ʻLook at this rubbish, Boase. All glass – itʼs like being in a goldfish bowl. When Iʼm on official police business, I donʼt want people out in the street staring at me.ʼ
A gold sign with an arrow pointing upstairs indicated that the offices they were looking for were on the first floor. The two men went up the stairs and, as they reached the top, a huge reception area lay in front of them. Approaching the main desk, they were greeted by a tall, slender middle-aged woman with thin black hair scraped into a bun that sat neatly on top of her head. She wore a black two-piece suit, black stockings and shoes, and heavy black eye make-up. Boase didnʼt know whether she was young and looked old or was old and looked young. Around her fairly scrawny neck a rather large diamond was suspended from a black velvet ribbon.
ʻGood morning, madam,ʼ Bartlett approached the womanʼs desk and introduced himself and Boase, ʻwe are here on police business and I believe we are expected.ʼ The woman stood and gestured to two modern red seats underneath a large window.
ʻWait, please.ʼ The woman sat down again, lifted a telephone receiver and spoke into it.
After two or three minutes a large door opened slowly behind the womanʼs desk and a grey-haired man, slightly bent with a small, neat, grey moustache and wearing a tail-coated suit appeared and came towards them. The distance across the room, to him, must have seemed interminable and the further he walked the more he seemed to stoop. Boase couldnʼt help thinking that this man must be at least ninety. He wore half-moon glasses from behind which, two blue, watery eyes strained to see what was going on around him.
ʻEr … good morning, gentlemen, and what a pleasant one. Do come into the office. Iʼm Bennett Senior – very senior, Iʼm afraid.ʼ
Shrinking more, the man led the way back across the room to the office from which he had just emerged.
ʻWe had expected to meet with Mr Thornton,ʼ interrupted Bartlett.
ʻYes, Iʼm sorry. My nephew was unable to come in, at the last minute, to see you. He telephoned a little while ago to ask me to step in for him as it were. Heʼs told me what you wish to know. Iʼm the head of this firm now. I started working for my grandfather in … in, let me see now …ʼ Bartlett sighed and drew up a chair to the old manʼs desk, ʻ… in 1872, I do believe. I donʼt do too much these days – getting a bit long in the tooth. I leave it to my son, nephew and grandson.ʼ
ʻDo you have some information for us, sir?ʼ Bartlett leaned forward impatiently on the desk.
ʻWhat? Oh yes, do forgive an old man going on. Yes, about the Williams girl. Well, you see, she replied to our notice in the newspaper and fortunately came up straight away to see us.ʼ
ʻAnd why did you want to see her?ʼ
ʻWell, this becomes a little … shall we say, delicate,ʼ the old man replied.
Bartlett drew in his breath sharply – he hadnʼt come all this way to learn nothing.
ʻPlease, sir, itʼs very important that you tell us as much as you can, our enquiry is in connection with a murder investigation.ʼ
The solicitor sat back, with difficulty, in an enormous burgundy leather armchair from which his feet, which must have been no more than a size four or five, dangled a few inches above the floor.
ʻThis firm had a client, who sadly is now deceased, but we had the pleasure to represent him for many, many years. He was the natural grandfather of Ivy Williams.ʼ
The two men looked at each other, startled. Percy Williams, Ivyʼs father, hadnʼt mentioned anything about this when Boase had interviewed him. He had been reluctant to get involved at all.
ʻGo on, sir.ʼ
ʻIt seems that you donʼt know much about Miss Williams, gentlemen, and, if it wasnʼt police business I wouldnʼt be at liberty to tell you this. Ivy Williams was illegitimate, and she was adopted a couple of weeks after she was born. Her poor mother gave birth to her in the Falmouth Union Workhouse, dying the very next day of post-partum fever. It seems that she had been working – following her own parentsʼ and younger brotherʼs death in a house fire – for Lord and Lady Hatton of, um … er … Budock, is it? Yes, thatʼs right. Lord Hatton had two fairly indiscreet sons, Rupert and Algernon, and when he found out that one of them had fathered this child, he felt he had to make sure that no one ever found out that a member of the Hatton family, of some standing, too, had liaised in that way with a mere servant girl. They had a reputation to keep and the boys were always under pressure to uphold the familyʼs good name. The girl was very young, about fifteen or sixteen, but nevertheless Lord Hatton had her taken to the workhouse. Some years later, he visited me and told me he had some instructions for me that were never to be made known to his wife, Lady Cordelia. He explained that he had felt dreadfully guilty about his actions and often wondered how his grandchild was – she would have been about nine or ten at the time, I suppose. He wanted to make provision for her – it was too late for her poor mother, but he could help the child. He wanted me to provide, from his estate, on his death, the sum of one thousand pounds for every year the girl had lived to the time of his passing – which finally amounted to twenty-four thousand pounds. We were satisfied with her documentation yesterday and she took the money.ʼ
Bartlett couldnʼt believe how complicated this was becoming. He thought back to the photograph in his desk drawer – now that part, at least, was clearer; those servants must have been the Hatton householdʼs staff.
