Boase made his way back to the police station. Bartlett was in his office and the younger man relayed the conversation he had had with the veterinary surgeon. Bartlett listened and smoked his pipe.
‘So, if we establish that the blood on Sheila Parsons’s glove is that of Mr Hargreaves, we can believe her story?’
‘Looks that way, sir.’
‘Good, well you can sort that out, can’t you, Boase?’
‘Right oh, sir. Leave it to me. Anything else?’
‘Yes. We ought to contact these two ne’er do wells from young Cook’s student days … um …’
Bartlett rummaged through a large pile of papers on his desk.
‘… um, Charlie Wentworth and Leon Romanov – thinks he’s a relative of the royals, does he? All very strange that, Boase. We need to arrange to speak to them. Also, when the other Cook boy returns from Egypt, we should speak to him too. Don’t know how close the boys were but he might know something. I’ll check on the whereabouts of the chums – is that what the upper classes call them – chums?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir,’ replied Boase, trying not to laugh. He’d never met anyone so entirely working class and who had no time whatsoever for those who had everything. Bartlett was a grafter all right and believed that if you wanted something, you had to work for it.
The twelfth of August came and went marking one week since the discovery of Desmond Cook’s body. Few further clues had been turned up. Sheila Parsons appeared to have been telling the truth when the blood on her glove proved to be that of Mr Hargreaves. By the next day Bartlett had tracked down Wentworth and Romanov and he and Boase would travel to Oxford to question them.
‘We were lucky, Boase. When I got a reply from the Wentworth boy he said that Romanov was coming to see him anyway this week so that kills two birds with one stone. Must admit, I don’t fancy going to London in this sweltering heat – I had enough of that when I was young. You wouldn’t believe the stink coming from some of those factories in the old days. I’ve seen people keel over in the street during the summer, completely knocked out by the heat. Did I ever tell you I used to walk past the vinegar factory every day … that smell will stay with me forever, terrible it was. Now, Falmouth, well, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether; all that lovely fresh, sea air, you don’t know when you’re well off, Boase.’
Boase was secretly disappointed that the London trip was off – he’d been once before with Bartlett, only for a short time when they were working on a previous case , but he really wanted to spend some more time there; it looked so exciting, all those buildings and the number of people was unbelievable, all rushing everywhere, so busy. Of course, he wouldn’t want to live there, no, a day or two was more than enough he thought. But, yes, he’d like to go there again – maybe next time, Irene would go with him. For now, though, he would have to be content with Oxford.
Chapter Three
The next day, as the day before, dawned hot and sunny. Bartlett and Boase were installed on the train bound for Oxford, wondering what information Wentworth and Romanov might be able to give them. Both men dressed in civilian clothes as demanded by Greet. Bartlett was aware that Greet didn’t like spending money on things like travel – he thought it was wasteful but he agreed that it was preferable to calling in detectives from London and if Bartlett and Boase could solve a crime then it made life easier. There wasn’t much time though. Bartlett hoped something would come of the visit; there was not much to go on so far, besides, he wouldn’t return home until the next day and he so hated leaving Caroline overnight. He sat back in the seat and watched the countryside rush by the window and thought of his son, John; how he still missed him. What fun they’d had when he was a boy, fishing, flying kites, digging potatoes – all the ordinary things most fathers did with their sons. And now, well now it was all gone, just memories of another lifetime, another world. Bartlett’s thoughts were ended suddenly as he felt a jab in his ribs.
‘Pork pie, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Boase. How you can eat the things you do amazes me. Pork pie, at this time of the morning? I’m gasping for a cuppa though. When you’ve finished that, perhaps you could go in search of some tea.’
‘I’ve just got one more boiled egg to go, then I’ll be with you, sir. When I come back with the tea, perhaps you’d like a piece of fruit cake – Mrs Curgenven packed loads, even more than I can eat.’
‘I find that rather hard to believe, somehow,’ murmured Bartlett, half under his breath.
