ʻWell, Algie, you might think Iʼm vile but Iʼm not hurting anyone and Harry and I are becoming very close; actually, Iʼm thinking of asking him to move in here with us; heʼs got nowhere else to go, the lease on his flat runs out next week.ʼ
ʻAre you totally mad?ʼ Algernon couldnʼt believe what he was hearing.
ʻMother would never hear of it – and then sheʼd find out about you; what then?ʼ
Rupert began to get irritated by his brotherʼs attitude.
ʻLook, Algie, this morning weʼve had what amounts to death threats by a man who we know is extremely capable of carrying them out and youʼre worrying about my social life. Forget it!ʼ
ʻAll right, itʼs your business, but I wonʼt have Mother upset – do you hear me, Rupert?ʼ
Rupert nodded.
At the Magnolia Club, Ruby and Ernie were still in the running for the five pounds. There were still eleven other couples, all with plenty of stamina, and the competition wasnʼt going to be easy. Ernie was glad he was having a week off work. Rubyʼs feet were beginning to ache but she wasnʼt going to miss the chance of that money. At about midday, Kitty and Eddy arrived at the club. Rose Pengelly had sent them to see how the dancers were getting on. She was worried about Ruby. Personally she thought it was a daft idea – dancing to win money; wearing yourself out like that, but that was youngsters today. She asked Kitty and Eddy to give her a full report when they returned. The Rashleighs stayed and watched the competition for about half an hour and, reassured that Ruby was, indeed, perfectly well, returned home, via the Pengellys’ flat to relay the news.
George Bartlett sat at his desk playing with a pencil. Boase looked at him.
ʻEverything all right, sir?ʼ
ʻNot really, Boase. Iʼve been thinking about that William Gibbons. You said that you saw him running along the platform at Truro station, didnʼt you?ʼ
ʻYes, I did. And to be truthful, I couldnʼt believe my eyes. He was in a right state when Penhaligon and I went round to see him at his house – limping all over the place, with a stick he was.ʼ
ʻI think weʼll pay him another visit. He knew Ivy Williams pretty well, wouldnʼt you say?ʼ
ʻWell she was living in his house, sir.ʼ
ʻExactly. He must know something and this business with his legs is all a bit strange. Add to that the frustration of missing Norma Berryman so narrowly and Iʼm beginning to wonder which way to turn next. Iʼll have to see the Berrymans later too – itʼs only fair to tell them what we know – do you think?ʼ
Boase agreed and the two men set off to Kimberley Park Road to see William Gibbons.
Arriving at the house, Bartlett knocked and waited. After what seemed like a very long time, Gibbons opened the front door and stood there leaning on a stick. Bartlett introduced himself – Boase needed no introduction, as Gibbons recognised him immediately. He led the way into the front parlour.
ʻIʼve already told you everything I know,ʼ he volunteered.
ʻIʼm sure thatʼs true,ʼ replied Bartlett, ʻbut thereʼs something else I want to clear up with you, sir. A while ago my assistant and I were travelling by train to London on police business and while we were waiting at Truro station, Boase here saw you from the window of the train; you appeared to be running at top speed along the platform, carrying your stick. Could you explain to us, sir, why a war invalid would be able to do such a thing?ʼ
Gibbons knew he was in a hole now. He had no choice but to come clean. ʻAll right, Iʼve been rumbled. Look.ʼ
Gibbons walked across the room unaided, and swiftly back again.
ʻIʼll tell you everything but I still donʼt know any more about the murder. I was injured quite badly in the war – 1917 – and spent eight months in hospital; first in France then here. Before that Iʼd been in and out of trenches for twelve months, almost without a break, apart from one or two trips home. By the time the war ended I was still in hospital. I saw an opportunity to make some money out of my injuries so I took it. I fooled all the doctors that I couldnʼt walk properly and couldnʼt return to my old job – gamekeeper, that was – and so, because of the extent of my injuries, I was allowed to claim a small pension. It really isnʼt much, but it helps me to get by – when you saw me I was about to miss my train; I was going to visit my mother in Sunderland. So I suppose now youʼre going to report me to the authorities?ʼ
Bartlett patted the man on the shoulder.
ʻNo, Mr Gibbons, Iʼm going to do no such thing.ʼ
George Bartlett realised how hard life in the trenches must have been; Gibbons was lucky to have come back at all, unlike his son, John. No, he wasnʼt going to take anything away from a man who had fought for his country in such a terrible and unnecessary war. Gibbons was grateful.
