Guy spoke for a few moments longer, tactfully suggesting that some enquiries might be made at the Passport Office and then, after a polite hope that Superintendent Hannay’s sciatica was better, he put down the receiver. “They’ll ring you up as soon as they’ve any news, sir,” he said to Dawes. “There shouldn’t be much difficulty about tracing Willoughby. I mean, he’ll have done what you’d expect — behaved in a normal manner. Same applies to Miss Cathcart, if she’s with him, but of course if she’s queer in the head, she may have done anything.”
“You’re a worrying sort of fellow, aren’t you?” grumbled the Chief Constable. “Determined to spoil my night’s rest with thoughts of foul play. Well, we must hope for the best, what? I must be off now — got to dress myself up for a party. Keep in touch with me, you fellers, and you, Northeast, do your best to calm down the old lady.”
He strode out to his Daimler. Guy collected his suitcase and made his way through the airless streets to the Red Lion, recommended by Dawes. It was a red brick Georgian building, gay with window boxes, but inside it was less inviting: long, chilly corridors, smelling of boiled cabbage, and a labyrinth of staircases and landings piled with laundry baskets, disused hip baths and spotted mirrors, led to the cheaper bedrooms. He washed in lukewarm water, ate a lukewarm dinner, sat in a lounge among dusty palms and long-unemptied ashtrays and failed to solve the detective problem presented in a day-before-yesterday’s picture paper. Dreams did not normally disturb his night’s rest, but cabinet pudding, which had followed soup apparently distilled from stewed dishcloths, a fillet from one of the least appetizing of the denizens of the deep, concealed under a mound of cornflour, and veal, accompanied by ancestral peas and over-boiled potatoes, weighed heavily on his digestion. He dreamed that he was sleeping with Delia Cathcart, who wore a printed silk dress and a navy hat and shoes and kept him awake by continually getting up and searching under the bed for her woolen dressing gown.
5
Thursday
“Are you awake, darling?”
The old yellow face turned on the pillow.
“I haven’t slept at all. How can I sleep? I suppose there’s no news, darling?”
“No. I’ve got your letters. There’s one from Aunt Alice — otherwise they’re all circulars.”
“Oh — the post’s been. What’s the time, darling?”
“Nine o’clock,” said Sheila, pulling back the curtains.
“Nine o’clock!” Mrs. Cathcart sat up. “Then it’s not too early to telephone to Major Carruthers.”
“I shouldn’t bother him yet, darling,” said Sheila. “I shouldn’t really. He seemed rather cross when I telephoned last night. He said that everything was in the hands of Scotland Yard now, and we should hear as soon as there was the tiniest scrap of news about our darling. There’s the front door bell now. Shall I run down and see if it’s anything?”
“Yes, please. And leave the door ajar. And you might tell Elspeth that I don’t want anything but a little tea and toast for my breakfast.”
From the top of the stairs Sheila heard a man’s voice asking if he might speak to Mrs. Cathcart or one of the Miss Cathcarts. Yes, Detective-Inspector Northeast. While Sheila hesitated, Nancy came out of the dining room.
“Oh — good morning.”
“Good morning, Miss Cathcart. I hope I’m not too early.”
“Not a bit,” said Nancy. “Have you any news for us?”
“Not yet, but I hope it won’t be long now — I’ve got things moving. What I want to do this morning is to interview all the servants here — would that be possible?”
“I should think so,” said Nancy, and, with the childish helplessness that you might have found irritating or pathetic, “I don’t know… I mean, I wonder how we could manage it? I’ll ask my sister. Sheila! Darling!”
Sheila revealed herself. “Oh — good morning.”
“Good morning,” said Guy. “I was just telling your sister that I want to interview the servants. Tiresome, I know, but it’s a routine matter. Could I park myself somewhere and have them in one by one? I shall only keep each of them about ten minutes.”
“The drawing room would be best,” said Sheila, leading the way there. “I suppose they’ll all give notice now. They’ll be dreadfully offended.”
“I’ll try to be tactful,” said Guy, walking over to the writing table. “When you speak to them, you might make it clear that I’m only asking them to help me.”
