by K. J. Frost
Chapter One
December 1939
My darling,
Thank you so much for yesterday’s letter.
I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear that your exemption has been granted. I’ve been worried sick that you’d be taken from me, but to know that you’ll be kept safe, it’s the best news I’ve had in ages. I just wish I could be with you to celebrate.
I miss you too, my love, and obviously I agree that things would be so much better if we could telephone each other, but you’re at work during the day and there always seems to be someone here in the evenings, and it wouldn’t do to have our conversations overheard, would it? Especially not by ‘his lordship’. We can’t afford to get caught out – well, I certainly can’t – and, in any case, I feel that can we say so much more in our letters, don’t you? And then I can read them when I’m by myself, and think about how much I miss you… all of you.
I agree, our time together last Friday was so special, my darling. I wish we could have had longer too, but to feel your naked body next to mine, your hands caressing my skin, your lips all over me… and as for your tongue… oh God! It makes me shudder, just thinking about it, and those memories have filled my dreams every night since.
In answer to your question, I don’t think it’s going to be possible for me to spend the night with you anytime soon. I wish that wasn’t the case, but I can’t think of a good enough excuse to get away… unless you can? It would have to be something no-one suspected, and we’d have to be careful that no-one saw us together. But if either of us can think of anything, then yes, I’d love to. You know that. You know there’s nothing I want more than to be able to take our time making love to each other, to fall asleep in your arms and wake up beside you. But in the meantime, we’ll have to just make do with our lunchtimes and occasional afternoons, and treasure the memories.
Speaking of which, I should be able to get away for half an hour or so tomorrow at around 12.30. If I’m not there by quarter to, you’ll know I can’t make it. I hope I can though… I’m simply dying to seeing you.
Thinking of you always,
Your beloved,
Kitten xx
*****
“Are you awake, dear?”
My mother comes into the bedroom and goes over to the window, pulling back the curtains and blackout to let in the weak December sunshine, ensuring that, if I wasn’t already awake, I am now.
“Yes, Mother.”
She comes back and looks down at me, her long brown hair restrained behind her head in a loose bun. She’s already dressed, in her usual style, with a flowing dark blue skirt beneath a thin grey jumper, topped by a knee-length navy cardigan, and a teal coloured scarf around her neck. “It’s Monday morning, Rufus,” she says, as though I won’t know what day it is, or that it’s my first day back at work following a week’s enforced recuperation at home, as a result of having been stabbed. Considering how much I love being a policeman, regarding it as a vocation, rather than a job, I’m hardly likely to have forgotten that today is the day I get to return to it. “Time to get up,” she adds, with considerable, and completely unnecessary vigour.
“I’m not ten years old, Mother.” I throw back the covers and sit up on the edge of the bed. Her ministrations each morning are wearing thin, especially as she seems to have forgotten that I’m no longer a child; I’m going to be thirty-three years old next month, although you’d never know it to listen to her mollycoddling.
I think what makes the situation worse is the knowledge that, while I appreciate that my broken arm – received in a car accident that pre-dated the stabbing – means I do need help, I’m not sure I want that help to come in the form of my mother. Amelie, the woman I love more than anything else in the world, only lives around the corner. In fact, her house is visible from my bedroom window, and it serves as a constant reminder that her assistance, in helping me with getting dressed and undressed, would be a vast improvement on my mother’s attentions.
“Then stop sulking like a ten year old and get up,” Mother says, interrupting my much more pleasant train of thought, before going through to the bathroom.
I know better than to argue with her, and get to my feet, wandering over to the window and gazing out at Amelie’s house. The rooftops are covered with a thin layer of December frost and I smile to myself, remembering our walk by the river yesterday and how cold we got… and how warm she felt in my arms when we sheltered from the fleeting snowfall beneath some trees, and I let her nestle inside my coat, her body close to mine.
“Of course, if you and Amelie were married, I wouldn’t have to do this. As your wife, she could help you.” Mother’s voice rings out from behind me, intruding into my fond recollections, and I turn to face her.
“Being as I’ve only known her for eight weeks, I think to be married already would be quite an achievement, don’t you?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “Not if you’d put your mind to it, dear.” She turns and puffs up the pillows, pulling up the sheet and blanket and straightening them.
She and Aunt Dotty have been like this since they noticed my initial interest in Amelie; first matchmaking – although that wasn’t strictly necessary, being as I fell in love with Amelie almost the moment I saw her – and now meddling, which is what they seem to do best.
“Even so,” I point out, skirting around her and heading towards the bathroom, where I know she’ll have run some water into the bath for me, “I think from first acquaintance to marriage in eight weeks would be asking a little too much.”
“Perhaps,” she muses, loud enough for me to hear her, “but if you at least asked her, then we could start making plans.”
I come back into the bedroom and stand still, looking down at her.
“Mother…” She turns to face me. “When I ask Amelie to marry me, and if she accepts, then the planning will be done by us. I don’t want you and Dotty, and Aunt Issa interfering. Is that clear?”
