Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  Thank you, sir, thank you, Lady Hatton. I wonʼt trouble you any further. Good day.ʼ

  When Bartlett and Boase left the house, they stopped and looked at each other.

  ʻWhat do you make of all that then, Boase?ʼ

  ʻQuite unbelievable, sir. Thereʼs another thing.ʼ

  ʻWhatʼs that?ʼ

  ʻWell, I know it probably doesnʼt prove anything, but when I was looking at the pictures in that room, there was a photograph of Algernon Hatton winning a national swimming competition in 1896. Looks like he was a good swimmer.ʼ

  ʻYouʼre right, Boase, it doesnʼt prove anything. Letʼs make a move now.ʼ

  They made their way back to Falmouth to arrange to visit the Carlisles at Mawnan Smith. Bartlett felt he ought to establish an alibi, just in case – he couldnʼt afford to take any risks at this stage.

  Later that afternoon, Bartlett and Boase were on their way to Truscott House at Mawnan Smith. Bartlett had met the Carlisles when he and Caroline had attended a charity dinner a couple of years before; he thought she and her husband were a very nice couple. Peter Carlisle had bought the house just before the war. He had met Helen in his home town of Salisbury and they married there about six years ago. Bartlett had thought it strange, though, that a man of almost fifty should be married to a young woman of thirty. Why, she wasnʼt much older than his Irene! Having such a big place with plenty of land allowed Peter Carlisle to indulge his passion for breeding racehorses. The couple could afford to do a lot for charity, they were very wealthy – something Bartlett didnʼt like much. However, the Carlisles were very nice, ordinary people, and very generous to those less well-off, so that counted in their favour as far as he was concerned.

  The two arrived at Truscott House and approached it down a long drive which, in a few weeks, would burst into life with beautiful rhododendrons. The house was early Victorian and very large. Two splendid racehorses were being walked across the drive as they reached the house. To the right was a vast stable block and plenty of people hard at work cleaning, grooming, and all the associated equine-related tasks. Bartlett and Boase walked up to the front door but as they were about to ring the bell they heard a voice.

  ʻHello, can I help you?ʼ

  They turned round and Bartlett at once recognised Helen Carlisle walking towards them across the lawn. She wore a long grey coat and, much to Boaseʼs surprise, grey trousers with knee-length boots.

  ʻGeorge, how lovely to see you again.ʼ She shook his hand.

  ʻHello, Helen. How are you?ʼ This is Constable Boase – Archie.

  She shook Boaseʼs hand too.

  ʻHello, Archie. What brings you all the way out here, George?ʼ

  ʻWell, I was hoping you could clarify something for me, Helen.ʼ

  ʻWhy donʼt you come into the house and have a cup of tea?ʼ

  ʻThat would be very nice, thank you.ʼ

  Bartlett and Boase followed her into a large hallway and through to the kitchen at the back of the house – this room alone was almost the size of Bartlettʼs entire ground floor at home. They sat at a long wooden table and Helen made tea. Through a doorway a maid was preparing vegetables in the scullery.

  ʻPeterʼs out at the moment – he would have loved to have seen you again. Howʼs Caroline?ʼ

  ʻSheʼs a bit under the weather sometimes, but not too bad at the moment, thank you.ʼ

  ʻYour wife is such a lovely lady. Wish her well from me, wonʼt you?ʼ

  ʻOf course I will.ʼ

  ʻYou must come over for dinner some time – catch me up on all the latest police work youʼve been doing. What can I do for you today, anyway?ʼ

  ʻWell, I was just wondering if you could verify that Rupert and Algernon Hatton stayed with you one night last November?ʼ

  ʻOoh, is this an alibi?ʼ

  ʻSort of.ʼ

  ʻYes. They did stay here. It was the twenty-fifth of November – I remember because it was my motherʼs fiftieth birthday and I really wanted to go up to London and see her, but Peter had some people over, including those blasted Hatton twins. To be perfectly honest, I canʼt bear them; well, just the one really, I suppose, but they were investing in some racehorses, so I suppose it was in the best interests of the business to keep them sweet. Yes, they were here all right. They drank and ate so much, I thought they ought to stay; they were in no fit state to go home. You donʼt need to take my word for it, most of the servants were here that night – they would all have seen them.ʼ

  ʻYour word is good enough for me, Helen. Did you know that there is now only one Hatton twin?ʼ

  ʻNo, whatever do you mean?ʼ

  ʻRupert Hatton was found murdered recently – his funeral was last week.ʼ

  ʻOh, my God. Oh, I didnʼt mean to speak ill of the dead.ʼ Helen Carlisle was visibly shocked.

