A new case for the ladies of the WISE enquiries agency . . . Henry Devereaux Twyst, eighteenth Duke of Chellingworth, is terribly worried about some water damage to the priceless books in his lower library, so retains the services of a local book restorer to tackle much-needed repairs. The antiquarian also runs the Crooks and Cooks bookshop with his daughter – local TV celebrity chef, The Curious Cook. When the book restorer mentions some strange shenanigans going on at the book shop, Dowager Duchess Althea brings the case to her colleagues at the WISE Enquiries Agency. As the WISE women try to unravel one puzzle from their base at stately Chellingworth Hall, they then get embroiled in another when they come across a valuable book of miniatures which seems to be the work of a local famous artist, murdered by her own brother. Are the cases linked and why do both mysteries lead to a nearby old folks’ home? The WISE women are on the case – and nothing will get in their way . . . Or will it? “A pleasant mélange with a garnish of death and danger” ― Kirkus Reviews As a person who loves cozy mysteries, and has read a LOT of them, I can honestly say that this is among my favorite, and I highly recommend it. -- Connie Martello ― NetGalley The Case of the Curious Cook A Wise Enquiries Agency Mystery By Cathy Ace Severn House Publishers Limited Copyright © 2016 Cathy Ace All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-84751-771-5 CHAPTER 1 Friday 20th June Henry Devereaux Twyst, eighteenth Duke of Chellingworth, was terribly worried about the books in the lower library. Following his marriage to Stephanie Timbers, some three months earlier, the couple had moved into the bedchamber and apartment on the second floor of Chellingworth Hall formerly used by Henry's grandparents. Having been mothballed for decades, the bathroom where he and his bride performed their daily ablutions in a carefree manner had been harboring a dangerous secret; a rubber ring inside one of the art deco taps had perished. This small failure had allowed water to seep, unheeded, along a meandering pathway until it arrived at the bookshelves in a corner of the ground floor library. What might have been no more than an unfortunate inconvenience had assumed the proportions of a potential tragedy, because the shelves in question were reserved for the Twyst's impressive – and priceless – collection of ancient bibles and sacred books. It had cost a pound – just one pound! – to purchase a replacement for the offending rubber washer; the cost to remediate the damage to the irreplaceable books, if remediation were indeed possible, was yet to be determined. Beneath the watchful gaze of his mother, Henry paced the morning room muttering under his breath as he awaited a verdict. The Chellingworth Bible was of particular concern; one of only two known volumes of its type, it had been created by Dominican monks in the mid-fourteenth century, probably around the time Geoffrey Chaucer himself was born, and was now under a terrible threat. It was over six hundred and fifty years old, and Henry was keenly aware it had come to harm on his watch. 'Any news yet, Henry?' Stephanie entered the room silently, startling her husband. 'Not a dickie bird. He's been in there for over an hour.' Despite his impatience, Henry's spirits lifted a little at the sight of his wife. His wife. How wonderful that knowledge made him feel. His mother Althea smiled at her daughter-in-law's arrival, and patted the spot beside her on the sofa with an encouraging smile. Stephanie hovered uncertainly and checked her watch. 'The doors will open to allow public admittance in forty-five minutes. I think I'd better get the lower library roped off for today. We don't want to disturb him.' Henry's spirits plummeted again. 'You're right, of course,' he acknowledged with a sigh. 'I'll just pop my head in and tell the chap he can find us in the estate offices when he's finished.' Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Edward, the Twyst's butler. 'Mr Bryn Jenkins is asking to see you, Your Grace. Should I tell him to join you here?' Henry turned and pulled down the points of his waistcoat beneath his jacket. 'Absolutely. Bring him in immediately.' He smiled nervously at his wife and mother. 'Now for the moment of truth.' The tremor in his voice betrayed his anxiety, which made him cross. A head taller than the duke, and a decade older than Henry's fifty-five years, Bryn Jenkins carried himself erect, and with dignity; his wiry, birdlike frame was upright. His bony, slightly hooked nose twitched as he crossed the spacious room and his hands fluttered as he cleaned his spectacles then replaced them upon their perch. Finally facing each other, Henry waved an outstretched arm toward a chair, and Bryn Jenkins took a seat. Henry also sat, and asked, 'Is it bad?' It was the best he could muster. The lenses of his eyeglasses glittering in the morning sun, the book-restorer's expressio