The two settled down for the journey ahead. Bartlett dozed as the sun concentrated its rays on the window of their compartment. Boase eagerly watched everything passing by and marvelled at how the countryside and the towns changed in different parts of the country – how unlike Cornwall it was, even different things grew in the hedgerows. By the time the train pulled into Oxford, Bartlett was exhausted and hungry. He and Boase alighted and made for the station exit. The older man lit his pipe.
‘Right, Boase, the address is 5 Becket Street – here’s a map, have a look.’
As Boase checked whether Becket Street was within walking distance, Bartlett sat on a wall and looked amazed at the number of men walking around in their shirt sleeves – and thought how they’d never have done such a thing in his day.
‘It’s here, sir, look, just by this station. It shouldn’t take us more than about two minutes to walk.’
‘Right, that’s lucky, let’s go then.’
The two men began walking, enjoying the sunshine and the new surroundings. Boase decided he liked the look of Oxford very much. Within minutes they turned into the road known as Becket Street and quickly came to number five. It was a large, Victorian, four-storey house of red brick with front steps and precariously balanced terracotta pots containing summer flowers of every colour imaginable. Bartlett rang the brass bell and the two waited. A figure appeared in the hall and could be clearly seen through the glass paned front door. The door opened and a woman stood there, looking enquiringly. She looked to be in her fifties, was very tall and thin and wore her dark brown hair in a long plait which reached her waist. Her dress was pale green silk and looked to Bartlett that it would cost him a year’s wages to buy anything like that for Caroline.
‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘Good morning, Madam. I’m Inspector Bartlett and this is Constable Boase – we have an appointment to see Mr Wentworth.’
‘Which one?’
‘Oh, forgive me, Mr Charlie Wentworth.’
‘That’s my son – I’m Annabel Wentworth, do come in.’
The thin woman held out a bony hand, first to Bartlett and then to Boase.
‘He has a guest staying from London at the moment. Wait here please and I’ll fetch him.’
They had been led into a large drawing room at the front of the house. Velvet chairs were lined regimentally around the sides of the room and an overbearing fireplace with an extremely ornate mantelpiece formed the focal point of the room. Bartlett and Boase sat down with a spare seat between them. Boase felt like he was at the doctor’s surgery. At the far end of the room stood a large, ugly, mahogany sideboard and on it a tantalus next to which something green was growing in a pot which even Bartlett did not recognise. There was a strange aroma pervading the house; Bartlett thought it was some kind of drug that had been recently smoked. Presently they heard several sets of footsteps and the door opened. Mrs Wentworth stood there.
‘Charlie is here, gentlemen, and his guest also – would you like some tea?’
Boase stood up.
‘Tea would be very nice, thank you Mrs Wentworth.’
‘Please, you must call me Annabel, I insist.’
Boase nodded acceptance but felt very uneasy with the arrangement made by the thin, strange woman. As she left, the two young men entered the room. The first walked over to Bartlett.
‘I’m Charlie Wentworth – I got your message. I’m devastated, I can tell you. Poor old Desmond.’
Charlie Wentworth had a very young-looking face – he looked about sixteen. Bartlett wondered how anyone would take him seriously as a solicitor; he didn’t even look old enough to shave. Tall, like his mother, he was very blond with sharp, blue eyes and a mischievous air. He was dressed for golf.
‘Forgive my clothes, won’t you, Inspector Bartlett – we were just waiting for you to turn up and then we’re off; I’m teaching Leon the game. Oh – I’m frightfully sorry. Let me introduce my friend.’
The other man stepped forward from the doorway where he had been listening to the conversation. He was, in contrast, short, round, and dark-haired, with strange tortoiseshell glasses that made his eyes look very peculiar. Boase found himself staring. The foreign gentleman offered his hand to Bartlett and spoke in a strange drawl.
‘Good afternoon, I am Leon Josef Nikolai Alexei Romanov, at your service.’ At this he bowed very low.
Boase stared harder. Now Bartlett was staring too. Was this man real or were they in some mad dream – or in a terrible play? Leon Romanov wore a suit that looked to date from about 1870 and carried a small cane on top of which perched a gold parrot. As he smiled, two large teeth protruded over his top lip.
