ʻDo you believe him?ʼ asked Bartlett, ʻthis drunken farmer?ʼ
Well, I didnʼt at first, but then I remembered when we were on the train to London and you said you thought you saw Norma Berryman at Truro station.ʼ
Bartlett was deep in thought.
ʻIt did look remarkably like her, I admit. Iʼd do anything to find that girl and return her to her parents. Look, the next market is this Saturday – why donʼt we go over and see if thereʼs anything in this information; I not getting my hopes up, mind you.ʼ
Saturday brought still more snow, and Bartlett and Boase decided to take an early train to Truro to see if they could spot Norma Berryman. Boase was, as usual, well-prepared, with two pork pies, a hard-boiled egg, and two jam tarts. As the train steamed out of Falmouth station and headed towards Penryn, the extent of the previous nightʼs snowfall became apparent. The fields and barns and small cottages were thick with white, and occasionally the fields were dotted with prints where the farm animals or the farmers had spoilt the clean white ground.
Before long the train pulled into Truro station and Bartlett and Boase headed towards the market. Bartlett stopped Boase just before they entered the market.
ʻNow, if sheʼs here, and Iʼm not convinced myself, donʼt alarm her – if sheʼs here, presumably she has her reasons so tread very carefully.ʼ
ʻRight you are, sir,ʼ replied Boase.
The two made their way through hundreds of chattering farmers, some buying cattle or sheep, others selling them. The smell was unwelcoming and Boase pulled his scarf tightly around his mouth and nose. At one end of the market was the market house and office, ugly tin and wooden buildings which looked as though they had seen better days. They were raised up and looked down on the activities, and were reached by an iron staircase.
Bartlett and Boase made their way up the staircase and reached a door with frosted glass and bearing the words Trevanion and Sons.
Bartlett grabbed Boaseʼs sleeve.
ʻRemember what I said, now.ʼ
Boase nodded and knocked on the door. It was opened immediately by a tall, thin middle-aged man in a grey tweed suit. Almost bald, he had a long, thin nose which curved at the tip, almost like a beak. He was almost unbelievably red in the face and wore extremely thick round glasses – Boase looked at him and thought the man must have needed very good eyesight to see through those. He invited the two men to step into his office. ʻGood morning, gentlemen. I am Thomas Trevanion, livestock auctioneer – how can I help you?ʼ
Bartlett introduced himself and Boase to Thomas Trevanion and thought returning his handshake was rather like trying to hold a lump of blancmange.
ʻI was wondering, sir, if we might speak to Norma Berryman; I have been informed that she works here in this office.ʼ
The auctioneer looked puzzled.
ʻIʼm sorry, officer, we have no one of that name working here – I think you have been misinformed.ʼ
Bartlett wasnʼt too surprised; he hadnʼt held out much hope on this. ʻWell, if youʼre quite sure, Iʼm sorry to have troubled you, sir – youʼre obviously correct and we are misinformed. I bid you good day.ʼ
As Bartlett and Boase began to descend the staircase back down to the market, the office door reopened and Thomas Trevanion called them back up.
ʻCome in, gentlemen, please – Iʼve just had a thought. I donʼt suppose you have a photograph of this girl?ʼ
Bartlett hurriedly pulled a photograph from his pocket and showed it to the man. He hadnʼt really thought it worthwhile previously.
ʻI thought so – I just saw a bill this morning with her on it; I thought it didnʼt all add up.ʼ
ʻWhat didnʼt, sir?ʼ
Boase was confused now.
ʻWell, this isnʼt Norma Berryman …’
ʻIʼm sorry, it is, sir.ʼ
ʻNo, this is Jane Perkins, and, yes, she did work here.ʼ
ʻIs she here today?ʼ Bartlett was hopeful now.
ʻIʼm sorry, no – she left on Wednesday. All rather strange really.ʼ
ʻHow long had she been working here?ʼ Boase could barely hide his disappointment.
ʻOh, about three months I suppose.ʼ
ʻDo you know where she is now?ʼ Bartlett was pressing him now – theyʼd come so far and Peggy Berryman was uppermost in his thoughts.
ʻIʼm very sorry – no I donʼt, I have absolutely no idea.ʼ
Bartlett and Boase said goodbye to Thomas Trevanion and asked him to make contact with them immediately if Jane Perkins should reappear.
