The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  “You make it sound easy,” Thompson scoffs.

  “No… if it was easy, anyone could do it… even you.”

  Chapter Eight

  I wait until after lunch before taking myself off to my bedroom, lying down on the bed and pulling the letter from my cardigan pocket, where it’s lain since I discovered it earlier this morning. I’ve felt it burning a hole there, especially during the visit from Inspector Stone, but I did my best to keep up appearances, despite my nerves and heightened emotions. It’s not surprising that I got so upset, and struggled to maintain my composure, considering that I’ve just found out my husband has lied, cheated and deceived me… repeatedly. But I can’t think about that now. I need to concentrate…

  ‘Dear Poochy,’ I read and try to control the bile that rises in my throat.

  ‘It’s been three interminably dull days since our last snatched half hour together and I’m going insane without you. I’m desperate to feel your lips all over my body again, and for the comfort of your arms around me. I ache for your touch and long for your whispered words of passion while you make love to me. I lie in bed at night, touching myself and dreaming of you… God, I need you, Poochy, more than you’ll ever know. But I know from the things you say to me and the words you write to me that you need me as much as I need you, my love. And in a way I find that comforting. It’s that thought that keeps me going, when I miss you most, like at night, when I’m alone in my bed, longing for you. Please write to me soon and tell me when we can next be together again. Or better still, come round and see me… and tell me that you’ve finally plucked up the courage to tell your wife about us, and that you’ve left her, so we can be together always. You know you don’t love her any more – not that I can see how you ever could have done, not like you love me, anyway. She’s too stuck up and boring, and I’ll bet she doesn’t please you like I do, does she? I’ll bet she doesn’t let you do all those wicked things you like doing with me, that I can’t wait for you to do again.

  Please call soon,

  Your little teddy bear’

  I read it through again, just to make sure I’ve completely understood, and then I crumple the pale blue paper into a tight ball in my hand.

  “How dare he?” I whisper under my breath.

  How many other women have there been? I ask myself. How many times has he made a fool of me? I knew about Annie, and about Mildred, but who on earth is his ‘little teddy bear’?

  I unfurl the page again and, laying it as flat as I can, read the date through the creases. It says ‘10th August 1939’… which seems so long ago now, before the war even started. Another lifetime. There are no clues there, but I suppose it at least eliminates Mildred. She made it clear in their conversation that her encounter with my husband had been a one-off. That means this letter is from someone else… some other little tart, evidently with ideas of replacing me. And it seems he was planning on letting her.

  I’ve killed for him. I’ve lied for him… and all the while, not only has he been sleeping around behind my back, but he’s been planning to leave me? To divorce me? Well, we’ll see about that…

  ***

  Mr Wharton is just leaving his factory premises when we arrive, his coat slung over his arm and his hat perched on his head. As Thompson parks the car in one of about half a dozen parking spaces in front of the single storey brick building, Mr Wharton can be seen propping open one half of the double doors that form the main entrance to the property, talking to someone, and completely oblivious to our arrival.

  “I wonder where he’s off to,” Thompson comments, glancing over at the man, who’s laughing now, throwing his head back.

  “Lunch, probably. But to be honest, I’m more interested in who he’s talking to,” I reply.

  “Why?” he asks, turning to face me.

  “Because of the way he’s behaving. Look at him. It’s obviously a woman on the other side of the door. You can tell a mile off.”

  Thompson looks back at Mr Wharton and lets out a sigh, shaking his head, as we both get out of the car and slowly stroll over, unobserved.

  As we approach, I hear a giggle, a female giggle, and I cough loudly enough to interrupt the very obviously flirtatious conversation that appears to be going on between Mr Wharton and whoever is standing just out of our sight. Even if he has trouble remembering that he’s married, the memory of his wife’s sadness is something that’s going to haunt me for some time to come.

  Mr Wharton jumps, then turns to face us. “Inspector?” he says, frowning. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” I reply a little facetiously.

