George Bartlett walked up to Dr Cook’s surgery. As he passed by a low hedge in the front garden he heard snipping sounds from the other side.
‘Hello … hello. Anyone in?’
Dr Cook emerged from behind the hedge.
‘Good day, Mr Bartlett. I just had an hour or two to spare so I thought I’d tidy up this hedge – need to keep busy. Mr Rolling normally does the garden but he’s getting a little old and rather unwell of late. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to continue with us.’
‘He’s doing a lovely job – I always admire your garden, Doctor Cook.’
‘Thank you. Ingrid is very fond of it.’
I was hoping to have a quick word with you if I may?’
‘Yes, of course. What can I do for you?’
‘Did either your son or your nephew have a scar on one finger?’
‘Why, yes. Donald did. There was a rather unfortunate incident when they were boys. They were playing, just over there actually, when a fight broke out. Desmond hit Donald on the hand with a metal spade. Did some irreparable damage too – he was lucky not to lose the finger. – I think he’s even been getting a touch of arthritis in it lately. It’s quite a bad scar – Donald always wears a signet ring on that finger to try to hide it.’
Revisiting Bartlett’s question, Dr Cook suddenly blanched and leaned back against a tree.
‘Oh no, Inspector Bartlett. You’ve found Donald, haven’t you? Please, you can tell me. I must know.’
‘I’m sorry, Dr Cook. We haven’t found your nephew. But we have reason to believe that Donald thought he was in danger and that someone was trying to kill him.’
‘But why? Why would he think that?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to discover – thank you, sir. We’ll let you know what we find out at the very first opportunity.’
‘But, Mr Bartlett – what about the scar? Why …’
Bartlett had left the garden and Dr Cook walked back into the house.
Sheila Parsons fidgeted in the seat.
‘Come on now, Sheila – here’s a nice cup of tea. Now, let’s start at the beginning shall we?’
‘I don’t know nothing – no more than I already said.’
Bartlett sat next to her.
‘Well, I think you do and you’re going to tell us what you know. Right, first off – is this your comb?’
Sheila took the tortoiseshell comb and turned it over in her hand.
‘Yes, it’s one of ʼem – I’ve got four. I wondered what happened to this. It’s mine all right – look, I scratched a ‘S’ on the back. How did you get it?’
‘You dropped it round the back of the Cornelius house on the night of the party.’
Sheila looked astounded.
‘No, no I didn’t – I wasn’t even round the back of the ʼouse. Constable Boase will tell you. I never went there.’
‘So, how did this comb, which you say belongs to you, come to be found by the back hall door at the Cornelius place?’
‘I really don’t know – ʼonest I don’t. I wasn’t even wearing a comb in me ʼair that night.’
‘Sheila, that man who was hanging around – you said he was following you?’
‘Yes, ʼe was.’
‘He’s been seen around the town. He was asking in Bendix and Hall about the ring.’
Bartlett watched as Sheila grew pale.
‘Has this man got something to do with the murder, Sheila? He’s definitely keen to get this ring.’
Bartlett took a small key and unlocked a drawer in his desk. He took out the ring and held it up to Sheila. She drew back.
‘I never want to see that again as long as I live.’
‘Did Donald really give this to you, Sheila?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sheila. Tell the truth!’
‘No. I stole it.’
‘You stole this ring from Donald Cook?’
‘No. I stole it from Desmond.’
‘What? How did Desmond have the ring?’
‘I think he took it. Donald was showing it to him in the pub and telling him how valuable it was. Donald told me when we were on the ship coming back to England that Desmond had always been jealous of ʼim. ʼE said Desmond was lazy and always thinking of the main chance.’
Boase put his hand on Sheila’s shoulder.
‘What do you mean, Sheila? Always thinking of the main chance?’
‘Well, ʼe said Desmond was always borrowing money – ʼe ʼad no intention of finding a job, even with all them qualifications. The pair argued all the time when they was nippers. Desmond nearly cut off one of Donald’s fingers when they was little. Seems ʼe wasn’t a very nice person. Always one for the ladies – but ʼe just used them. Took them back to that little place ʼe ad and then dumped them. ʼE never wanted normal girls though, no, only rich ones. Donald said Desmond was carryin’ on with a woman twice ʼis age a few months ago – all cos she was rich. ʼE ʼad to pack it in when ʼer ʼusband found out.’
