Boase thanked his superior and headed to the fence where about a dozen people had gathered, some pointing and chattering, others just staring. On seeing Boase coming towards them, most of the small crowd dispersed. Two young men loitered.
‘Come on, you two – if you don’t move along now, I’ll take you in.’
They both left at top speed.
Shortly afterwards, Bartlett and Boase met up again at the police station. It was just after midday. Boase was already installed in their shared office when Bartlett arrived.
‘Cuppa, sir?’
‘I could do with one, lad – what a day we’re having, and a Sunday too.’ Bartlett was pleased to see that Boase’s colour had returned and he looked much better. ‘You all right now, Boase?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir. Dunno what came over me this morning in the park – I just …’
‘Save it, my boy, you don’t need to explain to me. Right, Dr Chalmers said he would guess roughly that the body had been there for about seven or eight hours – that makes the time of the murder around two or three-ish. Boase, I want you to call in every police officer we can get to conduct questioning and then I want a re-examination of the area – I know the men are searching now but I want it gone over twice, three times … we can’t afford to miss anything and I really don’t want Greet bearing down on me again, he’s already been on the telephone asking questions that are impossible to answer. Can you organise that?’
‘Straight away, sir.
Anything serious like this and Greet would only give Bartlett three days before he called in detectives from London; that was really the last thing Bartlett wanted … young, eager men coming in to the station at Falmouth, lording it over everyone … no, Bartlett would nip this in the bud before there was a sniff of any outside interference. But how?
Boase went to co-ordinate the officers and Bartlett quickly finished his tea. A murder really was the last thing he needed at the moment.
Within twenty minutes every available officer was scouring the park and making enquiries of every house – particularly those overlooking the park and the spot where the body was found. No one seemed to be able to offer any information but the operation soon facilitated the spread of gossip around the town and news of the find went about quickly. Bartlett and Boase made separate enquiries and met up at about three o’clock. Bartlett’s knees were aching.
‘I thought all this leg work was over for me, Boase – and not a thing to show for it. You?’
‘Nothing, sir. I suppose it was quite early for a Sunday. I really hoped someone could tell us something – we’ve not got a single clue.’
‘What about the churchgoers at St Mary’s?’
‘Someone’s on that now, sir.’
‘Something’s not right, Boase – Dr Chalmers reckons that Cook was murdered at about three this morning?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘So, the boy was known to sunbathe in that spot regularly, even Dr Chalmers told us that … but then why would he already be there the night before? That’s preparation gone mad … no, it’s ridiculous – it doesn’t make sense, does it? And he was wearing semi-formals.’
‘Fair point, sir. Someone did tell me this morning that Desmond usually turned up at around ten, it was a Mrs …’ Boase flipped through his notebook ‘… Mrs Chinn. She also said that he always wore shorts as far as she could remember.’
Bartlett was turning things over in his mind, why would Desmond Cook be up and in the park so early – well, in the middle of the night?
As the two men stood and Bartlett lit his pipe, Constable Ernest Penhaligon came running up to them.
‘Sir, sir, we’ve just found this in the hedge – it’s a glove; it’s covered in blood, sir.’
He handed the item to Bartlett. The two men stared at the glove and then at each other.
‘What do you make of this, Boase?’
‘Well, it’s definitely a woman’s, sir – about a seven and a half, I’d say.’
‘When did you learn so much about women’s clothing, my boy? I’d say you’re right anyway. Thanks, Penhaligon, carry on.’
Bartlett looked again at the glove.
‘Why would a woman’s glove be here covered in blood, Boase?’
‘The murderer is a woman, sir? Maybe an accomplice?’
‘I don’t know, Boase. No idea, but … maybe it’s a start.’
The two men and an army of police officers continued to search. At about half past six, Bartlett met up with Boase. The older man, warm and red from the heat of the August evening sun, sat on a wall and mopped his face with a large handkerchief.