She smiles, her eyes sparkling. “You said ‘when’.”
I fold my arms and narrow my eyes at her. “That’s not the point.”
“Oh, I think it is, Rufus.” She claps her hands together. “Now, go and have your bath. I’ll be back in a minute to change your dressing, but first I need to go and tell Dotty…” She moves past me and starts along the landing.
“Tell her what?” I call after her.
“That you said ‘when’,” she replies.
“I also said ‘if’,” I point out and she stops dead, turning towards me.
“When did you say ‘if’?” she asks, looking worried.
“Just now. I said ‘if she accepts’.”
A broad smile breaks out on her face and she waves away my comment. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” she says and turns away again, scurrying into my aunt’s room and closing the door behind her.
With Aunt Dotty and my mother under one roof for the first time in years, and Aunt Issa down in Somerset, telephoning to check up on my progress every other day, I suppose it was too much to ask that I might be allowed any privacy in my personal life. Personal life? I chuckle to myself… heaven forbid.
I make my way back into the bathroom and remove my pyjama bottoms – I never wear the tops – climbing into the bath and taking care of the small dressing that still covers the knife wound I received almost two weeks ago. The woman who did this to me is safely behind bars, her confession to my injury and the killing of another police officer, in revenge for the death of her lover, now a matter of record. The wound has healed really well, and the dressing is just for show, I think, but it’s a timely reminder not to take anythi
ng for granted – like my life, or the people I love.
Once bathed, I return to my bedroom and dress myself, with the door firmly closed. I may not have found this very easy to start with, after I broke my arm – doing up buttons can be tricky with just one hand – but I’ve mastered it now, and prefer the independence of not having my mother doing everything for me. I’ve still got another three weeks until the plaster cast comes off and, as I wander over to the window again, I look outside and ponder on the two main reasons why I can’t wait. The first of them is parked outside Aunt Dotty’s house. It’s a beautiful British racing green MG. My old one – which was bright red – was destroyed when I crashed it, and my mother decided to buy me a new one as an early birthday present. She also chose to get a drophead coupé version, which means that, unlike my earlier model, this one has a roof, and windows. It’s the height of luxury and is much more practical for Amelie – or it will be, when I can drive it. The second reason for my impatience is Amelie herself. Although I can hold her, like I did yesterday, in the falling snow, it’s been too long since I’ve been able to put my arms around her properly, and even as I stand here and look at her house, I ache for her.
I hear the dining room door open and close and realise that time’s moving on and I need to have breakfast before my sergeant, Harry Thompson, arrives to collect me and drive me to work in Kingston. I leave my tie loose. It’s one of the few things I still haven’t mastered, but which I know my mother will do for me and, picking up my jacket, I make my way down the stairs.
“Good to see you again,” Thompson says, holding the car door open for me. At six foot three, he’s only an inch shorter than me, but where I have reddish-brown hair, his is blond. He’s also of a more sturdy build, but we share the same sense of humour, which is a good thing, especially in our job.
He glances down at the brown-paper wrapped parcel I’m holding, raising his eyebrows, but I don’t comment and neither does he.
“Can I expect this service every day?” I ask him, getting into the car and looking up at him.
“No,” he replies, smiling, and then he walks around and climbs in beside me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. We’ve been in touch during the last week, because I asked to be kept informed if anything important happened at work in my absence – which it didn’t – but we haven’t spoken since Thursday.
“A lot better, thank you. How’s Julia?” I enquire, being as his wife is pregnant and is suffering from morning sickness.
“Better than she was,” he replies, looking over at me. “Thanks for asking.”
“Is your mother-in-law still helping?” Julia enlisted the assistance of her mother with their son, Christopher, because at one stage, she was struggling to leave the bathroom before midday.
He nods his head as he pulls the car away from the kerb. “Yes. Just for a day or two longer, I think. Although the sickness isn’t so bad, Julia’s still quite tired.”
“Do you get on alright with her?” I ask. “Your mother-in-law, I mean… not Julia.”
He smiles. “Yes, I do. I think she’s the ideal mother-in-law, actually.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, she dotes on Christopher and loves babysitting, or even having him to stay, which means Julia and I get to have the occasional night to ourselves.” He smirks and I shake my head, although I don’t know why I’m surprised that a conversation with Harry would end up veering towards the bedroom. It’s always been the same, for as long as I’ve known him. “And, she doesn’t interfere in our lives,” he adds.
“What more could a man ask?”
“Precisely.”
“My mother could do with taking some lessons from her,” I remark, without thinking and he glances across at me, before looking back at the road ahead, and I realise I’m going to have to add something to that statement. “She’s got interfering down to a fine art.”
“I’m sure she means well,” Thompson says, sounding more placatory than I feel, after my conversation with her earlier.
“I wish I was. I swear to God, she never misses an opportunity to raise the subject of engagements, weddings and marriage – not to mention babies – every time Amelie comes over. And as for when she gets me by myself…” I roll my eyes.
