ʻAbout what? I must say that looks remarkably like my daughterʼs writing paper and envelope.
ʻIrene says sheʼd like me to visit you at Christmas …ʼ
Bartlett rose from his chair and patted the younger man on the back. ʻAnd Mrs Bartlett and I would be very pleased if you would stay a couple of days.ʼ
ʻI donʼt know what to say, sir.ʼ Boase looked confused and was thinking of Irene – heʼd have to buy her a very nice present; what would she like?
ʻJust say youʼll come to us on Christmas Eve and stay till Boxing Day.ʼ
ʻWell, then, I accept – thatʼs very generous of you, sir, very generous indeed.ʼ
Boase arrived at the Bartletts’ at about four oʼclock on Christmas Eve carrying a small suitcase in one hand and with a large box under his arm. Irene, sitting in the window, had seen him struggling up the path and was waiting on the doorstep for him. It had been snowing ever since he left Melvill Road and his coat was white and damp. Irene giggled.
ʻCome in, Archie, you must be frozen, you look just like a snowman – Iʼm so pleased you came.ʼ
She pulled him in through the front door and he dropped his case and the box on the hall floor.
ʻDo take your coat and hat off,ʼ said Irene, helping him shake the snow from his clothes. As she pulled his scarf from around his neck she looked at him and winked. He knew this was going to be the best Christmas ever.
Caroline called to him from upstairs, ʻHello, Archie, nice to see you again; come on up, Iʼll show you your room.ʼ
Patting Topper, who had appeared as soon as Irene had opened the front door, Boase carried his things upstairs. He entered a small bedroom at the back of the house.
ʻI hope youʼll be comfortable here, Archie,ʼ said Caroline drawing the curtains as it was by this time quite dark.
ʻI know I shall,ʼ replied Boase who would have been quite happy sleeping on the floor just to be under the same roof as Irene. As it was, it was probably the nicest room he had ever stayed in. A single brass bed stood under the window; it had a cream eiderdown with three matching pillows, all delicately embroidered. There was a chest of drawers and a small wardrobe on the other side of the room and a bookcase full of several interesting books: from cookery to crime.
Caroline walked over to the door.
ʻThe bathroomʼs just next to the kitchen. Come down when youʼre ready and weʼll have some tea.ʼ
Within fifteen minutes, Archie Boase was sitting at the tea table with the three Bartletts. The dining room looked lovely, he thought, with a big Christmas tree in one corner and several presents underneath. Boase stood up.
ʻWould you all excuse me please, Iʼve left some things in my room.ʼ
Moments later he returned with four neatly wrapped presents. He placed them under the tree. Topper stood up, stretched, and walked over to the tree to investigate what was going on.
ʻItʼs all right, boy – thereʼs one here for you too; look.ʼ Topper sniffed his present and, with a snort of what Boase hoped would be approval, returned to his masterʼs side.
ʻYou didnʼt need to bring anything, Boase,ʼ said Bartlett, tapping his pipe on the fireplace.
ʻIt was the least I could do, sir,ʼ came the reply.
Caroline looked at the two men in turn;
ʻDo you think we could dispense with the formalities of the station, just for the holiday? How about Archie and George?ʼ
ʻThat sounds fine to me, Princess.ʼ Bartlett looked at Boase.
ʻIf youʼre sure thatʼs all right – I suppose it all sounds a bit formal, doesnʼt it? Archie and George it is, then,ʼ replied Boase.
Christmas Day brought still more snow and Boase was awake early. He opened his curtains and looked out at the snow falling onto the back garden. Heʼd had the best nightʼs sleep. He wondered what the day would bring, wondered how the Bartletts celebrated Christmas. It had been a long time since Archie Boase had enjoyed a family Christmas. He hadnʼt seen his mother for almost four years. She had gone to live with her sister in Doncaster. When Boaseʼs father died, she had spent a year on her own while Boase was in France during the war. She had not managed at all well and they both agreed that she would be better off with her sister, who was also widowed. He would love to see her again soon. They wrote many letters, telling each other their news. He hadnʼt told her about Irene yet – perhaps that would be his next letter.