  “I see,” he says, and he blushes as his eyes dart momentarily to the woman just inside the door. “I’ll discuss that matter with you after work, shall I, Miss Taylor?” he says, sounding official and businesslike all of a sudden.

  I step closer; close enough to hear a voice reply, “Yes, Mr Wharton, sir,” in a familiar, coquettish tone, and without hesitating for a second, I yank open the other door, taking both Wharton and the woman on the other side by surprise.

  “Ethel?” I stare down at the wide-eyed girl before me, dressed in mid-blue overalls, her hair hidden beneath a scarf, with just a few stray tendrils poking through.

  “Why… Mr Stone. I mean, Inspector Stone,” she stammers, her face flushed with embarrassment.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, repeating Wharton’s earlier question, as I step into the small foyer.

  “I work here now,” she replies, blinking rapidly and biting her lip, her hands clenched in front of her. I think it’s hard for both of us to forget the number of times she almost swooned in front of me at my aunt’s house, simply because I bear a slight resemblance to her favourite film star. Even so, her presence here, and the fact that Wharton seems to be taking a very keen interest in her, gives me cause for concern.

  “Do you know Miss Taylor?” Wharton asks, coming to stand beside me, allowing the door to close, although Thompson opens it and joins us, all four of us filling the small space between the front entrance and the offices which are ahead of us.

  “Yes, I do.” I turn to look at him and see a smirk forming on his face.

  “Really?” he says, and with that single word, he manages to imply a multitude of misdemeanours on my part – in mind, if not in deed.

  “Yes. Before she came to work here, Ethel was the maid at my aunt’s house.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to insinuate anything improper, even though I know that’s the direction his mind is taking.

  “Oh, was she now,” he says, nodding his head in a knowing way, that smirk still settled on his lips. “I see.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do,” I reply. “And it’s fortuitous us meeting like this, Ethel,” I add, turning back to her, “because I have a message for you from my aunt.”

  “You do?” She looks surprised, which isn’t as unexpected as it might be, considering that I just made that up.

  “Yes.” I look over at Wharton again. “Perhaps you could take my sergeant into your office and wait for me there? I won’t be a moment with Ethel, and then I’ll join you.”

  He glances at his watch. “Well, I was just going to lunch,” he says.

  “We won’t keep you long.” I smile at him as pleasantly as I can manage and he huffs out a sigh, before moving towards another set of double doors ahead of us and holding the right hand one open to allow Sergeant Thompson to move through, which he does, glancing back at me and raising his eyebrows, before the two of them disappear.

  “What’s going on, Ethel?” I say, the moment the door closes.

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she replies, raising her chin defiantly.

  “Yes you do.” I glare at her and eventually she lowers her eyes.

  “Well… it doesn’t hurt, does it?” she murmurs. “He’s a nice man, and he’s been very kind to me.”

  “I’m sure he has, but you need to understand that men like Mr Wharton generally have an ulterior motive i
n their kindness.”

  She looks up, frowning. “Ulterior motive?” she says.

  “Yes.” I take a deep breath, wondering why I started this conversation and how on earth I’m going to finish it. “I’ve just spent the last half hour or so with his wife…” Ethel’s eyes widen. “She’s a very nice woman too, and I’m fairly sure, based on something she said, that her husband has been unfaithful before during their marriage.” Ethel’s mouth drops open now.

  “We haven’t… I mean, we’re not…” She stumbles over her words, her cheeks flushing bright red.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it,” I reply, stepping forward. “Did you not know he was married, Ethel?” I ask.

  “No, sir,” she whispers.

  “He didn’t tell you?” She shakes her head.

  “No. Today’s my first day and he’s been just… just so kind, showing me round personally, and taking such an interest, and everything…” Her voice cracks and tears well in her eyes as she looks up at me. “I’ve been rather foolish, haven’t I?” she says.

