Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  Irene nudged Boase and stifled a giggle. Her dad was starting on something now. He had very fixed ideas and opinions and didnʼt mind who knew!

  ʻ… yes, another thing,ʼ he went on. Whatʼs all this business about foreign food, eh? Tell me that. I heard that in London now they eat snails. Can you believe it, slimy snails, of all things? I wouldnʼt give you a thank you for them – Iʼve got them all over the garden and theyʼre a perishing nuisance, thatʼs what. Iʼd rather starve. Give me a nice bit of steak and kidney pudding anytime.ʼ

  ʻOh, do stop going on, George.ʼ Caroline had had enough. ʻThe youngsters donʼt want to listen to you moaning on. Sit in your chair and Iʼll get you a nice drop of Leonardʼs – thatʼs English, I take it?ʼ

  ʻDonʼt you mock London beer, Princess, thereʼs nothing like it, get one for the boy as well. Youʼll join me wonʼt you, my boy?ʼ

  ʻYes, thank you.ʼ

  Caroline brought two bottles of Bartlettʼs favourite tipple. He had drunk Leonardʼs London beer for years and was never known to drink anything else. Brewed in the East End, it was a strong, dark ale – a real manʼs drink, Bartlett called it. Sadly there was only one public house in the area that sold it – happily, the Seven Stars was about a one-minute walk from the police station. Bartlett never sat and drank in pubs but he always liked to have some beer at home, so he often called into the Seven Stars on his way back from work to pick up half a dozen bottles for himself and a couple of pale ales for Caroline; it would do her good, he told her, and she often had one before going to bed at night.

  Bartlett and Boase sat beside the fire drinking, with Topper lying across the hearth rug enjoying the warmth. Bartlett put down his glass.

  ʻI hate to talk shop, my boy, but what did you make of that funeral today? I really expected to see someone or something that might help us.ʼ

  ʻI donʼt know what to think; all I saw was some expensive motor cars, as I told you – they must have an awful lot of money to burn, thatʼs all I can say. Youʼll laugh, but I found a bag hanging on one of the car mirrors and I was just thinking what a handy thing that would have been in the trenches. Iʼve never seen anything like it – completely airtight and watertight, a really good invention. Couldnʼt think what it was used for though. Tools, maybe, although I donʼt know why youʼd want to keep your tools dry and airtight.ʼ

  ʻDonʼt know either,ʼ mused Bartlett. ʻHow big was it?ʼ

  ʻWell Iʼd say … wait a minute.ʼ Boase put down his glass and leaned forward in his chair. Topper sat up and looked at him.

  ʻIʼd say it was revolver-sized.ʼ

  ʻWhat? What do you mean, revolver-sized?ʼ Bartlett looked at him enquiringly.

  ʻWell, Iʼve just had a really mad thought. Just listen before you say anything. There were no footprints on the bank, right? What if the murderer swam through the water with the gun in that bag, or a bag like it? I had real trouble keeping my gun dry in the trenches and that crossed my mind when I saw that bag hanging on the car mirror. The killer could have shot Rupert Hatton from the water and then swam away again, leaving no footprints.ʼ

  ʻSeems a bit far-fetched to me.ʼ Bartlett finished his beer. ʻSo, are you saying that the murderer used that bag to keep a gun dry then hung it on a mirror on that car in the Hattonʼs motor garage?ʼ

  ʻWhy not?ʼ

  Bartlett looked perplexed.

  ʻSo you think someone who lives or works at Penvale Manor killed Rupert Hatton?ʼ

  ʻMaybe – maybe not. We know that Frank Wilson turned up there some time ago demanding money and threatening the Hattons. Maybe he went back there and left it to try to implicate Algernon Hatton. He got rid of one of the twins, perhaps he thinks he can despatch Algernon by laying his brotherʼs murder at his door.ʼ

  ʻPerhaps. But where does that leave us?ʼ

  ʻI donʼt know. Maybe we should go down to the pier and river to see if anyoneʼs seen Frank Wilson – they must all know him, heʼs been running ferries and tugs there for years. Someone might have seen him; we know heʼs still around.ʼ

  ʻThatʼs not a bad idea, my boy. Weʼll go down there tomorrow, ask some questions.ʼ

  The clock in the hall chimed eleven. Boase stood up.

  ʻI really must be going now.ʼ He turned to Caroline.

