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

by Joanna Cannan

  “Oh,” said Sheila, getting up, blinking, blushing, hugging her elbows. “You’re the detective from London — Scotland Yard, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Guy. Sheila’s shyness was infectious. He blurted out, “Detective-Inspector Northeast. I’ve brought a suitcase — just to see if you can identify it.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes,” said Sheila. “Mother’s very anxious.”

  Guy said, “Superintendent Dawes doesn’t think there is much to worry about. Excuse me, but are you one of the Miss Cathcarts?”

  When he had first come into the room, Sheila had thought him one of the most attractive men with whom she had ever been brought into contact. While she had blinked and blushed and held her elbows, she had been wondering if he were married, if his wife understood him, if he realized that a pretty face isn’t everything. The night would be dark and full of nightingales…no, not nightingales…that would mean waiting for a whole year. The night would be dark and still. “Oh, Sheila,” he’d say, his voice trembling with passion. “Oh, Sheila, what do mere looks matter — it’s your soul I love, your deep dark soul, so full of music and beauty…” She was conscious of disappointment when he said, “Excuse me, are you one of the Miss Cathcarts?” and she realized that he wasn’t quite a gentleman.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes. I’m the eldest Miss Cathcart. Sheila. The musical one.”

  “I see. Well now, Miss Cathcart, I wonder if you have formed any theory of your own?”

  Sheila fidgeted with the music stand.

  “We’ve talked it over such a lot…don’t think what that Superintendent Dawes thinks. He thinks that Delia has gone away with friends or a friend — abroad probably. I know she wouldn’t. You see, we’re not a modern sort of family. We’re very devoted to one another. Apart from that, my mother’s heart’s not strong. Delia would have realized that anxiety like this might kill her.”

  “Then you rule out that theory absolutely?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And what do you think of this — that she was suffering from loss of memory?”

  Sheila gave a mirthless laugh.

  “You don’t know Delia! She’s never had a day’s illness. She doesn’t know what nerves are. Now if it were me… I mean, I’m artistic and artistic people are always highly strung, aren’t they? Delia is a most matter-of-fact practical person. She hardly ever opens a book. Only the evening before she disappeared we were talking about the artistic temperament and she said she didn’t believe in it; she said it wasn’t temperament, but temper.”

  “Oh! Was there an argument about that — any unpleasantness?”

  “No. Oh no. Delia said that none of us were artists, so it didn’t matter.”

  “That was rather tough on you, wasn’t it?”

  Sheila smiled sadly. “Well, you know the saying about a prophet being without honor…?”

  ‘“Yes,” said Guy, and wondered how many tiresome people had fed their vanity on that particular proverb. “I suppose you realize, Miss Cathcart, that you’re only leaving one possibility — foul play of some kind?”

  Sheila blinked.

  “I know. It’s terrible. We can’t think of anyone who could have wanted to harm Delia. But she was sleeping out there and there are maniacs, aren’t there? And there was the tramp my sister saw.”

  “Yes. He’s down in the Superintendent’s notebook. I’ll make a point of enquiring if he’s been traced. But tramps are a harmless race as a rule.”

  “He may have been drunk…!”

  “Yes; that’s a possibility, of course. But then he’d have rolled into a ditch and stayed there. I don’t think there’s anything in it, Miss Cathcart, really.”

  Sheila seemed unconvinced. “My sister said he was an awfully rough man and very dirty.”

  “That doesn’t make him a murderer. I mean,” he said hastily, seeing Sheila turn white, “if it’s foul play you suspect, you must look among people who knew your sister. You mentioned one or two names to the Superintendent — a young chauffeur named Funge and a veterinary surgeon called Forbes, both of whom might have had some sort of grudge against her.”

  “Yes. Funge is a horrid young man, and he was very rude to her. Forbes we mentioned because he was quite tipsy once when he came here and she threatened to report him to the vet he works for.”

  “Neither of them seems to have very strong motives. Still, I’ll see both of them. Now, Miss Cathcart, I wonder if you’d look at this suitcase.”

