Too Many Cooks

by Marina Pascoe

  ‘It’s almost half past one – it’s past your lunch time, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ replied Boase and returned to the office. Opening a canvas haversack which he had pulled from under his desk, he removed a large paper bag. He laid in front of him.

  ‘Mind if I have my lunch now, sir?’ He looked across at Bartlett.

  ‘No, you go ahead – I wouldn’t like to see you starve, would I?’

  Boase had already opened the bag to reveal a very large pasty. Bartlett watched him.

  ‘Your landlady make that?’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes she did.’

  Boase took out a small knife and made a jagged cut across the pasty. He offered the smaller part to Bartlett.

  ‘Corner, sir?’

  ‘No thanks, Boase, you enjoy it – you’re wasting away as it is. Can’t imagine why – you got worms or something?’ The older man was grinning. Boase ignored him. No one was going to interrupt his pasty.

  Penhaligon knocked at the door and entered.

  ‘Sir,’ he addressed Bartlett, seeing Boase was otherwise engaged, ‘Dr Cook just telephoned and wondered if you would be good enough to call at his surgery sometime later today. He really wants to speak to you but his wife is unwell and he doesn’t want to leave her just at the moment.’

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘No, sir, he wouldn’t say, but that he would explain everything when he saw you.’

  ‘Right you are, I’ll call round later … fancy a walk, Boase? You might need to walk off all that pastry.’

  Bartlett and Boase arrived at Dr’s Cook’s house and, having knocked, waited on the step. The doctor opened the door and invited them in.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me – I’m sorry I couldn’t come to you but my wife is feeling very unwell and distressed. Donald’s apparent disappearance is upsetting her greatly.’

  ‘No need to explain, sir – how can we help you?’ Bartlett sat down on a chair by the window.

  ‘Well, I’m puzzled about Donald not arriving – he’s usually fairly reliable and, to be perfectly honest, Inspector, well, I’m beginning to worry.’

  ‘Well, that’s understandable, sir, in the light of everything that’s happened –’

  ‘Yes, but there’s something else.’ Dr Cook interrupted.

  ‘Go on, Doctor.’

  ‘Well, it’s all rather strange really. You see, Donald is always in the habit of bringing something back from his travels for us – well, mostly for my wife. You can see how much stuff we have from Egypt in the house. Personally, I wouldn’t give you a thank you for it but, well, Ingrid likes it and so I tolerate the gestures. Well, the other day, Ingrid showed me a letter she had received from Donald in which he said he was bringing her a ring. She put the letter away and thought no more of it. She asked me to go to Bendix and Hall, the little jewellers, you know. She wanted me to collect a bracelet which Quentin Bosustow was repairing for her – she so wanted to wear it when Donald arrived home; it was a gift from him after his last trip. I’m sorry, where are my manners – can I give you some tea?’

  ‘No thank you, sir. Please carry on.’ Bartlett was becoming curious now – he hoped this story would end up in a clue to his investigations.

  ‘Well, look, here’s the letter – I asked Ingrid if she minded my showing it to you and she gladly gave it to me. Here’s a little pencil sketch of the ring he’s bringing.’

  Bartlett searched for his reading glasses and Boase stood behind looking over the older man’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, I see, sir. But I don’t understand …’

  ‘I went to Bendix and Hall yesterday for the bracelet. It was rather busy – and warm so I sat by the door waiting my turn at the counter. Well, the first customer paid her bill and then something very strange happened …’

  ‘Go on, Dr Cook.’ Bartlett and Boase exchanged a glance hoping for something useful here.

  ‘A young woman approached the counter and tried to sell something to Quentin Bosustow. She was obviously dissatisfied with the price he was offering and she quickly left the shop. When I approached him, he said it was an Egyptian ring but he would only pay her the price of the gold – no more. Something came into my head – I don’t know how or why but I replicated the little illustration you hold there and showed it to him. He couldn’t believe it. Of course, it’s obviously unique – that, he said, was the exact ring he had been shown minutes before. Naturally, I ran after the young woman – but she was gone.’

