Empty Vessels

by Marina Pascoe

  ʻCuppa, sir?ʼ

  ʻThat would be very welcome, Boase – make yourself a strong one too. You look all in.ʼ

  Boase returned with the drinks and rummaged in his coat pocket. Pulling out a ham and mustard sandwich, he looked at it triumphantly before ceremoniously laying it out on his desk before him. He took a sip of tea and looked at the sandwich again.

  ʻAre you going to eat that or paint a still life of it?ʼ The older manʼs voice boomed cynically from the other side of the office. Boase tucked in. Just as he finished, he swept away the remaining crumbs from his desk and lap and looked across at Bartlett.

  ʻStrange thing last night, sir.ʼ

  ʻOh yes?ʼ Bartlett was writing.

  ʻI went out late for a walk up to Pendennis and sat just above those old rotten boats – you know the ones I mean? A couple of them have been there for years.ʼ

  ʻYes, I know them – one of them actually used to belong to Alfred Toyʼs grandfather, no wonder itʼs falling apart, it must be about a hundred.ʼ

  ʻWell, I was just sitting watching and I saw a light – like a match being struck and I heard strange sounds and voices; I didnʼt know anyone ever went on those boats.ʼ

  ʻThey donʼt – and theyʼd be very unsafe if anyone tried to. They should set fire to them – get ridof them. Theyʼre an eyesore and a hazard, especially for the nippers that wander around those parts.ʼ

  ʻWell. I always thought they were empty but I know I definitely heard sounds.ʼ

  ʻYou know what they say, Boase.ʼ

  ʻWhatʼs that then, sir?ʼ

  ʻEmpty vessels make most noise.ʼ Bartlett smiled at the look on Boaseʼs face – the young man hated to be ribbed.ʼ

  ʻIs today one of the days that Lady Hatton goes to her club, do you know, Boase?ʼ Bartlett was filling his pipe.

  ʻI think thatʼs what she said, sir – why?ʼ

  ʻWell, when we went to Rupert Hattonʼs funeral, I left a very fine pair of leather gloves at the house – I canʼt afford to lose them now, can I?ʼ

  What an old rogue, Boase thought to himself – the old boy never missed a trick.

  ʻShall I come with you, sir?ʼ

  ʻMost definitely.ʼ

  ʻSo why are we going back, now – you donʼt really believe that Hatton killed Ivy Williams?ʼ

  ʻDid I say that? No, I donʼt believe I did. I have, however, been taking in everything youʼve told me, all the things you tell me youʼve seen and all the things you tell me youʼve heard as well as what you think – all crucial to becoming a good policeman, Boase. Come on – ready?ʼ

  Boase drove the car and, as they reached the entrance to the drive, Bartlett touched the younger manʼs shoulder.

  ʻDrive just past here, Boase – itʼs such a nice day, I think weʼll enjoy a walk up the drive to Penvale Manor.ʼ

  ʻRight you are, sir, Iʼll just pull up over here.ʼ

  The car parked, Bartlett and Boase crossed the cattle grid and began the walk up the long drive to the manor house. Parkland was on their right with a large wooded area on the left. Bartlett paused here and there to admire the magnificent plants. He stopped once or twice to quickly nip a couple of cuttings and hastily stuffed them into his pockets. As the two men reached a bend in the drive, a narrow lane through the wood made a short cut to the back of the house; this was regularly used by staff on their way back from the village or church. Boase paused here to tie his shoelace. As he stood up, both men heard a womanʼs voice, loudly coming from the bushes. They listened.

  ʻIt was mean of you – no one will ever think it was me. You tried to trick me. You knew all along that I could get into serious trouble.ʼ

  Then another voice – this time a manʼs.

  ʻBut you had no choice. Itʼs in your handwriting. I did you a favour – why, if my mother had found out what you did, youʼd have been out of here by now, with no references. You might even be facing prison.ʼ

  The woman had stopped shouting now and had begun to sob. Bartlett and Boase looked towards the end of the lane nearest the house. They were about fifty yards away and could now clearly see the uniformed figure of the maid, Annie Bolitho. She was running towards the house. The two onlookers had already established from the voice and the content of the conversation that the second person was none other than Algernon Hatton. They watched until about a minute later he also emerged on to the lane and returned to the house.

  Boase looked at Bartlett.

  ʻWhatʼs going on, sir?