ʻHow did she take the money – cheque?ʼ
ʻOh, no, sir, we offered a cheque but she asked for cash. We had a right old time of it, trying to get that much at short notice, but she absolutely insisted and, Iʼm afraid, we complied.ʼ
ʻSo that woman walked out of here yesterday with twenty-four thousand pounds in cash?ʼ
Bartlett could hardly believe it.
ʻYes, sir, she did.’
Bartlett and Boase thanked Mr Claude Bennett and made their way out into the street. Bartlett paused to light his pipe. As he squinted through the pipe smoke he looked at Boase.
ʻWell, what do you make of that?ʼ
ʻI donʼt understand, sir, how could that have been Ivy Williams, here yesterday, when sheʼs already dead?ʼ The older man drew long and hard on his pipe. He looked around the old, familiar streets and buildings and paused for a moment while he tried to think of a sensible response.
ʻThe answer must be one of two things – either the dead woman has been wrongly identified by us, or,ʼ he paused, ʻ… or the woman here yesterday is an impostor and if thatʼs the case, I honestly donʼt know what to do next. Is it possible that someone could have masqueraded as Ivy Williams just to get the money? If thatʼs so, it must be someone with inside knowledge and someone who could either get hold of the right documentation, or forge it well. Weʼre talking about an awful lot of money – a fortune, in fact.ʼ
Bartlett and Boase began their journey back to Cornwall, arriving home in the very early hours. They both slept fitfully until morning, the mysterious events of the day playing on their minds.
In the basement flat in Killigrew Street, the Pengellys had spent the previous evening decorating the parlour and Jack had brought home a very fine Christmas tree, which was soon potted up and taking pride of place in front of the window.
The next morning, as the smell of the dayʼs bread pervaded each room and weak sunlight filtered through the curtains, Kitty and Ruby got up and dressed and went into the kitchen for some breakfast, where Rose was just taking some loaves out of the oven.
ʻMorning, you two. Ruby, move that stuff over, love, let me get the bread onto the table. Thereʼs a pot of tea ready and Iʼve done you some bread and dripping; thereʼs no butter or jam ʼtil I go down the street this morning. Make sure youʼre back nice and early tonight, Ruby – you know you said youʼd ʼelp me write the Christmas cards. The arthritis is worse today, thereʼs no way I can do all that. You donʼt mind?ʼ
ʻʼCourse I donʼt, Ma, Iʼll make sure Iʼm back by five, then I can ʼelp you with the tea as well.ʼ
ʻThanks, love.ʼ Rose looked e
xhausted already and the girls knew she was suffering so much with her arthritis; she worked too hard and had done all her life. Years spent working in the laundry, standing on a stone floor washing other peopleʼs clothes, had taken its toll on her. Her daughters admired her so much and wished they could be as strong in character as she was. They helped themselves to the food and a couple of cups of tea each before grabbing their coats, kissing their mother goodbye and leaving for work. Outside, Ruby ran to catch up with Kitty.
ʻDonʼt walk so fast, Kit … wait.ʼ
Kitty slowed down and waited for her sister.
ʻYou ʼeard from Frank yet, Ruby?ʼ
ʻNo, I already told you, I ʼavenʼt. I just want to try anʼ forget the whole thing – I donʼt know whatʼs ʼappenin’.ʼ
ʻIf you believe the Packet, neither do the police,ʼ came the reply.
The two girls went their separate ways on the Moor – Ruby to the shipping office in Church Street and Kitty to Mrs Williamsʼs tobacco and sweet shop in High Street.
As Kitty let herself into the still-dark shop, a noise stopped her in her tracks. She stood still and listened. ʻPssst, PSSSSSST!ʼ The sound grew more intense.
