A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

by Cleeves, Ann

  There was another silence.

  ‘What about the parish?’ Ramsay asked. ‘How did the church react to your new wife? Your marriage must have come as something of a shock.’

  ‘They loved her,’ Cassidy said quickly. ‘Everyone loved Dorothea.’

  ‘In my experience,’ Ramsay said, ‘ change is never universally welcomed.’

  Surprisingly Cassidy smiled. ‘ Of course you’re right,’ he said. ‘St Mary’s has always been considered conservative and some of the elderly parishioners found it hard to adjust to a new situation. When I was first ordained I had the reputation, through my books, of being something of a rebel, but over the years I’ve learned the value of compromise and tolerance. Dorothea had strong views and always found compromise difficult.’

  ‘So she ruffled a few feathers?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Cassidy said. ‘Not deliberately, of course. She never set out to shock. I don’t think she even realised the reaction she provoked.’

  ‘That must have put you in a difficult position,’ Ramsay said.

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t like unpleasantness, bad feeling. It seems unnecessary. Occasionally I thought I should have supported her more strongly but I didn’t want to offend. Some of the church council had a misleading impression of our relationship. They saw me, I gather, as a hen-pecked husband who had been bullied to accept new ideas.’

  ‘Was that true?’ Ramsay asked. ‘Were you in sympathy with your wife’s views?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Completely. All the same I could understand the distress that change can bring to people who hold very traditional opinions.’

  So you sat on the fence, Ramsay thought. He had known senior police officers like the clergyman. They took all the credit when things were going well but denied responsibility at the first whiff of criticism.

  ‘Perhaps you could explain the changes which were specifically objected to,’ he said. ‘It’s hard for an outsider to understand.’

  ‘Oh,’ Cassidy said, ‘there was nothing specific, you know. It was more a difference in attitude, in perspective.’

  Ramsay decided then that he would have to learn the substance of any disagreement between Dorothea and the elderly parishioners from someone else and that it was time to change the direction of the questions.

  ‘When did you last see your wife?’ he asked.

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ Cassidy said. ‘The three of us had breakfast together.’

  ‘Was it unusual for your wife to be out all day?’

  ‘Not on a Thursday. She had trained to be a social worker and Thursday was her day for voluntary work. Sometimes she managed to get home for lunch but not that often. I didn’t really expect her back yesterday.’

  ‘Did you know that she had planned to give a talk to the old people at Armstrong House in the evening?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose so. I mean I expect she told me but I don’t quite remember. She was so disorganised, you know, always brimming with new projects. Thursday was her day you see. I didn’t interfere. Quite often she arrived home late in the evening after a meeting; sometimes she went out with her friends for a meal. She said that it was important for her to have one day when she felt she really achieved something. It wasn’t always easy to organise but I could understand why she needed it …’

  He tailed off and sat again with his head in his hands. Ramsay said nothing and as the silence grew he could sense Cassidy’s discomfort. The man had loved his wife but he wanted Ramsay to understand that living with her had not always been easy.

  ‘Sarah was very much a traditional vicar’s wife,’ he said. ‘She ran the Mothers’ Union, saw to the flowers. You know the sort of thing. Dorothea had other gifts.’ There was self-pity in his voice. He made it clear that Dorothea’s gifts had been to him a mixed blessing. ‘She was very concerned that we should attract young people into the church and was convinced that we should make the worship more accessible to them. A lot of her energy was focused in that direction. She started a youth club, for example, and organised the crèche during family communion. But she had so many enthusiasms that she was still unfulfilled. She needed her Thursdays.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsay said, ‘I see.’ But what did she get up to? he wanted to say. What did she do on Thursdays that so fulfilled her? Instead he said: ‘Did she work with any one organisation? The social services department? Probation?’

  Cassidy shook his head. ‘Nothing like that,’ he said. ‘ Though she worked very closely with both of them. She saw herself as a catalyst, setting up new projects, encouraging other people to help themselves.’

  ‘Did she have a diary?’ Ramsay asked. ‘You can see that it’s vital that we find out where she went yesterday.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cassidy said. ‘ It was one of those big page-a-day affairs. She was always losing it and throwing the whole house into panic. Her memory was appalling and she wouldn’t have survived without it.’

  ‘What about a handbag?’ Ramsay asked. ‘We didn’t find one with her.’

  ‘Yes, though it was too big really to be called a handbag. She had brought it back from Africa. It was made of brown leather with an embossed pattern of birds on the flap. She was very fond of it.’

  For the first time in the interview Ramsay wrote in his notebook.

  ‘And you have no idea at all where she might have gone yesterday?’ he said. ‘Did she have any regular Thursday appointments?’

  But Cassidy only shook his head sadly and absent-mindedly. He stood up and walked to the window and looked out at his son.

  ‘I must ask you some questions about your movements last night,’ Ramsay said. ‘You do understand. In a murder inquiry we have to take statements from everyone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cassidy said. ‘Of course.’ He still seemed preoccupied with his son.

