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.
ʻIʼll be there in a minute, Princess.ʼ
ʻGeorge, I need help, now.ʼ Caroline could see the couple wanted to be alone and she didnʼt want anyone to spoil it for them. She liked Archie Boase. Irene could do a lot worse. Bartlett rose from his seat and, closely followed by Topper, went into the kitchen.
The four were presently seated in the dining room which looked out over the back garden. It was dark now but the moonlight shone down and was reflected in the small pond in the centre of the lawn. The four ate a meal of beef stew with potatoes and dumplings, followed by a treacle pudding with custard, while Topper lay under the table at Bartlettʼs feet hoping his master would let something slip from his plate.
ʻI hear you and Dad are off to London tomorrow, Archie.ʼ Irene had always been interested in her fatherʼs work from when she was a small child and now, having a good knowledge of the town and its people, she had even more reason to follow his activities.
ʻYes, thatʼs right.ʼ Boase hastened to finish his mouthful of food; he felt self-conscious when he was eating with other people. ʻYes, weʼre going up in the morning. Long day ahead.ʼ
Irene continued, ʻI hardly remember London now – I said the same to you, didnʼt I Dad?’
ʻYes, you did,ʼ Bartlett nodded in agreement, ʻbut you should always remember where you were born even if you canʼt remember what the exact house or street looked like, because itʼs your heritage – never forget that, you youngsters.ʼ The pair considered themselves told and giggled. Bartlett was very proud to be a Londoner and hadnʼt lost his East End accent at all. He missed the old place although he had suffered many hardships there over the years, especially as a boy. Cornwall was better for a man of his age; it was quieter, the air was fresher and, above all, Caroline liked it here. She had never really settled in London, although she always maintained that her home was wherever her beloved husband was. Yes, Falmouth was definitely the nicest place they could ever imagine living in.
Caroline got up from the table and began stacking the plates. ʻLeave that, Mrs Bartlett, Iʼll do it,ʼ Boase volunteered, his motive not being entirely for the benefit of the older woman.
ʻWell, all right, but come and have a sit down by the fire first and finish your drink.ʼ All four moved towards the fireplace where Topper, knowing the nightly ritual, was already on the rug warming himself. Bartlett patted the dogʼs head. ʻYouʼre a goodʼun, Topper, mate, come and sit by your old man.ʼ The dog obliged.
ʻGeorge, you treat that animal better than your family sometimes,ʼ grumbled Caroline.
ʻThat, Princess, is because he is my family, and well you know it.ʼ Topper let out an approving sigh.
ʻDad, Mum, tell Archie how you met, itʼs so romantic,ʼ Irene sat on the floor at her fatherʼs feet.
ʻIʼm sure Boase isnʼt interested in that old nonsense,ʼ said Bartlett, semi-embarrassed.
Caroline snorted. ʻYou never used to think it was nonsense.ʼ Bartlett looked more embarrassed still.
His wife continued. ʻI had gone to London with my mother because she had a consultation there at the Eye Infirmary with a very good and highly recommended doctor. Sheʼd been troubled with eye problems since a child. Anyway, while I was waiting for her, someone stole my bag with our return train tickets in and all my money. While I was frantically trying to sort it out, George turned up with something in his eye. Heʼd been outside when something flew up off the road and hit him – a stone or something. He was, fortunately, soon sorted out and he waited with me. My mother came out in the middle of it all and George made himself known to her and gave us the money to return home. He said if I gave him my address, he would see that my bag was returned if anyone handed it in – it never was and he knew it wouldnʼt be, but I received a very nice letter from him, we met again and my mother allowed us to marry on my eighteenth birthday, just four months later.
Bartlett grunted from the depths of his armchair, ʻHmm, you never did repay that money.ʼ
ʻGeorge!ʼ A slap on the arm was forthcoming, whereupon Topper crawled forward a little nearer to his master.
ʻIsnʼt that just too romantic, Archie? And so Bohemian.ʼ Irene thought this was the stuff of fairy tales.
ʻI ought to get on with the plates.ʼ Archie stood up. ʻThe supper was lovely, Mrs Bartlett, thank you.ʼ
ʻIʼll help you, Archie.ʼ Irene was by his side in an instant and the two carried the crockery into the scullery. ʻDad, remember next time, you promised to tell us about your Jack the Ripper days again. Thereʼs so much we havenʼt heard yet.ʼ
ʻAll right, next time. Itʼs getting late now, Iʼm almost ready for my bed.ʼ
At about eleven oʼclock Boase left for home, having arranged to be in bright and early next morning for the journey to London.
