Empty Vessels
November 1921. The small town of Falmouth, which nestles on the Cornish coast and dips into the English Channel, was shrouded in a cloud of damp, clinging November fog typical for the seaside town at this time of year. The houses, tall, narrow and close to their neighbours, seemed almost to huddle together against the damp night air. Few people lingered about in the thickening fog which, was threatening to remain all night, and the town was quiet with only the distant sound of men mooring boats by the pier, having been caught out by the rapid descent of the weather. The old, narrow streets were stranger now and uninviting; the darkness of this winter evening had come quickly.
There was talk of murder in the town following a local girl’s mysterious disappearance nearly a month before and everyone seemed to be suspicious even of people they knew quite well – “you never could be quite sure, even when you thought you knew someoneˮ was the general uneasy feeling in Falmouth at the moment. One or two of the old cabbies who still worked in the town had decided to take their horses home and stable them up for the night; they wouldnʼt get much custom now. Most of the ʻnewʼ people that visited the town wanted motorised transport. For now though, the cabbies survived with the help of their old regulars. Soon this way of life would change, and most thought not for the better.
Rose Pengelly tightened the old black woollen shawl covering her head and made her way along Webber Street, a small, narrow, shop-lined road, now dimly lit due to the worsening fog creeping in from the sea. The dampness chilled her right through and she felt pain in her knees as she walked; she hurried as best she could to keep warm. It was becoming difficult to see much now as the fog closed in but, as she reached the corner which gave onto the road known as High Street, she saw a small person, head down, walking in her direction. Rose was pleased to see her daughter.
ʻKitty, Kitty,ʼ she called loudly.
As her voice seemed to melt into the lingering fog, it was apparent that the girl walking quite slowly down the hill, for fear of slipping on the damp pavement, had not heard or seen anything. Then, as Rose peered through the gloom, she was horrified to see, behind her daughter, a tall figure clothed in black moving swiftly behind the girl. Closer now, very close.
November 1921. The small town of Falmouth, which nestles on the Cornish coast and dips into the English Channel, was shrouded in a cloud of damp, clinging November fog typical for the seaside town at this time of year. The houses, tall, narrow and close to their neighbours, seemed almost to huddle together against the damp night air. Few people lingered about in the thickening fog which, was threatening to remain all night, and the town was quiet with only the distant sound of men mooring boats by the pier, having been caught out by the rapid descent of the weather. The old, narrow streets were stranger now and uninviting; the darkness of this winter evening had come quickly.
There was talk of murder in the town following a local girl’s mysterious disappearance nearly a month before and everyone seemed to be suspicious even of people they knew quite well – “you never could be quite sure, even when you thought you knew someoneˮ was the general uneasy feeling in Falmouth at the moment. One or two of the old cabbies who still worked in the town had decided to take their horses home and stable them up for the night; they wouldnʼt get much custom now. Most of the ʻnewʼ people that visited the town wanted motorised transport. For now though, the cabbies survived with the help of their old regulars. Soon this way of life would change, and most thought not for the better.
Rose Pengelly tightened the old black woollen shawl covering her head and made her way along Webber Street, a small, narrow, shop-lined road, now dimly lit due to the worsening fog creeping in from the sea. The dampness chilled her right through and she felt pain in her knees as she walked; she hurried as best she could to keep warm. It was becoming difficult to see much now as the fog closed in but, as she reached the corner which gave onto the road known as High Street, she saw a small person, head down, walking in her direction. Rose was pleased to see her daughter.
ʻKitty, Kitty,ʼ she called loudly.
As her voice seemed to melt into the lingering fog, it was apparent that the girl walking quite slowly down the hill, for fear of slipping on the damp pavement, had not heard or seen anything. Then, as Rose peered through the gloom, she was horrified to see, behind her daughter, a tall figure clothed in black moving swiftly behind the girl. Closer now, very close.
Too Many Cooks
Desmond Cook, a fine looking young man of twenty four, never let the sun burn his face although he regularly stripped off his clothes and donned khaki-coloured shorts and a sleeveless vest in the sun to make sure his body was as brown as could be. A friend of his, having lived in Egypt for several years had warned him that sun on the face was dangerous and, if it didn't kill you, you'd end up looking old before your time. Desmond, a man who attracted all the local girls of Falmouth, had no desire to become old before his time. The very expression conjured up images of the weather-beaten fishermen he had seen mending their nets or landing the day's catch, their skin parched by the wind and sun. So, handsome Desmond Cook, with his black, wavy hair, green eyes and slim six-foot frame so popular with the ladies, was going to keep his youthful looks for as long as he possibly could.
Through the last three long, hot Cornish summers, Desmond was regularly seen lying in the sun in Falmouth's sub-tropical Kimberley Park. Although no one ever saw his face, which was always covered with a jumper or jacket - anything at all would do, the locals strolling through the park and all the children playing there, knew it was him. Several would say as they went by: 'Afternoon, Desmond,' and were never offended when no reply came - the sun made him sleepy. His parents said it was time he got a job; since he had come down from Oxford in 1921, he had done nothing but have fun. He was well-educated and lazy. He lived, mostly, with his parents in a very smart house on Florence Terrace. He also owned a small flat – he wanted to be independent and his parents didn’t always approve of his lifestyle, particularly when he wanted to stay out late and return in the early hours. His father, Dr Mortimer Cook, gave him a very substantial allowance but, four weeks ago, had threatened to withdraw it if Desmond didn't find work by the time 1923 was over. Now, in early August, with the sun shining again, Desmond would worry about all that later - even if he didn't start looking until mid-September, something would turn up. Anyway, for now, he settled down with a heavy calico tunic covering his head - he didn't want to fry his brain, after all, he'd need that to get a decent job and to stop his nagging father. So, on that hot Saturday afternoon, legs, arms and chest exposed, Desmond Cook basked in the heat of the sun, listening to the birds, to the children screaming as they chased each other around the park and to the few people who uttered, 'Afternoon Desmond.'
It was no surprise at about ten o'clock the next morning with the sun's rays already too uncomfortable for most, when those leaving St Mary's Roman Catholic Church and enjoying the park on their way home, saw Desmond yet again, in his usual spot in the corner, in his usual pose - horizontal.