Too Many Cooks

by Marina Pascoe

  Too Many Cooks

  A Bartlett & Boase Mystery

  Marina Pascoe

  Who would imagine a little gold ring could lead to kidnap, torture and even murder? How could the curse of the Pharaohs come to Falmouth?

  The year is 1923. When a young Cockney woman appears in Falmouth, Inspector George Bartlett and Constable Archibald Boase think she’s harmless enough – until she and they are caught up in a seemingly endless cycle of mayhem and deceit. Unsure exactly how this woman fits into their enquiries, at various turns they are investigating her, searching for her, and worrying about her safety – and still can’t decide if she is all she seems.

  With death on their doorstep, a strange visitor to the town who claims to be a relative of the tragically-murdered Russian royal family, and a killer still on the loose, Bartlett and Boase have little time left to prevent further murders as their superintendent looms large in the background waiting to take them off the case …

  For Kevin, Erin, and Olivia

  With love and thanks

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter One

  Desmond Cook, a fine-looking young man of twenty-four, never let the sun burn his face, although he regularly stripped off his clothes and donned khaki-coloured shorts and a sleeveless vest in the sun to make sure his body was as brown as could be. A friend of his, having lived in Egypt for several years, had warned him that sun on the face was dangerous and, if it didnʼt kill you, youʼd end up looking old before your time. Desmond, a man who attracted all the local girls of Falmouth, had no desire to become old before his time. The very expression conjured up images of the weather-beaten fishermen he had seen mending their nets or landing the dayʼs catch, their skin parched by the wind and sun. So, handsome Desmond Cook, with his black, wavy hair, green eyes, and slim six-foot frame so popular with the ladies, was going to keep his youthful looks for as long as he possibly could.

  Through the last three long, hot Cornish summers, Desmond was regularly seen lying in the sun in Falmouthʼs sub-tropical Kimberley Park. Although no one ever saw his face, which was always covered with a jumper or jacket – anything at all would do – the locals strolling through the park, and all the children playing there, knew it was him. Several would say as they went by, ‘Afternoon, Desmond,ʼ and were never offended when no reply came – the sun made him sleepy. His parents said it was time he got a job; since he had come down from Oxford in 1921, he had done nothing but have fun. He was well-educated and lazy. He lived, mostly, with his parents in a very smart house on Florence Terrace. He also owned a small flat – he wanted to be independent and his parents didn’t always approve of his lifestyle, particularly when he wanted to stay out late and return in the early hours. His father, Dr Mortimer Cook, gave him a very substantial allowance but, four weeks ago, had threatened to withdraw it if Desmond didnʼt find work by the time 1923 was over. Now, in early August, with the sun shining again, Desmond would worry about all that later – even if he didnʼt start looking until mid-September, something would turn up. For now, he settled down with a heavy calico tunic covering his head – he didnʼt want to fry his brain, after all; heʼd need that to get a decent job and to stop his nagging father. So, on that hot Saturday afternoon, legs, arms, and chest exposed, Desmond Cook basked in the heat of the sun, listening to the birds, to the children screaming as they chased each other around the park, and to the few people who uttered, ʻAfternoon, Desmond.ʼ

  It was no surprise at about ten oʼclock the next morning, with the sunʼs rays already too uncomfortable for most, when those leaving St Maryʼs Roman Catholic Church and enjoying the park on their way home saw Desmond yet again, in his usual spot in the corner, in his usual pose – horizontal.

  David Nankivell, who had been working on the parkʼs flower beds the day before with his father, Harry, had got into trouble when he returned home; he had left his fatherʼs best trowel in one of the beds.

  ʻI told you not to touch my tools,ʼ his father had said, ʻyouʼve got a perfectly good set yerself. Youʼd better go back for it.ʼ

  ʻBut, Da, itʼs dark now anʼ I canʼt remember where I put it – I wonʼt be able to see a thing. I promise Iʼll go in the morning. No oneʼll ʼave bin in the park overnight anyway, yer trowelʼll still be there.ʼ

  ʻHmmmmm, itʼd better be,ʼ came the reply.

  So it was on the Sunday, David Nankivell was searching in the beds for his fatherʼs precious trowel. He looked up as he heard dainty shoes clicking on the path behind him.

