Free Empty Vessels by Marina Pascoe

sure youʼre right, Boase.ʼ Bartlett was looking at the small photograph of the servants he had pulled from his drawer. He leaned across his desk and picked up a large magnifying glass to examine the photo more carefully. He concentrated for several minutes while Boase finished his sausage rolls.
    Ê»Boase, do you remember a man by the name of Samuel Hoskins?ʼ
    Ê»Should I, sir?ʼ
    Ê»He used to work for my father-in-law in his saddlery business – course, that was before your time wasnʼt it? Sometimes it feels like weʼve been together for years, you and me.ʼ
    Boase wondered if this was a compliment or not.
    Ê»I remember him visiting my mother-in-law some years back when she was ill. He was a nice chap, if I recall, brought Carolineʼs mother some flowers from the garden. He was very fond of my wifeʼs parents.ʼ
    Ê»What about him, sir?ʼ
    Ê»Well, I only saw him a couple of times when we were visiting but, one thing I always remember was what a ridiculous moustache he had, it was enormous, really thick and bushy.ʼ
    Ê»So?ʼ
    Ê»So, I think heʼs in this photograph – in fact Iʼm sure of it. If thatʼs so, it means I can identify this picture. Samuel Hoskins left the saddlery business and became a blacksmith. Later on he got a job at a big country house – he came back to tell us all about it. He worked at Penvale Manor, the Hattons’ place out at Budock – we know now that old man Hatton was Ivyʼs grandfather. If this is Hoskins, then this would have been taken in about 1895 or 1896, so maybe Ivy Williamsʼs real mother is in this photograph and thatʼs why she had it. If so, she must have known that she was adopted. If this fits, Boase, we might be nearer to a motive and a suspect.ʼ
    Ê»What do you mean, sir? That perhaps the Hattons murdered Ivy Williams? But even so, what has all this got to do with Norma Berryman?ʼ
    Ê»I donʼt know yet, I need to think. Iʼm going to knock off now, itʼs been a long couple of days – I suggest you do the same, and get your thinking cap on tonight, weʼll be looking for some answers in the morning.ʼ
    Bartlett arrived home at about six, much to Ireneʼs horror.
    Ê»Oh, Dad, youʼre early – I was going to do the cooking tonight and Iʼve barely started.ʼ
    Ê»Is your mother all right, Irene? Where is she?ʼ
    Ê»Sheʼs upstairs, Dad, having a lie down, she had a bit of a headache. I was just about to start peeling the vegetables – I didnʼt expect you for ages yet.ʼ
    Ê»Thatʼs all right. Iʼll just go up and see her, donʼt worry about dinner – Iʼm not hungry yet, anyway, Iʼll look forward to it whenever itʼs ready.ʼ
    Bartlett climbed the stairs and crossed the landing to his and Carolineʼs bedroom. He tapped lightly on the door – he always did; he respected his wifeʼs privacy. Caroline laughed whenever he did it and sheʼd say: Ê»Iʼm your wife, you donʼt need to knock,ʼ but he always did. He peered round the door; she was lying with her back to him. Quietly he crossed the room and went around the other side of the bed. She was sound asleep. He thought how beautiful she always looked and how much he loved her. He wanted to wake her up to let her know that he was back, but it seemed such a shame, especially if she wasnʼt feeling well. He almost hated her being asleep because he wanted to spend every moment possible in her company; it was such a waste when they werenʼt together. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then went back out on to the landing. He looked at his pocket watch – it was ten past six. He went downstairs into the kitchen where Irene was chopping some onions.
    Ê»Your motherʼs still asleep, I think Iʼll take a little walk if you donʼt mind – about an hour or so.ʼ
    Ê»Thatʼs all right, Dad, dinner should