A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

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 there 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.’

‘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, perfume, 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.