‘Could you tell me the names of these friends, Dr Cook?’
‘Well, let me see, there’s Charlie Wentworth – he’s the solicitor, lives in Oxford. He’s doing quite well, I believe. His parents live there and he’s actually working for his father’s firm. He was going to come down here for a short holiday in a week or two with the other fellow – a rather eccentric character, goes by the name of Leon Romanov. He swears he’s related to the murdered Russian royals – who’s to know? He lives in West London and teaches Russian to English students.’
‘And what of your nephew, Doctor Cook?’
‘Donald?’ Donald’s away at the moment, in Egypt. My wife and I looked after him when my brother Magnus was in the army and my sister-in-law was suffering very badly with her nerves; sometimes she could cope with Donald and sometimes it was just too much for her, consequently he probably spent more time here with us than with his own parents – but we didn’t mind; he’d been coming to us since he was six years old. The boys became more like brothers. When Magnus contracted malaria and died we assumed total responsibility really. Sadly, my sister-in-law was killed in a motor accident shortly afterwards. Both boys had promising futures but I’ve had such a job getting them to do anything useful since they came down from Oxford – to be fair, Donald has only just finished, although he’s spent every spare moment in Egypt; not his subject though, they’ve both been studying law but neither really seemed keen to pursue it as a career. I had always hoped that at least one of them would become a doctor like my brother and me but they didn’t have any interest in it. It’s always tomorrow. Donald has promised me faithfully that he’ll find work when he returns from his travelling. He’s gone mad on anything to do with Egypt ever since those fellows Carter and Carnarvon. He’s been there a few times. I actually knew Lord Carnarvon, many years ago, and Donald had always been fascinated with the things he and Carter were getting up to in Egypt – even as a youngster. Carnarvon just died, sadly, a few months ago; Donald tells me the talk in Cairo is of a curse relating to a tomb – of course, I don’t believe that, the chap caught something and died, simply that. You can see some of the souvenirs Donald returned with; he’s practically filled the house with them. My wife said she would have been quite content with a bracelet – just a trinket, but, no, Donald had to bring back almost the entire contents of a tomb, I should think. I dread to think what he’ll return with this time. I expect him back in about a fortnight. I haven’t tried to get word to him about Desmond – I’d rather get him back and tell him myself, you understand. Of course, my wife and I miss him terribly, particularly now.’
Bartlett stood up.
‘Well, you’re a busy man, we won’t keep you further, Doctor Cook – do you have these two men’s addresses to hand? We’ll just check to see if they can help us at all.’
‘Yes, I think I have, somewhere. Wait a minute please. I must be quick, my patients will be arriving soon, I can’t let them down.’
‘Quite. I understand.’
Doctor Cook left the room. Bartlett looked at Boase.
‘Very brave man. Bearing up better than I should.’
‘Perhaps he’s not all he seems, sir,’ came the younger man’s reply.
‘That’s a very strange thing to say, Boase.’ Bartlett never disregarded his assistant’s theories. This young man had a good brain and had earned Bartlett’s respect on many occasions.
‘I just think, sir, it’s too early to discount anything.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right, Boase. I just feel incredibly sorry for this family right now.’
Doctor Cook returned. He handed a small leather-bound book to Bartlett.
‘I hope this helps, Inspector – it’s Desmond’s old address book – I’m not sure how up to date it is – Wentworth and Romanov are in there – some others too, mainly women, I think. Desmond was a bit of a ladies’ man.’ At this, Dr Cook broke down and sobbed uncontrollably.
‘He had everything to live for, he was clever, handsome, vivacious. I can’t believe this has happened. I’ll never get over this, never.’
Bartlett patted the doctor on the arm.
‘I’m so very sorry, Doctor. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you, but I must start work now. It’ll help if I do something. I have to be strong for Ingrid. She’s devastated.’
‘I understand, sir. I’ll let you know of any developments – and thank you for the address book. I shall return it as soon as I can. Goodbye, Dr Cook. We’ll see ourselves out.’
