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

by Joanna Cannan

  What was it? She sat up, throwing off her blankets, clasping her knees, and the whistle came again, the double note, rising and falling, which is commonly used to attract the attention of an associate. Whi-whew! She swung her legs out of the bed, struggled into her dressing gown and, treading as lightly as possible, set off across the lawn. She opened the wicket gate without a sound, and, keeping near to the hedge, tiptoed across the gravel. There was light in the north still; the line of the stable roof cut the sky and she could see her way clearly, but she must be careful; he might have whistled, but there were other lovers…

  As she came to the end of the hedge, she heard a third whistle. She could always tell where sounds came from — even when hounds spoke deep down in the beechwoods, she was not deceived by echoes. She knew now that the whistle didn’t come from the stable yard but from behind the stable. Well, that was a better place; the shrubs that bordered the back drive made it dark and secret. She crossed the yard, glancing back at the house; there was no light there and no sound but the soft familiar rustle of Flavia moving in the loose box. Ah, such a night for love, thought Delia, and she crept round the corner of the stable…

  2

  Saturday

  “Your coffee, darling.”

  “Oh, darling, thank you.”

  “Is it really just as you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely, Sheila dear.”

  Since the demise of Humphrey Cathcart, breakfast at Marley Grange had been a bright and cheerful meal. To be grouchy at breakfast, Grace would argue, to grumble about the weather, the crops or the government, to withdraw behind a newspaper was antisocial and worse: it was rank ingratitude, she would continue, dropping her voice, to One Above. You had survived the perils of the night; you had your health and strength; and here was a new day with all its opportunities…

  Humphrey had never responded to these arguments: he had said for God’s sake shut up, and for Christ’s sake stop nagging; and that was such a funny way to go on, because deep down in his heart he must have known that Grace was right. However, he was gone now and, though Nancy had his fairness and Delia his voice and his love of horses, in character the girls were pure Ponsonby-Copes, and the Ponsonby-Copes had always been bright at breakfast.

  At Marley Grange there was no nonsense about tomato juice or grapefruit; silver dishes containing eggs and bacon, some kind of fish and perhaps grilled kidneys were to be found keeping hot on the highly polished copper lazy man. There was a choice of tea or coffee, bread, scones or toast, and Delia was generally sampling a new kind of cereal. Every one attended to the needs of others before her own, and this caused some confusion and much chatter… “Darling, this was for you…” “No, you have it, darling…” Delia was firm; Sheila in a muddle; like a ray of sunshine, Nancy flitted here and there.

  When at last everybody had what she wanted, there was a lull before people started seizing one another’s empty plates and carrying them to the side table, and it was then that Mrs. Cathcart, beaming on her daughters, would enquire, “Well, what are the plans for today?” This morning, however, a hitch occurred in her routine. Sheila had helped Nancy and her mother to coffee, Nancy had helped Sheila to eggs and bacon and her mother to kidneys, Nancy had poured out Sheila’s tea and Sheila had placed a lightly boiled egg before Nancy, and now all three of them were sitting down at the table, but, as Delia had not yet entered the dining room, it was impossible to discuss plans. Mrs. Cathcart said a little peevishly, “Where’s darling D.?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sheila. “I didn’t hear her in the bathroom so I called out of the landing window as I came downstairs. I thought she might have overslept. But she was up all right. Perhaps she got up early.”

  “Perhaps she’s gone for a walk,” said Nancy. “It’s a lovely morning.”

  “If she had gone for a walk she would have taken John,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “She was saying only yesterday that he needs more exercise. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with the horses?”

  “I can see Skylark,” said Sheila, who sat opposite the window. She screwed up her shortsighted eyes and said, “He looks all right. And when I looked out on my way downstairs I could see that Ames was grooming Flavia. Perhaps D.’s gone mushrooming.”

  Mrs. Cathcart laughed. “You vague darling! There won’t be any mushrooms for a fortnight or three weeks. And if she had gone out somewhere she would have been back by now. She’s a Ponsonby-Cope for punctuality.”

