Bartlett felt for the man – he knew how he himself felt when he found out that John had been killed. He touched the rough, clenched fist which lay on the table;
ʻPlease go on, Percy.ʼ
ʻWell, after that, I still wanted children – so did Mary really, but she was too afraid that it would ʼappen all over again.ʼ He looked up at Boase, ʻIʼm sorry to say this in front of you, young man, but, after that, she wouldnʼt let me go near ʼer, you understand these things, Mr Bartlett, sir, she was that afraid. I knew she was desperate to have a child but she was just too scared. Anyway, after about a year, someone we knew who worked at the Union told us there was a little baby girl who ʼad been born there and, poor little thing, ʼer mother ʼad died giving birth to ʼer. Well, we was lucky enough to be offered the child and we adopted ʼer. It made both of us so ʼappy – she brought joy to our lives like I canʼt tell you. Mary even seemed to be getting over Nathaniel a bit. Ivy was such a lovely girl growing up and then, suddenly, she changed. She must ʼave been about eighteen or nineteen. She would stay out all night, always out with soldiers that was ʼere durinʼ the war; she was rude to ʼer mother and me – in short she was uncontrollable. Then, about three years ago, we found out ʼow she was makinʼ ʼer money. Well, I think thatʼs what finished Mary off. She was such a respectable woman and we brought Ivy up to be the same. In the end, Maryʼs ʼeart got so bad, she was taking pills for everything and she couldnʼt carry on no more. I lost ʼer two years ago next April.ʼ
Bartlett stood up.
ʻDid the workhouse indicate to you who Ivyʼs natural parents were, sir?ʼ
ʻNo, Mr Bartlett, they didnʼt – we didnʼt want to know really, we were just glad to ʼave the little girl.ʼ
Bartlett apologised.
ʻIʼm sorry we had to pry. I know that was hard for you. Weʼll leave you alone now.ʼ
The two men left the shed and, walking back through the dockyard, returned to the station. Bartlett sat at his desk while Boase went to find some tea. They sat down together to have their drink and the younger man produced a brown paper bag from his pocket.
ʻFancy a sausage roll, sir?ʼ he asked, offering the bag.
ʻNo, I told you before, you need a woman – you canʼt carry on eating like that; donʼt you ever sit down to a meal apart from when youʼre at our house?ʼ
ʻI get a meal at my digs in the evening – not as nice as Mrs Bartlettʼs and Ireneʼs cooking though.ʼ
ʻIʼm sure youʼre right, Boase.ʼ Bartlett was looking at the small photograph of the servants he had pulled from his drawer. He leaned across his desk and picked up a large magnifying glass to examine the photo more carefully. He concentrated for several minutes while Boase finished his sausage rolls.
ʻBoase, do you remember a man by the name of Samuel Hoskins?ʼ
ʻShould I, sir?ʼ
ʻHe used to work for my father-in-law in his saddlery business – course, that was before your time wasnʼt it? Sometimes it feels like weʼve been together for years, you and me.ʼ
Boase wondered if this was a compliment or not.
ʻI remember him visiting my mother-in-law some years back when she was ill. He was a nice chap, if I recall, brought Carolineʼs mother some flowers from the garden. He was very fond of my wifeʼs parents.ʼ
ʻWhat about him, sir?ʼ
ʻWell, I only saw him a couple of times when we were visiting but, one thing I always remember was what a ridiculous moustache he had, it was enormous, really thick and bushy.ʼ
ʻSo?ʼ
ʻSo, I think heʼs in this photograph – in fact Iʼm sure of it. If thatʼs so, it means I can identify this picture. Samuel Hoskins left the saddlery business and became a blacksmith. Later on he got a job at a big country house – he came back to tell us all about it. He worked at Penvale Manor, the Hattons’ place out at Budock – we know now that old man Hatton was Ivyʼs grandfather. If this is Hoskins, then this would have been taken in about 1895 or 1896, so maybe Ivy Williamsʼs real mother is in this photograph and thatʼs why she had it. If so, she must have known that she was adopted. If this fits, Boase, we might be nearer to a motive and a suspect.ʼ
ʻWhat do you mean, sir? That perhaps the Hattons murdered Ivy Williams? But even so, what has all this got to do with Norma Berryman?ʼ
ʻI donʼt know yet, I need to think. Iʼm going to knock off now, itʼs been a long couple of days – I suggest you do the same, and get your thinking cap on tonight, weʼll be looking for some answers in the morning.ʼ
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 Fou
r
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?’
ʻShe, sir?ʼ
ʻWhat?ʼ
ʻYou 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 bee
n 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
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