The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  After lunch, we retired to the sitting room, and he promptly fell asleep, his face a picture of innocence as his head rested back on the chair behind him, his eyes closed and his cheeks puffing out with every breath he took. There was a part of me that wanted to step over to him, place a cushion over his face and smother the life out of him, but that would be giving myself away, wouldn’t it? And I’ve done a good job of covering my tracks thus far, so why spoil it now?

  As I sat reading and keeping half an eye on him, I started to wonder though… I may have covered my tracks, but what about him? Obviously he’s not going to advertise his involvement with Mildred, but has he left any tell-tale signs of his misdemeanours? Anything that might link him to the girl, in a way that might make the police suspicious? I started to panic at that point and wondered about searching his study, almost immediately scolding myself for my stupidity. How can I search his room when he’s in the house? I can’t, can I? I’ll have to wait until I know he’s going to be out of the house for a long enough period of time to get the job done. In the meantime, I’ll just have to check elsewhere, starting with the bedroom…

  “What’s for tea?” he asks, startling me. I’ve been concentrating so hard on my plans, I hadn’t realised he’d woken up.

  “I can make some sandwiches, I suppose,” I reply. “Do you want me to do it now?”

  He looks up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I am quite peckish,” he says and I put down my book, just as he picks up the newspaper.

  “Very well,” I sigh. “I’ll make you a sandwich, but then I’m going up to bed.”

  He glances up from the paper, which he’s just opened. “You’re going to bed?”

  “Yes. I have a shocking headache.” I don’t, but I need an excuse to go upstairs and be alone for a while.

  “Oh… sorry to hear that, dear,” he replies, with no feeling whatsoever.

  I ignore his comment and take myself out to the kitchen, putting up the blackout at the window, before switching on the light.

  As I’m buttering the bread and slicing some cheese, I wonder how difficult it would be to get hold of some kind of poison. I’ve read in books that you have to sign a register or something, so I’m not sure that would work… and it would have to be a tasteless, odourless poison, if there is such a thing. He’s so very fussy about his food, so anything out of the ordinary would be bound to attract his attention.

  I shake my head. “Don’t be silly,” I whisper to myself. I don’t need to kill him. I just need to ensure he hasn’t done anything stupid, like leave any trace of his involvement with Mildred lying around, and then everything will be fine. We can go back to how we were before and, in a few months this will all be forgotten. At least it will by everyone else. I’m never going to forget what he’s done. Not ever.

  Upstairs, I close the curtains and the blackout, and switch on the bedside lamp, pulling back the covers so I can at least jump into bed quickly should I hear him coming up the stairs; not that I think he will. He couldn’t care less about me, or about us. I’m the only one who cares…

  Opening the wardrobe, I carefully and quietly go through the pockets of his jackets, finding them all empty, before starting on his trousers, which likewise divulge nothing of importance, other than a couple of handkerchiefs that should have been put into the laundry. I take great care to put everything back exactly as I found it, and then tiptoe across the room to his chest of drawers, which I search with equal caution, making sure to pull the drawers out slowly, so as not to make a noise.

  I don’t really know what I’m looking for, but as I close the bottom drawer and turn around empty handed, I know I’ll have to take my chances tomorrow and search his study. I can’t afford to leave any stone unturned… not now.

  ***

  Thompson drops me off at Aunt Dotty’s at a little after six and I knock on the door. I do actually still have a key from when I lived here – a time that in reality was just over a week ago – but it seems cheeky to use it now, when I’m no longer a resident.

  Dotty herself answers the door, the hallway in darkness behind her.

  “Rufus!” she cries, throwing her arms around me with enthusiasm.

  “Aunt Dotty.” She leans back, holding onto my face and looking me in the eyes, in the gloom.

  “Marriage suits you,” she chuckles and lets me go, stepping aside so I can enter the house.

  “I like to think so,” I reply and remove my coat, placing it over the end of the stairs, my hat on top.

  “You look happier,” she adds, adjusting the blackout again, now she’s closed the door, the two of us managing to see by the dim light coming from the open sitting room door.

  “I am happier. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

  She grins and links her arm through mine. “Come through,” she offers, leading me to the sitting room, and we walk to the door together, where I step back and let her pass through ahead of me. Inside, the room is warm, the fire blazing, and Amelie is sitting by herself in the corner of one of the sofas. As I enter, she gets to her feet and comes over, standing before me, a little uncertain, until I put my arms around her and she reciprocates, her hands sneaking around my waist, beneath my jacket, clinging to me.

  “Hello,” I murmur.

  “Hello,” she replies and I lean back, looking down at her. She still looks tired, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes that makes me smile, and her lips twitch upwards in response.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nods and takes my hand, pulling me back to the sofa with her, where we sit together, our fingers entwined. Aunt Dotty has already sat herself down opposite, and is smiling at us, benignly.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  “Your mother and Issa are in charge of cooking tonight,” Dotty replies.

  “Oh? Is it Ethel’s night off?” I enquire. “That was bad timing.”

