Too Many Cooks

by Marina Pascoe

  ‘I really can’t face it, dear. I think I’ll go up now.’

  Dr Cook glanced at the mantel clock. It was only a quarter to eight.

  ‘My dear, could you please make me a dose of that sleeping medicine, only I do rather think it beneficial – and as you say, Donald will be here tomorrow and I need to rest.’

  ‘Of course I will – but, Ingrid, you mustn’t take things like this in place of your food – you need nourishment … ’

  ‘Yes, but I need sleep too. Oh, I forgot, will you be near Arwenack Street tomorrow at all?’

  ‘Well, not tomorrow, no, but definitely the day after – you know I visit old Dr Skinner there each week. Is there something I can fetch for you? Will it wait until then?’

  ‘Yes, please – and yes, it will wait. Would you pop into Bendix and Hall to collect my bracelet?’ I had it altered – it was a little on the large side. Donald brought it back for me last time and he’d like to see me wear it, I’m sure. It’s so pretty – and apparently very valuable. I’ll get you the alteration receipt before you leave. Did you know he’s bringing me something else? I always ask him not to but he does anyway. The bracelet is beautiful and it’s more than enough. He wrote to me and said he has a dear little gold ring – look at this letter, he’s even made a small sketch of it.’ Ingrid withdrew an envelope from a concealed drawer in the underside of the dining table and held it out to her husband. He took it and noted the contents and the sketch.

  ‘He thinks the world of you, darling – and he appreciates everything you’ve done for him over the years; let him spoil you if he wants to.’

  Ingrid kissed her husband on the cheek and went up to bed.

  Boase had made a visit, on his way home, to Windsor Terrace. There was no way to easily gain access. All the downstairs curtains were drawn and no neighbours could offer any information. At nine o’clock the next morning, he brought Bartlett a cup of tea.

  ‘We’ll have to break in, sir. I had a good look round – that’s the only way.’

  ‘Right. Finish your tea – we’ll go over there now.’

  The two men made their way across to Killigrew and, reaching St Mary’s Church, crossed to Lister Hill and into Windsor Terrace. A few people were walking by and so Bartlett and Boase made their way around to the back of the house. There was a locked gate which led into the garden. Boase pushed it and it gave a little. He went at it again with his shoulder and the gate was open. He went into the little garden, followed by Bartlett.

  ‘There’s a small pane here, sir. Look, just above the latch to the scullery door.’

  ‘Might be locked with a key, though.’

  Boase had already broken the glass and was reaching down for the bolt. He drew it back, turned the knob and the door opened.

  ‘You got lucky there, Boase.’

  The pair entered. There was a small scullery, a kitchen, and a parlour.

  ‘I’ll have a look upstairs, sir.’

  Bartlett was left in the parlour. He opened a couple of drawers in a desk. They were empty. The room was sparsely furnished. No photographs or pictures on the walls. It looked like it was just a part-time accommodation. Boase came back downstairs.

  ‘You should see up there, sir. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s say, it looks like whoever was here last knows how to throw a good party. There’s definitely been a woman up there – or two.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Boase.’

  ‘Neither do I really – just looks like someone has been up there and, unless Desmond liked wearing women’s clothes, I’d say he’d had a few lady friends.’

  ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk Anyway, we already knew he liked the women – that’s obviously what this place is about. I can’t see his parents approving of his behaviour. Find anything useful?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Me neither. Waste of time. Still, we had to check.’

  Disappointed, the two left by the scullery door, Boase making good the window before he closed the door.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon Dr Mortimer Cook, having finished his morning surgery and his house calls, was waiting on the platform at the railway station; he was happy to be seeing Donald but so very sad at the news he was going to break. He lit a pipe and wandered up and down the platform in the warm afternoon sun. He turned over in his mind how he was going to tell Donald what had happened. The truth was, he didn’t really know himself what had taken place, other than his son had been horribly murdered and no one had yet been caught. The police knew nothing. He looked at this watch. Five more minutes. He could hear the train coming down the line now. He straightened his waistcoat, tugged his cuffs slightly and watched as the train came towards the station.

  There was a sudden surge of people leaving the train, doors banging, suitcases being trundled back and forth, people shouting. Dr Cook watched everyone. Hands being shaken, hugs and kisses exchanged. A large dog, barking loudly, broke loose from the guard’s van and bounded along the platform, and almost knocking down a small child who instantly screamed and ran to her mother.

  Then the station fell silent.

  Doctor Cook stood on the platform.

  ‘Maybe he decided on a later train, dear,’ Ingrid Cook offered helpfully, ‘or maybe tomorrow. Yes, he’ll come tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, he never said,’ replied her husband, not looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘He might have just missed the train from London and has to wait until tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll hear exactly that.’ Ingrid busied herself winding some wool, in a way thankful that they had some more time to work out how to tell Donald their awful news.

  Dr Cook did not feel the same; he wanted it over with.

  George Bartlett walked over to the window and opened it wide. It was only eight o’clock in the morning but it warm already. Boase sat at his desk watching him.

  ‘Cheese sandwich, sir?’ He offered a small paper bag.

