Too Many Cooks

by Marina Pascoe

  ‘Is he tall? Short?’

  ‘Not tall, no, about five feet five.’

  ‘Was he following you in Killigrew Street the other day?’

  ‘’E might ʼave bin – I’m very frightened that ʼe’ll kill me just to get the ring. And I ʼaven’t even got it now – you ʼave.’

  Bartlett asked Penhaligon for more tea.

  ‘Look, Sheila, what happened last night at the party? Did you have something to do with that?’

  ‘Oh, no. Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t believe what ʼappened. It was terrible. I was as shocked as anyone – Mr Boase will tell you.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’m going to get you a spot of lunch and then we’ll start again right from the beginning – and you will tell us everything.’

  By six o’clock that evening, Bartlett and Boase had really got no further forward with Sheila Parsons and still had no good reason to detain her further. She was free to leave. Bartlett slipped on his coat and handed Boase his.

  ‘Well, my boy. I think we’ve done enough here. But, I want someone to keep a close eye on that young woman. Yes, you arrange that – she’s still not in the clear with me, not by a long shot. But, not only do I want to know what’s she’s up to, I’m also rather worried for her. This man that’s sniffing about – I really want to meet up with him. I don’t like the sound of him one bit. Come on, I don’t offer very often – let’s have a drink in the Seven Stars.’

  Boase thought Bartlett must be feeling very out of sorts to offer this – he didn’t even like drinking in public houses.

  ‘All right, sir – if you like.’

  The two made their way down the road to the Seven Stars which was situated a two minute walk away from the police station. Stepping inside, they made their way to the bar. The barman came over.

  ‘What can I get for you two gents?’

  ‘Two pints of your strongest beer, please.’

  The barman pulled the first pint and placed it on the bar in front of Bartlett who stared at it for a moment.

  ‘Bit of a collar on it, isn’t there?’

  Boase grinned.

  ‘I’ll have that one, sir – you have the next.’

  The second pint was delivered to the bar.

  ‘That’s one and two, please.’

  Bartlett put the money on the counter and the two found a seat. They sipped the beer and Bartlett scowled.

  ‘Don’t think much of this.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that bad, sir. Go on, drink up.’

  Bartlett continued with the beer but couldn’t disguise the fact that it was nowhere near as good as his beloved Leonard’s London.

  ‘I shall be taking a couple of bottles of Leonard’s home with me – can’t understand why they don’t sell it here on the bar.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t think it’d be popular, sir.’

  Bartlett grunted.

  ‘Tell me where we’re up to then, Boase.’

  ‘Well, sir, let’s go over from the beginning, shall we?’

  Boase drew a small notebook from his pocket and then, digging deeper, pulled out a minuscule pencil.

  ‘OK. One head, one body – not connected …’

  ‘You being funny, Boase?’

  ‘What, sir? Oh, yes, I see. No, not being funny. One head, one body. One coveted Egyptian ring – no, priceless Egyptian ring. Sheila Parsons apparently at the centre of everything, always like a bad penny but not enough to accuse her of anything. Do you really believe that anyone would give her a priceless ring – just for being nice?’

  ‘Yes. If Donald thought he was going to be killed for it, he probably thought that was too high a price to pay.’

  Boase licked the end of the pencil and where Sheila Parsons’ name was at the top of the page, he wrote ‘slippery’.

  Bartlett watched.

  ‘Oh yes, she’s slippery all right – beginning to think she’s too clever for us … but she’s involved, mark me, I just can’t figure out how.’

  Boase continued.

  ‘Charlie Wentworth and that Romanov oddball. What about them, sir?’

  I’m not sure … Romanov said that Donald Cook was worried – no, frightened that someone was going to kill him. But, he couldn’t say any more, although he didn’t seem surprised when Donald disappeared. Go on, Boase.’

  ‘Jim Penfold. We don’t know much about him – or, come to that, how much he knows about Sheila. And, more importantly, we don’t know why someone deposited the little gift up in one of his spare bedrooms.’

  ‘No, I can’t fathom that either.’

