Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  ʻWould we like to come to the funeral?ʼ

  ʻOf course we would, my boy – we can have a look, see whoʼs there, see if thereʼs anything unusual going on. Strange that the coroner is allowing a funeral so soon though. But, you never know, Boase, what you might see or hear. Weʼll be there.ʼ

  At two oʼclock in the afternoon, Bartlett and Boase took a trip to Swanpool to have another look at the scene of the murder. It was a bright sunny afternoon and many people were walking their dogs on the beach.

  ʻNice day for Topper,ʼ observed Bartlett.

  The two men reached the west side of the pool and began having a look around. This had already been done but Bartlett couldnʼt believe there wasnʼt something else that could help.

  ʻI donʼt understand, sir.ʼ Boase was looking on the ground. ʻNo other footprints whatsoever, not even the next morning – there was nothing besides the one set.ʼ

  ʻI donʼt know the answer to that. As you say, absolutely nothing. Someone came up to Rupert Hatton, here at this very spot, shot him through the head and left. No footprints. No traces of anything. All there was to be found were a couple of Rupertʼs cigarettes and his own footprints, which prove nothing – he was kept waiting so he had a couple of smokes and paced – so what?ʼ

  ‘Weʼre sure it wasnʼt suicide now – not after reading that note arranging the rendezvous – and, with the best will in the world, I donʼt think Hatton was clever enough to construct a double bluff by sending that letter to himself to make it look like someone had killed him. Anyway, what would be the point in that; come to that, whatʼs the point in anything?ʼ

  Boase quickly changed the subject – if Bartlett was going to get all philosophical now, he wasnʼt interested; that kind of talk didnʼt do anyone any good.

  As the two struggled to make sense of the whole thing, life in Falmouth was going on much the same as usual for everyone else. It had become routine on Saturday nights for Kitty and Eddy to have tea at the Pengellys’. This was usually followed by a few card games. Although Kitty wouldnʼt want to be with anyone else besides Eddy, she desperately missed her own family. It was going to take some getting used to, she could see that. Eddy realised this and was quite happy to accompany her home every Saturday night. Tonight was no exception.

  Kitty and Eddy knocked at the door at half past six.

  ʻTheyʼre ʼere, theyʼre ʼere,ʼ squealed Ruby to her mother as she ran to open the door.

  ʻCome in, you two – you donʼt need to knock, Kit, this is still your ʼome.ʼ

  The three went into the kitchen where Rose Pengelly was putting the plates out on the table.

  ʻʼEllo, you two, evʼrything all right?ʼ

  Kitty gave her mother a big bunch of flowers.

  ʻEverythingʼs fine, Ma,ʼ she said kissing her mother on the cheek.

  ʻDa and Jack not back yet?ʼ

  ʻNo, theyʼll be ʼere in a minute or two. Ruby, put an extra chair for Eddy, will you, love?ʼ

  Within half an hour the entire family was sitting down together, eating dinner and exchanging stories. Jack finished his food first, as usual.

  ʻI ʼeard there was another murder at Swanpool last week. One of them posh twins from Budock, they say. Ruby, you should get your policeman friend round ʼere anʼ ʼe can tell us all the gory details.ʼ

  ʻShut up, Jack. I donʼt want such talk at my table, thank you.ʼ Rose liked a bit of gossip but not this kind.

  ʻAnyway, ʼeʼs not my policeman friend, as you put it, actually.ʼ Ruby looked indignant.

  Jack persisted.

  ʻYeah, ʼe is – you was in that dancinʼ competition with ʼim.ʼ

  ʻSo?ʼ

  Kitty put an end to the bickering – Eddy was an only child and all this was new to him.

  ʻWhat did you spend your fifty bob on, Rube?ʼ

  ʻWell, I bought a lovely new ʼat – it was ever such a bargain, only nineteen and eleven. You should see it, Kit, itʼs a cloche in blue taffeta; Iʼll go anʼ get it in a minute if you like – you can try it on. Anʼ I bought a pair of shoes and two pairs of silk stockings. I was able to open an account at the West End store and now if I want anything, I just put it on me account – you should get one, Kit, all you ʼave to do is pay a shilling a week anʼ then you can go anʼ buy things when you want to.ʼ

  Rose snorted.

  ʻWhat a fine thing that is, getting in debt before youʼve even started out. Itʼll all end in tears. Anʼ whoever ʼeard of a nineteen and eleven ʼat, for goodness’ sake?ʼ

  ʻIʼll be careful, Ma, I promise – evʼryone likes new clothes.ʼ

  ʻ’Ow you settlinʼ into that nobby place of yours, Kit?ʼ asked Jack.

