The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  His face has paled significantly, but he purses his lips for a moment and then replies, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s quite simple, Reverend,” I explain, speaking slowly. “I’m talking about a conversation you had with Mildred Ryder two days before her death, in which she told you that she was pregnant by you, and that she was going to tell the police.”

  He swallows hard, then licks his lips. “That’s nonsense,” he says, shaking his head. “What would the girl have had to go to the police about anyway? I—I mean, I’ve already told you that she and I were having an affair… if you can call it that. And if she was silly enough to get pregnant, then that’s hardly my fault, is it? As I said to you yesterday, there’s no evidence that her child was even mine, and there’s nothing illegal in any of that, Inspector. And certainly nothing for her to come running to you about.”

  “There is if she didn’t consent to having sex with you,” I say, hardening my voice and leaning forward.

  “Didn’t consent?” he mocks. “Let me tell you, she was positively gagging for it.”

  I nod my head. “Gagging for it?” I repeat slowly, as though the phrase is new to me. “Oh… you mean she was a willing participant?”

  “Of course she was,” he says mildly. “What do you take me for?” He’s let down his guard now. “Just because she changed her mind afterwards, doesn’t mean she wasn’t more than willing at the time.”

  “I see,” I say, and then lean back, smiling, letting him think I believe him.

  “Do you mind me asking how you heard about this conversation?” he asks, relaxing back into his chair.

  “Your wife overheard it,” I explain. “She told us.”

  He turns as white as his dog collar. “Dear Lord,” he sighs. “I never thought…”

  “You never thought what?” I enquire.

  “Well, what I mean is, I thought she’d kill me if she ever caught me cheating again. I never thought she’d…”

  “Do you admit it?” I ask abruptly, interrupting him and standing at the same time, leaning over the table, intimidating him as best I can.

  “A—Admit what?” he stutters, his eyes bulging.

  “Do you admit to raping Mildred Ryder in your vestry?”

  “I’ve already explained, it wasn’t rape,” he replies, lowering his eyes.

  I lean in closer, getting within an inch or two of his face. “Did she really consent?” I shout through gritted teeth. “Or did she say ‘no’? Did she at any time, either before or during the act of intercourse, say ‘no’ to you?” He raises his eyes, glaring at me. “You do know what ‘no’ means, don’t you?” He continues to stare at me and I stand upright, moving across to the wall, which I lean against, folding my arms, and finally lowering my voice, as I say, “And did you offer her money when you found out she was pregnant?”

  “Yes, I did,” he replies quietly, “but only because I wanted to help.”

  I nod my head, as though I’m thinking and then I look up at the ceiling, before I move quickly across the room and grab the back of the reverend’s chair, twisting it around and pulling him to his feet by his lapels, then shoving him back hard, slamming him against the wall behind him. “You raped that girl on your desk in your vestry, you made her pregnant and then, when she told you about it, you offered her money to keep her quiet,” I growl at him, aware that I’m now taking his weight, that I’ve lifted him from the floor. “When she refused your offer, you killed her to keep her quiet…”

  He shakes his head from side to side, fear written all over his face. “No,” he says, pleadingly. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t kill her.”

  “But you did rape her.” I’m not asking a question, I’m making a statement, and he knows it. “Tell me the truth,” I add, before he can comment. “Because if you don’t… if you keep lying to me about this, I promise you I will find a way to pin the murder charge on you, whether you’re guilty or not… and I won’t lose a moment’s sleep over it.”

  There’s no more than a few seconds’ pause before Reverend Hodge whispers, “Yes,” so quietly I’m fairly certain only I will have heard him.

  “Say that again… and say it clearly,” I tell him.

  “Yes… I raped Mildred Ryder,” he mutters, loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. “But I didn’t kill her.”

  I drop him back to the floor, watching as he crumples and then slowly crawls back to his seat, as I walk around the table, resuming my place beside Thompson, who hasn’t made a move or said a word throughout the entire interview.

