A Fool and His Money

by Marina Pascoe

  The pair made their way up the path to the front door. Topper was waiting on the other side and barked excitedly as the pair entered the hall.

  ‘Topper, stop that. Archie has hurt himself and he doesn’t want you making a racket. Go on. Go and lie in your bed.’

  Irene put some cushions on a sofa in the parlour.

  ‘Sit down, Archie – here, let me help you.’

  ‘Irene, please, I’m not an invalid. I don’t need to sit down – or cushions. I need this.’

  Boase put his arms around Irene’s waist and drew her to him. He kissed her on the cheek and rubbed the side of his face against her hair. He could smell lilacs.

  ‘Do you love me, Irene?’

  ‘Archie … of course I do. You know that.’

  ‘Then ditto.’ He kissed her again.

  The two of them sat in the parlour and ate some cold food. When they had eaten Boase put his arm around her.

  ‘We should think about where we’re going to live when we’re married. Got any thoughts?’

  ‘Well, I’ve thought about it quite a lot actually. I’m not sure we can afford our own place straight away. Mum and Dad …’

  ‘No, Irene. I think the world of your parents but I’m not living here with them. I want you all to myself.’

  ‘But it would be practical … maybe just for six months.’

  ‘No, Irene, and that’s that. Anything else is up to you but I can’t agree with that. We can afford somewhere small. Why don’t you have a proper look over the next couple of weeks and then, nearer the time of the wedding, we’ll know how much these things cost. And, about the wedding – we really should decide on a date.’

  ‘Archie – you’re so bossy, you make me laugh. We haven’t really had time to discuss it, you’re always working and busy.’

  ‘Well, let’s make time. You can have whatever you want. If I can afford it, it’s yours.’

  Irene put her arms around Boase’s neck and kissed him.

  ‘Archie Boase, I really love you. I really, really do.’

  ‘Good. Well, on that note, I should be going. Now, have you locked up at the back? I’ll just go and check, shall I?’

  ‘You’ve already checked twice, Archie. It’s all locked up.’

  ‘I just worry about you, that’s all. You’re very precious to me.’

  ‘I’m fine. Go home. I’ve got Topper here with me; he’ll take care of me.’

  Archie left by the front door. He waited on the step.

  ‘Irene …’

  ‘Yes, I know … make sure I lock the door and draw the bolt across. Goodnight, Archie.’

  ‘Goodnight, Irene. Pleasant dreams.’

  Boase walked into his office at eight o’clock the next morning wondering how long it would be before he heard from Bartlett in response to his telegram. As he shut the door behind him he noticed some papers scattered on Bartlett’s desk. As he walked across to look at them, the door opened and Bartlett stood there watching.

  ‘Good morning, my boy. How are you?’

  Boase spun round.

  ‘Well, I’ll be … what on earth are you doing here, sir?’

  ‘Hmmm. I’ve had better welcomes, I can safely say. Aren’t you pleased to have me back, then?’

  ‘Of course I am, sir. Did you get my telegram?’

  ‘Yes, got it last night. That’s why I came back – and, well, Mrs Bartlett was becoming restless. There was no point in her being away to recover if all she wanted to do was to come home because she was worried about the house and Irene.’

  ‘The house was fine, sir. So was Irene.’

  ‘Well. I knew you’d be keeping an eye on things – I told her so. But when I got the telegram we both agreed to come home. I couldn’t leave you to deal with something that you were worried about. Now, send for some tea and let’s talk.’

  Bartlett regarded Boase over the top of his glasses.

  ‘So what you’re saying is that the old man killed himself? How? I don’t understand. Explain your theory to me again, Boase.’

  ‘Well, let’s go back to the beginning. We thought that Clicker was murdered. Did we even once consider that he had done this to himself?’

  ‘Why would we, Boase? But Greet is going to have a field day with this – he’ll say we should have found the gun hanging in the tree.’

  ‘Well, yes, but we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. The fact is that the gun was concealed because the tree was in leaf and it was only now that it could be seen. You never really believed that Edward James was the killer anyway, did you, sir?’

