ʻIs there anything at all, gentlemen, that you could tell us?ʼ
ʻLooks to me like youʼre getting pretty desperate,ʼ volunteered Algernon, ʻfrom what my brother tells me.ʼ
ʻI say, Iʼm in a blasted rush, Bartlett,ʼ ventured Rupert. ʻIf I hear anything that might help you, Iʼll contact you immediately, howʼs that?ʼ
ʻOff somewhere nice, sir?ʼ enquired Boase.
Algernon finally lit his cigarette and drew long and hard on it.
ʻOff to meet your gentlemen friends at your club, no doubt? Give my regards to Harry, old sport, wonʼt you?ʼ
Rupert extracted his cigarette from its holder and, throwing it on the fire, marched towards the door.
ʻIʼm sorry, but I really do have to go. Goodbye.ʼ
Bartlett turned to Algernon Hatton.
ʻWhen I recently came to see your brother, I asked him if he knew anyone by the name of Francis Wilson – he said he didnʼt. Do you, sir?ʼ
ʻNo, the name doesnʼt ring any bells with me either. Sorry.ʼ
Bartlett persisted.
ʻOh, I think it must – he was your batman, wasnʼt he? Why are you denying all knowledge of him?ʼ
Hatton looked flustered.
ʻAll right then, have it your way – yes, yes, I knew him – unfortunately for me. He got into some very serious scrapes, not least being charged with murder. I got him out of it, back in ʼ17 and I havenʼt seen him since, thatʼs all there is to it.ʼ
ʻWell, thank you for being so honest with us, sir – eventually. Good day.ʼ
Bartlett and Boase returned to Berkeley Vale and walked into the police station. As the younger of the two opened the door, Peggy Berryman crossed the lobby towards them. This time she was alone.
ʻGood morning, Mrs Berryman, how are you?ʼ Bartlett enquired politely.
ʻOw dʼyou think I am?ʼ the thin, ill-looking woman answered. ʻWhat do you think itʼs been like all over Christmas without my daughter, not knowing where she is, whether sheʼs …ʼ at this she paused, ʻdead or alive. Iʼm begging you Mr Bartlett, sir, please do something to bring ʼer back to me. Itʼs the not knowing thatʼs so ʼard.ʼ
ʻIʼm really doing everything that I can, I assure you, Mrs Berryman. Boase, fetch Mrs Berryman a strong cup of tea. Have a seat, wonʼt you? Stay as long as you like; youʼre all out of breath. Would you like me to get a car home for you?ʼ
The tired old woman sat on a long leather bench seat. ʻIʼll take the tea, thank you, but Iʼm quite capable of getting ʼome.ʼ She coughed vigorously into a handkerchief.
Bartlett followed Boase into their office.
ʻThat womanʼs not well. I wish I could find the girl for her, Boase.ʼ
ʻMaybe weʼre barking up the wrong tree, sir,ʼ said Boase.
ʻWhat do you mean?ʼ Bartlett was removing his hat and coat.
ʻWell, think about it. That day we went up to London, you said you followed a girl because you thought it was Norma Berryman.ʼ
ʻI was having a bad day – and it was very early in the morning.ʼ
ʻRight, but why did you decide it wasnʼt her after all?ʼ Boase persisted.
ʻBecause I lost her in the crowd and I suddenly realised how stupid I was being – wishful thinking and all that.ʼ
Boase took Peggy Berryman her tea and returned immediately.
ʻListen,ʼ he went on. ʻWeʼre assuming that something terrible has happened to her, if weʼre honest, right?ʼ
ʻGo on.ʼ Bartlett was listening.
ʻWhat if nothing terrible has happened? What if sheʼs just run away from home?ʼ
Bartlett sat down behind his desk.
ʻThatʼs not likely – she was a very nice young woman; she wouldnʼt do something like that to her parents, she was devoted to them.ʼ
Boase perched on the end of Bartlettʼs desk. ʻYouʼre doing it again, sir.ʼ
ʻDoing what?ʼ
ʻWas, was, was. You keep referring to Norma Berryman in the past tense – havenʼt you thought that she might just not want to be found?ʼ
Bartlett puffed out his cheeks with a long sigh. ʻSo, you think weʼre on the wrong track?ʼ
ʻI think weʼre looking too hard. Letʼs go back to the beginning, stop looking for a dead body and start thinking that she might still be around. This may seem a bit radical for around here but what about a campaign?ʼ
ʻWhat do you mean, a campaign?ʼ
ʻLetʼs distribute pictures of her all around, letʼs say, the major county towns, Truro, St Austell, Bodmin – to begin with. Maybe someoneʼs seen her in another town.ʼ
ʻYou just might have an idea there, Boase my boy.ʼ
Bartlett was looking out of his window, watching Mrs Berryman struggling down the road, pausing frequently to catch a breath.
