by Cleeves, Ann
‘All the same,’ Ramsay said mildly. ‘I have to ask the questions. I’m sure you understand. What time did you leave the house again?’
‘Just after seven.’
‘How did you spend the time before that?’
The boy shrugged as if this were all a waste of time, but Ramsay could sense his discomfort and persisted. ‘Please answer, Mr Cassidy.’
‘I had a shower and changed,’ Patrick said. ‘There was some ham and salad in the fridge. I helped myself to that.’
‘Were there any phone calls?’
‘Two. Both for Dad. They said they’d phone back later.’
‘Did they leave their names?’
‘No.’
‘Where did you go when you left the house at seven o’clock?’
‘Just into the town.’
‘Were you with friends?’
‘No,’ Patrick answered, perhaps too quickly. ‘Most of my school friends have left the town now and the people at the university don’t like leaving Newcastle.’
‘So you were in Otterbridge from seven o’clock until past midnight on your own? What did you do?’
‘I like it here at carnival time,’ Patrick said defensively. ‘I went into a couple of pubs where there was live music. I thought I might bump into someone I knew but it was so crowded … you could be a couple of feet from your grandmother and not realise.’
‘Where exactly did you go?’ Ramsay asked, and Patrick named two pubs in Front Street.
‘Did you come straight home when the pubs closed?’
‘No,’ Patrick looked embarrassed. ‘I went to the fair.’
Again he would have liked to explain the attraction of the oily machines and the childhood smells of hot dogs and candy floss, but he said nothing. Ramsay found the boy’s explanation of his evening plausible and frustrating. It provided no sort of alibi, yet it was impossible to disprove.
There was a pause and Ramsay got to his feet awkwardly.
‘Is there a friend’s house, where you and your father could spend the day?’ he asked. ‘ The press will soon come to hear of your stepmother’s murder and you’ll be rather accessible at the vicarage. I think your father deserves one day’s peace.’
‘Yes,’ Patrick Cassidy said. ‘I’m sure there is …’
He was interrupted by Edward Cassidy who appeared at the kitchen door. Patrick crossed the grass and stood by his father in the shadow of the house but they did not touch. Ramsay thought that the priest had been crying and wondered if his faith could be any comfort at a time like this. He hoped so, although it was beyond his understanding.
‘I’ve suggested that you stay with a friend for the day,’ Ramsay said, ‘to avoid the press.’
‘I don’t know …’ Cassidy seemed older, incapable of making decisions.
‘I’ll take you,’ Patrick said. ‘We’ll go to the Walkers’ in your car.’ He turned to Ramsay. ‘Major Walker is the church warden,’ he said. ‘ His wife is in the parish hall. Could you see if it’s all right?’
Ramsay nodded but before he could leave the priest touched his arm.
‘You will keep in touch? Let me know when I can see her?’
Ramsay nodded again. ‘Would you mind if I had a look around the house while you’re out?’ he said. ‘There may be something which provides a clue to where your wife was yesterday.’
He thought for a moment that the man would object but he seemed too weak to resist.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t mind.’
Then, for the first time, Patrick reached out and put his arm around his father’s shoulder and helped him through the house to the car, where they waited for Ramsay to return.
It was ten o’clock and the doors of the parish hall had just been opened to allow the public into the coffee morning. There was a scrum around the cake stall and a more orderly queue at the counter where a flushed woman hovered anxiously over a tea urn. It was clear to Ramsay that the news of Dorothea’s death had reached the Mothers’ Union. Among the helpers there was a troubled silence. Some had thought they should cancel the whole event but no one was willing to take the decision. He found Dolly Walker in the kitchen. She had been weeping and the mascara ran in streams down her face.
Of course the Cassidys must spend the day with them, she said. They could stay as long as they liked.
Ramsay took details of the address and phone number and watched her scurry away to prepare the house for them, glad of the excuse to grieve in private, secretly gratified that she had been selected for the honour.
