She saw then that he was ashamed of his passion for Dorothea. It scared him, made him different from all his friends. He would prefer to love
her.
‘Well then,’ she had said, standing up, wanting to get her own back for all the times he had hurt her. ‘ Why don’t you prove it?’
And she had walked out of the pub, leaving him there, embarrassed and defensive. She had not seen him since then. She had waited all day at work for him to call, but there had only been the policeman with his photograph of Dorothea and the news that she was dead.
The memory of the conversation in the pub made Imogen’s head spin more than the bout of measles she had had when she was a girl. She got off her bed and walked to the window. She had a view of tennis courts and the bowling green and beyond to the river. Usually there were spry old gentlemen in smart blazers bending over the green, but today it was quiet. The police must still be keeping people out of the park. At one time she had imagined herself and Patrick old, still together, but now that seemed impossible.
As she turned back from the window the phone began to ring.
When her parents came in an hour later, with arms full of exercise books,
desperate
for a gin after a day at school, the house was empty and Imogen had disappeared.
As he walked from the police station to the vicarage Ramsay tried to pinpoint what made this case so different from all his other investigations. There was the character of the victim of course. Vicar’s wives did not usually get themselves murdered. But there was also the point that she was emotionally involved with a quite disparate group of people, who had nothing in common but the fact that they had been caught up in Dorothea’s compassionate enthusiasms. Besides her immediate family, there was Theresa Stringer with her pathetic dreams of starting a new life with Joss, the old lady with cancer in Armstrong House, and Walter Tanner, incongruously a gambler and church warden. In most domestic murders the suspects came from the same social group, and the rivalries and tensions that resulted in the involvement of the police arose from the situation they shared. Here the only thing that gave the case any real cohesion was Dorothea Cassidy herself.
When Ramsay arrived at the vicarage Patrick Cassidy had still not returned and the vicar opened the door. The church clock was striking five thirty and there was the same noise of commuter traffic as when the inspector had been there in the morning. It was still very hot. Cassidy was flushed and anxious and a faint smell of alcohol hung about him. He seemed perpetually on the verge of hysteria. He stood in the shadowy hall and peered out at Ramsay.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘It’s you. I had expected it to be Patrick. He drove off in my car earlier this afternoon and nobody knows where he’s got to. He’s a deep boy, you know. Very deep. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking even when one suspects he’s in terrible pain.’
Ramsay immediately noticed the change in him. Even his appearance was different. He was untidy, stooped. There was a stain on his shirt which might have been mayonnaise.
‘Come in!’ he said, with some desperation. He was obviously afraid of being left alone. He led Ramsay into his study, then stood, looking aimlessly around the room. The photographs he had shown Ramsay so proudly, earlier in the day, had been removed from the album and were scattered over the desk. One caught Ramsay’s eye and he remembered where he had heard the name of the staff nurse Hunter had spoken to on the cancer ward. He said nothing but saved it for later.
‘I’m so worried, you see,’ Cassidy said. ‘I couldn’t stand it if there was another tragedy.’
The words seemed prophetic and Ramsay wondered if he must know something about the death of Clive Stringer, then saw that the vicar was preoccupied with his own family, his own security. Cassidy looked up at the policeman and said simply, ‘I don’t think I could bear to be all alone. Not now.’
Then he sat heavily on the chair by the desk and stared out to the garden.
‘I’m afraid,’ Ramsay said, ‘I’ve more bad news.’
The clergyman turned his head slowly to face him. He was very frightened.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’
Ramsay answered the unspoken question first. ‘It’s nothing to do with Patrick,’ he said. ‘Clive Stringer died this afternoon. I understand he was one of your parishioners.’
Cassidy leaned back in his chair.
‘How dreadful!’ he breathed. ‘ Poor Clive.’ But Ramsay was disturbed to find in the words a sense of relief and almost of satisfaction. Cassidy showed no curiosity about how Clive had died.
‘He was murdered,’ Ramsay said. ‘Almost certainly by the same person as your wife.’
‘Murdered?’ He spoke the word slowly, even calmly – as if the news was too much for him to take in. ‘I don’t understand …’ Ramsay was afraid he would break down. With an effort he pulled himself together and continued. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I have to know,’ Ramsay said, ‘what connection there could be between Clive Stringer and your wife.’