  ‘No thank you, Boase. What’s going on with Sheila Parsons? We’ve got nothing to suggest she’s involved in the Park murder but yet, here she is, shacked up with a man who already told us she’d left – in the very house where we find a man’s head in a bag. What’s all that about, eh?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, sir, but as Jim Penfold already pointed out, they’re not doing anything wrong. I suppose he’s got pots of money and she probably knows it but that hardly makes her a murderer.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Bartlett finished his tea. As he drained the cup, the telephone rang.

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand – well could there be any other explanation? Is there any way of contacting him? Are you sure there’s not some mistake? All right, I’ll see what I can find out. Try not to worry, I’m sure there’s no need. Thank you, goodbye.’

  Boase looked at Bartlett enquiringly.

  ‘That was Doctor Cook – he and his wife are panicking a bit because their nephew was supposed to arrive back from Egypt yesterday – he went to the station at three but no sign of him. He’ll probably turn up today. They’re naturally worried because they wanted to tell him about Desmond and now they think he’s had an accident or something. Anything we can do, Boase?’

  ‘Well, I’m not really sure, sir. Have they got the dates right?’

  ‘He says so.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got five minutes later on so I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘Thanks, Boase – be sure to let them know if you hear anything?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much, Mr Bosustow – yes, you’ve done a marvellous job, as always. My husband will be so pleased. Now, how much do I owe you?’

  Quentin Bosustow, the manager of Bendix and Hall jewellers in Arwenack Street, was a short and stout man of about sixty who always wore a black suit with a black waistcoat and a blue silk necktie. He bowed to his customer and reached under the cou
nter for a small pad of paper. He quickly scribbled some calculations and looked up over his horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Well, Mrs Ingleheart, shall we say eleven and sixpence – would that be acceptable?’

  Dr Cook, waiting at the counter, suddenly felt overwhelmed by the heat and sat down on a chair near the open door of the shop. He pondered over whether to come back later on for his wife’s bracelet – there was still another customer in front of him and if she was as complicated as Mrs Ingleheart he might be here for some time. As he contemplated what to do, Mrs Ingleheart took her repaired jewellery and left the shop. He stood and lifted his hat as she passed by him. A young woman was now at the counter. She looked in a hurry, which suited Dr Cook. She handed something to Quentin Bosustow and muttered urgently. The jeweller removed his spectacles and, slowly lifting a small glass to his eye, peered at the item he had just been given.

  ‘Well, miss, well, it’s not something we would normally deal in – this isn’t really my area of expertise. Of course, I can see it’s gold and I could offer you something for that …’

  The woman became more agitated.

  ‘Well, how much … how much can you give me?’

  ‘Well, now let me see … shall we say three pounds?’

  ‘Three pounds? Only three?’

  ‘Miss, Egyptology is the latest thing at the moment, I understand that, but to me the only real value would be in the actual gold …’

  The woman leaned over the counter, snatched the piece of jewellery and ran out of the shop.

  Dr Cook, who had been listening to the exchange, approached the counter.

  ‘Yes, sir, can I help you – oh, it’s Dr Cook, isn’t it? Oh, my dear sir, can I say to you how very sorry I am to hear of your recent and most terrible bereavement.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bosustow – but can you tell me, what was that young woman trying to sell you just then?’

  ‘She was offering me an Egyptian ring – very nice but only worth the gold value to me … seems to be that she was looking for quite a bit more than I was prepared to pay …’

  ‘Have you a pencil, Mr Bosustow?’

  The jeweller offered the pencil and Doctor Cook drew on the small paper pad which was still on the counter. He replicated the sketch in Donald’s letter to Ingrid and handed it back to Mr Bosustow.

  ‘Did it look like this at all?’

  The man behind the counter looked hard at the drawing.

  ‘But, but – how could you know this? That’s incredible’

  Dr Cook didn’t wait to reply. He fled from the shop, looking up and down Arwenack Street. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

  Constable Penhaligon knocked at the door of Bartlett’s office and entered, carrying a brown envelope.

  ‘This is for Constable Boase, sir.’ He handed it to Bartlett.

  ‘Thanks, Penhaligon – I’m a bit parched, you wouldn’t put the kettle on I suppose?’

  ‘No problem sir – be right back. Shall I make one for Constable Boase, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, I’ll think he’ll be back directly.’

  At that moment, Boase arrived.

  ‘Yes, I wouldn’t mind, Penhaligon – thanks.’

  ‘This just arrived for you.’ Bartlett handed over the envelope.

  Boase tore it open and scanned the contents.

  ‘Blimey, sir … listen to this. This is from the shipping office at Southampton. Donald Cook left Alexandria almost a month ago … looks like he docked back in England on the first of August, according to their timetables. But Dr Cook was only expecting him this week.’

  ‘So where can he be – and where has he been?’ Bartlett was turning his unlit pipe over in his hands.

  ‘Good morning, I wish to speak with Inspector Bartlett please.’ The Russian accent came as a surprise to the desk sergeant taking this telephone call at Falmouth police station.

  ‘Who shall I say, please?’

  ‘Please to tell him my name is Leon Josef Nikolai Alexei Romanov and I am at his service.’

  ‘Please wait a moment.’