At the vicarage the men still sat in the car in silence. Ramsay stood at the front door and watched them drive away. With the departure of the Cassidys the house seemed very quiet. He walked round and entered through the back door, through a dark scullery and a large and comfortable kitchen. He had no real idea what he hoped to find – perhaps some letters belonging to Dorothea which would give a clue to how she spent her Thursdays. Perhaps a more vivid impression of how the three of them had got on together in this large and daunting house. He wondered suddenly why Dorothea had decided to marry Cassidy and take the whole thing on after one brief meeting on a windy Cornish beach. Was there something romantic in her nature which made the impulsive decision appeal to her? Or was it like everything else she did, a matter of faith?
He went first to the small room where Cassidy had showed him the photographs. The couple must both have used it as a study. Ramsay thought Cassidy would see his parishioners here amid the chaos. It would prove to them how busy and committed he was.
Next he went to the desk and sorted the papers there into two piles – those belonging to Dorothea and those to Edward Cassidy. On Edward Cassidy’s pile there were letters about the routine running of the church – quotations for a new heating system, a query about St Mary’s contribution to the Church Urban Fund. There were also several articles, all unfinished, meant apparently for the religious press. On a small bookcase was a row of Cassidy’s books. The photograph on the back jacket was of a much younger man and Ramsay found that the most recent had been published fifteen years before. Cassidy, it seemed, had a major writer’s block.
On Dorothea’s pile there were letters from friends – long, intimate letters in a variety of handwriting styles asking for advice, sharing problems. Then there were photostated circulars asking the couple to pray for a number of different projects including a missionary school in Tanzania, the Amazon rainforests and a new minibus for a church in Birmingham. What a responsibility! Ramsay thought. Did they expect her to solve the world’s problems single-handed? On the top of the desk was a large brown envelope which had a British post-mark but which contained a batch of drawings and carefully printed notes from the children in the orphanage which she had supervised when she had been working overseas. Ramsay presumed that it had been brought back by a member of staff on leave, then posted. It had been sent on the nineteenth of June, so Dorothea must have received it the day before, and opened it before disappearing to the town. Ramsay spread the brightly coloured crayoned pictures over the desk. One said in large and wobbly letters: ‘Come back soon.’
The other downstairs rooms were large and unfriendly. They smelled rather damp although the spring had been warm and sunny and Ramsay thought for the first time that the family could not be well off. The kitchen and study would be cheaper to heat in winter. There was a dining room with an ugly table and six chairs and a living room containing almost a dozen shabby armchairs set around the walls, which could only have been used for parish meetings. Ramsay felt that they had nothing to do with Dorothea, and after a brief search he shut the door.
Upstairs the first room he came to was the Cassidys’ and here the sense of Dorothea was everywhere – in the brightly coloured rug which covered the large, low bed, in the African wall hangings and the wood carvings standing on the mantelpiece. Her clothes were still thrown over the chair by the window – there was a cream calico skirt and blouse – and on the dressing table there was a mess of her make-up, p
erfume, a pile of cheap bangles and brightly enamelled earrings. On the floor by the bed were the books she had been reading – a magazine called Third World Review, a David Watson and an old Penguin detective story with cream and green covers.
The room was at the back of the house and from the window there was a view of the garden – on the lawn the deck chair still stood where Patrick Cassidy had left it – then on to the river and Prior’s Park on the opposite bank. Ramsay could see quite clearly the blue and white tape his colleagues were using to mark the area they were searching. If it had not been for a row of screens, he would have been able to see the body.
After the profusion of colour in the main bedroom Patrick’s seemed bare. There were none of the posters of rock stars which Ramsay associated with teenage rooms and the record collection was small and old, as if he had tried music once, when he was younger, but dismissed it as not for him. Why then, Ramsay wondered briefly, had he been so interested in the folk music the night before?
