The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  He smiles, and says, “Thank you, Inspector,” as he closes the door behind us.

  On the way back to the station, we drive in silence for a while, but then Thompson breaks it eventually, as we’re driving down the Portsmouth Road, alongside the river.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more obviously jealous, do you?” he remarks.

  “No.”

  “It was hard to tell what she was more jealous of though, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes… she seemed to covet Mrs Wharton’s husband, but also her lifestyle and possessions, I thought, didn’t you?”

  “I got that impression, yes,” he replies. “She was one of those women who’ll put someone down, rather than compliment them.” He smiles. “She may have criticised Mrs Wharton for having a maid, but I imagine she’d give her eye teeth to be able to afford to employ one herself.”

  “Precisely,” I muse.

  “And she certainly didn’t like the idea of her husband spending a few minutes alone with Mrs Wharton,” he adds. “That seemed a bit pathetic to me.”

  “She didn’t seem to trust him… which makes you wonder if she has cause for that.”

  He shakes his head. “No… I don’t think that was it. I think it was pure dislike of Mrs Wharton, not distrust of her own husband.”

  “Either way, we seem to be looking at a series of unhappy, unfulfilled marriages in this case, don’t we?”

  He glances at me quickly before focusing on the road again. “Yes,” he comments, “but at least they’re only in the case and not in our lives.”

  “Absolutely.” I smile at him and we fall back into our considered silence again.

  Back at the station, I’m surprised by how deserted the office is, but remind myself that Thompson informed me yesterday how many men have gone down with flu in the last few days.

  “It’s like the Mary Celeste in here,” I remark, removing my coat and carrying it through to my office, where I hang it on one of the hooks behind my door, adding my hat and turning around. My room looks exactly the same as it did just over a week ago, when I walked out of here on the Friday before my wedding, looking forward to marrying Amelie and spending a week alone with her. Now that’s all behind us, reality is biting hard, and I let out a sigh, moving around my desk and sitting in my comfortable chair.

  There’s a message in front of me, saying that George Buxton, the lodger from the Ryder household, has called this morning, and will be coming here at two o’clock this afternoon, which suits me fine, being as we have no-one else to go and speak to at the moment, and I want to spend some time going over Mildred Ryder’s diaries, which are stacked in a neat pile to one side of my desk.

  “I thought you might like a cup of tea,” Thompson says, coming into my office, bearing two cups and saucers.

  “If it wasn’t for the fact that you’d arrest me, I think I’d kill for one,” I joke, and he smiles, placing one of the cups before me. “Shall we go through these?” I suggest, pulling the pile of diaries in front of me and looking up at him.

  “We might as well make a start.”

  I toss the 1935 diary at him and he sits back, crossing his legs as he starts to flip through it, taking the occasional sip of tea.

  For myself, I look at the most recent diary, the one dated 1940, which only features a few weeks’ of entries and, finding very little of interest, I put it aside and pick up the one for last year. Sam Higgs’ name crops up on various dates, making it clear they generally saw quite a bit of each other, but otherwise, the only things she seems to have noted down are appointments with her doctor, church events and weddings, at which I assume she may well have been singing in the choir. Every so often, however, there is simply a name marked alongside a date. Some are male and some female, but they are only Christian names and there’s nothing else to signify what these entries mean. I’m just about to ask Thompson whether he’s found any similar names in the earlier diary, when my eye alights on a tiny cross immediately next to the number ‘12’ for the twelfth of September, which makes me smile as I recall seeing exactly the same symbol in Amelie’s sister’s diary after she was killed. Beth Templeton wasn’t really Amelie’s sister, of course, being as Beth was adopted by the Templetons and Amelie was taken in by them, following her own parents’ deaths, but the two girls were brought up as siblings and were really close, and I have to remind myself constantly that, despite everything that’s happened since, Beth only died approximately three months ago, and that, in reality, that’s another reason for me to keep an eye on Amelie. She’s still in mourning, although I know she tries to hide it most of the time, even though I wish she wouldn’t.

