The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  “In that case, you have nothing to fear, do you?”

  “This is ridiculous. We both know my husband is the guilty party, not me,” she reasons, although there’s still an unbecoming harshness to her voice. “You have the evidence… in that letter.”

  “I have evidence of your husband’s adultery; not of murder,” I reply, and take a step back, grateful that Pearce seems to have moved out into the corridor, otherwise, I’d have trodden on his feet. “You need to calm down, Mrs Hodge. You need to get some rest, and you need to start telling me the truth… because if you don’t, I am going to throw the book at you… and trust me, I will make damn sure it hurts.”

  I glare at her, until Beresford steps forward, taking hold of her elbow and guiding her from the room, Thompson and I stepping aside to make way for them.

  “I don’t know about her needing to get some rest,” Thompson murmurs as soon as we’re alone, “I think we’re going to need some too. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” I turn to him and we sigh, rolling our eyes and switching off the light as we leave the room.

  The aromas that greet me the moment I open my own front door are soothing and inviting, and I quickly take off my coat and hat, throwing my jacket over the back of the sofa and going straight into the kitchen, where Amelie is standing by the sink. She’s wearing the same clothes she had on at lunchtime, although I failed to take them in at that point, having been more concerned with other things at the time. Now, I stand for a moment and admire her slim figure, encased in a straight grey skirt, and the thin cream coloured jumper she’s wearing on top.

  “Hello,” I say eventually and she jumps and turns around.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she replies, coming over and putting her arms around my neck, as I place my hands on her waist and pull her close, leaning down and kissing her deeply. I feel like she is my first drink of water after days of deprivation in an arid desert, and I slake my thirst for a good five minutes before breaking the kiss.

  “I love you,” she whispers and I smile, recalling our telephone conversation earlier this evening.

  “I love you too, and I’m sorry I’m so late,” I murmur.

  “If you’re going to kiss me like that every time you’re late home, I don’t think I’ll object too much. Although I think I’d rather have you here.”

  “I know I’d rather be here,” I reply, with feeling.

  “Has it been a difficult evening?” she asks, leaning back in my arms and looking up at me.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” She touches my cheek with her fingers.

  “Would you mind if we didn’t?” I rest my forehead against hers. “I’ve got another horrible day to come tomorrow and I’d really rather just forget about work for a few hours.”

  “In that case,” she says, smiling, “why don’t you sit down at the table, and I’ll bring the dinner through. I can’t wait for you can taste my rabbit stew. I think I might have actually done it right…”

  Her voice fades and she’s about to pull away, but I grab her and hold her close for a little longer. “The stew smells delicious,” I admit, then lower my voice and add, “but if I’m being honest, I’d rather take you upstairs and taste you.”

  “Well, we can do that later,” she says softly, her eyes sparkling.

  After the day I’ve had, her words are music to my ears. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  She nods and then takes hold of my arms, turning me around and giving me a gentle nudge in the direction of the dining room. I do as I’m told and go to sit down at the table, where Amelie joins me within a few minutes, carrying a hot casserole dish, her hands protected by a tea towel. She places the dish in front of me, then sits down in her place opposite, smiling at me expectantly, before she removes the lid, and steam wafts upwards, accompanied by the welcoming scent of stewed rabbit.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this all afternoon,” I tell her as she dishes up a generous portion onto my plate.

  “The smells have been driving me quite mad,” she replies, handing me the plate and dishing up her own meal, before we both settle down and start to eat. The rabbit is tender and cooked to perfection, as are the carrots and potatoes. “This is divine,” I say after my second mouthful, looking up to find Amelie staring at me, a light smile touching the corners of her lips. She seems pleased with herself and justifiably so.

  “This is a recipe I’m going to keep,” she replies. “It was actually quite easy to do as well. I’ll have to remember to thank your mother.” I stop eating and put down my knife and fork. “Is something the matter?” she asks, looking worried.

  “No… it’s just, there’s something I wanted to ask you. I was going to bring it up at lunchtime, when I came home, but we got distracted.”

  “By meeting those two men?” she suggests and I nod my head. “What did you want to ask?” She puts down her own cutlery now and leans forward slightly.

  “I was just wondering whether you mentioned our argument last night to my mother, when you saw her this morning.”

  Amelie blinks a couple of times and then gets up, coming around to my side of the table and standing beside me. I twist in my seat and she sits down on my lap, her arms around my neck.

  “Of course I didn’t,” she says softly.

  “Thank God for that.” I let out a sigh of relief. “She’d have made my life a misery.”

  Amelie chuckles, resting her head against my shoulder. “Why?” she asks.

  “For treating you like that,” I explain. “She’d definitely have taken your side over mine.”

  She leans back in my arms, looking into my eyes, serious now. “I’d never share our arguments, or our problems, with anyone else… not that we have any problems, not really. But what happens in our home, between us, is our business and no-one else’s.”

  I feel guilty now. “You… You don’t mind that I mentioned it to Harry, do you?” I ask, fearfully.