Chapter Seven
The first day of February arrived and the weather was quite cold but the weak sun shone through the clouds. The snows of January were gone now and Falmouth was looking forward to spring. The daffodils and crocuses came early to this corner of England and would soon be emerging from the ground.
Kitty and Eddy had returned from their short honeymoon in Porthcurno and were busy making plans in their new home in Trelawney Road. At six oʼclock in the evening, Kitty, already settled and very happy in her new role as Mrs Rashleigh, took a large casserole from the oven and placed it on the kitchen table; it was Eddyʼs favourite. She had so much more time on her hands now as she was only working part-time at Mrs Williamsʼs tobacconist shop – Eddy said that they could afford it and, besides that, Mabel Roberts was a bit short of cash and wanted to do some extra work at the shop. Kitty had laid the kitchen table and ran into the front room to peep through the net curtains to watch Eddy coming up the road. As he came past the window he saw her and winked. She ran to the front door and greeted him with a hug.
ʻCome in, take your ʼat and coat off – your foodʼs ready now.ʼ
ʻI could get used to all this attention, Mrs Rashleigh,ʼ he said, patting his new wifeʼs arm.
As the newly-weds sat eating, Eddy took Kittyʼs hand.
ʻGuess what, Kit? It looks like in a couple of monthsʼ time we might be getting a motor car – what dʼyou think of that?ʼ
ʻA car – what, you mean for us? I canʼt believe it; can we afford it though?ʼ
ʻYes. It wonʼt be new of course, but weʼll get a nice one from work – just think, weʼll be able to go anywhere we like: picnics, shopping, anything you want really.ʼ
Kitty leapt from her chair and planted a huge kiss on her husbandʼs lips – a car of their own, how wonderful.
Eddy finished his meal.
ʻSomething strange happened at work today. A man came into the workshop, all wrapped up in a hat and with a scarf almost covering his face – I know itʼs been cold but this was overdoing it a bit. He wanted to know if he could hire a car next week at short notice. I told him it would be possible but he wouldnʼt leave any particulars – he just said heʼd be back next week. Strange, eh? We donʼt get many people asking to hire a car.ʼ
Kitty took the plates over to the sink.
ʻWell, there are some strange people about – look at what ʼappened to that poor woman at Swanpool last year. I mean, youʼd ʼave to be a bit strange to do something like that to someone.ʼ
The next day, at Penvale Manor, the postman came early as usual. Annie Bolitho, one of the maids, saw him pass the kitchen window and ran through the back entrance to meet him. He was quite sweet, she thought. Patrick McGinn was nineteen with carrotty hair and freckles, and his broad Irish accent made her melt. They always found time to stand talking and teasing each other until Cook sent another maid out to fetch her back.
ʻThereʼs a letter from London today, Annie – not for you though. Itʼs for the twins, addressed to both of them – look.ʼ
Annie took this letter along with the others.
ʻThereʼs never any letters for me, Patrick McGinn, and well you know it – whoʼs going to write to me, I ask you?ʼ
ʻI might,ʼ came the reply followed by a wink as the young postman remounted his bicycle and made off at top speed, whistling as usual.
Annie Bolitho sorted all the post and put those letters for ʻupstairsʼ on a silver tray as she always did. It was only
half past seven – no one upstairs would even be awake yet. She placed the tray on a small table at the foot of the big staircase and returned to the kitchen.
At about eleven oʼclock the Hatton twins sent to the kitchen for their breakfast. It was brought into the dining room – eggs, bacon, sausages, haddock, mushrooms, and fried potatoes – and laid out on a large mahogany sideboard which stood under a monstrous portrait bearing the title: Woodford Membury, Earl of Stokedene. Woodford Membury was Lady Cordelia Hattonʼs great-grandfather and she insisted that the portrait remain on the wall even though, not having being blessed with good looks, the subject had been known to frighten small children, not least Rupert and Algernon many years ago. The twins very much resembled him, being portly with protruding teeth and hooked noses. The look was finished by greasy grey hair above a very high, pale forehead.
Rupert paused to open the post he had collected from the hall. He looked at the ʻLondonʼ envelope.
ʻI say, old man – this oneʼs for both of us. Shall I open it?ʼ
Receiving a nod from Algernon, he pulled open the envelope and read the contents.