  ‘ʼEllo, David, workinʼ on a Sunday?ʼ

  It was Iris Hellings. A pretty young girl of nineteen, the same age as David, the two had met on their first day at the National School in 1910. Iris had always liked David and the two had remained friends even after they both left school. Now, the funny little girl with plaits and freckles had become tall and elegant and the mousy hair was a lovely shade of gold. David got to his feet.

  ʻHello, Iris, whatʼre you doinʼ ʼere?ʼ

  ʻIʼm just off to meet Mary – weʼre goinʼ for a walk along the sea front.ʼ

  Iris and Mary Butler both worked in shops in Killigrew Street, Iris in the post office and Mary in a bakerʼs shop. They walked to work together, went to dances together, styled each otherʼs hair – everything, the two were inseparable.

  ʻWish I was goinʼ with you – Iʼve come back to look for Daʼs trowel anʼ itʼs not ʼere – ʼeʼs goinʼ to go mad. I thought I left it over there,ʼ he said pointing to a raised bed about fifteen feet away, ʻbut I couldnʼt ʼave.ʼ

  Iris felt sorry for David and she watched as he ran his now dusty fingers through his short blond hair and saw the beads of sweat that began to trickle down his forehead and onto his red cheeks.

  ʻShall I ʼelp you look for this trowel, then?ʼ she offered.

  ʻWonʼt you be late for Mary?ʼ

  ʻNo, Iʼm a bit too early anyway – come on, two pairs of eyes are better than one, weʼre bound to find it if we both look.ʼ

  ʻThanks, Iris, thatʼs really nice of you.ʼ

  The two began to search under every bush and in every bed. After about fifteen minutes they met up. David was looking worried.

  ʻAny luck, Iris?ʼ

  ʻNo, Iʼm sorry, David, nothing. ʼAve you thought about asking ʼim?ʼ She was pointing across the park to where Desmond Cook was stretched out on the grass.

  ʻWhat, Desmond? ʼE wonʼt ʼave seen anything – all ʼe ever does is lie there like a starfish.ʼ

  ʻLetʼs ask ʼim anyway, it canʼt do any ʼarm.ʼ

  David and Iris made their way across the park towards Desmond. As they drew nearer, David called out, ʻDesmond, oi, Desmond – you ʼavenʼt seen a trowel round ʼere ʼave you?ʼ

  No reply came and David turned back towards Iris.

  ʻʼEʼs asleep as usual, I donʼt want to disturb ʼim.ʼ

  ʼWell, I do.ʼ

  Iris ran past David and as she reached the spot where Desmond Cook lay she let out such a scream that David thought the whole of Falmouth must have heard it. He crossed the grass to where she stood and looked down as she pointed. From beneath the calico coat covering Desmond in the usual way, blood trickled and had formed a pool on the path next to where he lay.

  David didnʼt touch the coat but called out again,


  ʻDesmond, Desmond – are you all right? DESMOND!ʼ

  ʻOf course ʼeʼs not all right – ʼeʼs dead.ʼ Iris began to shake. David grabbed her arms.

  ʻIris, behave yerself – go across to Dr Chalmersʼs ʼouse – that one over there with the blue door – get ʼim to come – quick!’

  Iris ran across the park, out through the green gates and crossed Kimberley Park Road. She saw the blue door; it was a blur, she couldnʼt think straight now. She ran as fast as she could through the doctorʼs garden gate, tripped up the steps and reaching the door, hammered on it for all she was worth.

  ʻHelp, help, somebody, please, please come, Dr Chalmers!!ʼ

  She continued banging on the front door until her hands were sore. After what seemed to Iris an absolute age, the door opened and there stood Dr Chalmers, an old man with white hair and a ridiculously large white moustache. He was dressed in a quilted gown and wore slippers.

  ʻWhat on earth is going on here, young woman? Itʼs Sunday morning and Iʼll thank you …

  Oh, please come, please … in the park … I think ʼeʼs dead.ʼ

  Doctor Chalmers could see by the look on her face that Iris was in a complete state of panic.

