Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  The constable obliged and soon Hatton was sitting quietly drinking his cup of tea. His hands shook as he held the cup.

  ʻWhat can you tell us about the murders?ʼ Bartlett studied the aristocratic features opposite him and waited for some answers.

  ʻIʼll tell you about my brother – Iʼve got nothing to hide now. You want to know if I killed him? Yes, I did. He ruined my life from the time I was four years old. It was always Rupert – Mummy and Daddyʼs golden boy. Algie could do nothing right. I was always the bad one. Rupert always covered up for me and I hated him for it. He always had to do the right thing. Rupert told me to help Frank Wilson out over the blasted court martial – I would have let him get what he deserved. Of course, my brother was so reasonable about everything. Years ago, when we were young, he was the boring one, I, the adventurous. People who didnʼt know us very well thought we were alike, but no, we were not alike in any way. When I fooled around with Maude Mockett, Rupert told me to leave her alone. She was frightened and I knew I was playing with fire but I encouraged her and, well, you know the rest. I ruined everything with my stupidity. I always wanted to have a nice wife and children. Itʼs too late now, I know. Rupert was different. All he wanted was a nice boyfriend. He made me feel sick. I knew about his disgusting ways for years but he kept it from my parents. We used to laugh because our father didnʼt know which of us had fathered Maude Mockettʼs child – we knew Rupert would never be seen near a woman. I suppose my parents never thought that there was anything unusual about him – he had girlfriends, of course, but nothing serious.ʼ

  Algernon paused to light a cigarette.

  ʻRupert told me to pay Ivy a lump sum of money to help her out when she started blackmailing us. He said it was the least I could do, but no, I wanted to get rid of her. I didnʼt do it though. I didnʼt kill her.ʼ

  Bartlett stood up and walked to the other side of the cell. He didnʼt know what to make of this strange man.

  ʻCarry on, tell us about Ivyʼs death.ʼ

  ʻWell, I know I said I always wanted children, but, not like that – in that sordid way – and with a servant girl.ʼ

  ʻWell, she was good enough for you when you needed her, wasnʼt she?ʼ Bartlett was growing irritated. Hatton ignored this last comment.

  ʻIvy Williams, or whatever her name was, was becoming very difficult – she threatened to tell my mother everything if we didnʼt pay her more.ʼ

  ʻBut why didnʼt you take your brotherʼs advice and pay her off?ʼ

  ʻI was fed up with the whole thing – I just wanted to be rid of her.ʼ

  ʻSo, what did you do – did you kill her?ʼ

  ʻI promise you I didnʼt. I arranged for someone to do it. As usual, Rupert was telling me not to, but I couldnʼt take it any longer; especially when she threatened to tell my mother.ʼ

  ʻIn fact, your mother had known all along.ʼ

  ʻIt seems that way now, yes.ʼ

  ʻSo, you didnʼt need to kill her.ʼ

  ʻI tell you I didnʼt kill her. I arranged for Frank Wilson to do it – he owed it to me for getting him out of that scrape in ʼ17. I asked him.ʼ

  ʻSo, are you saying that Frank Wilson is responsible for murdering your daughter?ʼ

  ʻI thought he had – until Christmas. He turned up at the house threatening us and asking for money. He said the job was done but he hadnʼt been responsible for it. It was all very strange but he said he didnʼt know who had killed her.ʼ

  ʻDo you believe him, Hatton?ʼ

  ʻI donʼt know. Thereʼs nothing more for me to be afraid of now. I canʼt believe that I tried to have my own flesh and blood murdered. My own child – how could I?ʼ

  Bartlett didnʼt know whether to feel sorry for Algernon Hatton or not. He walked over to him.

  ʻThereʼs something you should know. Maude Mockett gave birth to twins.ʼ

  ʻTwins?ʼ Hatton was astounded.

  ʻYes, twin girls. Iʼve just met the other, Gloria.ʼ

  ʻYou mean … Iʼve still got a daughter? Where is she? Can I see her?ʼ

  ʻNot at the moment, no. Weʼve got a lot to sort out first. Also, she might not want to see you. One more thing – if Frank Wilson didnʼt kill your daughter – who do you think did?ʼ

  ʻIʼve really absolutely no idea. No idea whatsoever.ʼ

  The evening came and a heavy rain had descended on Falmouth. Boase had gone to bed early but couldnʼt sleep. He sat up in his bed and looked at his watch – a quarter past eleven. This was no good. He wondered whether he could be bothered to go for a walk; it might just do the trick. He peered out of the window, it was raining harder now. He thought for a moment. Yes, heʼd go anyway. He dressed and put on a mackintosh and heavy boots. Quietly he left the house and headed for the beach. He walked and walked. Surely, sleep must come when he finally returned home? It was just after one oʼclock now. Thoughts were churning around in his head, the Hattons, Ivy Williams, Gloria Hesketh, Frank Wilson and his money – all these things and then, of course, Irene. Lovely Irene. He hadnʼt seen her for several days and she was very much in his thoughts.

