The Missing Wife and the Stone Fen Siamese

by Kate High

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

'Animal lovers will delight' Ann Granger on The Cat and the Corpse in the Old Barn

'A real treat . . . I loved it. Cats, dogs, murder and a credible and relatable heroine' Barbara Nadel on The Cat and the Corpse in the Old Barn

Driving home from a ceramics evening class, Clarice Beech reflects on the absence of one of her students, Colin Compton-Smythe. Later, Emily, Colin's daughter, telephones to say her father has died during routine surgery. Distraught, Emily opens up to Clarice about his wretched childhood and the day five-year-old Colin returned home to discover Avril, his mother, gone. Colin never believed she would have left without him and had been trying to find out more about Avril's disappearance all those years ago.

Clarice readily agrees to accompany Emily to Colin's funeral. On arriving at the stunning Victorian Gothic manor house, with Bellatrix, the majestic stone Siamese cat reposing at its entrance, Clarice soon becomes drawn into the fractious world of the Compton-Smythe family: Colin's argumentative father Ralph and his equally combative partner Tessa, their daughter, Dawn, being stalked by an ex-lover and, most unsettling of all, Ernestine, Ralph's emotionally unpredictable sister. And then there's Johnson, Ralph's menacing manservant.

Clarice discovers the nearer she gets to the truth, the greater she is in danger as somebody is intent that the mystery of the missing wife should never be resolved.

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

The creature leapt from the blackness of the sodden dyke, travelling at speed into the light. Momentarily startled, Clarice Beech hit the brake and at the same time dipped the headlights. The hare, landing on the single-lane track a few feet in front of her car, did not pause. Instead, with its front legs out, it pushed upwards, stretching its long hind limbs to jump again and reach the dyke on the opposite side of the track before disappearing back into the darkness. The elegance and coordinated grace of the creature stayed lodged in her mind for the remainder of the journey.

Classes for the new term of Tuesday-evening ceramics had begun in the third week of September. It was a twenty-minute drive on unlit country lanes from the town of Castlewick, in the Lincolnshire Wolds, to Clarice’s home. Now that British Summer Time had ended, dusk came early, and she always left and returned home in darkness.

Often at the end of September it felt that one foot was still planted in summer, with sunny days that drifted into mellow evenings. This year, it had been cold and autumnal from the beginning of that month, so now, one week into November and six into the term, the chill of winter had taken a firm hold.

The class had been running for eleven years, mainly attracting people who worked during the day. The workshop’s size imposed a limit of eight students; six of the current group had attended from the very beginning. As they’d attained a greater knowledge of techniques, their work had developed, and with friendships deepening over time, the small group had evolved to become tight-knit.

Clarice marvelled at how well such an eclectic bunch had bonded; their backgrounds and life experiences could not have been more different. There was an accountant, a tattooist, a mechanic, a shop worker, a solicitor, a teacher, a nurse and a retired secretary. Their ages ranged from thirty-five to seventy-four.

The students shared their successes and failures. If, after firing, a piece came from the kiln with a crack, the disappointment was collective. Each was aware of the effort that had gone into its production. And there were often deadlines, the ceramics designated as gifts for birthdays, Christmas and weddings. If a piece failed in the firing, it would mean starting again.

There was always banter and laughter during classes as the group discussed family and work problems and caught up on what had occurred over the time since their last meeting.

Tonight, the class was down by one student, Colin Compton-Smythe, a middle-aged accountant, one of the six who had signed up from the first class. He’d told Clarice he was unsure if ceramics would really suit him, but he’d give it a try for a term.

Colin was short, slim and, as befitted his profession, conservative in attire. On joining the class, he’d initially given the impression of being extremely shy. But over time, as his relationships with fellow students developed and his assurance in producing top-quality ceramics increased, his confidence grew, and he flourished. As he’d shed his reserve, Clarice had noticed changes in his appearance. In the first year, he’d abandoned his tie, and in the second, he had acquired a pair of jeans. The most significant transformation came after three years, when he’d replaced his regular conventional glasses with elegant kingfisher-blue frames. It was an act of rebellion – as if he’d suddenly decided he would no longer be invisible.

