A Fool and His Money

by Marina Pascoe

  ‘Now look here …’

  Boase stepped between Bartlett and Paul Painter.

  ‘Sir, you did say you wanted it done – and you have been waiting such a long time. We will probably be even busier next week with everything that’s going on.’

  Bartlett saw the logic in Boase’s statement and agreed.

  ‘All right – but you must work as quickly as possible. No standing around drinking tea all day. We’re busy people and we need our office.’

  The door reopened and Constable Penhaligon stuck his head into the office.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. Superintendent Greet has asked me to tell you that he’s put you and Constable Boase in the small office just while the painting is being done. I’ve put a pot of tea in there for you both.’

  Bartlett looked at Boase.

  ‘Why can’t we stay in here?’

  ‘Apparently the smell will be quite bad, sir – come on, it’s only for a couple of days.’

  Bartlett collected his coat and a few things from his desk and he and Boase went out, crossed the hall and went into the small office.

  Bartlett lit his pipe.

  ‘Look at this, Boase – Coad and Eddy did a good job on that church case. If I’m honest, I didn’t think they had it in them.’

  Bartlett slid a pile of papers across the desk to Boase.

  ‘Looks like it was a couple of delinquents – thought they’d break into the church and steal the silverware.

  ‘Did you hear what happened, Boase?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. How did they catch them?’

  ‘Apparently they were at one of the lads’ houses – just making a routine enquiry. The boy was upstairs with the window open and heard what was being said. He tried to run away – Coad heard him and sent Eddy round the back and they stopped him. He gave the other boy’s name and they were both arrested – and they retrieved the stuff. They’re going back to the church later to return it.’

  ‘Good job, sir.’

  ‘I’d say so – means we can get on with the big job without having that in the background. Talking of that, where are we on this murder now?’

  ‘Well, I’m thinking that we should go back and talk to that Edward James – Anne said that he and Clicker didn’t get on. She said that Clicker was firmly of the opinion that he was behind all the money-making racket … but why would that make him a killer? Surely he would want to keep him alive, to get as much as possible out of him.’

  Bartlett was listening and nodding.

  ‘Yes, but, what if Clicker was running out of money? Didn’t Anne say that he was finding it difficult to keep up with their demands?’

  ‘But that’s not really a motive for killing though, is it? What if Edward James knew that someone had told Clicker that Margaret Field was dead? Perhaps Clicker told him the game was up and he was coming to tell us … that would mean Clicker would have to be stopped.’

  ‘That’s a very good point you make, Boase. We still need to look further afield for our man – or woman – but I agree, so far, that’s a rational opinion.’

  Boase spun round and round on the swivel chair that had been assigned to him.

  ‘Will you stop that, Boase!’

  ‘I’d love one of these, sir. Maybe I could pinch it and take it back to our office? No one would miss it – this room is hardly ever used.’

  ‘You’re so immature sometimes, Boase. You can take it but if you keep spinning like that all the time, I’m bringing it back.’

  ‘Thanks, sir – that’s a proper job, that is.’

  Bartlett grunted.

  ‘Will you pay attention … listen, I agree that we need to speak to Edward James. Not least, we need to find out if he has an alibi. I think we’ll go up there later and speak to a few more people. Chester Martin is furious that he’s had to postpone his tour – reckons it’ll cost him thousands. I told him that’s too bad, none of them is leaving Falmouth until we resolve this.’

  ‘Right, sir. They’ll just have to put up with it. Come on, let’s drink our tea and then we may as well go up there and see James.’

  ‘Good idea – I’m sick of this pokey little office already. Drink up.’

  At two o’clock, Bartlett and Boase walked up Killigrew and to the recreation ground to speak to Edward James. As they approached the caravan he shared with Molly, they both stopped. The sounds of shattering glass and shouting came from inside the caravan.

  ‘That’s them, Boase. They always seem to be arguing.’

  Bartlett knocked on the door and, within seconds, Edward James stood on the step.

  ‘You two again … what is it now?’