Chapter Three
The morning soon came and it was a sunny and cold one. There was a strange atmosphere in the town. As usual at this time, people were beginning to think about Christmas and to make plans, but something was different this time – people appeared more subdued than they might otherwise be. But then, they knew that a killer might still be in their midst.
Bartlett and Boase met up at the police station, and made their way from there to the railway just in time to catch the London train. They settled into their seats and prepared for the journey; both looked and felt a bit bleary-eyed on account of a later than usual night the previous evening, and an early morning – it was still only a quarter to seven. Boaseʼs landlady had been up even earlier and packed some food for him, as she had felt sure he didnʼt want to be ‘buying eatables from any Tom, Dick, or Harryʼ. After three or four minutes, as the train pulled out of the station, he opened up a small brown paper bag which he had pulled from his pocket and leaned forward to his superior who was sitting opposite.
ʻHard-boiled egg, sir?ʼ
ʻNo thank you. Havenʼt you had any breakfast?ʼ
ʻDidnʼt have time this morning, sir, overslept a bit.ʼ
Bartlett sighed. ʻYou need a woman to do for you, thatʼs what you need, good cook, good company. Itʼs time you thought about settling down.ʼ The older man suddenly felt paternal.
ʻMaybe youʼre right, sir – pork pie?ʼ
The train pulled into Truro station, where there was to be a fifteen-minute wait and a change. This change being quickly effected by the pair, Bartlett jumped quickly out again on to the platform and ran to buy a newspaper. Boase watched him from the compartment window and yawned. The sunshine was bright and the carriage was warm. The station was busy already and people rushed here and there, some getting on the train, some getting off. Others stood on the platform waiting. A train on the other line was being unloaded – there was milk and newspapers and, out from the guardʼs van jumped a dog exactly like Topper. People at this end of the country often bought dogs after seeing advertisements in the papers for them and, having sent their money, their chosen animal would travel from up-country by train.
As Boase continued watching the activities, half asleep, he was startled to see William Gibbons running for all he was worth along the platform. He stood up looking through the cloudy glass, not believing his eyes as the man ran to the station exit and disappeared. Why, heʼd recently interviewed the same man about the murder of Ivy Williams, a man who could barely walk without the aid of a stick due to his war injuries. What was going on?
As Boase sat back down, completely puzzled, the guard began to close the doors, and seeing him about to put his whistle to his already pursed lips, he panicked. Where was Bartlett? Boase didnʼt want to end up in London on his own; he hadnʼt eve
n been there before. At that, the object of his worry bounded into view and the guard opened the door and pushed him in. Bartlett was panting as he readjusted his attire.
ʻDamned cheek, pulling my coat like that, I had plenty of time.ʼ
ʻI donʼt think so, sir.ʼ The younger man grinned at the sight of his superior looking so unusually dishevelled. ʻWhere were you?ʼ
ʻDamned ridiculous. I ran after a girl, could have sworn it was Norma Berryman. This case is taking it out of me, I donʼt mind admitting it, Boase. Weʼre going round in circles and weʼre running out of time – letʼs hope today comes up trumps.ʼ
ʻRunning out of time, sir? Why?ʼ
ʻThink about it; weʼve got one girl dead, another one missing, possibly dead – God forbid. We canʼt afford another casualty. And, according to Greet, weʼll be the next casualties if we donʼt sort this mess out sharpish. We need to see if these two girls are linked in any way or if itʼs all just a horrible coincidence. We donʼt need another murder.ʼ
The two men sat back in their seats and Boase proceeded to tell Bartlett about his strange sighting of William Gibbons.
Some hours later the train pulled into Paddington Station and the two men quickly set off for Oxford Street and to the offices of Bennett, Bennett, Thornton & Bennett. Boase was absolutely amazed at the sights he saw. The shops were enormous, there was so much traffic, and so many people – he liked it in a strange sort of way but he didnʼt think he could ever live there; there was no sea for a start and, apparently, nowhere to go to be alone. Bartlett, however, was back on old ground and expertly led the way to the solicitorsʼ offices without putting a foot wrong. It was like he had never been away – he still thought it had changed over the last ten years though.
On reaching the very modern building, they entered through two huge glass doors. The decor and furnishings were also very stylish and modern … Bartlett didnʼt like it one bit.
Empty Vessels Page 4