The Cuckoo (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 1)

by K. J. Frost

  “You have a point,” she chuckles, and steers me towards the sideboard opposite the bay window, which is currently concealed behind deep green curtains. “Gin and tonic?” she enquires.

  “I assume it will be as lethal as ever?”

  “Of course.” She turns to face me again. “You know what your mother always says?” I don’t reply, although I know what’s coming. “There’s no point in eating, if you’re not going to taste; no point in sleeping if you’re not going to dream; no point in living if you’re not going to love. We’re not here for very long, Rufus, so make the most of everything.”

  “Including your gin and tonics?”

  She smirks. “Especially my gin and tonics.”

  With that, she turns back around and puts ice into tumblers, pours over a generous measure of gin and tops up the glasses with a minimum of tonic, handing one to me.

  “Here’s to life,” she says, winking. “It’s lovely to see you.” She clinks her glass against mine.

  “You too.” It honestly is, even though her recital of my mother’s pet philosophy has reminded me how little ‘living’ I’ve done in the last six years.

  She leads me back to the twin sofas that sit either side of the flaming fireplace, resuming her seat, and I take mine opposite her.

  “How are you?” I ask. She looks well, but then she always does. She’s in her early sixties, I think, but looks probably ten years younger, with dark blonde hair that shows no sign of greying in the slightest. She’s slim, but not skinny, with a clear complexion and an air of refinement that’s countered by the fact that she’s nearly always covered in paint. I suppose that goes with being an artist, but it’s something she wears incredibly well, always managing to look sophisticated, even when she’s elbow deep in oils.

  “I’m very well,” she replies, taking a long sip of her drink.

  I follow suit, and promptly choke.

  “Good Lord,” I say, once I’ve recovered. “I’d forgotten how deadly they could be.”

  She chortles, then sighs wistfully. “Oh, I do miss our days in Singapore. The barman at Raffles gave me his recipe for a gin sling and I’ve never forgotten it. Of course, you can’t get the ingredients so easily these days, but I used to make them for your mother…” She leaves the sentence hanging and her eyes sparkle.

  “I dread to think what the consequences were.” I take a smaller sip this time. “And I think it’s best if you don’t tell me.”

  “Well, Agatha never could handle her drink,” she says.

  “No. I seem to recall that you and Aunt Issa were always much better at that.”

  She laughs. “Issa could drink both Agatha and I under the table,” she replies. “I’m sure that’s why she never married.”

  “Sorry?” I don’t understand the connection.

  “She could never find a man who could compete. They were all terrified of her.”

  “Well, Clarissa can be a little overawing. I remember as a child, I was always frightened of her – well, her temper anyway.”

  “She’s only really bad tempered when she’s writing. The rest of the time she’s perfectly normal. But she likes to keep her train of thought going and I think people tend to get in the way of that.”

  “And you don’t think that might have had something to do with her never marrying?” I ask, smiling.

  “Possibly.”

  “Speaking of being terrified, what on earth was wrong with your maid?”

  “Ethel?” She looks a little confused, and then her expression clears. “Oh, when you arrived, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah… well, that was my fault. You see, after I told Ethel that you were coming to stay, we were talking, because I was so excited about having you here, and she asked what you were like.” I sigh, because I know exactly what she’s going to say. “I couldn’t think of any other way of describing you,” Dotty continues, “so I told her you look like Errol Flynn, without a moustache.” She rolls her eyes, somewhat theatrically. “I think that might have been a mistake, because she’s been behaving like an over-excited schoolgirl ever since.”

  “Well, as you say, you have no-one to blame but yourself.”

  “You must be used to the comparison by now,” she reasons.

  “Yes, I suppose so, but it wears a little thin.”

  “Look on the bright side,” she says, getting up and pouring herself another drink. “At least I didn’t say you looked like Stan Laurel or Oliver Hardy.”

  “Because that would hardly be accurate, would it?”

  “No, but you have to make allowances.”