ʻWhoʼs there?ʼ She called out again. ʻWho is it?ʼ
She knew Mrs Williams wouldnʼt be down from the upstairs flat for about twenty minutes yet and she felt nervous. There was never anyone around when she got to the shop in the mornings.
She couldnʼt see much in the gloomy interior; she asked again, ʻWhoʼs there?ʼ
Kitty stepped forward, closing the door behind her. Her heart began to race. A loud thump came from behind the counter and she let out a scream.
ʻI know youʼre there – I ʼeard you … who is it?ʼ
Another loud thump came this time with some scrambling of feet.
ʻItʼs me. Itʼs me – Norman.ʼ From behind the counter appeared the head and shoulders of Norman Richards, one of the shop assistants who worked with Kitty. She rushed across to the back of the shop to put a light on.
ʻNO! Donʼt put the light on, sheʼll see me.ʼ
ʻNorman, what on earth are you talking about? Whoʼll see you? Why are you here, youʼre not due in for almost another hour?ʼ
ʻMrs Williams donʼt know Iʼm ʼere, Kitty. Iʼve been ʼere all night.ʼ
ʻNow youʼre being ridiculous – all night? Why?ʼ
Kitty was beginning to wonder what Norman was talking about when he emerged fully from under the brown wooden counter. His hair was sticking up all over the place, his braces hung loosely down by his sides, and he clutched his Fair Isle jumper and jacket in front of him in an attempt to cover up the worst bits, which, at that moment, were probably all of him. He spoke in a low voice, urgently.
ʻLast night, when weʼd all gone ʼome, I was taking a walk into town and thatʼs when it ʼappened.ʼ Kitty listened, bemused. She knew Norman liked to walk – everyone in Falmouth must have known it. A lot of people liked him, others were really irritated by him. He had a habit of following people around, trying to be one of their group or gang. Whenever they turned round, there was Norman. He would spend his money on them – buying flowers or small items of jewellery for the girls and penknives or beer for the boys. As a child, the other boys had used him terribly – in fact, they still did. When he was younger they would get him to steal things from shops: sweets, cigarettes, money. When he came out, and was a safe distance from the shop, they would be waiting to take everything from him. He put up with it because he was anxious to have them for friends and to have their approval; of course they never did make him a friend or one of their gang, they just carried on using him. Occasionally they’d accepted him, but usually they’d ridiculed him.
Norman was slightly backward from complications arising at his birth, but he got on all right – although Kitty hated to see him being taken advantage of. He often did stupid or childish things in an attempt to make people laugh so that they might like him. He was so kind-hearted and he and Kitty liked each other a lot. Sometimes Rose Pengelly would invite him round for tea – how he could eat! Eighteen years old, he was always well-dressed, clean, and tidy with jet black hair which had a centre parting that looked like he had cut it with a razor blade. Cheap hairdressing preparations made it gleam blue-black. He always wore a tie and a Fair Isle sleeveless jumper. He lightened Kittyʼs day with far-fetched stories of boy heroes and high seas adventures. He lived mostly in a fantasy world of film stars and their characters – cowboys, gangsters, pirates. Now,though, he looked awful, and Kitty waited for what he could possibly say next.
ʻI was walking past the shop when I saw someone inside – ʼere beside the counter – they must have been tryinʼ to pinch fags or something. I knew Mrs Williams would be in danger if she disturbed ʼem so I went round the side and slid open the little window – look, Iʼll show you.ʼ
Norman pointed to the small window and Kitty felt herself wondering how anyone over about five years old could ever get through this window. Norman went on with his story.
ʻI got in but there was no one ʼere – they must have just escaped. Anyway, I ʼeard a noise and the window slammed shut – that could have been them – and I couldnʼt open it and I knew I was trapped. So, I just had to stay ʼere all night. Mrs Williams donʼt know. You wonʼt tell, Kitty, promise you wonʼt tell.ʼ
Kitty had to try hard not to laugh – poor Norman.
ʻOf course I wonʼt tell – youʼd better get ʼome and make yerself presentable, youʼre due to start work in less than an hour. My, you almost gave me a heart attack.ʼ
ʻIʼm really sorry, Kit – I didnʼt mean to scare you.ʼ
Norman gathered his things and ran out of the front door at top speed. He knew he could count on Kitty.
ʻThanks, Kit – I wonʼt forget thisʼ he called behind him.
Kitty smiled and prepared the shop for opening.