‘Sheila, do you know what we found in the house at Bar Terrace where you’re living with Jim Penfold?’
‘Yes. It’s bin in the papers.’
‘Then you know how serious this is. And that you could be in danger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whoever it is that murdered Desmond Cook is probably responsible for the disappearance of Donald – and he’ll stop at nothing to get this ring. That can be the only reason he’s still around. Sheila, I’m keeping you here tonight – for your own good. I’ll let Jim know. We’ll be talking again in the morning. I’ll get something for you to eat.’
‘Oh, no, Inspector Bartlett. Please can’t I go ʼome?’
‘No, Sheila. I’m afraid you can’t. I want you to think very hard tonight about anything else you’ve haven’t told us already – I’m sure there’s more.’
At five o’clock the desk sergeant and Penhaligon settled Sheila in for the night and gave her some food and a cup of tea. Penhaligon gave her a biscuit from his own tin and had a quick game of cards with her.
‘I shouldn’t be doing this, Miss.’
‘It’s ever so nice of you, Constable. Ta. And thanks for the biscuit. You’d better go now. I’ll be all right.’
Bartlett grabbed Boase’s sleeve just as the younger man was about to put on his coat and leave for home.
‘Come back a minute, Boase. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about the finger.’
‘What about it, sir?’
‘What Sheila told us earlier – it’s true. Dr Cook told me that Donald was whacked on the hand with a metal spade by Desmond when they were kids – nearly severed it by all accounts. It’s Donald’s finger! And, listen to this, Donald always wore a signet ring on that finger to try to hide the scar.’
‘So?’
‘Think about it, Boase. Maybe the finger was cut off to get the ring – then it was discovered to be the wrong one?’
‘Blimey. But that doesn’t mean that Donald’s dead though, does it, sir?’
‘No. I don’t suppose it does. But, that’s what we need to find out – and sooner rather than later. If that’s Donald’s head, then there’s not much chance of him being alive, is there?’
The heat of the late summer had brought storms in across the bay. To many the relief was welcome. Caroline Bartlett couldn’t sleep. She sat up in bed and looked at the little clock. It was twenty past two. Bartlett woke immediately.
‘What’s wrong, princess? Can’t you sleep?’
‘I feel a little unwell, George. I think I’ll just go down for a glass of water.’
‘No you won’t – you stay there if you’re not well. I’ll fetch it. What’s wrong? How do you feel unwell?’
Caroline never wanted to worry her husband and this time was no exception.
‘I think it’s nothing, George. Really. I’ll be fine in a minute or two.’
She held one hand on her chest as she spoke.
‘This is your heart again, isn’t it?’
‘You barely ate anything. I’ll get your water. Lie back on the pillows.’
Bartlett rearranged the bedclothes to make his wife comfortable and, slipping on his dressing gown, went downstairs to the kitchen. Topper was up on hearing footsteps on the stairs and he slowly wagged his stumpy tail as Bartlett descended into the hall.
‘It’s all right, Topper boy. Go back to sleep. Your mother’s not very well and I’ve just come to get her some water. She’ll be OK in a minute.’
Topper wasn’t going to leave his master alone and followed him into the kitchen. Bartlett poured a glass of water and looked out into the garden. The storm was quite bad now and lightning was flashing across the kitchen followed by loud claps of thunder. Returning to the hall, Bartlett directed Topper to his bed and lay the dog’s very own blanket across him.
‘Go on – in you get. Don’t worry. Good night, boy. Good night.’
The dog lay down and Bartlett returned to his room with the water.
‘Here you are, princess. Have a sip of this.’
‘Could you hand me my pills, George?’
‘Still no better?’
Bartlett reached for the bottle of heart pills and, unscrewing the lid, shook one out into his hand and offered it to his wife.
‘It’s not so bad. I think I forgot to take my pills this morning. It’s very silly of me.’