  “Mentioned what?” she asks, leaning back in my arms.

  “Our argument. I told him what had happened, when I got back to the office, after lunch.”

  “And no doubt, you blamed yourself for all of it,” she says, frowning.

  “Naturally. It was all my fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Well, either way. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just that, I felt I owed him an explanation, considering how foul I’d been all morning.”

  “Had you really been that bad?” she asks, smiling slightly now.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “That’s what being out of sorts with you does to me,” I explain.

  “Then we’d better make sure it doesn’t happen too often,” she replies. “For Harry’s sake, if nothing else.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly, hoping she’ll understand my gratitude as I place my hand behind her head and pull her closer, giving her a soft kiss. “I know you might have wanted to talk to someone too, and that my mother would probably have been the obvious choice, but I’m grateful…”

  “I didn’t need to talk to anyone but you,” she says, interrupting me. “And you did the perfect thing and came home to see me. It… it was as though you knew I needed you.”

  “Only because I needed you more.”

  She smiles and kisses me again, and then gets up, going back to her seat.

  It doesn’t take us long to polish off the stew and afterwards, we adjourn to the living room with a cup of tea to listen to the wireless for a while, leaving the washing-up until the morning. Amelie says it will give her something to do and I recognise that sad tone to her voice again, as we sit side-by-side on the sofa, and she nestles into me.

  “How was your afternoon, after I left?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “Well, I prepared the stew, and then tidied up a bit… and that was about it,” she says, her
voice a little distant and, if I’m being honest, rather despondent.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” I ask and she twists around, looking up at me.

  “Why do you ask?” she says.

  “Because you’re not happy, are you?”

  She pauses and then slowly shakes her head, letting out a long sigh. “I’m sorry,” she whispers and I struggle to hear her over the orchestra that’s playing on the wireless.

  “Just a minute,” I say, and get up, going over and switching it off, before turning round and facing her again. “Why are you sorry?”

  “Because married life isn’t what I thought it would be,” she says, sitting up straight, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes focused on the fireplace to my right, rather than on me, which I find slightly unsettling. “I—I’m still so tired,” she stammers. “And I’m fed up, and so bored. I thought there would be plenty to do. But I seem to manage to get everything done in no time at all... and then the day just drags by.”

  “You don’t regret marrying me, do you?” We may have overcome our most recent difficulties, but there’s so much uncertainty in her voice, I feel the need to ask.

  “Good God, no,” she exclaims and jumps to her feet, throwing herself at me, her arms around my neck. “Please don’t think that. I didn’t mean for you to think anything like that. I love you. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t apologise. You have nothing to be sorry for.” I take her hand and lead her back to the sofa, where I resume my seat. She goes to sit beside me, but then changes her mind and places her right knee next to my left leg, realising too late the problem of wearing a straight skirt, although she resolves that quite easily by hitching it up, exposing her stocking tops, and then kneeling, astride me. “That’s nice,” I whisper as she leans down.

  “Well, I wanted to make sure you understand that I don’t have any regrets,” she replies, running her fingers through my hair and kissing me. “None at all.”

  I place my hands on her behind and pull her closer to me, which makes her squeal and giggle, and that in turn makes me smile.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur into her.

  “What for?”

  “For overreacting, and for being so insecure. I know it’s a little out of character, but my only defence is that I miss you, when I’m not with you, much more than I thought possible.”

  “That’s a lovely thing to say. And I don’t think you overacted.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, at least you didn’t go rushing upstairs.”

  “No. I’d rather stay and talk to you.”

  She sighs. “I know I’m not very good at being a housewife,” she says, out of nowhere.

  “Well, the ‘wife’ part of that word is the only bit that matters to me, and you’re absolutely incredible at that… so as far as I’m concerned, the house can take care of itself.”

  She giggles again, and then rests her hands on my chest, leaning back. I miss her closeness, but look up into her beautiful face instead. “I’m trying to be serious, Rufus,” she says quietly.

  “I know you are, but it’s only been a few days. You need to give yourself time to adjust.” I remember Harry’s words and his advice. “I’m here, if you need me.”

  “I know, but the thing is,” she muses, glancing around the room, “it was so much nicer on our honeymoon.”

  “I’m not going to disagree with you there, my love, but try to bear in mind that it won’t always be like this. The timing of this case is pretty awful, and most of the time, my work won’t get in the way as much as it has done for the last few days. My hours won’t be so erratic and I won’t have to work at the weekends either.”

  She nods her head, then leans forward and rests it against mine, forehead to forehead. I like it when we sit like this. There’s something really intimate about it, a closeness that we don’t achieve, even by looking at each other.

  “I understand that,” she says, “but I honestly can’t think of anything more boring than being tied to the house, all day, every day.”

  Reluctantly I break the contact between us and lean back as best I can, allowing for the fact that I’m sitting in the corner of the sofa and grasp her chin in my hand. “You’re not tied to anything.”