  ʻDonʼt worry, Helen. Iʼm sorry I sprang it on you like that.ʼ Bartlett patted her hand.

  ʻAnd he was always such a gentleman. He was always the nicer of the two – so kind and gentle – unlike his brother, Iʼm afraid. They were like chalk and cheese, thatʼs for sure. Do you know who killed him?ʼ

  ʻNo, we donʼt – yet.ʼ Bartlett looked disappointed.

  ʻWell, I wish you luck with your investigations, really I do. And you, Archie.ʼ

  ʻThank you,ʼ Boase replied.

  Helen Carlisle saw the two men to the door and they left for Falmouth.

  ʻShe doesnʼt think much of Algernon, does she, Boase?ʼ

  ʻCertainly doesnʼt, sir. Donʼt blame her either.ʼ

  ʻHmmmmm. Cast-iron alibi, though, Iʼd say.ʼ

  Chapter Twelve

  Boase brought two cups of hot tea into the office. He handed one to Bartlett, the other he put on his own desk. He rummaged in his drawer and pulled out a white paper bag from which he took an enormous slice of bacon and egg pie and a tomato. He began to eat.

  ʻHow can you carry on like that, Boase? Youʼre going to be sorry when youʼre my age, mark my words. Iʼve never known anyone eat so much as you. Doesnʼt that landlady of yours feed you?ʼ

  ʻOf course she does, sir – very well, in fact – but this is my emergency food.ʼ

  ʻWhat for?ʼ

  ʻFor an emergency. Like me getting hungry.ʼ

  Bartlett gave up. He had a lot of time for the younger generation – many of them had sacrificed their youth in recent times – but sometimes, he just couldnʼt understand them. He drank his tea. ‘Guess what, Boase?

  ‘Umm – dunno, give up. What?’

  ‘The police in Camborne caught someone breaking into a public house in Trevenson Street last night.’

  ‘Why would they tell us that, sir?’

  ‘Well, the culprit was Jan Rowe.’

  ‘Him again. I saw him the other day with Norman Richards at Swanpool.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s only just come out of prison and then he goes and does a fool thing like this and, not only that, he admitted to breaking in at the tobacconist’s shop before.’

  ‘What? He robbed his own godmother?’

  ‘Yes. She was telling me before that she gave him everything he could want – and then more. And this is how he repays her. You have to feel sorry for the woman.’

  ‘Did Norman have anything to do with this?’

  ‘I asked that myself but apparently he wasn’t mentioned. Just as well.’

  Boase withdrew a large apple from the drawer in his desk.

  ʻI donʼt understand why Frank Wilson didnʼt come for that money, Boase.ʼ

  ʻNor me, sir. And where is he now?ʼ

  ʻI wish I knew.ʼ

  As the two began to plan their day, the desk sergeant knocked on the door and entered.

  ʻSorry to bother you, sir, thereʼs a young lady outside, would like to see you. Her name is Miss Hesketh – says itʼs to do with Ivy Williams.ʼ

  ʻSend her in.ʼ Bartlett and Boase looked at each other. Miss Hesketh?

  The woman came into the office. She was about average height, with brown, wavy hair just visible
from underneath a very expensive-looking hat; her clothes were expensive too. She wore a powder blue silk dress with a matching short jacket, matching shoes and handbag. A forlorn-looking dead animal was draped around her shoulders – Boase stared at it disapprovingly. He was firmly of the opinion that wild animals belonged in the wild. The young womanʼs make-up was very obvious but only enhanced her already glamorous features. Boase thought she looked like a film star. Bartlett couldnʼt place it, but he thought she looked very familiar. He brought over a chair for her and she sat down.

  ʻGood morning, Miss Hesketh, I am Inspector Bartlett, this is my assistant, Constable Boase. How can we help you?ʼ

  ʻI know who you both are – Iʼve been reading about your murder cases in the newspapers. My name is Gloria Hesketh. Ivy Williams was my twin sister.ʼ

  Bartlett and Boase looked at each other astounded. Bartlett now knew why she looked familiar; the two women were almost identical. He sat down in his chair.

