while the dog paddled at the waterʼs edge. It was so dark he could barely see him but a few well-lit ships in the bay turned Topper into a shadowy silhouette as he trotted back and forth across the sand. Bartlett stood, enjoying the air and wondering about his suspects. Did he have any? He felt that tomorrow would bring better things. He sincerely hoped so.

ʻTopper, come on, mate, time to go, boy.ʼ The dog ambled up the beach and sat at his masterʼs side. Bartlett attached the lead to the collar and the pair walked off towards Pendennis Castle to continue their round trip of the bay and the docks.

Chapter Four

The next day saw a turn for the worse in the weather with heavy snow having fallen in the night and strong winds bringing blizzard conditions. Bartlett left his house later than usual; Caroline had been quite unwell with a headache all through the night and, although she tried not to wake her husband, he stayed up with her all night to take care of her. The couple were absolutely devoted to one another. Bartlett didnʼt want to disturb Irene and to worry her so, when she came down to breakfast, he told her that her mother had been unwell. Naturally, as he had expected, she was angry that he hadnʼt called her in the night but she had promised to take care of her during the day. He checked on Caroline who had managed to fall asleep by the time he was ready to leave for work. He hoped it was nothing serious; she was his life, she meant everything to him.

Bartlett struggled to walk up Penmere Hill, holding on to his hat, head down with his coat flapping madly in the wind. He felt almost frozen and hoped Boase would make him a decent hot cup of tea when he arrived. Walking down Killigrew Street the pavement felt slippery under his feet and he trod carefully for fear of falling. He soon arrived at the police station, bade good morning to the desk sergeant and walked into his office. Boase was already there.

ʻMorning, sir. Cuppa? You must be frozen.ʼ

ʻMorning, Boase, yes, thank you, Iʼm ready for one. Itʼs cold enough for a top hat!ʼ Talking of which, I think we should take a car over to Penvale Manor today, see if we can talk to the Hatton twins – perhaps they can shed some light on things. I know there was some connection between one of them and Francis Wilson during the war – perhaps they know where he is. We need to find him. Whatever heʼs been up to, Iʼm sure he can tell us something.ʼ

Within half an hour Bartlett and Boase were driving through the narrow lanes that led to the village of Budock. The snow had fallen heavily and covered the hedgerows and fields. The short trip to Budock from Falmouth was a pleasant one with fine views of the countryside. They passed a group of schoolboys running a paperchase, the cold air highlighting their warm breath as it left their mouths. They turned into a road fronted by two enormous wrought iron gates, which were open, and a long drive led the way to the house. As they rounded a bend, they saw their first glimpse of Penvale Manor – a splendid Georgian building standing boldly in defiance of the, by now, howling blizzards.

ʻHow the other half live, eh, Boase?ʼ

Bartlett looked out of the car window, almost incredulous at the size of the house and its grounds. They stopped outside the front of the building and got out. Having made their way up the stone steps to the front door, Bartlett rang the bell. Almost immediately a young woman in maidʼs uniform opened the heavy door. She looked at the two policemen enquiringly.

ʻYes?ʼ

ʻAre the Hatton twins at home, miss?ʼ asked Bartlett politely, offering his identification.

ʻOne of them is,ʼ came the reply.

ʻGood.ʼ Bartlett was feeling the cold and wanted to get inside.

ʻIʼll see if heʼs available.ʼ With that the front door closed abruptly.

ʻWould you believe it?ʼ remarked the older man to the younger, ʻno manners these days, none of them.ʼ

He stamped his feet impatiently while Boase surveyed the parkland in the distance and the landscaped gardens which surrounded the house. The house was in the centre of a vast deer park and the estate supplied venison to several parts of the country, particularly some high-class London butchers. In fact Penvale Venison was a thriving business with a very good reputation. The grounds immediately surrounding the house were extensive, and looked like something from a fairytale now with the thick snow still falling heavily. As the two men waited the door reopened and the maid stood there.

ʻCome in, please, follow me.ʼ

She led the way into an imposing but impressive hall where, as if from nowhere, a butler emerged and requested to take their hats and coats. Relieved of their cold and damp outerwear, the two followed the maid up a central staircase, Boase marvelling quietly at the paintings which lined the walls. Many portraits hung there and the younger man was impressed at the colours and the skill of the artists. Bartlett meanwhile thought he had never seen so many pale and foolish beings depicted over the centuries. No constitution. Never done a dayʼs work, he thought, and yet they had all this. Having negotiated three long corridors, they arrived at a large oak door. The maid knocked and was bidden enter by a voice on the other side of it. The young girl announced the visitors and left.

