Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  ʻYou donʼt know what theyʼd say,ʼ said her father reassuringly. ʻThere must be a reason, anyway, for the chap not turning up.ʼ

  ʻThere is, Da,ʼ Ruby began sobbing again. ʻI was waiting on the Moor and about five and twenty past ten I saw Pearl Bray and Betty Trevaskis walking past to go ʼome, and they said theyʼd seen Frank at about ten oʼclock with Ivy Williams. ʼE ʼad ʼis arm round ʼer, Da and they was laughinʼ. Pearl and Betty said ʼe only ʼad eyes for ʼer.ʼ She cried again.

  ʻYou waited for ʼim ʼtil half past ten?ʼ

  Ruby dabbed her eyes with the large white handkerchief Bill offered her.

  ʻThere, there, it must be a mistake, you know what they two girls are like, they was ʼaving a bit of fun. That Ivy Williams, anyway, you know what sort of a girl she is; itʼs a good job ʼer poor mother canʼt see whatʼs become of ʼer, God rest ʼer soul – and ʼer such a clean, respectable woman too. No, there must be a mistake. Youʼll see ʼim tomorrow and ʼeʼll explain evʼrything, Iʼm certain.ʼ

  Bill made them her a cup of cocoa and went to bed. Ruby sat, holding the cup, and staring into the ashes forming in the fireplace. Eventually, at about half past one, feeling very tired she went to bed but the events of the evening had taken over and she lay awake nearly all night.

  How could he go with a woman like that, she thought to herself, an awful, awful woman who had no respect for anyone, not even herself. And Frank? Hadnʼt he promised that theyʼd have fun together? When he sold his boating business heʼd have plenty of money and they would be able to do anything. Just words now, they didnʼt mean anything. He was just like all the rest; why didnʼt she listen to her family? But Frank was so lovely and so kind to her. He really seemed sincere. The night passed slowly and Ruby was exhausted by the time the early morning light filtered through the gap in the bedroom curtains. She looked across at Kitty in the next bed; she was still asleep. In two months time, the older girl would be married and leaving home. Ruby wished she had a lovely man like her sister did. Soon Kitty and Eddy would be settled into a beautiful home that Eddyʼs parents were going to let them rent in Trelawney Road . Ruby was happy for her sister, she deserved all the happiness in the world. She still felt envious though. She sat up in bed and thought about the night before. How could he?

  Ruby was glad she didnʼt have to work today. The shipping office she worked in was only open until midday on Saturdays and, being the senior assistant, she was allowed to choose her half day. She liked a nice long weekend. All the other assistants had to work today so she considered herself to be very lucky. She slid back under the covers and tried to sleep but she was too upset. She got up and dressed at about nine oʼclock and went into the kitchen. Rose was sitting at the table drinking tea. Bill and Jack had gone to work and Kitty was still asleep.

  ʻCome in love, ʼave a cup of tea.ʼ Rose went to the kettle on the range. ʻYer Da told me what ʼappened last night. Didnʼt I tell you, I knew ʼe wasnʼt right for you – and I ʼavenʼt even met ʼim yet.ʼ

  ʻPlease donʼt, Ma, I know Iʼve probably been stupid, letʼs just leave it, eh?ʼ The two women were joined by Kitty shortly after and, as they all sat and talked, there was a knock at the door. Rose opened it to find a policeman standing on the doorstep.

  ʻGood morning, Madam, Constable Hawkins, Falmouth Police Station, may I please speak to Miss Ruby Pengelly?ʼ

  ʻOh, my God, whatʼs ʼappened?ʼ Rose went white and felt sick.

  ʻMay I please come in, madam?ʼ

  ʻDo.ʼ Rose led the officer into the kitchen where the girls, having overheard the conversation, sat clutching each otherʼs hands.

  ʻWhatʼs ʼappened, Ma?ʼ asked Ruby.

  ʻThis policeman wants to speak to you, love – whatʼs it about, Constable?ʼ

  The constable addressed Ruby, ʻAre you acquainted with Mr Francis Arthur Wilson, miss?ʼ He stared at Ruby and she felt uncomfortable.

  ʻFrank? I know ʼim, yes, why whatʼs ʼappened to ʼim? Is ʼe all right?ʼ

  Weʼre not sure, miss. You see, he seems to have disappeared and I was hoping you might be able to tell me where he is. I heard you were a friend of his?ʼ

  ʻWhatʼs ʼe done, Officer? Is ʼe in trouble?ʼ asked Kitty.

  ʻWe want to speak to him in connection with a lady by the name of, er … let me see, um … oh yes, here it is, Ivy Williams. They were seen together last night in Falmouth.ʼ Ruby felt sick. What now?

  The constable continued, looking at Ruby as he spoke.

  ʻIʼm afraid I canʼt tell you anything else – I was told that you were a close friend of his. Do you know where I can find ʼim, miss?ʼ

  ʻIʼve got no idea, Constable. I was supposed to meet ʼim last night and ʼe didnʼt turn up so I came ʼome.ʼ Rubyʼs voice was shaky.

  ʻWell, if ʼe does show up, would you be kind enough to let us know at the station, as soon as possible please, miss?ʼ

  ʻYes, yes, of course I shall.ʼ

  Rose showed the policeman to the front door. She let him out and closed it behind him. She stood in the hallway, her head spinning. She slowly made her way back into the kitchen where her two daughters were crying.