  ʻOoh, Jack, itʼs lovely anʼ you still ʼavenʼt bin to visit us yet. I know, why donʼt you all come for tea tomorrow and then Iʼll show you round?ʼ

  Kitty looked at Eddy, momentarily forgetting he was there, so quiet was he.

  ʻWould that be all right, Ed?ʼ

  ʻOf course – itʼd be lovely.ʼ

  ʻThatʼs settled then, come at three oʼclock – youʼll come wonʼt you, Da?ʼ

  ʻJust you try anʼ stop me.ʼ Bill began to fill his pipe. ʻIʼm just off outside for a smoke. Dʼyou want to join me, Eddy?ʼ

  The two men went out into the yard where Eddy lit a cigarette. Bill turned to him.

  ʻIʼve seen a change in my Kitty since she married you – I donʼt think Iʼve ever seen ʼer so ʼappy. You carry on like that and weʼll always rub along very nicely, me anʼ you.ʼ

  ʻI promise Iʼll always look after her, Mr Pengelly.ʼ

  ʻI think, young man, itʼs about time you called me Bill.ʼ

  ʻAll right then, Bill.ʼ

  Inside Jack and Ruby cleared away the tea things while Kitty and Rose sat and talked. Rose picked up her knitting.

  ʻEddyʼs such a nice young man, I really like ʼim – anʼ ʼeʼs good to you.ʼ

  ʻI really love ʼim, Ma.ʼ

  ʻAnyone with eyes in their ʼead can see that.ʼ Rose smiled. She was so happy for Kitty. She hoped that Ruby would find someone as nice as Eddy.

  ʻWe might be gettinʼ a car, Ma.ʼ

  Jack came rushing in from the kitchen.

  ʻDid you say a car? Well, youʼll be too important to speak to the likes of us soon then.ʼ

  ʻDonʼt be stupid, Jack – itʼll only be a second-hand one, nothing grand.ʼ

  Rose looked up from her knitting.

  ʻEven so, no one in this family ʼas ever owned a motor car before.ʼ

  The Pengellys and the Rashleighs got together for a game of cards before it was time to leave.

  They all said their goodbyes and Kitty and Eddy left for home.

  Norma Berryman was soon installed back in her old job at the Falmouth Library. The head librarian, a very nice woman called Alice Treleaven, of whom Norma was very fond, had had to take on someone temporary but she had kept Normaʼs job open. She told her that she had always hoped she would come back and that giving her job to someone else would feel like an admission that something serious had happened to her. Norma was extremely grateful. She was already feeling much better and being back home with her parents was aiding her recovery. On her first Monday back, Miss Treleaven came to speak with her.

  ʻNorma, dear, Iʼm so pleased to have you back.ʼ

  ʻIʼm very pleased to be back, Miss Treleaven – and thank you for keeping my job for me; not many would have done that.’

  ʻYouʼre very welcome, my dear. Now, I have a little favour to ask, but only if youʼre feeling up to it. The lady that took your place in your absence, although very kind and well-meaning, wasnʼt particularly efficient and, as a result, I have a rather large backlog to deal with. I was wondering if youʼre well enough to stay behind tonight to help me with it? Of course, Iʼll allow you an extended lunch break in addition to the overtime.ʼ

  ʻI donʼt see why not, Miss Treleaven. Iʼll just let my parents know when I go home at one oʼclock.ʼ

  ʻThank you, Norma. That will be such a big help to me. Take from one t
ill three if you wish.ʼ

  Norma continued her day until the library closed, then she sat with Miss Treleaven to have a cup of tea and to get her instructions. There was certainly a lot of work which had been left undone and the two women just about finished at half past nine. Miss Treleaven locked up the library and said goodbye to Norma as she went towards her home in Lister Street. Norma left the library and walked in the other direction. She carried on until she reached the top of the thoroughfare known locally as the Rope Walk. As she started on to this road she heard footsteps behind her. It was dark now and she felt a little nervous. She quickened her step, breathing rapidly. Still the footsteps came behind. Then nothing. She gained enough courage to look behind her. There was no one. She stopped and smiled to herself; she had imagined it – after all she still wasnʼt completely recovered from her illness. She carried on in the direction of her home which was quite close now. Then she froze. She distinctly heard a voice. A very audible voice but yet a whisper.

  ʻNorma.ʼ

  She hurried on now, a feeling of terror inside her. She was running, she didnʼt look behind. The footsteps were there again, quicker now.

