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

by Joanna Cannan

  “You’ll hear presently,” said Guy, and went back to the stable. He told Dawes, “The groom’s gone home to his dinner. He lives in that cottage across the lane. I’d like the constable at the gate to keep an eye on it.”

  “The groom? Where does he come in?”

  “Here and there. I shall want a talk with him presently.”

  “Oh well, I’ll just mention it,” said Dawes.

  He gave a message to the constable who was standing by the shrubbery, and Guy went forward to meet the Chief Constable, who came back into the yard looking ten years older. “Very distressing,” he said to Guy. “Hated the job.”

  Guy made a sympathetic noise and said, “How did they take it?”

  “Hard. Especially little Miss Nancy. Couldn’t seem to realize it. Numb. The other one seemed more prepared for it.”

  “She suspected something of the sort, sir. So did Mrs. Cathcart.”

  “I didn’t like the looks of the old lady. I told those girls to ring up her doctor. It’ll give them something to do, anyway. Now, Northeast, I gather you want a conference?”

  “In the harness room, I thought, sir. I’ve sent the groom home to his dinner.”

  The Chief Constable bellowed “Dawes!” and Guy led the way into the harness room. Dawes stood blocking the light from the window, which looked on the orchard; the Chief Constable sat on the solitary Windsor chair, and Guy leaned against the wall with his head among the bridles.

  “Fire away, Northeast,” ordered the Chief Constable.

  “Well, sir,” Guy began, “I got here at nine o’clock this morning, and with Miss Cathcart’s permission I interviewed each of the servants separately. The cook, Mrs. Hemmings, supplied me with a very suggestive piece of evidence. Her room is at the end of the house and it looks over the rose garden. On Friday night between eleven and twelve she was lying awake and she heard a whistle.”

  Dawes said, “Owls.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. She’s used to the owls. She attributed this whistle to boys in the lane, but it’s quite on the cards that someone was signaling to Miss Delia.”

  “But who, man, who?” thundered the Chief Constable.

  “I’m coming to that, sir. I then saw the between-maid. She was the one who, on Friday night, soon after ten o’clock, had a row with Miss Delia. Her young man, Albert Funge, was with her, and he joined in, and Miss Delia threatened to report him to his employer. I had previously interviewed Funge and found him an unpleasant and not wholly truthful character. However, the girl, Jessie, denies that he hung about the place, and he claims to have been back at his home by eleven. I’ve not had time to go into that yet, but, as a long shot, it’s worth trying.”

  “Shouldn’t bother about him,” said Dawes. “There’s others with much more motive.”

  “That’s right, sir. All the same, we won’t quite forget him. The girl went on to tell me — and this was later substantiated by the parlormaid — that Miss Delia was ‘one for the men’ and didn’t confine her attentions to the ‘gentry’.”

  “Good God,” said the Chief Constable, growing redder. “A nice open-air woman like that! Nonsense. You’ve been listening to servants’ gossip, Inspector.”

  “Unfortunately we have to. I’m afraid you won’t like this, sir, but in the opinion of both of these girls, there was something between the groom and Miss Delia.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I was inclined to take it with a pinch of salt myself, but I’ve noticed one or two little things about Ames. He’s not a good man with horses; Miss Delia lived for them, and since grooms are easy to get, she must have had some reason of her own for keeping him on. I had a talk with him the day I came down, and he told me that he had spent Friday evening at the Dog and Duck and then gone home. His wife, however, states that he didn’t get in till three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Good God,” said the Chief Constable. “That looks pretty bad. All right, Northeast, you win, though I must say I should never have thought that a woman like Delia Cathcart would have carried on with her groom.”

  Guy said warily, “I don’t know much about these social distinctions, sir, but wasn’t the Cathcart’s money made in trade? The servants talk about them as ‘jumped up’ people. Well, isn’t it three generations and back to the plow?”

  “I see what you’re driving at,” said the Chief Constable. “Yes, the Cathcarts were biscuits, but they’ve been out of it for some time and this county isn’t Shropshire by any means. But I see what you’re driving at.” He cleared his throat and tried to say, “Nostalgie de la boue.”