  ‘Mr James – may we come in?’

  Molly looked up as the pair entered.

  Bartlett cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr James, I just wanted to ask you about your relationship with your father-in-law. Did you get on with him?’

  ‘I tried – but he was a quite a difficult old man, you know. I always made an effort with him but I don’t think he liked me very much.’

  ‘And why might that be?’

  ‘Who knows? Does it matter now?’

  At this, Molly looked up at her husband.

  ‘What are you talking about? You never liked him.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Molly – I did my best with him.’

  Bartlett sat next to Edward.

  ‘Mr James, I need to ask you where you were on the night that Clicker was killed.’

  ‘You can’t believe I had anything to do with it – you’re ridiculous.’

  ‘Just tell us where you were, and the name of someone who can attest to that, and we’ll be on our way. Clicker was seen by my assistant here at about half past six that evening. Where were you for the rest of the evening and night?’

  ‘Well, I was here for the performance – plenty of people saw me. After that I came back here, sorted out the ponies and went to bed.’

  ‘And can anyone verify that?’

  ‘My wife here can.’

  ‘But can anyone else?’

  ‘No, of course not – there’s only the two of us living here.’

  ‘Very well. I’m sorry to have troubled you both. Good afternoon.’

  Bartlett paused at the hospital wall at the top of Killigrew and lit his pipe.

  ‘Do you believe him, Boase?’

  ‘Dunno, sir. What do we do if we can’t find anyone to speak for his whereabouts? And who else are you thinking of as a possible killer?’

  ‘I haven’t got anyone at the moment – none of this makes any sense to me. As you pointed out, why kill someone who was giving you regular – and easy money? If you’re right and it’s Edward James then the only reason is that Clicker told him he knew about the con. Everyone says what a lovely man he was, a decent sort, so it doesn’t fit that he had lots of enemies.’

  ‘But we only need one enemy, sir.’

  ‘Yes, my boy – you’re right there. I was looking at that report this morning – it confirmed my earlier suspicions - definitely murder, no two ways. The body has been thoroughly examined and we’ve been over the scene. Yes, it’s murder all right There’s no way he did that to himself.’

  The two men made their way back down Killigrew and to the station. As Bartlett crossed the main hall to his temporary office, the desk sergeant stopped him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Penhaligon took a telephone message for you about half an hour ago – he’s had to go up to the Catholic church to see Canon Egan but he asked me to give you this.’

  The sergeant handed a folded piece of paper to Bartlett who took it and followed Boase into the office. They both removed their coats and Bartlett read the note. He looked up at Boase.

  ‘Who’s Aitchinson?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Aitchinson – look, Penhaligon’s writing isn’t the best but that definitely says “Aitchinson”, doesn’t it?’

  Boase grasped the piece of paper, squinted, then handed it back.

  ‘Yes, I�
�d say so, sir.’

  ‘Do we know anyone called Aitchinson?’

  ‘Well, I don’t. What does the note say? I only looked at the name.’

  ‘It says Penhaligon spoke to this man on the telephone. The man said that he doesn’t want any trouble but that he saw Edward James leave the circus and head for the seafront the night Clicker was killed. Apparently the Jameses were the second act on – is that right?’

  ‘Yes, as I recall, yes they were. What else does it say?’

  ‘Nothing much – but we don’t know anyone at the circus called Aitchinson. Have we met everyone?’

  ‘Yes, every last one, sir.’

  ‘What time did the pony act finish? Can you remember?’

  ‘Yes, I can. Irene looked at her watch because she thought the act seemed over very quickly. She said she hoped the others would be a bit longer because she was enjoying herself so much. She said “Look, that’s two acts finished and it’s only ten to eight.”.’

  ‘What time do they think Clicker was killed?’

  ‘They said between nine o’clock and midnight – that was the closest they could say.’

  ‘So if this here Aitchinson is telling the truth, Edward James could have gone after the old man and got back to his caravan fairly quickly.’

  ‘I suppose so, sir.’

