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

by Joanna Cannan

  Guy didn’t answer that, but asked, “What was the point of concealing it?”

  “No one knew about it,” explained Elspeth. “I came here when he was in prison — I had to do something. When he came out, I wouldn’t go back to him. I know it sounds awful, but it wasn’t only the drink; there were other women. Then he took this job with Mr. Ross, and he found out where I was, and he comes to see me sometimes — mostly when he’s short of money.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Last Saturday morning. He wanted money. I told him Miss Delia was missing and he made rather a fuss.”

  “Yes?” said Guy encouragingly.

  “I don’t want to get him into trouble.”

  “He has only himself to blame for any trouble that’s coming.” Guy’s voice had become very grim. “Did he threaten you?”

  “Not exactly. He said I wasn’t to tell anybody I knew him and that he didn’t want anybody to know we were married.”

  “Ye-es. Did he say why?”

  “I don’t think he did; but I gathered he’d had a row with Miss Delia over one of the horses. And he said, I remember now, that ‘he’d opened his mouth in a pub.’ Of course,” said Elspeth anxiously, “that might happen to anyone. I mean what a man says when he’s drunk doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Possibly not, but you’d have saved me a lot of trouble if you’d told me all this to begin with. The police generally find out things in the end. Now would you ask if I can see Mrs. Cathcart?”

  “She’s in bed. It’s her heart and the doctor comes every day.”

  “Anyhow, tell ‘them’ I’m here.”

  Elspeth went to find out if ‘they’ would see him and he had time for thought. He mustn’t be bamboozled by a beautiful face. Had Elspeth gone into Melchester with Forbes? There and back, if you rushed, wouldn’t take more than half an hour in a car. Had Elspeth planted the suitcase? Or was Forbes’ accomplice one of his other women? Then Dawes could cherchez. Dawes could get busy in Melchester and cherchez la femme.

  Elspeth returned to say, “Miss Cathcart will see you.” Sheila and Nancy were sitting in the drawing room. Sheila, sprawled in an armchair, was doing nothing, but Nancy, surrounded by skeins of colored wool, was intent on a square of petit point needlework. Both wore simple black dresses.

  Guy shirked the few words of sympathy he had strung together in the drive. He said, “I wanted to make sure it was all right about the inquest tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” said Sheila. “You understand it’s quite impossible for Mother to attend. She’s not got over the shock and the doctor has forbidden it. We haven’t quite decided yet which of us is coming.”

  “Darling,” said Nancy, “we decided at breakfast that I’d better go —”

  Guy intervened, “I rather think the Chief Constable is expecting you both.”

  “I know; that’s what the Chief Constable said, but we can’t both leave Mother. And after all, I am the eldest, Nancy.”

  “But, darling,” replied Nancy, “you’re so much better with Mother.” She turned pathetic eyes to Guy. “I can’t bear seeing people suffer.”

  “The police are so inconsiderate,” said Sheila. “And it isn’t as though this wasn’t a house of mourning. Is it really necessary for Jessie and Elspeth to attend? Maids are such dreadful ghouls. We don’t want them talking over our darling, do we, Nancy, dear?”

  An idea which had been at the back of Guy’s mind suddenly took shape. “I came to tell you that we shall want not only Jessie and Elspeth, but Mrs. Hemmings and Taylor too. You see we never know who the coroner will decide to ask for.”

  “Then that settles it, darling,” said Sheila blankly. “It will have to be the big car.”

  “But if we both go, who will look after poor Mother?”

  Guy suggested, “Mightn’t the district nurse look in for an hour or two?”

  “The district nurse?” exclaimed Sheila in horror. “She’s maintained by subscriptions. Mother wouldn’t like that.”

  “Why can’t our darling be laid away quietly,” said Nancy piteously, “without all these dreadful arrangements?”

  Guy made sympathetic noises and waited for them to settle something. At last Sheila made up her mind. “It will have to be Nurse Radcliffe. It isn’t as if Mother disliked her and, after all, she was a V.A.D. in the war.”

  “I suppose,” said Nancy, “it is the only possible arrangement. I do hope the coroner will understand and not keep us hanging about.”