  ʻThank you again, Mrs Bartlett.ʼ

  ʻIʼve told you before, Archie, call me Caroline. And youʼre very welcome. I hope you come again soon.ʼ

  ʻGoodnight, sir, see you in the morning.ʼ

  ʻGoodnight, my boy. Irene, see Boase out, will you?ʼ

  Irene was already waiting with Boaseʼs hat and coat. She handed them to him and he put them on. She opened the front door and they both stood there.

  ʻThank you for a lovely evening, Irene, and for the food.ʼ

  ʻYouʼre very welcome, Archie. I hope youʼll come again soon, itʼs so nice having you here. Come here – you must do up all of your buttons – youʼll freeze.ʼ

  Irene did up the remaining coat buttons and the couple stood until Irene reached up and put both her arms around Boaseʼs neck and kissed him. She was small and slim, only about five feet in height, and she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach him. This time he wrapped his arms about her narrow waist and kissed her too. They stood for a moment, enjoying their newly found closeness. Boase whispered goodnight in her ear. He didnʼt want to leave her. He could smell lilacs in her hair; it was lovely. He walked home thinking only of Irene and how lucky he was to have met such a girl.

  By nine oʼclock the next morning, Bartlett and Boase were at the Prince of Wales Pier hoping to find out more about Frank Wilson. Bartlett lit his pipe and Boase opened a large white paper bag containing one hard-boiled egg and a pork pie.

  ʻRight, Boase, I think weʼd be better off splitting up, that way weʼll be able to cover more ground. You take a walk up to Customs House Quay and Iʼll stay around here. Remember, we want to find out if Wilsonʼs been around lately – if heʼs spoken to anyone, brought a boat in, anything at all.ʼ

  ʻRight-oh, sir.ʼ

  Boase walked through the main street until he reached the Quay where several small boats were coming and going and a few men were mending nets. He approached one of them, a swarthy man of about fifty, who sat with a pipe in his mouth, sharpening a piece of wood to make a peg.

  ʻExcuse me, Iʼm Constable Boase and I was wondering if you could help me?ʼ

  ʻSit you down, young man,ʼ said the fisherman, pointing to a lobster pot next to him. ʻIʼm Tommy Medlyn, what can I do for you – looking for a criminal?ʼ

  He laughed the loudest laugh Boase had ever heard and all the other fishermen within earshot laughed too.

  ʻActually, I was wondering if youʼd seen Frank Wilson lately, I wanted to speak to him but no one seems to know where he is?ʼ

  ʻFrank Wilson, I ʼavenʼt seen ʼim for … well, must be six months. I tell ʼe who might know anʼ thatʼs Binny Vivian. Look ʼeʼs over there – ʼe was quite friendly with Frank for a while, I know. See – ʼim with the navy jersey on.ʼ

  Boase thanked Tommy Medlyn and made his way across the quay. He approached the man they had talked about. He looked about sixty with a grey beard and very red cheeks. He wore a navy fishermanʼs jersey, navy trousers and a navy cap. He sat repairing a net.

  ʻBinny Vivian?ʼ

  ʻThatʼs me – who wants to know?ʼ

  ʻIʼm Constable Boase, Tommy Medlyn said you might be able to help me.ʼ

  ʻMe? ʼElp the police, itʼll be the first time.ʼ Binny Vivian chuckled. ʻSit down, lad. Now, what do ʼe want to know then?ʼ

  ʻDo you know where Frank Wilson is?ʼ

  ʻOh, itʼs Frank youʼre looking for, is it? Well I donʼt know where ʼe is at the moment. I saw ʼim, I sʼpose about a fortnight ago. He came alongside ʼere and asked if I could ʼelp ʼim with a repair to one of ʼis boats.ʼ

  ʻDid you help him?ʼ

  ʻYou must be jokinʼ – it was dark. Iʼd just come out of the pub and I saw ʼim. “Binny,” ʼe says, “can you ʼelp me with a repa
ir job quickly?” I said I would but not until morning – we wouldnʼt be able to see. He didnʼt like it much anʼ thatʼs the last time I saw ʼim. Iʼm sorry too. I like Frank very much, ʼeʼs a nice boy and was very kind to my wife years ago when she was ill. No, I wonʼt forget his kindnesses. But, young man, I canʼt tell you anything else because thatʼs all there is.ʼ

  ʻI see,ʼ there was disappointment in Boaseʼs voice, ʻwell thanks very much, Binny.ʼ As he turned and walked up the quay, a thought came to him. He went back.