“Be careful with Cook, won’t you?” implored Sheila. “I’ll send her first. Her name’s Mrs. Hemmings. She’s a widow.”
By the time that Mrs. Hemmings had taken off her apron and unexpectedly remarked that she wasn’t like some, what might take offense; she was better educated, Guy had settled himself at the writing table, opened his notebook, sharpened his pencil and written at the top of a page, Cook. Mrs. Hemmings. Widow. When Mrs. Hemmings came into the room, he wished her good morning and pointed out that as the most important member of the staff and the one with the widest experience of life, she was the best equipped to help him. Mrs. Hemmings agreed. What did these bits of girls know? she asked, tossing her prim head; she could tell him some tales of kitchenmaids she’d had under her — they could read, all right, but whatever was the use of that when they couldn’t make no sense out of what they were reading? Poor dates! But Mrs. Hemmings wasn’t like some.
If she could help Guy in any way, she would do so to the best of her ability.
Guy, drawing setting suns on Mrs. Cathcart’s blotting paper, wanted to know what Mrs. Hemmings really thought about this affair of Miss Delia. Before she disappeared, had she seemed worried or unhappy about anything?
“That’s what’s got me puzzled, sir. We know what old maids are, especially at the time when they gives up ’ope, but Miss Delia, she’s always busy and ’appy over them ’orses of ’ers. And very devoted to ’er mother and sisters she is — sees to everything for them. Speaking for ourselves, we finds ’er a bit too managing for our tastes, but that’s another thing altogether.”
“She isn’t liked by the staff?”
“No. She’s fair, I’ll say that for ’er, but she’s sharp. Young Ames, he calls ’er ‘The Sergeant Major,’ and though I don’t ’old with speaking disrespectful of anybody, he’s about right there. Miss Sheila, she’s well enough, but she isn’t one you could take to. Doesn’t speak much. Proud, that’s what she is. The girls like Miss Nancy best. She doesn’t interfere with nobody and many’s the kindness she’s done unbeknownst.”
“Yes,” said Guy. “That’s more or less how I summed them up. And about this row Miss Delia had with the kitchenmaid?”
“She isn’t kitchenmaid, sir. They don’t run to that. Jessie’s between me and Elspeth, and a better girl for work I never come across.”
“Good-tempered sort of a girl, is she?”
“That’s right. ’Appy-go-lucky kind of kid. I’ve known ’er flare up, but it’s all over in a minute, and then it’s done and done with.”
“And Albert Funge?”
“E’s all right. Bit of a socialist ’e is, always down on the gentry, and I can’t deny that ’e’s been one for the girls. But as I said to Mrs. Cathcart, very often that sort makes the best ’usbins once they settles down.”
Guy then asked her to cast her mind back to Friday night: did she remember anything out of the ordinary — any absurd, trivial little thing. Mrs. Hemmings couldn’t say that she did; she’d been tired; her legs ached awful; and she’d gone up to bed along with Elspeth and Taylor, who always went early, leaving the door unlocked for Jessie, which she freely owned that strictly speaking she shouldn’t of done. Her room was at the other end of the house, over Mrs. Cathcart’s, and she hadn’t heard Jessie come in or Miss Delia and Albert going on.
Guy persevered.
“Did you fall asleep at once?”
“No, that I didn’t. My legs was aching. I remember I lay and wondered what ’appened to a person when their veins burst. And t
hen I began to think about my poor Aunt Beat.”
“What happened to her?”
“She ’ad an ulcer on ’er leg and they took ’er off to the Melchester Cottage ’Orspital and there she passed away. I’ve got an ’orror of ’orspitals. Well, I lay and thought about ’orspitals and then I began to think about a savory out of the paper, what Miss Delia wanted me to try.”
“Was your window open?”
“Yes, it was. I know that, because I ’ad ’arf a mind not to open it. Sometimes the owls ’oot ’orrible in the fir trees in the drive. Oh…!”
“Yes?”
“It’s nothing much, but now I come to think of it, I did ’ear a whistle. Sort of catcall it was — like this: phi-phew. I remember thinking it was them damned owls tuning up, and then I thought, no; it’s a person. I reckon it was some of them bits of lads out in the lane.”
“What time was this?”