‘You must try to remember, princess. I’d die if anything happened to you.’
‘No you wouldn’t, George. Besides – you couldn’t, you’ve got Irene to look after.’
‘I think Irene’s got Boase, don’t you?’
Caroline smiled, took the pill and handed the glass back to Bartlett. He placed it on the bedside table.
‘Topper’s worried about you too.’
‘Bless him. He doesn’t like the thunder much, does he?’
‘Now you lie down and try to sleep. Wake me up if you’re poorly again. Promise?’
‘Yes, I promise. Stop worrying. It’s very warm tonight.’
Bartlett pulled back the eiderdown and wrapped the sheet across his wife.
‘Better, princess?’
‘Yes, George. Thank you. Good night.’
Bartlett was now wide awake and lay thinking about the Cook case. Over and over in his mind went the people and the events. He was worried he was no closer and that wouldn’t do. No, not one bit.
The clock on the parish church struck three times. Arthur Pouch couldn’t sleep either. He turned over and over trying to find a cool place on the pillow. He thought he heard something in the garden. He listened. No nothing. Probably the tom cat after Polly again. He pushed back the covers but to no avail. Getting up he opened his bedroom window about two inches. The rain came straight in and soaked the windowsill. He closed it quickly. He felt very warm. He hated these thundery summer nights when he couldn’t sleep. The little tabby cat, Polly, lay on the end of the bed, purring and watching Arthur’s every move. She sat up and began to wash herself and then, jumping off the bed, made her way to the bedroom door. She looked up at the old man and miaowed twice and very loudly. He crossed the bedroom and, bending to stroke the cat, opened the door and went downstairs. Polly ran ahead in front of him and only stopped at the back door. It was opened and she went out into the rain. Arthur looked up at the sky and felt a bit cooler standing by the door. Maybe he’d have a little walk. Slowly he ascended the stairs and returned to the bedroom to dress. Back in the kitchen, he pulled down his mackintosh from behind the door and went out into the garden. Polly sat on the wall watching him.
As the old man reached the little lane at the top of his garden he heard a thud on the ground behind him. Just about to turn, he felt a searing pain at the back of his head as he fell.
Polly, who had witnessed the assault on her master, jumped down from her place on the wall and regarded the man lying in the mud. Arthur Pouch didn’t move.
Chapter Ten
Benjamin Snow lifted the sack of coal onto his shoulder and carried it to the waiting cart. He was late this morning. He had hoped to start early today, for he’d promised to take Anne and Andrew, his six-year-old twins, to the beach to look in rock pools. Ben hated the heat and the beach but a promise was a promise – he couldn’t undo it now. He hated, too, the number of times people had commented, ‘You’re called Snow – and you’re a coalman?’
He wouldn’t mind a shilling for every time he’d been poked fun at. He threw the last sack onto the cart. He stopped and lit his pipe, thinking. Why did people want a coal fire in the middle of summer? Yes, some people bought supplies now because of the generous summer discount, but others, mostly elderly, actually lit a fire every day of the year. Ah well, if they didn’t, he’d have nothing to do.
Ben told Mary the carthorse to walk along the back lane to go out onto the street. He didn’t ever lead her – she knew the familiar routes as well as the coalman did and all the customers knew her, often bringing out a carrot or an apple for her. He followed on behind, enjoying his pipe and the warm, damp summer morning and the fresher air the storm had left behind. As they almost reached the corner, Mary stopped and scraped the ground.
‘Come on, Mary. Come on, what’s wrong?’
Mary would go no further and scraped the ground harder and faster.
Ben walked from behind the cart and up to Mary’s head. There was his friend, Arthur Pouch, lying on the ground. The coalman rushed to him and shook him.
‘Arthur. Arthur. It’s me – Ben. Arthur, wake up. What’s ʼappened to you? Arthur?’
There was no response and so Ben ran back down the lane and into the garden next door to his own, that of Henry and Eliza Hocking. Eliza was hanging some washing on the line. She looked up as she heard the gate rattle.
‘Mornin’ Ben – what’s the rush?’