‘Now, we’ve spent nearly all day here – how about you come to our house for dinner tonight? Mrs Bartlett said she’d cook tonight instead of earlier on when I told her I didn’t know what time I’d be back. Now, how about it?’
Boase hesitated – he had told his landlady he’d be back this evening.
‘Irene’s looking forward to seeing you again – it must be nearly two weeks since you two last got together.’
Bartlett knew which strings to pull with Boase – at the moment there was only one and that string had Irene Bartlett’s name firmly on the end of it.
‘I’d love to, sir, thank you very much – if you’re sure Mrs Bartlett won’t mind?’
‘Mind? Of course she won’t mind. She always looks forward to seeing you and you’d think she was cooking for ten most days, so there’ll be plenty of food. Come over at, say, eight? I’ll leave instructions for any more information to come straight to my house this evening – I’ve got every available man out in Falmouth tonight, whoever did this won’t find it easy leaving the town.’
‘Right you are, sir, good, that’ll be very nice, thank you. It’ll give me plenty of time to tell Mrs Curgenven that I won’t be eating with her this evening’
Mrs Thomasine Curgenven, Boase’s landlady, was a widow of some forty years, having lost her husband in the very early days of their marriage. Boase didn’t know why or what had happened – he wouldn’t dream of asking. Now in her late sixties, Mrs Curgenven was pleased to have Boase’s company in the big old house in Melvill Road. He had replied to an advertisement for a lodger in the Falmouth Packet when he returned from the war. He took to Mrs Curgenven immediately and she to him – she didn’t need the money but, company, yes, and a policeman, well, better still. The two respected each other and got on very well. She had no children but one nephew who visited her about four times a year. Boase got on well with Michael Curgenven. The two had discovered on Michael’s last visit that they shared a birthday, but Michael was older by three years. He was a successful chef with his own restaurant in Truro. He had told Boase, ‘Archie, I really like you and I’m glad you’re keeping Aunt Tommy company. Next time you’re in Truro don’t forget to drop in to the Delta and I’ll be sure to give you a dinner on the house – bring a young lady if you like, I’ll treat you both.’
Archie liked this idea – perhaps he could take Irene. He’d heard all about the Delta, what a first-class restaurant it was with excellent food. Yes, he’d take Irene there one day – one day soon.
At a quarter to eight, Boase was turning into Penmere Hill and heading in the direction of the Bartlett house. He soon walked up the front path and knocked on the door. Immediately he heard a booming bark from the other side of the glass and he smiled. Topper was on guard duty as usual. Bartlett opened the door and on recognising Boase Topper, the Airedale terrier belonging to the inspector, squeezed past his master and jumped up on his hind legs to greet his guest.
‘Topper, down, boy, let Boase get in will you?’
‘ʼEllo Topper, good boy, good boy.’
Boase pushed his way past the over-enthusiastic creature and followed Bartlett into the parlour. On a small table next to Bartlett’s favourite armchair stood two bottles of Leonard’s London Beer. The man from London’s East End would drink nothing but this good old English favourite, still brewed today not more than two h
undred yards from where Bartlett had been born almost sixty years ago. Bartlett held one of the bottles out to Boase.
‘Here you are my boy – nothing but the best. Cheers!’
‘Thanks, sir. Is Irene in?’
‘Yes, she’s in the kitchen with her mother – they’ll be in presently. I went in just now to get some glasses and they threw me out. Don’t know what they’re up to.’
The two men didn’t have to wait long to find out. Caroline and Irene entered the dining room
Caroline called through to the parlour.
‘Dinner’s ready you two, come on now.’
Bartlett and Boase didn’t need asking twice – nor Topper. The three trooped into the dining room and waited to be directed to their places. Irene pointed to the chair next to hers.
‘Hello, Archie. It’s lovely to see you again. I’ve put you here, next to me – is that all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Irene.’ Boase thought it was more than all right. ‘How have you been keeping?’
‘I’ve been very well, thank you, Archie – it seems like ages since I last saw you.’