  ʻI thought I knew when we came here, Boase, but now, well, Iʼm not so sure.ʼ Bartlett lit his pipe. The two men continued up to the house and asked to see Algernon Hatton. Unsurprisingly, Annie Bolitho did not open the front door to them, but a butler answered the call of the bell. He led the way into a small drawing room near the back of the house and they waited. After what seemed like an eternity, Algernon Hatton entered the room.

  ʻGood afternoon, gentlemen, Iʼm so sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?ʼ

  ʻIʼm sure I could have asked your staff this, sir, but I wanted to see how you were anyway. When I came here after your brotherʼs funeral, I donʼt suppose I left a pair of brown leather gloves behind, by any chance?ʼ

  ʻOh, theyʼre yours are they? One of the servants found them later on that day – I hoped someone would reclaim them. Theyʼre just out on the hall table. Iʼll go and get them. Wait a moment.ʼ

  As Algernon Hatton left the room, Boase, who had been looking around, quickly ripped a sheet of paper from the top of a writing tablet which was open on a desk in the corner of the room. He stuffed it into his pocket. Bartlett looked at him enquiringly but, before he had time to say anything, Hatton had returned with the gloves.

  ʻHere you are, Bartlett.ʼ

  ʻWell, I canʼt thank you enough, sir, really I canʼt. My wife bought them for me and I really didnʼt want to lose them; I was hoping theyʼd be here. Funny, things are always in the last place you look!ʼ

  Bartlett was playing for time while he weighed up Algernonʼs mood.

  ʻHow are you and your mother bearing up?ʼ

  ‘Well, weʼre managing to get by, thatʼs the main thing I suppose. Motherʼs at her club – she didnʼt really want to go but I insisted. I thought it would do her the world of good, you know, to see all her friends.ʼ

  ʻOf course, sir, Iʼm sure you did the right thing.ʼ Bartlett put the gloves into his pocket.

  Boase was thinking that whatever Algernon Hatton was up to with Annie Bolitho earlier on, having his mother out of the way would probably have facilitated it.

  As he reached the drawing room door, he turned and addressed Hatton, ʻI hope you donʼt mind me saying, sir, but the last time I was here, I met your cook and I complimented her especially on her fruit cake – she said sheʼd give me the recipe to pass on to my landlady. Would you mind if I run down to the kitchen before I leave – I wonʼt keep her?ʼ

  ʻNo, no, Boase, you go ahead. Weʼre very lucky to have Mrs Rowe. Sheʼs an excellent cook – never lets us down, donʼt know where weʼd be without her.ʼ

  ʻThank you very much, sir.ʼ

  Bartlett wasnʼt sure just exactly what Boase what up to, nevertheless, he followed him down to the kitchen where Annie Bolitho was sitting at a vast table drinking a cup of tea. She stood up when they came in.

  ʻPlease sit down, miss, finish your tea.ʼ Bartlett didnʼt want any woman standing up when he came into the room.

  ʻMy assistant, I believe, was looking for your cook, Mrs Rowe.ʼ

  ʻCookʼs gone out – sheʼs gone to the village for a couple of things. She should be back soon. Can I get you a cup of tea?

  Boase sat down next to Annie.

  ʻMrs Rowe makes a lovely fruit cake and said sheʼd give me the recipe …ʼ

  ʻCan you cook, then?ʼ Annie Bolitho looked surprised.

  ʻMost definitely not,ʼ Boase laughed, ʻbut my landlady can and Iʼd like her to make it for me.ʼ

  ʻOh, I see, well I couldnʼt tell you what she puts in it.ʼ

/>   ʻDoes it have a name?ʼ Boase asked, willing it not to be called “Fruit Cake”.

  ʻYeah, she calls it ‘sixty-minute boil fruit’ – whoever ʼeard of such a daft name?ʼ

  Boase, amazed that anything so delicious could sound so repulsive, was nevertheless thankful that it was.

  ʻOh, Iʼll never remember that. I could at least tell my landlady what itʼs called, that is, if you could write it down for me.ʼ

  ʻAll right, Iʼll fetch a pencil and paper.ʼ

  Annie collected what she needed from a large drawer in a dresser and sat back down at the table. She almost lay over the work, as a child at school would, for fear of having her work copied.

  ʻMe writingʼs not very good, mind – ʼere I ʼope you can read it.ʼ

  She handed Boase the paper.

