They Rang Up the Police: A classic murder mystery set in rural England (Inspector Guy Northeast Book 1)

by Joanna Cannan

  Neither Sheila nor Nancy rode now. Sheila had never cared for it and Nancy had lost her nerve after numerous falls from half-broken ponies, whose antics Delia enjoyed. But both were fond of horses, and liked petting them, while Mrs. Cathcart pitied them as she pitied all animals, dumb things that couldn’t tell you what was the matter with them, soulless things without morals or the hope of a heavenly crown. For seventy years Grace Cathcart had lived the insane life of human beings, but never had it occurred to her that the thicket which words are, a license to love, a soul to tremble for, would be a poor exchange for joy in the morning, sex absolved, thanks at evening and death in faith.

  She said, “I’m afraid I must plead guilty, darling. But I can’t resist Flavia. Such a wistful face!”

  “She puts that on,” said Delia. “Seriously, darling…”

  “Very well, darling,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “I’ll harden my heart.” She returned to her book, congratulating herself on this easy little example of give and take.

  Delia didn’t care for reading or sewing: she was fond of bridge, but her mother and sisters played atrociously; Patience bored her, so there was nothing to do but to stand at the window, thinking of her horses, thought Mrs. Cathcart, looking up now and then, still the anxious mother. And Sheila’s thinking of her music, she thought, and Nancy of the pretty, fresh little frock she’s making; and, she thought, how well we fit in, Delia, the man of the family, Sheila, the highbrow, and Nancy our home bird. I’m lucky to have my darlings still with me, she thought; after all, marriage isn’t everything; and she remembered how Humphrey had snored, what dirt he’d brought in on his shooting boots, that Mrs. Featherstone, the eternal trouble over the kedgeree. No, marriage isn’t all beer and skittles… She read on.

  Delia said, “I do believe that’s Jessie coming down from the Clump with Albert Funge.”

  Mrs. Cathcart said, “Well, darling, what am I to do? I spoke to her. I told her that she was far too young to be thinking of boys, and I warned her that next time she was late in, she would have to go.”

  Delia looked at her wristwatch.

  “It’s ten minutes to ten.”

  “Then she’ll be in in time,” said Sheila.

  “She won’t,” said Delia. “If she came straight in she would, but I bet you anything she’ll spend hours saying good night to that disgusting youth in Lovers’ Lane.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “and it’s so hard to get them now.”

  “She won’t be much loss,” said Delia. “She’s a revolting little creature, anyway.”

  “But, darling, she’s quite obliging,” said Sheila. “She can dust a room without disturbing everything, and she washes stockings well.”

  “It is her,” confirmed Delia, now that the entwined figures had come nearer. “She’s got on that orange frock of Nancy’s that stretched so. I must say, Nancy, it looks better without that awful rust-colored belt you would wear with it, but I shouldn’t have thought you would have given it to her. She hasn’t been with us long, and it would have done for Mrs. Groves.”

  Nancy said nothing. Mrs. Cathcart said, “I expect our baby only wanted to be kind. And perhaps Jessie won’t be late after all. I do hope she won’t. I don’t want unpleasantness and all the bother of getting a new between-maid.”

  “Well,” said Delia, “I shall lock up as usual at ten. If she’s still out, she’ll have to knock. And don’t you do anything, darling. If I’ve gone to bed, I’ll hear her from the lawn.”

  “Are you going to sleep out again, darling?”

  “Yes, darling. It’s lovely. I can’t think why the others don’t.”

  “It’s so noisy, darling,” said Sheila. “Skylark scrunches all night and things rustle.”

  “I don’t hear anything,” said Delia. “As soon as my head touches the pillow, I’m fast asleep. But I should have thought that even scrunching and rustling were preferable to the stuffiness of the house on a night like this.”

  Nancy was folding up her sewing. “I think I’ll go to bed now,” she said.

  “Is our baby tired?” asked Mrs. Cathcart tenderly.

  “I am rather,” said Nancy. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “You do look rather washed out, darling,” said Delia. “You should take more exercise. I go fast asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. You can’t expect to sleep well if you sit indoors all day sewing.”

  “But not many girls,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “are as strong as you are, Delia. I remember old Doctor Stenning saying that he had never seen a finer girl baby.”

  “Now, darling, don’t start remembering,” said Delia. “It’s your bedtime, too. And if you finish that book tonight, you’ll have nothing to read tomorrow.”