To Boase it seemed more than ages. Irene looked beautiful in a cream cotton sundress with green polka dots and around her throat she wore a bottle-green velvet choker. Her hair was tied loosely in a bun and fastened at the back with a large green enamel comb. As always, she wore the golden bracelet which Archie had given her the first time he spent Christmas with the Bartletts in 1921.
The pair were very much in love but no engagement had been announced. Instead, they met maybe once or twice a week for outings or Boase had dinner at the house. Caroline, having been unwell for many years, was worried that Irene was not allowing the relationship to progress so that she could continue to live at home and help around the house – she had spoken to Bartlett about this and he was beginning to share the same concerns. But he had said, ‘Well, Caroline, you know how stubborn our daughter is – just like her mother. If she wants to be with Boase, and I for one won’t object at all, then she’ll tell us soon enough. Just let the youngsters get on with it.’
So, for now, that was how it would be but Caroline was unhappy that her daughter was apparently sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of her parents.
Within minutes the four were sitting round the table and enjoying roast beef with Yorkshire puddings and vegetables. Bartlett and Boase wasted no time in emptying their plates.
‘Irene’s made us a very nice dessert, Archie, something with strawberries in,’ said Caroline getting up to clear the table. ‘Will you go and fetch it, dear?’
‘Of course, Mum. You’ll be impressed with Dad’s strawberries, Archie, they’re delicious.’
Boase stood up as Irene did. His action was immediately followed by a yelp from Topper who, unknown to Boase, had been lying under his chair and had now been stepped on.
‘Oh! Topper. Oh, I’m so sorry, boy. I wouldn’t ʼurt you for the world. Let me ʼave a look. Was it your paw? Now then, let’s see.’
Bartlett laughed.
‘That dog always sits under my chair – are you switching your allegiance, Topper?’
Topper licked his master’s hand reassuringly while Boase sat back down and stole a piece of fat from one of the plates for him.
‘ʼEre you are boy, this’ll make you feel better.’ The dog took it eagerly.
‘Archie, you’re such a fool with that dog – you’re worse than Dad.’ Irene was laughing but she was quietly pleased at how gentle and understanding Boase could be. Topper went to lay on the rug and Boase stood up once more.
‘Can I help you with the pudding, Irene?’
‘All right, thanks, Archie.’
The pair went together into the kitchen and soon the giggling and laughter began. Bartlett looked at his wife and smiled.
‘Those youngsters get on very nicely together don’t they, princess?’
‘I’ve always said so,’ replied his wife. ‘Yes, I told you Irene could do much worse – I think they’re very well suited, very well indeed.’ Bartlett left the conversation at this. He wasn’t one to get involved in affairs of the heart. His daughter was old enough and sensible enough to make her own decisions when it came to things like that.
After dinner, the four sat in the parlour, the two men now on their third Leonard’s London.
‘What about this business in the park today, Boase? And this Trawlerman, too. I think tomorrow we’d better rethink our plans – we could well do without a serious crime at the moment.’
‘What happened today, Dad?’ enquired Irene.
‘You don’t need to bother yourself about that, my girl – not a very pleasant incident, that’s all you need to know for the time being. Now, the Trawlerman, well, that’s another thing. I thought he’d gone away but seems I was wrong. He was spotted in this very road early this morning trying to burgle once more. Would you believe the brass neck of him?’
Boase nodded, Leonard’s London Beer, a large meal, and a hectic day making him feel rather tired all of a sudden.
‘I suppose we’ve got more important things to worry about now though, sir.’
‘You’re right, my boy, you’re right.’
The clock in the hall struck eleven and Boase stood up.
‘Time for me to go – I don’t know where the time’s gone,’ he exclaimed looking at Irene.
‘I’ll see you out, Archie. It was nice of you to come.’
‘Early start tomorrow, Boase, you look like you could do with some sleep.’
‘Right-o, sir. See you in the morning. Thanks for a lovely evening, Mrs Bartlett.’
‘You’re more than welcome, Archie,’ Caroline replied.
Irene walked Boase to the front door and the two stood on the step looking out onto the small front garden.