  ʻWait here, my dear , Iʼll fetch my bag.ʼ

  Within seconds the two were hurrying down the road and heading for the park, Dr Chalmers still in his gown and slippers. They went in through the park gates and hurried to where David was standing. Dr Chalmers, seeing the amount of blood told David, ʻGet that young woman out of here – run as fast as you can to the police station, take her with you. Fetch Inspector Bartlett – if heʼs not there get that young Boase. Donʼt delay!ʼ

  David grabbed Iris by the hand and together they ran back out onto Kimberley Park Road and towards the Falmouth police station which was situated about a quarter of a mile away.

  In the park, Dr Chalmers knelt down on the ground beside Desmond Cook. Blood stained the bottom of his green quilted gown, turning the silk to black. Fearing the worst on account of the volume of blood on the ground, the doctor slowly lifted Desmondʼs coat and reluctantly peered underneath. He dropped it back down quickly, his suspicions becoming horribly true. Desmondʼs head wasn’t there. No one seeing him from a distance would have known – why, wasnʼt this how Desmond always lay in the park during the summer months? Dr Chalmers, despite having served for many years in the army as a doctor and having seen some appalling injuries in times of conflict, was shaking. He’d only once seen anything like this and it was something he’d hoped never to see again. He waited beside poor Desmondʼs body and hoped Inspector Bartlett would be quick.

  Reaching the police station and very much out of breath, David and Iris burst through the front door. The desk sergeant stopped them.

  ʻJust a minute, you two, whereʼs the fire?ʼ

  ʼPlease, sir,ʼ David took a deep breath, ʻplease, sir, we need Inspector Bartlett – or Constable Boase; itʼs very urgent, sir.ʼ

  ʻIʼm sure it is, young man, Iʼm sure it is. But, Inspector Bartlett is a very busy man, as is Constable Boase – sure I canʼt ʼelp you?ʼ

  David was becoming irritated at the delay.

  Iris stepped forward, her composure somewhat regained now.

  ʼPlease, Dr Chalmers says Inspector Bartlett, or Constable Boase, must go immediately to Kimberley Park – something serious ʼas ʼappened – ʼe said for Inspector Bartlett to be quick.ʼ

  The sergeant looked at Irisʼs tear-stained face.

  ʻJust you wait ʼere a minute – I think theyʼre both in this morning, although I confess I donʼt know why they bother on a Sunday.’

  Within a couple of minutes the two policemen appeared from their office. George Bartlett, the tired, cynical older man, weary from a life of hard work, and his young assistant, Archie Boase, eager and with a sharp mind which Bartlett admired. Bartlett had moved some years earlier from his job in London where he had been working as a detective; his wife was unwell and he had thought the sea air would be good for her. He had to go back to uniform and take a reduced salary but it was worth it to see his wife’s health improving. His superior, Superintendent Bertram Greet, was a hard man to please and neither liked the other. Greet, however, saw Bartlett as an asset to the station and gave him, usually, free rein, assisted by Boase. Greet didn’t like to see them in uniform – he felt it made people nervous so he usually insisted that the two men appeared in mufti whenever they could. They were normally investigating something important and it suited Bartlett to wear his own comfortable clothes – he never did like uniform, he maintained that it made him feel like a servant.

  The two men were at the station this particular morning because Bartlett had been woken by hammering on his front door at half past five; he had opened it to a young man, Eric Tresize, a youth known to Bartlett as his father, Arnold, often competed against Bartlett in the county flower shows. Eric had been walking up Penmere Hill in the direction of Bartlett’s house on his way to work as an apprentice at the Falmouth docks when he had seen a man climbing out of the front window of the house at the end of Bartlett’s terrace. Eric saw the man walk calmly around the side of the house and disappear. By the time Bartlett had run to the house, the man had gone. Eric thought this must be the Trawlerman, a burglar who had been operating in the town for almost six months, breaking into houses in the early hours or late at night and stealing jewellery. He was known as the Trawlerman ever since Bartlett and Boase had tracked down his haul on a small trawler moored on the river at Penryn. That had been about four months ago – all the jewellery had been successfully returned to its owners but the Trawlerman had escaped capture. Bartlett had called for Boase and asked him to come to work for the morning so that they could rethink their plans – the Trawlerman had not done any work for three weeks and the two detectives had hoped he’d left the area or given up for good. The event witnessed by Eric Tresize now seemed to indicate otherwise and Bartlett wasn’t going to rest until he was caught. He was angry with himself for delegating the job to junior officers; they’d had no luck so Bartlett and Boase would have to find him. Now they were being interrupted again.