  Bartlett pushed his chair back from the desk.

  ‘But who is Aitchinson? Could it be someone not connected with the circus? We’re assuming he’s one of the troupe. He’s left no other details. Penhaligon writes here that he didn’t want to give a name at all until he was pressed.’

  ‘So, it’s possibly a false one, sir?’

  ‘Would you think of “Aitchinson” on the spur of the moment? It’s not a very common name, is it?’

  ‘No – but maybe it’s a name that means something to him – like his mother’s maiden name or something. Or, maybe it is his real name and we just haven’t come across him.’

  ‘Well, we need to come across him – if this is true, it’s vitally important that we speak to him. We have to start with the name he’s given and try to find out about him. You can ask those layabouts out there to start on that.’

  Bartlett was gesturing towards the main office where two constables had spent the morning trying to look invisible in order not to have to do anything.

  ‘When you’ve done that, we must arrange to speak to anyone we haven’t already spoken to and who live on the approaches to Hunter’s Path. Maybe there’s still someone who saw something that night. Get on to all that will you, Boase?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Oh, before I forget, Caroline and Irene were wondering if you’d like to come over this evening – Irene’s got some new card games she wants to try out on us. Fancy it?’

  ‘That’d be lovely, sir. I was thinking of calling on Irene to see if she’d like a walk later on anyway’

  ‘Good. Come over at about seven?’

  Chapter Five

  Irene dealt the cards out to the small group around the table: her parents, Boase, and herself.

  Boase watched as the diamond engagement ring he had recently bought her flashed in the light of the parlour. He smiled to himself and, when Irene caught him, smiled at her. He had worried that she wouldn’t like it – but he was wrong. Every night the ring was returned safely to its box on the bedside table and every morning the box was opened and Irene looked at it again. Now, as they were introduced to yet another new card game, Boase felt happy. He hated cards – ever since the long days and nights in the trenches when any spare moment not occupied with writing letters home seemed to be spent in endless card games. No, Boase did not like card games – but, for Irene, anything.

  Bartlett rose from his seat.

  ‘I think I find it strange now.’

  Caroline looked at him.

  ‘What’s strange, George?’

  ‘Well, that I still call this young man – soon to be my son-in-law – “Boase”.’

  ‘Well, that is my name, sir.’

  ‘And that you call me “sir”. I think we shall have to stay as we are at work but, other than that, I will call you “Archie” – if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘And you – well, what do you think, Princess?’

  George Bartlett looked at his wife.

  ‘I did say before, George, that Archie should perhaps call you “George”.’

  ‘Well, that is my name – yes. “George” it shall be. That’s that sorted then. Would you like a Leonard’s, Archie?’

  ‘Yes, I would, please … George.’ Boase felt uncomfortable with this arrangement but knew things had to change now.

  Bartlett handed over a bottle of his beloved Leonard’s London Beer and a glass.

  ‘Here you are – why don’t we sit in the comfortable chairs – I’ve had enough of cards for now, Irene.’

  ‘All right, Dad. I’ll put them away – I’m just going to make some tea for Mum and me.’

  Bartlett and Boase sat by the fire and Topper sat on the floor between them.

  ‘I can’t believe that we still light a fire at this time of the year, my boy – but Caroline feels the cold rather a lot and I don’t want her to be uncomfortable.’

  ‘I think it’s rather nice, sir – I mean, George. I like a nice fire.’

  Boase looked into the flames.

  ‘Do you think there’ll be another war, sir?’

  ‘I hope not, my boy. I certainly hope not. And I don’t believe there will be – surely we’ve learned something after the last lot. Maybe in the distant future but not in my lifetime. They’ve got to leave time to find something else to get worked up about. I hope you never see the likes of that again – nor your children, should you have any.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I hope you’re right but people are always fighting, aren’t they? And who knows what sort of new modern world is waiting for us?’

  ‘Well, I’m quite happy with the old one – the modern one can wait until I’ve gone. Now, where’s my tobacco?’

