Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  Empty Vessels

  Marina Pascoe

  Meet Inspector George Bartlett and Constable Archibald Boase in their first investigation together. In the closing months of 1921, Bartlett and Boase have a missing girl on their Falmouth patch. Before long they find themselves drawn into a murder investigation when another girl is found dead on a local beach. We met the Pengelly family, unwittingly drawn in through their daughter’s involvement with the prime murder suspect and find ourselves involved in mysterious goings-on at Penvale Manor, secret meetings in the middle of the night and a race to prevent more deaths. Add spoilt twin heirs, blackmail, and strange, unexplained activity aboard the St Piran and this all makes heavy weather for Bartlett and Boase. Deception and disguise come together in the final spectacular and surprising showdown when the killer is revealed.

  In memory of

  Peggy Russell 1996-2010

  and

  Sydney 1995-2004

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  November 1921. The small town of Falmouth, which nestles on the Cornish coast and dips into the English Channel, was shrouded in a cloud of damp, clinging November fog typical for the seaside town at this time of year. The houses, tall, narrow and close to their neighbours, seemed almost to huddle together against the damp night air. Few people lingered about in the thickening fog, which was threatening to remain all night, and the town was quiet, with only the distant sound of men mooring boats by the pier, having been caught out by the rapid descent of the weather. The old, narrow streets were stranger now and uninviting; the darkness of this winter evening had come quickly.

  There was talk of murder in the town following a local girl’s mysterious disappearance nearly a month before and everyone seemed to be suspicious even of people they knew quite well – “you never could be quite sure, even when you thought you knew someoneˮ was the general uneasy feeling in Falmouth at the moment. One or two of the old cabbies who still worked in the town had decided to take their horses home and stable them up for the night; they wouldnʼt get much custom now. Most of the ʻnewʼ people that visited the town wanted motorised transport. For now, though, the cabbies survived with the help of their old regulars. Soon this way of life would change, and most thought not for the better.

  Rose Pengelly tightened the old black woollen shawl covering her head and made her way along Webber Street, a small, narrow, shop-lined road, now dimly lit due to the worsening fog creeping in from the sea. The dampness chilled her right through, and she felt pain in her knees as she walked; she hurried as best she could to keep warm. It was becoming difficult to see much now as the fog closed in but, as she reached the corner which gave onto the road known as High Street, she saw a small person, head down, walking in her direction. Rose was pleased to see her daughter.

  ʻKitty, Kitty,ʼ she called loudly.

  As her voice seemed to melt into the lingering fog, it was apparent that the girl, walking quite slowly down the hill for fear of slipping on the damp pavement, had not heard or seen anything. Then, as Rose peered through the gloom, she was horrified to see, moving swiftly behind her daughter, a tall figure clothed in black. Closer now, very close.

  ʻKitty, KITTY.ʼ

  Rose felt a soreness in her throat as she screamed her daughterʼs name. The larger figure stopped and looked up and down the street and Kitty, hearing her motherʼs voice, began to run towards her. Rose reached out and hugged the girl to her.

  ʻDidnʼt you ʼear that man behind you?ʼ

  ʻNo, Ma,ʼ the girl replied, turning around to look back up the street. ʻNo, I never ʼeard nobody. Look, thereʼs no one there.ʼ

  ʻI thought Iʼd better come and meet you; that shop of yours shuts at six oʼclock, now itʼs nearly five to seven. Whatʼve ʼe bin doinʼ?ʼ

  ʻThe money was short, Ma. Mrs Williams made me and Mabel stay behind to try anʼ sort it out. Then she started on Norman for mixing the tobaccos up wrong anʼ I tried to ʼelp ʼim. You know ʼeʼs not very bright anʼ all – sheʼs always on at ʼim.ʼ

  ʻMrs Williams this, Mrs Williams that, she donʼt know what sheʼs doinʼ ʼalf the time. She should ʼave give up that shop years ago but sheʼs too mean, just like the rest of that family.ʼ She drew her shawl tighter and mother and daughter linked arms and quickened their step.

  ʻI was waiting there,ʼ the older woman continued, ‘on the corner of Webber Street and I saw that man behind you – when I called out ʼe disappeared down the opening. I worry all the time about you anʼ your sister, especially since that dear Berryman girl went missing – three weeks now and not a sign of ʼer.ʼ

  The women made their way back along Webber Street and, on reaching the open expanse known as the Moor, made their way up Killigrew Street to the basement rooms the family rented there. Down the steps they went, feeling for the rails in the darkness and entering the small courtyard below. Kitty opened the large door and they both entered into the hallway on the other side. The warmth was welcoming after the damp night air and they were glad to have arrived home. They were greeted by Jack, who, at seventeen, was the youngest member of the Pengelly family. He beckoned them into the kitchen.

