A Fool and His Money

by Marina Pascoe

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A Fool and His Money is the third volume in the Bartlett and Boase Mysteries, a warm-hearted series of detective stories that hearken back to the Golden Age of crime fiction. 1924, Cornwall. When a man is found dead from gunshot wounds on Hunter's Path, a picturesque spot in Falmouth, it's up to Inspector Bartlett and Constable Boase to find out whodunit ? and, more importantly, why. The dead man, Clicker the Clown, was the main attraction at Martin?s Circus ? and with his reputation as a kindly and well-respected old soul, who would want to kill him? As Bartlett and Boase investigate, they discover old enmities and a close-knit community which doesn?t want to give up its secrets ? even if that means the gallows for some. Meanwhile, the detectives have to combat interference from the higher ranks in the force ? and problems in their personal lives which threaten to spoil the best-laid plans?

Release date: January 14, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 190

Sample

Chapter One

‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that°… Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.’

‘No, Daddy, NO! I don’t like dead people.’

Peter Trevarthen looked at his father, tears welling in his eyes.

‘Peter, you know the teacher said you have to read this because you’re going to be in the play. You can’t be in it if you haven’t read it.’

‘But dead people frighten me.’

‘Well, yes, but they can’t hurt you – only the living can do that.’

Charles Trevarthen looked at his son and closed the book. He didn’t suppose that he would have enjoyed this when he was nine either.

‘Maybe we’ll try again tomorrow – there’s really nothing to be afraid of. Now, why don’t you go off to sleep?’

‘I can’t sleep – I’ll dream about dead people. Daddy, will you leave the door open?’

‘All right – just this once. Goodnight, Peter.’

‘Night, Daddy. Are we going to the circus tomorrow?’

‘Yes, if you’re a good boy, of course. I’m quite looking forward to it myself.’

Leaving the bedroom door ajar, Charles Trevarthen crossed the landing and went downstairs.

‘He won’t read that book, Violet. As soon as he knew it was about dead people, he refused to have anything to do with it. I really don’t know what’s wrong with him.’

‘Charles, you know he’s been strange about death ever since your father died. He can’t help it.’

‘Yes, dear, I know – but that was two years ago. He should be over it by now. May isn’t behaving like that.’

‘But May is eleven.’

‘Could you talk to him again, dear – perhaps tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Charles, of course. Why don’t we leave it until after the circus has been – maybe that’ll cheer him up a bit?’

‘Very well.’

At half past seven the next morning, Constable Archie Boase crossed the Moor and headed for the Falmouth police station. He paused outside the library to look at a poster advertising Jeremiah White’s circus. He might enjoy that; he hadn’t been to the circus since before the war – now it was 1924. Yes, the last trip to the circus must have been in about 1910. As Boase walked on towards his destination, he wondered if his fiancée, Irene, would like to go with him … he’d ask her tonight.

Inspector George Bartlett was already in their shared office when Boase arrived. Having vowed for some time to retire and spend more time at home with his wife, Bartlett still couldn’t give up. The strange thing was, he didn’t know why. He had mused, no, agonised over the decision for some time now and yet couldn’t bring himself to stop. Superintendent Greet had been dropping hints – but then, he would. The two men were never in a month of Sundays going to get along together. Well, maybe it was because Greet was pushing that Bartlett was standing firm.

Archie Boase tossed his hat towards the hat stand in the corner. It promptly fell to the floor.

‘Boase, you have been trying that every day for the past twelve months – you can’t do it.’

‘Well, I will eventually. I just need more practice.’

Bartlett looked at the younger man over the top of his reading spectacles and grunted.

‘Cuppa, sir?’

‘I wouldn’t say no. I’ve been here half an hour and Penhaligon hasn’t even offered. Have you seen him this morning, Boase?’

Boase had passed Constable Ernest Penhaligon in the lobby on his way in. He had been deep in conversation with Father Patrick O’Malley, the new Catholic priest at St Mary’s church. Boase poked his head around the door and saw Penhaligon heading towards the office with a tea tray.

‘Good man.’

Boase held the door open wide and patted the constable on the shoulder.

Bartlett cleared a pile of papers on his desk with one movement of his hand and gestured to the constable to lay the tray there.

‘Thanks, Penhaligon. What was that about with the priest?’

‘He’s in a right state, sir. Apparently someone broke into the church in Killigrew last night and stole the Blessed Sacrament.’

‘What? You mean the Communion?’

‘Yes, that’s what he said. Apparently Canon Egan is distraught – couldn’t even come in here himself to report it.’

‘Well, did anyone see or hear anything?’

‘Father O’Malley says not, sir. The lock was broken on the side door and that’s obviously where they got in. Canon Egan is in a very bad way – and he’s such an old man. He’s just sitting in the church apparently and won’t even speak.’

‘I hope he’s all right.’ Bartlett poured milk into the cups.

‘Father O’Malley says Mrs Donnelly is with him – the cleaner, I believe.’

‘Boase – shall we stroll up there when we’ve had our tea? We want to nip this in the bud – can’t have people going around stealing from churches … whatever next!’

