The Blackbird (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 2)

by K. J. Frost

  Nurse West has helped me dress, which was much less embarrassing then when Thompson did it, as she was more business-like in her approach. I suppose she’s done it a hundred times before though, so it’s like water off a duck’s back for her to watch a grown man struggle with his underwear.

  Once I’m ready, she sits me in the chair beside my bed. I’m exhausted, but unwilling to admit it, even though I’m fairly sure she’s worked it out for herself.

  “Your friend should be here soon,” she says, laying my coat over the end of the bed and glancing down at her watch. “And then you can leave. Do you have everything?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Right, well… I’d better go.” She turns towards the door. “I’m off duty in five minutes.”

  “Nurse?” I call her back and she looks across at me. “Thank you.”

  She smiles. “You’re welcome, Inspector.”

  There’s a lot more I could say to her, about how her sense of humour has made this experience a lot less miserable than it might have been, how her hard work has helped in my recovery… and how her advice has given me pause for thought. But I know I don’t need to. She understands.

  “Good luck,” she adds.

  “You too.”

  Her eyes twinkle for a moment, and I think we both know we’re not talking about my health – or anyone else’s.

  She’s only been gone for a minute or two when the door opens again, and Amelie steps through, with a broad smile on her face, followed by Thompson. He looks tired still and maybe a little distracted.

  “Rufus,” Amelie says affectionately, coming over and leaning down to kiss me far too briefly on the lips. “You’re up.”

  “Yes. The nurse helped me.”

  “Thank God for that,” Thompson quips from the other side of the room, although I notice he’s not smiling. “I’ve been dreading having to get you dressed again all afternoon.”

  “Are you ready to go?” Amelie asks, turning and looking around the room. “Do we need to do anything?”

  “No. I can leave,” I reply and she nods her head, grinning. Thompson takes my bag from beside the bed and Amelie stands in front of me, holding out her hand, which I take and clamber to my feet. My wound stretches and pulls just slightly, but it’s more uncomfortable than painful, and I straighten easily.

  “Your coat,” Amelie says, turning and picking it up off the bed, then holding it up for me to shrug over my shoulders.

  “Thank you, darling,” I reply and take her hand in mine as she looks up at me, our eyes meeting. It feels good to stand beside her once more and I can’t wait to hold her properly.

  Thompson walks ahead of Amelie and I at a pace I can’t hope to maintain, and she takes my arm in hers. I’ll admit to leaning on her for support, but I don’t think she minds in the slightest.

  We’re almost at the entrance when Amelie looks up and asks if I’m alright.

  “I’m a little tired,” I manage to mutter, feeling breathless already.

  “Then we’ll stop for a minute,” she says, and we move to the side of the corridor for me to catch my breath.

  She stares at me for a long moment, an odd expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s just that it’s odd to see you with clothes on––” She stops abruptly and blushes. “I mean, I’ve become used to seeing you without any––” She stops again and bites her bottom lip. I laugh gently so it doesn’t hurt too much. “Oh God,” she whispers.

  “I understand what you mean.” I do my best to rescue her.

  “Good,” she says, and rests her hand on my chest.

  “Although I miss the feeling of your skin against mine.” Her eyes widen and I place my hand over hers. “That felt very special.”

  “Yes, it did,” she murmurs.

  “We should probably catch up with Thompson,” I point out. “Before he comes looking for us.”

  She nods and takes my hand in hers, leading me towards the door.

  Outside, Thompson is standing by the sleek black Wolseley, with the back door open, waiting for us, and Amelie climbs in ahead of me, thanking him. I go to follow her, but pause for a moment.

  “Is everything alright?” I ask him.

  He nods his head. “I’ll tell you about it on the way home.”

  That sounds ominous, but I get into the car and settle down beside Amelie, who rests her head on my shoulder, our hands clasped together in my lap.

  Thompson gets in behind the wheel and starts the car, pulling out of the parking space.

  “I assume you’ve got something to tell me about Kate Pendry?” I ask to break the ice.

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “You’ve interviewed her?”

  “If you can call it that,” he says. “We spoke to her twice. The first time, she confessed.”

  “Straight away?”

  He nods his head. “I presented her with the evidence of the gun and the knife, and she admitted what she’d used them for.” He pauses. “She was under the impression that she’d killed you, though.”

  Amelie sits up straight. “She was?” The fear has returned to her voice, even though Kate Pendry is safely locked up in a cell.

  “Yes,” Thompson replies. “And she didn’t take it too kindly when I told her that you were well on the way to making a full recovery.”

  “Oh.” I can’t think what else to say.

  “We had to put her back in the cells for a while to calm her down, and then we had another chat.”

  We all sit in silence for a while, as Thompson continues the drive home. I assume he’s recalling the scene and I can imagine for myself what may have gone on. It’s probably not something he wants to relive.

  “Did she give any kind of explanation?” Amelie asks eventually.

  “She just said that she was devastated about losing Janet and decided to get revenge,” Thompson explains.

  “But how did she get hold of a gun?” I ask.