  Boase was startled by this.

  ‘So, what you’re saying, sir, is that the young woman in Bendix and Hall had the ring belonging to Donald and which he was about to present to your wife on his return?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  Bartlett leaned forward on his chair.

  ‘Well, this is a bit of a surprise, Dr Cook. Tell me – can you describe this woman to us?’

  ‘Yes, I can – she had bright red hair and wore men’s trousers and an overcoat … even in this searing heat.’

  Bartlett rose from his seat.

  ‘This may be very important and useful, sir, thank you. Will you please let us know if you hear from Donald?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will. I’ll show you out. Thank you for coming. So, you think this information is relevant?’

  ‘Well, it’s something to go on, definitely. Thank you, sir. Good day.’

  Bartlett and Boase walked back through Dr Cook’s garden. Neither said a word until they were at the end of Florence Terrace.

  Boase spoke first.

  ‘Well, that’s a turn-up, sir? What’s it all about?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Boase. That ring, Dr Cook says, is unique and the jeweller recognised it from his sketch. If that’s so, someone got that ring from young Donald Cook. And we think we know who the young woman with the red hair and men’s trousers is, don’t we?’

  ‘Sheila Parsons,’ both men uttered at the same time.

  The next two days dragged by slowly and Greet had, after a heated confrontation with Bartlett, agreed to grant an extra few days.

  ‘You understand, of course,’ Greet had said, ‘that this is only on account of a shortage of men up in London for the foreseeable – yes, if it wasn’t for that, you’d be off this case long before now, George.’

  Bartlett didn’t care – he just wanted more time. He did care, however, about being called George by Greet – as if they were friends. They worked together, that was all; friends they would never be.

  The August heatwave continued and Bartlett and Boase were making slow progress. Sheila Parsons had also vanished and the pair had had no luck in tracing her.

  Bartlett sat by the window at his desk and lit his pipe.

  ‘Irene said she wouldn’t mind a picnic tomorrow, Boase – don’t know what she’s got in mind … fancy tagging along?’

  ‘If you’re sure that would be all right, sir. Thank you – I’d like that very much.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like missing my Sunday lunch, I admit – but Caroline said we could have something on Monday instead, so that’s all right. Why don’t you come to the house at midday tomorrow?’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir. I will.’

  So it was that on Sunday afternoon, the small party of George Bartlett, Caroline, Irene, and Archie Boase, accompanied by Topper, were sitting on the beach at Swanpool tucking into a cold lunch. The sun was beating down and swimmers, walkers, and boaters were everywhere, it seemed to Bartlett.

  ‘Now, don’t get me wrong all – I love this little town and the coast and the lovely air, but, well, all these people, I can’t bear it. Look at them, half dressed … ’

  ‘George, do stop,’ Caroline threw a napkin at him which landed on his head and Boase and Irene had a fit of giggles.

  ‘Oh, Dad – these people are only having fun, I’m sure lots of them are on holiday. You must know how good it feels to escape the city air.’

  ‘We
ll, yes, I’ll grant you that, Irene. I wouldn’t mind another one of those ham sandwiches, if there’s one going?’

  The four, and Topper, ate sandwiches, cake, and fruit, and drank several cups of tea. Topper began to dig nearby in the sand and barked triumphantly when he turned up a broken doll. He brought it across and dropped it at Bartlett’s feet.

  ‘Well, thanks, boy – that’s an interesting thing to find.’

  Topper barked and moved back some distance indicating he wanted to play ‘fetch.’

  Bartlett obliged and the game continued until boredom set in on both sides.

  ‘Would you like to go for a little walk, Archie? We could get an ice cream if you like.’ Irene stood up and held out her hand to Boase. He stood, brushed the sand from his trousers and, patting Topper on the head, took Irene’s hand. They walked in the direction of the cliff path to Gyllyngvase.

  Caroline sat closer to Bartlett and put her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I think they make quite a nice pair, don’t you, George?’

  ‘Well, yes I do – don’t know why they don’t get on with it though. There’s no need for Irene to stay at home for our benefit, is there?’

