Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  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

  ʻWhat 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.

  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.