  “I do?” I query as Dotty sits back down again.

  “Of course you do. It’s the prerogative of batty aunts to embarrass their nephews. And it’s not as though I have any children of my own to humiliate.”

  “No. But I have to point out that, with father and Uncle Sam gone, that leaves me as the sole male representative in a family of slightly barmy women. I feel disadvantaged.”

  “Slightly barmy? You do us an injustice, dear boy. We’re certifiable, all three of us.” She puts her drink down on the table. “Do you want to eat now, or later?” she asks. “I generally tend to eat when I’m hungry, rather than at set mealtimes, but I’m sure you’ve had a busy day.”

  That’s one of the things I love most about Aunt Dotty. She doesn’t bother about rules, or conforming to other people’s standards. She lives life the way she wants to. Always has done, and always will.

  “I am hungry,” I reply, remembering that I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.

  “Why don’t you go up and have a quick wash, and we’ll have dinner together?” she suggests.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Aunt Dotty has put me in the guest bedroom at the front of the house. It’s a medium-sized room, with blue and cream striped wallpaper, blue curtains, and a stripped floor on which there is a large, ornate Persian rug. I go through to the bathroom, which is right by my bedroom, strip off my shirt and have a quick wash, feeling properly refreshed for the first time in hours. Back in my own room, I put on a clean shirt and tie and, before I go downstairs, I switch off the light and close the door, plunging the room into darkness, then going over to the window and pulling back the curtain, and the blackout behind it. As I suspected, from this part of the building, I have a clear view of Cavendish House and, for a moment, I simply stare across at it, wondering what Amelie is doing, whether she’s feeling any better, whether she’s still crying, and with that thought, I also wonder whether Gordon Templeton is still comforting her. I let the curtain fall, feeling despondent, and go back out onto the landing and down the stairs.

  “I’m teaching Ethel to cook,” Aunt Dorothy explains, as she dishes up the shepherd’s pie from the dish in the centre of the circular oak table, which is set in the middle of the room, with a large display cabinet full of bone china ornaments against one wall and a sleek black upright piano directly opposite. “We’re only on the basics at the moment, but I think she’s faring well.”

  She places the plate in front of me and offers me a covered dish, which when I open it, contains perfectly cooked cabbage, with a knob of butter in the middle, melting and oozing gently down through the thinly sliced leaves.

  “It smells delicious,” I reply truthfully.

  “Well, you can’t really go wrong with shepherd’s pie,” Aunt Dorothy says. “Although, to be fair, I’ve eaten some shocking attempts at it in my time.”

  “So have I.”

  I pass her the cabbage and then pour us both a glass of claret.

  Ethel – under Dotty’s guidance – can cook, it seems. The shepherd’s pie is indeed delicious.

  “I don’t suppose it affects you, living in a flat,” Aunt Dorothy says, as we’re eating, “but we’re doing what we can for this ‘dig for victory’ campaign.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. We’re turning the back garden into an allotment for vegetables.” I sense her enthusiasm i
s a little forced, which doesn’t surprise me. I know how much she loves her garden. I also know how big her patch of land is – it must be well over a hundred and fifty feet long, and as wide as the house, with a large potting shed down one side.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” I ask.

  “Well, me, really.”

  “By yourself?”

  She looks up from her plate. “Don’t fuss,” she says, before I’ve even had a chance to comment. “I’m perfectly capable of digging up some lawn and a few flower beds.”

  “At your age?”

  “I’m sixty-three years old, Rufus. I’m not in my dotage. Not yet, anyway.”

  “How far have you got then?” I ask her.

  She looks a little sheepish now. “Not very. Every time I go out there, I see something beautiful that I simply have to sketch. And then before I know it, it’s getting dark and time to come in.”

  I laugh. “Well, I think I’ll be here for a while. So, in return for my keep, why don’t I help you with the digging.”

  “You think you’ll be here for a while?” she asks, ignoring my offer.

