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

by Joanna Cannan

  “The midden? Was that where you found her? Near the back gate into Lovers’ Lane?”

  “Yes. Does Funge smoke Woodbines?” asked Guy, keeping abreast with her train of thought.

  Jessie may or may not have seen the import of his question, but she was beginning, he noted with regret, to get hold of herself. “Mr. Funge doesn’t smoke much, and then it’s something more classy than Woodbines; always something cork-tipped.” Jessie led the way to the door and Guy followed.

  Quite a lady she looks, Guy thought, on her afternoons out. I wonder if she’d open up, if I tried to get off with her. “You should always wear blue; it suits you, Jessie.”

  Brown eyes met blue. Starting to get fresh, was he? “I shall until winter. I likes little and nice, so one dress at a time is all that I ’ave.”

  “You’re not like most girls…”

  “Being a detective makes you observant, don’t it? Or is that what you always say?”

  “I was only thinking a smart girl like you ought to come to London instead of being wasted down here.”

  Guy had piloted her down the drive to the left, tactfully avoiding the midden, and now they had reached the gate on the road.

  “There’s my bus waiting at the corner. So long, Mr. Northeast. We’ll be seeing you, I expect.”

  Jessie ran down the road, leaving a thoughtful Guy to return to the house. The rock buns had been abandoned and Mrs. Hemmings and Taylor were eating chocolate cake and drinking tea. They offered him a cup of tea and a slice of cake, which he accepted gladly. Presently he asked, “Where’s the housemaid?”

  “She went back after dinner to finish in the bathroom. She’s thorough, Elspeth is, but she’s slow, and what with carrying up trays and waiting on the old lady, she’s got be’ind.”

  “I want to speak to her,” said Guy, setting down his cup. “I’ll go up there.”

  There was a murmur of voices in Mrs. Cathcart’s bedroom, but, walking quietly, he reached the bathroom unhindered. Elspeth took his news quietly. She agreed that it was a terrible thing and that the murderer must be brought to justice.

  Guy explained that he had a few more routine questions to ask her. He believed it to be an outside job with robbery as the motive, but it was his duty to question everyone in the household, and he wasn’t sure that Elspeth had been quite frank with him last time. Why had she denied that she was married?

  Elspeth fell into the trap so helplessly that Guy felt mean. She said she didn’t see what her state of life had to do with the murder of Miss Cathcart. Guy tried to explain that untruths or half-truths made people suspicious, and Elspeth, sitting on the edge of the bath, said that she hadn’t seen her husband for years; that he was abroad — she thought in Australia. What was his name? His name, said Elspeth, was…er…Brent — Roger Brent; and, in answer to further questions, she had been married in a London registry office and she didn’t know which, because it had been a runaway marriage and she had been all het up and she wasn’t good at remembering names, anyhow. Guy put away his notebook with a sigh of exasperation.

  “You’re making things very difficult for me. Hadn’t you better come clean?”

  But that was no use. With a catch in her voice, Elspeth said that she had told him the truth and it wasn’t her fault if she had a bad memory.

  Guy became more and more suspicious. She was such a bad liar. This trail would have to be followed up and the marriage investigated. Probably there was nothing in it, but you never could tell. He couldn’t eliminate Elspeth. Had she a blue dress? Well, she had and she hadn’t; she’d got a patterned dress with quite a lot of blue in it. She’d show it to him if he liked. She’d nothing to hide. He waited on the back stairs and presently she came down with a limp and faded garment, which was blue enough and silky enough for a man, casting his mind back, to remember as the blue printed silk which had been suggested to him. Bother, thought Guy, and, with Elspeth’s troubled gray eyes looking anxiously into his and her little gold head outlined by the sun that was pouring in through the backstairs window, was human enough to make one more appeal. “Now, my dear, why not tell me the truth?”

  “I have,” said Elspeth. “My husband’s left me and I haven’t done anything…”

  Guy stamped downstairs. As he entered the kitchen, Mrs. Hemmings rose and shut the windows.

  “Don’t know who’s listening,” she explained in a mysterious whisper. “And I don’t want to end up like Miss Delia. I asked Ames for my weight, sir, but ’e says ’e never ’ad it. And ’e seemed put out — said ’e’d got something else to do besides mucking about after my kitchen utensils.”