  “I rather gather,” said Guy, “that the proceedings tomorrow will be purely formal. I see no reason why you shouldn’t be back here in nice time for lunch.”

  Sheila groaned and Nancy shuddered at the mere thought of food on the day of the inquest, so Guy quickly changed the subject by putting “one last little routine enquiry.”

  “It’s not really important, of course, but we like to have everything tidy and there appears to be a small hiatus in my notes as to the servants’ movements last Saturday morning, the day the disappearance was discovered. Jessie, now…?”

  “Jessie went into Melchester without permission,” said Nancy quickly. “Don’t you remember how annoyed Mother was, darling?” Sheila remembered now that it was mentioned and Guy made an elaborate note, before asking, “And the others?”

  Sheila remembered distinctly seeing Mrs. Hemmings and Taylor and Nancy wasn’t sure that she had noticed Elspeth. “Might she have slipped out without either of us noticing, darling?” Sheila cast her mind back. “It was Saturday — her day for doing the housemaid’s cupboard… I can distinctly hear Mother saying, “You can leave it till later, Elspeth.’”

  “Yes, darling. When we went upstairs with the Superintendent…?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “What time would that be?” asked Guy.

  “It must have been just about twelve,” said Nancy. “A little before, I should think.”

  “No, Nancy, a little after, because — don’t you remember, darling? — we had early lunch as soon as the Superintendent had left.”

  “You can’t fix the time closer than that?” asked Guy, not quite satisfied.

  Sheila wrinkled her brows, then asked Nancy, “What time was it when you got back from your runaround in the car?”

  “I don’t remember, darling. We were all so fussed that time didn’t seem to matter. I know the Superintendent was here.”

  “Ah, then I’ll ask him,” said Guy shutting his notebook. “It’s of no great importance.”

  Guy could never leave gracefully. Now the only farewell he could think of was, “Well, au revoir till the inquest,” and that wouldn’t quite do. Instead, he took an interest in Nancy’s embroidery. “That’s very pretty, but isn’t it rather trying for the eyes?”

  Nancy explained that she could sew all day and her eyes never ached, and Sheila volunteered that her eyes started to water if she even attempted to sew on a button. Guy then remembered his head had ached rather a lot lately and Sheila told him he couldn’t go to a better oculist than Mr. Walton, 16, Giles’ Square; they all, even Nancy, went to him once a year, just to see that nothing was wrong. Guy gratefully wrote down the name and address, complimented Nancy again on her work, and, at last, got out of the room.

  In the drive, by his car, the moon-faced constable was waiting.

  “Found ’em, sir,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “What — the whole lot?”

  “Yessir. Dress, shoes, ’andbag and ’at, wrapped up in brown paper. In a pond, as you said, just off the road, not ’alf a mile from the ’ouse. The brown paper parcel also contained a pound weight, seemingly off some kitchen scales. Not knowing has you were ’ere, I despatched Chart with them to the station, while I remained in observation ’ere, sir.”

  “Good,” said Guy and drove quickly back to Melchester singing hymns. It was beginning to open and shut. A few more enquiries and he’d have a case for a jury. He’d been lucky that morning, but he was on to it anyhow and if you stuck to your jo
b you deserved any luck that was going. With the inquest at twelve tomorrow, he had a busy evening before him. A chat with the ticket collector first at the station; then he ought to call and see — no, he’d look such a fool if he was wrong! He’d better verify his idea by reference to an encyclopedia; there must be a public library in Melchester. He must get his case perfect before he opened up to the Chief Constable or Dawes. Then he’d have to pretend to be modest.

  Here were the streets of Melchester. Guy had hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary for him to see Dawes again that day, but Dawes was seated at his desk; the damp objects, which had been Delia Cathcart’s London clothes, were spread before him and with piercing but unseeing eyes he was looking them through and through.

  Guy said, “No fingerprints, of course, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Any notes in the bag?”

  “No money at all. The contents of the bag are: Three handkerchiefs; a letter signed G. Marchmont, asking if a certain horse, presumably offered for sale by Miss Cathcart, has ever been known to buck, rear, bolt, pull, crib-bite, wind-suck or…er…bore. A powder compact with a horse’s head on it. A button. Two hairpins. A receipted bill from the local saddler. A safety pin. A snapshot of a span’el. A cookery recipe cut out from a newspaper. Two cigarette cards. And a piece of string.”