As he lay in bed looking out, he heard footsteps on the stairs and presently a door opened and closed. Seconds later Topper appeared in the garden with his red rubber ball. Boase watched as he threw the ball in the air over and over again, pawprints appearing on the fresh snow. One more throw into the air and the ball landed in the middle of the pond. Topper stood watching it, his head on one side and ears cocked. The sound of the door opening again and there stood Irene with Bartlettʼs old coat over her dressing gown. Boase watched as she and Topper mulled over how to retrieve the ball. Presently Irene found a long stick and proceeded to tap the ball until it reached the edge of the pond, whereupon she pulled it out and handed it to Topper who had been waiting patiently. He barked his gratitude and the two returned inside. Boase lay back on his pillows. Irene was so beautiful – he could watch her all day.
When Boase came downstairs it was about half past eight, and the smell of food was all through the hall leading to the kitchen. The Bartletts were up and dressed and Caroline called him into the dining room.
ʻMerry Christmas. Are you hungry, Archie? Did you sleep well?
ʻYes, I am rather, and yes I did sleep very well, thank you. Merry Christmas to you too.ʼ
ʻGood morning, Archie, come and have some breakfast, my boy.ʼ Bartlett was already at his place drinking a cup of tea. As Boase sat down, Irene came into the dining room carrying a tray of food.
ʻGood morning, Archie, Merry Christmas, I hope youʼre hungry.ʼ She pecked him on the cheek and his heart fluttered.
ʻMerry Christmas to you too, Irene,ʼ he almost stuttered. Irene put a large plate in front of her father and the same for Boase … bacon, eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, tomatoes, and mushrooms, with lots of fried bread. Caroline and Irene sat down but ate only toast, butter and home-made jam with several cups of tea.
ʻWe normally open our presents at lunchtime, Archie,ʼ said Caroline pouring four more cups of tea. ʻIs that all right with you?ʼ
ʻOf course, that would be lovely,ʼ replied Boase.
Bartlett stood up, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
ʻMe and Topper are off for our constitutional, Princess – we wonʼt be long in this snow.ʼ
His wife kissed his cheek.
ʻIʼm going to keep an eye on the lunch and the youngsters can have some fun together – Irene, Iʼve brought out some gramophone records. If you and Archie roll back the rug, you can dance.ʼ
Boase looked mortified – he had never danced.
Irene sensed his anxiety.
ʻItʼs all right, Archie – I know all the latest steps; Iʼll teach you.ʼ
Boase felt relieved. Heʼd seen these ʻmodernʼ dances where you got to hold your girl really close; heʼd learn to dance all right.
At Killigrew Street, the Pengellys were making the most of the festive season and the two days they all had off work – the only time of the year that ever happened. Rose had been up early as usual to prepare the food, but the girls had sent her back to bed with a hot cup of tea and one of their magazines.
ʻWeʼre doing everything for you today, Ma,ʼ Kitty had told her, ʻyou just relax and enjoy Christmas Day with Dad.ʼ Even Jack was up early, lighting the fire and helping to prepare the vegetables. Kitty and Ruby shared the kitchen chores and cooked a very large Christmas meal. Bill had managed to get hold of an enormous turkey and this was prepared with roast potatoes, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, carrots, gravy and stuffing. A foreign ship had docked at Falmouth the previous week and, as a thank you for her speedy repair, the captain had given tins of fruit from his cargo to the men who had done the work. Bill wasnʼt even sure where the ship
was from, but it didnʼt matter – the captain had generously given him four tins of pineapple, four tins of peaches, and two tins of pears. The family had never seen so much fruit all at once.
ʻI wonder what ʼappened to Frank,ʼ Kitty asked her sister.
ʻDonʼt know, donʼt care,ʼ came the reply – ʻI donʼt want my Christmas ruined thinking about ʼim now, do I?ʼ
ʻCourse not, Rube – Iʼm sorry I mentioned ʼim.ʼ
Ruby was still upset; she had liked Frank a lot – what had he been up to since she last saw him? Definitely not murder; she didnʼt believe that, not for a minute.
Jack had set a very nice table with the best cutlery, dinner service, and even Christmas crackers, and the whole family sat down to eat at about two oʼclock. After their meal, Bill and Jack washed up, Rose went to have a lie down, and the two girls sat by the fire eating oranges and looking at the presents they had opened that morning. Ruby pulled on a woollen hat with matching scarf and mittens.