  “All right, Mrs. Hemmings. I’m going out to speak to him myself now.”

  In spite of all that Ames had to do besides mucking about after kitchen utensils, Guy found him standing at the orchard gate with his hands in his pockets, whistling through his teeth and staring at the blissful Flavia. When he saw Guy coming, he turned round and said, “Can I put the mare back in her box now? I don’t want her down with the colic.”

  “Feed of grass won’t hurt her. Do her good. You can take her in when I’ve had a talk with you.”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “I wonder,” said Guy, leading the way to the forage room. He sat down on the corn bin and slowly sharpened his pencil, leaving Ames to shift uneasily from one leg to the other. When his pencil had a nice sharp point and beads of sweat were showing on the groom’s forehead, he said, “I suppose you’ve heard that Miss Cathcart’s been found?”

  “I’ve heard a lot of damn silly chatter down at the Dog and Duck.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “That the old girl ’ad been biffed on the ’ead by a tramp.”

  Guy forced a laugh.

  “It wasn’t a tramp, I can promise you that. The body was found on your midden.” His tone was accusing and Ames shuffled his feet again. “Very awkward for you, Ames. You’re in charge of the midden and you’ve been extra lavish with straw the last few days.”

  “Natural, ain’t it — without the old girl ’anging around?”

  “Perhaps. Anyhow, I’m going to ask you a few questions. First, I ought to warn you that…”

  “Ask then, and cut out the funny stuff.”

  “All right, so long as we understand each other,” said Guy, opening his notebook.

  “Well, what is it you want?”

  “I want a full account of your movements last Friday evening.”

  “I told you…”

  “You told me you spent the evening at the Dog and Duck and went home when they closed. Do you want me to put that down in my notebook?”

  Ames hesitated.

  “Supposing I didn’t go straight ’ome, that doesn’t mean I came back here.”

  “Of course it doesn’t, but lies don’t get us anywhere, Ames.”

  Ames continued to dither. His wife had the devil of a temper; God above knew what would happen if she found out where he’d been. Guy changed his tactics and gentled him, remembering that we’ve all something to hide, and at last he got a clear statement: Ames had left the Dog and Duck at approximately nine-thirty and had gone to visit a girl, Winnie Codstall was the name; she was general maid at Dunroamin, a bungalow on the Melchester road. Would the girl bear him out? She might and she mightn’t and Ames didn’t want to get her into trouble.

  “Somebody’s got a packet of trouble coming and we can’t afford to be squeamish,” replied Guy, noting the name of the house. Then suddenly he asked. “Where have you hidden the kitchen weight?”

  “You mean the pound one…?”

  “Yes, I mean the pound one. Not the sort of thing you’d easily lose.”

  Slowly Ames remembered: it was back in the spring; Miss Delia had just bought the bay mare and he’d had orders that there was to be no more double handfuls, so he’d taken the trouble to find out exactly what quantities his measures held.

  “And you’ve never had occasion to use it since?” asked Guy quiet
ly.

  “Never; and if those maids up at the ’ouse ’ave been telling you different I’ll tell you for why. Spite, that’s what it is, because I got on better with the old girl than what they did. You can’t pin nothing on me for trying to keep a good place.”

  “Nobody’s trying to pin anything on anybody, Ames. I’m trying to get at the truth. Then there’s another matter — when did you last clean the house windows?”

  Ames shot him a suspicious glance.

  “Come on,” said Guy, “I can find that out from others, you know.”

  “I only obliges. It’s the gardener’s job really, but ’e’s getting on and don’t fancy the ladder. There was nothing said about it the time I was engaged.”

  “You do clean them, then?”

  “Once a fortnight — if they remembers.”

  “And did they remember…last Friday?”

  “It wasn’t Saturday, so it must of been Friday.” Guy made a careful note in his book. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, except it wasn’t Saturday, Ames. What is your Saturday job?”

  “Mucking round after the ’orses, the same as the rest of the week,” said Ames, turning sulky again.

  “You’re never sent errands — into the village; or to Melchester, perhaps?”

  “I wasn’t hired to run errands.”