‘Connection?’ The man repeated the word automatically. ‘I don’t think there was any connection. Not in that sense. Dorothea brought him to church. She befriended him and his family. She was good with children …’
‘Was Clive made welcome in church?’ Ramsay asked. He tried to remember his last visit to an Anglican church. It was to a family baptism and the regular members of the congregation had seemed affronted by the invasion of strangers who stole their place in the pews and sang the hymns with unseemly gusto. The church had not seemed a particularly democratic organisation and it was hard to imagine Clive Stringer mixing on equal terms with either the Walkers or Walter Tanner.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Inspector,’ Cassidy said sharply, sensing the implication behind the words. ‘Everyone is made welcome. The Church of England isn’t a social club for the middle classes.’
But as he spoke them the words seemed trite and meaningless.
‘All the same,’ the inspector said gently, ‘Clive can’t have been an easy person to accommodate. His language, his appearance, his delinquency must have made him an object of attention.’
‘Oh,’ Cassidy said, suddenly irritable like a bad-tempered old woman, ‘it was hard to ignore him. At times he was awfully disruptive. He seemed to find it impossible to sit still and would wander around the church during the service. Really, we had less trouble with the toddlers.’
‘Did that cause problems?’
‘Not for me!’ Cassidy said grandly. ‘ But there were complaints from other members of the congregation who found it hard to concentrate on the worship. I was sympathetic but in a difficult position. I couldn’t tie the boy down, there was little I could do.’
‘Was there ever any question of excluding Clive Stringer from the service?’ Ramsay asked.
‘It was suggested to Dorothea that Clive might like to go into the hall with the Sunday school children. To help, of course.’
‘Who suggested that?’
‘One of our church wardens, Walter Tanner. He’s something of a traditionalist. I don’t altogether share his views but I could see that he felt very strongly about this.’
‘And what was your wife’s reaction to the idea?’
‘She dismissed it out of hand,’ Cassidy said unhappily. ‘It provided rather an argument at the parochial church council meeting. Walter Tanner threatened to resign.’
Dorothea would have been magnificent, Ramsay thought. He wished he could have seen her.
‘And the rest of the congregation?’ he asked. ‘Who did they support?’
‘I should say that support was fairly equally divided,’ Cassidy said. ‘Dorothea had a lot of admirers … She introduced a lot of new people to the church. Young people. Families. They supported her.’
‘And you?’ Ramsay said. ‘What did you think?’
There was a shocked silence and for a moment Ramsay was made to feel that the direct question was an impossible breach of manners.
Then he answered bitterly: ‘I didn’t think anything. I just wanted to stop the unpleasantness and bring people together. Besides, my opinion didn’t seem to count.’
He lapsed into silence again, then with something of the old charm he turned to Ramsay and smiled.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. That wasn’t fair. I suppose I’m saying that I saw my role as a conciliator. Besides I never had Dorothea’s courage …’
Ramsay sat forward in his chair. ‘I’d be grateful,’ he said smoothly, ‘if you could tell me something about Mr Tanner. I’d like your personal opinion of his standing in the town. Was he well thought of, for example? Were there any rumours concerning his private life?’
‘Of course Walter’s well thought of,’ Cassidy said. ‘ He’s been church warden for years. He’s highly respected. You mustn’t take Dorothea’s opposition to him too seriously. She was young, impatient. And the worst she ever said of him was that he was stuffy.’
‘We found your wife’s car in Walter Tanner’s drive this morning,’ Ramsay said. ‘And Clive Stringer’s body in his house this afternoon.’
‘Have you arrested him?’ Cassidy demanded. ‘Do you think he murdered Dorothea?’
Ramsay shook his head. ‘ I don’t know,’ he said, honestly. ‘I haven’t reached any conclusions yet. But you can understand my interest in Mr Tanner’s relationship with your wife and Clive Stringer.’
Cassidy seemed not to have taken it in. He shook his head in wonder.
‘When was this acrimonious committee meeting?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Friday,’ Cassidy said. ‘Last Friday. A week ago.’
‘Would you say that Mr Tanner had taken an active dislike to Clive Stringer?’