  “Except you,” she whispers gently.

  “No. You’re not even tied to me.” Her eyes widen in confusion. “You’re never tied. That implies an unwillingness. And I would never keep you with me if you didn’t want to be here. I love you too much for that.”

  She moves her hand, touching my cheek with her fingers. “I always want to be here. Right here,” she whispers, and then kisses me, intensely. After a few minutes, she leans back and stares at me, our eyes locked. “Just ignore me. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll get used to things eventually,” she murmurs softly.

  “I will never ignore you” I tell her. “And if you’re really unhappy, why don’t you think about volunteering for something. We talked about it before we got married, remember?”

  “Oh yes,” she says, her face brightening, just slightly. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “You could maybe try the WVS, couldn’t you?” I suggest.

  “I suppose so,” she replies, clearly thinking the idea through. “But what would we do about the housework, and the cooking?”

  “I’ll do as much as I can,” I say, resting my hands on her behind again. “And it’s not like you’ll be volunteering on a full-time basis. It’ll just be something to get you out of the house for a few hours a day.”

  “And it’ll mean I’m doing something for the war too,” she says, sounding even more enthusiastic now.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll probably give it a couple of weeks,” she reasons, “just so I can learn a few more recipes from your mother first – assuming she and your aunts don’t keep confusing me – and I’d like to maybe get more settled into a routine of my own, so I know what hours I can safely volunteer to work, but then I’ll definitely look into it.” She smiles, biting on her bottom lip. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

  “What for?”

  “For understanding. I feel so much better already, knowing I’ve got something to look forward to.”

  “Well, I can’t claim that I’ll always be able to understand everything, but I’ll do my best.” I edge forward on the sofa, then stand, holding her in my arms, her legs wrapped around my hips. “And now, I think it’s time we went to bed.”

  “Hmm, so do I.” She leans into me, her arms around my shoulders.

  “Your stew may have tasted divine, darling, but I know you’ll taste so much sweeter.”

  She giggles and, after she’s turned out the light and locked the door, balancing in my arms as she does so, I carry her up the stairs to bed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Who does that Inspector Stone think he is?

  How dare he lock me up? I mean, does he even know who I am? Does he even realise how well respected I am in the community? He can’t just go locking me up like a common criminal.

  I sit down on the bench that’s supposed to pass for a bed in this God-forsaken place, and gaze up at the barred window. It’s dark outside, just as dark as it is in this squalid little cell, and I stare out at the twinkling stars, recollecting how different my life was, just a few short weeks ago, when I lived in ignorance of Neville’s affairs. Well, most of them, anyway.

  “What happened?” I whisper to myself, blinking back my tears. “What happened to me?”

  I married a cheat and a liar. That’s what happened to me.

  Like a fool, I fell for his stories, I believed his lies, I let him take advantage of me, and now he’s ruined everything. Not that his tarts are innocent in all of this. They’re just as much to blame as he is, throwing themselves at him. He’s only a man, after all. A weak and stupid little man…

  What I don’t understand though, is why I should have to pay for his mistakes. I’m not responsible for what happened. He is. It’s all his fault… wel
l, and his tarts’. And yet it looks like I’m the one who’s going to pay the ultimate price.

  A smile crosses my face as a thought occurs.

  “Well,” I whisper almost silently, “that’s an idea…”

  It might not work, of course, but it’s worth a try. And if it fails, the only option I’ll have left is to make sure to take him down with me…

  ***

  Today, I have to leave early.

  Thompson and I agreed last night, as I was getting into my car, and he was preparing for his short walk home, that we’d start the first of our interviews at eight, so I have to be away by seven-thirty.

  I tried to persuade Amelie to stay in bed, but she’s insisted on joining me for breakfast, although at least she hasn’t got dressed, which means she’s sitting opposite me in her dressing gown again. Unlike yesterday though, there’s no underlying tension between us and once we’ve both buttered our toast, she reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers.

  “I think I’ll have solved everything by the end of the day,” I tell her and she stops eating, putting down her toast on the plate in front of her.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Well, to be honest, I’ve solved it already.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “Yes. They’re already in custody.”

  “Then I don’t understand…” She says, leaving her sentence unfinished.

  “I don’t have any evidence,” I explain. “So my only hope is to get the guilty parties to confess.”

  “Parties?” she repeats. “You mean there are two murderers?”

  “No.” I hesitate and then take a breath. “Do you remember I told you that the victim was pregnant?” She nods her head. “Well, it seems that she was raped.”

  “Oh my God. She was raped, and… and then murdered?” she whispers, and I wonder if she’s recalling the manner in which Beth Templeton died. Beth was raped and then killed, and it was Amelie who discovered her abused body the following morning in the alleyway beside her guardian’s house. We met for the first time a few hours later, and I think it was my need to protect her from what she’d seen, and from anything else that might hurt her, that was my overriding feeling from that first moment. That and love, of course… because I fell in love with her the very second I saw her.