Sheila Parsons thanked the driver for taking her to Jim Penfold at Penryn and walked up the garden path to the front door. She knocked and waited. Jim came to the door. The two looked at each other. She was shocked to see his badly scarred face.
‘Well, in you come.’
As Sheila went up the two small steps, Jim pulled her to him and hugged her.
‘You silly girl. Oh, you have been bad. Why didn’t you tell me how much trouble you were in?’
‘Because I love you, you ol’ fool.’
Jim looked at her.
‘And I love you – that’s why you should have told me.’
Sheila cried and attempted to dry her tears with a handkerchief.
‘Come here.’
Jim took his own, folded handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed her eyes.
‘That’s better. Don’t cry.’
‘Oh! Jim. I’ve bin ever so foolish. An’ I’m in ever such a lot of trouble.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Well, Superintendent Greet – ʼe says I could go to prison for a long time. I never meant no ʼarm, ʼonest I didn’t.’
‘Well, I think everyone knows that, Sheila, love. You mustn’t worry. We’ll sort it out.’
‘Wot if we can’t? Wot if I go to prison?’
Sheila was sobbing again.
‘If – if, mind, you go to prison, well, me and Stephen and Angela will be waitin’ for you when you come ʼome.’
‘Do you mean it, Jim? Why would you do that? I’m such a bad person.’
‘No. No you’re not an’ I’m not even listenin’ to that sort of talk. I love you so much. I want to marry you.’
‘Jim, that means so much to me. I could cope with anything just knowing that you still want me.’
‘Of course I do. An’ the kids love the bones of you. We’ll be waitin’ – whatever ʼappens. Now, sit down, I’ll make you some breakfast.’
Chapter Seventeen
Archie Boase had been invited to the Bartlett’s house for Sunday lunch. He was nervous. Today he was going to ask to marry Irene Bartlett. Yes, she had agreed but he needed her father’s permission. What if he said no? Boase felt sick as he walked up to the front door. He felt like walking quickly in the opposite direction – but then he wouldn’t see Irene and he would be letting her down. This beautiful girl had agreed to be his wife, the least he could do was to make it official by asking permission. As he stood on the front step, Topper’s loud bark could be heard on the other side of the door. Caroline Bartlett answered his knock.
‘Hello, Archie. Come on in – we’re all in the garden.’
‘Thank you – how are you? Are you feeling better now? I was sorry to hear you were unwell.’
‘Oh yes, I’m feeling much better now thank you, Archie. I’ve got some new pills and they seem to be working.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it.’
Caroline and Boase went out into the back garden where George Bartlett was sitting with Irene under an apple tree.
‘Hello, Boase. Come and have a seat.’
‘Hello, sir – hello, Irene.’
Irene rose from the wooden bench she had been sitting on and kissed Archie on the cheek.
‘Hello, Archie. Thanks for coming.’
Irene sensed Boase’s nerves and guessed what he was intending to do.
‘Mum, shall we go in and lay the table? I’m sure Dad and Archie want to sit and have some beer.’
‘Yes dear, all right.’
The two returned to the house.
‘Got a bottle of Leonard’s here for you, my boy.’
‘Thanks very much, sir. Sir, there’s something I must ask you.’
‘What? About the Cook business? What’s that then?’
Archie stood back up.
‘No, sir. No, it’s not about that.’
Bartlett set his beer down on the bench next to him.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Boase? You look so serious.’
‘Well, that’s because I have something serious to ask you. I’d like your permission to marry Irene.’
Bartlett took a sip of his beer and, squinting into the afternoon sun, looked up at Boase.
‘Oh, you would?’
‘Yes, sir. Very much.’
Boase shuffled and stared hard at Bartlett. Surely he wouldn’t say no? No one else could ever love Irene as much as he did. The man’s a fool to think anything else. As the younger man’s thoughts ran away with him Bartlett simply said:
‘OK.’