  ‘I don’t even know what I really thought, Boase. Tell me how this might have worked then. Greet is going to want to know all about this.’

  ‘OK – forget the reason for his actions then and think about the practicalities. Clicker must have climbed the tree …’

  ‘Stop there. He was an old man – could he have climbed that tree?’

  ‘Well, apparently he was quite agile for his age – throwing himself around the circus ring. By all accounts he was quite energetic. So, yes, it was perfectly possible that he could have climbed that tree.’

  ‘Go on, Boase.’

  Bartlett was lighting his pipe and listening to the younger man. He didn’t like what he was hearing. Not one bit.

  ‘Well, say he climbs up the tree. All he then has to do, having attached the gun to the band, is to hitch it around the branch and climb back down holding it. Then, he puts the gun to his head, pulls the trigger and, as he falls, the guns is released from his grip and springs back on the band and disappears into the tree – completely concealed in the leaves. You’ve got to admit, sir, that’s a strange sort of genius.’

  ‘So, now you need to explain why he would have done such a thing. And I will need to put that theory to Greet.’

  ‘Well – go back to the beginning, sir … Molly was Clicker’s daughter. Her mother, Margaret Field, had disappeared when she was pregnant with Molly, leaving Clicker bereft. She returned as Molly James and gave the impression that there was some hope that Clicker would see Margaret again – and that she was in a sanatorium in Switzerland, when in fact she had been dead for several years. Molly also gave Clicker the impression that there could be reconciliation if her mother could get well again – but that was going to cost money, money that the Jameses didn’t have. So Clicker was paying rather large sums of money in the hope that Margaret would indeed get well and he would see her. But he must have smelled a rat whenever he mentioned travelling to Switzerland and Molly stopped him with some lame excuse every time.’

  ‘Well, yes, you would think so – but she was his daughter and he loved her. Maybe he was afraid to upset the apple-cart.’

  ‘Maybe so. Anyway, when Anne Warner discovered that Margaret Field was dead and that Clicker was being taken for a ride, she felt that she had to tell him – those two were very good friends, don’t forget; they looked after one another. I think that Clicker may have thought there was nothing left for him – the love of his life was dead, and his own flesh and blood had been deceiving him.’

  ‘Do you think that would be enough to tip him over the edge?’

  ‘It’s not impossible, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Well, then Molly found out that Anne had told Clicker about the con and killed her in revenge because she had dried up the money. That’s one murder we were absolutely convinced of.’

  ‘Well, what you say is not completely out of the way, I suppose. So, what do we do now? Greet has to know about this gun – and where you found it. We can’t keep this from him – it’s evidence.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to go up and tell him straight away. Now.’

  ‘He won’t be in yet, I shouldn’t think. You’re right. We need to tell him what we’ve … what you’ve discovered. Then it’s over to him. If he wasn’t so anxious to interfere in the beginning we wouldn’t be in this mess, Boase.

  At half past ten, Bartlett and Boase returned
to their shared office and sat down in their chairs. Bartlett fiddled with a pen on his desk. Boase repeatedly slid his top drawer open and closed. Open and closed.

  ‘I cannot believe the blasted cheek of that man, Boase. I’ve had it with him. I have. How on earth does he think that this is my fault? Tell me how he could even think that? You know we got straight on with the investigation and then, and then … when it wasn’t happening quickly enough, he trampled on through with no regard for any of our previous efforts. He messed up the whole thing and now he’s trying to disclaim responsibility. Well, I’m not taking that from him. No, I am not.’

  ‘Well, sir, what can you do?’

  ‘I’m going to go above him. I’m going to put in a complaint about him. He’s severely lacking. He has no regard for police procedure. That man has been nothing but trouble since he came here. I’ve had enough, Boase. I either retire now, and let me tell you, that is very tempting at the moment but … but that’s what he wants. Yes, mark my words, he’s doing this because he’s not only a useless member of the force, he’s also trying to get rid of me. He’s been angling to push me out for a long time now. Well, actually – I don’t feel inclined to give in to him. I’m taking this further, Boase. Yes. Wait and see – he’s not going to get away with this.’

  ‘Sir, can you really do that – to someone like him?’

