“Horses?”
“Yes! Horses, horses, horses!” cried Mrs. Willoughby with her hands to her head. “That’s what I told Mrs. Cathcart. Horses, horses, horses! If it hadn’t been for horses, my husband would still have been with me, but it was horses, horses, horses, all day and all night.”
“I see,” said Guy gravely. “Captain Willoughby likes horses and you don’t. I suppose horseflesh was the bond — if there was one — between him and Miss Cathcart?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “Actually, until Mrs. Cathcart rang me up and asked if I’d seen her daughter, it hadn’t occurred to me that he had gone away with a woman. I thought it was just a kink — I’ve heard of lots of men with kinks, who just left home for no real reason at all. When I heard that Delia Cathcart had left the same morning, I jumped to the conclusion that she was with him. I’m frank to a fault, Mr. Northeast, and I’m afraid Mrs. Cathcart guessed what I was thinking and, I must say, her reactions were sordid to a degree. However, since then, I’ve been thinking the whole thing over, and I’m almost certain that I’m the Only Woman, as far as Michael is concerned. I’m not vain, but, you see, Mr. Northeast, I can give a man so much — beauty, intelligence, passion — even if I can’t talk about horses.”
Guy made an assenting noise, but kept severely to the point. “You say Mrs. Cathcart rang you up about her daughter: are you on very friendly terms with the family?”
“Oh, no. At least, the Cathcarts may think so, but to me friendship means a real, deep feeling, not just going out to tea with one another and talking of this and that. The Cathcarts are very nice people, but, though the eldest sister plays a little, they’re not intelligent…”
“In fact, you are on good social terms, but not intimate. When did you last see Miss Delia Cathcart?”
“I went to tea at the Grange…let me see, when was it? Time means so little to me. I can always remember what happened, but never when. I ought to remember because I had a silly fainting fit, and I had to go and lie down in Delia Cathcart’s bedroom. Such an ugly room! When I felt better, it positively hurt me. Ugliness does, you know.”
“Was this last week?”
“Yes, I know it was last week. I believe it was Friday. Or wasn’t it? Yes, it was Friday — the day before Michael went away.”
Guy didn’t say, “and the day before Miss Cathcart disappeared.” He said, “And would you call Miss Cathcart an attractive woman?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Very hard and horsey. Getting on, too. The age when the soul shines through — or else it doesn’t.”
“Still, one never knows what people see in one another. Have you heard from your husband?”
“He left a note. You see, he had been out late at a bridge party and, when he came in, he didn’t disturb me. We have separate bedrooms — so much less sordid — and I didn’t find his note till after breakfast on Saturday morning. It simply said, ‘Dear Gerda, I can’t bear it any longer. Michael.’ What he meant by ‘it,’ I don’t know. Michael isn’t very lucid on paper. I don’t know what you think of the ordinary public school education…”
“Have you taken any steps to trace him?”
“No. I’m not like that. According to my ideas, that would be definitely sordid.”
“Well,” said Guy, “I’m afraid I shall have to be sordid. I shall have to have him traced, in case Miss Cathcart did go away with him. Did he go by car, Mrs. Willoughby?”
“Yes, to Melchester station. He left the car in a garage there — the Station Garage — and gave orders that it should be driven back here.”
“That looks as if he went by train. Is there anywhere in London where he’d be likely to stay — his club, for instance?”
“He gave up his club some time ago because he used it so little. London could give him so much — art, music, drama, but he hates it. No horses, you see, Mr. Northeast. No horses.”
“I must admit that on the subject of London I rather agree with him.” Guy got up, but Mrs. Willoughby stayed where she was. “Oh, but, Mr. Northeast, think what London could give you. Think of the marvelous people you can meet there — painters, novelists, musicians! Think of the marvelous parties you might be invited to…”
“Not me. I’m a policeman.”