A big burgundy leather armchair faced towards the window, the back of it to Bartlett and Boase. From where they stood, it looked empty. As they waited, a man rose from the chair and walked towards them. He was in his forties, Boase thought. He had thin grey hair which had receded and glistened with hair preparation. Standing at about five feet six inches, and stout, he wore a navy silk smoking jacket with what looked like cream silk pyjamas underneath. Bartlett wondered how anyone could still be in bedclothes at this hour, let alone could receive guests in this state of attire. The man slid towards them almost cat-like, with a cigarette in a long holder between his pale and disproportionately slender fingers.

ʻYou are?ʼ

Bartlett, already disliking this person, as he suspected he would, moved forward.

ʻI am Inspector Bartlett, this is Constable Boase.ʼ

ʻOh,ʼ came the reply.

Bartlett felt as though he were keeping this fellow from his bed, so difficult did it appear for him to hold a conversation.

ʻI am conducting a murder enquiry and would like some information regarding the victimʼs background.  Did you hear there was a murder in Falmouth recently?ʼ

ʻNo, I didnʼt. And how do you suppose I can help?ʼ came the reply, followed by a long draw on the cigarette, it in turn followed by the resulting smoke being blown in Bartlettʼs direction.

ʻI understand, sir, that the victim may have had a relative who worked for your family some time ago ...ʼ

ʻAnd who is this, ummm … victim?ʼ

ʻIs your brother here today, sir?ʼ enquired Bartlett wondering if he would get either more sense or at least some respect from the sibling.

ʻNo, heʼs gone to London for a few days, visiting a friend. This victim, who was she?'

Ê»
She
, sir?ʼ

ʻWhat?ʼ

Ê»You said “she”. I didnʼt say if the victim was a man or a woman. What made you say she?ʼ

The man looked flustered.

ʻI donʼt know, arenʼt nearly all murder victims women?ʼ

ʻNo, sir, theyʼre not.ʼ

Bartlett couldnʼt fathom this particular Hatton.

ʻWould you mind telling me which twin you are, sir?ʼ

ʻIʼm sorryʼ, came the reply, ʻI thought you knew. Rupert Hatton, thatʼs me. Iʼm always taken for my brother and vice versa. What japes weʼve had in the past, being identical, that is.ʼ

ʻIʼm sure,ʼ grunted Bartlett under his breath. Heʼd heard about, and even witnessed the kind of japes these types got up to – he didnʼt want to hear any more.

‘The dead woman was Miss Ivy Williams. Does that name ring any bells?ʼ

Hatton stared intently at his cigarette holder for some time before replying with a firm ʻNo.ʼ

Bartlett continued. This character was becoming tedious and very hard work.

ʻThe dead womanʼs mother worked here over twenty years ago, as a maid, her name was Maude Mockett – do you remember her, sir?ʼ

ʻI donʼt believe I do,ʼ replied Hatton, sliding across to a tray of drinks, which stood on a small mahogany table, and pouring himself a large gin. Bartlett looked the mantel clock. Half past ten in the morning. What sort of people were these, he thought to himself.

Hatton continued. ʻWe have so many servants coming and going, itʼs impossible to remember and, to be perfectly honest with you, I donʼt really mix with those types.ʼ

ʻWould your mother, Lady Hatton, remember?ʼ

ʻItʼs possible, but sheʼs away. Sheʼs gone to Switzerland for some air. She hasnʼt been well, poor dear.ʼ

Bartlett fiddled with the powder compact which he had brought along in his pocket. He wasnʼt going to bother showing it to Hatton now.

ʻSo are you absolutely sure you donʼt know anything about Ivy Williams, or that you couldn't put me in touch with someone who might have some information?ʼ

ʻSure.ʼ

ʻWell, Iʼm very sorry to have troubled you at this early hour, sir,ʼ remarked Bartlett sarcastically.

As Bartlett reached for the door knob, he paused and, looking back at Rupert Hatton, asked, ʻDo you know a man called Francis Wilson, sir?ʼ

ʻWilson? No, I donʼt believe Iʼve ever heard of anyone by that name.ʼ

ʻWell, thank you anyway, sir. Goodbye.ʼ

The two men left Rupert Hatton and, collecting their hats and coats, made their way back to the waiting car and headed for the police station.

Back at the station Boase picked up a small pale purple envelope which had been placed on his desk during his absence. As he began to open it there was a distinct odour of lilac in his hands. He withdrew a matching sheet of paper from inside and began to read.