  I notice the expression on Dotty’s face as she shakes her head. “It’s not Ethel’s night off,” she responds, putting her feet up. “She’s left us, I’m afraid.”

  “Ethel’s left you?”

  “Hmm…” Dotty nods now. “While you two were away on your honeymoon, Ethel announced that she was leaving, and going to work in one of the factories in West Molesey, doing war work. She’d seen an advertisement in the local paper, evidently, and had applied.”

  “Without telling you?”

  “Well, I presume she couldn’t be sure they’d take her on,” Dotty reasons. “She had no experience, after all.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “And we could hardly argue, could we? After all, everyone wants to do their bit, and cooking for three old ladies hardly qualifies as helping the war effort.”

  “Three old ladies?” I query, smiling.

  “Well, we’re not in our dotage,” she says, smiling back, “but we’re not in the first flush of youth either.”

  “I was questioning the number of you, not your age,” I point out. “The fact that you said ‘three’ suggests Mother and Aunt Issa intend staying?”

  Dotty smiles. “Oh, yes… you don’t know about that, do you?”

  “Clearly not,” I reply.

  “Well, they’ve decided to remain here, at least for the time being. Issa closed up the house in Somerset before she came up at Christmas, because she expected to be away for a few weeks at least, and then the wedding happened, and she says she’s having such a good time here, she doesn’t want to go back yet.”

  “Where is she working?” I ask. “Or isn’t she?”

  “Oh, she’s working,” Dotty replies, with a knowing look. “She’s commandeered the room you were using to store your books. She loves it in there. She says there are no distractions and she can lose herself in her plots. And, of course, she can easily walk to the library from here to borrow any reference materials she might need.”

  “And what about the house?” I ask. “Can she just leave it closed up?”

  “Well, she telephoned to her neigh
bour… Betty Robbins, I think her name is… and she’s agreed to keep an eye on the place until Issa and your mother return.”

  “I assume Mother is thoroughly enjoying all of this?”

  Dotty smiles once more. “Of course she is.”

  I roll my eyes. “Should I be scared?”

  Dotty laughs now. “Of course you should.”

  At that, Amelie chuckles too and the sound warms my heart. I turn to her and lean down, kissing the tip of her nose. “And you can behave yourself,” I tease.

  “Why would she want to do that?” Dotty remarks, before Amelie can reply and I turn to face her. “She’s having far too much fun misbehaving with us.”

  I look back at Amelie, who’s still gazing at me. “I hope so,” I reply and she lets her head rest on my shoulder.

  Despite my misgivings about my mother remaining in the village for a prolonged period of time, and the mischief she might try and cause – even if well-intentioned – I’m not going to worry too much, not if Amelie continues to be as relaxed as she seems to be right now, anyway.

  “How’s the case going?” Mother asks, once I’ve carved the rib of beef and we’ve all helped ourselves to vegetables.

  “Not too bad,” I reply.

  “It’s in Thames Ditton, isn’t it?” Issa asks, passing the gravy.

  “Yes. A housemaid was stabbed in the churchyard.”

  “Oh dear.” Dotty grimaces.

  “And I think we should change the subject, rather than discussing such gruesome things over dinner, don’t you?” I say quickly, because I’m not really in the mood for talking about Mildred Ryder, or what happened to her, especially now I think she may have been pregnant at the time she was murdered.

  “Probably,” my mother replies. “Why don’t you tell us about your honeymoon instead.”

  “Really, Mother?” I look up at her and see her blush.

  “You don’t have to give us too much detail, dear.” She’s almost stammering.

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to.” Dotty laughs out loud, and we all follow.

  “The inn was lovely,” Amelie says, glancing at me and frowning, presumably because she’s surprised by my reluctance to discuss the case. I shake my head just once and she nods hers. And I have to smile at that lovely little moment of understanding between us. “Although the food was a little limited,” she continues. “It was basically trout, or trout.”

  “Yes, but you weren’t there for the food, were you?” Mother says and then coughs, embarrassed once more.

  “Shall we change the subject again?” I suggest and everyone agrees.

  “Do you think your mother was deliberately trying to embarrass us?” Amelie asks as we walk home, arm in arm.

  “No. I think she just sometimes forgets to engage her brain before she opens her mouth.”

  Amelie chuckles and rests her head on my shoulder, tightening her grip on my arm. In my other hand, I’m carrying a bag which contains some left-over beef, together with some carrots and potatoes.

  “Did you have a good day?” I ask her.

  “Yes.” She looks up, smiling. “And I know how to make cottage pie now, if nothing else.”

  “Well, that’s a start. And they didn’t confuse you too much with their instructions?”

  She shakes her head. “No, they kept it very simple. Your mother took charge and she even wrote out the recipe for me. She said she’d put it in the bag with the meat and vegetables.”

  I nod my head, feeling grateful… and perhaps a little pleased with myself that I took the trouble to call in and talk to my mother this morning. It would seem my journey wasn’t wasted, and that she took my visit to heart.