  ‘What? Of course I can. He’s nobody. Got ideas above, he has. Well, I’ve put up with him and his ways for too long – and I’ve said nothing. You’ve witnessed that, Boase … how even-tempered I’ve been with him, with … with that excuse for a superintendent. Well, no more. It’s come to an end. You heard the way he just spoke to us. I’m not taking that from him. I’ll cook his goose.’

  ‘Sir, you’re going to create a lot of trouble here if you do this, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t see why. The people at the top need to know that this man is completely incapable. Do you understand what he was implying when we were up there just now? He is directly holding me responsible for a man being wrongly executed. I’ll have no more of it … no more. I shall be writing a letter this evening.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Miss Bartlett, how lovely to see you. How is your dear mother – I haven’t seen her for a little while now?’

  Irene sat in the chair before a large mirror in the beauty salon, Chez Marguerite, and looked at herself and at her hair.

  ‘What? Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, my mother … well, she’s not too bad at the moment, thank you. She has her good days and bad days. Thank you for asking.’

  Madame Marguerite surveyed Irene in the mirror as she removed the clasp that was keeping her long hair up in a loose bun. Irene sighed as her long hair cascaded around her shoulders.

  ‘You have such beautiful hair, Miss Bartlett. Have you decided to have something a little different?’

  ‘Yes. I have, Madame Marguerite. I want it all off.’

  ‘All off?’

  ‘Yes, I want something more modern. I’m a young woman, soon to be married and I find my hair now, well … rather unbecoming. And childish.’

  ‘But, Miss Bartlett, are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. I want a Dutch bob. Look – like this.’

  Irene opened her handbag and pulled a page from a magazine. She held it up to Madame Marguerite. Look at this picture – it’s Mary Thurman, the actress. She has her hair bobbed like this. Do you think I could have mine the same? It looks so pretty.’

  Madame Marguerite regarded the article.

  ‘Yes. I know Mary Thurman. It’s a very pretty style, this is. But, Miss Bartlett, I don’t want to turn away your custom …’

  ‘It won’t it suit me?’ Irene looked dismayed.

  Seeing her disappointment, Madame Marguerite patted her on the shoulder.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so – you do have a look of Miss Thurman. So young and elegant. Yes, why not? If that’s what you want.’

  Irene turned the key in the front door and went into the hall.

  ‘Irene – is that you, dear?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. I’m just going upstairs to change my shoes. I won’t be a moment.’

  Irene hung her coat on the stand and, patting Topper on the head as he jumped up at her, went upstairs. She went into her bedroom and rushed to the mirror. Slowly she removed her hat. What was Archie going to say? She went back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Mum. Everything all right?’

  Caroline Bartlett turned as her daughter entered the room.

  ‘Irene! Oh, my. What have you done to your beautiful hair?’

  ‘Don’t you like it, Mum?’

  ‘Well, it’s just a bit of a shock, dear. I’ve only ever seen you with long hair since you were a little girl.’

  ‘But I’m not a little girl any more, Mum – I’ll be getting married soon. A married woman needs to look grown-up.’

  ‘Yes, dear – I know, you’re right. And I think it looks lovely, very elegant. Yes, I like it very much.’

  A delighted bark from Topper announced the arrival of George Bartlett. Irene went out into the hall to meet him.

  ‘Hello, Dad. Everything all right?’

  Bartlett looked at his daughter and smiled.

  ‘You’ve done something … to your hair, haven’t you?’

  ‘Is it OK, Dad?’

  ‘Turn round. Well, I think that looks very nice. Yes, very nice indeed. Look, Princess, Irene’s been to the hairdresser’s – what do you think about her new hair?’

  ‘An’ don’t come back!’

  David Rowe slammed shut the door of the Seven Stars’ public bar. He turned to Bessie Penhaligon.

  ‘Bessie, I don’t want that man coming in ’ere no more. If ’e turns up, you just send for me. Understand? The man’s a menace. I know ’e’s ’igh up in the local force but policeman or no, I won’t let ’im in ’ere again if ’e can’t hold ’is drink. I’ve got customers complaining about ’im all the time. ’E’s gone too far with me. My patience ’as run out. Every time I open up, there ’e is, on the step. Why doesn’t ’e drink somewhere else?’