  He sighs deeply. “Well, that’s where I reluctantly have to admit, you got it right,” he says.

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Do you remember saying that it would have been possible for someone to have stolen Gibson’s gun, and I said I thought that was a bit far-fetched?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what she did.”

  “But how did she even know it was there?” I ask him. “They hid that gun when Mr Gibson came back from the last war. Janet was still tiny then, and Kate didn’t even meet her until they were at school together.”

  “Evidently, Janet told her once that she’d been playing in the shed while her parents were doing some gardening, and had knocked over an old paraffin heater. The vibration had made something fall from the rafters, which nearly hit her on the head, and she’d picked it up and looked inside the bag, and seen a gun. She was really scared and, because she couldn’t reach to put it back up in the roof space, she hid it behind some shelving. It seems it had been there ever since.”

  “So they didn’t throw it away?” I enquire.

  “No. Miss Pendry admitted to visiting the Gibsons’ house on the afternoon of Harper’s murder, and knocking on the door…”

  “Why would she do that?” Amelie asks, looking confused.

  “To check whether anyone was in,” I reply.

  “Exactly,” Thompson says, then continues, “It was late and she couldn’t be sure what time Mr Gibson got in from work, or whether Mrs Gibson would be there either, so she knocked on the door first, and when she got no reply, she went down the side of the house and climbed over the gate, and into the back garden.”

  “What was she going to do if one or other of them had been at home?” Amelie asks.

  “She was going to tell them she’d left something in Janet’s room and ask if she could collect it,” Thompson explains. “She’d thought it all through.”

  “How did she get into the shed though?” I ask as we stop at a junction. “Gibs
on said it was padlocked.”

  “Miss Pendry said picking locks was something her friend Pauline taught her while she was in the Wrens. I’m not sure as to the exact circumstances of that – it didn’t seem relevant to ask.” He turns to look at me. “Should I have done?”

  “No,” I reply and he faces the front again, pulling out onto the main road. “The point is that she admitted to having the skill in the first place.”

  He nods his head. “Yes. She broke in and scrambled around, and eventually found the gun and the bullets in the bag, exactly as Janet had described.”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “The bullets were with the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Gibson mad?”

  “Yes, probably. Let’s face it, no-one in their right mind leaves the ammunition with the gun, but he did.”

  “Good Lord,” I murmur. “He handed it to her on a plate, didn’t he?”

  “You could say that. She also admitted to finding a penknife there.”

  “A penknife?”

  “Yes. She said she used it to scratch the word into Harper’s chest after she’d shot him.” Amelie tenses beside me and I put my arm around her.

  “Do we have this penknife?” I ask him.

  “We do now. I remembered seeing it when I’d searched her kitchen for the other knife, but I hadn’t realised its relevance. I went back there earlier on, and picked it up.”

  “So, having retrieved the gun, the bullets and the penknife from the shed,” Amelie says returning to the story, “why did she choose PC Harper?”

  “That was completely random,” Thompson replies quietly. “It could have been anyone.”

  “And her attack on Rufus?”

  “Oh, that was deliberate,” he says. “Very deliberate. She revealed that she’d gone to the hospital when you were in there before, after you broke your arm, with the intention of smothering you while you were in a weakened state. But she was too late. They’d discharged you the day before.”

  Amelie shifts even closer to me, whispering my name. “It’s okay,” I murmur, kissing her forehead. “I was never that weakened.”

  “She felt thwarted after that,” Thompson continues, seemingly unaware of our private conversation, “and she was trying to work out what to do about it. She just happened to be in The Swan on the same evening as you. That was pure coincidence. She said she saw you with Miss Cooper, and decided to seize the opportunity.”

  “So she stole the knife on the spur of the moment?” I ask, feeling a little numbed by his story. “It wasn’t planned?”

  “No. She left the pub and went around the back. There’s a small kitchen there and the door was open, so she just went in and helped herself.”

  It sounds unbelievable, and yet we know it happened.

  “Tell me she’ll hang,” Amelie says, her voice a mere whisper against my neck.

  “She’ll hang,” I reply. “She can’t hope to plead insanity. Not after what she’s done.”

  “I don’t think she wants to,” Thompson adds, joining in our conversation. “She’s more than resigned to her fate. I think she’s looking forward to it.”

  Amelie shudders and I hold her tighter.

  “I should never have allowed this to happen.” I only realise I’m thinking out loud after the words have escaped my mouth.

  “Oh, do be quiet,” Thompson says from the front of the car, with considerable feeling.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you’re about to say that you feel responsible for what’s happened, or that PC Harper’s death is your fault, or that you let those women down, then just… well, just don’t,” he says and takes a deep breath. “Ellis was the sanest madman I’ve ever met, which made his crimes much harder to spot. None of us picked up on what he was doing and we’d worked with him for years and knew him a lot better than you did, so it’s not your fault. And other people lost someone thanks to him – the Franklins, the Gibsons, the Coles, Mrs Middlemas and her sons, Mr Templeton and his wife, and even Miss Cooper here – but they didn’t go out and kill a policeman to prove their grief. They got on with their lives… like we’re all going to have to do from now on.” His voice fades as he says the last few words and I realise he’s not just talking about the murder case anymore. He’s talking about the war and how it might impact on all of us as we come to terms with loss and death and hardship over the coming months, and maybe years. He’s talking about his brothers too, and what their loss might do to him and his family. To get through it all, we’re going to have to work hard and pull together, not just think of ourselves.