Bartlett and Boase crossed the hall, walked back through the front door and towards the garden gate. A young woman dragging a small child was hurrying towards the surgery,, the child was crying and trying to keep a bloodstained, makeshift bandage tightly around his hand. Bartlett lifted his hat as she passed and looked at Boase.
‘That man Cook is going to find all this very hard, Boase, very hard indeed.’
On returning to the police station, Bartlett and Boase were met at the door by Constable Penhaligon. As he delayed them at the entrance, Boase was looking through the pane of glass in the door. Inside, seated on a bench was a young woman of about twenty-five. She had red curly hair, on top of which she wore a small brown hat. Boase observed that the girl was wearing men’s trousers under her long brown coat. He thought it strange, not just that the girl was wearing what appeared to be men’s clothes, but that her clothes were more suited to winter than this hot August day. Penhaligon was speaking urgently to Bartlett now.
‘You see, sir, she was actually in the park at that very spot – that’s why we brought her in. I’ve been trying to get hold of you and Constable Boase but I didn’t know where you had gone. We even found the other one in her pocket.’
‘Thanks, Penhaligon – you’ve done all the right things. Go and put the kettle on, would you?’
Bartlett turned to Boase.
‘Wait here on the step a moment, Boase. Did you hear what Penhaligon was saying? He reckons they found this girl rummaging for all she was worth in the bushes in the park in the same place that the glove was found – and she had the other one in her pocket. We’ll have to talk to her, Boase.’
Shortly, the young girl was sitting in the inner office with the two policemen. She was clearly looking confused.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Miss?’ Boase offered.
‘Yes, ta, that would be very nice.’
Boase walked to the door.
‘Penhaligon, make that three cups, would you?’
‘Would you mind telling us your name, miss?’ Bartlett was removing his coat and searching for his pipe.
‘Me name is Sheila Parsons.’
‘And where are you from, Miss Parsons?’ quizzed Bartlett, recognising the pronounced Cockney accent.
‘Well, I live ʼere in Falmouth at the moment, temporary like … someone told me there was a situation for a maid but when I came down ʼere for the job I found out it was given to someone else – bleedin’ cheek if you ask me. Before that I was livin’ in Bethnal Green; I think I’ll ʼave to go back there now – it’s in London.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Bartlett was puffing on his pipe, ‘that’s just the area I grew up in.’
‘No … well, I never did, there’s a thing. Innit a small world?’ The girl relaxed immediately.
‘Do you know if Mallinson’s is still there? When I was a boy …’
The conversation was cut short by a loud cough from Boase.
‘Yes, well, anyway, Miss Parsons, we’ll have to talk about London another time, perhaps.’
‘Ooooh, that’d be luvly.’
‘In the meantime,’ Bartlett continued, ‘can you tell me why one of my constables picked you up this morning in Kimberley Park?’
‘Oh, that’s easy – I lost something an’ I’d gone back for another look, see?’
‘And what exactly were you looking for?’
‘Me glove, of course. Look, ʼere’s t
he other one.’
She pulled the glove matching the one in Bartlett’s desk from her pocket. There was no doubt – this was the other one all right.
‘Could you tell us when you lost the other glove, Miss Parsons?’ asked Boase handing her a cup of tea.’
‘Yes, I lost it Saturday – ta ever so.’
‘And why were you in the park?’ asked Bartlett, cup in one hand, pipe in the other.
Miss Parsons paused to sip her tea.
‘Well, it’s me neighbour’s cat, innit? When the maid’s job was given to the other girl, I went a bit berserk – I told the mistress of the ʼouse that I’d just come all the way from London and didn’t even ʼave anywhere to stay the night. So she said I could spend the one night – she was sorry for all the mix-up but I could ʼave the small room in the attic since it was getting late – very gracious, I’m sure. There’s another girl wot works there – ever so nice she is, ʼer name’s Dolly, well, Dorothy I suppose, but “call me Dolly” she says. She said it was nice to ʼave someone ʼer own age around an’ as long as I didn’t say nothin’ to the missus, she wouldn’t tell if I wanted to stay a couple of days more … secret like. So I did. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, next to that ʼouse lives an’ old lady – with Mr Hargreaves …’
‘Mr Hargreaves?’