“Would you rather she didn’t care less?” he asks, his voice rather more serious now.
“Well, no… obviously not.”
He shakes his head. “Then look on the bright side. At least she lives in Somerset most of the time, which isn’t exactly local, and when you do get married to Amelie, and you have children, you can pack them off to their grandmother for a week, every so often. She’ll be in her element, and you two can enjoy the peace and quiet.”
“Ah… peace and quiet,” I muse, dreamily, and he laughs, leaving me to reflect that, hearing him say ‘when’ with regard to my proposal and marriage to Amelie, doesn’t bother me at all.
He parks the car behind the London Road police station and we both get out and climb the stairs to the first floor, going through the main CID office. Thompson stops at his desk, taking off his coat and I go through to my room. As I hang up my own coat on the hook behind the door, I take a moment to look around. It’s good to be back. I may not have worked back here for that long – just a few weeks in reality – but it feels like I’m at home again already. I smile to myself and go over to my desk, putting down the parcel and carefully unwrapping it with my one useable hand, to reveal a framed sketch. Amelie drew it while she was staying at my mother and Aunt Issa’s cottage in Somerset in October. It was one of her first attempts at sketching and I think it’s wonderful. At my request, she had this one and two others framed. The other two hang in my bedroom, but I wanted to bring one in here too, and I take it over to the book case and prop it up. That will have to do for now, until I’m able-bodied enough to mount it on the wall.
I sit down at my desk, staring for a moment at the framed photograph of Amelie in front of me. The black and white image doesn’t do justice to her chestnut coloured hair, or her amber eyes, or the soft pink hue of her lips, but I like looking at it, nonetheless. And that’s how it should be. I am in love with her, after all.
“Stone?” I look up at the sound of a deep voice, coming from my doorway, and quickly get to my feet. The man facing me is tall, with a thin, angular face and dark hair, wearing the resplendent uniform of my superior officer.
“Chief Superintendent.”
He smiles and comes into my room, looking around. Chief Superintendent Webster is new to the station, having transferred from Guildford and, while we’ve met, that was before he officially started working here, before my injury kept me away from work. I’d been planning on going upstairs to see him later on, but he’s forestalled that, much to my surprise, which I’m trying to hide. Well… it’s unusual to see someone of such exalted rank on the ‘shop floor’, as it were.
“What can I do for you, sir?” I ask, indicating the two chairs in front of my desk.
He closes the door and comes over, sitting in the right hand one as I resume my own seat, looking across at him and wondering what I’ve done to deserve such a visit. “How are you?” he asks.
“A great deal better than I was, sir, thank you.”
He smiles. “And you’re sure you’re well enough to come back?”
“Absolutely positive.” The thought of another day spent at home with my mother and Aunt Dotty, while Amelie goes to work and can’t, therefore, be relied upon to keep me sane, doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Good…” he says a little distractedly. “I—I’ve got something I need to talk to you about, only I don’t want to throw you in at the deep end, if you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready, sir. Feel free to throw me wherever you wish.”
He smiles, although it’s rather a weak effort. “Yes, well. Have you heard about these burglaries yet?”
“Um… no.” I feel rather on the back foot now.
He shakes his head. “
Not to worry. They took place last night, but I’m only really aware of them myself because…” He pauses. “Well, because I have a personal involvement.”
I lean forward. “You do?”
“Yes.” He looks down at his clasped hands. “I had a telephone call in the early hours from my sister. It seems two men broke into her house. They tied her up and stole her jewellery and some money.”
“Is she alright?” I ask and he smiles.
“She is now, thank you. She was alone when it happened… well, apart from the maid and cook, but they slept through the whole thing, until she managed to raise the alarm at just before four this morning.”
“They didn’t hurt her? The burglars, I mean.”
“No. She’s more shocked and shaken than anything. And bloody angry about the jewels. Some of them belonged to our mother.”
“You said ‘burglaries’… plural, sir?”
He looks up. “Yes. Sorry. There were two further break-ins, in the same road.”
“All in one night?” He nods. “Where was this?”
“Endsleigh Gardens, in Surbiton.”
“And your sister’s name?”
“Ruth Tierney. Her husband is a doctor.”
“And he wasn’t in the house last night?” I ask.
“No. There was an emergency at the hospital, I believe. It happens quite a lot these days, because the hospital is almost as short staffed as we are.”
I stand up, ignoring his comment, since it’s not relevant to the case. “Does Sergeant Tooley have the details for the other burglaries?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Very good.” He stands himself now as I go over and take my coat down from the hook, shrugging it over my shoulders and holding my hat in my hand. “I’ll keep you informed,” I tell him, opening the door.
“Thank you,” he says. “I won’t interfere.” He gives me a slight smile.
“I appreciate that, sir.”
I go out into the main office, followed by Webster, who walks straight out through the main door without speaking to anyone else, and goes up the stairs. Looking around, I discover Sergeant Tooley leaning over Thompson’s desk and, judging from their conversation as I approach, it would seem they’re discussing the burglaries already.