  Thompson puts down his cup, along with the diary he’s been perusing, and picks up the one for 1936, while I drag my mind back to the point at hand.

  “Did that diary have any names listed against various dates?” I ask him, holding my copy open and turning it around to show him.

  “No,” he remarks, leaning forward. “Do you think they’re appointments?”

  “There are no times by any of them,” I point out. “And when she’s marked down things like doctor’s appointments, or church events, she’s put a time as well.” He shrugs and I pick up the diary for 1938, discovering that there are no names entered in that one either. Whatever these entries signify, it was obviously something new to Mildred. “What about this cross symbol?” I ask, putting down the 1938 diary, picking up last year’s again, flipping over the page and showing that to him as well.

  “Yes, I’ve got one of those every month, but we all know what that means…” He looks up at me. “Don’t we?”

  I smile. “Yes,” I reply slowly, not telling him that I didn’t, until Amelie pointed it out to me, after I’d asked her to explain its significance while perusing Beth’s diary. That embarrassing situation occurred during our first meeting and I’m surprised she ever wanted to see me again after that. But she did… thank goodness.

  “Is there anything in last year’s diary about her meeting with Sam?” Thompson asks me picking up his cup again and draining it.

  “What meeting with Sam?”

  “The one where she broke off their engagement,” he replies, shaking his head at me. “Remember? He told us about it? She might have noted something down, perhaps giving a more reasonable explanation.”

  “She might have done,” I remark, flipping forward through the diary to November, then slowing down and turning the pages one at a time. “No,” I reply, shaking my head, as I get to the end of the month, “there’s nothing.” I get into December, and then stop suddenly, flipping my way back to November again, where I notice the cross marked against the sixth of the month. Moving forward again, I go page by page all the way through December, sitting forward and placing the diary on my desk.

  “What is it?” Thompson asks, mirroring my actions, his elbows resting on the surface of the table.

  “Hang on,” I reply, holding up my hand, before picking up the 1940 diary and searching all the way through January and into the beginning of February, right up to the day of her death. “Well… I wonder…” I muse out loud and then without responding to Thompson, I pick up the telephone and ask the operator for Aunt Dotty’s number. I have to wait a while and I can sense Thompson’s impatience to know what’s going on, but eventually Aunt Dotty herself replies.

  “Hello, Aunty Dotty.” I’m surprised that her maid Ethel hasn’t answered the telephone, but I don’t comment. I’ve got more important things on my mind.

  “Rufus!” She sounds delighted to hear from me. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Do you think I could speak with Amelie, please?”

  “Missing her already?” she teases.

  “Yes,” I reply and she coughs, which tells me she’s surprised by my answer.

  “Hold on a moment, I’ll go and get her,” she says, once she’s recovered, and I hear the clunk of the telephone receiver being placed on the hall table.

  A short while
elapses and then I hear a rustling, before Amelie’s voice sounds in my ear, making me smile instinctively.

  “Hello?” she says, sounding doubtful. “Rufus?”

  “Yes, darling.” I couldn’t care less that Thompson’s in the room, and I sit back in my chair, crossing my legs.

  “Is everything all right?” she asks.

  “Yes. Everything’s fine. I just have a question for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. It’s to do with the case.”

  “Oh?” She sounds intrigued.

  “We’ve been going through the victim’s diaries,” I begin, “and we’ve discovered that she used the same system as Beth did for noting down the beginning of her menstrual cycle.” I fall silent for a second.

  “Right,” Amelie says, filling the gap I’ve left for her.

  “And the thing is, the crosses that she used every other month suddenly seem to have stopped in December of last year. And what I want to know is, if a woman kept a note like that, religiously, every month, for what appears to be at least the last five years, do you think there’s a reason why she might suddenly stop… other than the obvious one?”