ʻIt was so nice of Ma to knit these, donʼt you think, Kit? ’Specially with her bad fingers anʼ all. Funny, I never saw ʼer doinʼ ʼem, did you?ʼ
ʻNo, no I didnʼt – pʼraps she did ʼem when we was at work. Look at all this sewing she did for me, four tray cloths and two embroidered pillowslips – definitely for my bottom drawer. Dʼyou think she liked the things we got ʼer?ʼ
ʻI know she did,ʼ the other sister replied – ‘just wish it couldʼve been more.ʼ
Jack appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. ʻI got washday ʼands,ʼ he laughed. ‘Whoʼs for a cuppa?ʼ
Kitty stood up, folding her tray cloths. ʻAll round, please, Jack – donʼt forget one for Ma if sheʼs awake.ʼ
Bill came in from the kitchen and lit the new pipe he had received from the girls.
ʻIs it all right, Dad?ʼ asked Kitty anxiously. Bill puffed on the pipe for a moment and looked at the two girls through the smoke.
ʻIʼd say that that woman you work for, Kitty, does a very good line in pipes – and this must be the finest. All in all, I think this has been a very happy Christmas Day.ʼ
At Penvale Manor the grounds of the house looked like a picture from a Christmas card with much snow and high winds causing drifting. It was unusual for this part of Cornwall to experience such weather and the local people were unused to it. Inside the manor house, the Hattons were at home. Lady Hatton had returned from Switzerland and Algernon from London. An enormous Christmas tree had been cut which measured about twelve feet in height and it stood in the hall reaching almost to the ceiling. The Hattons were in the dining room enjoying their customary fine food and drink and the servants were in the kitchen preparing for the evening house party.
Outside, a large figure, struggling to progress through the howling wind and driving snow, and clutching fruitlessly on to a wide-brimmed hat, stopped on turning a bend in the road and surveyed the front of Penvale Manor. The figure, hurrying as quickly as was possible in the appalling conditions, crossed the large lawn and, hesitating only to look behind, ascended the front steps and made its way around the terrace, pausing at each and every window and peering inside. Finally the stranger reached the invitingly lit dining room. Yes, there they all were, eating, drinking, enjoying themselves – not a care in the world. The door leading from this room to the terrace was, conveniently, unlocked and so the stranger entered. As the door opened, the wind howled through and extinguished the eighteen candles which had been merrily burning in two silver candelabra. The twins looked up, Lady Hatton looked up and the four stared at each other in silence.
Rupert Hatton sprang up from his chair.
ʻWhat are YOU doing here? Get out or Iʼll call the police.ʼ
Frank Wilson smiled as he pulled a revolver from his pocket.
ʻCall them – Iʼm sure theyʼd like to hear all about you, about both of you. Now get your mother out of here; we need to talk.’
Lady Hatton, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and sobbing, walked to the door helped by Algernon.
ʻOh, by the way, donʼt try to call the police – for your sonsʼ sakes.ʼ
Algernon returned to the centre of the room.
ʻLook here, Wilson, what are you playing at?ʼ
ʻItʼs easy – Ivy Williams is dead; I didnʼt kill her, but you got your way and, to keep me quiet, I want paying.ʼ
ʻWell even if I was going to pay you, I canʼt get money on Christmas Day,ʼ Rupert looked indignant. ʻAnyway, who did kill her?ʼ
ʻThought you might know the answer to that one, Duke,ʼ replied Frank insultingly.
ʻI want you out of here, and not a word to anyone – we know plenty about you, donʼt forget.ʼ Algernon looked at the gun still in Frankʼs hand. ʻPlanning to use that, were you? Well, just you remember that I saved you from that court martial back in ʼ17 – Iʼm beginning to wish I hadnʼt bothered.ʼ
Frank put the gun back into his pocket.
ʻI never killed Private Tremayne and everyone knew it.ʼ
ʻYouʼre a liar – we know that – and the worst batman I could have had.ʼ Algernon pointed to the doors through which Frank had entered the room.
ʻGo on, get out.ʼ
ʻOkay, but Iʼll be sending you instructions about my payment – look out for them.ʼ
Frank disappeared through the terrace doors and Algernon closed and locked them behind him.
Back at the Bartletts’, Christmas had turned out to be the best Archie Boase had ever spent. He and Irene had spent the morning together and he had learned the latest dances. Irene was thrilled when she opened his present to her – it was a beautiful golden bracelet with a tigerʼs head in the centre and two sparkling green eyes. Boase told her it had reminded him of her green eyes. She, in return, had given him a pocket knife which had everything a man could possibly want, including a bottle-opener, comb, and a small fork. Boase thought it was the best and most useful thing he had ever seen. On the outside of the knife she had had engraved: A.B. 1921.