‘Pardon, sir? What was that?’
‘I said OK. I’m saying yes, Boase. I’d be very happy for you to take Irene on – mind, she can be quite a handful sometimes.’
‘Thank you so much, sir. Can I go and tell her?’
‘Of course, go on.’
Boase didn’t need to. Irene and her mother had been straining to eavesdrop from the kitchen. They hadn’t heard the content but saw Boase as he came running across the lawn wearing a huge grin. He ran into the kitchen and scooped Irene up into his arms and kissed her.
‘Irene, he said yes!’
Seeing Caroline looking on, he put Irene back down on the floor.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs Bartlett – it’s just that, well, I’m so very happy.’
‘Don’t apologise, Archie – I’m happy too … for both of you. What lovely news. Congratulations.’
Caroline Bartlett hugged Boase and then kissed her daughter.
‘I’m so pleased for you, Irene – and I do so love a wedding.’
‘Mum … I’m sure that won’t be for a while yet.’
All three laughed and went back into the garden where Bartlett was finishing his beer. Irene hugged him.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
Bartlett looked at Boase.
‘It’s not all jam you know, Boase – being married. You’ll never get a minute’s peace. Women are always nagging. They always want you to do something – then they spend all your money …’
‘George – that’s not fair.’
Caroline looked indignant.
Bartlett chuckled.
‘I was going on to say that I wouldn’t know what to do without my lovely wife – I think the world of her.’
‘That’s more like it, George. Now come on in and let’s sit at the table.’
‘Well, this calls for another beer I say, Boase. Join me?’
‘Don’t mind if I do, sir.’
Bartlett handed the bottle of Leonard’s London Beer to Boase.
‘Well, I would like to officially welcome you to the Bartlett family, my boy. Cheers!’
‘Thank you very much, sir. I’m very happy to be becoming a part of it.’
‘Well now. I don’t want to put a dampener on events but did I tell you that the Cook funerals are tomorrow? Dr Cook has asked if we’d go.’
‘Are we going?’
‘I think we should – it’s such a difficult time for them. At least we can be there to support them.’
‘That’s fine by me, sir.’
Bartlett kept his promise and at eleven o’clock the next morning he and Boase were at the Parish Church in Falmouth. There were a few faces they both recognised including Leon Romanov and Charlie Wentworth. Ingrid Cook was inconsolable as she watched the two coffins being brought into the church. After a short service the coffins were taken to the cemetery at Swanpool and the two Cook boys were laid to rest. Dr Cook walked over to the hedge where Bartlett and Boase were standing.
‘I really appreciate you both coming – thank you. Ingrid is happy to see you here too.’
Bartlett shook the doctor’s hand.
‘We’re so sorry that all this has happened, Dr Cook. Truly sorry.’
‘Well, thank you – I know you did all you could and that that awful man has been repaid for what he has done.’
‘You take care, sir. All the best now.’
Bartlett and Boase left the cemetery and walked to the police station. As they reached Western
Terrace, Bartlett stopped to light his pipe.
‘What a business this is. That madman must have been carrying body parts around with him – the finger, for one. And we’ve never found poor Desmond’s head.’
‘No. Probably chucked it in the sea or something, sir – in which case, we’ll never find it. What do you think happened to the ring?’
‘I have no idea – don’t suppose there’d be much left of it now if it was in Bull’s pocket. Then again, I don’t suppose it matters anyway – that ring has caused so much trouble.’
‘How much do you think it was worth, sir?’
‘I don’t know, Boase, but definitely not worth the price everyone connected with it has paid.’
‘Sir, have you seen the Falmouth Packet? There’s a big story about the Trawlerman.’
‘No, I haven’t seen it but no one is more pleased than me that he’s been found guilty – he’s led us a merry dance and no error.’