“That I can’t tell you, sir.”
“Well,” said Guy, “it sounds as though there was someone about anyway.” He knew it was useless to ask her to keep anything to herself, so he added, “You see, I’m anxious to find someone who might have seen Miss Delia going away. But of course that would have been much too early.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Hemmings. “I heard the ’all clock chime eleven, but not twelve.”
Guy asked her a few more questions — merely routine ones, he said — where her home was and where she had been working before she came to the Grange. Then he thanked her effusively and asked her to send Jessie in.
Jessie came pop-eyed, a startled robin, and for a few moments Guy talked reassuringly about her home, which, it transpired, was three miles away at Little Hitherford. They discussed the motion of the Little Hitherford bus — it reminded Jessie of a trip round the bay, which she had taken during her holiday last year — and then Guy said that he wanted her to help him: his idea about Miss Delia Cathcart was that the poor thing was suffering from loss of memory, and he was hoping very much to find someone who had seen or heard her after she had gone out of the house on Friday night. It seemed rather funny to him that, after their unsatisfactory’ parting under Miss Delia’s eye, Jessie’s young gentleman hadn’t come back to say good night properly. “That’s what I should have done,” he said, trying to produce an admiring glance, but suspecting that he had only achieved a leer.
Jessie stood up for Funge.
“I daresay he would of, only Miss Delia was sleeping in the garden and she’s got such sharp cars. Besides, it’s not very nice and Albert wouldn’t want to get mix-muddled-up with any goings on.”
“What goings on?”
Jessie colored.
“Well, I shouldn’t like to say. The gentry are down enough on us for anything, but they’re not so particular themselves. If I took a fancy for sleeping out in the garden, it ’ud be, ‘Really, Jessie, what are you thinking of?”‘ She imitated a voice which Guy supposed was Delia’s.
“Well,” he said with a friendly smile, “you see, Miss Delia is a little bit older than you are.”
“That makes no difference,” declared Jessie, looking worldly-wise. “Miss Delia’s no more than a year younger than our Mum, but she’s man-mad, that’s what she is. You mark my words, sir, there’s a man at the back of this affair.”
Guy was a little surprised at her volubility. He had expected her to be shy, possibly struck dumb. Then he remembered how chatty Albert Funge had been, the long words he had attempted, his brisk assertion that had he seen or heard anything unusual he would have notified the police. Perhaps Albert had passed on to his young woman some of his own deplorable cocksureness. Guy proceeded to make the best of it.
“Yes,” he said. “Other people have hinted at that. But I expect you can help me more than they did. Which of Miss Delia’s friends would you bet on?”
“It’s not only her friends,” said Jessie. “I know she rides about a lot with that Captain Willoughby. If I was his wife, I’d give her something. But you don’t want only to look among the gentry.”
“Oh? Then, who?”
“I’m naming no names,” said Jessie, “nor making no accusations. But hours and hours they’ve been shut up together in the stable.”
“Oh, I see,” said Guy. “Thank you for the hint. It’s a relief to meet someone who doesn’t go about with their eyes shut.” Nasty little beast, he thought, and wasn’t at all sorry to say, “By the way, did Mrs. Cathcart give you permission to go into Melchester on Saturday morning?”
“I didn’t ask for permission,” said Jessie, tossing her head. “I told Cook I was going and she said, ‘Please yourself, girl,’ that’s what she said.”
“I see. Speaking for myself I’m glad you went because you may have seen something — any little thing — that might help me. Did you pass the station?”
“No, I didn’t. Mr. Funge set me down at the Statue, and I went to the registry office.”
“Which one?”
“Mrs. Whittamore. That’s the best class. The other is only for generals and suchlike. Mrs. Whittamore’s sent me over twenty places already.”
“Good. And afterwards?”
“Afterwards Albert met me at the Cosy Cafe. We ’ad coffee and iced cakes. It’s ever so nice there.”
“And you didn’t see any sign of Miss Delia or any friend of hers?”
“No. The only person I saw was Lady Angela from the ’All. Oh, she did look a picture! ’Ad a little ’at on ’er ’ead — like a tomtit on a round of beef, it was.”
“And on the way there and back you saw no one you knew, no car you recognized?”