  “The horses keep you pretty busy, of course,” said Guy soothingly. “Now, one last question — can you drive a car?”

  “No.”

  “Got a license?”

  “Only to drive a mo-bike, which I don’t own, now that I’m married.”

  Guy pocketed his notebook.

  “Let’s ’ope you’re satisfied now,” said Ames, slouching off with a scowl on his face.

  Glancing at his wristwatch, Guy walked down the drive to Lovers’ Lane. The small police car was parked on the grass verge outside the gate; he hooted the horn and from the shrubbery appeared a red moon face framed in laurel leaves.

  “Found anything more?”

  “I’ve just ’appened on a dead cat, sir. ’E don’t ’arf ’um. But we ’aven’t come across anything resembling a lady’s dress or ’andbag.”

  “I don’t think you will on dry land. Concentrate on water, will you; anywhere between here and Melchester. And one of you keep an eye on the groom until you’re relieved.”

  “Concentrate on water and keep an eye on the groom. Yessir.”

  Guy, who was no dashing motorist, turned carefully into the high road and drove at a steady thirty-five towards Melchester. He noticed the snug little bungalow, Dunroamin, but passed it; a man could be sent out from Melchester to check up Ames’ statement; he himself had other fish to fry. He drove to the station and asked to see the ticket collector, Percy Janes. Janes, stocky, sensible and experienced, answered his questions with a directness which was refreshing after the evasions of Ames and Elspeth and the meanderings of the other maids. Janes wouldn’t take it upon himself to swear that the lady, who had carried the rawhide suitcase, was dark, fair, young or old, though he might recognize her if he saw her again; he couldn’t say definitely that her hat, handbag or shoes were blue. What he would swear to was that the general effect of her outfit was blue and that she was carrying a rawhide suitcase with black initials on it; he was positive of that because, as the lady had held out her ticket, she had let the suitcase swing round sideways and it had given him a biff on his shin. She hadn’t apologized, but had walked straight through to the platform, and he hadn’t looked after her; the knock had been nothing really, and there had been other passengers behind.

  Guy had arranged to meet Dawes and the Chief Constable at five o’clock at the police station and this brief and businesslike interview left him with an hour to spare. He bought a bar of chocolate at the kiosk on the platform and walked out of the station munching thoughtfully. In the few hours which had passed since the discovery of the body he had got well away, but on paper the case looked as vague as ever, and he was going to be at a loss to find answers to such questions as, “What’s your theory?” and, “Who’s our man?” The long shot that he was going to try now would only add to the confusion, but he badly wanted to get all his suspects lined up, as it were, and take a good look at them. He turned his car and, absentmindedly crossing the High street with the traffic lights against him, drove past the police station and drew up in a quiet street, which led out of the market square.

  Mr. Ross was in, and, on the strength of Guy’s card, would see him in a very few moments. Mr. Forbes was out on his rounds, but would be back very soon. Guy sat in a waiting room with a large man and his small dog and a small woman and her large dog, and presently the voice of Mr. Ross could be heard assuring Lady Blakiston that the little fellow would be quite all right now, and a white-coated assistant put his head round the door and beckoned to Guy.

  Mr. Ross was elderly and had the face of a retired naval officer, but his love of the horse was proclaimed by a yellow waistcoat, Derby-winner handkerchief and fox-mask tie. He had a man-to-man manner, offered a spot of whiskey, and was shocked to hear that a fine horsewoman like Miss Delia Cathcart had ended in such a sticky way. Forbes? Yes, Forbes had been out to Marley Grange lately, several times about the dog — overfeeding, of course — and twice, possibly three times, about the T.B. mare. No, Ross had received no complaint from Miss Cathcart and Forbes hadn’t mentioned anything about a row. What sort of a fellow was Forbes? Oh, well…hum, ha. Forbes was a very able fellow, a brilliant fellow, only… Ross lifted his elbow and winked significantly.

  Guy supposed that that explained why so able a man was working as an assistant, and Ross told him that at one time Forbes had had a very successful practice of his own. “Rotten piece of luck,” he said charitably. “Killed a fellow while driving under the influence and they put him inside.”

  “Sad story. Is he a married man?”