Dr Cook and his wife were bereft but had taken the time to write to George Bartlett a couple of days after the funeral with their thanks and gratitude. Sheila Parsons had been re-arrested in the light of the new evidence but was expected to be looked on kindly. She wouldn’t get away with concealing the murders but her association with Bert Bull didn’t mean that she had been actively involved in the deaths. She was expecting to go to prison, though, and she had accepted her fate.
‘I’m going up to Bodmin tomorrow, Boase.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Sheila Parsons wants to see me. I told you they’re keeping her there while she’s waiting for trial. Apparently she’s asked desperately to see me. I was looking forward to my Sunday off but, what can I do? She specifically asked if I’d come. Greet says I can have a car – there’s no chance of a train.’
‘I thought that place was closed to women now.’
‘It is, but they’re still keeping one or two prisoners there – saves sending them to Devon I suppose.’
Want me to come with you, sir?’
‘Well, no. There’s not much point in two if us hanging around. No, thanks for the offer but I’ll go alone. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do – I don’t much hold with keeping women in that place and no mistake. I’ve never know such depressing place as Bodmin jail.’
The car came to collect George Bartlett from his house at nine o’clock on Sunday. Greet was unaccustomed to lending cars out but Bartlett had told him it was either that or a day off mid-week and that he felt duty bound to visit the woman since she requested so.
As Bartlett alighted from the car he looked up at the dark building looming in front of him. Even in the bright sunlight there was something foreboding about this place. He hurried inside and asked to see Sheila. The gaoler rummaged through a set of large keys about his waist and asked Bartlett to follow him. They wandered through a maze of corridors, Bartlett all the while listening to the chattering, moaning, shouting and crying coming from the cells. He didn’t like this place, no, not one bit. Eventually they reached the cell which was holding Sheila Parsons. The gaoler fitted the key into the lock and the heavy door was pushed open. Bartlett was shocked at what greeted him. Sheila Parsons was sitting on a wooden bed under a small window. The window had thick bars and the wooden slats were bare. She sat with her knees up and her head resting on them. She looked up as the door opened.
‘Hello, Sheila. I hear you wanted to see me?’
Sheila stared at him and looked as though she didn’t recognise the visitor. She retreated back into the corner.
‘Sheila, it’s me … George Bartlett.’
‘Mr Bartlett? Oh. I’m ever so pleased to see you, ever so pleased.’
She swung her legs around to the floor and pulled the dirty hessian frock down over her knees. Bartlett looked at the gaoler.
‘I think you can leave us now, thank you.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No. I can’t do that. It’s regulations.’
‘Well, my good man, I think you’ll find that you can – that is unless you want me to speak to your superior. I’ve have come a long way today and I’m not in the mood for your regulations – so scarper!’
The man objected no further and left, locking Bartlett and Sheila in the cell.
‘Are they looking after you properly in here, Sheila?’
‘Wot’s properly? They won’t let me ʼave a bath, me’ air’s filthy and I don’t feel well. It’s ʼorrible in ʼere – I know you think I deserve it and, well, yes I do but it’s just unbearable, Mr Bartlett. Can’t you get me out? I’d rather be dead.’
‘No you wouldn’t, Sheila. Don’t talk like that. It’s not at all pleasant in here but hopefully it won’t be long – and I’m hoping that you’ll be looked upon favourably by the court. Is there anything I can have sent in for you?’
‘No. I’d love to see Jim an’ the kids but they couldn’t come ʼere – just look at it … look at me.’
Sheila swept her fringe back from her face and revealed a large bruise on the side of her forehead.
‘How did you get that bruise, Sheila?’
‘I banged me ʼead on that shelf up there.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m going to speak to my superintendent when I get back to Falmouth, Sheila – ask him if he can pull any strings … maybe move you to somewhere else while you’re waiting. But don’t get your hopes up. I’ll see if there’s anything to be done. You haven’t really told me why you asked to see me.’
‘I dunno. S’pose to ask if you could get me out – an’ you’ve just said you’ll try. And it’s lovely to see a friendly face. Ta for comin’ – really.’