‘Yes – the cat.’
‘The cat’s called Mr Hargreaves?’
Bartlett was leaning forward in his chair, making sure he had heard correctly.
‘Yeah, that’s right. E’s a luvly, big, soft old thing. Anyway, I was goin’ out this particular morning, Saturday, when the old lady called to me from the window. “Excuse me, Miss,” she said, “please can you ʼelp?” Well, always bein’ one to do a good turn where I can, cos it don’t ever ʼurt to be neighbourly now – does it? Hmmm?’
Sheila Parsons waited for an answer.’
‘No, no, Miss – it don’t ever ʼurt,’ replied Bartlett. Boase grinned at the older man’s accent.
Sheila Parsons continued.
‘So, I went up the path and there in the ʼall was Mr Hargreaves’ lyin’ on the floor, sort of moanin’ like. I picked ʼim up an’ ʼe was bleedin’ – ʼe ʼad a big gash across ʼis leg. The old lady told me there was a vet she knew who lived up the road and could I take Mr Hargreaves to ʼim, quickly. She’s infirm, you see – bad legs. She was so worried ʼe’d die, ʼer only friend. So, I said I would, an’ I did. I ran across the road, jumped through the ʼole in the side fence and ran across the park for a short cut. On the way, Mr Hargreaves, the poor little blighter, was cryin’ an’ strugglin’ and that must ʼave bin when I lost me glove – such a nice pair, too. Me Auntie Alice gave ʼem to me for Christmas an’ I really didn’t want to lose ʼem.’
Boase stood up and walked to the window. What a mad story this was turning out to be.
‘And what happened to Mr Hargreaves?’
‘Well, ʼe’s still at the vet’s, but ʼe’s ʼad an operation and ʼe’s goin’ to be just fine.’
‘And will this old lady … um …’
‘I still don’t know ʼer name, – might be Bea or something – I don’t know, I’m sure; it all ʼappened in such a rush. But, do you know, she was so grateful, when I told ʼer about me gloves, she even insisted on giving me the money for a new pair.’
‘That was very kind of her. But she, and presumably the veterinary surgeon, will be able to verify your story?’
‘Well … yes, I’m sure they will – why, am I in some sort of trouble? You ʼaven’t even told me why I’m ʼere.’
Bartlett drained his cup.
‘A man was found murdered in Kimberley Park yesterday …’
‘Oh my Gawd – an’ you think I ʼad something to do with it?’
‘I didn’t say that, Miss Parsons, but we have to explore every avenue, you understand.’
‘Yes, of course. Can I go now?’
‘Yes, you may. My superior would expect me to detain you but I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Be kind enough to give your address, the old lady’s address and the veterinary surgeon’s details to the desk sergeant, would you? And if you know or hear anything more about this you must let me know immediately. Understand?’
‘Yes, I will – an’ I ʼope you catch the murderer. Blimey, ʼe could ʼave ʼad me an’ Mr Hargreaves, an’ no mistake.’
Sheila Parsons left the office and went to the desk in the lobby. Boase closed the door behind her.
‘Well, sir, she’s a bit of a character. Why did you just let her go?’
‘Harmless enough, I should think, but we need to check her story – just go to the desk with her, make sure she doesn’t pull a fast one, she might know something. We can’t afford to slip up now, Boase. If she’s right, of course, the blood came from the cat. Seems a bit of a tall one, but they sometimes are. Get someone on to it, will you? I can’t believe all this, Boase; what a terrible, terrible crime to find on our own doorstep.’