  I hand her a clean handkerchief from my jacket pocket. “Not yet, no,” I reply.

  “But what if I lose my job?” she wails, her despair obvious.

  “You won’t,” I say firmly and she seems to pull herself together, staring up at me.

  “I won’t? But surely…”

  “Just leave everything to me,” I sigh, knowing full well that Mr Wharton is just the kind of man who’d sack an employee for refusing his advances, and that I’m going to have to handle this situation carefully if Ethel’s going to retain her position.

  “You’ll… you’ll speak to him?” she stutters.

  “Yes. I think it’s probably safest if I inform Mr Wharton that you’re already spoken for, don’t you?”

  “W—With you, you mean?” She looks flustered, but her eyes are sparkling with excitement at the same time. Good Lord.

  “No, Ethel,” I say patiently. “Especially not as I’m also a married man.”

  “Oh yes, sir… of course. I was forgetting about that.”

  I wonder how that’s even possible, considering that my wedding to Amelie was so recent, but I don’t question her comment. Instead, I suggest to her that, should Mr Wharton raise the topic, she should go along with the story that she already has a young man in her life, just to put him off.

  “I’ll invent you someone suitable,” I add.

  “I—I’m ever so grateful for your help, sir, and I promise I won’t be so foolish again.” She flutters her eyelashes at me, smiling broadly and I wonder to myself whether she really will be more careful in future, or whether the next vaguely attractive and half-decent man she comes across will turn her head just as easily as Wharton has.

  “Now, you get back to work,” I tell her and she goes to turn away, but then hesitates, stops and looks up at me.

  “There wasn’t really a message from Mrs Lytle, was there?” she asks.

  “No.” I don’t bother to pick her up on the fact that my aunt’s official title is actually ‘Lady Lytle’, being as Aunt Dotty doesn’t bother too much about it herself. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right, that’s all… preferably without Mr Wharton being present.”

  “Mrs Lytle’s okay though, isn’t she?” She sounds concerned.

  “Yes, she’s fine. My mother and aunt are staying with her for the time being.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she sounds wistful, perhaps regretting her decision to leave my aunt’s employment, especially given her current predicament. “Well, tell her I said hello, when you next see her.”

  “I will.”

  She gives me a slight bob curtsey, as was always her way, and darts through the double doors. I wait for a couple of seconds, and then follow her, finding myself in a narrow corridor, that’s filled with the noise of machinery and an underlying general chatter, all of which is coming from the large room on my right, hidden behind a partition wall, half glazed from waist height up. To my left there is a series of offices, the first of which bears Mr Wharton’s name, with the word ‘Manager’ beneath, and I knock once and then enter, without waiting to be asked.

  Inside, Wharton is sitting behind a wide, rather old fashioned oak desk, leaning back in his chair, while Thompson is standing beside a filing cabinet on the far side of the room, pretending to look at the large, framed painting of Hampton Court Palace that is hanging on the wall to his right.

  “Mr Wharton,” I say, sounding a lot more jolly than I feel, as I take the seat he offers in front of his desk and Thompson moves around the room, so he’s standing just behind me, “I do apologise for that. I wasn’t expecting to see Ethel here.”

  He smiles. “You didn’t realise she worked for me?”

  “No. I’ve obviously known Ethel for some time,” I lie nonchalantly, “but I’ve been away recently and didn’t realise she’d left my aunt’s employ until I returned.”

  “Lovely girl,” he murmurs, as though to himself, a smile settling on his lips. “And very accommodating.”

  I chuckle. “Yes, she is, isn’t she? Her young man certainly thinks so…” I leave my sentence hanging, quite deliberately.

  “Young man?” He looks up sharply.

  “Oh yes,” I say, shaking my head. “Unfortunately, he also has quite a volatile temperament.”

  “He doesn’t hurt her, does he?” he asks, pretending a concern I’m fairly sure he doesn’t feel.