  “I’ve just got to the murder,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “I’m sure I know who did it.” But she shut up her book and rose. “Coming, Sheila?”

  “Oh…oh yes,” said Sheila and scrambled to her feet and stood blinking, a tall, ungainly figure.

  “I’ll let out John,” said Delia.

  “No, darling, I’ll do it,” said Sheila.

  “I’ll let him out,” said Nancy.

  “No, darling. You’re tired. You run off to bed-byes,” said Delia.

  Hearing his name spoken, John, the stout liver spaniel, climbed from his basket and stood beaming at his slaves. The three women dashed to the door. It was delightful, their mother thought, to see them so eager to outdo one another in unselfishness.

  Delia’s and Nancy’s hands met on the doorknob.

  “I can get my bed ready while I’m waiting for him,” said Delia. “You see Mother upstairs.”

  Nancy slowly drew back from the door. “Come along, old man,” said Delia, and John waddled after her into the hall.

  Mrs. Cathcart was shaking up the cushions — pink cushions, which, lying in armchairs and sofas covered with mauve and blue cretonne, gave an effect of sweet-pea coloring in harmony with the bright, calm atmosphere of Marley Grange. Shaking and smoothing, she thought: such a pretty restful room…so much easier without a man in the house — no pipes, no greasy head, no loud, complaining voice, a smell of flowers instead of that disagreeable smell of perspiration and tobacco. I’ve nothing to reproach myself with, she thought. I was a good, faithful wife to dear Humphrey; he’s at rest now, and oh, the peace of it, she thought, seeing in anticipation her bedroom upstairs, the rose-colored single bed, the glass of boiled milk on the night table, Nancy, Sheila, Delia saying, “Good night, darling; sleep well,” and closing the door softly behind them. And then — no stamping in the dressing room, no snores, no clearing of a smoker’s throat, no arguments about the number of blankets, no sounds, no movement, no will but her own.

  “Ready, darling?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  Nancy held the door open and, with a hand under her mother’s elbow, piloted her upstairs.

  “Bottle hot?” said Nancy, feeling the mound in the bed; and, “Milk?” she said, looking on the night table; and, “A fresh supply of biscuits,” she announced, looking in the biscuit tin covered with purple satin and ornamented with a pink silk rose. “Everything seems all right, darling.”

  “Thank you, my pet,” said Mrs. Cathcart, raising her stiff old arms to undo the clasp of her necklace. “I don’t know what I should do without my girls. There aren’t many modern young people who would bother about a poor, ugly old woman.”

  “Now, darling, if you’re going to be morbid…”

  “I’m not morbid, darling. I’m only grateful for all your loving kindness. In these days happy homes like ours are few and far between — at least so everybody tells me. Oh dear, these tiresome little hooks… Could you, darling?”

  Nancy unhooked the little net modesty vest and kissed her mother. “Good night. Sweet dreams. And don’t be too long, dear — I’ll turn your bath on.”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  Nancy shut the door softly behind her and walked down the passage to the bathroom. M
arley Grange only possessed one bathroom, and this was a disadvantage when the Cathcarts were going to Southwold for their summer holiday and wanted to let the house. Prospective tenants always demanded two bathrooms, which was absurd, the Cathcarts thought, because, with a little organization and thought for others, they managed perfectly with one.

  As Nancy went into the bathroom and Sheila, tunefully whistling an air from Figaro, came upstairs, the hall clock struck ten. Delia was dragging her camp bed from the verandah, where it was placed in the daytime, made up ready for her, but discreetly covered by a paisley shawl. She heard the church clock strike and, as soon as she had placed her bed in the position she liked, she called to John and took him into the house through the front door. Marley Grange can be said to face east, because the big drawing-room window and the dining-room windows face that way; but the front door is in the north side of the house and the lawn, where Delia slept, lies between the west wall of the drawing room and the drive. Delia had chosen this sleeping place on account of the seclusion offered by the tall yew hedges on three sides of the lawn. To reach the front door, she passed through a wicket gate at the north end of the verandah, and, at the sound of her footsteps crunching on the gravel sweep, the young mare, Flavia, whinnied. Delia answered her with a kindly, “Good night, little girl.”