  ‘Right, Boase. We need a better plan. This is what we do next.’

  At ten minutes to seven Bartlett and Boase left the Seven Stars and headed for home.

  Chapter Eight

  Daniel Slade opened his hut on the Prince of Wales pier at nine o’clock as usual. As he stood his advertising boards against the side of the hut, a small queue had already formed outside. Irene had decided to treat her mother to a mystery trip. The charabanc was waiting and the warm summer day had brought several people, excited to be going to – well, no one knew where. The mystery trips were popular amongst older couples and groups of women and, being reasonably affordable, they were always well-subscribed. Daniel Slade’s father had started the business and the idea several years before but with a horse-drawn carriage. Irene stood with her mother near the front of the queue. Suddenly, Elsie Treloar pushed forward and poked her head through the hatch in the side of the hut.

  ‘Where are you going today, Mr Slade?’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Treloar. I can’t tell you that, now, can I? If I told you then it wouldn’t be a mystery – would it?’

  ‘Is it Mevagissey?’

  ‘Mrs Treloar, please. Would you like to buy a ticket for the trip?’

  ‘Me and Mrs Bishop ʼave bin to Mevagissey twice and we don’t want to go again. Is it Mevagissey?’

  To the annoyance of everyone in the queue, Mrs Treloar persisted.

  ‘If it’s Mevagissey, I’m not goin’ and nor is Mrs Bishop.’

  ‘Please calm yourself, Mrs Treloar. As I’ve said, I can’t tell you where we’re goin’ today.’

  At that, Mrs Treloar barged her way back through the queue of people waiting to board the charabanc. She looked at Caroline Bartlett.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother, dear. It’s Mevagissey. Me an’ Mrs Bishop ʼave bin twice. It’s not that good. We’ll go somewhere else. Mr Pike is taking ʼis mystery trip to Portreath. I fancy Portreath – so does Mrs Bishop. Bye all.’

  Irene giggled.

  ‘Oh, Mum. Do you mind going to Mevagissey – we have been before?’

  ‘I don’t mind, dear. It’ll be lovely just to see something different and it’s going to be such a beautiful day.’

  The two remained in the now somewhat diminished queue, bound for Mevagissey.

  Quentin Bosustow surveyed the small, greasy man with the gold tooth. He tried to hurry his customer along – that man looked like he was about to steal something and he wasn’t the usual type to frequent a high-class jewellery establishment such as this.

  ‘Mrs deVere, I can assure you that this watch is of the finest quality – I am absolutely sure your husband will be delighted with this as a birthday gift.’

  Mrs deVere wasn’t sure.

  ‘Yes, Mr Bosustow, it’s certainly a beautiful watch – but my husband is so very particular, you see. Let me see it again – now, you understand that it’s the chain I’m unsure of.’

  ‘Yes, you have said so, Mrs deVere, and I have explained that you can choose a different watch chain if you so desire.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re very kind. Did I tell you, Mr Bosustow that my husband had had the same watch for over forty years? Yes, a beautiful watch which had belonged to his father. Did I tell you what happened to it?’

  Quentin Bosustow was still watching the man who was now in the corner looking at a case of rings.

  ‘Mr Bosustow … are you listening?’


  The jeweller regained himself.

  ‘Of course, Mrs deVere. What was that? Forty years you say? My, yes, that is a long time.’

  ‘Well, do you know the Trawlerman broke into our house – we have a little place over at Flushing you know – and he took several of my beautiful rings along with my husband’s precious watch. Now, you see, I don’t think this watch you’re showing me is quite the same good quality.’

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry, Mrs deVere – you have looked at many watches now and I can assure you that your husband would be the envy of all his friends were he to own this.’

  ‘Well, do you know, Mr Bosustow – it’s three weeks until Mr deVere’s birthday. I’m going to think about it. I’ll call back perhaps next week. Would that be all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs deVere. Perfectly.’

  The woman left the shop and Quentin Bosustow was alone with the man.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  The customer approached the counter and the jeweller drew back slightly.