  He went out into the hall, tripping over John, who was asleep on one of the Persian rugs which were spread across the parquet. Back in the drawing room, he asked Sheila, “Did you hear anything from the dog on the night of your sister’s disappearance?”

  “Nothing at all. He sleeps in the lobby, but he’s rather old and deaf and I don’t suppose he’d hear anything that happened outside. Of course, if Delia did come in to dress, he would have recognized her footstep. Yes, Mr. Northeast, this is her suitcase.”

  “Will you open it?”

  Sheila opened the case and went through the contents, murmuring, “Dressing-gown…slippers…evening dress, evening shoes…” but modestly remaining silent when she lifted out the underclothes.

  “It’s just what she would have packed for a couple of nights, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Sheila.

  “But supposing she was…well, going away with a man friend, she’d have packed more, wouldn’t she?”

  Sheila was up in arms at once.

  “Do you mean that you think the same as the Superintendent?”

  “Oh, no,” said Guy, trying to look innocent and, because he did think it and had the sky-blue eyes which overdo everything, not succeeding. “I’m just trying to prove once and for all that she didn’t. I mean, somebody going away on an unofficial honeymoon would have packed…well, more frilly, seductive things, wouldn’t she?”

  “It would depend on taste,” said Sheila. “Delia didn’t care for frills and lace on…things, anyhow.”

  “I see. I suppose she didn’t care for powder and scent and stuff like that, either?”

  “No, she didn’t. None of us do. We’re not at all modern,” said Sheila proudly.

  The betraying blankness came into Guy’s blue eyes again. He said, “Well, I’m afraid I must take these things back to Melchester with me, but you can claim them later, of course. Now, do you think I could see Mrs. Cathcart and your other sister?”

  “Mother’s in bed. She’s absolutely worn out with anxiety. But if you really want to see her, I expect she could get up for a little. I’ll ask her, and in the meantime you could see Nancy, but please, please don’t say anything about foul play to her. You see she’s the youngest, and she’s always been our baby.”

  Sheila left the room. She walked badly, he noticed; you could almost say she shambled. He wondered if Delia were like her; if so, this Captain What’s-his-name must have a queer taste in women. Of course, Sheila was absolutely the type for a Bride in the Bath — a repressed spinster, who had practically given up hope of any sex life — an easy prey for any man. He must find out if these women controlled their own money…

  The door opened softly and Nancy crept into the drawing room. Guy experienced the usual male reaction: faced with a small fair woman, he felt huge and protective. While Nancy looked fearfully up at him, he took matters into his own hands and said, “Good morning. I believe you are Miss Nancy Cathcart.”

  “Yes,” said Nancy in a soft voice that shook a little. “Won’t you sit down? You’ve come about Delia, haven’t you? Would you like to smoke or anything?”

  Infinitely preferring Nancy to Sheila, Guy sat down and said that unfortunately he wasn’t supposed to smoke when on duty. The first question that he put to Nancy was: “Is Miss Delia Cathcart like you or like your sister?”

  “Oh, she isn’t like either of us,” said Nancy. “She’s dark, you know. She generally wears tailor-made things. I mean, you’d know that she was an out-of-door sort of person
.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No. Mother calls me the home bird,” said Nancy.

  “And do you like being the home bird?” said Guy chattily.

  “Oh, yes. I’m rather nervous of things like driving cars, and of horses, and strange people. Of course I know it’s silly.”

  Guy, whose philosophy was Mr. Browning’s, except when his stomach was empty, thought it was very silly. But it was pathetic too, he thought. To be out of tune with life must, he thought, be awful. He said kindly, “Oh, well, some people do feel like that,” and then “What do you think has happened to your sister?”

  “I think she’s gone away,” said Nancy. “She took her suitcase, didn’t she? That’s it on the table, isn’t it? Major Carruthers rang up to tell us it had been found in a railway carriage. I suppose she put it under the seat or on the rack and forgot it.”

  “Does she often forget things?”

  “No, she doesn’t. If it had been silly me, now… But perhaps she was excited about something.”

