The Cuckoo (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 1)

by K. J. Frost

  “He never asked her to, but she didn’t want to be separated from him, and being a concert pianist would probably have necessitated some form of travel, so she contented herself with playing for her own amusement, and my father’s, of course.”

  “Do you play any instruments?” she asks.

  “No.” I smile. “My mother encouraged me to learn, until she realised I don’t have a musical bone in my body and then she gracefully admitted defeat.”

  “And your father was a policeman?”

  “Yes. They were very different characters,” I continue. “Mother was – and still is – as batty as they come, and my father was eminently sensible.”

  “But they fell in love, regardless?” Amelie’s staring at me now, but I don’t feel even vaguely uncomfortable. I’m enjoying her attention.

  “Yes. My father heard her playing at a concert, but to begin with, because of how the seating was arranged, he could only see the back of her head. He always used to tell me that meeting her was a bonus, because he’d fallen in love with her before he’d even seen her.”

  “Her piano playing was that good?” Amelie teases.

  “Yes. Of course, then he discovered she was only eighteen, and being ten years older than that himself, he wondered if he should be pursuing her, and prevaricated for a few days, but evidently he couldn’t stay away.” I look into her eyes and she smiles, a very shy, gentle smile. “They were married within a few months,” I add.

  “Gosh. That quickly?” She seems surprised.

  I nod my head. “My father always maintained that, being that much older than my mother, he didn’t want to waste any time.”

  Amelie chuckles. “He had a point, I suppose.” She pauses for a moment. “And then you came along?”

  “After nearly ten years, yes. I believe my mother had just about given up all hope of having any children, so she was delighted – in her own way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll find out,” I reply, looking out of the window beyond her. “My mother can be a little unconventional. My father told me that, after she told him she’d been to see the doctor, and he’d confirmed that she was expecting me, she dragged him out into the garden and danced around in the moonlight, in her bare feet. She always maintained that it was only because she’d known since that morning, and she’d had to keep it to herself until Father came in from work, by which time she was so excited, she just had to let it out – by dancing in the dark. It took him a while to calm her down, evidently.”

  “She sounds like fun,” Amelie says and I look into her eyes.

  “Oh dear,” I murmur to myself, and she gives me another sweet smile. “I can see she’s going to be a very bad influence on you.”

  She chuckles again and shakes her head. “Tell me about your father,” she says, lowering her voice. “If you don’t mind, that is…”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” I take her hand in mine and rest it in my lap. “He was very probably the most patient man I’ve ever met, but then I suppose he had to be, being married to my mother. He was kind, thoughtful, generous…” My voice fades as I remember him. “And brave,” I add. “He won the King’s Police Medal for conspicuous gallantry.”

  “He did?” I can tell she’s impressed.

  “Yes.” I turn a little further in my seat, so we’re facing each other. “There was a fire in a house in Caversham Road, which is very close to the police station in Kingston, where my father worked.”

  “That’s where you’re based now, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The fire brigade had been called, but they were already attending a big fire at a factory on the outskirts of the town, so my father got someone else to man the desk and went to see what he could do, taking a couple of younger men with him. When they arrived, there was a woman at one of the bedroom windows, screaming for help, so my father ran in, followed by one of the other men. They brought the woman out, but she was hysterical… It turned out she had a young daughter in one of the rear bedrooms. My… my father went back in, even though the house was completely ablaze by this time. He got the other constable to break down the side gate and stand beneath the window, and threw the little girl down to him, then he jumped out himself, just as the whole place went up.”

  “Oh my goodness.” Her eyes are wide. “Was he hurt?”

  “He broke his ankle, but it could have been a lot worse. And when my mother got hold of him, he was lucky to still be alive.” I can’t help but smile, remembering the scene she made at the hospital, when we went to see him. She was a confused mix of tears, smiles, fear and anger, which came out as a muddled tirade, until he took her in his arms and told her to calm down, reassuring her that he was going to be fine, and that he’d just done what anyone else would have done, considering a child’s life was a stake, at which point, my mother sobbed loudly into his chest, and he let her, despite the stares of the nurses and other patients.

  “Is that why you called him your hero?” she asks. I’d forgotten I’d said that to her.

  “Yes, and no. Obviously what he did was very heroic. But he was a hero in all kinds of much less obvious ways.”

  “I know you said you’re used to him not being here, but you miss him, don’t you?”

  I nod my head, but don’t reply for a moment, and then manage to say, “It’s been over five years now, and most of the time I really am used to the fact that he’s gone. But every so often, I think about asking his advice, usually over something work related, and then I have to remind myself he’s not here.”

  “Do you think it’ll be that way with Beth?” she asks. “Do you think her absence will always haunt me.”

  “Probably,” I reply truthfully. “But you’ll get more accustomed to it. It won’t always be as raw as it is now.”

  “How does your mother cope?” she asks, deflecting the conversation away from herself.