  John slept in the lobby. Although, theoretically, he was Nancy’s dog, he had been well-trained by Delia and he knew his routine. He clambered into his basket, curled up and firmly closed his eyes. Delia passed through the hall and turned into the passage which led to the kitchen quarters. With the lamentable exception of Jessie, the maids had gone to bed, and they had left the kitchen in a state that Delia would have to speak about — crumbs and cheese-rind on the table, dirty cups containing…yes, cocoa, in the scullery sink, too much coal for either safety or economy on the fire. Delia took the top off the fire, found the tongs, which had been carelessly thrown under the fender, picked out the lumps of coal and piled them on the range to cool. Then she raked out the ashes with what she perceived to be the poker from the spare bedroom.

  It was a quarter past ten by the kitchen clock when Delia had finished tidying up after the maids. Jessie wasn’t in and Delia didn’t intend to listen to any excuses; on a still night like this you couldn’t miss hearing the church clock from Marley Clump, much less in Lovers’ Lane. Delia switched off the kitchen light, walked to the end of the passage and resolutely turned the key in the back door.

  Then she shot the bolts. One and then another went sharply home. From the other side of the door came a muffled exclamation and the sound of scurrying feet. Jessie tried the handle, rattled it, then knocked — for obvious reasons, thought Delia, ignoring the electric bell.

  Delia let Jessie knock. After a moment or two, she heard a creak on the back stairs. She looked up. Elspeth, the housemaid, was peering over the banisters. In a pink flannel dressing gown and long fair plaits, she looked odd, thought Delia…not like a maid.

  “What do you want, Elspeth?”

  “Someone’s knocking, Miss.”

  “I know,” said Delia. “It’s Jessie. She’s late again. You can go to bed, Elspeth. I’ll let her in.”

  Elspeth vanished. Delia waited till she was back in her bedroom and then she opened the door.

  Jessie said, “Oh!”

  Delia said, “I’d like to know what you mean, Jessie, by not being in on time?”

  “Oh,” said Jessie, “I didn’t know as I wasn’t. The church clock has only just gone ten.”

  “I heard the church clock,” said Delia. “It struck ten at least twenty minutes ago.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Miss,” said Jessie. “I ’eard it go as I stood by the gate and then I just said good-bye to my friend.”

  “It’s no use making excuses,” said Delia. “You know perfectly well that you’re supposed to be in by ten. Mrs. Cathcart spoke to you last week, and she warned you that if you were late again you’d have to go. This is flagrant disobedience, and we could dismiss you without notice if we chose.”

  “Oh, Miss, you aren’t going to give me my notice?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Delia. “You can stay till we’re suited,” she added prudently, “but as soon as we’ve found another girl, you can go.”

  “Oh, Miss, please…”

  A man stepped briskly from the laurels.

  “There’s no ‘please, Miss,’ about it. Don’t you lower yourself, Jess. This ain’t the only ’ouse in the neighbor’ood, and a girl like you don’t want to be working for a lot of fussy old maids.”

  “Funge!” said Delia.

  “Yes, Miss?” said Albert readily.

  “How dare you speak like that?”

  “Oh, I dare all right,” said Albert. “I’m not afraid of you. Well off you may be, but you’re only biscuits when all’s said and done.”

  “Jessie,” said Delia, “you’d better come indoors. Funge, I shall speak to Mr. Hislop about you tomorrow.”

  “Speak away,” said Albert. “What I does out of working hours is no concern of ’Islop’s, and you know that as well as I do.”

  “We’ll see about that,” threatened Delia.

  “Yes,” said Albert, “we will. And I ’ope it’s understood that Jessie leaves ’ere at ’er month and no waiting till you’re suited with another girl. And if you wants another girl, Miss Cathcart, I’d advise you to look beyond the village, where they don’t know you so well. A parcel of old cats like you don’t know ’ow to treat a girl. Can’t get ’usbands yourselves, so you don’t want no one else to. That’s what ’tis. So long, Jess,” said Albert and strode away.

  “Well!” gasped Delia, and then, “Really, Jessie, I can’t think how you can have taken up with such a horrible, impertinent young man.”

  “Oh well, Miss,” said Jessie, “there’s two sides to every question, isn’t there?”

  Delia looked down at her. She was a short, plump girl with bright brown eyes, round red cheeks and straight, cropped brown hair: like a robin, Sheila had said, when Jessie first came, and seemed satisfactory; like a cheeky sparrow, Delia thought now.