ʻWhat a blasted cheek! I donʼt believe this – take a look.ʼ
His brother walked around to Rupertʼs side of the table and read the letter. It had been badly typed on tatty, buff-coloured paper:
I told you Iʼd be asking for my money and I meant it.
I didnʼt do it but someone did.
You wanted the job done and you got your way. Itʼs time to pay up.
If you donʼt pay, I will tell the police that you asked me to kill her.
You wonʼt want that much trouble and shame on your good name, will you?
Put £500 in a bag and take it to Swanpool cemetery. Near the hedge by the hill thereʼs a big memorial – a foreign one – you canʼt miss it.
LEAVE THE BAG THERE AT MIDNIGHT ON THE 8TH.
If you donʼt, Iʼm telling them.
Regards,
Your old chum.
The twins looked at each other and Algernon began to panic.
ʻI didnʼt think heʼd be this stupid. What shall we do?ʼ
Rupert returned to his breakfast.
ʻDo nothing. He wonʼt say anything, itʼs too risky for him.ʼ
ʻBut he will. I know him better than you do. Heʼll go through with it, I know.ʼ
Rupert sighed and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
ʻThen, if you really believe that, we must give him the money.ʼ
ʻThatʼs madness. We canʼt give him all that money. Besides, even if we do, he might keep coming back for more, then what do we do?ʼ
ʻHave you got any better suggestions, Algie?ʼ
Algernon paced the room, clutching his head.
ʻYes, I have actually.ʼ He lowered his voice. ʻSimple – we kill him.ʼ
Rupert was on his feet immediately.
ʻAlgie – are you absolutely mad? What are you thinking of, man?ʼ
ʻIʼm thinking of us, Rupert – and mother, of course. If all this got out it would be too much for her to endure, poor dear. Weʼve got no choice.ʼ
Rupert didnʼt like this side of his brother – heʼd never seen him like this before, so determined to do wrong. Heʼd got Algie out of many scrapes in the past and talked him out of lots of mad ideas, but this – this was serious.
ʻAlgie, look, youʼre not thinking rationally. He wonʼt do or say anything. Heʼs just seen a chance to make some money out of us – if we donʼt go along with it, thereʼs nothing he can do, really, youʼve got to trust me on this – youʼll just end up in worse trouble.ʼ
ʻNo, I know exactly what Iʼm doing and youʼve got to help me.ʼ
ʻNothing doing, old man. You know Iʼd do anything for you, but this is going too far, Algie.ʼ
Algernon wouldnʼt be dissuaded.
ʻI know how we can do it and no one will ever know and we wonʼt have to worry about him any more. Heʼs got to go – I knew he was trouble right from the start.ʼ
ʻAlgie, listen. He says he didnʼt have anything to do with the murder – but he would say that, wouldnʼt he? It probably was him, and, if so, just look at what heʼs capable of. You read the reports about the dead woman and the state she was in when they found her, and youʼve heard the servants gossiping about her. Only a madman could do something like that. You know the police are already looking for him – why would he want to draw attention to himself in that way – by raking us for money? The manʼs extremely dangerous. Listen to me and do as I say – I donʼt want to get involved with that man and end up as another of his victims – are you listening to me, Algie? Heʼs bluffing.ʼ
ʻNo, Rupert – Iʼve made up my mind and Iʼm counting on your help.ʼ
Ruby Pengelly applied more red lipstick and dabbed her nose with powder. Closing her compact, she turned to her brother.
ʻJack, do I need more rouge, would you say?ʼ
ʻI shouldnʼt think so, Rube – you look like a clown already; wait ʼtil Ma sees you.ʼ
ʻYou just donʼt understand the modern look – you wouldnʼt, youʼre a man.ʼ
ʻThanks for the compliment, Iʼm sure,ʼ came the reply, ʻnice to know my sisterʼs so observant.ʼ
ʻOh, shut up, Jack, youʼve been a pain in the pinny ever since Kitty left, you really ʼave.ʼ
ʻWhere are ʼe goinʼ tonight then?ʼ
ʻIʼm meetinʼ a friend, weʼre entering the marathon dance competition at the Magnolia Club – and before you say anything, Iʼve got time off work and Ma knows about it. The first prize is five pounds, split between the winning couple; thatʼd be ʼandy, wouldnʼt it?ʼ
Ruby finished getting ready, said goodbye to her parents and Jack and made her way to the Magnolia Club. What a lot she could do with fifty shillings.