‘And there’s nothing else?’
‘No. Please try Mr Bartlett. Won’t you?’
Sheila wiped a tear on her sleeve and returned to her position on the wooden bed. Bartlett patted her arm and knocked on the door to be let out. As he went back to the main area of the building he passed the office. The door was open. Bartlett knocked and stuck his head around the door. A large prison warden sat behind a desk eating a pasty.
‘I’ve just been to see Sheila Parsons.’
‘Oh, ʼave you – she’s trouble, mark me.’
‘Why do you say that? What has she done?’
‘She’s got a slack jaw and nothing to say.’
Bartlett took exception to what he considered a rather unfair observation. The warden slurped his tea, most of it dripping on to his tunic.
‘Look, can’t you make her a bit more comfortable – at least give her a pillow or a blanket?’
‘This is a prison – not an ʼotel.’
‘She needs better food by the looks of it too – can’t you do anything?’
‘No – this is a prison.’
The warden continued with his food. Bartlett left before he became even more angry and upset. He left by the front door and returned to the waiting car.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon when George Bartlett returned to his home in Penmere. As ever, Topper was waiting to greet his master.
‘Oh, what a day – I’m so pleased to see you, Topper, really I am. Where is everyone?’
‘We’re in here, George. Irene’s just looking at wedding dresses.’
Bartlett went into the parlour. He kissed his wife.
‘Hello, princess. Everything all right?’
‘Yes, dear. We’re just about to have a cup of tea and some cake. Sit down.’
‘Wedding dresses now, is it?’
‘Not really, Dad – I just saw some pictures in this magazine – I’d never have anything as extravagant as these.’
‘It’s only once, dear – you should have whatever you like … shouldn’t she, George? George?’
Bartlett had slumped down in his armchair and was fast asleep.
‘I’ll get him some tea, Mum. He’s exhausted.’
The following day, Bartlett was more than exhausted; he was feeling extremely unwell. Unaccu
stomed to this, he got up and dressed for work. Sitting at the breakfast table with Topper at his feet, Bartlett drank his tea.
‘Would you like some toast, Dad?’
‘No thanks, Irene. I don’t much feel like eating.’
‘Dad, you can’t go out like this. You should have a day off.’
Irene was not used to seeing her father decline breakfast – in fact, it was unheard of.
‘I can’t have a day off, I’ve got too much to do.’
‘Dad, you’ve done so many extra hours lately with this big case of yours – look at you, you’re exhausted. Archie will be there – he can take care of things for one day. This case has been really stressful for you, Dad. Please stay home and rest today. You can go back tomorrow.’
‘I’m beginning to feel tempted. It’s just a little tiredness, that’s all. You’re probably right – this has all taken it out of me.’
Bartlett agreed with his daughter and had no strength to argue further. He took his tea and sat in the garden with Topper. He’d be fine tomorrow he thought to himself. He was getting old and didn’t like the way old age was making him feel – still, it was better than the alternative; look at those two Cook boys, cut down in their prime And his own dear son. Yes, he’d been given chances that his son would never have and he must make the best of it.
Bartlett spent a quiet day at home with Caroline and Irene, both of them insisting that he did nothing at all. By six o’clock, boredom having set in, he took Topper’s lead down from the little peg in the hall and called for the dog. Topper came running in from the garden.
‘Fancy a walk, boy? Come on then, let’s put your lead on. I need to get out – a rest is all well and good but I need to get some fresh air. Would you like that?’
The dog barked approvingly and the pair left the house and took a walk across to Swanpool beach.
Feeling refreshed after his unplanned day off, Bartlett looked at the clock in his office. It was half past eight. Just as he opened the door to ask for tea, Boase appeared.
‘Morning, sir. You all right today? I heard you were unwell?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think so, Boase. Thank you. I was just about to ask Penhaligon for some tea – want one?’
Too Many Cooks Page 20