There were lots of books neatly set in rows on a home-made bookcase of breeze blocks and chipboard. Patrick must be reading English Literature at university, Ramsay decided. The shelves were filled with titles the inspector had heard of but never read. A small square table which acted as a desk was set against one wall and on it was a copy of Gerard Manley Hopkins poetry and a translation of Aeschyllus. There was also a plastic-covered ring file which Ramsay opened idly, expecting to find notes on the books the boy had been reading. Instead there were about a dozen loose-leaf pages, each containing an example of Patrick Cassidy’s own verse. The poems were obscure and intense and Ramsay guessed that they were probably bad. But as he read one after another it became clear that Patrick Cassidy was passionately and desperately in love. The object of the infatuation was, Ramsay supposed, the blonde girl in the photo downstairs. The poems were strangely joyless and despairing, and he wondered what sort of masochism tied the boy to a woman who gave him so little pleasure.
Ramsay shut the folder and went out on to the landing. The three spare bedrooms were dusty, the furniture large and old-fashioned. One had bare floorboards. Ramsay walked slowly downstairs. The phone began to ring loudly.
He found the telephone on a small table in the hall and answered it.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Could I speak to Patrick, please?’ It was a young woman, breathless, anxious. Perhaps this was the object of Patrick Cassidy’s affection.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Patrick’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’
But she had already replaced the receiver.
Outside in Front Street two clowns on stilts were entertaining the morning shoppers and someone with a megaphone was shouting that, this was the last day of the festival and the grand parade would be held that night. After the cool of the vicarage it seemed very hot.
On his way into the police station Ramsay bumped into Gordon Hunter, who was making a great show of being in a hurry. There had just been a phone call, Hunter said. Some old boy had found Dorothea Cassidy’s car parked in his drive.
Chapter Four
Walter Tanner did not find Dorothea Cassidy’s car parked in the drive of his modest, semi-detached house until nine thirty that morning. Since his retirement he indulged himself in the mornings with breakfast television and several cigarettes before even leaving his bedroom. He was ashamed of his laziness but as with his other secret vices found he could do little to change them.
He saw the car as he drew the living-room curtains and thought for a moment it was some monstrous prank. Then he expected to see Dorothea Cassidy herself on the doorstep.
‘What nonsense will it be this time?’ he said out loud to give himself courage. He was St Mary’s second church warden, secretary of the parochial church council, and since her arrival she had taken to dropping round, uninvited. She seemed to need no excuse though he could guess why she wanted to see him today. She said it was useful for her to discuss her ideas with him. He had so much experience, she said. So much to give. Then she would fix him in her gaze and launch into her plans for some new scheme. Last month’s enthusiasm had been the formation of a liturgical dance group. Even now the thought of it gave him a sick, light-headed feeling, which had nothing to do with having eaten no breakfast.
‘What would they wear?’ he had asked, to give himself time.
‘I don’t know,’ she had said. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. Something loose and expressive, I suppose. Or leotards. And bare feet.’
‘Bare feet!’ The words had seemed to him to reflect all that was wrong with the present state of the church. They represented a denial of the ritual and majesty of the Book of Common Prayer. They made him think of mothers feeding babies on the back pew, toddlers frolicking around the altar and hymn numbers being called out bingo-fashion to disrupt the rhythm of the worship.
Dorothea had smiled at him, apparently unaware of his horror. Was she really so innocent, he wondered, that she could not guess the extent of his disapproval? Surely these visits were only part of her plan to get her own way. Yet alone in her presence he found it impossible to doubt her good intentions. When she brought up her plans at the PCC meeting he found it easy to discuss them with righteous indignation. The old forms of worship had held the church together for hundreds of years, he said. They shouldn’t abandon them in a misguided attempt to be fashionable. But confronted in his own home by Dorothea’s idealism he found his hostility harder to express. He was frightened that without the security of the familiar words of the old service his faith would fall apart, and how could he tell her that? She was so intimidating in her certainty.