  “He’s never mentioned a wife to me, but I believe there is one. Not living with him, of course. Look here, Inspector, I’m telling you all this because I know that, if I didn’t, you’d find it out for yourself, but don’t run away with the idea that David Forbes has anything to do with Miss Cathcart’s death. Not that sort. When he’s sober, he’s as nice a fellow as you could find anywhere.”

  Guy reassured him. It had been mentioned that Forbes had reason to bear a grudge against Miss Cathcart, and, the case being cluttered up with suspects, he was anxious to eliminate him. He wanted a few words with him and, if he hadn’t come back yet, would interview him at his private address later.

  Ross supplied the address and advised Guy to call there early unless he wanted to spend the evening making a round of the pubs.

  They shook hands and Guy, feeling not unlike an examination candidate, drove back through the center of the town to the police station.

  As he had expected, it was, “Well, Northeast, what have you got for us?” and then it was, “But that gets us no forrarder,” and, “Good God, man, can’t you give us something definite?” Guy was tired and hungry; his shirt was sticking to him and life doesn’t give you third chances; it would be the end of all his ambitions if he bungled this heaven-sent case. He said brazenly, “There’s a lot behind all this. I want an opportunity to go over my notes and I can promise to let you have some definite conclusions in the morning.”

  Two unconvinced faces considered him. How did one dominate a situation? Probably by talking louder than anyone else… He turned to the Superintendent and bawled out that he wanted a man sent at once to check Funge’s alibi at his home and Ames’ at Dunroamin. And the man was to report to Guy at his hotel that evening. Without fail. And another point: was there any news of Willoughby?

  There wasn’t? Right, Guy would see Mrs. Willoughby first thing in the morning. And what about the press? Was anybody dealing with them, because he’d like an appeal to Captain Willoughby to come forward. Good! He could leave that to Dawes. Then: had Dawes been to the bank? Good! Ten pounds, was it? Guy uttered a pregnant “Ha!”
And had Dr. Baker reported the result of the P.M.? Not yet? Good heavens! It wasn’t likely to help, but if the report came tonight it must be sent round to the Red Lion immediately; if not, Guy would pick it up first thing in the morning. Now he must be off. Good night, sir. Good night, Superintendent. He strode across the room, flung the door open and let it slam behind him.

  The Chief Constable said, “By Jove, that feller’s waking up a bit.”

  “Looks like it, said the Superintendent. “Good idea asking Willoughby to come forward. I had it in mind myself…

  Meanwhile Guy, thankfully abandoning his new and exhausting personality, was strolling back to his hotel. He ate a substantial tea and then went out again to visit Forbes in his lodgings. Mr. Forbes wasn’t back yet, said the slatternly landlady, but he was in by seven and the gentleman could wait in Mr. Forbes’s sitting room, a lovely room on the first floor furnished with my’ogany and so clean that you could eat your dinner off the floor, but though you were on your ’ands and knees all day, there were some as were never satisfied. A trifle confused, Guy followed her up a stair that smelt of sour soup to a dark little room that overlooked a back yard, where grayish undergarments drooped from a sagging clothesline. “Lovely room,” said the lady firmly, and left him.

  Guy took a quick look round. There were whiskey bottles in the sideboard cupboard, a litter of unopened bills in the gimcrack writing desk. Mr. David Forbes used the aspidistra as an ashtray, sat with his feet on the mantelpiece and wasn’t too hard-boiled to keep about him a few family photographs. The smiling lady with the locket and the Edwardian hairdressing was probably his mother; he had owned two adorable cockers and a nice stamp of lightweight hunter, and hullo, hullo…here, behind a cracked glass was a face Guy knew: the pale hair, the straight little nose, the steady, long-lashed eyes of Mrs. Cathcart’s housemaid.

  Or wasn’t it? He took the photograph from its frame. “David from Elspeth. September, 1935.”

  Forbes very nearly caught Guy red-handed. The photograph was an excellent one and, where women were concerned, Guy was still a romantic. He stood gazing admiringly at the beautiful face and wondered how a man who’d had the luck to marry a girl like that could be so brutally careless of her happiness. A light step on the landing made him jump and brought him to his senses. He shoved the photograph back into its frame, replaced it on the mantelpiece and, by the time that Forbes was round the door, had his hands shoved in his pockets.