  Boase walked until he felt himself drawn to Pendennis, just as before. He made his way down the little cliff path towards the old wooden boats. He sat down on the wet grass and watched them for a while. He had made himself so comfortable and sheltered against the wind, that he must have fallen asleep for a few minutes. He awoke, his head feeling heavy and disorientated. Something had woken him. He listened. He could definitely hear voices.

  He looked down at the boats; there was a light on board one of them. It looked like an oil lamp or a candle. As he watched, the light was extinguished. He continued his vigil and presently he heard a noise like a door slamming shut. He sat up. A dark figure came up from the direction of the boats. Someone was coming along the path towards him. What should he do? He didnʼt want to be caught. He didnʼt even know who this was – it could be someone dangerous, even armed. The figure was coming nearer. Boase managed to slide his body along a few feet to a hollow in the side of the cliff. He arched his back, covered his head and hoped that the stranger wouldnʼt notice him in the darkness. The footsteps were closer now. Closer still. The stranger was here now. Boase didnʼt move – not even when a heavy foot trod on the corner of his mackintosh. He remained in his position for what seemed like an age until he was sure the footsteps had disappeared. Slowly he lifted his head. All clear. Just what was going on here?

  It was still raining. Boase couldnʼt see his watch and had no idea of the time. He thought perhaps it was about two oʼclock. He walked down the footpath and made his way towards the boats. He hadnʼt been this close to them before. He could see the one from which the noise and the light had emanated. The name was just visible along the side in white paint. Boase looked and, with difficulty, just managed to pick out the name of the boat. St Piran. He could still hear a sound coming from inside. He hurried back up the path and made his way home. The rain was falling harder now and, arriving at the house in Melvill Road, he realised that his clothes were absolutely soaked through, right to his skin. He dried himself off and got into bed. A last look at his watch confirmed the time. It was half past three. Boase was extremely tired.

  A very bleary-eyed Archie Boase turned up for work the next morning. Bartlett, already at his desk, looked up when his assistant walked in.

  ʻYou look a bit rough this morning, Boase. What have you been up to?ʼ

  ʻDidnʼt sleep much, sir.ʼ

  ʻYou need to see someone about this not sleeping business – you donʼt eat properly, you donʼt sleep properly. Itʼs not good for a man of your age I tell you. Is this murder affair upsetting you?ʼ

  No, sir. I donʼt really know what it is. Iʼm all right though. Cuppa?ʼ

  Bartlett knew that if work wasnʼt bothering Archie Boase it must be a woman. And as far as the older man knew, Irene was the only woman for him. Bartlett knew the signs all too well – he had felt exactly the same years ago. Still did, come to that. If Caroline was away, Bartlett didnʼt eat
or sleep without her. He knew just what was wrong with Boase. The younger man returned with two cups of tea.

  ʻFancy coming round for supper tonight, Boase?ʼ

  ʻThatʼs very nice of you, sir. Yes, I would, thank you.ʼ

  ʻThatʼs settled then – seven all right?ʼ

  ʻYes, thanks.ʼ

  Boase unwrapped a large slice of pork pie with a hard-boiled egg in the centre of it. He laid it on his desk while he decided how to negotiate it. He took a mouthful and sat back in his chair. Eventually swallowing it, he looked across at Bartlett.

  ʻSomething strange happened last night, sir.ʼ

  ʻOh, yes?ʼ

  Bartlett put down his cup.

  ʻI was walking out at Pendennis quite late and I heard noises from those old boats.ʼ

  ʻNot this again, Boase. No wonder youʼre tired.ʼ

  ʻNo, listen, sir. Someone was on one of them – the St Piran. There were at least two people. I heard them talking and I saw a light. One of them came up the path and walked right past me - he even trod on my coat. I think thereʼs something funny going on there, sir, really I do.ʼ

  ʻAll right, I believe you – but even if someone is there, itʼs probably nothing. Just kids or something. Perhaps weʼll have a look down there tomorrow if we get a bit of time; maybe send Penhaligon or that new youngster to take a walk up there – itʼs obviously bothering you. Now just put it out of your mind.ʼ