  “In fact the normal contents of a lady’s handbag — except for the absence of cigarettes, half a dozen boxes of matches, two or three lipsticks and a pot of paste rouge. Now, we want to trace a few of the notes.”

  “Yes, the case is breaking nicely,” said Dawes.

  “I’ve been doing a round of the pubs. Funny how some fellows start talking when they’ve had one or two. Listen to this, Northeast.” Superintendent Dawes thumbed over his notebook. “‘She’s an interfering old bitch and, by God, I’m not going to stand any nonsense. I don’t like hitting a woman, but D.C.’s a sour-winded old mare.’

  “That’s threatening language, right enough.”

  “Yes; and said before those who are ready to swear to it. We’ll soon be getting our man.”

  Guy couldn’t resist saying, “By ‘our man,’ you mean Forbes, I take it, not Ames?”

  “Of course I mean Forbes. I admit I did suspect the groom at one time, but I believe in keeping an open mind.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that, sir,” said Guy and met the Superintendent’s keen look with blank blue eyes. However, the Superintendent hadn’t passed thirty years in the force without learning how to keep inspectors in their place.

  “What you’ve got to do now, Northeast, is to concentrate on our case against Forbes. I think we can consider Ames, Funge and Willoughby definitely out. What I can’t quite see yet is how Forbes got that suitcase planted.”

  “His wife told me…”

  “His wife, did you say? That’s a new one on me.”

  Guy thought it best to apologize handsomely. “I ought to have mentioned it before. His wife is Elspeth, the housemaid at the Grange.”

  “When did you discover that?”

  “I got a line on it yesterday, but I only got it really established this afternoon. As I was saying, Mrs. Forbes told me that there were other women. So I was wondering whether we had not better get on a line on his Melchester lady friends. He may have used one of them to plant the suitcase.”

  “Why not the wife?”

  “She’s more or less got an alibi; at least it depends what time you were at the Grange on Saturday morning. Did you happen, sir, to make a note of the time?”

  Dawes referred to his notebook. “11:10 a.m., Saturday, July 2nd, took call from Marley Grange, reporting Miss Delia Cathcart missing; proceeded to Marley by car; arrived Marley Grange, 11:45 a.m. to carry out investigation noted below.”

  “It’s not quite conclusive,” said Guy, thinking aloud.

  “What do you mean ‘not quite conclusive’? I couldn’t be much more definite, could I?”

  “No, sir. What I mean is that it doesn’t quite let her out from having been at Melchester earlier. The suitcase was put in the train before 11:30, so whoever did it, if they traveled by car, had time to get back to the Grange and slip in by the back door before you went upstairs. Elspeth’s alibi is that she was doing out a cupboard upstairs at the time of your visit.”

  “That’s right! And that was after I had taken down particulars and been out to see the bed in the garden.”

  Guy made some mental calculations. “That would make it not earlier than twelve. There seems to be no doubt that she did out the cupboard; both the Miss Cathcarts remember seeing her.”

  “And so do I, though I didn’t happen to make a note in my book. Both Miss Cathcarts, you say? Yes, the younger one joined us when I went out to the lawn.”

  “And that would be much before twelve?”

  Dawes thought. “No, a few minutes after rather than before. That looks like being another spoke in our man’s wheel.”

  “It’s fortunate you noticed the time.”

  “There’s not much that escapes me. Now about that inquest…”

  But then the telephone rang. Dawes raised the receiver, made a few notes on his pad, and rang off.

  “They’re on to Willoughby at last: Warburton Private Hotel, Monk Street, just off the Cromwell Road, Earl’s Court end. If you hurry, Northeast, and give tea a miss, you’ll catch the five-thirty; but mind you’re back in the morning in time for the inquest.”