  “Perhaps her watch stopped,” suggested Sheila.

  “It wouldn’t be that. Delia’s watch is always right,” said Nancy.

  “Let me take your plate away, Mother,” said Sheila. “Then I’ll run out and ask Ames if he has seen her. Or would you like another kidney?”

  “No, thank you, darling. But I don’t want you to interrupt your breakfast.”

  “I’ll go,” said Nancy.

  “No, I’ll go,” said Sheila. She put her mother’s plate on the side table and left the room.

  The stable yard was flooded with sunshine. White fantail pigeons were cooing on the brown roof; a ginger cat stepped delicately across the cobbles. Ames was standing by the tap staring in front of him while Flavia’s teak bucket filled and brimmed over. He was a dark, youngish man, who had been eighteen months in the Cathcarts’ service.

  “Oh, Ames,” stammered Sheila, who was shy with servants, “have you seen Miss Delia this morning?”

  The groom started out of his dream and turned the tap off. “No, Miss,” he said, “I haven’t.”

  “She hasn’t come in to breakfast,” said Sheila. “She’s been sleeping out, you know.” Sheila colored and went on hurriedly, “We wondered if she had gone for a walk or something.”

  “I haven’t seen her, Miss,” said Ames, lifting the bucket.

  Sheila said, “Thank you,” and turned away. She didn’t like talking to Ames: she didn’t like men; they lifted heavy buckets…their muscles swelled…they sweated… She went back to the house. Jessie was in the lobby polishing the brass door handles.

  “Oh, Jessie, have you seen Miss Delia?”

  “Not this morning, Miss.”

  “She hasn’t come in to breakfast.”

  “Well, I ’aven’t seen her since last night,” said Jessie sulkily.

  Sheila went on to the dining room. Nancy and her mother were eating toast and marmalade. A shred of orange peel clung to the gray hairs on Mrs. Cathcart’s upper lip. Sheila said, “Oh, Mother, a little bit of marmalade.”

  “Where?” asked Mrs. Cathcart.

  “Just there,” said Sheila. “No, a little higher up. That’s got it, darling. Neither Ames nor Jessie has seen anything of Delia.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “I hope nothing’s happened.”

  “What could have happened?” said Nancy. “As D. would say herself, keep calm.”

  “She might have gone riding,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “I know it’s silly, but I’m always so nervous. Now I’ve finished,” she said, pushing away her plate, “and I don’t know what anyone’s plans are.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” said Sheila. “Delia was going to school Flavia before it got too hot, and then she was going to lunch at the Hall. In the afternoon you and one of us were going to tea at the rectory.”

  “One less to lunch and two less to tea. Which of you is coming with me?”

  “I don’t know. They said one of us. Perhaps Nancy…”

  “No, you go, darling.”

  “No, you.”

  “Perhaps Delia would like to go,” said Nancy.

  “It’s very awkward,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “We can’t arrange anything. And I really am getting a little worried.”

  “Oh, darling, don’t worry,” said Sheila. “I daresay the maids know. I’ll ring for Taylor.”

  Taylor was the parlormaid. The maids at Marley Grange were usually called by their Christian names, but Taylor’s Christian name was Patricia and, as Delia had told her quite frankly, Patricia didn’t sound like
a maid. The girl had answered, “Well, then, Miss, suppose you call me by my surname. They does that in some places where they wants to look it and can’t.” Delia had asked her what she meant and Taylor had explained, “Oh well, Miss, people which wants to look big…” Delia had asserted that she didn’t in the least want to look big; it was just that Patricia was unsuitable, and Taylor had replied that she quite understood and that she wasn’t like some girls: if anything wasn’t right she liked it to be mentioned. So now here was Taylor, tall, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, in a lilac cotton dress and a plain morning apron, and when Mrs. Cathcart asked her if she had seen any sign of Miss Delia, she said, “No, I haven’t seen a sign of her, Madam, but she can’t of gone far in only her pajamas and dressing gown.”