ʻWell, thank you, sir. Thatʼs very decent of you – I donʼt know what to say; I felt sure you would intervene to stop my pension.ʼ
ʻNo, youʼre wrong – I think youʼve been through enough. Just make sure no one sees you running for a train again; the next person might not be so sympathetic. Now, are you sure you canʼt tell us anything else about Ivy Williams or anything surrounding her murder? Any callers to the house, any mention of boyfriends or meetings?ʼ
ʻIʼm sorry, sir, no, nothing. She kept herself to herself, paid her rent on time just like I told your assistant here, and seemed generally well-behaved. I really canʼt tell you anything more. Iʼm sorry.ʼ
ʻWell, thank you, Mr Gibbons, for your help.ʼ
ʻAnd thank you, sir, thank you very much indeed.ʼ
Gibbons held out his hand to both men then saw them both to the door and watched as they walked down the front path and left through the gate.
Bartlett lit his pipe.
ʻWell, Boase. Next stop the Berrymans, I think.ʼ
Bartlett and Boase walked up the Berrymans’ neat front path and Bartlett knocked on the door. As the two men waited, Sydney the black-and-white cat wound his rather large body around Bartlettʼs legs then jumped up on a nearby wall and attempted to drape himself around the back of the older manʼs neck, much like a scarf. The door opened and Peggy Berryman stood there.
ʻHello, Mr Bartlett, sir, Mr Boase – Sydney, you naughty boy, get down. Give ʼim to me, Mr Bartlett; there now, look at Mr Bartlettʼs collar, all covered in your ʼairs, thatʼs a nice thing, I must say. Come in, Mr Bartlett, Iʼll fetch a clothes brush.ʼ
Bartlett and Boase entered, both smiling, Boase because he had never thought to see his superior got the better of by a cat, Bartlett because he felt that he had such hopeful news for the Berrymans. Peggy Berryman began brushing Bartlettʼs collar using a large brush from a hat stand in the hall, and her husband, hearing the sound of visitorsʼ voices, quickly dropped his newspaper and stood to put on his jacket.
ʻWell, gentlemen, what can we do for you?ʼ Mr Berryman offered the pair a seat.
Bartlett unbuttoned his overcoat.
ʻWe think we may have some good news for you – weʼve still got some further enquiries, but I wanted you to know it looks promising.ʼ
ʻWhat is it, Mr Bartlett?ʼ Peggy Berryman sank down into an armchair.
ʻWe think someone has seen your daughter.ʼ
ʻIs she all right?ʼ Mr Berryman sat on the arm of his wifeʼs chair and took her hand.
ʻIt seems so. Sheʼs been working in Truro – someone told us they had seen her working in an office there. Unfortunately, when we got there she had just left the employment but weʼve got new hope now and, believe me, weʼre more determined than ever to bring her back to you.ʼ
Peggy Berryman was sobbing quietly. Her husband put his arm round her shoulders.
ʻCome on now, Peg. Thatʼs such good news. ʼEre now, ʼave a nice ʼot cuppa.ʼ The old man poured a cup of tea and handed it to her. The cup rattled in its saucer as she took it from him. She took a sip and handed it back.
ʻWhy did she run away, Arnie?ʼ She looked up at her husband.
ʻIʼve no idea, but that doesnʼt matter at the moment – if Mr Bartlett can bring ʼ
er back to us then thatʼs all we could wish for.ʼ
Bartlett and Boase felt they should leave the couple alone and, promising to keep them informed, they left the small cottage and returned to the police station.
Rose and Bill Pengelly sat in their kitchen talking. They had just received some wedding photographs from Kitty and Eddy and were choosing one to frame.
ʻWhat a lovely day that was, Bill.ʼ Rose looked at the pictures over and over again.
ʻIʼm sure I donʼt know which one to choose – what do you think, Jack?ʼ Jack was sitting at the kitchen table making a model aeroplane.
ʻBoy Jack, Iʼm talking to you, anʼ I ʼope youʼve got plenty of newspaper on my table with all that mess youʼre makinʼ – come anʼ look at these photographs.ʼ
Jack put down his model and walked over to his motherʼs chair. He looked through the pictures.
ʻWell, I dunno – whatʼre ʼe askinʼ me for – what do I know about stupid weddings?ʼ
His father, standing up and reaching for his pipe, clipped his sonʼs ear.