  ‘Where were you yesterday evening? Perhaps we could start at about five and go on until this morning.’

  ‘This morning?’ Cassidy said. ‘But Dorothea went missing at seven thirty yesterday evening. Annie phoned from Armstrong House to tell me.’

  ‘We think she must have been murdered rather later than that,’ Ramsay said. ‘Though of course we’ll have to trace her movements to find out where she was in the early evening. So, where were you at five o’clock?’

  ‘I was here in the vicarage but only until about quarter past,’ Cassidy said. ‘From half past five until half past seven I was in the cottage hospital visiting the patients. Most of them are geriatric and many are quite confused but they seem to welcome the visit. It’s a regular commitment. I go every week.’

  ‘Then Dorothea could have returned to the vicarage during that time without you knowing?’

  ‘I suppose so. Patrick might have been in, of course, at least for some of the time.’

  ‘But there was no indication that she had been in the house? No sign, for example, that she had prepared herself a meal?’

  ‘No,’ Cassidy said. ‘ I don’t think so, though if she had just made coffee and a sandwich I probably wouldn’t have noticed.’

  ‘What time did you return from the cottage hospital?’

  ‘At about a quarter to eight.’

  ‘Was your son here then?’

  ‘No,’ Cassidy said. ‘He had come home from the university but he’d gone out again. He has a very active social life. I find it hard to keep up with him.’

  ‘Soon after you arrived home Annie Ramsay phoned from Armstrong House to say that Dorothea hadn’t turned up for the talk?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cassidy said. ‘That must have been at about eight o’clock.’

  ‘Were you concerned?’

  ‘Not at first. To tell the truth I was a little irritated. Dorothea was sometimes so busy that she over-committed herself. I presumed that she was late because a previous appointment had taken longer than she had expected.’

  ‘Did you go out to look for her?’

  ‘Not then. I had arranged for a young couple who plan to marry in St Mary’s to come to see me. T
hey came at half past eight and stayed for about twenty minutes. By then I was starting to be a little worried about Dorothea. Usually if she was that late she phoned me and it was unlike her to miss an appointment altogether. I phoned some of her friends but no one had seen her. At about ten o’clock I went out to look for her.’

  ‘Did you have any idea where to look?’

  ‘None at all. It was hopeless. With the fair and the festival there was traffic everywhere. I’d planned vaguely just to drive around the by-pass in case her car had broken down but it all took much longer than I anticipated. It was a foolish thing to do but I felt so helpless, just waiting here on my own. I suppose I just hoped that when I returned she would be here waiting for me with some perfectly reasonable explanation for why she’d gone missing …’ He paused. ‘It happened once before, you know, after an argument, one of those trivial arguments that develop out of nothing. We both lost our tempers and said some unpleasant things. Dorothea left the house and didn’t come back all night. Patrick and I were frantic with worry. At dawn I went out to look for her and when I came back she was here, sitting at the kitchen table as if nothing had happened, drinking coffee. She offered to make me breakfast. Later, when I asked her where she had been she said it didn’t matter. She had needed to be on her own, a time almost of retreat. She hadn’t realised, I think, how anxious I would be.’

  ‘But yesterday there was no argument?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Cassidy said. ‘There was nothing like that.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t contact the police?’

  ‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘Dorothea would have been furious if there had been a fuss. Thursday was her day and I’d promised not to interfere. The police did phone, when I got back, to see if I’d heard from her. Apparently Annie had alerted them.’

  ‘What time did you return from your search for her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps half past eleven.’

  ‘Was your son back then?’ Ramsay asked.

  ‘No,’ Cassidy said sadly. ‘The house was still dark. I went to bed in the end. There seemed nothing else to do. Patrick came in at half past twelve. I heard his footsteps on the drive and looked out of the bedroom window in case it was Dorothea. He saw me and waved but we didn’t speak.’

  There was a silence and then Cassidy said simply: ‘I’d like to be on my own for a while now, Inspector. I’m sure you understand. If you have any more questions you can come back later.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ramsay said. ‘ There’s just one more thing. Had Mrs Cassidy cut herself when she left home yesterday morning? Perhaps there was some accident? There appears to be a wound on her wrist.’

  Cassidy seemed confused. ‘No,’ he said. ‘ There was nothing like that. I’m sure I should have noticed.’

  Ramsay thanked him and left him alone in the room that was full of memories of his wife.

  Chapter Three

  Patrick Cassidy was in love and from the beginning that clouded his judgement. Later he was amazed at his own stupidity. He should have realised at once that Ramsay was an intelligent man who needed careful handling. He should have thought the thing through more clearly. His mistakes came, he saw afterwards, from an inflated idea of his own importance. He should have used that time in the garden while Ramsay was talking to his father to prepare his story. Instead, when the inspector came out of the house and sat beside him on the grass, he was confused and uncertain.