  “Oh, but didn’t she come indoors?” said Mrs. Cathcart.

  “I don’t think so, Madam,” said Taylor, looking at her nails. “Jessie popped into the kitchen just now and said that Miss Sheila was asking for her, and Elspeth said she didn’t think Miss Delia could have used the bathroom this morning. She was up and down to the cupboard, she said, and she didn’t see anything of Miss Delia. Then Jessie said that when she went to do the lobby the front door was shut. When Miss Delia comes in she always leaves it open, and the cat he gets in and forgets himself in Jessie’s nice clean lobby.”

  Mrs. Cathcart said, “Tch, tch,” about the cat, and “Well, I really don’t know what to think,” about Delia.

  Nancy got up from the table.

  “I shouldn’t worry, darling. After all, what could have happened to D.? She’s so very capable. If it had been silly little me, now…”

  “Or vague me,” put in Sheila.

  “Then you might have worried,” said Nancy.

  “Oh, I know Delia’s capable,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “but being capable wouldn’t prevent her from being taken ill, would it, dear?” She got up. “I’m sure that’s it. She may have fainted and be lying anywhere.”

  “But, darling, she’s never ill,” said Nancy.

  “What I think,” said Sheila, “is that she came in and dressed and went out for a walk or down to the farm with a message — she was talking about getting some hay in for the horses, yesterday. She may have come in before the maids were up — you know what an early bird she is.”

  “I expect that’s it,” said Nancy. “On the night when she came in because it started to rain we never heard her.”

  “Excuse me, Madam,” said Taylor, “but you could soon see if Miss Delia come in and dressed because of her clothes. I mean, they’d be gone, wouldn’t they?”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Sheila. “I’ll run up and look.”

  “I’ll go,” said Nancy.

  “I’ll come too,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “We’ve finished breakfast, Taylor, if you want to clear.”

  As the three women hurried upstairs, Sheila whispered to Nancy, “I do hope D. doesn’t come in suddenly and catch us. She’ll be furious if she knows that Mother is fussing like this.” Nancy said, “I know. Let’s hurry up,” and she opened the door of the bedroom and called back, “No, she hasn’t dressed,” for Delia’s jodhpurs were neatly folded on a chair and her shirt and tie were hanging over the back.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “then she must be ill. She wouldn’t have gone far in her dressing gown.”

  “She might have been wearing something else,” said Sheila. “A cotton frock or her tweed skirt.” She walked to the wardrobe and vaguely peered in.

  “I thought,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “that she was going to school Flavia.”

  “She might have changed her mind. It was very hot even before breakfast. Her gray tweed’s here and her blue linen frock. Where’s the striped one?”

  “She wore that last week,” said Nancy.

  “Perhaps it’s in the wash.”

  “If she had dressed, her pajamas and dressing gown would be here,” said Mrs. Cathcart.

  “Aren’t they?” said Nancy.

  “No,” said Mrs. Cathcart, and her voice trembled. “Darlings, I am worried. The strongest people get appendicitis. I think we had better look round the garden.”

  “But, darling, if Delia had felt ill she would have come straight towards the house,” said Sheila.

  “Well, I don’t know what to make of it,” said Mrs. Cathcart, sitting down on the bed. “If Delia were here, she’d know what to do. She’d advise me…”

  “Oh, darling, don’t look so worried,” said Nancy tenderly. “I know what we’ll do. You go down and order the meals as usual, and I’ll take my little car and drive up the lane and down the road and round about. I bet you anything I shall meet Delia.”

