by K. J. Frost
Apart from Meredith, I wonder who else I’m going to recognise. There’s one person in particular who I’m not looking forward to seeing again. His name’s Harry Thompson. He and I became friends during our training and, although we didn’t work together that much, because we were paired up with different officers, the friendship endured and we often shared a pint after work. As far as I know, he’s still there, but whether he’s in remained uniform, or has transferred to CID, I have no idea. If the gods are smiling on me, he’ll be in uniform and won’t be connected with the case, because I certainly don’t relish the prospect of working with him. Why would I? After all, he seduced my fiancée and stole her from me. I wouldn’t care if I never saw him again.
Discovering him and Victoria together – well, very nearly together – was the reason I left Kingston and transferred to Scotland Yard. In terms of my career, it was the best thing I’ve ever done. In terms of my personal life? Well, let’s just say, I don’t really have one anymore. I’m not saying I wasn’t partially to blame for what happened. I was. I’d applied for a transfer to CID and, to my great regret, had been focusing too much on work, and neglecting my relationship with Victoria. But I didn’t expect to go around to her house that Friday evening to find my future bride looking flushed and contented, in the company of my semi-naked fellow police sergeant. I didn’t need anyone to draw me a diagram as to what they’d been doing either; the looks on their faces and their state of undress told me everything I needed to know. The following day, as luck would have it, I was told I’d been accepted into CID, whereupon I took the unusual step of applying for an immediate transfer to Scotland Yard, and then went and saw Victoria and broke off our engagement. She wasn’t surprised. Thompson tried to speak to me several times in those few months before my transfer actually came through, but I wasn’t interested in hearing what he had to say. I’m still not…
Cavendish House is one of the first properties in Beauchamp Road, but there are so many cars parked in the driveway as well as on the pavement outside, that I drive past and go straight to Aunt Dotty’s house, which is a little further along on Spencer Road, parking in front of her delightful white Edwardian villa. I clamber out of my car and grab my suitcase, running up the steps to Aunt Dotty’s front door. I ring the bell once and wait a moment before she answers herself, wearing her usual blue painting overall, and I notice a few specks of what appears to be Yellow Ochre on her nose, which makes me smile.
“Rufus!” she says, grinning widely and capturing my face in her soft hands. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Where’s your maid?” I hope she’s not in the middle of a domestic crisis and my visit is poorly timed.
“Ethel’s out at the shops,” she explains and I nod my head, somewhat relieved.
“I can’t stop, but do you mind if I leave my case and coat here?” I ask her, pulling off my driving gloves and putting them in the pockets of my thick winter overcoat, before shrugging it off. “I had to wear that on the journey, but it’s too warm to keep it on, and I don’t want to leave my things in the car.”
She smiles. “Not at all. I’ll get Ethel to take it up to your room,” she says as I put my case just inside the door, my coat folded on top. “It may not be the most practical vehicle,” she muses, glancing over my shoulder, “but it’s beautiful.”
“And worth getting a bit cold for,” I add. “I’ll see you later.”
I start off down the steps again.
“You’ll be back for supper?” she calls after me.
“I’ll do my best.” I give her a wave, and cross the road.
It doesn’t take me more than a minute or two to walk back to Cavendish House, and for a moment, I stop and look up at the familiar building. It’s got twin gables at the front, with large bay windows beneath on both ground and first floors, the front door being in the centre of the house at the top of five steps. From this side, it looks fairly unimposing, but I know from experience that it’s a large property, going back at least two or three times as far as its width, on an expansive plot. I imagine it has seven or eight bedrooms, plus servants’ quarters in the attic, and probably a basement as well. The driveway leads up towards the front door and then curves around to the right where the garage is situated beside the house. As I step forward, I’m halted by a police constable.
“You can’t come in here, sir,” he says, with a respectful but firm tone of voice.
“Yes I can.” I delve into my inside pocket for my warrant card and hold it up to him.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t realise.”
“That’s perfectly alright, constable.” I look around. “Can you just tell me where I can find whoever’s in charge?”
“That’ll be Sergeant Ellis at present, sir.” I heave a short and silent sigh of relief that he didn’t say ‘Thompson’. At least I can put off that little reunion for a while. “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive, you see,” he adds.
I nod my head. “And where is Sergeant Ellis?” I ask him.
“That’s him, over there, by that large bush,” he says, pointing. “In the raincoat.”
“Thank you.”
I walk over, taking in the man before me. I’d say he’s roughly five foot ten or eleven, with dark hair, which is currently hidden beneath a homberg hat. I imagine he’s in his late twenties or early thirties and is of medium build, wearing a brown suit beneath the beige raincoat.
“Ellis?” I call out as I approach, and he turns away from the constable he’s been talking to and looks at me through his spectacles.
“Yes?” he says, with a slightly disrespectful tone to his voice.