The Bartletts, with Boase, continued to enjoy their Christmas break and by the 27th of December, everything was back to normal; all except one thing, that is. Everyone had returned to work, most of the shops had reopened, the dockyard was again buzzing with activity , but, as for Boase, well – he had realised that he was in love with Irene Bartlett and nothing would ever be quite the same again. This was something he would have to get used to, but he knew he was going to enjoy it.
Chapter Five
Bartlettʼs first day back at the station was a disjointed one. He couldnʼt seem to settle into anything. He thought over and over about Ivy Williams, Norma Berryman, everything surrounding them and whether there was a link that he had overlooked.
Boase came into the office, whistling and looking very happy.
ʻGood morning, sir, thank you for a lovely Christmas holiday. Cuppa?ʼ
ʻThank you, Boase, I havenʼt had one since I got here. We were very pleased to have you staying – it was nice for all of us. Listen, I think thereʼs something more to those Hattons than meets the eye. One of them is the father of that dead girl and they say they know nothing – they must be able to tell us something. Mind you, do they know who she really was? I donʼt think I want to bring that up just yet – even so, I vote we go back again. Rupert Hatton lied when we spoke to him; they both know Francis Wilson all right and I mean to get to the bottom of it.ʼ
ʻGood idea, sir. Are you hungry, only Iʼve got an extra pork pie here if youʼd like it?ʼ
Bartlett shook his head. ʻYouʼre going to end up in hospital the way youʼre carrying on. There isnʼt a scrap of meat on you and you never stop eating – you need a woman to look after you.ʼ
Before long the two detectives arrived at Penvale Manor. Bartlett rang the bell and almost instantly, the maid they had met before appeared in the doorway. Before Bartlett had a chance to speak, he heard loud voices from inside the hall. He peered over the maidʼs shoulder and saw the Hatton twins both standing on the staircase. They were shouting and gesticulating and, as Bartlett watched
, one took the other by the lapels and shook him vigorously. The older detective barged past the maid and stood at the bottom of the staircase. The argument continued with Bartlett still unseen. The underdog in the pair was leaning back precariously against the banister and yelling loudly and hysterically.
ʻI told you this would happen; I said donʼt get involved. Youʼre always the same, you think you know everything. Well – do you know what? You know nothing.ʼ
The other twin, who had been holding on to his brother’s lapels, suddenly released his grip. ʻMaybe I do know everything, maybe Iʼm sick of you telling me what to do all the time …ʼ
Seeing Bartlett and, by now, Boase, observing them, the twins stopped, straightened their attire and descended the staircase.
Bartlett removed his hat.
ʻGood morning, gentlemen, Iʼm sorry to disturb you, but I really needed to speak to you again.ʼ
Rupert Hatton walked across the hall.
ʻAlgie, Iʼd like to introduce you to these two policemen, Bartlett and er … Boast.ʼ
Bartlett hurriedly put them straight on his assistantʼs surname.
ʻGentlemen, weʼd like to speak to you about the death of Ivy Williams –’
‘Dear Lord, not this again,ʼ interrupted Rupert Hatton.
Algernon indicated towards the back of the hall. ʻPlease come into the drawing room – would you like some teaʼ?
ʻNo, thank you.ʼ Bartlett beckoned to Boase to follow.
The drawing room looked very welcoming with a huge log fire and comfortable leather armchairs and sofas. Bartlett thought that each chair would probably cost him a yearʼs wages.
ʻGentlemen, it is becoming more urgent that we find out about the events surrounding Ivy Williamsʼs murder and I implore you to think of anything that you can – however trivial or irrelevant it might seem.ʼ
Rupert stood up and moved towards the fireplace. From a tortoiseshell box on the mantelpiece he took a long cigarette and from a small table next to him he picked up a slender cigarette holder. As he pushed the cigarette home, Bartlett couldnʼt help thinking what a feminine holder this was for a man to be using, and what small, pale hands Rupert Hatton had. He looked across at the other twin who was fiddling with a silver cigarette case, apparently undecided whether to light a cigarette or not. By comparison, his hands looked almost normal. Bartlett collected his thoughts.
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