Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  ʻIʼm so sorry to bother you, miss, but I really must speak to Mr Freddie Giles.ʼ

  ʻNone of the band is ʼere now, theyʼve all gone ʼome, they donʼt ʼang round once theyʼve finished,ʼ the cleaner replied.

  ʻThis is police business – can you tell me Mr Gilesʼs address?ʼ

  ʻWell, I donʼt know it – I donʼt ʼave nothinʼ to do with the band, I just clean up after ʼem, anʼ a right mess they can make at times, I can tell you.ʼ

  Boase was growing uncharacteristically impatient.

  ʻCould there be a written record of the playersʼ addresses kept in the club?ʼ

  ʻWell, sir, I donʼt know. Thereʼs some books up in the office but I donʼt know what they are – you could ʼave a look if I unlock it.ʼ

  ʻIʼd be much obliged.ʼ

  The cleaner led the way up a steep flight of stairs. At the top was a door. She slowly went through a large bunch of keys on an enormous ring. Boase sighed.

  ʻIʼll be there in a minute, just you ʼang on – I always ʼave trouble with these keys, ʼere you are, this is it.ʼ

  She unlocked the door and Boase entered the small room.

  ʻIʼll leave you to it, the cleaner said, ʻbut Iʼm goinʼ ʼome in fifteen minutes, you shall ʼave to go when I do.ʼ

  Boase was already wading through a large pile of papers and ledgers. After nearly ten minutes he saw a file marked Contact Details/Addresses.

  ʻPlease let it be here, please, please,ʼ he said to himself. He leafed through several pages and there it was:

  Freddie Giles, Clarinettist

  14, Norfolk Road, Falmouth.

  Boase heaved a sigh of relief and, leaving the office, ran back down the stairs, thanking the cleaner on his way out. He made his way through the alleys and up the steep hills until he reached the smart Edwardian terraces which were Norfolk Road. Reaching number fourteen, the second house in the row, he knocked on the door. Presently a large, round woman opened it.

  ʻIʼm sorry to bother you, madam, does Freddie Giles live here?ʼ

  ʻOf course he does, heʼs my lodger. Iʼll call him. Mr Giles, Mr Giles – someone to see you.’

  Freddie came to the door.

  ʻHello again, Constable Boase, nice to see you.ʼ

  On hearing this address, the landlady stepped forward.

  ʻI donʼt want any trouble here, Mr Giles – this is a respectable house.ʼ

  ʻI can assure you, madam, that Mr Giles is in no kind of trouble, believe me, heʼs merely helping me with my enquiries.ʼ

  ʻHmmm – thatʼs what they call it now, is it? Helping the police with their enquiries. Well, Iʼll leave you to it, but, any trouble, youʼll be out.ʼ

  Boase wasted no time in showing the letter to Freddie Giles.

  ʻI need to know if you think this is Harryʼs handwriting, and is this his signature?ʼ

  ʻNo, thatʼs not his writing. Itʼs similar, I suppose. I should know – when I went overseas for six months, we used to correspond and Iʼm quite used to his handwriting. No, thatʼs not his.ʼ

  ʻAre you absolutely sure?ʼ

  ʻLook, Iʼll give you one of his letters if you like – to compare. I kept a couple of them. Wait, Iʼll go and get one.ʼ

  Freddie Giles returned with a letter which was about one year old and gave it to Boase.

  ʻYou can keep that if you like, if itʼll be of any help to you.ʼ

  Boase took the letter.

  ʻThank you, sir, youʼve been more help than you can imagine.ʼ

  Boase left. He still had to catch up with Norma Berryman today. Heʼd call in at the station first; he wanted to make sure these letters were safe and it might be a good idea to pick up his pork pie and chicken leg since it was almost lunchtime.

  As Boase entered the police station, Bartlett met him in the lobby. Boase took off his hat.

  ʻIʼve got some really interesting news for you, sir.ʼ

  ʻItʼll have to wait for now, Boase. Iʼve seen Hatton and arranged everything for tonight but, listen, thereʼs someone you should see in my office. Go in.ʼ

  Boase walked through the door and a young woman rose from his chair. It was obvious to Boase immediately. It was Norma Berryman.

  ʻWhat good news, my boy, eh? What good news.ʼ Bartlett was ecstatic.