  From beneath the top piece of paper in the file, I remove the blue envelope, retrieving the letter from inside and laying it out in front of the reverend, who still seems to be visibly shocked.

  “Who is the woman who wrote this?” I ask him.

  He stares at me, confused. “Her name is Clara Lyons,” he whispers. “And before you ask, I didn’t rape her.”

  I shake my head in exasperation. “I know that,” I snap. “I can read. For some reason, the woman was clearly in love with you. What I want to know is, what happened to her. Where is she now? She clearly had expectations of a future with you. I want to know whether you got cold feet?”

  “No,” he replies simply, deflated now. “I did intend leaving Eileen. I honestly did.”

  I’m not sure I believe him. It’s a habit I’ve developed whenever a suspect says ‘honestly’ like that. “So you were lying to me when you told me that you and your wife were trying to start a family?” I say.

  He bites his lip, looking embarrassed. “Yes,” he says eventually. “Yes, I was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were getting awfully close to discovering the truth about me and Mildred, and I wanted to cover my tracks. I thought that if I could get you to believe that Eileen and I were in a close and happy marriage, you’d stop looking…” His voice fades.

  “So what happened to Miss Lyons?” I ask. “Is she still in the picture?”

  “No. Unfortunately, she had to move away.”

  “Had to?” I query.

  “She wasn’t pregnant,” he reasons. “But she moved away about four months ago. Just a few weeks before Mildred… and it was such a shame too,” he adds wistfully. “Clara was a perfect little thing… absolutely perfect… completely adorable and so very willing…” He stops talking as though he’s suddenly remembered where he is and who he’s talking to, his face flushing bright red.

  “She moved?” I query.

  “Yes… well, that’s to say, her mother moved house to be closer to her own relatives after the death of her husband. That’s how I got to know them, you see?” he says quite reasonably. “I helped the family after the death.”

  “You have a strange idea of helping,” I point out. “But if this girl still lived at home with her mother, was she old enough to be having an intimate relationship with you?”

  “She was eighteen,” he replies defensively, and then adds, “well, just,” as an afterthought. “It was all perfectly legal, I can assure you.” He gazes down at the letter before him, letting out a long and wistful sigh of regret, presumably recalling more pleasant times with the young lady in question, while ruing their lost opportunity.

  I shake my head, reach across and retrieve the letter, replacing it in its envelope before I put it back into the file and slam the cover shut. Then I turn to Thompson.

  “I need to get out of here,” I say, standing once more. “Charge him with rape.” I nod in the vague direction of the reverend. “Then lock him up and see if you can lose the key.”

  I wait in the main office for Thompson and Wells to return, then indicate for them to follow me into my office.

  “I apologise for that, gentlemen,” I say, after Wells has closed the door, the three of us standing in a huddle in the centre of my room.

  “For what?” Thompson says, glancing sideways at Wells, and then looking back at me.

  “For my little outburst back there, Har
ry.” I decide to use his christian name, despite the presence of a junior officer.

  “What outburst would that be?” He turns and looks at Wells directly. “I don’t remember any outburst, do you, Constable?”

  “None whatsoever, sir,” Wells says, his face blank, although I’m almost certain the corners of his mouth are twitching, just slightly.

  I stare at the two of them for a moment. “Thank you, gentlemen,” I murmur and they both smile.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” Wells offers.

  “That’s very kind,” I reply, “but I think I’d rather just get the next interview over and done with, wouldn’t you?” I turn to Thompson and he nods his head.

  “Yes,” he says. “And then we can actually put this God-awful case behind us.”

  I don’t bother taking the files with me this time, but accompany Thompson back down the corridor, leaving Wells in the main office. Outside the interview room, I glance at Harry and he smiles, just as I open the door, and step inside, giving Constable Beresford a quick nod of my head. Mrs Hodge looks up sharply from her place at the table, giving the impression that she hasn’t moved a muscle in the whole time we’ve been gone.