  ʻJust one other thing, Binny – how good a swimmer is Frank? Pretty good I imagine, spending his life on the water?ʼ

  On hearing this Binny and two other fishermen, who had just joined him, began to laugh. They laughed so much they couldnʼt tell Boase just what was so funny.

  When they had regained their composure, Binny spoke, ‘Frank Wilson, a good swimmer? Why ʼe couldnʼt swim if ʼis life depended on it – anʼ it nearly did once. I remember one summer, a few years back, we was all messinʼ around on the Prince of Wales Pier and Frank got pushed in the water. Well, we was all laughinʼ until, that is, we suddenly realised ʼe couldnʼt swim a stroke. All his life, as you say, on the water anʼ ʼe canʼt swim. Who ever ʼeard of such a thing, I ask you?ʼ

  ʻThanks very much, Binny.ʼ Boase couldnʼt wait to tell this to Bartlett. If Rupert Hatton was shot from the water, it certainly wasnʼt Frank Wilson in the pool that night.

  Boase caught up with Bartlett in the town and together they took the short walk back to the station. Bartlett had gleaned no information. Boase told him about Frank Wilson not being able to swim. Bartlett listened.

  ʻWell, it may surprise us that he couldnʼt swim, but what if he went across in a boat?ʼ

  ʻBut there was no boat around,ʼ replied Boase, ʻwe searched the whole pool – we would have seen a boat.ʼ

  ʻI suppose youʼre right. None of it sounds very convincing. Iʼve arranged to meet Norma Berryman this afternoon – itʼs her half day. I want to ask her more about Ivy Williams.ʼ

  At one oʼclock Bartlett met Norma Berryman in Georgeʼs cafe. They had a cold lunch of veal and ham pie, bread, and pickles. Bartlett asked about Ivy Williams.

  ʻTell me more about what happened when Ivy found out that one of the Hattons was her father.ʼ

  ʻWell, Mr Bartlett, I canʼt really tell you any more. I did find it a bit strange when she told me that they would have to pay for what theyʼd done, I didnʼt really know what she meant by that.ʼ

  ʻDid you tell her that she was a twin?ʼ

  ʻNo, I felt like Iʼd shocked her enough – I thought that maybe Iʼd tell her in the future, but itʼs too late now and sheʼll never know. Itʼs just too sad, donʼt you agree, Mr Bartlett?ʼ

  ʻYes, I agree, Norma. Can you remember anything else?ʼ

  ʻNo, really I canʼt. But there is something I want to tell you.ʼ

  ʻGo on.ʼ

  ʻWell, I hope you donʼt think Iʼm being silly, but when I left work late the other night, I thought I was being followed. I got as far as the Rope Walk when I heard footsteps behind me. They quickened when I walked quicker then, twice, someone said my name, sort of hushed but loud. I was very frightened, Mr Bartlett. I was lucky I was quite near to home so I ran the rest of the way.ʼ I know I’m still not fully recovered yet and when I got home I just thought that it was, well, in my mind – that it never really happened. But I was so scared, Mr Bartlett, I really was.

  ʻDid you tell your parents?ʼ

  ʻOh, no. Theyʼd be so worried.

  ʻNorma, I want you to do something for me; I want you to promise me now, that while all this unsolved business is still going on, you wonʼt stay out at night on your own – not even working late; make sure someone meets you. I donʼt want to alarm you, but I want you to be careful. Your parents have only just got you back and I want to keep you safe for them.ʼ

  ʻAm I in danger, Mr Bartlett?ʼ

  ʻI donʼt think so, Norma, but you do know a lot which isnʼt a good situation to be in. Just be vigilant, all right?ʼ

  ʻAll right, Mr Bartlett, I will, I promise.ʼ

  ʻFancy a trip out to Penvale Manor, Boase?ʼ

  ʻWhat for, sir?ʼ

  ʻWell I spoke with Norma yesterday and somethingʼs been playing on my mind ever since. She said that when she told Ivy Williams about her father, Ivy said that they were going to pay for what theyʼd done. I wonder if one of them is responsible for her murder.ʼ

  ʻWhy have you changed your mind, sir?ʼ

  ʻWhat if Ivy Williams was blackmailing the Hattons? What if she was tapping them for money and theyʼd had enough of her?ʼ

  ʻI suppose itʼs possible, sir. I hadnʼt thought of that.ʼ

  ʻNeither did I when Norma first told me – when she said it again yesterday I just had a feeling about it all. Thatʼs why I want to go over to see Hatton. Coming?ʼ

  Algernon received his guests in the blue drawing room. There was a fire blazing in the huge marble fireplace, which was very welcoming on such a cold February day. Bartlett stepped nearer to it.

