Free Empty Vessels by Marina Pascoe Page B

The snow had fallen heavily and covered the hedgerows and fields. The short trip to Budock from Falmouth was a pleasant one with fine views of the countryside. They passed a group of schoolboys running a paperchase, the cold air highlighting their warm breath as it left their mouths. They turned into a road fronted by two enormous wrought iron gates, which were open, and a long drive led the way to the house. As they rounded a bend, they saw their first glimpse of Penvale Manor – a splendid Georgian building standing boldly in defiance of the, by now, howling blizzards.
    Ê»How the other half live, eh, Boase?ʼ
    Bartlett looked out of the car window, almost incredulous at the size of the house and its grounds. They stopped outside the front of the building and got out. Having made their way up the stone steps to the front door, Bartlett rang the bell. Almost immediately a young woman in maidʼs uniform opened the heavy door. She looked at the two policemen enquiringly.
    Ê»Yes?ʼ
    Ê»Are the Hatton twins at home, miss?ʼ asked Bartlett politely, offering his identification.
    Ê»One of them is,ʼ came the reply.
    Ê»Good.ʼ Bartlett was feeling the cold and wanted to get inside.
    Ê»Iʼll see if heʼs available.ʼ With that the front door closed abruptly.
    Ê»Would you believe it?ʼ remarked the older man to the younger, Ê»no manners these days, none of them.ʼ
    He stamped his feet impatiently while Boase surveyed the parkland in the distance and the landscaped gardens which surrounded the house. The house was in the centre of a vast deer park and the estate supplied venison to several parts of the country, particularly some high-class London butchers. In fact Penvale Venison was a thriving business with a very good reputation. The grounds immediately surrounding the house were extensive, and looked like something from a fairytale now with the thick snow still falling heavily. As the two men waited the door reopened and the maid stood there.
    Ê»Come in, please, follow me.ʼ
    She led the way into an imposing but impressive hall where, as if from nowhere, a butler emerged and requested to take their hats and coats. Relieved of their cold and damp outerwear, the two followed the maid up a central staircase, Boase marvelling quietly at the paintings which lined the walls. Many portraits hung there and the younger man was impressed at the colours and the skill of the artists. Bartlett meanwhile thought he had never seen so many pale and foolish beings depicted over the centuries. No constitution. Never done a dayʼs work, he thought, and yet they had all this. Having negotiated three long corridors, they arrived at a large oak door. The maid knocked and was bidden enter by a voice on the other side of it. The young girl announced the visitors and left.
    A big burgundy leather armchair faced towards the window, the back of it to Bartlett and Boase. From where they stood, it looked empty. As they waited, a man rose from the chair and walked towards them. He was in his forties, Boase thought. He had thin grey hair which had receded and glistened with hair preparation. Standing at about five feet six inches, and stout, he wore a navy silk smoking jacket with what looked like cream silk pyjamas underneath. Bartlett wondered how anyone could still be in bedclothes at this hour, let alone could receive guests in this state of attire. The man slid towards them almost cat-like, with a cigarette in a long holder between his pale and disproportionately slender fingers.
    Ê»You are?ʼ
    Bartlett, already disliking this person, as he suspected he would, moved forward.
    Ê»I am Inspector Bartlett, this is Constable Boase.ʼ
    Ê»Oh,ʼ came the reply.
    Bartlett felt as though he were keeping this fellow from his bed, so difficult did it appear for him to hold a conversation.
    Ê»I am conducting a murder enquiry and would like some information regarding the victimʼs background.  Did you hear