‘I suppose I would. He talked about principles but there did seem to be a degree of personal animosity in his reaction to the boy. Dorothea seemed to think it was a matter of ignorance – Walter had never met anyone like Clive before, she said, and was frightened by him. She thought if they got to know each other the problem would go away. She asked them both here for tea on Sunday afternoon. I couldn’t see the thing working but she was excited at the idea. She wasn’t a great one at domestic matters but she spent all Saturday getting ready, making cakes, you know. Patrick and I had to promise to be on our best behaviour.’
‘Did they come?’
‘Clive did. Walter, rather rudely, phoned up at the last moment to say that he had another appointment. Clive had made a real effort – I’d never seen him so smart and I think he was very upset. He sat for an hour in the kitchen thinking Tanner might change his mind. Dorothea, of course, was furious.’
‘Was there any reason for Clive Stringer to be in Mr Tanner’s house this afternoon?’
‘No. None at all. Apart from his antipathy to the boy, Walter was a private man. He didn’t invite many people to his home.’
‘I had understood Dorothea was a regular visitor.’
‘Oh yes,’ Cassidy said, with a sad smile. ‘Dorothea often went to see Walter. She had great faith in her powers of persuasion. She was convinced that eventually she would get him to agree with her ideas. But she was never invited.’
Ramsay paused. He wanted to ask Cassidy about Tanner’s gambling but was afraid that he might refuse to answer direct personal questions about one of his congregation. One of his men had been to the bookmaker’s on the Ridgeway. They knew that Tanner had gambled heavily and lost a substantial sum of money over several years. Ramsay did not know how well the man had managed to keep the habit hidden.
‘Is it possible your wife wanted to see Mr Tanner about something quite different?’ Ramsay asked. ‘If she thought he had a problem she would offer to help, wouldn’t she?’
‘I suppose so, yes,’ Cassidy said. Then, genuinely curious: ‘But what problem could Walter have?’
Ramsay hesitated again, but this was a murder investigation and he needed information quickly.
‘He bets,’ he said. ‘Very heavily. He’s lost at least five thousand pounds since it all began four years ago.’
‘Yes,’ Cassidy said. ‘ I see. That would explain a lot.’
‘You never suspected that he had a problem?’
‘I knew that he was lonely and isolated. I hadn’t realised he had turned to gambling. The poor man must have been under a terrible strain. It reflects very badly on the whole congregation. We should have done more to help.’
‘Did Mrs Cassidy know, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Cassidy said. ‘Perhaps.’
‘But she never discussed the matter with you?’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t do that. Not without asking Walter first. She had a great concern about confidentiality.’
He spoke with pride and Ramsay thought suddenly that he had lost sight of the great affection Cassidy had felt for his wife. She had caused him inconvenience and embarrassment but the passion which had made him run away and marry her, as if they were eloping teenagers, had remained to the end. And it suddenly struck Ramsay that if he forgot the power of that central relationship, he would lose the focus of the whole investigation.
‘If Mrs Cassidy had discovered that Mr Tanner was gambling regularly, what would she have done?’ Ramsay asked.
‘She would have talked to him,’ Cassidy said with certainty. ‘She would have gone to him and offered support, help.’
And Tanner would have hated that, Ramsay thought. Nothing could be worse than being confronted by a young woman so flawless and innocent, reminding him by comparison of his own weakness.
Cassidy got up suddenly and walked to the window, imagining for an instant the sound of a car on the drive, but he was disappointed and turned back to the room.
‘I wish Patrick would come,’ he said. ‘ I don’t know where he could be.’
‘Perhaps he’s with his girlfriend,’ Ramsay said. ‘You showed me a photograph earlier. Did you say her name was Imogen?’
‘I don’t think he’s with Imogen,’ the vicar said. ‘ She was here earlier looking for him.’
‘Is she at the university too?’ Ramsay asked.
‘No, no,’ Cassidy said impatiently. ‘She’s a nurse in the general hospital.’
‘How did Imogen and Mrs Cassidy get on?’
‘I don’t know. Well enough. Patrick didn’t bring her here very often. You know what young people are like.’
‘Would your wife have had any urgent reason to speak to her yesterday?’