  ʻYou found ʼer then.ʼ He grinned at his mother as she made her way through into the scullery. He looked at Kitty as she took off her coat. ʻMa was worried about you, especially with that Norma Berryman murdered anʼ all, she thought …ʼ

  ʻJack, thatʼs enough, I wonʼt ʼave talk like that, do you ʼear me? We donʼt know whatʼs ʼappened to that poor girl, weʼve got to ʼope for the best,ʼ Rose clasped her hand to her forehead in despair, ʻanʼ ʼer poor mother so unwell too – it must all be too much for ʼer. I donʼt want any talk of murder in this ʼouse. I donʼt even want to think about it.ʼ

  Jack wasnʼt to be done down;

  ʻWell, evʼryoneʼs talking about it down the docks – they all say sheʼs bin murdered. One of the apprentices who knows all about life on other planets and things like that, ʼe says she might ʼave been abducted by creatures from another planet, like Mars or the Moon. Itʼs bin ʼeard of before, ʼe knows someone who ʼad a brother anʼ ʼe was taken away by these people anʼ they never saw ʼim again. The last time anyone saw ʼim there ʼe was goinʼ up in an airship. Itʼs true. It ʼappens all the time in America.ʼ

  Rose looked irritated. ʻWell, they might all be talking about it down the docks but weʼre not talking about it ʼere, and thatʼs that. They stupid boys you go round with, Jack, well I think itʼs time they grew up – sʼposed to be young men now, coming up to seventeen, eighteen and still reading they daft comic books, theyʼll rot their brains, you mark my words.ʼ

  ʻThey already ʼave, Ma,ʼ interrupted Kitty.

  At that, the front door slammed shut, and slow, heavy footsteps walked up the passageway to the parlour. The little group congregated in the kitchen stopped their bickering. Bill Pengelly entered the room, filling up the doorway as he did so with his six foot one, sixteen-stone frame.

  ʻSorry Iʼm late, all,ʼ his voice was loud yet soft, ʻthought Iʼd do a couple of hours over tonight.ʼ He came into the kitchen and hung his hessian bag on the back of the door. Rose scowled at him.

  ʻYou donʼt need to do any extra – itʼs gettinʼ too much, ʼow many times ʼave I got to say it?ʼ

  ʻStop moaninʼ, Mrs Pengelly, you want us to ʼave a ʼappy Christmas this year, do
nʼt you? Weʼll be able to get a turkey if weʼre lucky, a drop oʼ beer, a nice bit oʼ fruit, anʼ some nuts …ʼ

  His wife interrupted him sharply. ʻIf youʼre six feet under by then, I wonʼt want Christmas at all. Anʼ I donʼt want gallons oʼ beer, neither – itʼs only you that drinks it. Jack isnʼt old enough.ʼ

  ʻAw, Ma, Iʼm nearly eighteen, all my friends drink,ʼ came the protest.

  ʻYouʼre just a boy until youʼre twenty-one.ʼ His mother ruffled his hair and looked at her hand. ʻWhat is that muck in yer ʼair?ʼ

  Jack looked embarrassed.

  ʻItʼs hairdressing actually – lots of men my age wear it.ʼ

  Bill winked at him;

  ʻYer mother said yer just a boy until the age of twenty-one and I agree. What do you want with that sissy stuff anyway? You tell me what young ladyʼll want to run ʼer fingers through yer ʼair with that tripe on it?ʼ

  Jack looked fed up.

  Bill sat down at the table. ʻI enjoyed that pasty in particular today, Mrs Pengelly, just the job.ʼ He squeezed his wifeʼs waist as she walked past his chair.

  ʻOh give over, you old fool, itʼs only a pasty, ʼardly fit for a king,ʼ came the reply. Rose could relax a bit now; she never relaxed until all the family were home together.

  ʻYou know no one cooks like you, Mrs Pengelly,ʼ replied Jack giving his mother a squeeze in an attempt to imitate his father. Bill pointed his finger, ʻYou find yer own lady to go squeezinʼ – sheʼs mine.ʼ

  Jack laughed, he liked it when his parents called each other Mr and Mrs and thought it was rather quaint.