  ʻWhatʼs goinʼ on, Ruby?ʼ she asked the girl. Her voice was stern now.

  ʻI really donʼt know, Ma, honest I donʼt. I canʼt believe it. I donʼt know why the police are looking for ʼim.ʼ

  ʻOw could you get mixed up with a man that the police are lookinʼ for? And, another thing, ʼow do the police know that youʼve bin goinʼ round with this ʼere Francis Arthur Wilson? People must be talkinʼ about you. I donʼt want any scandal in this family, Ruby, and I donʼt want you getting involved with the police or anyone whoʼs in trouble with ʼem. This family is a good family with a decent reputation anʼ I donʼt want any Pengelly bringing shame upon us – are you listeninʼ to me, my girl?ʼ

  Rose took off her slippers and put on shoes. She stood in front of the mirror, combing her hair. She didnʼt speak. Ruby didnʼt say anything; she knew she had upset her mother and she didnʼt like it. At last, reaching for her coat, Rose looked at the girls. ʻIʼm off to meet Mrs Tregido to ʼelp ʼer with the church jumble sale and then Iʼll be goinʼ down the street to get something for tea tonight. I donʼt know what all this is about, but I do know that I donʼt want you getting involved any further with that man; do you ʼear me, Ruby? Thatʼs final.ʼ

  ʻAll right, Ma, I ʼear you.ʼ

  While Rose was helping Elsie Tregido, a childhood friend and widowed for about thirty years, a small group of people had begun to congregate at Swanpool Beach. Several police officers were trying to move everyone away but gossip was spreading fast. News that a terrible crime had been committed had soon seeped through the local community. By about eleven oʼclock almost a hundred onlookers had turned up at Swanpool to feed their desire for witnessing a gruesome event. Men, women and children, ignoring the police and their cordons, stood up on the cliff tops and even scrambled across the rocks to get a better look. Falmouth was normally such a quiet yet industrious town, with hard-working people making up its population. There wasnʼt really much crime, maybe one or two burglaries or late-night fighting when the pubs closed, but nothing like this today.

  On the sand, in a heap of clothing soaked by the salty tide, lay the body of a woman, only recognisable as such by her female curves and her feminine garments. She wore a bottle green satin skirt which was at least one size too small, even for her slim frame, a pale green blouse with short, puffed sleeves, strangely inappropriate for the time of year, no stockings, and black shoes, made of cheap leather with a strap across. On one foot, the strap had come undone and a mark showed where the leather had cut into her skin over some time. Her facial features had been mutilated beyond any possible identification, and what remained of her hair was bound to her head with dark red blood. The waves were gently lapping around her lifeless body, each time receding and taking more of her blood out into the English Channel. The onlookers waited. Nothing was going to deny them their story in the pub tonight, nothing was going
to rob them of their chance of being one of the first to see the battered body – they might even get themselves in the newspapers. In next to no time, news of the murder was spreading throughout the town. Who was the dead woman? Who killed her? Was any woman safe in Falmouth?

  At the police station in Berkeley Vale, the atmosphere was tense. Inspector George Bartlett was assigned to the case and had already tried in vain to keep the news of the murder as quiet as possible. After returning from the beach, he sat looking out of his office window, watching the traffic in the street below and wondering how he was going to keep all this from the public – he didnʼt feel hopeful in the least; so many people had gathered at the beach within what seemed like minutes of the discovery, itʼd probably be halfway round Falmouth by now. He was well-liked locally, and wouldn’t do anything to upset the good people of the town who had made him feel so welcome, but he really could do without the inevitable gossip. He knew that at any second the reporters from the Falmouth Packet would be on his doorstep hounding him for details for a good story. He despised the press and knew how much trouble they were capable of causing; the less he had to do with them the better, as far as he was concerned.

  George Bartlett was happily married to Caroline who was, sadly, weak and never in good health, and he adored her. Caroline wasn’t happy that her husband had taken a reduced rank to bring her to the coast – it made her feel such a burden. She could not deny that she had felt better since they came here though. And George, dear George, he seemed much more relaxed than he was in their London days. She loved to see him in the garden tending his beloved roses, his pipe seemingly always in his mouth. She liked sitting next to him when he was concentrating on his crossword – how he hated it when she pointed a finger at the paper and told him the answer. Caroline had given Bartlett his beautiful daughter, Irene, and the girl’s good looks now reminded him of his wife when they had first met. His great sadness was the loss of his son, John, mortally wounded in France in 1916. Caroline had taken their loss very badly and Bartlett felt she had never truly recovered from this devastation. He worried about her and he worried about Irene. He idolised his daughter and didnʼt think it was right for such a young girl to live at home looking after her sick mother; how many times had he told her they were fairly comfortable now and they could get a woman in to do for them? Irene should be looking for a husband to take care of her. Then again, one of his favourite qualities he found to admire in the girl was her single-mindedness and stubbornness – just like her father. Hadnʼt he always taught her to be herself and to have her own mind? Well, it was probably too late to complain about it now. Anyway, secretly, he loved having her at home, his only remaining child.

  As Bartlett sat looking from his window, his assistant Archie Boase, a keen young constable and well-liked by Bartlett, stuck his head round the door.

  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 young
er 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.