  There’s a short pause, then Amelie replies, “I can’t think why she would, no, unless of course she was unwell for some reason.”

  “Might that cause a… temporary interruption in the normal… um… cycle of things?” I ask, struggling to phrase my sentence and wishing we could have this conversation face-to-face, without my sergeant being present.

  “It might,” she replies. “But other than that, it’s not something you’d just forget to do… I mean, it’s like a habit, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, darling, is it?” I answer, smiling again.

  “Not for me, it’s not,” she says. “I’ve never done that myself, but then I’ve always been as regular as clockwork, to the point where you could literally set your watch by me…” She falls silent and I realise it’s the first time she’s ever discussed anything like this with me, and that I rather like the thought that she is.

  “Where are you?” I ask her, lowering my voice slightly, although I’m not sure why, being as Thompson is sitting directly opposite me and can hear every word I’m saying.

  “In the hall,” she replies.

  “Look in the mirror,” I tell her.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to tell me if you’re blushing.”

  I hear her very slight giggle. “Yes, I am.”

  I chuckle myself. “Well, there’s no need to.”

  “I can’t believe I just said that to you,” she whispers, conspiratorially.

  “I can… and I like that you did,” I reply. “And now I’m afraid I have to get on, if I’m going to get back in time for dinner.”

  “In that case, I’ll let you go,” she says. “Was that all you needed to know?”

  “Yes, thank you, darling. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  “I’m sure I haven’t.”

  “Well, I’ll prove you wrong later,” I reply and she giggles again. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

  “Goodbye, Rufus. I love you.”

  I don’t hesitate for a second before saying, “I love you too,” and then I put down the receiver, and finally look up at Thompson, who’s gone back to perusing the diary he’s holding.

  “You’re sickeningly in love, aren’t you?” he remarks, turning over a page.

  “Yes.”

  He looks up now and smiles. “Care to enlighten me?”

  “About love?” I tease.

  “No, about the reason for that telephone conversation.”

  I hand him the diary for 1939, open in October. “Look for yourself,” I tell him. “Pay attention to the crosses. There’s one noted down in every month of her diaries. See? There’s one on the ninth of the month.”

  “Yes,” he says, flipping forward to November. “There’s another one here, on the sixth.”

  “Keep going…”

  He does, and then looks up at me. “They’ve stopped,” he says.

  “Precisely.”

  “So you think she was pregnant?”

  “I think it’s a possibility.”

  “Do you think Sam Higgs knew about it?” he asks.

  “No.” I genuinely don’t.

  “Do you think we should go and ask him?”

  “No. We’re speculating at the moment, and we could be wrong.”

  “Why did you call Amelie, then?” he asks.

  “Because pregnancy seemed the most likely reason to me and I wanted her to confirm it. But as my wife has just pointed out, Miss Ryder might have had some kind of medical problem.” I remember an entry in the 1940 diary and open it, double checking. “Look,” I say, turning it around for Thompson to see, “there’s an appointment here for her to see her doctor on the Wednesday before her death.”

  “That doesn’t prove she had a medical problem,” Thompson points out reasonably. “On the contrary, it could be the evidence that she was pregnant, and this was the appointment she made with her doctor to confirm it.” He sits forward, right on the edge of his seat. “What’s the doctor’s name?”

  “Absolutely no idea. There’s no name. It just says ‘Doctor – 12.30’.”

  “Well, that’s singularly unhelpful.” He flops back into his chair again, despondent.

  “Hopefully Wyatt will get us his preliminary report tomorrow,” I remind him, “and then we’ll know, one way or the other.”

  George Buxton arrives on time and I arrange to have him shown into one of the interview rooms. It’s not that I’m treating him as a suspect, but I’d rather keep things formal at this stage.