  ‘Yeah. You buy stuff, don’t you?’

  ‘On occasion, yes, I do.’

  ‘You bought an Egyptian ring lately?’

  ‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, no, I haven’t – not that it’s any business of yours. Was there something else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, ta.’

  And the man was gone.

  Quentin Bosustow ran to the door, locked it and turned the sign to ‘Closed.’ He went into the back hall and telephoned to the police station, explaining what had just happened.

  ‘What I can’t understand, Boase, is how, in a place the size of Falmouth, we’re letting people slip through our grasp.’

  ‘Well, we caught up with Sheila, sir – she hadn’t gone far.’

  ‘I’m thinking more of whoever committed this terrible crime … she has something to do with that but she’s not saying. There’s no way she actually did it, she’s not capable. I bet she knows who did. If she would just talk to us …’

  The desk sergeant knocked on the door.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, Quentin Bosustow is on the telephone – you know, the jeweller from Bendix and Hall? Well, ʼe’s in a right state, says ʼe must speak to you urgently, sir.’

  ‘Right – coming.’

  Bartlett went out to the telephone.

  ‘Mr Bosustow, yes, how are you? What? Are you sure? Well, what did he look like? Just a minute. Short, dark, greasy hair – oh, right, a gold tooth you say? Thank you very much Mr Bosustow. Yes, thank you. Good bye, sir.’

  Bartlett went back into his office.

  ‘Boase, I don’t believe it – that man who’s been hanging round Sheila Parsons has just been into Bendix and Hall asking about the ring. He’s still in the town.’

  ‘Would you stay if you had anything to do with this, sir?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t but he’s not me. We’ve got to find him, Boase. This may be the lead we’ve been looking for.’

  Several days passed and there had been no more sightings of the man with the gold tooth. Bartlett made sure he kept an eye on Sheila Parsons. He was genuinely worried for her safety and couldn’t afford to make the situation any worse – another murder and the repercussions from Greet would be unthinkable. Not only that, Bartlett liked Sheila in a strange sort of way and didn’t want to see her come to harm.

  The platform at Falmouth railway station was crowded. Many people were taking advantage of the fine weather to get a little sea air and to enjoy the sunshine. A door at the far end of the waiting train opened and a passenger stepped down onto the platform. The short, dark-haired traveller looked around him and made his way to the exit, being stared at as he went. Handing his ticket at the gate he walked out onto the road and hailed a taxi. After a five-minute trip, the motor car stopped outside the Falmouth police station. The man paid his fare and, picking up a small bag opened the door of the car and alighted. He stood on the pavement staring up at the police station. Adjusting his hat, he walked up to the door and entered. As he walked into the lobby, Ernest Penhaligon stood up from behind the front desk. He stared.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you may. My name is Leon Josef Nikolai Alexei Romanov.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I wish to see Mr Bartlett; is he available?’

  ‘Just a moment, sir. I’ll see.’

  Penhaligon knocked on Bartlett’s door and entered.

  ‘Sir, there’s a very strange man asking to see you.’

  Bartlett looked over his glasses.

  ‘Strange? What do you mean strange?’

  ‘Well, sir … just … strange. With a foreign accent.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘I’m, well, I’m not really sure, sir.’

  Boase had been listening to this from his side of the office. He stood up and walked to the door. He opened it about two inches and peeped through. He could see the desk and the man waiting there with his back to Boase.

  ‘Sir, that’s Romanov.’

  Penhaligon looked relieved.

  ‘Yes, that’s it – Romanov.’

  ‘Well, send him in then, Penhaligon.’

  Bartlett pushed his cup into his top desk drawer and Boase did the same with his.

  Romanov entered and held his hand out, first to Bartlett and then to Boase.

  ‘Well, sir, this is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to Falmouth?’

  ‘I am worried for my friend, Inspector. Donald and Desmond were very close and I am worried, very much, for Donald. He has been missing for so long and I am very afraid. I have brought you the letter he sent to me.’

  Romanov handed the light blue envelope to Bartlett who scanned the contents.