  “I just hope I don’t mess it up,” Amelie adds wistfully.

  “I don’t think you could,” I reply. “I love cottage pie, shepherd’s pie… anything like that.”

  “What’s the difference between the two?” she asks.

  “I think it’s to do with one being made of beef and the other of lamb, but don’t ask me which way round it is.”

  “I suppose it makes sense that the shepherd’s pie would be lamb, doesn’t it?” she asks and I nod my head.

  “Yes, it does.”

  She glances up at me, looking rather pleased with herself now, and I smile to myself.

  I open the garden gate, letting Amelie in ahead of me, and then follow her up the path to our front door, opening it with my key and allowing her to enter the house first.

  “Do you want to bother switching on the lights?” she asks.

  “Not particularly.” I lean down and kiss her gently. “I think I’d rather just go to bed.”

  She smiles. “So would I.”

  “In that case, I’ll put these things away in the larder, and I’ll see you upstairs?”

  She nods her head and makes her way up, while I quickly go through to the kitchen, emptying the bag of produce into the larder, and then I join Amelie.

  She’s standing beside our bed, the curtains drawn, and the bedside lamps glowing dimly.

  “You look beautiful,” I tell her, as I approach and she gazes up at me, while I slowly unbutton her blouse.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” I murmur into her ear as she snuggles down beside me, her breathing finally returning to normal.

  Her naked skin feels soft against mine and I pull her just a little closer, turning slightly so we’re facing each other, making sure she’s covered with the eiderdown. “Good,” she whispers, her voice thick with satisfaction, a smile touching the corners of her slightly swollen lips. “Now,” she adds, more seriously, “do you want to tell me about your day?”

  “My day?” I query, moving down the bed, so our faces are at the same level.

  “Yes. I noticed how you changed the subject earlier. You didn’t want to talk about the case in front of your mother and your aunts, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to talk to me now?” she asks, sounding concerned.

  “I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I’m not sure how she’ll react to my theories about Mildred Ryder’s condition, and while talking to Amelie always helps, I don’t want to upset her.

  “Is this to do with your phone call earlier?” She touches my cheek with her fingertips, brushing them downwards to my chin and holding them there.

  “Yes.”

  “You think the victim was pregnant, don’t you?”

  I sigh, realising that I might as well tell her everything, being as she’s guessed the worst of it anyway. “Yes.”

  “Tell me about her,” she says softly, moving her hand down to my chest.

  “Her name was Mildred,” I reply, fixing my eyes on hers. “She worked as a maid in a house in Thames Ditton, and – you’re quite right – I have reason to believe she was pregnant.”

  “She wasn’t married?” Amelie queries.

  “No. She was engaged to a young man, who she’d been walking out with for years. But she postponed their wedding last November, less than a month before it was due to take place.”

  Amelie frowns. “Did she give a reason?”

  “She said it was because her young man might be called up, and being in domestic service, she’d be likely to lose her position when they got married, and be left to fend for herself.”

  Amelie tilts her head now, her frown deepening. “Really?” She sounds as sceptical as I feel.

  “That’s what she said.” I nod my head.

  “You don’t believe that though, do you?”

  “No… and from the look on your face, my darling, neither do you.”

  She sighs. “It doesn’t ring true to me, that’s all,” she replies. “Surely, she’d have checked with her employers, asked if she would definitely lose her place, not called off the wedding on the off-chance.” She bites her bottom lip for a moment. “Did she ask her employers, do you know?”

  “No. But I can check with them the next time I see them.” I should have done that already and co
uld kick myself for not having remembered. Perhaps I’m as tired as Amelie…

  She nods her head. “Would she have been pregnant at the time?” she asks.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply. “There was a cross in her diary against the sixth of November, and she spoke to her fiancé about postponing the wedding a couple of weeks after that…”

  “So that’s not likely to have been the reason,” she remarks. “And, in any case, that would be a reason to bring it forward, not put it back,” she adds.

  “Assuming he’s the father,” I point out and her mouth opens, her eyes widening.

  “Oh… I see.”

  I run my fingertips gently down her spine and she shivers. “I can’t be sure, but assuming she was pregnant, I don’t think her fiancé knew about it. He didn’t mention it…”

  “Would he have done though?” she asks.

  “If he was innocent of her murder, I don’t see why not. He’d have been grieving even more, not just for her, but for their unborn child.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. But what about if he is guilty of her murder?” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  I shake my head. “I don’t believe he is. But once the doctor has confirmed the pregnancy – one way or the other – I’ll have to question everyone again, and then I’ll find out whether he knew or not and, depending on how the other suspects react, I might find out who is responsible.”

  “For the murder, or her condition?” she asks.

  “Both.”

  “You think they’re one and the same person?”

  “No… I didn’t say that.”

  “This is complicated, Rufus,” she murmurs, resting her head against my chest now.

  “I know… and you’re tired.”

  “I am.” She yawns.

  “Then go to sleep, my darling. And thank you for listening.”