Everyone in the group had met Colin’s daughter, Emily. Over the years, she’d attended end-of-term social gatherings and parties. Clarice had watched her transformation from an eight-year-old schoolgirl to a nineteen-year-old university student. She’d inherited her father’s shyness, but managed to put up a good front; only the heightening of her facial colour – blushing – gave her away.

Earlier in the day, Clarice had received a call from Emily confirming that her father, had gone into Lincoln Hospital, as arranged, and would later undergo surgery for a bowel problem.

After asking the girl to pass on her good wishes for a speedy recovery, Clarice had taken a Get Well card to class; all the students wrote in it, with messages designed to cheer.

After signing and passing the card on, Gill, the retired secretary, had bitten her bottom lip, her face pinched with worry. ‘He will be OK, won’t he?’ she asked, addressing the class as a whole.

‘Course he will,’ Micky, the town’s tattooist, reassured her. ‘Told me he didn’t like the idea but wanted to get it over with; he’ll be right as rain in a couple of weeks.’

Knowing that Emily was staying at her father’s house on the outskirts of Lincoln, Clarice intended to leave the card on his doorstep the following day, along with some flowers. She could pass them on to her dad on her next hospital visit.

As she drove carefully in the darkness along the narrow lanes, her thoughts moved to Rick, hoping he might have beaten her home. As a detective inspector with the Lincoln police, her husband’s working hours were not always predictable. Clarice generally ate her evening meal early and alone, leaving Rick’s for him to warm up later.

He had begun work on a new case related to an incident in a Lincoln nightclub over the previous weekend. An argument between two groups had flared, leading to a knife being produced and a fatality. Due to a trivial falling-out, a man of twenty-three had lost his life. With his usual stoicism, Rick was now occupied with the minutiae of what had happened in the minutes leading up to the death. The area in a hallway near the toilets where the altercation had occurred was not covered by the club’s CCTV. And there were conflicting accounts of who had been carrying the knife and had inflicted the fatal wound to penetrate the heart.

Driving out of the last of the winding lanes, Clarice came to a main, unlit carriageway. Hidden by the darkness of late evening, agricultural fields and undulating hills flanked either side of the road. The beam from her car headlights pierced the blackness, and ten minutes later, she reached an unmarked exit leading down an incline onto a rough track. Following the curve of the bend, she saw the welcoming lights of home.

Built in the 1850s and added to by various incumbents over the years, her cottage was surrounded by three acres of garden and a number of outbuildings, which included her ceramics workshop and a barn converted for rescue animals. Some years ago, Clarice had founded a charity called Castlewick Animal Welfare, known locally as CAW; the barn housed animals she fostered until they found permanent homes.

She parked her blue Range Rover next to Rick’s white BMW estate. That he was already at home lightened her spirits. Walking to the cottage, she pulled tight her heavy grey winter coat to keep out the whip of the wind and the cold night air, and caught the welcome smell of drifting woodsmoke: Rick had put a match to the fire she’d laid that morning.

Before she reached the door, the sounds of joyful yelping came from the dogs. The noise of the car engine, signalling her arrival, had sent them into welcome mode. The door opened, allowing Blue, a sturdy Labrador cross, black with a white chest, and Jazz, a smaller, rough-coated brown dog with a long body and short legs, to run out to greet her. Blue, as usual, carried a present clamped in her mouth, a battered tennis ball. Jazz, close behind, without a gift, wiggled her body while swinging her long tail.

Behind the welcome-home committee, filling the door frame, blocking out the light, stood Rick. At six foot four, tall, solid and broad, he had a height advantage of three inches over his wife.

‘Good class?’ he asked when the dogs had calmed, allowing Clarice to get inside.

‘Not bad,’ she said, before telling him about Colin’s absence, and the reason for it.

‘Was it something that was expected?’