  “Pardon, sir?” said Dawes.

  “Homesickness for the gutter,” translated the Chief Constable.

  “I don’t see it, sir,” said Dawes.

  “Never mind,” said the Chief Constable, and he almost winked at Guy. “Carry on, Northeast.”

  “There was one rather odd thing, sir, though it may have no bearing on the case at all. The housemaid, Elspeth Barton, came to Mrs. Cathcart without any references. She’s much better educated than you’d expect a housemaid to be, and I’d bet a hundred to one that she’s a married woman.”

  “Surely that’s quite irrelevant,” said Dawes.

  “It may be, sir, but in a case like this you’ve got to cast the net very wide. And be thankful for even very small fish,” said Guy.

  “Well,” said the Chief Constable, pushing back his chair, “on what you’ve told me, I don’t mind betting that the groom is our man.”

  “He seems the likeliest at the moment, sir. This midden business definitely points to him. I mean, sir, would anyone else have dared to leave the body there?”

  “How deep down was the body?”

  “I should say I forked off about nine or ten barrowloads, sir. Ames seems to be an extravagant fellow — there was more straw there than manure. Presuming that he took out two barrowloads a day, then the murderer didn’t bury the body very deep. Anybody but the groom himself took a tremendous risk —”

  Dawes interrupted, “All murderers take risks, otherwise none of them would hang. He may have been in a hurry. I see him as a man who knows about stable management and so on, knows that at this time of year a muck heap isn’t likely to be disturbed.”

  Guy said, “What that fellow Ames mucks out of a stable won’t be ready for a garden for years. And not much use then…”

  “That’s by the way,” said Dawes and gathered himself together in a way that said, unless I take the lead, you’ll never get anywhere. “As I was saying, our man knows country ways. He’s not a tramp or a homicidal maniac or the deceased would never have come to his whistle; no, sir, he’s someone she was expecting and knew well. The mistake you’re making, Inspector, is this way: Ames might, if the servants’ gossip is to be believed, for any of a dozen reasons, have done her in, but then, why did she pack her suitcase?”

  The Superintendent paused to take breath, but the Chief Constable thought it was because he expected a reply to his question. “Yes, we’ve got to fit that damn suitcase in somehow. Got any theory, Northeast?”

  “I don’t like theorizing too soon, sir.”

  “I believe in having a working theory,” said Dawes. “And this is how I explain things.” He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, and then held forth at length.

  “We’ll assume that the deceased, a spinster, suffering from sex repression, was one for the men, and, though there’s some that point to the groom, there’s others that suggest she was carrying on with a gentleman of her own class — Captain Willoughby. Well, I look at it this way: Captain Willoughby, being a married man, comes to meet the deceased by arrangement at night, and persuades her to elope. Deceased goes indoors and packs her bag, but, at the last moment, thinking perhaps of her mother, changes her mind. Still in her dressing gown and carrying the bag, she informs the Captain of her decision. In the course of the ensuing quarrel he administers the fatal blow. Having hidden the body, he makes off with the suitcase. The
next morning, he decides to get rid of this evidence, pops it into the slow train and travels by the fast one himself. And now he’s sitting pretty in London.”

  There was a moment’s pause. Then the Chief Constable said, “Well, that seems logical enough, but what about the ticket collector’s evidence, Dawes?”

  “The ticket collector thinks he saw the young lady, sir. But is he going to swear it?”

  “Damn the feller! Why can’t he make up his mind? All this shillyshallying gets us nowhere. ’Pon my soul, I think I’ll side with Northeast and plump for the groom.”

  “We’ve no case against anyone yet, sir,” said Guy, afraid that the Chief Constable was going to ask for the handcuffs. “To my mind, we’ve got three obvious suspects: Ames, Willoughby, Funge; but there are others previously mentioned, whom we’ve rather lost sight of — the tramp, whom Miss Nancy saw, and a veterinary surgeon, who is reported to have had some sort of grudge against Miss Delia. There may be a dozen others. We’ve not discovered any real motive yet. What we’ve got to do, sir, is to eliminate; tackle all their alibis, beginning with Ames.”