  Guy started, “But…” and then remembered you mustn’t question an order. If “our man” was Forbes, why send him off on a wild goose chase? If he got up early and came down with the milk, he ought to have an hour in Melchester in the morning to complete his case before the inquest opened. So he said, “Yes, sir,” and from the door, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

  Guy gave tea a miss and had time to do his business with the ticket collector before he settled back in the corner of his empty smoker to marshal the facts of his case. But disappointment awaited him in London. Captain Willoughby had gone out to a show and had left word that he and his wife would not be back till morning as they’d probably feel like a spot of dancing.

  8

  Saturday

  Guy rose early. There was a dewy freshness even about the Cromwell Road, but the Warburton Private Hotel had a permanently end-of-day appearance and smelt strongly of mice. Captain and Mrs. Willoughby had a suite on the first floor and, because they had been out late, were having breakfast upstairs and, if the gentleman would wait in the lounge, the manageress would take up his name.

  Guy waited under a palm and presently he was conducted up a flight of stairs decorated with steel engravings depicting the domestic felicity of Queen Victoria and Albert the Good. In a square sitting room of immense height, a short, foxy, fortyish man in a checked suit and a young blonde lady in a pink dressing gown were finishing their breakfast of bacon and eggs. Cheerily, they welcomed him in.

  “Thought you’d dig me out,” said Willoughby, helping himself to marmalade. “Knew it as soon as I saw that poor old Delia Cathcart had been put down.”

  Guy asked why he hadn’t come forward in response to the police appeal. “You don’t know my wife,” said Willoughby. “If I’d broken covert, she’d have got hold of me again. Tenacious woman, Gerda. A real octopus. I’m always anxious to oblige the police, but Pip and I talked it over and decided it wouldn’t do.”

  Pip helped herself to a banana.

  “That’s right. Mickey came all over highbrow and talked about his communal responsibility, but we couldn’t risk Gerda. You really ought to meet her, Mr. East… West…”

  “Northeast. I have met her. Captain Willoughby, can you account for your movements on the evening of last Friday and Saturday morning up to twelve noon?”

  “Good God,” said Willoughby, “you don’t mean to say that you’ve got anything on me? I hardly knew the old girl. She used to ride on my tail and she’d see me home if she could, but heavens alive, man, that kind’s not my cup of tea.”

&nb
sp; Considering Pip, with her green eyes, mop of curls and thin, heart-shaped face, Guy believed him. “All the same, sir, I should like an account of your movements. We’re questioning all Miss Cathcart’s friends with the object of eliminating those that don’t matter, and you must admit that it is impossible for us to overlook the fact that you and Miss Cathcart disappeared from your homes on the same day.”

  “Disgusting minds the police have,” grumbled Willoughby. “Me and Delia Cathcart! Might as well have gone away with my old gray mare! Well, Inspector, this is the best I can do for you. Friday night — bridge at the Hall till eleven or so; then home. Didn’t disturb Gerda; we’ve separate bedrooms — have for years. Didn’t go to bed but packed and started in the cold light of dawn. Garaged the car. Got some breakfast at the coffee stall in the station yard. Traveled up by the 7:30, and Pip, bless her, met me at Waterloo.”

  “Will anyone bear you out?”

  “The garage attendant and the man at the coffee stall, I should think.”

  “Did you travel up with anyone you knew?”

  “Good God, no; not known on workmen’s trains.”

  “And Miss…er…Pip. Can you prove that you were in London on Saturday morning?”

  Pip blinked her green eyes. “Curious, aren’t you? I…I breakfasted with the girl I’ve been sharing a flat with and then went to Waterloo to meet Mickey.”

  “Quite! And the address of your flat?”

  “3, Daphne Buildings, Dean Street, off the King’s Road.”

  Guy made a note of the address. “One last question — do you happen to remember what you were wearing that morning?”

  “Scarlet and white checked skirt, scarlet jacket, no hat and white shoes.”

  “Thank you.” Guy closed his notebook. “I suppose I can count on you to be here for a few days longer?”

  “Till the end of the month,” said Willoughby. “Paid the rent in advance.”

  Guy refused a whiskey and soda, promised not to give the address away to Mrs. Willoughby, and rushed off to catch his train. By eleven o’clock he was reporting to Dawes. “Willoughby’s got an alibi of sorts, but it’ll take some checking.”