  David Rowe had been the landlord of the Seven Stars for many years. Everyone thought him a rather funny little man – but very amenable. At only five feet tall he had negotiated the height of the bar for his first year and then given in and had a step built in behind it, from end to end. Everyone was amused to see him walk along behind the bar and then step down like a small child. Despite this, he took no trouble from anyone and coped admirably even when throwing out men much larger than himself.

  Bessie wiped the bar with a cloth then began to empty the ashtrays.

  ‘Well, ’e’ll ’ave to find somewhere else to drink now – seein’ as you’ve barred ’im.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, ’e will. I don’t suppose it’ll be long before ’e’s barred from everywhere else too. I have run this public house for a very long time – and it has a good reputation. I don’t want people like that ruining it. Mr Hingston was in ’ere last night and said he wasn’t going to come back – ’e felt so uncomfortable. ’e’s a very good customer – and, what’s more, ’e always recommends this place to people who want a drink or people who want somewhere to stay. ’e meets plenty of them on that boat of ’is and I think I’ve probably done quite well on the back of ’is recommendations. I don’t want to start upsetting people like him. He told me that that man was down on the Prince of Wales Pier two nights in a row, causing trouble. Apparently ’e’d bin drinking – ’eavily. Hingston was there with some of the other boatmen, just ’avin’ a yarn … before they knew what was ’appening they ’eard a splash and there ’e was – in the sea. Luckily they were quick an’ dragged un out.’

  ‘Well, you know I’ve known James Hingston for years – ’e still lives right by me. I’ll look in on ’im later and tell ’im you’ve dealt with that horrible man.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind. I like the man, Hingston – he’s a real gentlem
an. This place could do with a few more like ’im.’

  ‘Well, I don’t understand it, Mr Rowe, really I don’t. I’m so pleased you threw ’im out of ’ere. ’E used to be a well-respected man in the town. Now look what ’e’s come to, and what with him so high up in the police’

  ‘Yes, quite. How the mighty have fallen. It don’t take much to fall to nothing these days, Bessie – the smallest thing can tip a man over the edge. And, although I myself am in the business of providing good-quality liquor to the public, I do ’ave to say that a man – or a woman mind, I do not discriminate in this – with too much drink in is a terrible thing to behold. Shows a terrible lack of self-control. Look at your Edward.’

  ‘Oh … do I ’ave to? – that’s the last thing I want to look at after a night in ’ere, Mr Rowe.’ Bessie Penhaligon let out a shrill peal of laughter that echoed around the bar.

  ‘I’m only saying, Bessie, that ’usband of yours, well, I’ve known ’im for many years, as you are aware, and a nicer young man I could not ’ave wished to meet. Then … what did ‘e do? Yes, ’e turned to drink – right before your very eyes. Terrible, terrible tragedy.’

  ‘But you’ve ’elped me keep ’im on the straight an’ narrow, Mr Rowe. You’ve been a life-saver to me, you really ’ave.’

  David Rowe patted Bessie on the hand and the pair began to reminisce about the terrible night that Bessie had just left her shift in the Seven Stars. David, always a gentleman, had offered to walk her home – she and Edward had couple of rented rooms at the top of High Street. As they were halfway up the hill, Bessie had spotted her husband coming down, arm in arm with a dreadful-looking woman. She’d nudged David and they’d stepped back into the shadows, waiting for the other pair to pass. Bessie had watched as her husband lit two cigarettes and handed one to the woman, who was giggling and stumbling on her too-high heels. She’d draped her arms around Edward and he pulled a bottle from his pocket and held it, first to her lips and then to his. They had reached May’s Haberdashers and were standing outside, the woman leaning against the window, when Edward grabbed her waist and pulled her into the shop doorway.

  Bessie had started to cry. Seeing her distress, David Rowe could take no more. He’d walked into the doorway and dragged the woman away, pushing her aside. When Edward saw David coming at him he had put up his fists in defence, but David had quickly slapped the taller man’s face with his left hand, disorientating him, then swung at him with the right.