‘He knew he had to go in,’ Clarice said. ‘Yesterday he had lots of tests, and today he’s having the surgery, but he seemed unfazed by it.’

Rick poured two glasses of South African Shiraz, and he and Clarice drifted into the sitting room, followed by the dogs, to the welcoming warmth of the open fire. In her childhood, this space had been two smaller rooms. After inheriting the property from her mother, she had changed it to make it into one long room, with windows now covered by heavy red drapes at the far end. On the walls were large, colourful framed posters of jazz and blues musicians, with the room lit by several table lamps and the glow from the fire.

Clarice took up her usual spot, reclining on the sofa in front of the hearth, while Rick sat at an angle in a nearby armchair. Toots, a long grey cat, stretched along the back of the sofa, lifting her head to acknowledge their arrival. The dogs spread themselves on the floor in front of the open fire, and as the group relaxed, other cats wandered in to join them.

‘Sandra left a note,’ Rick said. ‘She and Bob left about seven. They’ve fed and watered all the cats in the barn.’

‘Great.’ Clarice smiled, wondering how she’d manage without the support of their friends Bob and Sandra, who acted as volunteers for her rescue charity. ‘Tell me about your day. Anyone admitted to the stabbing?’

‘No.’ Rick stretched his long legs out as he talked. ‘We have footage from the CCTV in the club, and outside, just not the area where the stabbing took place. We can identify each individual involved and have fourteen witness statements, including everyone in the hallway where the victim died. We’ve narrowed it down to two possible suspects.’

‘What about fingerprints on the knife?’

‘We don’t have it. Whoever used it took it away.’ Rick was pensive. ‘Also, everyone involved had the victim’s blood on their clothing. We’ll need to work out from the blood spatters who was nearest to the victim at the moment he was stabbed.’

‘What was the argument about?’

‘Bearing in mind they were all half-cut, it comes down to one bloke accidentally knocking someone’s arm, causing him to spill his drink.’ Rick raised his eyes. ‘It progressed from swearing and name-calling to the two men and their friends moving away from the bar area to the corridor outside the toilets.’

‘Unbelievable,’ Clarice said. ‘Twenty-three and his whole life ahead of him.’

‘And a pregnant girlfriend.’

‘No. That’s awful.’

‘It is pretty depressing.’

The ringing of the phone cut into the conversation.

‘A bit late.’ Rick looked at his watch. ‘It’s probably for me – more problems.’

‘I’ll get it.’ Clarice lifted Big Bill, a large, friendly ginger cat, from her lap.

‘Hi, Clarice, it’s Emily – Colin’s daughter from class. I’m sorry to phone so late.’

‘Emily,’ Clarice said with surprise, glancing at Rick, who, realising the call was not for him, sat back in his chair, relieved. ‘How did Colin’s operation go – well, I hope?’

There was a long silence before Emily responded. Clarice could tell that she was struggling to keep calm.

‘It seemed OK,’ she said. ‘But Dad was in theatre a lot longer than they said he’d be. When he came out, I was allowed to sit with him for a while.’

Clarice waited to hear what was coming, aware from the tone of Emily’s voice that it would not be good news.

‘He didn’t come round while I was there, and the staff told me to go home and get some sleep – to go back tomorrow.’

‘So you went home?’ Clarice asked gently.

‘Eventually. I didn’t want to leave him alone.’ Emily stopped abruptly. Again Clarice waited. ‘I’d only been home ten minutes when they phoned to tell me that Dad had died. I wish I hadn’t left him …’ Her voice was a wail.

Clarice remembered Emily’s age, and her mind flicked momentarily to the twenty-three-year-old man murdered in the nightclub. Colin’s daughter was younger, only nineteen, studying social history at Nottingham University. Being young was no protection against bad things happening.

‘It isn’t your fault, Emily,’ Clarice said. ‘The staff at the hospital would have believed that the operation had gone well. They wouldn’t have suggested you go home if they thought he wasn’t going to pull through.’