At the police station, Bartlett and Boase were worn out. Their trip up to London the previous day had been a complete disaster and neither of them could think what to do next. It seemed that every time they felt they were getting somewhere, things became more involved or more difficult. Bartlett lit his pipe.
ʻLetʼs go round to see Percy Williams again – thereʼs something heʼs not telling us, Boase. He never mentioned that Ivy was adopted; could be a clue.ʼ
ʻBut why wouldnʼt he tell me about her, sir?ʼ
ʻLetʼs go and find out.ʼ
The two men walked across the Moor, along Market Street, Church Street and Arwenack Street and made their way to the Falmouth Dockyard. Stopped at the gates by the duty policeman, who didnʼt recognise them due to their plain clothes, they were soon admitted and they asked for directions to Percy Williamsʼs workplace. The yard was busy this year with plenty of repair work, and, happily, overtime. Bill Pengelly, coming out of one of the dockyard buildings, saw the two men and touched his cap in acknowledgement. Presently they arrived at the right shed and went inside. Percy Williams was teaching some apprentices the finer points of his trade but left them when he saw the two policemen. He walked across to them.
ʻWhat is it now? I told you I donʼt know any more about Ivy.ʼ
Bartlett reassured him. ʻYou may not know anything about your daughterʼs tragic death, Mr Williams, sir, but we feel you havenʼt told us enough about her background, which might be vitally important.ʼ
ʻWhat else do you want to know?ʼ
ʻIvy was adopted, wasnʼt she?ʼ
Shocked that they knew this much, the man sat down on a bench and rested one elbow on the table next to it. Approaching sixty, Percy Williams didnʼt know how he was going to make it until his retirement at sixty-five. He was tired of work, heʼd been in ship repair man and boy – he was tired of life. He hadnʼt had much luck over the years, all in all. His hands, old and brown, were the hands of a grafter. All heʼd ever wanted was a quiet life and a nice family; heʼd had that once, now it had all been taken away from him. He looked up at Bartlett and Boase.
ʻYes, yes, Ivy was adopted. How did
you know?ʼ
ʻWe found out during our enquiries.ʼ Bartlett wasnʼt going to let on about the money and the solicitor. ʻPlease tell us as much as you can now, it may be important. We really want to catch whoever did this to your daughter.ʼ
Percy walked over to the apprentices. ʻIʼm goinʼ to be busy for a bit – you go anʼ ʼave yer croust.ʼ The boys, who were starving by now and happy to oblige, left the shed and Percy returned to the bench.
ʻIn 1896, my dear wife, Mary and me were expecting our first child. We were so happy. We loved each other so much and really wanted a family. I thought the world of ʼer. Well, to cut a long story short, the baby was born, a beautiful little boy, we called ʼim Nathaniel. Mary suffered during the birth. The midwife was with ʼer anʼ I was sent for from work. I could ʼear ʼer screaminʼ ʼalfway down our street – she was in so much pain. I felt so useless, waiting downstairs. What use are men at a time like that? Anyway after about ten ʼours the midwife bid me come up and there was my beautiful wife and our baby. We couldnʼt ʼave been ʼappier. I ʼad a lovely son.
ʻAll of a sudden, the baby went stiff in ʼer arms and then ʼe went blue. I called the midwife over but it was too late – our little Nathaniel was gone, ʼis short little life snuffed out like a candle after only about an ʼour. We were distraught. The doctor who came said it was just one of those things that ʼappens – but Mary never believed that; she blamed ʼerself. The little boy ʼad come early like. The pains came while Mary was lifting a huge pan full of water for the laundry. We didnʼt ʼave much money at that time and she used to take in washing – I didnʼt like it, mind, I said weʼd manage, but she was very strong-minded was Mary and always said a few shillings extra would come in ʼandy, ʼspecially what with the new baby on the way. She had such ʼigh ʼopes for our baby, Mr Bartlett. Boy or girl, she said, theyʼd be successful, get on and make a name for theirselves, you know, do better and ʼave more than we. She thought she brought the little boy into the world too early because she ʼadnʼt been sensible and that ʼe didnʼt ʼave a fair chance because ʼe was so small. I tried to ʼelp ʼer through it, but ʼow can you? We got through the funeral, it broke my ʼeart to see ʼis little coffin lowering down into that grave; ʼeʼs buried in the cemetery at Swanpool – with ʼis mother now, God rest their dear little souls, anʼ I go there every week, regular, to see ʼem both.ʼ
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