“I rather wished there had been something more to do — it had all been so lovely and exciting, but I consoled myself by thinking of all the clever things I should do today. I went to sleep at once and when I woke up this morning it was lovely and gave me such a peaceful feeling just to lie and think, ‘No more D.’ Of course, later on, there was an awful fuss. Mother soon panicked and I offered to go out in my car and look for D. Had a job with S., who offered to go, but she’s easy to manage. I buzzed off and, as it was still early and there was nobody about, I took the opportunity to throw the parcel into the pond on the Melchester road. It sank beautifully. I drove round a bit, laughing and singing, and then I went back to the house — oh, dear, no sign of darling Delia! Offered to go on looking for her — wasn’t it good of me? — and this time I drove into Melchester and did the station part — it went off beautifully. Drove home. Found Mother and S. on the doorstep with a great fat stupid policeman. Looked at him appealingly and told him I’d just seen a dreadful rough man, and, of course, he believed me. We all went to D.’s room and the silly policeman found out just what I meant them to, and thinks that D. had gone off on a jaunt, just as I intended! I wonder why it has taken me so long to discover how clever I am? Ha, ha, you great big policeman, you’re no match for little me!”
For the next few days, this tone persisted, a crescendo of vanity sounding through the record of events. The broadcast message inspired: “Fancy, the very air’s vibrating about something I’ve done,” and it was, “Come on! The more the merrier,” when Scotland Yard was called in. All the time Nancy was making the best of her newfound freedom. She bought a lipstick, presented Mrs. Smith with two huge cauliflowers, bought high-heeled shoes and sent a subscription to the Waifs and Strays. Guy bit his lip as he read, “A huge great detective has arrived from Scotland Yard. He’s got lovely blue eyes, I must say, and I believe he was rather attracted to little me, but he’s not the type I admire; I’m sure he doesn’t know the meaning of passion — he reminds me of a stupid placid Guernsey cow. The funny thing was that I felt quite sorry for him — he won’t find out anything and I expect he’ll get into a row about it when he goes back to Scotland Yard.”
Even the discovery of Delia’s body had failed to shake Nancy’s confidence. She wrote, “Rather a nuisance — today the Guernsey cow found D. and I’d thought she wouldn’t be discovered at any rate until the autumn, and then only if Appleyard wanted some manure. Old Major C. came in and tried to break it gently. S. made a fuss and Mother had a heart attack. I tried to squeeze out some tears, but I couldn’t, so I just sat and stared in front of me and, as the silly old fool went out, I heard him whisper to S. that I was stunned by the shock and that it would be better for me if I cried! Until all this happened, I had no idea that I was such a good actress. It comes quite naturally to me. I daresay I should have been a Duse or a Bernhardt if I had thought of going on the stage.”
The publicity that the newspapers gave to the murder definitely pleased her. “To think that all this is being written about something I’ve done! The papers say that an early arrest is expected. I believe the Guernsey cow has been talking to the maids a lot, and Cook told S. that she thinks they suspect Ames. Well, I can’t help it. Ames isn’t a nice man; he smells horrid and I’m sure he doesn’t lead a nice life and, anyhow, rough men like that don’t feel things like we do. D. has been taken away to the mortuary. I wish I had seen her, but, of course, it was S. who was asked to identify the body; they thought it would be too upsetting for me!! I asked S. what D. looked like, and S. said, ‘Very peaceful,’ but I’m sure she didn’t. I wonder if the worms have begun on her.
“S. and Mother have decided that we must go into mourning, so this evening a person came out from Boles and Finch’s with some clothes for us to choose. It was sickening having to have black, but I chose a dress with a lovely fluffy white collar. D. would have said, ‘I shouldn’t have thought you would have had that Toby frill,’ but you’re dead now, D.…”
Then: “This afternoon the Guernsey cow came about the inquest. For some silly reason of his own, he wants all the maids to go. S. didn’t want me to go, but luckily the cow wanted us both. I suppose the verdict will be the one about ‘murder by a person or persons unknown,’ and then we shall have all the bother of the funeral and then, at last, I shall be able to start my lovely new life without D. I do hope that Mother and S. won’t keep up their silly sniveling much longer.”
On returning from the inquest, Nancy had made a short entry: “Hooray! It’s over and I didn’t even have to go into court. I wonder more people don’t commit murder — it’s ever so easy if you’ve got brains. But, of course, you need courage, too. I must be awfully brave — if I had been a man I should have made a splendid soldier and probably have got the V.C.…”
A few lines were left blank, and then in a shaky sprawling handwriting, very different from Nancy’s normal, rather insipid copperplate, came the pages that Guy had read and wouldn’t forget in years. “Oh, God help me! They must have discovered everything! A little while ago, when I was out in the garden with John, S. called and said that Major Carruthers wanted to speak to me on the telephone. I couldn’t think why, and then I thought that perhaps he’d realized that I’m the cleverest of the family and wanted to ask me some quite ordinary question. I went to the ’phone and I can’t remember exactly what he said, but he told me that the police are coming out here to arrest me! I couldn’t believe it at first — what mistake can I have made? — but, when I did, I dropped the receiver and ran out of the room. S. was in the hall, and she started talking to me, but I pushed past her and ran upstairs and locked myself in my bedroom. I didn’t panic or cry, like most women would have done, but I sat down on my bed and made up my mind what I would do. I couldn’t bear to be hanged — the rope and everything would be too awful — and I soon thought of something — the doctor gave us a box of tablets for Mother — she was to take one every night to make her sleep and, even if she couldn’t sleep, she was never to take more than two. S. and I have been keeping the box in the bathroom cupboard, and I’ve just been in there and taken twenty — one after another with lots of sips of water. Presently I shall go to sleep and then I shall die — I’m not frightened, but I think it’s very sad that I should die when I’ve only had just these few days of life without D. She spoiled my whole life, and I think it’s much worse to spoil a person’s life than to kill someone; people talk a lot about freedom and how splendid it is, and all I wanted was to be free. I wonder if I shall be free when I’m dead? I’m afraid I shan’t. If there is another life, D.’s there already — she’ll be waiting for me…
“I’m beginning to feel sleepy. It’s a lovely afternoon. There’s a sort of golden light over everything and the only sounds I can hear are the fantails cooing and the whir of the mowing machine. When I was in the bathroom, John came upstairs to me — he’s sitting beside me now, and whenever I look down at him, he wags his tail. He’s such a dear fat dog. I’m going to leave my diary out, so that everyone can read it and understand why I killed D., so will someone who’s really fond of dogs — not Mother or S. — look after John please…”
*
Guy closed the diary and stretched out a hand for his gin and lime. The first swallow was difficult — he was a bit sentimental about dogs himself and he remembered, “Many’s the kindness she’s done unbeknownst,” and he remembered the crisscross lines at the corners of Nancy’s eyes and the gray in her hair. And it’s true that it is worse to spoil a person’s life than to kill someone, and it’s true that freedom is a splendid thing. Oh, well, it was no use wasting sympathy on a criminal…the gin and lime went down nicely…only, once he had thrown a turnip at his brother…yes, there, but for the grace of God, went Guy Northeast; there, but for the grace of God, went every one of us.
THE END
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They Rang Up the Police: A classic murder mystery set in rural England (Inspector Guy Northeast Book 1) Page 19