  ʻNorma and I have had a long chat which Iʼll tell you about in a minute. Meantime, she was just saying how sheʼd like to powder her nose and weʼre going to get a bit of something for her to eat and then weʼre taking her home.ʼ

  He turned to Norma.

  ʻOff you go, young lady, your food will be here in a minute.ʼ

  The girl smiled at Boase, picked up her handbag, and left the office.

  ʻYou wonʼt believe this, Boase. That French girl we were speaking to in Truro, well, should I say, you were speaking to, gave Norma your card and when she returned to her room, she decided to contact us. Iʼll tell you something, you wouldnʼt believe what that girlʼs been through. She was shopping in Truro, just minding her own business – and when she was crossing the street she was hit by a motor car. Well, she was taken to hospital in a very bad way – in a coma and not expected to live. She wasnʼt carrying any means of identification so no one knew who she was – couldnʼt contact her next of kin or anything. Anyway, it turned out that she made a good recovery, under the circumstances, but had no memory of her own life; didnʼt know who she was, who her parents were, where she lived – nothing! When she got better the matron on her ward set her up with a job at the livestock auctioneers and arranged for her to take the room she was living in. It seems that when she heard about us and saw your card, something happened to slowly bring back her memory – after all that time – would you believe it, Boase? As soon as sheʼs eaten, Iʼm taking her home to her parents; sheʼs a bit worried about seeing them on her own so she asked me if Iʼd go with her. Personally, I canʼt wait to see their faces.ʼ

  Boase was trying to soak all this up when Norma Berryman returned with some sandwiches the desk sergeant had fetched for her. She spoke as she ate, ʻI saw the stories in the newspapers about Ivy Williams and it was only a couple of days ago that I remembered who she was.ʼ

  ʻYou knew Ivy Williams?ʼ Boase stared intently at the girl.

  ʻYes, I knew her very well. I think thereʼs something you should know – if you donʼt already. Ivy Williams wasnʼt very clever, she couldnʼt read or write particularly well but she got by. She regularly came into the library when I was working there to try to improve herself and she used to ask me to help her choose suitable books that she might like to read. Anyway, one day last year, I probably said something out of turn to her. I knew that she was always wondering who her natural parents were; her mother was dead and it wasnʼt something she would speak to her father about – he would be too upset and she knew, deep down, what good parents they had been to her. Still, she wanted to know more about her background. She said sheʼd always suspected that she had been adopted but knew no more than that. I, at one time, had had to help out at the Union workhouse – the library put me forward to help with their record-keeping which had got into a bit of a mess and so I worked there for about two weeks. Well, when I was there I happened to find out about Ivyʼs birth, in the workhouse – I wasnʼt snooping, I just came across it. What I found out amazed me. Her mother had been sent there as a girl of sixteen from the Hatton place out at Budock and the records said that the girl, Maude Mockett she was called, always maintained that one of Lord Hattonʼs sons was the father; the birth certificate, however, was blank on the paternal side.ʼ

  ʻWe know most of this already, Norma,ʼ Bartlett told her politely.

  ʻNo, thereʼs more. One day, shortly after I found this out, Ivy came into the library, very upset. She said she couldnʼt go on not knowing about her parents – she even showed me a little photograph she had kept for years; she said she thought her mother might be in the picture. She felt she had to find out, it was so important to her, so …ʼ Norma paused, ʻso I told her what I knew about the Hattons, everything.�
�

  Boase raised his eyebrows.

  ʻI really had no choice – she was desperate and then the last I knew was she told me she was going to make them pay. Have I caused lots of trouble, Mr Bartlett?ʼ

  Bartlett didnʼt feel like telling Norma that she had probably caused immense trouble; that possibly even a murder had occurred because of this.

  ʻNo, donʼt worry, Norma, donʼt worry.ʼ

  ʻThereʼs something else,ʼ she went on, ‘when I found the records and the birth certificates … well, there were two.ʼ

  ʻTwo?ʼ Bartlett was really surprised now. ʻWhat do you mean, two?ʼ

  ʻIvy Williams was a twin – there were two certificates. The other baby was called Gloria.ʼ

  Boaseʼs thoughts immediately jumped back to Claude Bennettʼs office – he might have thought Ivy Williams had been to see him; could this be possible? He looked at Bartlett who sat looking astounded. Thoughts of every description were racing in both menʼs heads now. All this new information made things look very different indeed; it also possibly changed Normaʼs position – not for the better. This girl knew a lot that might put her in danger. For now, though, Bartlett was content to return her to her parents.

