A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online

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