‘Well, goodnight, Irene. Thanks for the lovely supper.’
‘You’re very welcome, Archie – will you come again soon?’
‘I’d love to.’
The two stood looking at each other. Irene stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. He drew her closer and lost himself in the scent of lilacs in her hair. All too soon it came to an end. Boase didn’t want to outstay his welcome and so he kissed her cheek and walked to the gate. He looked back and waved. Irene blew him a kiss.
Chapter Two
Bartlett and Boase were already in their office by seven o’clock the next morning. Constable Penhaligon had brought them a large pot of tea which was beginning to do the trick – Boase, not a drinker, was feeling the effects of Leonard’s London Beer this morning and the hot, sweet tea soon worked its magic. Before long he felt almost human again.
‘Strong beer that Leonard’s, sir.’
Bartlett looked up from his work and peered over his reading spectacles, his brow furrowed in wonderment.
‘Strong? Leonard’s? Come on, Boase, what sort of a man are you? I can see you need to be better educated. Perhaps you’ll join us at the weekend, I’ll soon get you used to my London beer – best there is, you know.’
The weekend? Boase was thoughtful. Any kind of beer in any quantity was worth it if he could see Irene. Yes, he’d soon get used to Bartlett’s beer all right.
‘Right, Boase, finish your tea, I want you to come with me to see Dr Mortimer Cook. He’s no doubt going to be in a bad way but we need to ask him some questions. I know it’s early but I want to catch him before he opens his surgery, although I wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t bother today – or ever again for that matter.’
Boase emptied his cup and the two men drove to the doctor’s house on Florence Terrace.
The terrace was a row of very large, fine houses with verandas which gave out on to cottage style gardens. Bartlett and Boase walked up the path to the front door of number one, Bartlett knocked and the two men waited. Neither man knew Dr Cook well as they were both patients of Dr Chalmers. Boase observed the garden. A small, brown and gold sign in the shape of a hand with a pointing index finger read SURGERY, and w
as situated at about eye level, indicating the route for patients to take. A pleasant route it looked too; a narrow path, lined with many sorts of roses, which Bartlett had already espied and was giving a professional eye, and which led round to the side of the large house. Presently, the door opened and a tall man, seemingly in his mid-fifties, stood there. He had a trim white moustache and masses of thick, white hair. He was slim and wore a dark suit with a pale blue silk waistcoat from which hung a gold watch chain. He looked at the two men enquiringly but didn’t speak. Bartlett recognised the man as Dr Cook, lifted his hat, and introduced himself and Boase.
‘I need to talk to you, sir, about your son.’
The man graciously opened the door wide and motioned for the two men to enter. They found themselves in a large hall which was finely furnished with antiques including several Egyptian artefacts one of which, a large gold statue of a cat-like creature, stared at Boase with a gloomy expression in its eyes but a rather unnerving smile on its lips. The man led the way across the hall and into a large drawing room. More Egyptian relics there.
‘Won’t you please sit down, gentlemen?’
Bartlett and Boase sat on a rather large and soft day bed under a window. Dr Cook stood by the fireplace. Bartlett cleared his throat.
‘We’re very sorry about what happened yesterday, sir,’ he began, ‘I can’t tell you what a regretful situation this is …’
‘My wife will never get over this, Inspector Bartlett, this is all too much for her.’
‘I’m sure it must be, Dr Cook, and I can assure you we’ll do everything we can to find out who did this terrible, terrible thing. In the meantime, I’d like to ask you about Desmond, about his friends, what he’d been doing lately – was there anyone you could think of who would want to hurt him?’
‘I can’t think of anyone at all; Desmond was very popular, he had plenty of ladies chasing him, he had a couple of chums from his student days who visited occasionally – nice fellows, in good jobs too, one a solicitor and the other a private tutor – not like Desmond. He was a lazy young man, I have to say, Inspector Bartlett, but we idolised him, that is, my wife and I, and, of course, his cousin, Donald.’
Too Many Cooks Page 2