  Bartlett and Norma Berryman walked up the path to the house Norma had grown up in. Bartlett knocked on the door while Norma stood anxiously behind a small bush outside the window. The girlʼs father opened the door and Bartlett heard a voice call from inside.

  ʻWho is it, dear?ʼ

  ʻItʼs Mr Bartlett. Hello, Mr Bartlett, will you come in?ʼ

  Mrs Berryman came through the passageway, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ʻCome in, wonʼt you, how are you?ʼ

  ʻIʼve brought someone to see you both.ʼ Bartlett beckoned Norma to come forward. She emerged timidly from behind the bush.

  ʻHello, Mum, hello Dad.ʼ

  Mr Berryman smiled the biggest smile that Bartlett had ever seen on anyone’s face while his wife just stood in the doorway, motionless. In a moment she held out her arms to her daughter.

  ʻCome ʼere, you bad girl. Where ʼave ʼe bin? You donʼt know ʼow worried weʼve bin. Come ʼere to your Ma.ʼ

  Mother and daughter embraced and sobbed. Mr Berryman held out his hand to Bartlett.

  ʻI donʼt know what to say to you, Mr Bartlett, sir, indeed I donʼt. Youʼve given me the best gift Iʼve ever ʼad and I canʼt thank you enough.ʼ

  Mrs Berryman looked up, unable to speak, but her face told Bartlett everything he needed to know. Quietly he turned and walked back up the garden and through the gate.

  Chapter Ten

  Returning to his office, Bartlett found his assistant at his desk making notes.

  ʻHello, Boase, youʼll be pleased to hear there was a very happy reunion – very happy indeed. We now have one less thing to worry about – although we need to keep an eye on Norma, she knows too much. What are you up to?ʼ

  ʻSir, weʼve just been sent the post-mortem results which were exactly as we expected, but also this letter was found on the body.ʼ

  Boase handed him the letter.

  ʻI went straight round to speak to Freddie Giles and he gave me an original letter written by Harry Watson-Booth – the writing is similar, but itʼs not by the same hand. This was sent to Rupert Hatton to arrange a rendezvous and he obviously didnʼt suspect that there was anything strange about the writing; at least, if he had, why would he have turned up? Someone else, the killer, wrote this and sent it to set up Hattonʼs murder. Apart from Frank Wilson, who else could it be?

  Bartlett listened thoughtfully.

  ʻI admit, I have absolutely no idea whatʼs going on – perhaps everything will become clearer if we pick up Frank Wilson tonight; letʼs wait and see. In the meantime, I think we should keep an eye on both Norma Berryman and Algernon Hatton – they might both be in danger for very different reasons.ʼ

  At five minutes to eleven, Bartlett and Boase let Algernon Hatton into their office. Bartlett asked him to sit down.

  ʻNow do we all know what weʼre doing? Mr Hatton?ʼ

  ʻYes, yes, I think so. Iʼm so nervous, Inspector Bartlett – what if anything goes wrong?ʼ

  ʻDonʼt you worry about anything except dropping the money as weʼve arranged, thatʼs all you need to do. All right, Boase, are you ready?ʼ

  ʻReady, sir.ʼ

  Bartlett buttoned up his coat.

  ʻGood, then letʼs go.ʼ

  Boase stopped the car about a ten-minute walk from the cemetery and the three men split up and approached it from different directions. They were all to get a good view of the foreign monument, which was large and tall and so could be easily seen above the others. Hatton walked down the hill a short way and stopped at a small gate which led into the cemetery; the grave was quite near. The moonlight shone across this grave and the few immediately surrounding it. Bartlett walked down the hill towards Swanpool to approach from a lower gate while Boase entered right at the top. The cemetery was large and, thankfully, had several entrances. By half past eleven, all three men had a good view of the stone. Hatton looked at his watch then walked towards the grave carrying the package. As he reached it, he looked around him – Bartlett and Boase were well hidden; he hoped they were still around, he was feeling rather more nervous now. He dropped the package between the grave and the hedge and, leaving by the nearest side gate, as instructed by Bartlett, began the walk back to the car. Bartlett and Boase watched all this and remained still. The moon continued to light up this part of the cemetery and the white package could be clearly seen. Bartlett looked at his watch; it was a quarter to twelve. He hoped this would all go to plan. A couple of party-goers, seemingly the worse for drink, stumbled down the hill, laughing and joking. Still no sign of anyone else. The wait continued.