  Entering the room, I size up the man before me, noting that he appears to be around forty-five years of age, with greying hair, a ruddy complexion, and an expanded waistline. He’s wearing a suit and tie, but the hems are frayed and his shirt collar has seen better days. Still, he stands upon our entry and offers his hand across the table, which I accept, before suggesting we all sit.

  “You wanted to see me?” he asks expectantly.

  “Yes,” I reply. “It’s about Mildred Ryder.”

  “Her mother told me,” he says, sounding sad now. “I was very upset to hear about what happened. She… she was a lovely girl. Always so kind and helpful, she was…”

  I’m struck by his expression and the tone of his voice, how similar his words are to those employed by Sam Higgs, and also by the fact that he seems to have a caring, avuncular attitude towards the victim, rather than a lecherous one.

  “Did you know her well?” I ask and he nods, then stops.

  “I suppose so,” he replies, “although I haven’t really known her for very long. I’ve only been living with the Ryders for about a year, or just over, but…” he pauses and looks up at me, biting his lip and looking self-conscious.

  “What is it, Mr Buxton?”

  “I have trouble,” he says cryptically.

  “What with?”

  “Reading… and writing.” I nod my head. “I tend to move about quite a bit, because it’s hard getting work in my situation, but since I’ve been here, I’ve managed to earn my keep doing odd jobs, and Mildred’s been helping me.”

  “What with?”

  “My reading and writing,” he replies, frowning slightly, his answer obvious to him at least. “On Sundays when she came to visit her family, she’d spend a couple of hours at the dining table with me, after lunch, helping me with my words and letters. Numbers too… We were doing quite well… at least Mildred said we were, anyway.”

  “You got on well with her?”

  “Yes,” he says, nodding his head slowly.

  “And had you noticed any change in her lately?” I ask.

  “Change?” he queries. “Like what?”

  “Well, was she quieter than usual, or more thoughtful, perhaps?”

  “Not particularly,” he replies, “but then I hadn’t seen her for a fortnight.” He stops and thinks for a mo
ment. “There was that time before Christmas though,” he remarks.

  “What time before Christmas?”

  “I think it was November,” he muses, tilting his head to one side, “but it might have been October… I get muddled, you see…”

  “And what was different about her then?” I ask.

  “She was upset,” he says. “She tried to hide it from her mother, and from Joe and Shirley, but when we were alone, working on my letters, and she thought I wasn’t watching her, I noticed tears in her eyes. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but I was scared she might start crying, so I left it…” He sighs. “Of course, it wasn’t long after that she called off the wedding, so I suppose that makes sense, really.”

  “And how was she after that?”

  “Well, now I come to think about it, she had been quieter than she was before, but then that makes sense too, doesn’t it, given that she and Sam weren’t getting married anymore.”

  I nod my head, smiling, but deep down, I’m not so sure.

  Chapter Six

  I’ve spent the whole day watching him, trying to interpret his expressions, his actions and the few words he’s bothered to speak to me.

  Over lunch, he was much quieter than usual; thoughtful and distant, it seemed to me. I wondered for a while, whether he was thinking about Mildred, and about his child… the child I’ve killed. The idea that he could have been sitting at our dining table, thinking about his lover, made me angrier than I can put into words. But I had to maintain the impression of normality, so I talked about the morning church service, and who had been there, and who hadn’t, and the weather, and my plans for doing some more work in the garden during the week, if the rain holds off. Gardening may not be exactly my ‘thing’, but we all have to do our bit for the war effort, and I’ve surprised myself by being quite good at it. He didn’t seem that interested in my ideas, but nodded occasionally and tried to make all the right noises, even though I could tell he wasn’t concentrating on a word I said.

  As he carved our small joint of beef, which I bought because I refuse to eat mutton, even if he does claim money is scarce, I had to smile to myself, recalling that the knife he was using to hack indelicately into the meat, was the same one I’d employed to murder his lover and their unborn child. I’d washed it thoroughly, of course, but the thought that he was now using it to carve our Sunday roast gave me a great deal of satisfaction.