“Oh, well, I was thinking of myself really. You see, Mr. Northeast, I’m intelligent. If I were only in touch with thinking people…”
Yet another Ancient Mariner, Guy thought, as he edged towards the door. “I’m afraid I must rush off,” he said firmly. “I’ve a bus to catch. If you care to ring up the Melchester Police Station some time tomorrow, they may have some news of the Captain.” He seized his hat from the hall chest and said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Willoughby.”
“I shan’t ring up the police station,” said Mrs. Willoughby behind him. “It wouldn’t be like me. It would be sordid. I believe in living graciously.”
Guy walked backwards down the track. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Excuse me, but the bus…”
“We only pass this way once,” said Mrs. Willoughby.
“That’s right,” said Guy, “but you must excuse me. The bus, you know…” He took off his hat, swung round and made off as fast as his long legs could carry him.
Walking back to Marley Green, now at the leisurely pace which his serene mind dictated, he thought about Gerda Willoughby — a foolish, emulous creature, quite tiresome enough to drive a man from home without the incentive of an affair with another woman. From what he had heard of Delia Cathcart — practical, tailor-made, hard-looking, the man of the family — he was beginning to wonder if she would fit the part of the other woman, but that was just where a psychologist would go wrong, he considered: human nature was utterly unaccountable. And why not leave it at that, he thought; why exhaust yourself tearing down roads flagged by fallacy? But he’d have to get something cut and dried, he supposed, before he faced the hardheaded Superintendent at Melchester.
He caught the bus at the Marley crossroads and, finding himself alone on the top, he took out his notebook and added to a list of names and times, his observations and impressions. The rest of the journey he spent frowning over them. Nothing fitted.
When he reached the Melchester Police Station, he saw a large old-fashioned Daimler, in charge of a chauffeur with coachman’s face, drawn up by the curb, and the young constable on duty informed him in a hoarse whisper that Major Carruthers was with the Superintendent. In the starkly furnished office which smelled of yellow soap, Guy found a tall, red-faced, gray-headed man standing with his back to the empty grate. He held out his hand, said in a voice calculated to carry across a parade ground, “Ah, here’s the expert,” and wrung Guy’s fingers in a grip of iron.
Guy said, “Good morning, I mean good evening, sir,” and the Superintendent put in, as you might have known he would, “Well, young man, have you solved our problem for us?”
“I hope to God you have,” roared the Chief Constable. “That Cathcart woman’s been on to me again. Sorry for her and all that, what? But she rings me up every five minutes. Incidentally, Northeast — that’s the name, isn’t it? — as a farmer, I’d sooner have Southwest, what? — incidentally, she doesn’t think much of you. Says you don’t look sharp.”
“She’s rather an impatient lady, sir,” Guy retaliated. “And I think she’s been reading detective novels: she asked what deductions I’d made before I’d been in the house ten minutes. Her own theory is that Miss Cathcart’s been the victim of foul play of some sort.”
“Then how does she explain the suitcase? It is Miss Cathcart’s, I suppose?” asked Dawes.
“Yes, sir. Both the sisters have identified it. Mrs. Cathcart thinks her daughter was lured away. Miss Sheila also favors the foul play theory, but suspects tramps — in particular the one whom Miss Nancy saw — or a maniac. She doesn’t attempt to explain why her sister packed a bag and presumably traveled to London.” He turned to the Superintendent. “Did you get any information at the station, sir?”
“I
did,” said Dawes. “One of the ticket collectors thinks he remembers a lady in a blue dress carrying a rawhide suitcase. She hurried up the steps, but she was in quite good time for the slow train to London — 11:35.”
“If he’s positive,” said Guy, “that disposes of Miss Sheila’s theory.”
“In my opinion,” said the Superintendent, “it pretty well settles the whole affair. Captain Willoughby left his home the same morning…”
“Can’t quite see it,” interrupted the Chief Constable. “Shouldn’t have thought that Delia Cathcart was in Willoughby’s line of country. A little bit of fluff, now…?”
“Captain Willoughby left home by car early on Saturday morning; he may have arranged to pick up Miss Cathcart,” said Guy. “I have seen Mrs. Willoughby and she tells me that he left a note saying that he couldn’t bear it any longer, ‘it’ being his wife, I suppose.”