  ʻNorma.ʼ

  She could see her house. She ran faster than ever, flying through the garden gate and up to the front door. She couldnʼt find her key. She hammered on the door, still fumbling in her handbag. A light appeared in the small glass panel at the top of the door which was quickly opened. There stood her father.

  ʻHello, Norma, love, I was just coming to meet you – itʼs getting a bit late. Come in now.ʼ

  Norma went inside, not daring to look behind her out into the garden.

  Chapter Eleven

  The day of Rupert Hattonʼs funeral arrived and it was a warm and sunny one. The service was to be held at Budock Church, followed by interment in the churchyard there. The church was very close to Penvale Manor and this was where the family worshipped. Sir Charles Hatton had himself been buried here quite recently. Bartlett and Boase arrived at ten minutes to eleven and sat at the back of the church. Bartlett didnʼt want particularly to meet anyone but was interested in who might show up. The funeral service began at eleven oʼclock. Lady Hatton sat at the front next to her sonʼs coffin, her one remaining son by her side. Shortly after, the funeral procession was led outside and there Rupert Hatton was laid to rest in the family grave. Bartlett looked at his assistant.

  ʻI donʼt see anything or anyone unusual here, do you, Boase?ʼ

  ʻDonʼt think so, sir.ʼ

  As the mourners prepared to follow Algernon Hatton and his mother back to Penvale Manor, Boase walked across the neatly cut grass to the chauffeur-driven car. Hatton, seeing Boase approaching, got out of the car.

  ʻThank you so much for coming, Constable Boase. I hope you and Inspector Bartlett will come back to the house for a drink?ʼ

  ʻThank you, sir, that would be very nice.ʼ

  Boase walked back across the grass to where Bartlett was standing.

  ʻWhat was all that about?ʼ

  ʻHe asked if we would go back to the house for a drink. I hope you donʼt mind, I said we would. Weʼve found nothing here – I thought we might get the opportunity to snoop a bit at Penvale Manor.ʼ

  ʻAll right, Boase, weʼll go.ʼ

  When they arrived at the manor house, many of the mourners had already arrived. Maids and footmen wearing black armbands lined the entrance hall bearing trays of glasses. There was everything – mulled wine, whisky, sherry, brandy, Boase had never seen so much drink. He walked through into another reception room which was laid out as if for a banquet. There were about fifty people milling around, talking, drinking, eating. Bartlett and Boase had a look around and weighed up the guests. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening. Bartlett couldnʼt help but think that he had never seen so many wealthy people in one place; no one here was short of a bob or two. These were exactly the same types as those who had taken advantage of Maude Mockett. Their sort never changed. No, Bartlett had no time for these people; he didnʼt like them and he didnʼt feel comfortable with them. He had grown up in an area where people didnʼt have enough money to eat, couldnʼt feed or clothe their children, and where the infant mortality rate was so high that in many families a child was lucky to see the age of five.

  Bartlett had asked one of the maids if he and Boase might have some tea and this was promptly brought to them and placed on a side table where, conveniently, there were two chairs. The two men sat down and watched the people moving around. Finishing his tea, Boase stood up.

  ʻI think Iʼll get some fresh air, sir.ʼ

  ʻIʼll join you, Boase.ʼ

  They both left by the front door. Bartlett lit his pipe and stood at the front of the house admiring the parkland. Boase took a walk around the back. He wanted to see the rest of the grounds. By going around the side of the house, he found himself in a courtyard which was lined on one side with the stables. All the doors were open and some very expensive-looking motor cars were parked inside. Boase strolled over to them. There were about ten cars in the stables. No one was around so he wandered amongst them – he wouldnʼt get the opportunity to see so many fancy cars like this again. As he was admiring a fast-looking little two-seater, his coat brushed against something hanging from the wing mirror. He stood back to see what it was. It was a green, rubber bag, like a sort of washbag which sealed shut. Boase had never seen such a neat little bag before. It appeared airtight and watertight. He wondered what this had to do with motor cars; perhaps it was for tools or something. He picked it up and looked at it and then replaced it on the mirror. He could have done with something like that in the trenches to keep his things dry – just the job that would have been. He carried on walking to the end of the line of cars then went back to the front of the house to meet up with Bartlett.

  ʻSee anything?ʼ Bartlett asked.

  ʻNo, not really, sir, just some very nice cars garaged up in a stable block.ʼ

  The two said their goodbyes to the Hattons and left to return to the police station.

  At Mrs Williamsʼs tobacco shop in High Street, Norman was in trouble again. Mrs Williams had asked Kitty to check the dayʼs takings and they were found to be short.