ʻIʼll go round to the Berrymans’ later and suggest it to them. Well done, Boase.ʼ
For Boase, the rest of the day passed by slowly; he didnʼt know when he was going to see Irene again and he was beginning to miss her. He wondered how this could be – he had never felt like this before. Archie Boase, always independent, happy in his own company, now craving being with a woman. He used to like Amber Cosgrove when they were at school but that wasnʼt like this; he was fifteen and Amber Cosgrove fourteen. He liked her for almost a year then she left school and got married. Amber Cosgrove – whatever happened to her? He wondered where he would be ten years from now. Would he still be friendly with Irene? He hoped so – he couldnʼt imagine being with anyone else. Irene was lovely.
At five oʼclock George Bartlett knocked on the door of Number 7, Railway Cottages and waited, admiring the neat front garden. Presently the door was unlocked and opened and Arnold Berryman appeared.
ʻMr Bartlett, sir. How nice to see you – have you some news for us?ʼ
Before Bartlett could reply, Peggy Berryman appeared in the hall, patting her wispy hair into place and smoothing her apron.
ʻCome in, Mr Bartlett – I didnʼt expect to see you this evening.ʼ She beckoned him into the warm kitchen where they had obviously just begun their meal.
ʻSit yourself down – would you like a cup of tea?’
ʻWell, thank you, that would be most acceptable, that is, if Iʼm not interrupting, you appear to be about to eat.ʼ
ʻDonʼt you worry about that, Mr Bartlett.ʼ Peggy Berryman was rushing around making an enormous pot of tea – Bartlett, a great tea drinker, approved. ʻIʼve got a couple of extra chops in the oven, Mr Bartlett – would you like to join us?ʼ
ʻThatʼs very kind of you, Mrs Berryman, but my wife will have my dinner ready and Iʼm going straight home from here. She wouldnʼt be too pleased if I didnʼt have room for her meal. It does smell rather nice though.ʼ
Bartlett installed himself in a very large armchair by the range whereupon an enormous black-and-white cat crossed the kitchen and jumped into his lap. Mr Berryman smiled – ‘Thatʼs Sydneyʼs chair, as a rule; but donʼt you mind ʼim, Mr Bartlett, push ʼim off. Go on Sydney – shoo.ʼ
Bartlett stroked the cat, who obviously had no intention of vacating his position, and man and feline decided to share the armchair.
Mrs Berryman patted Sydneyʼs head as she handed Bartlett a cup of tea.
ʻʼEʼs fourteen now – we got ʼim as a kitten for Norma, when she was a little girl; ʼe still waits at the top of the road for ʼer, evʼry night, waiting for ʼer to come ʼome from work. She was five when we got ʼim. She said to the farmer out at Maenporth who we got ʼim from, “Whatʼs his name?” “Sydney – with a Y,” ʼe replied. “Then I shall call ʼim Sydney with a Y too,” she said.’
Mrs Berryman looked upset, thinking of better times.
Bartlett put down his cup and saucer.
ʻIʼve had an idea, well, my assistant has – itʼs something new; Boase has got lots of fresh, young ideas – some good, some not so good; you know what youngsters are like, think they know the secrets of the universe. This idea, though, might just help our enquiries.ʼ
Bartlett put forward the plan he and Boase had t
alked about and the Berrymans, glad of another avenue to explore, agreed. Bartlett left the Berryman house and walked home to Penmere Hill. He arrived just as Irene was taking a very large casserole from the oven.
ʻHello, Princess, Iʼm back. Hello, Irene.ʼ
ʻYour dinnerʼs just going on the table, George,’ Caroline called back from the kitchen, ʻcome and wash your hands, please.ʼ
Bartlett smiled. He loved the way Caroline treated him like a child sometimes – she was the same with Irene who, now a young woman, hated it.