“Trying woman, what?”
“I found her very trying, sir. The Captain left his car at the station garage, arranging for it to be driven back to his home. We’d better enquire what time that was, and also if Miss Cathcart was with him then. I daresay that after they had garaged the car, they went out and got breakfast, but why they should have hung about Melchester waiting for a slow train at 11:35 I’ve no idea. It also seems to me mighty odd that they didn’t travel together. I gather that the ticket collector would have mentioned if the lady had been accompanied by a gentleman?”
“Yes,” said Dawes. “I investigated that. I couldn’t find anyone at the station who remembers seeing Willoughby, but of course he’s not been very long in the district, so they might not know him by name. But that’s neither here nor there. Wouldn’t they travel separately to avoid scandal?”
“Can’t avoid scandal when you run off with a woman. Got to go through it sooner or later, what? Besides they’d want to hold hands.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, sir,” said Guy and the glance that Dawes shot at him said, sucking up, are you? “But that’s merely a detail. Actually, the Superintendent’s theory is supported by village gossip and by Miss Nancy Cathcart, who seems to have a romantic mind. Personally, I’m betting against a love affair. In the first place, I can’t see a woman going off with a man without packing more frills and furbelows; in the second place, I can’t see her leaving the few things she did pack in the train and not making the slightest effort to claim them.”
“Perhaps she was cutting it fine or didn’t want to attract attention. She may have decided to sting her young man for a complete new trousseau in Paree.”
Obviously there was no moving Dawes. Guy said, “Well, let’s leave that for a moment, sir, and consider another possibility. Loss of memory. That would account for the small quantity of clothes she packed, the time she wasted in Melchester and her leaving the suitcase in the railway carriage and just wandering away.”
“Whoa there!” shouted the Chief Constable. “Delia Cathcart’s as hard as nails — doesn’t know the meaning of nerves.”
“You can never tell what’s in another person’s mind, sir. She may have bottled things up all her life and cracked suddenly.”
“But if she was wandering about London, wouldn’t your people have found her by now?” asked Dawes.
“London’s an easy place to hide in,” said Guy, ignoring the attack. “And, of course, she may have gone further than London. She cashed a check last week. But wherever she went, with no luggage and in a queer state of mind, you’d have thought she’d have attracted attention.”
Dawes frowned.
“We shall never get anywhere like this — setting up theories and then knocking them down…”
“You are being a bit destructive, Northeast,” agreed the Chief Constable. “Can’t be foul play, because of the lady getting up and packing her box. Can’t be loss of memory because she’d have been found by now. Can’t be a love affair because she’d have packed more frills. Now let’s hear you do a bit of constructing, what?”
Guy disliked nothing so much as being pushed along. He deplored the magic, which, fed on fiction and the press, has attached itself to the name of Scotland Yard. He considered that a long steady pull took you up the hill much better than a series of spectacular dashes. Gently did it, but no sooner was the name of Scotland Yard mentioned, than people expected you to produce some obscure information acquired on travels that a policeman’s pay couldn’t run to, or a piece of scientific knowledge never included in the curriculum of a grammar school, which would instantly solve their problem. Well, one could only do one’s best… He said, “I realize that I haven’t got very far yet, sir. But I have a hunch that there’s more in this than we realize at present. When Miss Cathcart went out to bed in the garden, she was wearing pajamas and a woolen dressing gown. In her suitcase are a silk dressing gown and a clean pair of pajamas.”
“When did the laundry go?” asked Dawes.
“On Friday, the day before the disappearance. The dirty clothes basket, or soiled linen basket, or whatever you prefer to call it, in her bedroom contains two handkerchiefs. Where are the pajamas that Miss Cathcart wore that night?”
“H’m,” said Dawes, compressing his lips as if determined not to say, I overlooked that.
“And where,” Guy went on, “is her dressing gown? It’s not in her room and there’s nowhere else where she’s accustomed to hang things. It strikes me as very odd, sir, that those two garments should be missing.”