  Guy said, “It’s been suggested that she went away with a Captain Willoughby, who’s also missing.”

  “I know,” said Nancy. “It makes Sheila and Mother furious if anyone says so. But I’m different. I think that if people are in love…oh, I suppose I’m silly!”

  “I don’t think your sister was actually shocked by the suggestion. My impression was that she thought it would be so unlike Miss Delia.”

  “It would in a way. Delia was friendly with men. She thought that to be anything else was silly and sentimental.”

  “I see.”

  “Sheila’s rather like that too,” said Nancy, and Guy thought, oh yeah? “But I’m not. I daresay it’s silly, but I look up to men.”

  Guy thought, oh lord, I shall have to get married. Married people talking and talking about their children aren’t half as bad as celibates talking and talking about themselves. He said, “Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world,” and then he said briskly, “I wonder if you’d come and look at the things in the suitcase.”

  Nancy said, “Delia’s things? Oh, I couldn’t! I know it’s silly, but I couldn’t.”

  “I know it’s painful,” Guy said kindly, “but really, I wish you would. I want to know if you think it’s what she would have packed if she had been going away with…well, a man she loved.”

  Nancy said bravely, “Oh, that’s different. If it will help, I must.” Holding her lower lip between her small white teeth, she went to the table. Guy, standing beside her, could see the gray in her fair hair, the light pucker of lines at the corners of her eyes, the pale coarsening hairs on her upper lip…yes, in strong sunlight the youngest Miss Cathcart looked fully her age. Guy was sorry for her; she was a gentle little thing, ought long ago to have found someone to look after her. “Well,” he said, “is that all you’d have expected her to take with her?”

  “For a night, or perhaps two nights — yes. But you’d think…oh, of course she must have walked, mustn’t she? So she wouldn’t have wanted to carry any more, would she? Perhaps she meant to buy all new things in London or wherever she was going.”

  “That’s what I think. Do you know if she took much money?”

  “She took her handbag, of course. At least, it’s not in her bedroom. I know she cashed a check in Melchester on Saturday. And of course, I mean, men usually pay for most things, don’t they?”

  Guy laughed, and rather unfortunately at that moment the door opened and Sheila looked in. Her eyebrows rose. She said, “Mother’s just coming down.”

  Guy heard a querulous voice saying that Elspeth had left a duster on the radiator and that nothing went right now that Delia was away. Then the door opened again and Mrs. Cathcart came slowly in. Guy thought she looked old and ill, but he couldn’t, of course, tell how the anxiety of the last few days had aged her. Her wispy hair was neglected — merely tumbled together and insecurely fastened by innumerable black pins; the tortoiseshell slide, which she wore at the back of her head, was unhooked and so was the white net vest, which she wore inside the v-shaped neck of her gray dress. Her faded eyes were rimmed with red; a network of purplish broken veins stood out on the yellow parchment of her cheeks.

  Guy was kind to old things. Long ago he had missed two seasons’ hunting because his father had said that if he bought a new pony, old Snowball would have to be destroyed; he had never owned a fascinating puppy, but always old dogs that had grown too decrepit for successful Roger or dashing Jim. He looked down at Mrs. Cathcart and said, “I’m really awfully sorry that you should be bothered again.”

  Mrs. Cathcart looked at him and didn’t approve. She had expected Scotland Yard to send quite a different looking person, someone small, sharp, alert-looking, a ferret of a man. Guy was not at all like a ferret; he looked kindly, calm and slow. With considerable loss of confidence, she said, “Of course I have to be bothered. I expect to be bothered. The local police have done nothing, but fortunately I know the Chief Constable and my cousin, Mrs. Gilbert Mountjoy-Harrington, knows the Home Secretary too.” She paused to allow this threat to sink in, and then she said sharply, “Well, what are your deductions so far?”

  “So far,” said Guy, “I have only spoken to your daughters. I want to look over the house presently, and there are one or two people — young Funge, for instance — whom I shall interview this afternoon. Now, Mrs. Cathcart, I wonder if you would tell me exactly what your daughter said about the unpleasantness with Funge?”