As Ruby arrived outside the club, there was her dance partner waiting on the steps for her as promised. It was Ernie Penhaligon, the police constable. Ruby patted her hair, had a quick check in her compact mirror and ran up the steps towards him.
ʻHello, Ernie – ready to win some money?ʼ
Ernie Penhaligon smiled at her.
ʻYou bet!ʼ
The dance hall was full of hopeful couples, all certain that the five pounds would be theirs. As they collected their numbers and read the set of rules laid out for the competition, Harryʼs Havana Orchestra began to play. They would be taking the opening shift, followed in turn by several other smaller groups of players.
Rupert Hatton arrived at the club at about ten oʼclock. Instructing his chauffeur to go home, he went up the steps, passed through the revolving door and made his way to the bar. He sat watching the competition, looking at the posters advertising the prize and thinking it was amazing what some people would put themselves through for a paltry five pounds. He smiled to himself, pushed another cigarette into its holder and turned his attention to the orchestra.
At about four oʼclock in the morning, a small group of musicians known as the Park Players arrived to take over from Harry Watson-Booth and his troupe. Two or three couples had dropped out already but Ruby and Ernie still had lots of energy. Rupert Hatton had stretched himself out on a chaise longue. He sat up when Harry Watson-Booth came over to him.
ʻI say, you must be sick of all that playing, Harry.ʼ
ʻIʼm a bit tired, yes.ʼ
ʻLook, what say you come back to the house and weʼll have a few drinks?ʼ
Harry yawned.
ʻItʼs four oʼclock in the morning and Iʼm exhausted, Rupert.ʼ
The older man was persistent.
ʻCome on, itʼll be fun – we havenʼt seen each other for ages. Please say yes.ʼ
ʻNo, Rupert, really – the chaps and I might get called to the club again later on today, depending on how long the dance lasts; I really need to get some shut-eye.ʼ
The two men left the Magnolia Club together and walked in opposite directions along Arwenack Street. As Rupert reached the bend in the road known as Church Corner, between the Parish Church and the Kingʼs Head, he heard someone behind
him. He stopped walking but didnʼt turn around. The street was very dark.
ʻWhoʼs there?ʼ
A hand moved swiftly around his neck, the other across his mouth.
ʻShut up and listen. Youʼve been a very naughty boy, havenʼt you? You and that brother of yours donʼt want to pay me. But Iʼve been very patient – yes, very patient, see? That was a bad move, Duke, not paying up. But Iʼm a nice sort of person and Iʼm prepared to give you another chance – okay? You got my letter?ʼ
Rupert attempted, with difficulty, to nod.
ʻNo one messes around with Frank Wilson – you should know that.ʼ
The grip relaxed slightly.
ʻOh, and one other thing – donʼt think I donʼt know what you get up to with that pretty bandleader. Bit young for you, Iʼd say. Canʼt you get someone your own age? Itʼd be a shame for ʼim to lose ʼis looks now, wouldnʼt it – or for something to ʼappen to Rupert or Algie; how would Mummy feel about that? Now you be a good boy and get my money. Put it where I told you at midnight – donʼt try to cheat me again now, will you?ʼ
Rupert was released and he ran along Church Street, not looking behind once.
Rupert Hatton didnʼt go to bed when he eventually arrived home at about half past five in the morning. He poured himself some more drinks, smoked some more cigarettes, and sat in the study thinking about the earlier events. He was still sitting there when Algernon came downstairs, earlier than usual at nine o’clock.
ʻI say, old man – have you been here all night? This room stinks – mind if I open the windows?ʼ
Rupert shrugged.
ʻI had a run-in with a mutual acquaintance at about four this morning.ʼ
ʻOh?ʼ
Rupert told his brother what had happened.
ʻI told you, Rupert, thereʼs only one thing to do – but you wouldnʼt listen. Well, believe me, itʼs still on the cards.ʼ
ʻCount me in, Algie, you were right. Weʼve got no choice now. We canʼt put Mother at risk. He even threatened to harm Harry.ʼ
Algernon sighed very audibly.
ʻHow on earth did you get mixed up with him? If Mother ever found out what you do, it would break her heart. How can you be so vile?ʼ
Empty Vessels Page 10