  ʻWell, weʼre very pleased to meet you, Miss Hesketh, very pleased indeed. But what brings you here?ʼ

  ʻI want to help you to catch whoever killed my sister. I donʼt know how I can help, but I understand youʼre no further forward with your investigations?ʼ

  Bartlett felt uncomfortable. Partly because he didnʼt like his professionalism being undermined, which he felt it was now, and partly because Gloria Hesketh was a very, very beautiful woman and, surprisingly for Bartlett, he felt intimidated.

  Gloria Hesketh continued. ʻI may be able to tell you things you donʼt already know. I have known that I am a twin ever since I was six years old. My parents couldnʼt have children of their own – my father was much older than my mother, and, having made a good deal of money as a Member of Parliament and from some prudent investments, he wanted someone to leave it to. So, when they heard from a friend who was a workhouse benefactor that a baby was available for adoption, it solved all of his problems immediately. Ideally I think he would have liked a son but, being rather forward-thinking for the time, he didnʼt mind women being given an opportunity. My mother, too, had always wanted a baby so I suppose it seemed the ideal solution. About four weeks after they had taken me to London, they found out that I was a twin. They tried to get Ivy as well – they would have loved two of us and they could easily have afforded it, but by the time they found out, she had been taken by someone else. I grew up in a very privileged environment with a private education and everything I could have asked for but I didnʼt really want it all – I would much rather have had my sister. I always knew where she was and I hoped to meet her some day. As a little girl, I used to play games and always pretended my twin sister was playing along with me. Even when I had tea parties, I always laid a place for her. I always wanted to get in touch with her, but couldn’t ever summon up the nerve to make contact, until I had the money. When I saw her picture in the paper, of course, I was horrified. I didnʼt know she was dead until a week or so after it had happened. I looked at the newspaper and there was me, staring back at myself. When I was nineteen I had become a nurse and went to France. I couldnʼt believe what I saw there. I was there for two years.ʼ

  This woman had suddenly gone up in Bartlettʼs estimation – beautiful, caring, and with a conscience.

  ʻMy parents died very recently – within six months of each other and I was left thinking what to do next. They left me bags of money, which is nice but by no means everything. Then I saw the solicitorʼs advertisement in the newspaper. I donʼt know what I was thinking of but I pulled it off. I suppose I was bored and it was a risk. When I was at boarding school, all the other girls knew I would do anything for excitement and to make people laugh and I got into all sorts of scrapes – anything for fun; this didnʼt really seem any different. Of course, I didnʼt need the money and I realised afterwards what a ridiculous thing Iʼd done. I didnʼt know Ivy had been murdered until after Iʼd arrived in Falmouth.ʼ

  Bartlett interrupted her.

  ʻHow long have you been in the town, Miss Hesketh?ʼ

  ʻGloria, please. Since shortly after I collected the money. I stayed here following your progress in the papers and learning bits and pieces from overhearing gossip – I didnʼt want to interfere but a few days ago I decided that if there was any way I could help, then I should. Iʼve had a fairly wretched time of it, too. People staring at me wherever I go. I spent Christmas all alone and Iʼve been completely miserable the whole time. I blame myself for not contacting Ivy sooner. I didnʼt want to upset my parents, although I suppose they wouldnʼt have minded. Ivy didnʼt know about me and I feel so terrible. I canʼt seem to get over everything thatʼs happened. How can I miss her, Inspector Bartlett, when I didnʼt even know her – why do I feel this way?ʼ

  Bartlett felt extremely sorry for the girl.

  ʻThey say, Gloria, that thereʼs a special bond between twins that no one, not even top scientists and the like, can understand. Twins have been split up as babies and still felt close after meeting up maybe sixty years later – Iʼve read about such things. So, youʼre probably feeling the same way. Itʼs just so very tragic, my dear, that this has all turned out this way. But, you really mustnʼt blame yourself for any of it, itʼs not your fault.ʼ

  ʻThanks, Inspector Bartlett, youʼre very kind. Anyway to go on with my story, I hadnʼt broken the law or anything by taking the money because I am Maude Mockettʼs daughter, although I wasnʼt living in the town they said. But, Iʼd always had a copy of Ivyʼs birth certificate. I donʼt really know where it came from – I think my parents may have had it from the time when they were trying to get Ivy too. Anyway, afterwards, I felt sure Ivy would be glad of the money and I came here to find her. I thought we could be real sisters and make up for lost time. I was quite happy to share the money with her – she could have had it all if she wanted it, Iʼve got plenty. A few days after I got here, I found out about her. I canʼt tell you how awful I felt. Sitting in a room in a strange house, in a strange town with not a friend in the world and my only sister dead – and she never even knew I existed.ʼ

  A tear fell from Gloriaʼs cheek and Bartlett offered his handkerchief. This was a tragic tale if ever heʼd heard one.