  I lean forward and put my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Harry,” I murmur loud enough for him to hear.

  He nods his head, but doesn’t reply and I sit back again, pulling Amelie close to me.

  “I feel blessed,” I say softly.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. To have you.” She smiles and I lean down and kiss her gently.

  “Er-hem.” There’s a noticeable fake cough from the front of the car and I lean back, already feeling a little breathless.

  “Can I help?” I ask Thompson.

  “No, but I think I ought to remind you that you’re in a police car and you should probably refrain from doing that.” There’s a welcome hint of humour in his voice that’s been absent since he arrived at the hospital.

  “I’m still your boss,” I remind him, with a similar tone. “And that means you can just concentrate on driving, and leave me to worry about what I’m doing in the back of the car, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replies and I hear his chuckle as my lips brush against Amelie’s once more.

  Everyone is due at the house at ten, and by nine-thirty, my mother has just about finished dressing me and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, exhausted.

  “Can you stand up?” she asks.

  “Why?” I’d rather just sit here for a little longer.

  “So I can make your bed,” she says.

  “Ethel will do it later,” I reply, if only to stop her fussing.

  “Ethel has enough to do today, catering for all the extra mouths that will be here for lunch, not to mention making innumerable cups of tea. Now, just stand up for a moment and let me make the bed.”

  She shoos me out of the way and I go and stand by the window, staring across at Amelie’s house and wondering what she’s doing.

  “What’s this?”

  I turn at the sound of my mother’s voice and see she’s holding a small piece of folded paper in her hand.

  “I don’t know. Where did you find it?”

  “Underneath your pillow.”

  I go back across to her and take the piece of paper, unfolding it and looking down at the neatly printed words that have been written on it:

  ‘I wish you were here.

  And I wish I was here with you. A xx’

  “Well?” My mother at least has the manners not to have read it over my shoulder, but she’s dying to know what it says. And I’ll die before I tell her.

  “It’s just something to do with work,” I fib, folding up the note and placing it in my trouser pocket. “It must have slipped out of my jacket…”

  “And under your pillow?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She narrows her eyes at me, but she knows me too well to push me and, with a shake of her head, gets on with making the bed, while I wander over to the window, a smile etched on my face.

  By the time we get downstairs, Mother seems to have forgotten the note and she and Aunt Dotty start fussing around me even more than usual, insisting that even tea-pouring duties are beyond my capabilities. Aunt Dotty has commandeered that role, being as her head injury, although significantly better than it was, precludes her doing anything too strenuous in the garden – at my mother’s insistence.

  Amelie is the first to arrive, I’m pleased to say, although that isn’t surprising, being as she only lives across the road, and when we said goodnight yesterd
ay, she told me that she couldn’t wait to see me again. I reassured her that the feeling was mutual and, judging from the twinkle in her eyes and the way she nestles into me when I put my arm around her, I’d say she wasn’t exaggerating. Neither was I. Once again, I’m surprised by how attractive I find her outfit, which consists of trousers and a thick jumper. It’s not alluring in the conventional sense, but I find it very appealing to the eye. Mother and Aunt Dotty have gone into the kitchen and I take the chance to ask Amelie about the note, pulling it from my pocket and showing it to her.

  “You found it then?” she whispers, looking up at me.

  “No, actually, my mother found it.”

  She blushes to the roots of her hair and clasps her hand to her mouth. “Oh God, what must she think of me.”

  I smile. “She didn’t read it,” I say quickly, to reassure her. “She’s far too well bred to read someone else’s notes. Mind you, she was intrigued.”

  “You didn’t tell her what it said…?”

  “Of course I didn’t. I told her it was to do with work, not that she believed me.” I move in closer to her. “But the point is, when did you write it?”

  “The night you were stabbed and I stayed here.”

  “Good Lord, Amelie. That was days ago. Anyone could have found it between then and now.”

  She blushes again. “Yes, I suppose they could.” Her voice drops. “I was just missing you so much, and I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, because you weren’t here… I wasn’t thinking straight, Rufus. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” I trace a line along her bottom lip with my thumb. “I’m honoured that you wrote it; that you felt that way. Why leave it under my pillow though?”

  She smiles, just very slightly. “Don’t you remember? You told me, when you were searching Beth’s room after she was killed, that people often hide important things under their pillow…”

  I nod my head, smiling back at her. “Yes, I remember.” I lean closer and am just about to kiss her when the door to the kitchen opens and Mother comes out.

  “Ah, there you are, Amelie,” she announces, as though we’d lost her somewhere.

  “Yes,” Amelie replies, taking a half step away from me.