  The desk sergeant tapped on Bartlett’s door.

  ‘Sir, could you take a telephone call?’

  ‘Yes – who is it?’

  ‘Well, sir, I tried to write it down – look, here you are sir.’

  The desk sergeant handed Bartlett a small slip of paper on which he had attempted to write the caller’s name. Bartlett looked at it then, removing his reading glasses, looked at the messenger.

  ‘Well, yes, all right then – I’ll take the call.’

  ‘Inspector George Bartlett here. How can I help?’

  ‘Oh, Inspector Bartlett, good morning – it is I, Romanov.’

  ‘How are you, sir, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I am worried, Inspector – about my friend Donald Cook. I have telephoned to the house of his uncle and he has told me that he does not know where Donald is.’

  ‘Do you have any need to be worried, sir?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think so.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Well, I am not sure – you see I have just received a letter from Donald … ’

  ‘Donald? Go on.’

  ‘It was posted in London on the third of August. In it my friend says he is worried that someone is trying to kill him.’

  ‘Does he say who this might be?’

  ‘No, nothing other than since he arrived back in England he is sure that someone is following him.’

  ‘And what is your opinion of this?’

  ‘Well, all I know is that Donald often carried valuables around with him – Egyptian artefacts … sometimes jewellery. Maybe someone was trying to rob him, yes, but why would he think that someone was trying to kill him? I wish I had known – I might have been able to help him – I do not understand why this letter has come to me only now. He says he is staying with friends in the East End of London before he returns to Cornwall – he mentions a woman he met on the return journey from Egypt.’

  ‘Any names?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘Right, well, thank you, sir, I must ask you to keep in touch if you hear any more that might be of interest to me.’

  ‘Of course. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  Bartlett replaced the telephone receiver and turned to Boase who had been listening to the one side of the conversation.

  ‘Guess that was the Romanov?’

  ‘Yes … said he had a letter from Donald. Apparently he thought someone wanted to kill him – felt like he was being followed.’

  Boase sat down and drew a piece of paper from his desk drawer. He licked the end of a very tiny pencil and wrote down:

  What do we know?

  Desmond Cook murdered 05.08.23

  Donald Cook returned from Egypt 01.08.23

  One body found. One head found. Two people

  Donald Cook should be here – he isn’t

  Rising from his chair, Boase screwed the paper into a ball and threw it into the waste paper basket.

  ‘Don’t do that, Boase.’ Bartlett retrieved the paper and straightened it out. He looked at it spread before him on his desk.

  ‘What were you thinking about when you wrote this?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking, wouldn’t it be good if there was a way of telling if people were related just by their – I dunno, their blood or something?’

  ‘Related? What are you thinking – the same thought that crossed my mind not twenty minutes ago?’

  ‘Well … I’m thinking … wondering, if the two partial bodies we found are both Cooks …’

  ‘I didn’t dare venture to suggest it, Boase, but … it could make sense.’

  Chapter Five

  Arthur Pouch folded up the Falmouth Packet and lay it neatly on the breakfast table. The headline uppermost read: Still no clues for Falmouth police in body in park murder.

  Arthur Pouch had lived in Falmouth all his life, since 1860. Since 1860 he had never uttered a word,
well, not that anyone could remember and so, it was assumed that he had never spoken since birth. He lived alone in a small house at the top of Jacob’s Ladder, a flight of one hundred and eleven steps rising up from the Moor. He was a small man and walked rather like a little bird, often stooping to pick things from the ground – particularly discarded rubbish, which he hated to see on the street and so he would collect it all, take it home and burn it on his fire. Children mimicked him when they saw him, strutting and bending down like a chicken. He ignored them.

  His one treat was to have a drink in the Star and Garter Inn at the top of High Street and he was regularly seen there gazing out of the window across to Flushing. No one had any idea of how many years he had been doing this but everyone recognised him and offered him a smile or a wave when they saw him.

  Arthur finished washing up the breakfast things and looked again at the paper on the table. He opened it and reread the story about the murder. He removed his little wire spectacles and thought for a minute or two; replacing them, he read again. There was a picture of the two Cook boys – one murdered, the other, apparently missing. He recognised them. But from where? They looked familiar to him but he couldn’t imagine how or why. The paper replaced once more on the breakfast table, Arthur Pouch pulled on his old coat and left the house for his usual walk around the town and to buy himself some tobacco and two ounces of humbugs. He walked for over an hour when he found himself at the tobacconist’s shop by the docks. Having completed his purchases and stooped to pat a friendly little terrier tied to a rail outside the shop, Arthur began his walk back home. As he turned the key in the lock, something came to him. Why, of course! Those two young men were in the saloon bar the very night before one of them was found murdered in the park. He had seen them with his very own eyes. But, oh, how terrible. Such a ghastly murder. And what of the other boy? They say he’s disappeared. Yes, indeed, such a terrible business.

  Archibald Boase looked at the clock in the office he shared with George Bartlett. Next he looked at his watch. Rising from his chair, he crossed to the door, opened it and addressed Constable Penhaligon.

  ‘Penhaligon, what time do you make it?’

  The constable looked at the clock above the door.