  “That’s all very well, Northeast. Alibis for when? We don’t know when the murder was done,” said the Chief Constable. “I’d sooner work on the personal equation. When I was in the Service I was considered a good judge of men, and I can tell you this I’ve met Willoughby out hunting and he’s a decent feller.”

  Dawes said, “But perhaps a bit hasty…?”

  “Well…perhaps.”

  “Saw red and hit her — that’s my theory, sir.”

  “A decent feller wouldn’t hit a woman. No, Dawes, I’m backing the groom, and it’s up to you to see that he’s to be found when we want him.”

  “You can rely on me seeing to that, sir,” said Dawes grimly. “But I must say I should feel happier if we could lay our hands on Willoughby.”

  “That’s up to the Yard.”

  “There hasn’t been much progress so far.”

  “If he’s in London, they’ll find him,” said Guy with a confidence he didn’t really feel. Then turning to the Chief Constable, he added: “There’s a lot to be straightened out yet, sir. There’s a blue outfit missing from her wardrobe and — where is her handbag, which, we have reason to believe, contained money? We can’t rule out robbery yet, sir.”

  Dawes snorted impatiently. “Now we’re off round the mulberry bush again…!”

  The Chief Constable uttered a kind of fierce groan.

  “Robbery? How much had she on her?”

  “I think Superintendent Dawes was going to ascertain that, sir.”

  “Yes. I have the matter in hand, sir. In fact I should have been at the bank now if I hadn’t been called out here.”

  “Well, you’d better get busy in Melchester, Dawes, and leave Northeast to ferret round here. You can come back with me and leave him your car.”

  “There are the two constables, sir…?”

  “I could use them poking round for the weapon,” said Guy, ignoring the Superintendent’s angry frown.

  “Right! They’re under your orders, Northeast. Now, it’s long past my lunch time and talking hasn’t got us very much further.” He stopped at the door. “Murder’s not nice, Northeast, but it’s particularly nasty when it’s one of your friends.”

  The Chief Constable turned and strode quickly down the drive to his car. Dawes gave the constables their orders and then hurried after his chief as fast as was compatible with his dignity.

  Guy watched the car out of sight, wondering whether those two strong men would have thought more of him if he had given them the opportunity to plant their flat feet on the theories which, like mountains seen through clearing mist, were forming in his mind. Then he turned to the constables and said in his quiet voice that didn’t sound as though it were giving orders, “I want you to look round and see if you can find the usual blunt instrument and a blue dress, a blue hat, a blue pair of shoes and a lady’s handbag.”

  “Yessir. Shrubbery, duck pond and so forth…?”

  “That’s the idea and then further afield. Why not start on the stable sump now?”

  The stable drain ran out beside the midden and a sprinkling of straw lay over the broken grating which protected it. The larger of the two constables took up the pitchfork which Guy had left against the wall, and raked the straw away; then he prised up the grating, knelt down and dragging up his sleeve inserted a large red hand into the sump. He groped for a moment and then his moon-face turned to Guy. “Law lumme, got ’im in one, sir.” He straightened his back and heaved himself upright. In his hand was a hatchet, dripping with malodorous slime.

  6

  Thursday (continued)

  The kitchen windows were open and the blue willow-pattern curtains swung in the light hay-scented breeze. The room was cool and gay with bright china and shining pots and pans. Guy remembered some of the dark disorderly kitchens into which his work had taken him; here was order and method, a place for everything and everything in its place. It was unbelievable that in this sunny house, among these pleasant people, a hideous cancer of perverted passion had flourished unsuspected; there are tragedies and tragedies, and at this moment he came near to hoping that the next few hours would crumble his fine theories and show him a plain case of robbery with violence, sad enough, but leaving no shameful shadow to darken other lives.

  Mrs. Hemmings was working at the table. She was humming tunelessly while she monotonously kneaded a golden mixture in a large earthenware bowl. Taylor was seated near the range with her hands in her lap.

  “Good morning,” said Guy quietly from the door. “I wonder if I might have the loan of a chopper.”