  Boase felt a sneeze coming on and he pinched his nose hard to stifle it which action was, happily, successful. He had installed himself into such a small, awkward vantage point that his knees were beginning to feel extremely cramped. How he wished that something would happen, or that he could at least stretch his legs, just a little. He managed to look at his watch; two minutes past midnight. He hoped the wait wouldnʼt be much longer. He couldnʼt see Bartlett – he assumed he must be nearby. A rat ran swiftly across Boaseʼs feet and he jumped. He saw the rodent scuttling across the nearby graves and smiled to himself in relief. He heard a noise. Bartlett had heard it too. It was the sound of the top gate opening – Boase recognised it as it had made the same sound when he had entered by it earlier. Both men listened intently. The wind had begun to blow and it moaned quietly between the headstones. Boaseʼs heart was racing now. The two men expected to hear footsteps or the rustle of a raincoat – something, anything. But nothing came.

  Fifteen minutes after midnight and still nothing. Boase looked up to see Bartlett standing beside him. He spoke in a low voice.

  ʻI donʼt want to spend all night here, Boase. You go back to the station, get a constable to stay here for the rest of the night and let Hatton go home. Come back with the relief and then you can pick me up. Iʼll wait here. I donʼt want to take that package in case Wilson turns up later on. Give the constable strict instructions on what to do if he shows up.’

  Boase stood up and prepared to leave the cemetery. Bartlett returned to his original place and waited. About twenty minutes later, Boase returned with Constable Penhaligon who, having already been briefed, took up his place from where he could readily see the white package.

  ʻNo falling asleep on the job now, Penhaligon,ʼ joked Boase.

  ʻNo chance, sir,ʼ came the reply.

  Bartlett and Boase returned to their homes soon afterwards. Bartlett felt the next day would be hectic and thought a few hours sleep wouldnʼt go amiss.

  At nine oʼclock in the morning a weary Bartlett and Boase turned up together at the police station, later than usual. About ten minutes later Constable Penhaligon arrived – carrying the package.

  ʻNo show, sir,ʼ he said handing the money to Bartlett – I waited unt
il almost nine oʼclock.ʼ

  ʻThanks, Penhaligon,ʼ said Bartlett taking the money and putting it on his desk. ‘You go home and get some sleep now – you deserve it.ʼ

  Penhaligon stifled a yawn and left the station.

  Boase handed Bartlett a strong cup of tea.

  ʻWhat now, sir?ʼ

  ʻYou tell me, Boase. Iʼve no idea – why didnʼt Wilson show up?ʼ

  ʻI can only think that he changed his mind about the money, killed Hatton, and now …

  ʻGo on,ʼ prompted Bartlett.

  ʻAnd now, heʼs going to kill the other one.ʼ

  ʻDo you really think so?ʼ

  ʻI donʼt know what to think, sir. Who wouldnʼt want five hundred pounds of easy money? At the moment we donʼt know if the killer of Ivy Williams is the same as that of Rupert Hatton – or even if thereʼs going to be another murder.ʼ

  ʻThatʼs our worry now, Boase – weʼre going to have to protect Algernon Hatton, just in case youʼre right. We also need to look out for Norma Berryman – she knows a lot, probably too much. This is all a mystery to me. This afternoon I think we should go back to Swanpool and have another look at the Hatton murder scene, see if thereʼs anything weʼve missed.ʼ

  At midday, Algernon Hatton came into the station asking for Bartlett. The desk sergeant announced him and he was shown into the inner office.

  ʻI was just wondering,ʼ he began, ʼif the money was collected last night?ʼ

  ʻNo, it wasnʼt,ʼ replied Bartlett. ʻYou may as well have it back, sir – here it is.ʼ

  Algernon took the package.

  ʻI was just passing, Iʼm taking my mother to her lunch club and I thought you might like to know that, following the inquest, my brotherʼs funeral is going to be held on Wednesday. Weʼd like you to come, if you can, that is.ʼ

  ʻWeʼd like that too, sir,ʼ replied Bartlett holding the door open for Algernon Hatton.

  ʻGood day, sir.ʼ

  ʻGood day, Inspector Bartlett.ʼ

  ʻWould we?ʼ Boase looked puzzled.

  ʻWould we what?ʼ Bartlett was settling back into his chair.