  Irene brought in a tray and laid it on the table. Caroline had been listening to the conversation and was glad when it ended. Losing a son to the last war was more than any mother should have to bear and she certainly never wanted Irene to experience the distress that she herself had gone through with their son, John.

  Bartlett had found his tobacco and now sat happily with his pipe and his beer. He looked at Boase.

  ‘That’s a queer business with that clown, right enough. I don’t know where to begin and no error.’

  ‘I can’t believe that someone would kill that poor old man, Dad. Archie and I were looking forward to seeing him at the circus. Why would anyone do something so horrible? I was reading about it to Mum from the Packet. It’s terrible.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Irene. Archie and I have got our work cut out there. But we’ll find out what happened; we’ll find out who killed the old man.’

  Eleven o’clock came all too quickly for Boase and he reluctantly had to leave. Leaving was something he hated doing whenever he was with Irene but it wouldn’t be forever. With that thought firmly in his head, he said his goodbyes and left for home.

  ‘Any news on Aitchinson?

  Bartlett addressed the desk sergeant and a constable as soon as he came through the front door of the police station. By now, everyone there had heard about the note and the mysterious Mr Aitchinson. The sergeant shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, sir. We were on it all afternoon yesterday but nothing so far.’

  ‘Keep looking – we need to know. It’s urgent.’

  Boase was already in the temporary office and had made Bartlett and himself some tea.

  ‘Morning, sir. Cuppa?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no – thank you, Boase. What’s that there?’

  ‘Oh, just a pork pie, sir – want a piece?’

  ‘Well – no, because that is not breakfast, but I was rather referring to the piece of pap
er under the pie.’

  ‘Oh this?’

  Boase slid the paper out and showed it to Bartlett. It had one word written on it:

  AITCHINSON

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, nothing really – I was just playing with the name. I even wondered if it was an anagram. But it isn’t. I was just looking at it again while I was having a snack and waiting for the tea to brew.’

  ‘I had hoped you were going to tell me something incredible but true and we’d be arresting the killer by lunchtime.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Bartlett laughed and sipped his tea.

  ‘Are we sure Penhaligon heard him correctly?’

  ‘Yes. I asked him again – that’s definitely what he heard.’

  ‘Accent?’

  ‘None that he could discern – not local, not anything really, he thought.’

  ‘Why would the caller want to incriminate Edward James – is it someone who has had some past dealings with him?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just the truth, sir, and the caller is doing his civic duty but without wishing to involve himself any further.’

  ‘But by being covert, it makes it appear untrue, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think at the moment. Come on, sir, drink your tea while it’s still hot.’

  Bartlett complied and stared out of the window.

  ‘Can we move back in today, Boase? There’s nothing to see out of this window – I miss my own view.’

  ‘Yes, we can go back in after lunch apparently, sir.’

  Boase swivelled on his new chair and took another bite from his pork pie.

  At the recreation ground, everyone was miserable, particularly Chester Martin who wasn’t making any money. Superintendent Greet had forbidden the troupe to leave the town. However, he had given them permission to continue with their shows. Apart from the recent events putting a dampener on everything within the circus, the people of Falmouth had obviously decided that they wanted nothing more to do with it. And so it was that Chester Martin reluctantly pasted a sign outside saying that there would be no more performances in the town.

  Anne Warner hadn’t been able to sleep. She had lain in bed all night getting more and more angry, tired and upset. Now morning, she turned and looked at the small alarm clock beside the bed. It was half past ten. She was usually up and about by now but today she didn’t feel like it. She really missed her dear friend, Clicker. She sat up and wondered why anyone would do something like that. He was such a lovely man. She’d bet any money that his daughter had something to do with this. Clicker must have told her that he knew about Margaret Field. And what of Edward James? He never liked Clicker – the old man had told her so many times that the two didn’t get along. Clicker just put up with him for the sake of being close to his daughter. He had waited for years to see her for the first time and had been prepared to do anything to keep her in his life – yes, even so far as to give her all his money.