  “Yes. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. Stay as long as you like. Is it a difficult case?” she enquires.

  “Well, it’s only the first day, but so far, it’s looking that way.”

  “What happened?”

  “A young girl was murdered,” I explain. “Well, to be precise, she was raped and murdered, sometime last night.”

  “Oh dear, not another one,” she says.

  I drop my fork onto the plate and it clatters loudly. “Sorry? What do you mean ‘another one’?”

  “Well, another young woman was raped and murdered a couple of weeks ago. I can’t remember the details now, but her body was found in an alleyway between two of the shops in Walton Road.”

  I sit up straight. “Do you remember how she was killed?”

  She purses her lips and screws up her eyes, her brow furrowed, as though she’s picturing the article in the newspaper, where I’m sure she read the information. “Strangled,” she says at last.

  I want to swear. Badly. I’m fairly convinced that if I did, Dotty wouldn’t mind one bit. I’m sure that over the years, she’s heard a lot worse than I could ever invent, but my mother and father raised me never to swear in front of a lady. And, despite her protestations to the contrary, Dotty is, first and foremost, a lady – in every sense of the word.

  “Are you alright, Rufus?” she asks.

  “Not really. This is news to me,” I reply. “And I can’t believe no-one thought to tell me about it.”

  “Well, maybe you should try and find out if there’s a reason for that,” she says.

  “Oh, trust me… I intend to.”

  We finish our shepherd’s pie as I mull over this latest piece of information, trying to piece it into the ill-fitting jigsaw of my brain.

  “Apple crumble and custard for dessert,” Dotty announces as Ethel clears the table and brings in the pudding. Once again, Ethel has surpassed herself, achieving the perfect level of sweetness with the apple.

  “Do you need to be alone to think?” Aunt Dotty asks, once we’ve finished. She’s marvellously perceptive, not to mention obliging.

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll need to get the details of this other case before I can hope to make sense of anything. At the moment, it’s just another thing to rattle around in my head.” I glance up at the painting above the fireplace as I light the last of my cigarettes. “When did you do that?” I know, without asking, that Dotty painted the picture of Hampton Court Bridge at sunset. Not only does she have an unmistakable style, but every picture in the house was painted by her.

  “About three months ago,” she replies. “I spent my summer evenings down by the river… it was very cathartic. And I made a new friend while I was there.” I raise my eyebrows. “Nothing like that,” she admonishes. “She’s a young lady. Maybe if you’re here long enough, I’ll have the chance to introduce you to her.” Her eyes twinkle, despite the sadness behind them and I know she’s thinking about Uncle Samuel. She may seem jolly and contented on the outside, but inside, I know she still aches for the loss of him. Painting helps her. It seems to bring her out of herself. She was an artist before he died; in fact, she’s been an artist for as long as I can remember. She’s always maintained that it’s one of the reasons she didn’t have any children. She was never willing to give up her art for anything or anyone – except Samuel. The thing was, he never asked her to. And that was a huge part of why she loved him so very much. Because he let her be herself. I don’t think there’s anything more important in a relationship than to let the person you love be whoever they are, or whoever they want to be. I learned that from my father, the straight-laced policeman, who fell in love with a beautiful, if batty, young pianist. Not once did he try to change her. Not one hair on her head; not even for a moment. He loved her for who she was. Completely and utterly. And she loved him back.

  “Why don’t you move down to Somerset, with Issa and Mum?” I ask, if for no other reason than it stops her thinking about finding a way of introducing me to her young friend. God knows, I don’t want another matchmaker in my life. I’ve already got one of those in Mrs Henshaw. Besides, I’m not sure I need one; not when I know my every waking moment is going to be haunted by Amelie Cooper’s amber eyes. As for my sleeping ones…

  “The three of us? Together?” Dotty grins, interrupting my wayward train of thought. “Can you imagine it?”

  I shake my head for a moment. “Actually, it’s probably best if you forget I said that.”