  ʻRight, sir. Thank you. How did you get on with Algernon Hatton yesterday?ʼ

  ʻHeʼs guilty all right, Boase. Admitted killing his brother. Some old rubbish about hating homosexuals. He did it and now heʼs going to pay the price. Itʼs Lady Hatton I feel sorry for – no husband and, soon, no sons. What I still do not understand is about Ivy Williams. Hatton swore blind that it wasnʼt him. He wanted her dead, hired Frank Wilson to do it, then when Wilson turned up at Penvale Manor on Christmas Day he said he hadnʼt killed her – whatʼs going on, Boase?ʼ

  ʻWell, he would say that, wouldnʼt he, sir? I mean, heʼs not going to admit it. I think we just have to find him and question him about it. Seems he was hired to do the job, the job was done – who else could it be?ʼ

  ʻHmmmm. Maybe.ʼ

  As a storm was threatening to blow up in the bay, and the wind began to come in across the sea, Boase was making his way to the Bartlett home for supper. He couldnʼt wait to see Irene again. Arriving at the house, he walked up the path and knocked at the door. Irene opened it.

  ʻHello, Archie. You look nice – cold too. Come on in. She pulled him into the hall and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. He looked at her. She was lovely and he kissed her in return, on her lips. He looked down. There was Topper, waiting to be acknowledged. Boase patted the dog on the head and Topper, satisfied with this, returned to his master. Bartlett and his wife were about to sit at the table. Caroline offered Boase a chair next to hers.

  ʻHello, Archie. Sit down. Itʼs only a cold supper tonight – is that all right?ʼ

  ʻOf course it is,ʼ he replied. ʻThank you very much.ʼ

  The four ate their supper while Topper sat under the table, lying across his master’s feet and waiting for any morsel which might come his way, intentionally or otherwise. As they ate, Boase relaxed while Bartlett regaled them with stories about the City of London Police and the Metropolitan, along with his recollections of being a young police constable and chasing Jack the Ripper.

  ʻAs true as Iʼm sitting here, I nearly had him. I was that close.ʼ

  ʻDonʼt exaggerate, George,ʼ implored his wife.

  ʻDonʼt mock, Princess. Donʼt mock. I tell you I nearly caught him and Iʼm certain unto this very day that I knew who it was.ʼ

  ʻGo on, tell us, Dad.ʼ

  ʻIrene, donʼt encourage your father. He doesnʼt need it.ʼ Caroline began to clear the table. ʻAnyway, part of the fascination is that no one knows who Jack the Ripper was, not even you, George, so donʼt try to spoil it.ʼ

  Bartlett lit his pipe, disgruntled.

  ʻWell, I do know. So.ʼ

  Archie Boase and Irene were in fits of laughter. They had to admit knowing the identity of Jack the Ripper would somewhat spoil the legend.

  Boase spent the rest of the evening with the Bartletts and left their house at about half past ten. He always felt sad to be leaving Irene. One day though, he wouldnʼt. Heʼd made up his mind that one day he would never have to leave her and go home. He couldnʼt wait.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Norman Richards was upset. Kitty could always tell when there was something wrong with him, and today she was concerned.

  ʻNorman, whatʼs wrong with you – youʼve been on pins all morning. Calm down. Look, itʼs almost eleven – why donʼt you go out the back and ʼave a nice cup of tea? Go on. Leave one in the pot for me while youʼre there. When youʼve done that, go out for a quick fag. Mrs Williams wonʼt be back for at least three-quarters of an hour anʼ itʼll do you good.ʼ

  Norman obeyed and shortly returned, a bit of colour now back in his cheeks.

  ʻTell me whatʼs botherinʼ you Norman. Go on, you know you can talk to me.ʼ Kitty was always sympathetic where Norman was concerned.

  He sat down on a small stool.

  ʻLast night, a policeman followed me, nearly all the way ʼome. Why would ʼe do that, Kit?ʼ

  ʻWhat one earth are you talking about?ʼ

  ʻLike I said, ʼe followed me anʼ I didnʼt like it.ʼ

  ʻWell ʼave you done anythinʼ wrong?ʼ

  ʻNo.ʼ

  ʻSo, thereʼs no problem then, is there?ʼ

  ʻSʼpose not. Iʼm still goinʼ to tell my friend though. ʼEʼll know what to do. ʼE told me what to do when the gangsters were after me – my friend sorted all that out.ʼ

  ʻWell, ʼe sounds like a very good friend to ʼave, Norman. An’ there arenʼt too many of those about these days.ʼ Kitty smiled. Poor Norman, she thought. Even the gangsters had been after him. Too much time at the pictures, that was Normanʼs trouble.