ʻDonʼt talk to yer mother like that – at least try and look interested; itʼs yer sister after all.ʼ
Bill walked out into the yard for some fresh air and to smoke his pipe, hopefully uninterrupted. If he was honest, he didnʼt like weddings either but, this one had been special; his first daughter getting married – to a nice boy too. He secretly didnʼt hold the same hopes for Ruby. What a fly-by-night she was turning out to be, but what a lovely daughter too. He idolised his baby girl – whatever she did. As he sat thinking about his beloved girls he heard voices in the street above.
ʻHold on now, nearly there – youʼll ʼave to walk down the steps yourself.ʼ
Bill stood up and walked across the yard. He couldnʼt believe his eyes. There at the top of the steps was Ruby, being carried by a man. He ran up to them.
ʻWhatʼs going on ʼere?ʼ he asked. ʻRuby, are you all right?ʼ
The young man dropped his precious cargo to the floor and held out his hand.
ʻMr Pengelly? Ernie Penhaligon, sir. Iʼve been partnering your daughter in the dance marathon.ʼ
Bill was astounded by the state of the couple.
ʻWell you donʼt look very well on it – youʼd better come inside.ʼ
Having reached the bottom of the steps, Ernie Penhaligon carried Ruby into the house – she was half asleep. Her mother came out into the hall.
ʻOh, my God – whatʼs ʼappened to ʼer?ʼ
Ruby opened her eyes.
ʻWe won, Ma – we won.ʼ
Rose plumped up the cushions on the couch.
ʻLay ʼer on ʼere. I told you my girl – what a stupid idea. What a way to spend a few days off work. Look at the state of you.ʼ
She turned to Ernie. ʻI think you ʼad better go ʼome, young man – you donʼt look too good yourself.ʼ
Jack came into the parlour.
ʻʼEllo, Ernie – you all right?ʼ
Ruby opened her eyes.
ʻYou two know each other?ʼ
‘Jack and I use to sail our model boats at Swanpool when we was kids,ʼ replied Ernie.
Bill stood up.
ʻWell, in that case, youʼd better stay and ʼave a cup of tea – you look all-in, young man. And thanks for getting ʼer ʼome safely.ʼ
Bill, Jack, and Ernie went into the kitchen to have a drink and a sandwich. Rose looked at Ruby lying on the couch.
ʻWell. I ʼope you enjoyed it – youʼre both mad.ʼ
ʻWe won five pounds, Ma – to share, of course.ʼ
ʻWell I ʼope the first thing you do with it is buy a new pair of stockings – look at the state of these. You better take ʼem off anʼ letʼs ʼave a look at yer feet.ʼ
Ruby sat up and peeled the stockings off – there was barely anything left of the heels and toes and her feet were red, with the skin broken and sore. Rose rolled the stockings up into a ball.
ʻNot even I can darn those – theyʼre only fit for the rubbish. When the men are out of the kitchen you should go and soak yer feet in a bowl of ʼot water – you must be mad, my girl. You better get a good nightʼs sleep tonight and rest tomorrow.ʼ
The three men sat around the kitchen table. Jack showed Ernie his half-finished model.
ʻHey, Ern, do you remember when we ʼad that lovely big yacht out on the pool and it went out of control?ʼ
Ernie laughed. ʻYeah, it went shooting off into the water so fast it capsized David Treloarʼs punt. What a laugh that was.ʼ
ʻYou should ʼave bin there, Da. That David Treloar always thought ʼe was better than anyone else and thought ʼe could make the best boats too. ʼE told evʼryone that ʼis punt was so good that he could sail ʼis chicken sandwiches away in it and they would come back dry. You should ʼave seen the look on ʼis face when the punt capsized and an enormous swan came over and ate the bread. Iʼve never laughed so much in all my life. David Treloarʼs working down the docks now, Ernie – did you know?
ʻNo, I donʼt care if I never see ʼim again – what a half-wit! Anyway, I must be going. Thanks very much for the tea and the sandwich, Mr Pengelly.ʼ
Ernie Penhaligon said his goodbyes and Bill and Jack came into the parlour. Bill sat in his armchair.
ʻVery nice boy, that Ernie. You didnʼt say you were courtinʼ a policeman.ʼ
ʻYes, ʼe is nice, Dad – ʼeʼs takinʼ me to the fair on the Moor tomorrow.ʼ
Rose looked disapproving.
ʻNice or not, I told you to rest tomorrow – look at the state of yer feet; go anʼ soak ʼem now – thereʼll be no fair for you.