“No, sir. I’d say if I ’ad. I’ve nothink to ’ide,” said Jessie.
“Pity,” said Guy, and then, “Now I want to go back to Friday night. After you’d finished rowing with Miss Delia and you had got up to your bedroom, did you go straight to bed?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. I went into Elspeth’s room and we talked it over. She’s a nice girl, she is. She’d got ’old of ’arf a dish of cauliflower-oh-grating and saved it for me.”
“Oh well, girls will be girls. How long did you stay talking?”
“Not over ten minutes.”
“And then, I suppose, you went to your bedroom. Whereabouts is it?”
“It’s the attic over Miss Delia’s room. But I didn’t ’ear anythink.”
“Was the window open?”
“Oh, you mean anythink going on outside?” For the first time the cheeky face clouded. “No, I didn’t.”
“Did you look out — to see the last of your young man or to wave good night to him?”
“No, I didn’t. ’E’d been gone ten minutes. ’E told me next morning that ’e went straight ’ome and got in sharp at eleven.”
“And you didn’t hear anyone about when you opened your window?”
“I didn’t open my winder. Miss Delia’s always on at us to sleep with them open, but our Mum says that the night air’s un’ealthy.”
“I see. Well, Jessie, that’s all and I hope you’ll find a place that will suit you. By the way, where were you before you came here?”
“I was scullerymaid at the ’All. Left to better myself. ’Er Ladyship,” said Jessie defiantly, “give me a good character.”
Guy sent her away with a message to the effect that he would like to see the housemaid next, and, while he was waiting, he made a few entries in his notebook. Elspeth, instead of bouncing in as Jessie had done, came in slowly and quietly. She was a very pretty girl in her middle twenties. She had curly fair hair gathered in a loose knot and clear gray eyes under finely penciled brows. There was none of Jessie’s alertness about her, but an air of calm, almost gracious, maturity.
She gave her name as Elspeth Barlow and she answered Guy’s questions briefly and thoughtfully. She had noticed nothing strange about Miss Delia. Yes, she was a managing type, but after all, someone had to take the lead in a family. She had men friends, but why not? Queen Victoria was dead and England wasn’t Turkey. No, on F
riday night she hadn’t seen or heard anything. Her window had been open top and bottom, but her room was on the south side of the house and looked over the paddock. Yes, she had kept the remains of a dish of cauliflower-au-gratin for Jessie, who was always hungry, and as the kid had seemed a little upset over her row with Miss Delia, she had stayed up for about ten minutes talking to her. No, she wasn’t particularly fond of Jessie, but the child came from a poor home; she was an honest sort of kid, but Albert Funge wasn’t doing her any good with his pretentious ideas and half-baked socialism.
“I wonder if you’ll excuse me making rather a personal remark,” said Guy presently. “What puzzles me is that you seem so much better educated than the other girls here. If I’d met you outside the place, I should never have guessed that you were in domestic service.”
Now the serene gray eyes looked troubled, but Elspeth said, “You’re making a mistake, sir. I’m no different.”
“You speak differently.”
“Oh, well, I daresay I do. You see, Mother married a bit beneath her. And Father wasn’t quite…well, he was in a better position than say Jessie’s father. He was a gamekeeper.”
“I see,” said Guy, almost sure that she was lying. “And you’ve always been in service?”
“Ever since I was fourteen,” said Elspeth with unnecessary firmness.
“And where were you before you came to Mrs. Cathcart?”
“In London with a Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. They went back to America.”
“Oh. And before that?”
“I was with them for several years. Before that, I was with a lady who was a widow. She’s dead now.”
“Then when you came here, I suppose it was these Johnsons who gave you a reference?”
“Well, they didn’t actually,” said Elspeth and her right hand went to her left as if to twist nervously a ring that she had been used to wearing on her third finger. “Unfortunately for me, they had already gone back to America. They left me a written reference, but I’d sent it to a lady and she never returned it. But Mrs. Cathcart wanted a housemaid urgently and I saw Miss Delia and she said she was a judge of character and engaged me.”
They Rang Up the Police: A classic murder mystery set in rural England (Inspector Guy Northeast Book 1) Page 10