  ‘I agree – but you know what she’s like. They’ll do what they do.’

  Bartlett kissed his wife on the top of her head and took a piece of fruit cake. He was enjoying the day but, if he was honest, he didn’t feel good relaxing like this when he had so much work to do.

  The day grew cooler. Irene and Boase returned arm in arm, seemingly very happy in each other’s company and the four packed away their picnic ready for the walk home. Topper ran back for his doll and dropped it into the open basket.

  Arthur Pouch locked his front door and stuffed the front page of the Falmouth Packet into his pocket. Walking slowly and holding onto the handrail, he made his way down Jacob’s Ladder. Crossing the Moor, stopping only to pick up a sweet wrapper and deposit it in the litter bin, he continued his way to the police station. He was greeted by Constable Penhaligon. The two had known each other since Penhaligon was a boy.

  ‘Hello, Arthur. You all right today?’

  Arthur Pouch nodded and, taking the newspaper from his pocket, pointed to the picture of the two Cook boys. He tapped the paper with his finger then tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘What, you know something about this, Arthur?’

  The old man nodded and pointed to the sign indicating Bartlett’s office.

  ‘Wait a minute – have a seat.’

  Arthur sat and Penhaligon knocked on Bartlett’s door. Boase, who had just been on his way out for some tea, opened the door and bid Penhaligon to enter.

  ‘Come on in, Penhaligon, what is it? I was just after some tea.’

  Bartlett was standing looking out of the window. He turned.

  ‘Sorry to bother you both, but Arthur Pouch is outside. He’s got a newspaper article with him – the one with the photographs of the two Cooks – he wants to see you.’

  ‘Well, bring him in then.’

  Arthur Pouch removed his hat and entered the office.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Pouch – I hope you’re well,’ said Bartlett offering the man a seat. A nod was the reply. The man indicated by a writing gesture that he needed a pencil and paper. Boase brought it for him. Ten minutes passed and Bartlett and Boase watched, intrigued, as the old man wrote out three pages in very large handwriting. He bent over the work and despite Boase’s best efforts he could see nothing until the essay was complete. Having finished, Arthur Pouch handed the pages to Bartlett. Silence ensued all round while it was being read.

  ‘This is very interesting, Mr Pouch – very interesting. Are you sure about this?’ The old man nodded and then nodded more, his hand on his heart.

  ‘Well this is really very kind of you and helpful too. I can’t thank you enough. Would you like a cup of tea before you leave?’

  Arthur Pouch shook his head but stood up and, taking Bartlett’s hand in his, offered up a very firm handshake, and then the same to Boase. He replaced his hat and left.

  Boase had almost turned himself inside out trying to discover the contents of the pages.

  ‘Come on, sir. Share.’

  ‘Well, you’ll find this very interesting, Boase. I certainly do.’

  Bartlett showed the newly gained information to his assistant. Boase sat at his desk, incredulous.

  ‘So, let me see if I understand this, sir. Arthur Pouch was in his usual seat in the Star and Garter when he witnessed all this? That’s unbelievable. So this girl he says he saw … let me see, he describes her as having bright red hair and a very loud voice – but not with a local accent. So that has to be Sheila Parsons. She’s turning out to be a bad penny. Now these three men she was talking to … who are they?’

  ‘Well, Boase, we know they must be the two Cook boys – Pouch says he recognised them when he saw them in the paper – but who’s the other one she was so chummy with? That’s what we need to find out.’

  Bartlett and Boase took a walk up to the Star and Garter. It was closed. They went around the back where a door was open. Bartlett went up the two steps.

  ‘Hello, hellooo – anyone in?’

  A middle-aged man with grey hair and a rather large stomach, around which was tied a black apron, came to the open door.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Bartlett. Hello, sir, how are you?’

  ‘I’m all right, Enrico. How’s business?’

  ‘Very good, thank you for asking. And who is this handsome young man?’

  ‘This is my assistant, Archibald Boase. Archie – meet Enrico Trewavas.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, gentlemen?’