‘But this is a particularly terrible crime, sir.’

‘Is it? No one’s dead.’

‘Well, no. But all the same.’

Boase took the cup of tea handed to him by Bartlett and Penhaligon left them alone.

Bartlett and Boase took the short walk up Killigrew and to St Mary’s Catholic Church. They walked around to the side door; the wooden frame had been broken.

‘Looks like someone’s had a jemmy to this, Boase.’

Bartlett pushed open the door and, removing his hat, walked into the church. Boase followed. In the front pew sat a small, old man, his hands covering his face. The two men approached him.

‘Canon Egan?’

The man looked up. His face was tear-stained.

‘Yes … yes, I am Egan. You are …?’

Bartlett introduced himself and Boase.

‘I understand you’ve had a break in – we thought we’d come up to have a look. Has anything like this ever happened before?’

Canon Egan mopped his head with a handkerchief.

‘I have never in my life seen anything like this, sir. I have been a priest in this county for almost fifty years and I have never heard of such a terrible deed.’

The rattle of a cup in its saucer caused the three men to turn. The cleaner, Mrs Donnelly, stood with a tray.

‘Now, Father, I’ve made you a lovely cup of tea. Come on now, you’ve had a nasty shock. Drink this and you’ll feel better in no time.’

‘I really don’t want any more tea, Mrs Donnelly. Nothing will make me feel better.’

Bartlett took the cup from the woman and, sitting in the pew next to Canon Egan, offered the old man the tea.

‘I think Mrs Donnelly’s right, you know. Drink the tea and, if you don’t mind, I’ll just ask you some questions. Is that all right?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll drink it.’

Bartlett opened a small notebook and licked the tip of a pencil.

Boase, meanwhile, had wandered off to the back of the church and was looking at the Stations of the Cross. This all brought back memories – his first Communion, his confirmation. It was all so important back then … and now … and now, well, after being in France during the war he had changed his mind about all this. Well, he thought he had. How could God allow all those things to happen? Why didn’t he stop it? How could he allow such horror and human suffering? Boase turned these questions over as he examined the broken door. He returned to the small group in the front pew.

‘Excuse me, Father, was the ciborium taken too?’

‘Oh, yes, dear me … yes, it was. I suppose that was probably what they really wanted. You see, they broke into the tabernacle to get it, so they knew what they were looking for and where to find it.’

Bartlett leaned forward towards the old man.

‘Did you not hear anything at all?’

‘No, but you see these walls are very thick and my hearing isn’t good.’

‘When did you last see everything as it should be?’

‘Well, I was in here last night at about half past ten, I suppose, just checking everything as I always do.’

The small group turned as the side door of the church was pushed open and a tall, thin man swiftly crossed to them. He placed both his hands on Canon Egan’s shoulders.

‘Oh, my word, what can I say? I’ve just heard the terrible news.’

‘And you are?’

Bartlett had stood up as the man crossed to them.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m Martin McCarthy – I’m the organist here.’

Mr McCarthy held out his hand to Bartlett and then to Boase who introduced themselves.

Bartlett turned to the organist.

‘Can you shed any light on what might have happened here last night, Mr McCarthy? As you can imagine, Canon Egan is very shaken up.’

‘Oh, I can imagine he is.’

At this, McCarthy patted the old priest’s arm.

‘I really have no idea about who could have done such a terrible thing, really I haven’t. We have such a lovely congregation here – oh, but of course …’

At this he broke off and looked up to the altar.

‘What, sir?’

Bartlett looked at the man, enquiringly.

‘Well, nothing really, I was just thinking – you know the circus is here, I suppose?

Boase nodded.

‘Yes, we’ve heard. What has that to do with anything?’

‘Well, some of those sorts were here yesterday for the morning mass. Some of them looked a bit rough, I thought.’

Bartlett felt not a little irritated at this observation.

‘Well, that doesn’t make them criminals, sir.’

‘No, of course not, I’m so sorry. No, it doesn’t. It’s just that there were several people here that we don’t normally see. That’s all.’

Canon Egan interrupted the conversation as he stood up.

‘Would you forgive me, gentlemen? I do have things to attend to. Is that all you wanted?’

‘Of course.’

Bartlett took the teacup from Canon Egan and handed it to Mrs Donnelly.

‘We’ll obviously do anything we can – leave it to us.’

‘I hope you can retrieve everything, Inspector. Please do your very best.’

‘Rest assured, we’ll do everything possible.’

Bartlett and Boase left the church and walked back down Killigrew.

‘You a religious man, Boase?’

‘Catholic, sir.’

‘Well … I never knew that – you still go to church?’

‘No, no I don’t – feel quite bad about it, actually.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, my parents brought me up in the faith and I feel I’ve turned my back on it all – since the war, really.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable, my boy – I know just what you mean.’

‘Doesn’t make me feel good though. I used to be an altar boy.’

Bartlett chuckled but tried to keep a straight face as he stopped to light his pipe.