‘They said he’d had a heart attack – the operation was obviously too stressful.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Clarice said. She waited for Emily’s sobs to subside before she continued. ‘Are you alone? Is there someone with you?’

‘I’ve sent Jake, my boyfriend, a text. He’s in Nottingham, but I think he’ll phone and come over when he picks the message up.’

‘Are you going to be OK until he arrives?’

‘Yes …’ Emily’s voice trailed away. ‘I have to phone my mum. She lives in France – she and Dad are divorced – and then my grandfather, Dad’s father. Jake should have got back to me by then – I’ll be fine.’

Later, after having done her last check of the rescue cats in the barn, Clarice walked the dogs around the garden with Rick, thinking about poor Colin’s unexpected death.

‘Are you worried about her?’ Rick asked. ‘Yes,’ Clarice said.

‘The poor girl is in shock. I hope her boyfriend gets there quickly. She needs someone she loves and trusts to offer a shoulder to cry on. No one should be alone at a time like this.’

The following morning, low grey clouds lay like a dirty rumpled duvet over the fields and hills, heavy with the threat of rain. Rick and Clarice walked the dogs around the outer boundary of the garden. Blue, with a new treasure, a short, stout stick clamped in her jaw, oozed joy, while Jazz ran in circles around them; the morning walk was always her favourite of the day.

After doing three laps of the boundary, Clarice kissed Rick goodbye and watched as his car disappeared to make its way onto Long Road. Going back into the house, she fed the animals and breakfasted on toast with honey and a cup of tea before returning outside to cross the garden to the cat barn.

The barn, divided into three sections, allowed Clarice to separate or isolate animals when necessary. During the spring and summer, the numbers of cats and kittens were high, but there had been a good home-visits rate, with animals finding new homes. Also, Clarice had recruited four new foster carers in and around Castlewick. The downside to entrusting a cat to an ardent cat lover was that they invariably fell in love with the first one they looked after, and when a prospective adopter was found, could not bear to be parted from it. The upside was that although Clarice lost a foster carer, the cat found its perfect, loving home. The upsurge in rehoming and the extra foster homes meant that there were currently only ten feline residents in the barn.

Walking across the garden, Clarice heard the cry from the most recent of these, an apricot-coloured Persian. Entering the barn, she found that Sassy, having pushed his bedding around the floor, was sitting in the centre of the room emitting a loud, croaky indignant howl. The old cat was completely deaf and unaware that he was not alone; he appeared to be shouting at the wall.

Three days earlier, Clarice had received the type of call she dreaded: Sassy-Boo, a seventeen-year-old cat, had been left behind when social services took her elderly owner into a nursing home. A neighbour had been tasked with feeding her and finding an animal rescue charity to take her, but due to the animal’s age, this had proved impossible. Clearly distressed, the neighbour had telephoned Clarice from a Lincoln veterinary practice, having taken Sassy-Boo there to be put to sleep. One of the vet’s nurses had given her Clarice’s number; she was using the vet’s telephone to ask if the charity might help.

Clarice had taken Sassy-Boo to be examined by her friend Jonathan Royal, the Castlewick vet.

‘You are a niffy old girl.’ Jonathan spoke gently to the cat.

‘Her teeth,’ Clarice said. ‘I noticed as soon as I picked her up.’

‘What do you know about her?’

‘Not a lot. The neighbour told me the owner was ninety-one. She’d had Sassy for fifteen years. She’s actually a sweetie,’ Clarice looked at the animal as she spoke, ‘but she has the grumpiest expression I’ve ever seen on a cat.’

‘Unfortunate name.’ Jonathan lifted his eyebrows.

‘Yes,’ Clarice grimaced, ‘and apparently the owner used to tie a small pink ribbon in a bow on top of her head.’

They stood silently side by side looking at the sour face; the belligerent eyes stared back as if to challenge them.

‘Leave her with me.’ Jonathan smiled. ‘I’ll check her over and sort out any problems with her teeth. You know I’ll need to put her under?’

Clarice nodded. ‘I’ll come back later.’ She was aware that anaesthetic with an elderly animal carried risks, but there was no other option. If the cat was in discomfort with rotten teeth, her quality of life would be affected.