  Ramsay too was feeling his way. Apart from his work he had little contact with young people. He distrusted them and envied their freedom and irresponsibility. He was not sure how to talk to them. Patrick Cassidy had flattened a path in the long grass between the house and the patch of open sunlight where he sat. As he walked along it Ramsay could feel the boy looking at him and he was nervous too. The vicarage garden backed on to the river though the water was hidden by the shrubbery beyond the lawn. Cassidy’s wait, the night before, must have been accompanied by the music of the roundabouts at the fun fair along the bank. On the opposite shore the pathologist and the scene-of-crime team would be looking at Dorothea’s body. From an upstairs window it might even be possible to see them.

  When Ramsay reached Patrick Cassidy the boy stood up, not it seemed because of an old-fashioned respect for authority but because he found it impossible, any longer, to sit still.

  ‘Please,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Sit down.’ He took off his jacket and sat on the grass. But then he did not know how to continue.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the boy asked. ‘Where is Dorothea?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said. ‘Your stepmother is dead.’

  Patrick Cassidy did not move. It was as if he had been winded by a heavy blow. Ramsay was sure the news came as a surprise to him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Of course. I should have known.’ ‘ Should have known what?’

  ‘That she was dead. When she wasn’t here this morning. I should have realised.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  The boy shook his head in confusion. ‘I had thought that there might be some other reason for her staying away. Perhaps one of us had upset her without realising. But that was foolish. She and Dad were happy.’

  He spoke quickly, without emotion. The sun had made his face red and as he leaned forward in the chair his blue eyes stared out with unnatural intensity.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘Was it the car?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t the car. We believe that she was murdered.’

  ‘Who killed her?’ The boy spoke very quietly and again he was quite still, as if holding his breath.

  ‘We don’t know. Not yet.’

  ‘Where was her body found?’

  ‘Here in Otterbridge. In Prior’s Park, close to the river.’ That seemed almost to bring him some relief.

  ‘Prior’s Park,’ he repeated. ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Ramsay said. ‘ I’m here to ask questions. We need to trace her movements.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. When you said she was dead I thought there must have been an accident. She drove that bloody car like a maniac.’ He turned to face Ramsay. ‘It must have been a stranger. No one who knew Dorothea would have wanted to kill her.’

  ‘She had no enemies then?’ Ramsay asked mildly. ‘I understood from your father that she wasn’t always popular in the church.’

  ‘Oh!’ Patrick said. ‘Those malicious old biddies were harmless enough. They might stab you in the back figuratively but not literally.’

  ‘Mrs Cassidy was strangled, not stabbed,’ Ramsay said quietly.

  Patrick went pale and for a moment Ramsay thought he would be sick.

  ‘I’m sorry, it was just a manner of speaking. I didn’t realise.’

  ‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘How could you?’

  There was a silence. Patrick stood up and looked down at the policeman.

  ‘She wasn’t frightened of dying, you know. We talked about it once. She was the sort of person you could discuss anything with. How could she be? she said. I think that’s why she drove the car so recklessly. She wasn’t frightened of anything?’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ Ramsay asked.

  The boy paused. ‘ Yesterday morning at breakfast. Dad was there too, hiding behind his newspaper, waiting for us to go so that he could have the place to himself. Dorothea was in a rush, disorganised as usual. She had half a bowl of muesli and a glass of orange juice. And lots of coffee. She was a coffee addict. She offered me a lift to the station. I usually get the train into town – but she was obviously in a hurry and I said I’d walk.’

  ‘Did she tell you what her plans for the day were?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not in any detail.’ He remembered the meal, the strain between them, Dorothea’s demands for information and his refusal to give it. And throughout it all his father sitting oblivious reading the Telegraph. Then he remembered that in the end his father had lowered the paper and t
here had been a conversation of sorts with Dorothea doing most of the talking.

  ‘Something was worrying her,’ he said, because he wanted to tell the policeman something. ‘A case conference. “I hate the idea of taking a child into care,” she said, “and this time I’m not even convinced that it’s necessary.’” He looked down at Ramsay. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t really listening.’ And that was true, he thought. He had other things on his mind.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘That’s very helpful.’ A case conference meant that Dorothea Cassidy had been involved in something official. A case conference meant social workers and teachers. It should be easy enough to find out where that had taken place. ‘Did you see your stepmother again during the day?’ he asked. ‘Or her car?’

  Patrick hesitated and for the first time Ramsay wondered if he might be lying. He seemed for a moment to panic but when he spoke at last he was calm enough.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘ I was in Newcastle all day. At the university.’

  ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘At about five thirty. I came on the bus.’

  ‘Was anyone in the house when you arrived?’

  ‘No,’ Patrick said very quickly. ‘It was Dad’s evening for the cottage hospital.’

  ‘And no sign of Dorothea?’

  ‘If there had been,’ Patrick said firmly, ‘I would have already told you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsay replied absently. ‘I’m sure you would.’

  The boy sat down again on the deck chair, and curled in it to face the policeman.

  ‘I can’t help you. I’m sorry.’