The following morning found George Bartlett at his desk earlier than usual. By the time Boase arrived the older man had already been working for two hours. He looked up as his assistant walked into the office.
ʻMorning, Boase – put the kettle on will you, hereʼs my cup.ʼ
ʻMorning, sir, youʼre in early today. Would you like a piece of saffron cake with that?ʼ he added pulling a paper bag from his coat pocket.
ʻNo thanks, just the tea. Iʼve been trying to figure out how to trace Norma Berryman – the look on her motherʼs face yesterday when we told her the news; I canʼt let her down now, Boase – weʼve got to find that girl. I thought today we could go over to Truro again, weʼve got a few hours to spare. If you get a couple of men to come with us we can spread out a bit; I donʼt think now that this business has anything to do with Ivy Williams but itʼll be one less thing on our books to worry about.ʼ
ʻHave you thought any more about Ivy Williamsʼs murder, sir?ʼ
ʻI think of nothing else my boy – I still donʼt trust those Hattons and I bet any money that Frank Wilson was their visitor.ʼ
ʻWhy didnʼt we question the Hattons about that visit after we spoke to their mother, sir?ʼ
ʻMainly because I donʼt want them to know that their mother let us in on what happened – Iʼm not sure yet that I even trust them to take care of her and, also, Iʼm not so convinced that Frank Wilson is a danger – if heʼs got something to hide, why was he still in the area at Christmas?ʼ
Boase thought that this made perfect sense. He made himself and Bartlett a cup of tea and sat at his desk proceeding to unwrap a large piece of saffron cake. Boase shared his superiorʼs office as there was limited space in this part of the station and also because Bartlett wanted to keep Boase under his watchful eye – this young man had great potential he had thought to himself, much like himself in his younger days, although, alarmingly, Boase was the quicker-witted of the two. The younger manʼs part of the office was small and occupied the back wall in the corner; the two desks faced each other although Bartlett, naturally, was nearer the fire in winter and, the window in summer. The two men got on remarkably well together – complemented one another and made a very strong team.
As Boase reached the end of his saffron cake he looked across at Bartlett.
ʻI was wondering, sir …ʼ
ʻYes, Boase, what is it?ʼ
ʻWell … well … nothing really.ʼ
&
nbsp; ʻYou know I hate it when you do that, man – what do you want to say?ʼ
Boase wished he had never started this conversation.
ʻWell, sir, I was wondering … I was wondering, well, if you thought that Irene might like to come to the fair with me tonight?ʼ
Bartlett smiled.
ʻWell, you should really ask her, not me. Why donʼt you come round later – what time does this fair start?ʼ
As Bartlett spoke he looked out of his window – the fair was outside on the Moor and was preparing to open for the afternoon. He watched the fairground workers going about their business; it reminded him of the fairs in London – they were different years ago, mind. The rides were cheaper, the food was better, how things had changed since his younger days.
ʻWell, about seven oʼclock is a good time to go, sir.
ʻWell then, why donʼt you come to the house and I will tell Irene to be ready?ʼ
ʻWhat if she doesnʼt want to, sir?ʼ
Bartlett raised his eyebrows.
ʻI really donʼt think thereʼs any danger of that happening, my boy. Now, get these men together and prepare for a trip to Truro.ʼ
As Bartlett and Boase collected their coats, the desk sergeant knocked on the door and entered with a letter, announcing it had just come as a special delivery. Bartlett opened the envelope and read:
Dear Sir
I have some information which may help you with your enquiries following your visit to my office. Jane Perkins (or Norma Berryman) I have discovered is living at 17, Lemon Street in Truro. She has a room there. I wish you well.
Yours faithfully
Thomas Trevanion, Livestock Auctioneer
Bartlett couldnʼt believe his luck.
ʻBoase, we’ll have our first stop at 17 Lemon Street today – here, read this.ʼ
The two men, together with two constables, arrived in Truro at eleven oʼclock. Boase was keen to find Norma Berryman but his mind wasnʼt on the job. He couldnʼt wait to see Irene – what if she said she would come to the fair with him? They could get into a swingboat together and he would be close to her again; how could he live without her? He looked at his pocket watch – less than eight hours, but what a long day this was going to be; every minute seemed like an eternity, why couldnʼt they be together all the time, never have to go home, never have to write to each other – just to look up and there theyʼd be, always?
Empty Vessels Page 11