  ‘This has taken a long time to get to you, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I telephoned to you as soon as I received it.’

  ‘He doesn’t give an address of where he’s staying, just East London. Do you mind if I keep this, sir?’

  ‘No, please do, if it may help you.’

  ‘So, why have you come all this way today – not just to give me this?’

  ‘Well, no. I have come to see if I can help you to find Donald. He must be nearby somewhere, must not he?’

  ‘Well, this is irregular – I don’t see how you can help us to locate Donald.’

  ‘My father has links to the Russian army – he has taught me everything I know. If Donald is nearby, then I will find him.’

  ‘That’s a strong statement, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘Well, whether you accept my help or not, I am staying here for a while – I have rooms at the Falmouth Hotel. I shall be visiting Desmond’s parents tomorrow. They expect me. I am sorry to have troubled you.’

  Bartlett stood up.

  ‘Well, it’s absolutely no bother but I’m afraid I cannot allow you to get involved in police work – or to hamper it in any way.’

  ‘I shall not … hamper you. Good day Inspector Bartlett. Constable Boase.’

  Bartlett scratched his head.

  ‘Well, what’s he up to?’

  ‘Dunno, sir – he’s very odd, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  Boase couldn’t sleep. He sat up in bed three times. The third time he reached for his bedside torch. He looked at his watch. Ten past three. He got up, dressed and left the house through the kitchen door. He walked down Melvill Road and carried on towards the sea. Reaching Gyllyngvase Beach, he descended and jumped down onto the sand. It was a warm night and Boase took off his coat. He sat on a large rock and listened to the waves gently lapping close to his feet. He picked up his coat and looked through the pockets. He pulled out half of a small pork pie which he hadn’t had time to finish the previous day. He felt hungry but had no appetite. He stuffed it back into the pocket and wondered why he didn’t feel right. The business of the Cooks was getting him down – and he could tell that it was upsetting Bartlett too. Greet was making demands all the time, it was non-stop. But, these things didn’t usua
lly bother him. No. This was Irene. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t concentrate properly on anything and now, well, now – he couldn’t even eat.

  Taking the walk back up to the road, Boase resolved to do something about the situation he had found himself in. His money wasn’t too bad. But could he give Irene everything she needed? What if it wasn’t enough? What if he asked her to marry him and she said no? Boase shivered at the thought and walked back to the house.

  The morning arrived soon enough and a weary Boase sat at his desk. It was eight o’clock. He yawned. Bartlett entered the office just at that moment.

  ‘Careful, Boase – you could swallow your head doing that. How are you looking so tired this morning?’

  ‘Didn’t get much sleep, sir. Eventually I got up and went for a walk to the beach. Don’t worry. I’m fine.’

  ‘Penhaligon’s just bringing some tea – that’ll perk you up.’

  Ernest Penhaligon brought two cups of tea and placed them on Bartlett’s desk. He closed the door behind him.

  ‘Sir, there’s someone outside to see you.’

  ‘At this hour, Penhaligon? Who is it?’

  ‘Says ʼis name is Carlton, sir. ʼe works out at the Cornelius place. Says ʼe wants to talk to you about the night of the party, sir.’

  ‘Well, send him in, Penhaligon.’

  Bartlett threw a puzzled glance in Boase’s direction.

  Cardew Carlton, a tall, slim man of about forty, came through the door.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Carlton. Well, what can we do for you?’

  The man sat down in the chair next to Bartlett’s desk and, drawing out a white handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow.

  ‘I was at that party on that terrible evening, Inspector Bartlett, and I think I might be able to tell you something.’

  ‘Go on. What do you want to say?’

  ‘Well, sir, the thing is this. I was there that evening, serving drinks. I have worked for that family for over twenty years and I would do anything for them, they’re such lovely people. I was so shocked by what happened, I can’t begin to tell you.’

  Boase wished the man would begin to tell something. He came forward and spoke.

  ‘Please tell us. I remember you from the party – you did a very good job if I remember rightly.’