  Summoned by the desk sergeant, the older man came out of his office and approached the two youngsters.

  ʻNow then, whatʼs all this about?ʼ

  David spoke hurriedly.

  ʻPlease, Inspector Bartlett, sir, Dr Chalmers says youʼre to come at once – somethingʼs ʼappened in the park anʼ ʼe needs yer ʼelp.ʼ

  ʻWell, whatʼs happened?ʼ Bartlett relit his pipe.

  ʼI donʼt know, sir, but thereʼs a man – Desmond Cook – lying on the ground, bleeding.ʼ

  Iris intervened.

  ʻʼE looks dead.ʼ

  Bartlett turned to his assistant.

  ʻCome on Boase, letʼs see what this is all about – get a car; my knees are jiggered this morning. You youngsters go home, youʼve done a good job this morning – thank you both.ʼ

  David and Iris looked at each other. Iris was crying again.

  ‘Do … do you think ʼe’s dead, David?’

  ‘Well, there was an awful lot of blood. Inspector Bartlett’ll sort it out – you go off an’ meet Mary, you’re late now.’

  ‘I don’t think I feel like it now, not after such a shock.’

  ‘She’ll be waiting, Iris. Go on, go an’ tell ʼer what’s ʼappened.’

  ‘S’pose you’re right – thanks David. I ʼope you don’t get into trouble about yer Da’s trowel.’

  David squeezed her hand.

  ‘Doesn’t seem very important now, does it? What about poor ol’ Desmond – ʼe’s got a bit more to worry about. I’ll come back later maybe. Da’ll understand.’

  The two parted company, David back to his home in Wellington Terrace and Iris to meet Mary at the Prince of Wales Pier.

  A couple of minutes later Bartlett and Boase were drawing up outside Kimberley Park. Boase stepped from the driver’s side.

  ‘You don’t think they were ʼavin’ a laugh, do you, sir? I can’t see a
nyone.’

  Before he could answer, Bartlett looked across the park and saw Dr Chalmers kneeling on the ground.

  ‘Quick, Boase, Chalmers is over there, look.’

  The two men ran across to where the doctor was waiting, Boase’s younger legs getting him there more quickly than Bartlett’s. He knelt down and spoke to the doctor.

  ‘What’s ʼappened, Dr Chalmers?’

  The old man looked at Boase as Bartlett came towards them.

  ‘Well,’ he said, a tear in his eye, ‘you can rule out suicide. I hoped never to see anything like this again at my time of life – there’s nothing I can do for this poor young man.’

  Dr Chalmers slowly stood up and looked at the two policemen.

  ‘It’s a youngster named Desmond Cook – I know his father, a very fine doctor. He and his wife are going to be devastated by this news. The poor fellow’s been decapitated – oh! Who could do such a thing?’

  Boase, at this news had turned ghostly white; he stood up from his kneeling position and turned away from the body.

  Bartlett patted Dr Chalmers on the shoulder.

  ‘Thank you very much, Doctor. I’m sorry you had to come out to this. Can I just ask you, sir, how long you think he’s been here?’

  ‘Well, maybe seven hours – a little more perhaps. You’ll need a full examination of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor – you go on home now, you’re not dressed to be out.’

  Dr Chalmers had quite forgotten his attire. He picked up his bag and slowly made his way back across the park.

  Bartlett turned to Boase. ‘You all right, my boy?’

  Boase was very shaken.

  ‘I’m OK thanks, sir. It’s just … I saw things like this in the war – I don’t want to see it again.’

  Bartlett was sympathetic. He wondered what his poor son, John, must have witnessed in 1916, in the days leading up to his own death on the Somme. He grabbed Boase’s sleeve.

  ‘Look, I’ll wait here – you go and make arrangements for a full and thorough search of this scene and for the removal of this chap’s body – but first, get rid of that rabble over there. Don’t worry about this – we can’t help the boy now.’