‘I’m pleased to meet you. We’ve come a very long way today to speak to you about your friend, Desmond Cook – we really hope you’ll be able to help us.’
Bartlett led Charlie Wentworth out into the large hall while Boase tackled Leon Romanov. They spent about twenty minutes speaking to the two men about Desmond Cook and, after bidding farewell to Mrs Wentworth and thanking her for the tea, they headed towards the centre of Oxford for something to eat. The Cadenza Restaurant looked like a reasonable place overlooking a small park.
‘You must be starving, Boase, why, you haven’t eaten for at least ninety minutes,’ quipped Bartlett.
‘You’re right, sir, I am feeling a bit peckish.’
The two men found themselves a window seat in the Cadenza, which was very clean and modern.
‘I hope the food’s better than the décor,’ mumbled Bartlett removing his coat, ‘I suppose this is the latest thing – what do they say, with it? Or “all the rage,” as my Irene would say. ’
‘I think it is, sir, I like it very much.’
‘Hmmmmm, bit sparsely furnished, if you ask me.’
A young waitress arrived to take their order. Bartlett was pleased to see that the menu wasn’t “with it” and ordered roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and vegetables, followed by treacle pudding with custard. Boase, after changing his mind several times and keeping the waitress shuffling from foot to foot, chose haddock with boiled potatoes and green beans with plum tart to follow. The two tucked in and ordered a small glass of beer each.
‘Can you believe it, Boase, no Leonard’s, and we’re not a million miles from London, are we?’
‘No, sir. Anyway, gives you a chance to try something else – a change is as good as a rest.’
Bartlett, unconvinced, sipped the drink, made a strange face, and continued to eat.
‘Anyway, my boy, let’s talk about those two oddballs – you first.’
‘Well, sir. That Russian is a bit of a strange one all right. I’ve never met a Russian before. All he could tell me was that Desmond had loads of friends, particularly ladies – apparently everyone was jealous because of the number of women he was always with. He was very generous and kind, the sort that’d do anything for anyone. Very gifted academically too. He had plenty of time for everyone and was the life and soul of the party. All in all, it seems that he was a very nice sort of chap and got on with most people – particularly women.’
‘Mmmmm, wonder what the attraction was?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Anyway, all he said was that he didn’t think Desmond had any enemies. He was always fun, very outgoing – not a hard worker, mind. Didn’t do particularly well in his examinations – not because he wasn’t intelligent, rather he was lazy. Just scraped through at the end by all accounts. He also asked about Donald – asked if he’d been told the news; he said the cousins were quite close – although they weren’t studying at the same time or in the same college, they sometimes came here to parties. I think Romanov knew Donald quite well.’
‘Strange,’ Bartlett finished his meal and lit his pipe, ‘that’s not the general idea of things I got from Charlie Wentworth.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, I was told, same as you, that he had loads of women friends but also that he was always in debt. According to Wentworth, he was always borrowing money, even though his father had set him up very nicely. It seems that young Cook was a bit of a gambler and, if Wentworth is to be believed, he borrowed to gamble and gambled to pay for some drug habit – talking of which, did you smell something odd inside that house earlier?
‘Well, yes, it was a bit queer,’ Boase replied, ‘what was it?’
‘Mark me – some kind of drug, I’d say – yes. I’ve smelt stuff like that before. Don’t know what exactly, but definitely drugs. Anyway, Wentworth said he practically sat Desmond’s examinations for him come the end. He had to go into his room every morning to wake him up and get him dressed. Cook was invariably drunk or drugged up – and pretty bad-tempered too, hardly any time for anyone mostly. There was barely a stick of furniture in his rooms and few clothes. Wentworth himself even lent him money – twenty pounds, would you believe – never had it back. When I asked if he thought anyone would want to kill Desmond Cook, he replied, “almost everyone, I should think,” so, it seems, that if all this is true, Charlie Wentworth was more of a friend to Desmond Cook than Leon Romanov, or whatever his blasted name is. Anyway he gave me some more names of people that Cook owed money to but couldn’t tell me where they are now – they’ve all gone their separate ways. So, what do you make of that, Boase?’