“My name’s Stone.” I hold out my hand to him, trying for once in my life to obey the instructions of my superior and not rub the locals up the wrong way. “Inspector Rufus Stone.”
He glances briefly at my hand and then shakes it, a smile forming on his lips. I know what’s coming, before he even speaks and am tempted to tell him not to bother asking the question, but I suppose we may as well get it over with…
“You weren’t named after that king, were you, sir?” he asks.
I wish, oh how I wish, I could have a shilling for every time I’ve been asked this question. I get rather bored answering it though, so I tilt my head to one side and furrow my brow, as though I don’t understand what he’s talking about. “What king?” I reply.
“Wasn’t there a King Rufus, or something? Got shot, down in the New Forest, or somewhere like that. I’m sure I read about it once…”
He’s starting to blush and the constable, who’s still standing beside us doesn’t seem to know where to look. I decide to take pity on him. Well, sort of.
“You mean William II,” I explain, in my well rehearsed speech. “He was commonly known as William Rufus, on account of his red hair, and was killed by an arrow, while hunting near Minstead, which – you’re quite right – is in the New Forest. A stone was erected there to mark the spot, as a memorial to him. It’s known as the ‘Rufus Stone’.”
Ellis looks at the constable, the smile re-forming on his lips.
“See. I told you,” he says, nodding towards me. “So you were named after him, then? Or at least after the monument to him…” He stifles a chuckle, making a very poor fist of the job.
“No, not really.” The truth of the matter is that I was named Rufus as a joke. My father may have been a sensible police officer, from his collar to his cuffs, but my mother was – and still is – completely mad, in the nicest possible way. ‘Beautiful, but batty’, as my father was wont to say, while rolling his eyes at her latest exploit, whatever it might have been. When I was born with a thick thatch of reddish brown hair – unlike both my father and my mother, who were dark and mid-brown, respectively, in colouring – my mother roared with laughter and announced that Rufus simply had to be my name. She evidently persisted with this notion, in spite of my father’s insistence that I would be forever linked, if not likened, to an ancient monument – which I have been from
that day to this.
Ellis is staring at me now, as though he expects me to furnish him with an explanation. I’m not going to. It’s not something I explain very often – and never to the people I work with.
“Care to fill me in on the story to date?” I say to Ellis, reminding him of the reason for my presence.
“Yes, sir,” he says, adopting a more professional air, nudging his glasses up his nose a little, and turning towards the property. “The body was discovered at seven-fifteen this morning by Miss Emily Cooper, who also lives in the house.” He glances upward at the red-brick edifice.
“In what capacity?” I ask him.
“The victim’s father is her guardian, from what I can gather,” he replies.
I nod. “And has the police surgeon been yet?”
“Yes. Been and gone, sir.”
“Fingerprints?”
He nods his head. “Said there was nothing doing.”
“And the scene’s been photographed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right then. What did the doctor have to say?” I ask.
“He said the preliminary cause of death was strangulation.”
“Any idea of time?”
“He wouldn’t be precise, but he said sometime between eight and ten o’clock yesterday evening, give or take an hour.”
Another constable appears from around the side of the house, comes over and says something quietly to Ellis; so quietly, that I cannot make out what he’s talking about. The sergeant turns to him and says something in equally silent reply.
“Would it be alright if we moved the body now, sir?” Ellis asks, making the content of their brief conversation obvious. “The doctor couldn’t wait, but asked for it to be sent over as early as possible.”
“No. I want to see it first.” I try very hard not to sound impatient. I would have thought that much would be obvious. It’s the whole reason I’ve come here, rather than going to the station. “Can you finish giving me the doctor’s report first?” I want to hear the medical perspective before I form any opinions of my own.
“Yes, sir. The… um… the young lady was… she was assaulted,” Ellis says, stammering.
“In what way?” The young lady was strangled, so I think we can assume a level of assault. I need details. The kind of details that may not be obvious to me just from looking at her body – when I eventually get around to that.
“In a sexual way,” he mumbles.
That phrase opens up a whole can of worms and still doesn’t tell me what I need to know. “Are you telling me that she was raped?” I ask bluntly.
“Yes, sir.”
I’ve dealt with maybe a dozen or so cases of rape in the course of my career, but I’ve not yet managed to develop an immunity to the sense of revulsion I feel every single time. It’s a revulsion directed entirely toward my own sex, or rather that specific element of the male population who believe they have the right to take whatever they wish from a woman; that what is hers becomes theirs to do with as they will. The damage they inflict for a few seconds of power and pleasure is irrevocable and goes beyond the victim herself, who – if she survives the attack – is left with her trust in humankind forever shattered. I’ve seen husbands weep, fathers crumble, brothers rage, in their impotence. In the face of such pain, as on so many other occasions in life, it is often the women – the mothers, the sisters, the friends, and even the victims themselves – who show their strength… a strength which has at times left me humbled in its magnitude.