At nine o’clock the next day, Boase, not wishing to leave such an important job to one of the juniors, jotted down the details of the veterinary surgeon which Sheila Parsons had left at the main desk. His note read:
Aloysius Bone, Veterinary Surgeon
81, Dracaena Avenue, Falmouth
Boase stuffed the note into his pocket and took the fifteen minute walk to the surgery. The sign on the door indicated that Aloysius Bone was open for business and Boase walked into the small waiting room. On one seat was a rather large lady wearing an impossibly small hat. Boase smiled to himself, thinking how funny she looked. On her enormous lap was a basket from which emanated the most irritating feline wail. On the seat next but one, for there was not enough room for anyone to sit right next to the large lady, was a very small man in a dark grey suit. He had enormous white hair and a tiny, trim moustache. On the floor at his feet lay an Irish Wolfhound which was so large and had such long legs that he covered most of the small waiting room floor. Boase stepped carefully over the dog’s paws and rang the brass bell underneath the ‘Reception’ sign. A frosted glass window opened in the wall and a young girl of about sixteen appeared.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Boase coughed, cleared his throat and replied,
‘I’d like to see Dr Bone, please.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s busy in his surgery at the moment – and it’s Mr Bone.’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry. I’m from the local police and I wanted to ask Mr Bone about a young woman who brought a cat here early on Saturday morning …’
‘Oh, Mr Hargreaves, have you come to collect him?’
‘I’d really like to speak to Mr Bone.’
‘Well, as I said, my father’s busy at the moment and these clients are in front of you.’
Boase turned and looked at the large lady and the small man and looked at the Irish Wolfhound and listened to the wailing cat.
‘Would you mind if I waited?’
‘No that’s quite all right – take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’
Boase hesitated and, wondering where he could find room to sit, decided to stand outside the small waiting room. As he stood, he wondered about the murder in the park. How did the body get there? If Desmond Cook was brought to the park, having being murdered somewhere else, why wasn’t there a trail of blood? Moreover, where was the man’s head? As Boase turned things over and over in his mind, the young girl tapped him on the shoulder.
‘My father can see you now.’
‘Thank you very much, miss.’
Boase followed the girl back inside and into a small room which appeared to double as a consulting room and operating theatre. The length of one wall was occupied by two large metal cabinets with countless gleaming instruments contained therein. In a corner was a large lamp about six feet tall and, next to it, a smaller one. In the centre of the room was an adjustable table and on another wall, several anatomical charts and diagrams. Under the window, at a small wooden desk, sat Mr Bone. He stood up as Boase and the girl entered t
he room.
‘Good morning, sir, I’m Constable Boase from the police station; I was wondering if I could have a brief word with you?’
Mr Bone shook Boase’s hand.
‘Of course, what about?’
‘I need to query your treatment of a cat on Saturday morning – it would give support to someone’s story. You understand I can’t elaborate …’
‘I understand. Are we talking about Mr Hargreaves?’
Boase smiled.
‘Yes, we are – strange name for a cat.’
‘You hear all sorts of names in my profession; makes you wonder what these people call their children.’
Boase agreed. He had quickly taken to the large Scot with his deep voice and broad accent.
‘You see, sir, a young woman said she brought Mr Hargreaves to you on behalf of an elderly neighbour and I just need proof that what she said is true.’
‘Well, yes it is. The lady gave her name as Sheila Parsons. In fact I know Mr Hargreaves of old. His mistress is a lady called Mrs Bumble Toy. She’s quite old now and I’ve been treating her cats for several years. I think Mr Hargreaves is about the fourth or fifth she’s had. It seems that she asked Sheila Parsons to bring him because he’d had an accident. She can’t get out much, you see. When the girl arrived, the poor little chap was in a terrible state. Looks like he’d gone through a wire fence or something like that – maybe even a broken window – and that caused a very large gash across his leg. Lucky he didn’t cause himself more damage.’
‘So there would be quite a lot of blood then?’
‘Plenty, no doubt about it.’
‘Thank you, sir, you’ve been a great help. Oh, just one more thing – is it possible to distinguish positively between animal blood and human blood?’
‘This is all very intriguing, Constable. Yes, it is possible.’
‘Even dried blood?’
‘Even dried blood.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Bone. Goodbye. Goodbye, Miss Bone.’
Too Many Cooks Page 3