New Yearʼs Eve 1921 came with an unexpected thaw giving a break in the harsh weather over Christmas. Revellers planned to dance and drink like never before – especially the younger members of the community. That night saw all the dance halls full – Kitty, Ruby, and Jack Pengelly were at the Magnolia Club in Arwenack Street where a new dance band were being introduced: Harryʼs Havana Orchestra led by Harry Watson-Booth, a twenty-two-year-old musician from Oxford. A talented concert pianist, he had now diverted his attention to setting up his own orchestra which had successfully travelled up and down the country for over a year. Now, however, something was keeping the players in Cornwall where they were experiencing more popularity than ever; they were quite happy to follow their leader and, as far as they were concerned, Harry Watson-Booth was in charge.
At around eleven oʼclock, while the band were being inundated with requests, a very drunk Rupert Hatton fell up the front steps of the Magnolia Club and, in a bid to negotiate the revolving glass door, managed to almost encapsulate himself permanently therein. As he continued rotating, a doorman, who had been seeing someone into a taxi cab, saw Hattonʼs plight, stopped the revolving door, and pulled the drunk out by his coat tails.
ʻI say, old man, no need for that, what! Blast you, mind the suit – canʼt a fellow get a drink here?ʼ Rupert Hatton was indignant. The doorman pulled him further towards the club entrance.
ʻIʼm sorry, sir, I think itʼs time you went home, donʼt you? Shall I call a taxi cab for you, sir?ʼ
Rupert attempted to straighten his collar and tie.
ʻUnhand me, my good man. I do not want a car – look, I have my own, see? Thereʼs my driver waiting for me.ʼ He pointed to the road where a very large chauffeur-driven motor car had been parked.
ʻIʼve come here to meet a friend, so please be good enough to permit me to enter.ʼ
ʻIʼm sorry, sir. Youʼve had too much to drink to come in here tonight. Goodnight, sir.ʼ The doorman, extremely familiar with such scenes, firmly installed Rupert Hatton into the one quarter compartment of the revolving door with ʻRemember to get out on the other side,ʼ and then returned to his duty.
Oblivious to Hattonʼs plight – not that anyone would have cared anyway – the revellers continued their party. 1922 was close and hopes of happy times ahead were high. The Great War was beginning to recede further into the past and the future was eagerly anticipated. Times had been hard for many, and few had escaped with their families intact after the horror of war. Now the time had come to look forward. Tonight was no exception and the party was in full swing. The old-fashioned dances, as well as the latest crazes, could all be witnessed at the Magnolia Club tonight – as the band continued playing, a young man stepped on to the dance floor with his partner and, as they danced, the others on the floor stepped back and formed a circle around them. No one had ever seen anything like this before. Before long the word had got round that these were two American students staying in Falmouth and they could really dance; within minutes everyone was copying them and the clock struck midnight. Nineteen twenty-two was here.
New Year’s Day passed quietly in Falmouth, much the same as it usually did. It was dry and sunny and most people either did some gardening or walked across the cliffs and beaches with their friends or families. A couple of braver souls took a dip in the sea at Gyllyngvase but they were very much in the minority.
The evening saw Ruby Pengelly sitting on the floor with her sewing box and mounds of material for dressmaking.
ʻKit, are you going to ʼelp me with this or what?ʼ
Kitty entered the room with a cup of tea and a plate of beef sandwiches. She sat on the floor next to her sister.
ʻWhat are you trying to do, exactly?ʼ she asked the younger girl.
ʻWell, you know the frock that American girl ʼad on last night? I want to make one like that. Look, Iʼve spent all day making this pattern.ʼ
She held up a few irregular shapes cut from newspaper. Kitty laughed. ʻThis is going to be the queerest frock I ever saw. Come on, letʼs see what we can do.ʼ
As the two girls sat cutting and pinning, arguing over just exactly what the American visitor had been wearing there was a loud knock at the door. Kitty got up.
ʻIʼll go. Who can that be at this time of night? – Itʼs almost nine oʼclock.ʼ
As she drew back the large bolt and opened the front door, there stood Norman Richards in a great state of excitement.
ʻWhatʼre you doinʼ ʼere so late, Norman?ʼ
ʻKitty, Kitty, youʼll never believe this …’
ʻ… No, I donʼt suppose I shall. Youʼd better come in.ʼ
Kitty led the way in to the parlour. She liked Norman, very much, although sometimes he could drive a person up the wall.
Ruby looked at him. He was looking rather dishevelled. His hair was a mess, his shoes were covered in mud, and his tie was undone.
ʻWhatʼs goinʼ on, Norman?ʼ she asked.
ʻIʼve just come down ʼIgh Street anʼ someoneʼs breaking into the shop.ʼ
Kitty laughed out loud.