  “I think it might be,” she replies. “Just think of the trouble we could cause… and think of what your father would have said…” She roars with laughter. It’s a marvellous sound, and very good to hear.

  I wake to a darkened room, although my instincts tell me it’s morning. One has to rely on instincts these days, being as the blackout disguises night from day. I don’t like this enforced gloom and get up, going over to the window and pulling back both the curtains and the thick black material behind them, to reveal a sunny autumn morning. I stretch my arms above my head and gaze upon the Templeton house, wondering if Amelie is awake yet, and what she might be doing at this hour. I hope she managed to sleep, and wasn’t disturbed by memories of yesterday. For myself, as I predicted, my dreams were filled with thoughts of Amelie. And, needless to say, I really didn’t want to wake up this morning.

  I wash and dress quickly, going downstairs, to find Aunt Dotty in the sunroom, standing in front of an easel.

  “Good morning.” I announce myself.

  “Good morning, dear,” she replies, her voice a little distant.

  I come up behind her. “You’re painting the garden?”

  “Yes. I fell in love with the garden when I first came to see the house… do you remember?”

  “Yes. If I recall, I was trying to be practical, looking at the condition of the roof, and checking the cellar would be big enough to house Uncle Sam’s wine collection, and you were out here planning your paintings, before you’d even put in an offer.”

  “Well, it won’t look like this for much longer,” she says wistfully. “I wanted to capture it while I still can. And besides, I’ve always liked this time of year. The colours are so… magical, don’t you think?”

  There’s a sadness in her voice that I don’t like and I put my hands on her shoulders, turning her to face me. “It may feel as though everything you have now is about to be lost forever, but this time will pass, and one day the flowers will grow back, and it will be beautiful again. I promise.”

  She stares at me. “Thank you, Rufus,” she murmurs. “You’re quite right, of course. It’s just another stage in life, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiles. “And vegetables can be attractive too, if you plant them right.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “There’s breakfast and coffee in the dining room,” she says, coughing t
o cover her heightened emotions. “Shall we?”

  “Were you waiting for me?”

  She links our arms and we go back into the main house. “No. I’ve been up for hours. But I am getting hungry now, so I’ll join you.”

  “Good.”

  We help ourselves to bacon and scrambled eggs, which have been kept warm in silver dishes on the sideboard. And, within moments of us sitting down, Ethel comes in, with a rack of hot toast and a pot of tea.

  “Marvellous, dear,” Aunt Dorothy says to her. “Just leave those on the table, will you?”

  Ethel does as she’s told, simpers at me, and leaves.

  I can’t help rolling my eyes, and Aunty Dotty laughs, taking a bite of bacon. “I’ll speak to her later,” she says.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t want the poor girl to feel embarrassed. Besides, it’s not her fault.”

  She chuckles. “No, it’s mine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Will you be home for dinner?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “I expect so. I’ll telephone if not.”

  “There’s a spare key on the hall table,” she says. “Take it with you, just in case you’re late back.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me.” She looks up. “What are you doing today?”

  “Just following up on enquiries.” And finding out why on earth no-one bothered to tell me there had been another, similar murder just a few weeks ago.

  I park in one of the spaces behind the London Road station and walk upstairs, where I deposit my hat and coat on my desk, before going through to the main CID office to try and find either Ellis or Styles.

  There’s no immediate sign of Ellis, but in the corner of the room, by a large noticeboard, which is covered in photographs, is Inspector Styles, and standing beside him, deep in conversation, is a familiar figure… that of Harry Thompson. He hasn’t changed in the slightest. When we worked together before – before his betrayal, that is – he and I were known, not very originally, as ‘the giants’. He’s around six foot three inches tall – so roughly an inch shorter than me, but where I’m still slightly red-headed and inherited my mother’s emerald green eyes and my father’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, Harry is blond, with blue eyes and has a stockier build. I can see why Victoria found him attractive…