Dear Archie

I would very much like to see you over Christmas – that is, if you havenʼt already made plans
to do something else. Mum and Dad would like to see you too and have asked me to invite
you to stay here with us for a couple of days. Please come if you can – itʼll be such fun, I know.

Hope you say yes.

Sincerely yours

Irene

Bartlett looked across at Boase who was looking slightly worried, but in the best sort of way one can look worried.

ʻBillet-doux?ʼ he enquired, smiling.

ʻDid you know about this, sir?ʼ

ʻAbout what? I must say that looks remarkably like my daughterʼs writing paper and envelope.

ʻIrene says sheʼd like me to visit you at Christmas …ʼ

Bartlett rose from his chair and patted the younger man on the back. ʻAnd Mrs Bartlett and I would be very pleased if you would stay a couple of days.ʼ

ʻI donʼt know what to say, sir.ʼ Boase looked confused and was thinking of Irene – heʼd have to buy her a very nice present; what would she like?

ʻJust say youʼll come to us on Christmas Eve and stay till Boxing Day.ʼ

ʻWell, then, I accept – thatʼs very generous of you, sir, very generous indeed.ʼ

Boase arrived at the Bartletts' at about four oʼclock on Christmas Eve carrying a small suitcase in one hand and with a large box under his arm. Irene, sitting in the window, had seen him struggling up the path and was waiting on the doorstep for him. It had been snowing ever since he left Melvill Road and his coat was white and damp. Irene giggled.

ʻCome in, Archie, you must be frozen, you look just like a snowman – Iʼm so pleased you came.ʼ

She pulled him in through the front door and he dropped his case and the box on the hall floor.

ʻDo take your coat and hat off,ʼ said Irene, helping him shake the snow from his clothes. As she pulled his scarf from around his neck she looked at him and winked. He knew this was going to be the best Christmas ever.

Caroline called to him from upstairs, ʻHello, Archie, nice to see you again; come on up, Iʼll show you your room.ʼ

Patting Topper, who had appeared as soon as Irene had opened the front door, Boase carried his things upstairs. He entered a small bedroom at the back of the house.

ʻI hope youʼll be comfortable here, Archie,ʼ said Caroline drawing the curtains as it was by this time quite dark.

ʻI know I shall,ʼ replied Boase who would have been quite happy sleeping on the floor just to be under the same roof as Irene. As it was, it was probably the nicest room he had ever stayed in. A single brass bed stood under the window; it had a cream eiderdown with three matching pillows, all delicately embroidered. There was a chest of drawers and a small wardrobe on the other side of the room and a bookcase full of several interesting books: from cookery to crime.

Caroline walked over to the door.

ʻThe bathroomʼs just next to the kitchen. Come down when youʼre ready and weʼll have some tea.ʼ

Within fifteen minutes, Archie Boase was sitting at the tea table with the three Bartletts. The dining room looked lovely, he thought, with a big Christmas tree in one corner and several presents underneath. Boase stood up.

ʻWould you all excuse me please, Iʼve left some things in my room.ʼ

Moments later he returned with four neatly wrapped presents. He placed them under the tree. Topper stood up, stretched, and walked over to the tree to investigate what was going on.

ʻItʼs all right, boy – thereʼs one here for you too; look.ʼ Topper sniffed his present and, with a snort of what Boase hoped would be approval, returned to his masterʼs side.

ʻYou didnʼt need to bring anything, Boase,ʼ said Bartlett, tapping his pipe on the fireplace.

ʻIt was the least I could do, sir,ʼ came the reply.

Caroline looked at the two men in turn;

ʻDo you think we could dispense with the formalities of the station, just for the holiday? How about Archie and George?ʼ

ʻThat sounds fine to me, Princess.ʼ Bartlett looked at Boase.

ʻIf youʼre sure thatʼs all right – I suppose it all sounds a bit formal, doesnʼt it? Archie and George it is, then,ʼ replied Boase.

Christmas Day brought still more snow and Boase was awake early. He opened his curtains and looked out at the snow falling onto the back garden. Heʼd had the best nightʼs sleep. He wondered what the day would bring, wondered how the Bartletts celebrated Christmas. It had been a long time since Archie Boase had enjoyed a family Christmas. He hadnʼt seen his mother for almost four years. She had gone to live with her sister in Doncaster. When Boaseʼs father died, she had spent a year on her own while Boase was in France during the war. She had not managed at all well and they both agreed that she would be better off with her sister, who was also widowed. He would love to see her again soon. They wrote many letters, telling each other their news. He hadnʼt told her about Irene yet – perhaps that would be his next letter.