  ʻNorman, come in ʼere,ʼ Mrs Williamsʼ voice boomed from the shop. Norman dropped the broom with which he was sweeping the stockroom floor and ran into the shop.

  ʻYes, Mrs Williams?ʼ

  ʻNorman, we are missing two and fourpence – can you account for it?ʼ

  ʻNo, Mrs Williams … well …ʼ

  ʻWell, what?ʼ

  Norman started to shake and get confused.

  ʻIʼll try anʼ sort this out, Mrs Williams, you go up and ʼave your tea,ʼ Kitty offered.

  ʻI will not. This idiot is always making mistakes and costing me money and now ʼeʼs gone too far.ʼ

  The miserly shopkeeper frequently forgot that she had to make allowances for Norman, and also that she was paying him next to nothing anyway.

  ʻA man came in for some tobacco, anʼ ʼe gave me a ten bob note, anʼ then ʼundreds of people came all at once, anʼ I must ʼave got mixed up.ʼ

  ʻWell, weʼre two anʼ four short and itʼs cominʼ out of your wages each week until itʼs paid back.ʼ

  Mrs Williams left the shop and went upstairs.

  Norman look devastated. Kitty put her arm around him.

  ʻDonʼt worry, Norman, Iʼll make a deal with you. Seeinʼ as it was partly my fault too ʼcos I was too busy to ʼelp you, Iʼll go ʼalves with you, all right?ʼ

  ʻIt wasnʼt your fault, Kitty. I canʼt let you do that.ʼ

  ʻYes you can – anyway, Iʼm a married woman now, Iʼve got pots of money.ʼ She winked at him and he smiled.

  Back at the station, Boase was putting on his coat to go home. Bartlett looked up.

  ʻDoing anything tonight, my boy?ʼ

  ʻNo, sir, nothing.ʼ

  ʻCome round for your tea if you like – Mrs Bartlett mentioned it this morning and I forgot to ask you; half past seven a
ll right?ʼ

  ʻYes, sir, thank you, sir.ʼ

  Bartlett knew that Boase wouldnʼt refuse – he also knew that if he had told him that morning, the young man would not have got half as much work done as he had. Caroline Bartlett had told her husband what a special relationship Boase and Irene had. ʻAs if I hadnʼt noticed,ʼ Bartlett had thought to himself. No one really would ever be good enough for his beloved Irene, but Archie Boase was a very good candidate.

  Boase arrived at the Bartlett house at half past seven, eager to see Irene again; he hadnʼt seen her since the night of the fair when they had kissed. How would she be with him tonight? Irene answered the door. She looked lovely and she beamed when she saw him standing on the step.

  ʻHello, Archie, Iʼm very pleased to see you,ʼ and she kissed him on the cheek.

  ʻHello, Irene. You look nice.ʼ He stood there, not quite knowing what to say.

  ʻWell, come on in then, you silly goose,ʼ she laughed and pulled him into the hall where she took his hat and coat and hung them on the hall stand.

  ʻMum and Dad are in here. Supperʼs ready.ʼ

  They both went into the dining room. Topper came over to Boase, sniffed his hand and lay back down again by Bartlettʼs chair.

  Caroline came in from the kitchen carrying two plates of food.

  ʻHello, Archie. How are you? You can come to the table now if you like – everythingʼs ready.ʼ

  The three Bartletts and Archie Boase sat down to a supper of fish, boiled potatoes and peas followed by a homemade treacle pudding with custard. Boase stood up to clear the table.

  ʻThat was lovely, Mrs Bartlett, thank you.ʼ

  ʻI told you before, Archie, itʼs Caroline – and donʼt thank me, Irene did nearly all of it – sheʼs becoming quite a good cook these days, arenʼt you dear?ʼ

  ʻStop it, Mum.ʼ Irene looked embarrassed.

  Bartlett stood up from the table.

  ʻDonʼt you be ashamed of being a good cook, my girl, never. Since the war, and donʼt any of you get me wrong, but since the war, with all these women going out to work and taking on men’s jobs, well, they seem to have lost interest in domestic life. We couldnʼt have won the war without them, I daresay, but thereʼs something right about coming home to a good woman and a good dinner on the table. These days, young couples, both working, hardly ever see each other. Do you know, thereʼs one man in Falmouth, comes home from work every night and cooks for his wife and the nippers while sheʼs out cleaning offices. Can you believe it? She comes home and her dinnerʼs ready and the children have already been put to bed by him. I ask you – who ever heard of such a thing, and making a fool out of her husband like that; why, he must be the talk of Falmouth. So, no donʼt you be ashamed to cook, especially good, plain, English food. Now, thereʼs another thing …ʼ