  With extraordinary incorrectness Mrs. Cathcart repeated her last conversation with Delia, after which she confirmed Sheila’s opinion that Delia would never have run off — as she called it — with any man. Nor would she have left home in a temper; she was never in a temper; nor was it in the least likely that she would suffer from loss of memory. Guy asked how, if she suspected foul play, she could explain the fact that Delia had come indoors, dressed and packed a suitcase, and Mrs. Cathcart replied dramatically, “A false message! She must have been lured.” But who by, and what for? Guy asked her and got, “That is what I expect Scotland Yard to explain.”

  So Guy shut his notebook and in the briskest tone that he could command said that he would like to look round the house and garden now. Nancy showed him up to Delia’s bedroom, and the first thing he did was to ask her to stay there and walk about, quietly but not on tiptoe, and open and shut the ottoman and the wardrobe and the chest of drawers and the cupboard by the fireplace, while he listened from her own room. With the doors closed, he heard very little noise, certainly not enough to wake a sound sleeper, nor did the door of Delia’s room groan or the boards creak when, in obedience to his instructions, Nancy walked softly down the stairs. “Thank you very much, Miss Cathcart,” he said. “I’ll carry on now.”

  While Guy carried on, Mrs. Cathcart sat with her daughters in the drawing room. She said that Inspector Northeast didn’t look at all intelligent and what could he possibly learn by going through Delia’s clothes that Delia’s mother couldn’t have told him? Sheila said that it was a pity that Inspector Northeast was so common, and Nancy said that she supposed it was silly, but she didn’t think that class mattered, only, as Mother had said, it needed brains to detect things, and Inspector Northeast only looked brave and kind. At that moment Guy came back. He was looking puzzled, and Mrs. Cathcart was more than ever disappointed with him.

  He said, “Does Miss Cathcart keep all her clothes in her bedroom?”

  “Yes,” said Sheila, “except for her mack and Wellingtons. They’re in the lobby with ours.”

  “There’s no other cupboard where she’d be likely to hang anything?” he asked.

  “No,” said Sheila. “None.”

  “What about the bathroom?”

  “We never leave any of our personal belongings in the bathroom,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “It’s so suburban.”

  “I see,” said Guy, in rather a subdued voice, because he always left everything in the bathroom. “And when did the laundry go?”
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  Mrs. Cathcart said impatiently, “As usual on Friday afternoon about two.”

  Guy seemed set on homely details. He asked, “Do you have anything washed at home?”

  “My housemaid washes stockings and handkerchiefs. The between-maid rubs through the dusters and tea-cloths every day. All the other things go to the laundry. The Melchester Sanitary Laundry. They are very inefficient, but we’ve tried every laundry in the district and they’re all the same.”

  “Quite,” said Guy, looking more puzzled than ever. “Well, I’ll just look round the garden and then I won’t trouble you any longer. By the way, the Superintendent tells me that Funge is employed as chauffeur by a Mr. Hislop at a house called Fairview. Is that far from here?”

  Sheila directed him to a house on the Green, and he took his leave. Carrying the rawhide suitcase, he walked in at the wicket gate and stood staring thoughtfully at the lawn. Presently he strolled on to the stable yard. Ames, the groom, was in the forage room, mixing a feed, and Flavia’s fine thoroughbred head peered greedily over the loose-box door.

  Guy went up to Flavia and stroked her warm, satin neck. Ames looked out of the forage room and Guy said, “Nice type of mare.” Ames replied, “Ar.” He came out into the yard carrying a bucket. Guy waited till the restless mare was quietly feeding. Then, as Ames seemed disposed to remain in the box watching her, he said, “I’m a police officer, making some enquiries about Miss Delia Cathcart and I should like a few words with you.”

  Ames picked up his bucket, ran his hand over the mare’s quarters, opened the door and bolted it behind him in a leisurely insolent way. Then he turned and his hot dark eyes ran over Guy.

  “I can’t tell you nothing.”