‘You? An altar boy? I suppose you have got a sort of angelic little face.’

Bartlett’s shoulders heaved up and down as his laughter became more uncontrollable.

‘All right, sir, joke over. Now, what shall we do about this break-in? Poor Canon Egan, I feel sorry for him. Mrs Donnelly grabbed me just as we left and whispered to me that he has a bad heart.’

‘Well, something like this won’t do him much good then, will it? He must be nearly ninety if he’s a day. We’ll set about it this morning – you get someone to talk to the neighbours first, see if anyone saw or heard anything.’

‘Right, sir, will do.’

As the two men reached Berkeley Vale, Boase paused at yet another advert for the circus.

‘Do you think Irene would fancy this, sir?’

‘Why don’t you ask her? I couldn’t say, other than the last time we took her she was about eight; she cried so much Mrs Bartlett had to keep taking her outside.’

‘Why was she crying?’

‘She got upset about the animals – said they shouldn’t be made to do tricks and suchlike. She said they should be in the jungle like the ones in her book.’

Boase smiled. That was just like his Irene; so sensitive and caring. Now he was worried she would say no. He’d ask anyway; if she didn’t want to then they could always do something else.

Betty, Joan and Anne Warner passed around a bright red lipstick. Betty marked a thick stripe across the back of her hand.

‘This is lovely, Joan. Where did you get it?’

‘There’s a little shop in the main street – near the church on the corner. They’ve got ever such a lot of nice things in there … think it’s called Robertson’s.’

‘Well, this is just perfect – can we borrow yours tonight? I haven’t got time to go there now.’

‘Course you can. I didn’t buy you one each ’cos I didn’t know whether you’d like it.’

‘That’s all right, Joan. Look, Anne – what do you think?’

Anne, the youngest of the three sisters, took the lipstick and looked at it. She handed it back to Betty.

‘Yes, it’s very nice. I’ll get one too.’

Betty put her hand on Anne’s arm.

‘You all right, kid?’

‘Yes. Of course. Just a little nervous about tonight, that’s all.’

The three Warner sisters had formed a juggling act when they were teenagers and had held shows in their back garden. When their parents died in an accident, the girls had used their skills to earn enough to support themselves. Then the circus came to their home town, Liverpool, and they were offered a place as an all-girl juggling act.

This suited Betty and Joan very well, but for Anne, who was now only seventeen, life was difficult and she missed her old friends back in Liverpool. She hated travelling around the country and didn’t see the same adventure in the career that her sisters seemed to find. In short, she was a homebody. But then, as her sisters regularly pointed out, where was home? They had no home and no parents – so, for now, they told Anne to make the best of the situation.

Anne rose from her chair.

‘I think I’ll go and see Clicker. I’ve got a cake for him. See you later.’

The girl left and made her way to the small caravan occupied by Clicker the Clown. She knocked on the door and waited. The door was soon opened and there stood the old man who had been the leading clown at this circus for over forty-five years.

‘Anne. How lovely to see you, my dear. Come on in – what’s that you’ve got there?’

‘I’ve brought you a cake, Clicker – I know you love a jam sponge.’

‘You know me too well, young lady. I’ve just put the kettle on, so we’ll cut your lovely jam sponge and have a cup of tea. Sit down.’

Ann pushed aside some clothes and sat in the small armchair while Clicker fetched the tea and a knife for the cake.

‘You all ready for tonight, Anne?’

‘Well … yes, I suppose so.’

‘Now, you don’t sound very sure about that.’

‘You know I don’t want this for the rest of my life, Clicker. It’s fine for Betty and Joan, I think they rather like this life but, no, it’s not for me. Oh! I’m so unhappy.’

‘There, there, Anne dear. Here, have this tea and we’ll cut some cake. Here you are now.’

‘You know, Clicker, apart from you, there’s no one else I even get on with in this beastly circus. It’s all so hateful.’

‘Well, I suppose I’m used to this life, I’ve been doing it for so many years – and I can’t tell you how many youngsters have told me all about their lives, in this very caravan. Some of them have stayed, some of them have gone on to other things. Yes, I’ve even seen half a dozen of them born here – right into this very circus. For some of us, it’s a way of life.’

‘Well, it’s not for me. As soon as I have enough money, I’m leaving this horrid place.’

‘I really wish I could help you, Anne. Really I do. But, well, with Margaret in the sanatorium in Switzerland … well, let’s say it’s costing me rather a lot of money. I can’t really spare enough to visit her. But Molly says she’s getting better. Maybe one day soon Margaret will return to England.’

‘Is Molly still asking you for money?’

‘Well, yes – and I feel I have to pay it. Anything to get Margaret well again.’

Anne was only the person in the circus, other than Molly, to know about Clicker’s past. When he was a young man he’d had a romance with Margaret Field. Billed as the most daring high wire act in the world, she and Clicker had spent almost a year together. They had made plans to give up this life for something a little more conventional but then Margaret, discovering she was expecting Clicker’s child, disappeared. He had received one letter from her the fo. . .