‘I really don’t know, sir. It’s all a bit puzzling. How can we get two such different accounts of the same man?’
Bartlett and Boase settled their account at the Cadenza and left for a small guest house they had managed to arrange. By the time morning came, the two, still exhausted from their travels the day before, just boarded the train in time for the return journey. Later that day, Bartlett turned his key in his own lock. Topper had refused to sleep in his basket all night and lay on the mat by the front door; he was still there, dozing, one ear listening. As soon as he heard his master’s key turn, he was up, overjoyed at his return. Topper had missed his late night walk and no doubt wondered why his beloved master had not returned. Bartlett patted the dog’s head.
‘’Ello, Topper, old boy – you bin a good lad for your mother? No, no, I’m shattered old man. We’ll go out later, now you go and lie down again, go on, get into bed. Good lad.
Topper obeyed and settled down into his basket. The house was quiet. Bartlett looked in the kitchen – there was a note from Irene which was propped up against the milk jug.
Dear Dad
Just gone to the shops, Mum’s having a nap.
Some sandwiches and cake on the dining table.
Love Irene xx
Bartlett crept upstairs to his bedroom; Caroline had left the door open – something she didn’t usually do. Perhaps she had felt nervous. Bartlett sat on the edge of the bed. Caroline turned.
‘George, is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me, princess – I hope you weren’t expecting anyone else?’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m just a bit sleepy.’
‘Don’t get up, Princess. I wouldn’t mind a quick cuddle though, I’m all in. That’s quite a train journey you know.’
Caroline sat up anyway and gave Bartlett a hug.
‘Did you get on all right?’
‘Well, not as much as I’d hoped, but it wasn’t a complete waste of time, I’m sure.’
Bartlett gave his wife a kiss.
‘Topper wouldn’t go to bed last night. He slept on the mat – he really missed you.’
‘I know, he was lying there when I came in. He’s in his basket now.�
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‘I missed you too, George.’
‘Ditto.’
Bartlett and Boase, barely refreshed, made some attempts at work but achieved little for the rest of the day. Deciding that useful production would come after a good night’s sleep they packed up and resolved to come in extra early the next day. Greet was still watching Bartlett closely and time was now their enemy as far as he and the London police were concerned.
When Bartlett set off the next morning he still felt as though he’d had no sleep at all. He’d been up by half past five and taken Topper for a short walk. The dog had looked disappointed when Bartlett had turned halfway to return home.
‘I’m getting too old for all this, Topper, boy. Come on, we’ll go out again tonight – promise.’
When Bartlett reached the police station, he looked at his pocket watch; fifteen minutes to seven. Good. There’d be time for a cup of tea while he discussed the case with Boase. As he walked up to the door he could hear a loud angry voice coming from the lobby. He walked in to find a man shouting at Constable Penhaligon and Boase. The man was about forty years old, wearing a pair of navy canvas trousers, a navy jersey, and a black woollen short coat. He wore light deck shoes.
‘I’m telling you, you’ve got to listen to me. For God’s sake. It was terrible. I can’t believe it. I’m even handing myself in to make you see it’s true. Please – you’ve got to do something.’
Bartlett walked across to the man.
‘Would you like to come into my office, sir? You’re getting overwrought. Penhaligon, make three cups of tea please.’
‘Right away, sir,’ replied Ernest Penhaligon, thankful to be relieved of his current task.
Bartlett showed the man into his office and offered him a seat.
‘Now, calm yourself and tell me what all this is about, upsetting the whole station like this.’
Boase sat down and waited – he had only just arrived minutes before Bartlett and could make no sense of the tale either.
The man took a deep breath.
‘Well, you see, sir, it’s like this – an’ I ʼope there won’t be no repercussions, ‘cos I ʼonestly ʼad nothing to do with all this – I just found it – right?’
Too Many Cooks Page 4