  ‘No thanks, Enrico – we’re working.’

  ‘Oh, please – just a small beer on the house?’

  ‘Well, it is rather warm – go on then … you’ve talked us into it.’

  The three men went into the empty saloon bar where Arthur Pouch was accustomed to sit. Enrico Trewavas poured two glasses of beer and set them down on the table. The landlord was well known to Bartlett – he had helped him greatly with information relating to a previous case in his early days in Falmouth. His Cornish father had met his Italian mother many years before, married her, and brought to this part of the world.

  ‘So, do you need my spying skills again, Mr Bartlett?’ Enrico chuckled.

  ‘Well, in a way, yes, I do. You must have heard all the murder talk around the town?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I have. Terrible, terrible, that poor boy.’ At this point, Enrico made the sign of the cross across his body. ‘It’s hard not to hear gossip in my job, Mr. Bartlett.’

  ‘I hoped you’d say that.’ Bartlett sipped his beer.

  ‘Well, you know I was there the day they found him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, yes, I had just come out of mass when I heard all the trouble. I had walked down the side of the park to come back here. I stopped – Valentina felt sick and we paused by the top gate until she felt a little better. I heard that young woman screaming. I felt so sorry for her when I discovered what she had found.’

  ‘Someone has told me that not only was Desmond Cook drinking in here the night he was murdered but that Donald was too. Did you notice anything unusual about them when they were in here?’

  ‘You’re probably wondering why I didn’t tell you that Desmond was in here … well, simply because there was nothing to tell.’

  ‘But can you think of anything now, Enrico?’

  ‘No, not really – I had no idea until you just told me that the other man he was with was Donald Cook. I suppose, thinking back, they looked similar – but youngsters do these days, don’t you agree, Mr Bartlett?’

  Bartlett stood up and walked across to the bar.

  ‘Well, I suppose they do, but maybe that’s just because we’re getting older, Enrico. Where were the Cook boys standing?’

  Enrico showed the place at the bar.

  ‘Now,
Enrico, think carefully. Who else was with those two lads?’

  Enrico Trewavas stared into the distance, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Well, now, there was someone … a young, red-haired woman; yes, that’s right, and a man.’

  ‘What was the man like?’

  Enrico thought again.

  ‘Well, he seemed quite short, greasy, black hair – and he had a gold tooth, I remember. Yes, he was with the girl.’

  ‘Right, now, this is really important. Did the man and woman leave here together, what time and did they leave before or after the Cook boys?’

  ‘Wait.’

  Enrico opened the door behind the bar and called out.

  ‘Doreen. Doreen. Could you come down, please?’

  Footsteps were heard on the stairs and a woman appeared behind the bar. She was about fifty, rather overweight, with greying hair tied up in a bun.

  ‘Mr Bartlett, do you remember my wife, Doreen?’

  Doreen stepped forward.

  ‘I remember you, Mr Bartlett – how are you?’

  ‘And I you, Doreen. I’m very well, thank you. This is Archie Boase, my assistant.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Archie Boase.’

  ‘Doreen,’ Enrico patted his wife’s hand, ‘do you remember the night that Desmond Cook was here? The night he died?’

  ‘Why, yes, I do. He’d had one or two too many as I recall.’

  ‘He was drunk?’ Boase stared hard at the woman. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Well, he was upright but I told him he should go home and sleep it off. Oh! Mr Bartlett, Mr Boase, is it my fault he was murdered?’

  Bartlett put his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  ‘No, of course it isn’t, Doreen. How could it be? You mustn’t think that at all. Now, please, tell me about anything unusual that happened that evening in this bar.’

  Doreen stepped behind the bar and poured herself a glass of lemonade. She sat on a stool at a table by the window.

  ‘Well, Desmond came in with another man …’

  ‘That was Donald Cook,’ her husband said.

  ‘Oh, no, not the poor boy that’s gone missing? Oh, his poor family. Well they were together, chatting and drinking.’

  ‘Can you remember what they were talking about, Doreen?’