When she’d returned to the surgery, a sleepy Sassy-Boo had been brought into the consulting room in her travel basket. Jonathan, short and sturdy, with a mass of curly white hair, stood in his regular pose, arms folded, head angled to one side.

‘She’s still a bit dopey,’ he said.

‘How many—’ Clarice began.

‘Ask,’ Jonathan interrupted with a raised index finger, ‘not how many teeth I have removed, but rather how many I’ve left in.’

‘How many have you left in?’ Clarice complied.

‘Four.’

‘They were bad.’

‘Awful,’ Jonathan agreed. ‘I could practically pull them out with my fingers. They must have been causing her a lot of irritation. And I think I’ve discovered the reason for the grumpy face.’

‘Go on,’ Clarice said.

‘If you were a big butch boy, how would you like to have to wear a pink ribbon and have everyone calling you a pretty girl?’

‘She is a he?’

‘He is a neutered tomcat.’

Carrying Sassy around the barn now, listening to his full-on purr, Clarice remembered the conversation.

‘You may have the grumpiest face, but you also have the loudest purr.’ She scratched behind his ears. ‘From now on, I’ll call you Sassy, and we can forget the Boo and the ribbons.’

Sassy drooled with delight.

‘You do kick up when you’re left alone, even though you have your own hiding box.’ Clarice put the cat down thoughtfully. ‘I imagine your owner was with you for most of the day.’

Sassy stopped purring and stared disgruntled as Clarice headed to the door.

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll be back,’ she said quietly, ‘and just remember to work your magic on the big man I bring in later.’

Back at the house, she left a note for Bob and Sandra telling them she would be visiting Emily and would be back later. Snug in her chunky waterproof dog-walking jacket, she pulled on a matching tan-coloured woollen hat, tucking her shoulder-length auburn hair inside. Outside, the grass was wet, the rain that had threatened earlier coming down in a fine drizzle.

It was almost 8.30 a.m. when she reached the outskirts of Lincoln. She had looked at the flowers in her garden and judged the wind-battered autumn perennials not good enough to give as a gift. She drove directly to a florist near Colin’s home, and from a large selection chose a bouquet of bright yellow chrysanthemums and white carnations. After putting them on the front seat to join the card expressing her sympathy, she made her way through the maze of streets in the Nettleham area to reach Colin’s bungalow.

Over the years, Colin had gone from being just another of her adult students to becoming a good friend. He’d spoken so often of his daughter, an only child. He and Emily had been in touch daily with phone calls or texts, and she frequently visited him for Sunday lunch. Clarice had thought of their closeness as a joy for Colin, but with his sudden death, his being such a big part of her life would only deepen the sense of loss for Emily.

Turning into the quiet cul-de-sac, she drove slowly between the two rows of bungalows facing one another across a narrow road. Built within the new millennium, they were outwardly smart and well maintained. The gardens to the front of each property already looked barren in the onset of early winter. Trees had shed their leaves, with those remaining a variety of colours on a theme of brown and gold. The ground below the trees was for the most part clear, suggesting a tidy neighbourhood.

As she drove towards the end of the cul-de-sac, Clarice remembered her last visit, in May; she’d brought ceramic plates fired in the college kiln for Colin and stayed for a cup of tea. She recollected an orderly house, Colin’s output of dishes, plates and vases adorning his hallway and sitting room. He’d had a love of roses and had decorated many of his plates with abstract red shapes resembling flowers; quite an achievement given that red glazes were notoriously difficult to fire successfully.

She parked outside number 72 and picked up the flowers and card. The curtains were closed, and she imagined that Emily and Jake, after a late night of conversation, were having a lie-in. Tucking the card under the flowers to one side of the porch, she slipped quietly back down the path.

‘Clarice!’ Emily’s voice reached her as she left the garden.

Clarice turned to retrace her steps. ‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ she said.