  “You’d better go to bed before you say any more, Jessie. If you think you can be as rude as you like because you’re going, you’d better think again. You’ll have to get a reference from Mrs. Cathcart wherever you go.”

  Jessie turned away. “Good night, Miss Delia,” she said cheerfully and ran upstairs.

  Conscious of an unaccustomed sense of defeat, Delia locked and bolted the door. Then she walked down the passage and upstairs to her mother’s room. Mrs. Cathcart was in bed sipping her milk. She said, “Oh, there you are, darling. I heard voices. Was it you talking to that girl?”

  “Yes, darling. She tried to make excuses, but I wasn’t taking any, and then that poisonous Albert Funge appeared and chipped in. He was awfully rude. I gave Jessie notice and I told Albert I would speak to Mr. Hislop about him.”

  “It’s all settled then?”

  “Yes, except for speaking to Mr. Hislop. I’ll do that, darling.”

  “Thank you, Delia. I’m sorry you had all that unpleasantness. What did Funge say?”

  “Oh, he was just rude. I don’t mind the unpleasantness.”

  “I do envy you your strong character,” said Mrs. Cathcart admiringly. “I don’t know what we should do without you — the man of the family, I always say.”

  Delia laughed. “Well, Sheila’s always in the clouds and Nancy’s such a gentle little thing. Some one must cope… Finished your milk, darling? Well, good night, darling. Shall I turn off the light?”

  “Yes, please. Good night, darling. Sweet dreams.”

  Delia kissed her mother, turned off the light and shut the door. She could hear Sheila whistling in the bathroom, so she called out, “Good night,” and Sheila answered, “Good night, D. Sleep well.” Nancy, who, like Delia, had her bath in the mornings, was already in bed, and she murmured, “Good night,” very sleepily when Delia peeped round her door. “Such a tired l
ittle girl,” said Delia tenderly, and passed on into her own room.

  Delia’s room was mannish. The furniture was solid mahogany; the carpet was brown; the curtains and bedspread were of plain yellow linen — Delia hated what she called squiggles. With the exception of her mother’s and sisters’ photographs, the pictures were sporting in character, and foxes’ masks and brushes, expensively mounted, further adorned the walls. On the bed lay a pair of serviceable striped silk pajamas and a woolen dressing gown. Delia stripped and, after a good wash at the fitted basin, put them on and sat down before her dressing-table to brush her hair. She wasn’t vain and she professed a deep contempt for fashion, but she liked to look well-groomed.

  She brushed her hair for ten minutes by her wristwatch; then she cleaned her strong, white teeth, tidied the room and went downstairs. With a word to John she opened the front door and went out, shutting it behind her. It had a Yale lock and one of the three duplicate keys was pinned in the pocket of her dressing gown.

  It was a lovely night, thought Delia, as she walked across the sweep of the drive to the wicket gate. The thick summer darkness smelled of hay and there was something about the smell of hay…well, haytime wasn’t like harvest — garnered fruit of earth and all that; it was a magic, moonshiny time, she felt rather than thought, for she wasn’t apt with words: and it made you feel restless, even a little angry, the sweet wild never-to-be-recaptured smell of hay. I want… I want… I don’t know what I want, thought Delia, but she did know. Years back, such enchanted nights had inspired in the forthright jolly girl the same longing, but fainter, sweeter and without this sharp savor of regret. Though she had always been the first to laugh heartily at sickly sentiment, there had been occasions when she had indulged her pretty dreams, but now her dreams weren’t pretty, and, as she closed the wicket gate behind her and walked across the lawn, resentment stirred within her, and suddenly she hated life, that year after year sent rose and nightingale, set the scene for the drama in which she had no part. Forty-three? Behind your back, soft-footed, time fled by; soon there would be no more chances…oh, hurry, hurry, push, snatch, grab! As she took off her dressing gown, laid it across the foot of the bed and climbed in between the blankets, her thoughts trickled, then burst through the sluice gates of control. Surely she had shown him…surely he knew now…surely he would come. How else could she bear this scent of hay, the solemn silhouette of the fir trees, the blaze of stars in the dark velvet of the sky? She shut her eyes, but the smell was still in her nostrils and a little wind sighed among the branches of the firs. Why didn’t he come? Had he misunderstood her, or was she so utterly undesirable? If that was it, he’d be sorry…she’d make him sorry…oh, listen, listen…