‘I don’t see how I can help you,’ he had said. ‘Church wardens have no real power, you know. Edward is the vicar. You should discuss your ideas with him.’
‘Ah Edward,’ she had said, softening. ‘Of course he’s sympathetic but he’s too frightened of causing offence. He says the congregation is elderly and easily shocked. I’ve told him that we need a new congregation. If we had your support it would give Edward confidence. We both have so much respect, you know, for your opinions.’
Then she began to discuss with great clarity and knowledge an article he had written in the church magazine so he became seduced by her interest and learning, and when she went he was never sure how things were between them. Perhaps she thinks I approve, he thought, and he would go to church the next week with some trepidation, expecting to find the dance group already active, or electric guitars, or a black gospel singer performing from the pulpit.
His first impulse when he saw Dorothea Cassidy’s car was to pretend that he was out. Today he had more reason than usual to be afraid of her. With some shame he quickly drew the living-room curtains back together and stood in the stuffy half light waiting for her to ring the doorbell. The waiting and the silence made his heart pound. He began to sweat. This isn’t fair, he cried to himself. At my age I should be left in peace. What is the woman playing at? He crept into the kitchen in case she had gone to the back of the house but there was no sign of her there. All the time he listened for the engine to start and the car to drive away. After ten minutes he decided that the tension of waiting was worse than facing her so suddenly he threw open the door and called with all the courage he could muster.
‘Dorothea! Where are you? Come in, my dear.’
But there was no reply and he was left feeling foolish and resentful, talking to himself like that in full view of everyone in the street. In the garden of Armstrong House next door, Clive Stringer, the teenage boy who worked there, stared at him, his mouth wide open, so he looked more gormless than ever. His presence confused Walter Tanner. He distrusted the boy and never knew what to say to him, but if Dorothea was around he did not want her to catch him being impolite. He stood on the doorstep uncertainly and swore under his breath. Where was the woman?
One of the domestic staff was standing on a kitchen stool, half-heartedly polishing the windows of Armstrong House. Walter Tanner went
to the boundary hedge and called to her. The woman clambered down carefully and approached him.
‘Have you seen Mrs Cassidy?’ he asked. ‘ Her car’s here but there’s no sign of her.’
Then to his amazement she backed away from him and began to cry, mopping her eyes with the hem of her overall.
‘Man,’ she said, ‘haven’t you heard? Mrs Cassidy’s dead.’
When Ramsay and Hunter arrived at Walter Tanner’s house he was eating his breakfast with a single man’s economy of effort. The same plate was used for his egg and toast and he stirred his tea with the handle of his knife. He had never married. He had thought, when he was a fervent young man, that he would join the priesthood and none of the women he had met then had seemed possible vicar’s wives. He had drifted into the family business prompted by some sense of obligation, expecting it only to be a temporary measure. When his mother’s health improved, when they could afford more reliable staff, he would leave, but neither condition was ever met and he suddenly found that he was too old either to train to be a priest or to marry.
The sound of the doorbell startled him and he piled the mug and the plate with its half-eaten food on to the draining board. Then he opened the door to the detectives, fumbling with the catch in his haste to let them in. He took them into the living room and had to open the curtains again. He shivered as he remembered with horror his attempt to hide from a dead woman. He felt terribly guilty, as if in desiring her absence he had been responsible for her death.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’ Then he watched them looking around the room and saw it through their eyes – the furniture large and shabby, much of it remaining from when his parents had moved to the house in the thirties. The Tanners had been respected in the town then, they had mixed on almost equal terms with the gentry who came to the grand shop in Front Street. He had been a child and his mother had sent him to elocution lessons, insisting that if he grew up with a ‘ common’ accent he would be no use to her in the shop. While his school friends went to the Sunday school in the Methodist chapel his mother took him to matins at St Mary’s. You get, she’d said, a better class of congregation there.