  ʻThatʼs perfect, and very kind of you, Annie – it is Annie, isnʼt it?ʼ

  ʻYes. And thatʼs all right. Youʼll ʼave to come back again for the recipe.ʼ

  ʻYes, Iʼll do that. Thank you again, Annie.ʼ

  Bartlett and Boase left the house and headed back down the long drive. Bartlett couldnʼt wait a minute longer.

  ʻWhat was all that about – can I have Mrs Roweʼs recipe for sixty-minute boil fruit?ʼ

  ʻHave patience, sir. Iʼll tell you when we get back to the station,ʼ grinned Boase.

  ʻRight, Boase, you make us both a nice cup of tea and then you can tell me what all that earlier on at Penvale Manor was about.ʼ

  Boase made the tea and the two men sat at their desks.

  ʻDo you remember, sir,ʼ Boase began, ʻwhen Algernon Hatton said to Annie Bolitho “Itʼs in your handwriting” and “If my mother had found out what you did …”?ʼ

  ʻYes, I do.ʼ

  ʻWell, I thought that Annie Bolitho must have done something bad and Hatton found out and started threatening or blackmailing her to the point where he got her right where he wanted her. Anyway, when you were talking to him about your gloves, I looked on the desk and there was a writing tablet with heavy indentations in it so I just quickly took the top sheet off and put it in my pocket. Putting two and two together, I wondered if it was connected to what Hatton had referred to when he said “itʼs in your handwriting” and thatʼs why I wanted her to write something down for me to compare.ʼ

  ʻHence the rubbish about the sixty-minute boil fruit?ʼ

  ʻExactly – although Mrs Rowe did promise me the recipe, so I wasnʼt exactly lying, I just hoped Annie would be there to write it down for me.ʼ

  ʻYouʼre good, Boase, very good – Iʼm impressed.ʼ

  ʻThank you, sir – shall we have a look at this then?ʼ

  He laid the paper with the name of the cake on it in front of Bartlett, then put the seemingly blank sheet of paper next to it. They compared them.

  ʻDid you notice how slowly she wrote, pressing heavily on the paper, sir? Small wonder it came right through the sheet.ʼ

  ʻYes I did. Your eyes are better than mine, Boase, read me this note you found.ʼ

  Boase, with difficulty, read aloud slowly:

  Dearest Rupert

  Iʼm in a spot of bother, old man – you know Iʼve had trouble with my landlady and my tenancy is now up. I really must see you as I need your help. I donʼt want anyone to see us as I know you still want to keep us a secret. Meet me at Swanpool – I shall be waiting at the western end of the pool at eleven oʼclock tonight (Monday). Please, please come – I need you.

  Yours always

  Harry

  Bartlett walked over to the window and looked out.

  ʻThatʼs incredible.ʼ

  ʻI think thereʼs something else, sir.ʼ

  Boase pulled the note Freddie Giles had given him from his desk drawer.

  ʻLook, sir, this note that Harry Watson-Booth gave to Freddie Giles – the one threatening him and Rupert Hatton. Itʼs the same handwriting too.ʼ

  Boase laid the three pieces of paper on the desk side by side.

  Bartlett couldnʼt believe what he was seeing.

  ʻSo, you think that Algernon Hatton murdered his brother because he was having a homosexual affair. He arranged to get Watson-Booth out of the way and got his brother alone at Swanpool. Whatʼs more, he used Annie Bolitho to help him. That washbag you saw in the Hatton motor garage must have been his, Boase. Looks like his swimming skills came in handy that night. I want you to get Annie Bolitho here – or go to see her wherever she lives. We need to talk to her.ʼ

  ʻI think she lives in, sir.ʼ

  ʻThen get someone to bring her here.ʼ

  Chapter Thirteen

  At four oʼclock Annie Bolitho sat in the lobby of Falmouth police station. She looked nervous. Constable Penhaligon had brought her in. It was her half day and she wouldnʼt be missed. Bartlett came to the door of his office.

  ʻCome in, Annie, would you?ʼ

  The girl nervously went into the room and stood, timidly fiddling with her handbag. Bartlett offered her a seat.

  ʻDonʼt be nervous, Annie. I hope youʼre going to be able to help us – youʼre not in any trouble. I want to talk to you about Mr Hatton. Is that all right?ʼ

  ʻYes, sir. Am I goinʼ to prison?ʼ

  ʻWhatever gave you that idea? Of course youʼre not going to prison. Boase, fetch Annie a cup of tea.ʼ

  Annie stared at the floor and refused to look at either Bartlett or Boase.

  Bartlett pulled his chair from behind his desk and sat next to the girl.