ʻNot that again, Norman.ʼ
ʻItʼs true. I promise – I ʼeard glass breaking anʼ all. Dʼyou think Mrs Williams is all right?ʼ
Kitty patted his hand – it was only recently Norman had done this same thing and ended up in the shop all night.
ʻIʼm perfectly sure sheʼs all right, now, you go on ʼome – weʼve got work in the morning.ʼ
ʻAll right, Kitty – if youʼre sure evʼrythingʼll be OK?ʼ
ʻIʼm sure. Goodnight, Norman – see you tomorrow.ʼ
Kitty locked up behind Norman, suggested to Ruby that she had done more than enough dressmaking for one day, and the girls went to bed.
Early the next morning, on unlocking Mrs Williamsʼ tobacconistʼs shop, Kitty could hardly believe her eyes. On the floor as she opened the door lay a large quantity of broken glass. As it chinked under her feet, she walked further into the shop and switched on the lights. There must have been two dozen packets of cigarettes missing, plus several large bars of chocolate, and the money drawer lay open, completely empty. Kitty could hardly believe her eyes; so Norman must have been telling the truth. She went to get a sweeping brush then stopped in her tracks – what about Mrs Williams? What if sheʼd been hurt? Dropping the brush on the floor of the stockroom, Kitty ran up the two flights of stairs that rose from the back of the shop. When she reached the living accommodation, she paused – she could be in danger. She could hear no sound. Thinking only of Mrs Williams, she continued on until she reached the bedroom door. She knocked softly. No reply. She knocked again, this time louder.
ʻMrs Williams, Mrs Williams.ʼ She waited. Slowly she opened the bedroom door and peered inside. The room was sparsely furnished with a wooden bed in one corner. A bundle on the bed was visible. Kitty, worried as Mrs Williams was usually moving about by this time, gingerly moved towards the bed. The old woman lay with her face to the wall. Kitty put her hand out and touched the figure. With the loudest scream, Mrs Williams leapt into the air, simultaneously drawing a very large bread knife from under her pillows. Kitty screamed nearly as loudly and the two women looked at each other in shock. Mrs Williams spoke first.
ʻWhat on earth …?ʼ
ʻIʼm sorry, Iʼm really sorry.ʼ Kitty was half frightened to death by the experience. ʻI … I came up to see if you were all right. Iʼm afraid weʼve been burgled. I was worried that you might have been hurt.ʼ
ʻWhat do you mean,
weʼve been burgled?ʼ Mrs Williams was scrambling out of bed.
ʻDidnʼt you ʼear anything in the night then?ʼ Kitty asked her.
ʻNo, I never. I took an extra large drop of me sleeping medicine – I ʼavenʼt been ʼaving very good nights lately – and I used these.ʼ She produced two small soft pads from her bedside table which Kitty had just seen her removing from her ears.
ʻWait for me downstairs.ʼ
Kitty did as she was asked and returned to the shop. Norman was just arriving. He stepped onto the broken glass.
ʻMorninʼ, Kit. What on earth has ʼappened here?ʼ
ʻLooks like you were right, Norman. Weʼve been broken into. Mrs Williamsʼll want to call the police, Iʼm sure – youʼll have to tell ʼem what you saw.ʼ
Norman all at once felt very excited and very important. Yes, oh yes, heʼd tell the police all right. Heʼd heard about people being questioned by the police Theyʼd need his evidence. Heʼd tell them everything. Theyʼd soon catch the man that did this – or wait, maybe it was a woman. How exciting would that be? The evidence of Norman Richards, tobacconistʼs assistant from Falmouth, catches the townʼs first woman cat burglar. He could already see the headlines in the papers. What if she had an accomplice? She might be doing this all over the country – heʼd be in the national news then. Heʼd be a hero. Heʼd be in newsreels all over England. Yes, heʼd help the police with their enquiries. While Norman was lost in thought and away on his very own adventure, Mrs Williams emerged from the stockroom. She took one look at the damage and asked Kitty, ʻHow much did they take?ʼ
ʻIʼm just making a list now,ʼ Kitty replied.
ʻBetter let the police know, I suppose – Norman, telephone them, will you?ʼ
Kitty and Norman thought Mrs Williams seemed not particularly upset about this incident – perhaps she was mellowing with age. Perhaps she was still under the influence of her sleeping draught. Norman, highly delighted at his new found responsibility, went to put through the telephone call.
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