‘Arthur Pouch ʼas collapsed or something, in the lane – ʼe’s not movin’ – come quick.’
Eliza ran up the back steps behind Ben Snow and together they hurried down the lane. Eliza, who had been a nurse in the war, knelt by the man on the ground. She poked and felt and listened.
‘Well, ʼe’s still alive. We’d better get ʼim inside – bring ʼim to mine.’
The two carefully lifted Arthur Pouch onto the back of the coalcart and Mary skilfully managed to reverse back down the lane until she stopped outside the Hocking house. Henry Hocking had, by this time, come up to the back gate and he and Ben lifted the injured man down from the cart and carried him into the parlour. Eliza looked at him as he was laid on the couch.
ʼE’s ʼad a bang on the ʼead. One of you ʼad better fetch a doctor – ʼe don’t look very good.
Henry grabbed a jacket and ran as fast as he dared down Jacob’s Ladder and onto the Moor in search of help.
Enrico Trewavas shook the doormat on the front step of the Star and Garter. As he looked up and down High Street, a short man who Enrico thought he recognised was walking up the hill towards him. As he waited to say good morning, the man disappeared down the slipway known as Barrack’s Ope. Enrico, curious now, came out onto the street and walked towards the opening, stopping at its entrance. He saw the man descend and stop, as if to pick up something from the ground. No, he’d bent to strike a match on his shoe. Enrico watched as the man lit a cigarette and stood, motionless, looking out across the water. As the smoker turned round to return back to the street, Enrico ducked behind the building and went into the pub. He thought as he washed some glasses. Where had he seen him before? He swept the floor, puzzling over the man. That’s it! He was the man with Sheila Parsons and the Cook boys. The same man Mr Bartlett was asking about. Enrico ran back out on to the street and, seeing the man in the distance heading towards the bottom of High Street, he followed and quickly came within yards of his subject. He held back and watched as the man paused to look in a small second-hand jewellery shop. Enrico, realising he was now conspicuous in his white apron, remo
ved the offending item of clothing and, rolling it up, pushed it under his arm. Two people acknowledged him with: ‘Morning, Mr Trewavas’ and ‘Nice day, Enrico.’ The man barely noticed them. This might be a way to help Mr Bartlett, this surely is the man they’re looking for.
After about ten minutes, the man reached the foot of Jacob’s Ladder. Pausing to look behind him, he ascended the large flight of stone steps. Enrico, past his prime and rather overweight, never ventured up there. His body couldn’t cope. He watched the man reach almost to the top and then disappear. Enrico was puzzled. If this man was wanted and was something to do with the murder, then why was he still in the town? That didn’t make any sense. Enrico crossed the Moor and went up to the police station to see Inspector Bartlett or Constable Boase.
By now, well and truly out of breath, Enrico Trewavas entered the police station and sat on the bench seat in the lobby. He waited while a man was speaking to the desk sergeant.
‘And your name is, sir?’
‘Hocking. Henry Hocking.’
‘And you found him outside in the back lane?’
‘Yes, that’s right. We managed to get a doctor to him and I think they’ve taken ʼim to ʼospital but I thought I should report it to you. It wasn’t an accident. Someone deliberately did this and my wife is worried. It’s bad enough she’s scared to go out after dark ever since that business in the park – but now, this.’
‘Yes, Mr Hocking. I understand and you did the right thing telling us about it. I’ll make sure someone looks into it.’
‘Thank you. I ʼope you will. Goodbye, Sergeant.
‘Goodbye, sir.’
Enrico approached the desk.
‘Good morning. Is Mr Bartlett in? Or Constable Boase?’
‘Hello Mr Trewavas. How are you? Business good? Yes, they’re both in … did you want to see them? I’ll just go and ask for you. Wait here please.’
A minute later, Enrico was being shown into Bartlett’s office and relayed what had just happened.
‘Is it any use to you, Mr Bartlett? It’s definitely the same man who I saw with the Cooks and that young lady before.’
‘You’ve done well, Enrico. Thank you. Thank you very much. Let us know if you hear anything else.’
Too Many Cooks Page 12