  She went on, ʻSo I wanted to come and tell you who I am and to say that Iʼll do anything to help you find out who killed Ivy.ʼ

  Bartlett stood up.

  ʻWell, Iʼm very pleased you did, Gloria. How long are you staying in Falmouth?ʼ

  ʻI donʼt know; I havenʼt got to be anywhere, havenʼt got anywhere to go, really.ʼ

  ʻWell, weʼll keep in touch with you and if we feel you can help us, weʼll let you know, all right? Just make sure you leave us the address youʼre staying at.ʼ

  ʻYouʼre very kind, thank you. Goodbye, Inspector Bartlett, Constable Boase.ʼ

  Gloria Hesketh left the office.

  ʻWell, thatʼs a turn up for the books, sir.ʼ

  ʻIsnʼt it just, Boase?ʼ

  As the light faded, Archie Boase packed a large flask of tea and some sandwiches. He put on his thickest jumper and trousers and a warm coat and woollen hat. Tonight he was going to take a walk along the cliffs – he often did. There was something about the cliffs and the sea at night. During the day he could watch birds and paint or draw them but, at night, sometimes, he just liked to sit quietly and think. Some of his best ideas had come to him, alone, looking out at the ships lit up in the bay. He piled his food and drink into his haversack and quietly left the house. It was almost ten oʼclock. Boase thought heʼd probably stay out until about one or two. Bartlett had said he could go into work at eleven tomorrow so he didnʼt even have to get up early. He hadnʼt decided where to go yet, but he found himself walking out to Gyllyngvase Beach. From there he walked towards Pendennis Point and found a small path which led down the side of the cliff. He found a large boulder and settled himself down, resting against it. From here he could see several ships in the bay and a few houses with their lights twinkling in the distance.

  Boase felt hungry immediately and opened his
food and his flask of tea. As he ate and drank, he could see a few old rotting boats moored almost directly underneath where he was sitting. People often abandoned boats – either they had become so bad that they were beyond a state where repair was an option, or they simply couldnʼt sell them and they had become a liability. This particular spot always seemed to be the place where they were left – a sort of boat graveyard, Boase always thought. He could see five now, silhouetted in the moonlight.

  Two had tall masts and he could hear as the boats gently clanked their sides against one another as if in conversation. He continued to eat, discarding his crusts for any wildlife that might pass hungrily that way later. As he finished his tea, he could plainly hear a courting couple nearby – this definitely wasnʼt something Boase wanted to witness any further; now theyʼd spoiled it. He picked up his bag and walked quickly away and in the direction of the abandoned boats.

  Having found himself a new spot to settle, Boase sat back and looked out to sea. In the quietness of the night he could hear strange thumping sounds coming from the direction of the five boats. He listened again. Quiet now. He thought it must be his imagination. Then there it was again. He moved nearer the cliff edge and looked directly down on to the boats; he was very close now. Voices. He heard voices. He listened again then thought he saw a light – like a match being struck. Boase rubbed his eyes. It was getting late, and he should be heading for home. He picked up his bag, took a last look at the abandoned boats and made his way back to Melvill Road.

  The next morning, Boase was tired. He had returned home just after midnight – the night air had strangely and suddenly turned cold and he had felt a bit restless. He had gone to bed before one oʼclock but had been unable to sleep. He got up early, quite forgetting that Bartlett had given him a late start, and arrived at the station before nine oʼclock. Bartlett was already at his desk.

  ʻWhat are you doing here so early, Boase? Youʼre not due in for another two hours.ʼ

  ʻI had a bad night, sir, couldnʼt sleep – you know how it is.ʼ

  Bartlett did, indeed, know how it was. Caroline was frequently up and about at night and, although she always tried desperately not to wake him, he was a light sleeper and usually got up with her to make sure she was all right. Often, not being able to find sleep again, he would go downstairs, wake Topper and the two of them would take a walk out to the beach. Topper never minded – he was always ready for a walk with his master. So, yes, Bartlett knew what a bad night was. Boase hung up his coat.