My thoughts are interrupted by a car pulling up outside the house. A middle-aged man climbs out, pulling a battered Fedora onto his head and slamming the door closed. He looks world-weary and worn out as he walks through the gates unchallenged, and comes straight up to our small gathering. Ignoring me, he addresses Ellis directly, starting with a loud sigh.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says testily, rolling his eyes. “I’ve only just been informed that our friend from the Yard hasn’t arrived yet.” He checks his watch. “It’s gone eleven o’clock. How long does it take to drive out here? We’re not exactly in the back end of beyond, are we?” He plants his feet more firmly on the ground, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. “Although why they’re insisting on sending us some pompous twit I have no idea. We’d have managed by ourselves, given time…”
Ellis coughs for emphasis and glances at me.
I take a half step forward. “Allow me to introduce myself… I’m the pompous twit from Scotland Yard.”
The newcomer scowls at Ellis, who shrugs, and then he turns back to me again. “I do apologise,” he says. “I’m Inspector Bob Styles.” He holds out his hand and I accept the olive branch, giving him a firm handshake.
“Inspector Rufus Stone.” I make a point of giving my rank, so he knows we’re equal – except I come with the weight of the Yard behind me, so we’re not quite on a level footing. And I’m not the one who just made a fool of myself.
“A word?” he says, gesturing with his head towards the other side of the driveway and then walking away without giving me a chance to respond.
I follow him, knowing it would be childish to do otherwise.
“I really do apologise for that,” he says, once we’re out of earshot of everyone else.
“It’s perfectly alright,” I tell him. “I’ve been called much worse.”
He smiles. “Good of you to take it like that.”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to be here any more than you want to have me, but needs must when the local MP has strings to pull.”
“Yes, so I believe.”
He glances over my shoulder to where Ellis is still standing with the constable.
“I’m a little pre-occupied at present. We’re very short staffed and we’ve got various cases going on… I’ve literally just picked up a couple of suspects in a recent bank robbery, and I’m also in the middle of a serial arson case, which is proving very tricky and time consuming. I’ve got our best sergeant working with me… a man by the name of Thompson…” I feel a shiver run down my back at the mention of his name, but I shake it off. “The thing is,” Styles continues, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “Ellis is quite new to all this still. He’s a good man; keen to learn and all that, but you might be better off with someone more experienced. So, if you want, I can shuffle things around and let you have Thompson, and I’ll take Ellis for myself.”
I shake my head, maybe a little too quickly. “No, that’s fine,” I say.
“This is a high profile case.” He’s not giving up easily. “They’re going to be looking for a quick result.”
“I’m aware of that. But I’m happy with Ellis. Besides, it sounds like you’re in need of the more experienced man yourself, with that workload.” He nods, but still looks at me a little strangely, as though he doesn’t understand. I take a breath. I suppose I’m going to have to reveal at least a part of my reasoning, or he’s going to wonder why I don’t want to take him up on his offer. In normal circumstances, it would make sense to accept the switch. “I used to work at Kingston,” I explain.
“Yes, I know. I wasn’t here myself then. I moved here about eight or nine months after you left, but I’ve heard of you. Your reputation precedes you, Inspector Stone.” His face remains impassive, and I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing, or not.
“The thing is,” I say, continuing my explanation, “I knew Thompson back then and we have… how shall I put it? Personal history.”
“Really?” He looks up at me and moves a little closer still, as though he’s expecting me to elaborate. I’ve got no intention of doing so and I just stare at him until he steps back again, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Very well,” he says at last. “We’ll leave things as they are for now. I’ll be around at the station if you need anything. Like I say, Ellis is a good man. You might just need to hold his hand a little bit, that’s all.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I reply as he turns and
departs, without giving Ellis so much as a passing glance.
I go back to the sergeant and stand directly in front of him, but then turn to the constable. “I’d like you to remain here at the front of the house and ensure that no-one else walks over the grass or the driveway. I dread to think how many extraneous footprints there are by now, but let’s not make it any worse than it already is.” The constable nods and moves away from us, taking up a position halfway down the driveway.
I pull Ellis to one side, slightly nearer to the house. “A word to the wise,” I say to him, keeping my voice down. “You won’t get very far in this job if you show up your senior officers like that. You should have warned him I was here, rather than let him make a fool of himself.”
He gives me a long, hard stare as though he wants to argue, but then softens. “Yes, sir,” he mutters.
“I expect loyalty from my sergeants,” I add and he tilts his head slightly.
“Your sergeants?”
“Yes. You’re going to be working with me on this case.”
“Really, sir?” I can hear the pride in his voice and sense that he’d expected to be sidelined in favour of someone with more experience.