  ʻLook, Annie, youʼre not in any trouble, I promise, and what Iʼm going to talk to you about is very important. We saw you this morning when you were with Algernon Hatton and we need to know what you were both talking about. Thereʼs nothing to be afraid of. Now, do you think you can tell us whatʼs been happening?ʼ

  ʻIʼll try.ʼ

  Boase brought Annie a strong cup of sugary tea and she sipped it gratefully.

  ʻWell, you see, sir, itʼs like this. Iʼd got into trouble – money trouble. Thereʼs a tally man that comes to the house every fortnight and all the servants usually buy something from ʼim. With our bad wages itʼs the only way most of us can afford to buy anything at all. Anyway a month or two before Christmas I wanted to get some little things for me ma anʼ da. They ʼavenʼt got much money anʼ Iʼve got three younger brothers anʼ two younger sisters. Well I couldnʼt see ʼem go without on Christmas day so I bought a few things – just some toys for the children, a scarf for me ma, anʼ a new tobacco pouch for me da. Anyway, I didnʼt know ʼow much it would all come to, anʼ when I couldnʼt pay enough, it just seemed to keep going up so I could never afford to pay it off.ʼ

  Annie stopped and rummaged in her bag for a handkerchief. She continued, ʻI only wanted to give them something special for Christmas – they never ʼave nothing, honestly they donʼt. I give ʼem what I can each week but that donʼt come to much. Anyway, Lady Hatton knows we use the tally man and sheʼs quite ʼappy about it, but she donʼt like us getting into too much debt – she says if we buy things we must pay what we owe.ʼ

  ʻThatʼs easy for her to say,ʼ muttered Bartlett under his breath. ʻGo on, Annie.ʼ

  ʻWell, one day, I was cleaning the mistressʼs dressing table and I saw something shining on the floor under the window. I picked it up anʼ saw it was ʼer lovely gold bracelet which she thought sheʼd lost months before. She never thought sheʼd see it again so I didnʼt think sheʼd miss it if I took it – it wouldʼve solved all me problems. Anyway I was stupid anʼ I got caught by Hatton with it in me pocket. ʼE said I could go to prison but ʼe wouldnʼt tell as long as I ʼelped ʼim with something. I ʼad no choice, did I? Anyway, all it was was writing a couple of letters – I donʼt know why ʼe wanted me to do it, but I did it. Still, I ʼad to give the bracelet back, saying I found it on the floor, anʼ now I still owe all that money anʼ I shall get into terrible trouble. Lady Hatton will probably ask me to leave. Oh, the shame for my parents. I donʼt know what Iʼm goinʼ to do, really I donʼt.ʼ

  Annie was really sobbing now and Bartlett put his arm aro
und her shoulder.

  ʻEverything will be all right, Annie, I promise. Now, did you write these?ʼ

  He showed her the letters.

  ʻYes, sir, I did.ʼ

  ʻThank you, Annie. Now, you finish your tea and you can go – mind, donʼt tell anyone at Penvale that youʼve been here, all right?ʼ

  ʻAll right, sir, I wonʼt.ʼ

  Annie left and Bartlett slumped down into his seat.

  ʻLooks like weʼve got our man, Boase. Weʼll get him in, then the court can decide. He still maintains though that he didnʼt have anything to do with Ivy Williams.ʼ

  The next morning, Algernon Hatton was brought into the police station on suspicion of his brotherʼs murder. Bartlett went down to see him in his cell.

  ‘Well, well, Hatton, this is a bad business isnʼt it? Are you going to cooperate and tell me whatʼs been going on?ʼ

  ʻI suppose Iʼve got no choice – Iʼll bet any money that meddling Bolitho girl had a hand in this, the little thief. ʼ

  ʻWhere we get information from is really none of your concern. What I would like is the truth – and I suspect that only you can tell me the real truth.ʼ

  Algernon Hatton, all at once, leapt to his feet and began shouting at the top of his voice. The constable present tried to restrain him but he was very strong. He shouted more and waved his arms frantically.

  ʻAll right, kill me, go on – see if I care. Iʼve got nothing to live for. Go on, you might as well do it now. Iʼll admit anything you want me to. None of it matters any more.ʼ The constable and Bartlett finally overpowered him.

  Sobbing with exhaustion after his outburst, Algernon sank to his knees in the corner of the cell. Bartlett thought how pathetic he was.

  ʻConstable, fetch Mr Hatton some tea, will you?ʼ