  ʻThatʼll do, you two, and I ʼope you made the most of my cooking, because I got fish ʼnʼ chips tonight. I ʼad some money left in the tin so I thought Iʼd treat us all – mind, Iʼll ʼave to warm ʼem up – theyʼd still be ʼot if it werenʼt for yer sister. Good job I went to meet ʼer – there was a man following ʼer down ʼIgh Street anʼ she never even ʼeard ʼim – ʼeaven knows what might ʼave ʼappened.ʼ

  ʻI already said sorry, Ma.ʼ Kitty was indignant. ʻAnyway I didnʼt see no one – it was probably the ghost.ʼ

  ʻWhat ghost is that, Kit?ʼ asked Jack who had a taste for all things strange and supernatural.

  ʻIʼm beinʼ serious, Jack,ʼ his sister replied. ʻDonʼt tell me youʼve never ʼeard of the man that ʼaunts ʼIgh Street – thought you were interested in all that.ʼ

  ʻYouʼre right, I am – tell me about ʼim, Kit, go on.ʼ

  ʻWell, apparently, loads of people ʼave seen ʼim – all in black ʼe is. They say ʼe walks up anʼ down looking for ʼis wife who was murdered in one of the ʼouses about two ʼundred years ago …’

  ʻAll right, dear, never mind now, sit down while I butter some bread.ʼ

  Rose cut this conversation short – she didnʼt like tales of dead people and ghosts.

  ʻNow, anybody whoʼs still got boots anʼ shoes on, take ʼem off, all of you, go on. You know I donʼt like you ruining me floor.ʼ

  The family obeyed then took their places around the vast wooden table, which, smooth and clean, bore testament to the work that went on daily in the heart of their home. The table was scrubbed daily – Rose couldnʼt abide dirt and was up early every morning to make a start and prepare everyoneʼs food for the day. She lived by her late motherʼs standards. Rose had been born fourth of nineteen children and had grown up in poverty. Even so, her mother always kept a spotless house and everyone had had to do their share. The Pengelly household, although much smaller, lived by the same rules. Every morning, by the time the rest of the family awoke, a most wonderful smell pervaded every room. As they all prepared for work, Rose would be bringing trays of hot pasties from the oven, sometimes a cake or even a rice pudding. Bill and Jack always had bacon, eggs, hogʼs pudding and fried bread on a work day, but not the girls; there would never be enough money to pay for that so they made do with some bread and dripping or jam. And not one of them could even begin the day without copious amounts of strong, sugary tea.

  Rose Pengelly was a small, frail-looking woman with a quiet voice, but she could put the fear of God himself in anyone who crossed her – in the family and outside it. She liked Kitty to style her now greying hair, but nothing too modern. Kitty was happy to oblige – she hated seeing her in that old, hand-made floral apron and she wished her mother’s life could be a little easier – she always looked so tired. ʻI see in one of your womenʼs books that this is all the rage now, Kitty; do mine like that – not too young-looking mind, I donʼt want to look like mutton done up as lambʼ. She wore small, round horn glasses when she wanted to read a library book or the Falmouth Packet to catch up with the local news. Whenever she went out she would dab on a little powder and the minutest amount of colour on her lips. Although there wasnʼt much money, being a skilful needlewoman meant that the family always looked well dressed whenever they went out.

  As Rose, Jack, and Kitty sat at the table, and Bill shovelled some more coal on the fire, the door from the hallway opened and the youngest Pengelly girl, Ruby, stood, dressed to go out.

  ʻWhere dʼyou think youʼre goinʼ?ʼ Rose enquired of the girl.

  ʻI told you, Ma, replied Ruby, ʻIʼm meetinʼ Frank, weʼre goinʼ dancinʼ tonight.ʼ

  ʻOoh, I say, Iʼm meeting Frank,ʼ Kitty mimicked her sister then let out her familiar and uncontrollable peal of laughter. ʻWhenʼre we goinʼ to meet this Frank of yours then, Ruby?ʼ

  ʻʼEʼs shy, I told you before.ʼ

  Rose grabbed the girlʼs coat; she looked at her daughter, just nineteen, she didnʼt seem old enough to be out dancing with a man the family didnʼt even know, although she looked so grown-up, always in the latest fashions and her face made-up; most of her wages went on clothes, make-up, and going out. Rose thought it seemed like yesterday that she had held her as a newborn baby.

  ʻYouʼre not goinʼ – take your coat off and sit down. Youʼve only just eaten.ʼ

  ʻNo, Ma, I promised ʼim and I want to go.ʼ

  Ruby sat at the table and, taking a small mirror from her handbag, propped it up against the milk jug which stood on the table and began to put on even more make-up.