  “Good Lord, no. He’d wouldn’t touch a hair on Ethel’s head. He positively dotes on her… but the last man who tried to interfere with her… well, let’s just say it took all my influence to keep Ethel’s young man out of prison.” I roll my eyes. “He’s a bit hot headed, and handy with his fists,” I add, chuckling again, as though the situation would have amused me. It wouldn’t, of course. But then this whole thing is a fiction, so what does it matter?

  “I see,” Wharton says, paling and swallowing hard, before he leans forward, his elbows on his desk. “I can’t imagine you came here to discuss the private lives of my employees, Inspector?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  He stares at me for a moment, seemingly unsure of himself now, but then says, “And I have better things to do myself… As I just explained, I was about to leave for lunch, and I’ve got to go through the accounts this afternoon…” He glances at the door. “Although I might go home and work from there… there are too many interruptions here.”

  Most of those are of his own creation, from what I’ve seen, but I don’t comment, and sit back in my chair, instead. “You’re busy at the moment?” I ask, sounding interested.

  “Yes, we are. We’ve just been awarded a contract by the War Office, which I’m afraid I can’t talk about, but I have to say, it’s come at a very opportune time.”

  “Financially?” I suggest, when he doesn’t clarify his comment.

  “Yes,” he replies, nodding his head slowly. “Things have been quite tough over the last few years. The business was in a pretty poor state when I inherited it from my father, which I hadn’t expected, and I had a lot of debts to settle… so I took the decision to sell the family home, rather than lose the business.” He holds my gaze. “My family’s name means a lot around here and, as Lucy pointed out to me at the time, we employ nearly forty people, and they depend on us for their livelihoods.” I’m interested to note that it was his wife who had the altruistic attitude, while Mr Wharton himself was more concerned with his own family’s reputation. “Lucy and I had only just got married when I had to sell up, but she encouraged me in my decision, even though there have been plenty of times since then, when I’ve questioned my own sanity.” He pauses and sighs.

  “It’s been hard work?” I suggest, surprised by this insight into his life, which is most unexpected.

  “Bloody hard work.” He rolls his eyes. “So, I have to say, this contract is just what we needed… not that money doesn’t continue to be something of an issue, you understand? Although I’d rather you kept that to
yourself, if you don’t mind… just for appearance’s sake.”

  “Naturally,” I remark, recalling the comments made by Mr and Mrs Conroy, and the fact that, while they may have known the bare facts of their friend’s financial situation and its consequences, they clearly have no knowledge or understanding of the details. But then I imagine Mr Wharton likes it that way…

  He eyes me closely. “Even so, Inspector, I’m sure you’re not that interested in my personal finances, are you? You must have had another reason for coming here?”

  “Yes, we did,” I reply. “We came to ask whether you were aware that Mildred Ryder was pregnant at the time of her death.”

  His expression changes, a look of surprise settling across his handsome features. “Pregnant?” he murmurs.

  “Yes… three months pregnant.”

  “I see.” He leans back, tilting his head. “And what does Sam have to say about this?”

  “He denies responsibility.”

  “Oh… does he now? Crafty little sod,” Wharton scoffs.

  “And I believe him,” I add, which halts Wharton in his tracks.

  “You do?” he whispers.

  “Yes.”

  “But that must mean Mildred was seeing someone else,” he says, clearly astonished by the prospect. “Who’d have thought… Mildred, of all people…” He seems amused now, which I find distasteful, like everything else about the man.

  “Do you know of anyone else who Mildred Ryder might have associated with, outside of your household?” I ask him.

  “No. As my wife informed you the other day, she mainly associated with her fellow choristers, and other members of the congregation.”

  “Anyone in particularly?” I’m finding his supercilious attitude annoying now.

  “How would I know? Unlike Lucy, I don’t attend church myself. Haven’t done since I was a lad, and was forced to sit through the whole tedious rigmarole by my parents.”

  “So you’ve got no idea who Mildred might have known then?”