  “Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. Hemmings, putting her hand to her side, “you gave me quite a turn! We’re that on edge this morning. We don’t ’ave no choppers in ’ere. There should be one in the woodshed, round by the manure ’eap.”

  “Oh…er…thank you,” said Guy.

  “’Ave you discovered anythink yet?”

  “We’ve made some progress.”

  “This place is like a death ’ouse,” said Taylor. “They’re not wanting lunch today, thank you. I rung the gong twice and then I went up to the old cat’s bedroom and there they was, sitting round like a parcel of mutes — it was ’orrible.”

  “Death is horrible,” said Guy. “I may as well tell you that we’ve found Miss Cathcart. Dead.”

  Mrs. Hemmings gave a stifled shriek. “There! I knew it. I said all along, as Taylor can bear me out, that she ’adn’t gone off with no one.” She sat down on a Windsor chair and her floury hands plucked at her apron. “Oh dear, oh dear! I do ’ate death in any form.”

  Taylor goggled at Guy. “What did she die of? She wasn’t…done in, was she?”

  “Yes,” said Guy. “Hit over the head, perhaps with a chopper.”

  For a few moments, silence reigned in the kitchen. Guy was studying their reactions. Had they told him all that they knew? Aimlessly he wandered round the room, determined that they should speak first. Then he noticed something. The chopper was kept near the scene of the crime. Anyone might have picked it up. But if there was anything in his latest discovery he surely could rule out the tramp or murder for robbery.

  At last Taylor broke the silence. “Thank Gawd, I’ve nothing to ’ide. I bet somebody will be all of a tremble when this gets into the papers.”

  Guy turned. “Who? This is a case of murder and it’s your duty to tell the police all that you know.”

  “I didn’t mean nothing. It was only a manner of speaking,” stammered the parlormaid, startled by Guy’s stern tone. “I never read of a murder without thinking ’ow ’orrible the one who’s done it must be feeling.”

  “All right, all right! As long as you understand the position. If you notice anything the slightest bit strange or remember something you haven’t told me, don’t keep it under your hat. It’s the little things that matter in my work. For instance, Mrs. Hemmings, where’s your pound weight?”
r />   Now it was Mrs. Hemmings’ turn to be taken aback. “On the scales, I suppose. And if it isn’t…”

  “I just noticed it wasn’t.”

  “Then you’d better ask Ames. Borrows this and borrows that, without so much as a mention, to say nothing of thank you.”

  “But why should he borrow your weight?”

  “For them pampered ’orses. I makes my pastry by guesswork, but that won’t do for our four-footed friends.”

  “I thought you said she was ’it on the ’ead with a chopper,” said Taylor, agog for the most gruesome details.

  “Yes; that was my first idea; but, as I told you just now, it’s the little things that matter when investigating a murder.”

  “Murder?” said a voice from the door, which was open, and there in the corridor stood Jessie, dressed in a blue and white cotton frock, blue shoes and a dark blue hat, tilted at the fashionable angle.

  Mrs. Hemmings looked at Guy. He nodded. “Yes, Jessie, murder. We’ve found Miss Delia’s body.”

  Jessie walked shakily into the room and crumpled into a chair. Guy watched her every movement. The corpse on the midden was clothed in pajamas and a woolen dressing gown. Delia couldn’t have put her rawhide suitcase on the 11:35 slow: Jessie had gone into Melchester on the Saturday morning and Jessie had a blue outfit: Jessie was more upset than either Mrs. Hemmings or Taylor. Funge? Funge hadn’t got much of a motive. It was motive that was holding him back.

  While Guy was thinking, Jessie had begun to revive. “My legs are all of a tremble.”

  “You stay where you are for a while,” said Mrs. Hemmings. “And we’ll all ’ave a nice cuppa-tea.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to catch the two o’clock bus. I shall have to be getting along.”

  “Going to Melchester again?” asked Guy.

  “Yes; heard of a place.” She got slowly to her feet and steadied herself by the kitchen dresser. Then, anxiously, “’Ave you covered ’er up? I can’t bear corpses.”

  “The ambulance has taken her away, but I’ll walk with you as far as the gate if you don’t like passing the midden,” said Guy.