  At eight oʼclock that evening, George Bartlett knocked on the door of Boaseʼs lodging house in Melvill Road. The landlady called him and Boase ran hurriedly down the stairs. ʻHello, sir. Whatʼre you doing here? Hello, Topper boy.ʼ

  ʻTopper and I were just passing and we thought weʼd have a walk round to Pendennis to have a look at those boats of yours. Coming?ʼ

  Boase grabbed his hat and coat and the two men and Topper walked out towards the sea front. Topper was enjoying the fresh night air and stopped to sniff at every opportunity. At Pendennis he could smell rabbits and was hoping his master would let him off his lead so that he could chase some. Bartlett had often wondered what Topper would do if he ever caught a rabbit – he was such a big, soft, lump of a dog with not a vicious bone in his body. He often chased them but they were always too quick.

  As Bartlett and Boase rounded the bend in the road that led them onto Pendennis Point, Boase grabbed the older manʼs arm. He pointed to a figure descending the cliff path towards the boats. The figure stopped suddenly and lit a cigarette. The silhouette came and went, came and went, as the wind twice extinguished the strangerʼs match.

  ʻLook, sir. Someoneʼs going down there.ʼ

  The two men and Topper walked across the road and looked down the bank towards the wooden boats. They could clearly see a man walking quickly down the narrow, winding path towards the sea. As he changed direction, he looked back up the bank and, in the half-light, Bartlett thought he recognised him.

  ʻI bet you any money, Boase, thatʼs Frank Wilson.ʼ

  ʻYouʼre kidding, sir. Thatʼs the last person I expected.ʼ

  ʻMe too. I donʼt think he saw us so weʼll come back tomorrow without Topper. If what youʼve been telling me is true, heʼs been here a while anyway – heʼll be in no hurry to leave. Heʼs probably made himself quite comfortable here.ʼ

  ʻAre you sure, sir?ʼ Boase was worried. ʻWhat if he runs away?ʼ

  ʻHe wonʼt, Boase. He wonʼt.ʼ

  Gloria Hesketh answered a knock at the doo
r of the house in Avenue Road; she had rented the entire five-bedroomed house as she didnʼt want to share with anyone. Still, she had plenty of money, so it didnʼt matter what she spent. As she opened the door, she was surprised to see Bartlett and Boase standing on the step.

  ʻInspector Bartlett and Constable Boase, how lovely to see you both – but how unexpected. Do come in.ʼ

  The two men followed Gloria Hesketh through a long hallway and into a neatly furnished parlour. She was dressed, as usual, very glamorously.

  ʻAre you just going out, Miss?ʼ Bartlett enquired.

  ʻWhat? Oh, no.ʼ Gloria straightened the front of her dress. ʻBut I never think it does any harm to try to look half decent in oneʼs own home – or in this, case, oneʼs own lodgings.ʼ She smiled at Boase.

  ʻAs a matter of fact, gentlemen, I was just about to have some tea – will you join me?ʼ Bartlett walked back from the window where he had been admiring the garden.

  ʻTea would be very nice. Thank you.ʼ

  ʻWell you both make yourselves comfortable, the kettleʼs just boiled. I wonʼt be a moment.ʼ

  She soon returned with a large tray bearing a pot of tea, milk, sugar, and an enormous plate of cakes. Boase stared at the plate. Come to think of it, he was beginning to feel quite hungry.

  ʻTuck in now, both of you. Thereʼs fruit cake, vanilla slice, apple turnover, or fruit tart.ʼ

  ʻUnfortunately, a man of my mature years and ample stature cannot afford to indulge in such luxuries,ʼ began Bartlett, ʻhowever, I am sure that Boase here will not disappoint you. In fact, I would be surprised if thereʼs anything left in the house by the time we depart.ʼ

  Gloria Hesketh giggled a charming giggle and the two men smiled, Bartlett glad to have her, seemingly, on his side. He was going to ask a favour.

  ʻThe last time we saw you, Miss …’

  ʻI told you, please call me Gloria – everyone does.ʼ

  ʻAll right, Gloria, when we saw you, you said you would be happy to help us if you could.ʼ

  ʻYes, I did.ʼ

  ʻWell, there is something you can do, but you might not be happy with it, so Iʼd like to make sure you fully understand before you agree. Boase and myself have come up with an idea – itʼs possibly not the greatest plan weʼve ever had but, if Iʼm honest, we really need to go for this bald-headed to be in with any chance of success. This isnʼt your problem, Gloria, but the head of my station will call in detectives from London within the week if I donʼt sort this out – and thatʼs the last thing I want.ʼ