“Well, Dawes, what do you say to that?” asked the Chief Constable.
The Superintendent scratched his chin. “Well, sir, from the start I rather pooh-poohed the idea that she was wandering about in her nightclothes, and then the discovery of the suitcase bore out my theory; and, of course, I haven’t had the opportunity of checking through the young lady’s wardrobe and comparing it with the contents of the suitcase. In fact, it’s a new one on me,” he concluded, rather lamely.
Guy said, “I’ve compared the list the Super made from information received from the family with the contents of the suitcase and the only discrepancies are, one printed silk dress, one navy hat and one pair of blue suede shoes. I think we may assume that she was wearing these.”
“The ticket collector remembers a lady in blue,” said Dawes. “So that’s OK.”
“But what about…er…undergarments?” asked the Chief Constable.
“There were quite a number of sets in her room, too many for a convincing check. Mayn’t we regard them as immaterial?”
“Yes, that about describes ladies’ wear, these days.”
“We can assume then that Miss Cathcart went away in a blue outfit, but where are the pajamas and the woolen dressing gown?”
Dawes began to doodle. He drew capital letters and embellished them with flourishes reminiscent of old-fashioned copy books. The Chief Constable cleared his throat and rattled his keys. In the end, the Chief Constable was the bravest. He said, “It beats me.”
“Then what,” asked Guy, “becomes of our theories? If it wasn’t for the dressing gown and pajamas we could assume either loss of memory or a love affair and base our next step on the supposition that the lady was either wandering or making whoopee in town. If it wasn’t for the blue outfit and the suitcase, we could begin interviewing possible suspects or dragging the local ponds.”
Dawes said, “I must say, Northeast, I think you’re attaching too much importance to this dressing gown. She may have had a small case or even a brown paper parcel, which she didn’t leave on the rack. Miss Cathcart was seen traveling to London and her suitcase was found there. Obviously our next step is to trace her movements at, and after she left, Waterloo.”
“The Yard will do that, sir. They were to ring me here at six unless I rang them first.” He turned to the Chief Constable. “You, sir, said that Miss Cathcart was ‘as hard as nails.’ Do you consider that she is hard enough to have gone away and stayed away without sending a word to her mother?”
“’Pon my word, I don’t. These Cathcarts are a
very devoted family.”
Dawes said, “Then what?”
“That’s for you to say, sir,” said Guy, turning to the Chief Constable. “They can get on with the routine enquiries in town without me.”
“Meaning you’re prepared to stay here? Well, aren’t we all rather making a mountain out of a molehill?” He lapsed into thoughtful silence: then, at last, “All right, Northeast, if you’re sure we’re not wasting your time. It will keep Mrs. Cathcart quiet. Now, before I rush off, what’s the program?”
“I’d rather like to have a go at the servants, always supposing the Superintendent can arrange for enquiries to be made at the station garage, hotels and places where she, or the pair of them, can have had breakfast and, of course, at the bank. It’s very important to know how much money she carried.”
“Can you see to that, Dawes?”
“Yes, sir, in the morning. But,” he added invincibly, “always provided Captain Willoughby hasn’t been traced.”
As he spoke the telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver. “London; Superintendent Hannay for you, Northeast,” he said, and handed it to Guy.
Guy did most of the talking. There seemed to be more in this case, he said, than either he or Superintendent Hannay had thought likely. Major Carruthers, the Chief Constable, who was in the room with him now, had agreed to his staying on and continuing his investigations at least for a day or two. Foul play? Well, he couldn’t say yet. Suicide? Well, at present nothing pointed in that direction. What he wanted eliminated was the chance that the lady was in London suffering from loss of memory or in the company of a certain Captain Willoughby. He gave details of times and trains and then turned to the Chief Constable to ask for a description of Willoughby. “Little foxy feller,” said the Major and stuck. “Reddish hair, brown eyes, clean-shaven except for a small reddish mustache; age round about forty,” snapped the Superintendent.
They Rang Up the Police: A classic murder mystery set in rural England (Inspector Guy Northeast Book 1) Page 9