  “Well?” she says her eyes lighting up, as she leans forward. “Did he confess?”

  “Eventually he did, yes,” I reply, taking my seat opposite her once more. She lets out a deeply satisfied sigh and smiles complacently. “To rape,” I add, and her smile drops.

  “To rape?” she queries. “But…”

  “And before you ask,” I interrupt, “the young lady who wrote that letter… Clara Lyons… she moved away.”

  “Clara Lyons?” she mutters, clearly surprised. “That little slut. And to think her mother…”

  “In spite of sending us on a wild goose chase, you knew she was alive, didn’t you?” I say, over the top of her.

  “What?” She looks up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you knew Clara Lyons was alive and well…”

  “How could I have known?” she remarks, snidely. “I didn’t even know who she was. I had no idea who’d written that letter.”

  “No, perhaps you didn’t,” I allow, “but you knew that, whoever it was, they were still alive, for the very simple reason that you hadn’t killed them… like you killed Mildred.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Inspector?” she shakes her head, putting on a good impression of being astounded by my suggestion. “We both know perfectly well that my husband is the guilty party here.”

  “He’s guilty of rape, Mrs Hodge, but not of murder… and you need to stop playing games with me. I’ve known that you’re the one who was responsible for Mildred’s death for a couple of days now. I worked out right from the beginning that you were the kind of woman who would kill, rather than risk your supposed position in society. You’d rather take the life of someone who you consider to be beneath you, than deal with your own problems… problems which you helped to create with your attitude.” She’s staring at me, open mouthed now, and I lean in closer, as I add, “The thing is, Mrs Hodge, what you failed to appreciate was that Mildred Ryder was better than any of you.”

  “Better? You’re clearly deluded, Inspector, if you think a simple little housemaid can be classed as my ‘better’.”

  For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to strike a woman, even if only to wipe the supercilious, smug smile from her face.

  “I’m not even remotely deluded, Mrs Hodge. I’m just saying that Mildred Ryder is someone who I would have considered it a privilege to meet, had I been afforded the pleasure.”

  “Oh, I see she turned your head as well, did she?” she sneers, glancing down at my hands, which are lying flat on the table.

  “No, she didn’t. I’m not the type of man who has his head turned. But even if I were, I’ve only seen her in death, her body cold, her face contorted in pained anguish… and I doubt any man would have his head turned by that sight.” I take a breath. “Perhaps it’s the years of living with your husband that have made you so bitter. Somehow I doubt it though. I think you were always like this. And that’s one of the reasons – just one of them, mind – why I maintain that Miss Ryder is your better.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You seem to be under the illusion that your opinion matters,” she says haughtily. “But then you’re very good at forgetting who you are.”

  “On the contrary, Mrs Hodge, I know exactly who I am. You, on the other hand, seem to think that you’re of some importance… and I’m here to tell you that you’re not.”

  “You can’t speak to me like that.” Her voice becomes shrill, her eyes wide with anger. “I demand to speak to your superior office. Immediately.”

  I shrug my shoulders and nonchalantly run my finger along the edge of the table. “I’m afraid you’re looking at the most senior officer in the building,” I reply and give her a very quick, very phoney smile. “Now,” I add, “I suggest you stop lying, prevaricating and generally wasting my time, and start telling me the truth. I’ve already explained, I know you’re responsible for Mildred’s death. There’s no point in pretending anymore… there really isn’t.”

  If she knew how little evidence I have against her, and how much I need this confession, she’d just clam up on me, but as it is, after just a couple of seconds, during which she glares at me in defiance, her demeanour changes, tears form in her eyes and then she visibly deflates in front of me, beaten.

  “I wasn’t pretending. Not all the time. And I did tell the truth,” she whimpers. “At least about the conversation between Mildred and Neville. That much of it was completely true.”

  “I know,” I reply.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Believe it or not, we’re not as stupid as we look.”