  ʻIʼm sorry to bother you, sir, so soon after the funeral.ʼ

  ʻThatʼs all right, Inspector, how can I help you?ʼ

  Bartlett had nothing to lose now.

  ʻI was wondering if you had any contact with Ivy Williams before her death?ʼ

  ʻIvy Williams? Why should I?ʼ

  ʻThis might be a good time, sir, to tell you that I know that you and your brother were related to her, so you donʼt need to hide it from me.ʼ

  Algernon walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a large whisky. Bartlett and Boase declined his offer to join him. He sat down in a big leather armchair and Bartlett sat in the chair opposite him.

  ʻWell, if you know, I suppose thereʼs nothing I can do to cover any of it up, is there?ʼ

  ʻNo, sir. Please tell us everything you know.ʼ

  Boase continued to wander around the large drawing room studying the paintings and photographs which hung on the walls.

  Algernon began, ʻSome time last year, this woman wrote a letter to us asking for money. She said she knew about my brother and me, that one of us was her father and that the least we could do was to pay her a regular income or she would bring shame and scandal on our family. Naturally, we both knew what unfortunate events had taken place here at the house so many years ago and my brother and I discussed what to do, at length. Rupert was always for a quiet life. I said that we shouldnʼt pay her – he said we should, that we owed her that much considering the hardship she had suffered. Rupert would go out of his way to keep the peace, he was a very nice man.ʼ

  Hatton paused and lit a cigarette.

  ʻMy brother didnʼt want my mother to find out – the shock and the shame would probably have killed her; thatʼs what made up my mind. As you may know, my father was involved at the time and knew everything, but my poor dear mother, well, it would just be too much for her to bear.ʼ

  Algernon Hatton poured himself another large drink and continued his story.

  ʻWe agreed to pay her ten pounds a month, which I thought was excessive, but we did it anyway. We set up an account with our bank and had the money put in for her so she could take it when she wanted.ʼ

  ʻHow long did the payments continue, sir?ʼ

  ʻJust two months – but, I promise you, Inspector, we didnʼt kill her. It doesnʼt look very good though, does it?ʼ

  Bartlett had to agree.

  ʻCan I ask you a personal question, sir?ʼ

  ʻI suppose so.ʼ

  ʻWhich of you was her father?ʼ

  ʻWell, thatʼs something thatʼs known only to my brother and me, well, only to me now. Oh, what the hell – it was me, I was her father. My brother told me to leave Maude Mockett alone but I was stupid. I would have done anything in those days, just for fun – and I admit Iʼve hurt people through my selfishness and stupidity but – murder? No.ʼ

  At those words the door opened and Lady Hatton stood there. She walked into the room.

 
ʻHello, Inspector Bartlett, Constable Boase.ʼ She turned to Algernon who had stood up when she entered the room.

  ʻOh, Mother, were you listening?ʼ

  ʻYes, Algie, I was. But donʼt worry – I know about my grandchild.ʼ

  ʻBut … but how?ʼ

  ʻItʼs a long story, Algie, darling, but believe me, I know. You boys were always keeping your little secrets – but this? Iʼm sorry it was all hidden from me but, well, I can understand your father not wanting anyone, including me, to know. You must feel very sad to have lost your daughter. Iʼm sorry.ʼ

  ʻIʼm sorry too, Mother. I really didnʼt have anything to do with her murder – you must believe that.ʼ

  ʻI believe you, dear – but itʼs not what I think that counts.ʼ

  Boase had finished looking at the pictures and now sat at the back of the room, listening to all that was being said.

  Bartlett stood up.

  ʻThank you for being so honest with us, sir, Iʼm sure it wasnʼt easy but there is just one more thing.ʼ

  ʻWhat, Inspector?ʼ

  ʻCould you tell me where you were on the night of Ivyʼs murder?ʼ

  ʻI canʼt even remember when it was.ʼ

  ʻIʼll remind you, sir – it was the night of the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth of November.ʼ

  ʻIʼd have to check my old diary, wait a moment please.’ He left the room and returned with his journal. He leafed through to that date.

  ʻOh, I do remember – look. Rupert and I had supper with the Carlisles out at Mawnan Smith. We spent the night there – had a bit too much to drink. Theyʼll confirm, Iʼm sure.’