  Nancy’s little car had been a birthday present from her mother and sisters. She had always been nervous of driving the twenty horsepower Foxley, and, after five years of Delia’s capable coaching, had still crashed the gears, dreaded reversing and insisted on handing over the wheel in the suburbs of Melchester. Delia had spoken sharply one day, and Nancy had wept, so Mrs. Cathcart had decided that the Foxley was too heavy for her baby’s little wrists, and a secondhand eight horsepower car had been procured. It had been shabby then, and Nancy’s habit of backing into stationary vehicles had not improved the condition of the fabric body nor the shape of the rear wings. The interior, however, was kept very neat by Nancy; she had sewn pretty loose covers for the seats; she had flowers in the vase on the dashboard; she loved her little car, and grew quite angry and obstinate if anyone suggested that she should change it for a newer model.

  The little car was sacred to Nancy. No one else ever used it, so Sheila didn’t suggest that she should go in it: she said, “Don’t you go, darling. You might get lost too. I’ll take the Foxley.” But Nancy said, “Darling, I won’t get lost. I shall come back quite soon to see if Delia has come in, which I’m sure she will do. And, don’t you see, supposing she meets me in the little car she won’t think anything of it — I can tell her a little white lie and say that I’m looking for flowers for a design to embroider. If she sees you in the big car, she’ll know we’ve been fussing.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But take care of yourself, darling.”

  “It’s very kind of you, Nancy,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “I know you think I’m a silly, nervous old woman. But you don’t know what you three girls mean to me.”

  Nancy kissed her and went out. Sheila said, “She’s sure to meet Delia, Mother. Won’t you go down and do the ordering now?”

  Mrs. Cathcart got up and walked uncertainly towards the door. “If you’ll go and look round the garden, Sheila, dear.”

  “I will,” said Sheila, “but I’m sure Delia won’t be there. I mean, Ames and Appleyard have been working about the place since eight o’clock. But I will look.” Clumsily but kindly she helped her mother downstairs.

  Mrs. Cathcart went to the kitchen. She ordered the meals, writing the menu on a slate, but her thoughts were elsewhere, and it wasn’t until she was rising from the table that she became conscious of the frigid atmosphere familiar to every housewife. “Is there anything else, Cook?” she asked nervously.

  Mrs. Hemmings was small and, unlike most members of her profession, thin. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and her dark hair was parted in the middle and drawn back into a knot, which bristled with innumerable strong black pins. She gave an impression of timid decorum, which never failed to please her employers, but it was an erroneous impression; among her intimates, Mrs. Hemmings revealed herself as loud-voiced, bawdy and gay.

  “Well, Madam,” said Mrs. Hemmings, “I know it’s nothing to do with me. This is your ’ouse, and of course you does as you please, but Jessie’s the best girl for work as ever I ’ad under me, and now it seems as ’ow Miss Delia ’as give ’er ’er notice — last night it was — Miss Delia was ready for ’er when she come in. Of course it’s nothing to do with me and you must please yourself, but you’ve never said a word about being dissatisfied with Jessie and when she told me, you could ’ave knocked me down with a feather,
that you could. Jessie was doing the range this morning when I came down — half-past six that was, I’m not like some I could mention, I’m always up to time. Jessie says, ‘Good-morning, Mrs. ’Emmings,’ she says, and, ‘Well,’ she says, ‘someone else’ll be doing this ’ere range before long.’ ‘Whatever do you mean, girl?’ I says, and Jessie says, ‘Miss Delia gave me my notice last night when I come in.’ ‘Never!’ I says, and Jessie, she says, “Yes, Mrs. ’Emmings, that’s as true as my name’s Jessie Bix.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘and you the best girl for work as ever I ’ad under me. Whatever ’ave you been doing?’ I says. ‘I ’aven’t done nothing,’ she says. ‘I was in the grounds when the clock went ten and then all as I did was to say good night to my friend.’ ‘Well, Jessie,’ I says, ‘Miss Delia wouldn’t give you notice for that. Surely,’ I says, ‘she knows what young girls is when they’re walking out.’ But Jessie, she says no, and of course you must please yourself, m’m, but we shall never get such a clean girl as Jessie. Look at that Mabel we ’ad, and the Gladys before Mabel and the Gladys before that!”