  She gazes at me for a moment and then shakes her head. “What I didn’t tell you was what happened after she left.” Sharing in my surprise at the alteration in Mrs Hodge, and her sudden willingness to reveal all, Thompson hurriedly opens his notebook and starts to write, as she continues, “I followed Mildred from the house and caught up with her on the driveway, and we spoke there for a few minutes. She was embarrassed to begin with and denied the conversation had taken place, but I told her I’d overheard it all. She apologised…” She looks up at me now, no longer quite so defeated, it would seem, that conceited expression back in her eyes once more. “Quite rightly of course, considering what she’d done…”

  “She’d been raped by your husband, Mrs Hodge,” I put in, astounded, and unable to stop myself from commenting this time. “How exactly was that her fault?”

  “She shouldn’t have put herself in that position, should she?” she retorts, raising her voice. “I don’t see how she really thought there was anyone to blame but herself.”

  “You don’t see your husband as being responsible?” I clench my teeth.

  “Of course I do. This whole situation is his fault. Why, if it hadn’t been for him, none of this would have happened. But he’s only being like the rest of his sex, isn’t he? You can say what you like, and try to pretend that you’re an upstanding gentleman, who’d never stray, and never put a foot wrong, but I’m not that easily fooled. If a woman offered herself to you, you’d do the same as my Neville… and don’t bother deny it.” She nods her head, as though confirming her point.

  “I would not,” I reply firmly. “And neither would any other man of my acquaintance.”

  She sneers and shakes her head as though she feels sorry for me. “Believe that, if you want to,” she remarks. “Now, do you want to hear the story, or not?” She sounds as though she’s recounting her latest travelling adventures on the continent, not telling me how she went about committing murder, but I take a deep breath, and wave my hand, indicating for her to continue. She nods her head again and says, “Well, I told Mildred I’d meet her after choir practice on Friday so that we could talk some more. I begged her not to be hasty about going to the police, even though she was adamant about it, bu
t I explained that Neville had been unfaithful to me before and that I needed her help… that she’d be doing me a favour, if she’d just wait a couple of days. I—I think she felt so bad about what she’d done, she felt she owed me that much.” I don’t bother to remark on her interpretation of her husband’s actions this time, but just sit quietly and wait. “She agreed eventually that she wouldn’t do anything until after we’d spoken again,” Mrs Hodge continues.

  “So you met her?” I ask, just to provide a break in her monologue, which is starting to make me feel a little sick, especially when I consider that Mildred might well have thought she’d found an ally in Mrs Hodge, when in reality the woman only intended to do her harm.

  “Yes,” she replies. “I told her to leave after choir practice and then double back and meet me behind the church. Mildred queried that, wondering why we couldn’t meet somewhere else, being as Neville quite often took a few minutes over locking up after choir practice, but I knew it had to be close to the vicarage, so I could get back home, without being missed and without being seen… and somewhere quiet as well. After all, I couldn’t risk stabbing her out in the open, could I? Anyone might have seen us together. No…” she muses to herself, “it had to be that way. And even if Neville was still there, I knew he’d either be inside the building, or around the other side of it, locking the door.”

  “You took a huge risk, Mrs Hodge. Even if your husband did take a while locking the church, how on earth could you expect to kill Mildred and get back to the vicarage before him?”

  “I didn’t,” she says calmly. “Obviously, as I’ve already said, I knew I needed to get back home quickly, before I was missed. I knew I didn’t have long. But you see, when Neville got back from choir practice he used to always go into his study to drop off his hymn book, and then go through to the lobby area at the back of the house to take off his hat and coat… and only then would he come to see where I was. I estimated I had about five minutes to spare. Of course, him forgetting his sermon was a huge bonus… I knew the whole thing was a risk but, as far as I was concerned, it was one worth taking.” She stops talking for a moment, as though she’s re-living the scene. “Anyway,” she adds suddenly, coming back to the story, “Mildred came, exactly as planned and once I was sure we were out of sight, I stabbed her.”