Emily was pretty, petite and slim. Clarice thought of a delicate, spindly whippet. She understandably did not look her best today. She’d half emerged from behind the door, wearing creased pink pyjamas, her long brown hair scraped back into a ponytail, her skin pallid and eyes puffy.

‘Is Jake still here?’

‘He didn’t make it.’ Emily was blunt, not expanding with an explanation. ‘Come in, Clarice.’ She held the door open. ‘And thanks for these.’ She cradled the flowers in the crook of her arm as she led the way into the sitting room.

The room had not changed since her last visit. Clarice looked at the plates and vases displayed on the sideboard and windowsill; Emily followed her gaze.

‘He so loved your classes.’ Putting the flowers and card down on a table, Emily attempted a weak smile. ‘And I gained a whole new family in his classmates. He included me in all the social events.’

‘He told me at the first class that he’d try ceramics for one term – and then he was hooked,’ Clarice said.

‘Yes, I don’t think he’d ever considered himself artistic or creative, but he was.’ Emily’s voice held a note of surprise.

‘He just had to find a way to let it out, and ceramics did it for him.’

Emily nodded, the smile wobbling before she dissolved into tears.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Clarice put an arm around her shoulders and waited as the younger woman, her hands now filled with tissues pressed against her face, sobbed loudly. When the tears were finally reduced to sniffling, she guided Emily to the sofa and sat down beside her.

‘I guess you didn’t get any sleep last night?’ she said.

Emily shook her head. ‘I was wandering around the house. I couldn’t settle.’ She blew her nose, then sniffed as if trying to regain her composure. ‘It’s just so unfair. Dad was only fifty-five. Grandpa – Dad’s father – is still going strong in his mid eighties.’

‘It isn’t fair,’ Clarice said gently, ‘but then, that’s life.’

‘Grandpa said that last night. He said Dad was too young.’ Emily pondered. ‘I think he was crying, but I don’t know. He isn’t the type to cry.’

‘If he’s in his eighties, he’ll have lost a lot of people, friends and family, over the years, but Colin was his son – a special bond. Did your dad have siblings?’

‘No.’ Emily was calm now, twisting the tissues between her fingers. ‘He was an only child, like me.’

‘Me too.’ Clarice smiled. ‘It has good points and bad.’

Emily nodded agreement. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea or coffee.’

‘A cuppa would be great.’ Clarice followed her into the kitchen, encountering a sleek black cat in the hallway. ‘Hello, you.’ She knelt as she spoke, watching as the cat pushed its head against her proffered hand.

‘That’s Josephine,’ Emma said. ‘Napoleon’s on Dad’s bed.’

‘I’ve met them before – siblings. I couldn’t tell them apart.’

‘They’re best buddies,’ Emily said. ‘I was four when Dad brought them home as kittens, so they’re over fifteen now.’

Ten minutes later, the two of them sat with steaming mugs of tea at a round white Formica table in the kitchen. Like other parts of the property, the kitchen with its pine units and white wall tiles looked pristine. Three misshapen papier-mâché pigs of varying sizes squatted in a line on top of the fridge.

‘I made those for Dad,’ Emily pointed at the pigs, ‘when I was at school.’

‘So Colin wasn’t the only artist in the family,’ Clarice teased.

‘They’re a bit rubbish – but I was only seven.’

‘Your dad didn’t think they were rubbish.’

‘No,’ Emily said, her voice serious, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

‘What’s happening about the funeral?’ Clarice changed the subject.

‘Grandpa will organise it.’ Emily brushed her hand across her face as she spoke, attempting to banish the tears. ‘The Compton-Smythes have a family plot at Sealsby church. I know Grandpa would want him there, and he’ll arrange a church service … though that’s a bit awkward.’

‘Colin wasn’t religious?’

‘No.’ Emily grimaced. ‘I know you can have non-religious funerals, but that won’t happen with Grandpa. I don’t feel strong enough to fight him about it.’

‘Is the family home near the village?’ Clarice asked.

‘It’s quite close, about five miles away. Stone Fen Manor is on. . .