  ʻYouʼre flogging a dead ʼorse,ʼ quipped Jack and winced when a long hatpin appeared as if from nowhere and pierced his buttock.

  ʻMa, Da, did you see that? Tell ʼer, Da, Miss ʼIgh-and-Mighty. Anyway, Ruby, no woman should wear more make-up than clothes.ʼ

  Billʼs eyes twinkled. ʻIʼve told you before, boy, when you insult your sister, make sure youʼre not standing next to ʼer.ʼ Everyone laughed, except Jack.

  Rose looked at her beautiful daughter and knew she couldnʼt stop her going out – she had been just as headstrong at Ruby’s age and she could see herself in the girl. She tried a last resort, half-knowing she was wasting her time. ʻYou tell ʼer, Bill. Look ʼow much of that stuff sheʼs got on ʼer face – anʼ whatʼs that smell?ʼ

  Jack intervened. ʻSomeone let that old tom cat in ʼere again?ʼ

  ʻThe perfume you are enjoying at the moment is best quality cologne, called Nights of Passion, anʼ for your information, Lillian Gish wears this shade on ʼer lips – and that is called Sweetest Ruby – I ʼad to ʼave it cos thatʼs me name and itʼs a nice red,ʼ came the reply from the lips pursed in mid-application. ʻFrankʼs taking me to the cinema tomorrow night – weʼre seeinʼ Lillian in Broken Blossoms.’

  Rose looked at her husband for support. Bill sighed and tapped his pipe on the fireplace.

  ʻNights of Passion – do you think sheʼs old enough for that, Mrs Pengelly?ʼ Bill was smiling, he didnʼt want to spoil his daughterʼs fun; equally, he didnʼt want to upset her mother.

  The pipe pointed in the girlʼs direction. ʻRuby, I want you back in this ʼouse by ʼalf past eleven, on the dot.ʼ Rose sighed heavily; she’d thought heʼd side with Ruby, that girl could get away with anything where her father was concerned. She was the apple of his eye and didnʼt she know it!

  ʻBut, Da,ʼ Ruby protested, ‘thatʼs early, nobody comes ʼome that early …ʼ

 
; ʻDonʼt push your luck,ʼ came the reply. Ruby scowled, picked up her handbag and left quickly before he changed his mind, her heels clattering on the slate floor of the hallway to the front door.

  ʻDonʼt be too ʼard on ʼer, Maʼ, said Kitty, sensing her motherʼs anxiety, ʻsheʼll be all right.ʼ

  There was no reply from Rose, who sat cutting irregular slices of bread from a homemade loaf of gigantic proportions, which was precariously balanced on her lap. As she spread the cold butter thickly and holes appeared in the bread she hoped Kitty was right.

  At a quarter past eleven Bill stood in the doorway looking out into the yard and enjoying his last pipe of the evening before turning in. This was a ritual he had observed since he had sat outside with his father at night as a young man in the old house. There wasnʼt much to see now; the fog was much thicker and he could hear the muffled sounds of people walking home from the pubs and dances. He decided that he was too tired to wait up for Ruby as he normally did and, thinking that sheʼd probably be late as usual, he turned to go back in the house. Suddenly, he stopped, listening. He heard a noise, a faint sobbing. He listened again; it was definitely a woman crying.

  ʻRuby, Ruby love, is that you?ʼ he called out softly.

  A sound came from the corner of the yard and his daughter stepped into the small patch of light thrown out through the doorway.

  ʻDa, Da.ʼ The girlʼs sobbing was uncontrollable now.

  ʻWhatʼs the matter, my ʼansum, whatʼre ʼe doinʼ out ʼere in the dark and the cold?ʼ

  He put his arm around her and took her inside and they sat down in the parlour. Ruby composed herself and stared into her lap.

  ʻWhatʼs so bad, girl?ʼ Bill asked, taking her two small, pale hands into one of his large old brown ones. ʻShall I fetch yer mother?ʼ

  ʻNo thanks, Da, donʼt wake ʼer, sheʼs tired tonight.ʼ Her lip trembled. ʻOh, Da, ʼe didnʼt come, ʼe stood me up. I waited outside the library till ʼalf past ten, then I came back ʼoping youʼd all be in bed. I knew Jack would laugh if ʼe knew, I knew Ma would say thatʼs what men are like and I knew Kitty would say I was wasting me time with ʼim, so thatʼs why I was waiting outside.ʼ