  “To start with, she was in pieces. He’d only retired six months earlier and they had such plans…” I let my voice fade. “They were living in Matham Road at the time…”

  “Gosh, your parents’ house was very close to my home,” she interrupts.

  “Yes, although that’s not where I grew up. They moved there not long before my father retired. Prior to that, they lived in Palace Road.” She nods, obviously familiar with it. “Anyway, I came back as soon as I heard, and dealt with the funeral and everything and, although I went back to work after a week, for a while, I travelled back to Molesey as often as I could to help my mother, and just be with her. I could see how bad she was though, and I wondered if I’d have to move back permanently, even though I’d only been in London for just under a year. She really wasn’t coping at all without him and needed someone.” I pause for a moment, recalling that awful time. “But then, about two months after he died, when I was still undecided as to what I should do in the long run, she announced she was going to move down to Somerset to be with Issa.”

  “She only waited a couple of months? That’s not very long.”

  “No. She telephoned me at home one evening and told me of her decision, and I came back at the first opportunity so we could talk it through. I tried to convince her to wait a little longer, but she was adamant. I know she was worried that I’d move back and possibly ruin my career in the process.”

  “Would moving back to Molesey ruin your career, then?” There’s a note of doubt in her voice.

  “It might have done – back then. I wanted promotion and that’s easier in London, because there are more opportunities. That was one of the deciding factors in my applying for a transfer there – apart from what happened with Victoria, obviously. As it was, I only had to wait a few years before becoming an inspector, but if I’d transferred back to Molesey again, I’d probably still be a sergeant.”

  “I see.” She looks down at our hands, which are still clasped in my lap. “So I suppose you need to stay up there, to get more pr
omotions?” she asks. It’s hard not to notice her sadness.

  “No.” Our eyes meet and I hold her gaze. “Over the last few days, I’ve realised there are more important things in life…” A very slow smile spreads across her lips and I’m so tempted to kiss her.

  “What about your aunt?” she says, distracting me.

  “Which one?”

  “Issa, is it?” Her brow furrows. “That’s a very odd name.”

  “It’s not her real name,” I explain. “She’s really Aunt Clarissa, but when she and my mother and Aunt Dotty were children, they couldn’t say her name properly, so it came out as ‘Issa’, and the name stuck.”

  Her smile widens. “Oh, I see. That makes more sense. So, is she married?”

  “No. Issa never really had much time for men, not in a romantic sense anyway. She’s always said that having a man in her life would be too distracting, that he’d demand too much of her time.” I chuckle. “I think she’s under the impression that men are like babies, or small children… you know, in constant need of attention.”

  “You mean they aren’t?” Amelie says, feigning wide-eyed innocence.

  “Not all of us, no,” I reply, smiling. “Some of us are perfectly capable of amusing ourselves… unless or until the right woman comes along, of course…”

  She stares at me, blushing, and clearly just as aware as I am that our repeated teasing, coupled with our confined circumstances could prove to be a dangerous combination. “So, what does your aunt do?” She keeps her eyes fixed on mine, but steers us in a safer direction.

  “Issa is an author,” I explain. “She writes historical novels. I think she’s had about twenty published now, most of which are set in the Tudor courts, although my mother informs me that she’s now changing tack and is looking at the Crusades for her next setting.” I notice Amelie’s eyes light up.

  “She’s not Clarissa Blackmore, is she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, goodness me. I think I’ve read all of her books,” she replies. “They’re wonderful.”

  I can’t help smirking. “Well… I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about for the next few days.”

  “I won’t?”

  “No. For one thing, Mother’s going to love you…”

  “She is?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I’m tempted to say ‘because I do,’ but I satisfy myself with, “Because you’re the first young lady I’ve ever introduced her to. She’ll be thrilled to meet you.”

  “You never introduced her to Victoria?” Amelie’s very surprised by that.

  “No. I know that seems odd, considering we were engaged, but it was just something I never got around to.” She smiles again. “Aunt Issa will be impressed too,” I add, moving the subject away from Victoria.

  “Why?”

  “Because you like her novels, and it seems you can hold your drink.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced Aunt Issa’s home made sloe gin. It puts anything Aunt Dotty can concoct into the shade.”

  “I’ve never had sloe gin.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, just make sure you’re sitting down when you drink it.”

  As soon as we leave the station, I spot Aunt Issa, standing beside her Vauxhall 10, and she waves in recognition. I nod by way of reply, unwilling to let go of Amelie’s hand, my other being occupied with carrying her suitcase.

  I steer Amelie towards my aunt, who steps forward, looking like the perfect country lady in her tweed skirt, sensible shoes and thick woollen jumper. A nest of curly steel grey hair surrounds her rounded face, and her reading glasses are perched on top of her head – their permanent position, when they’re not on the end of her nose.

  “Rufus, dear boy,” she exclaims, launching herself at me and kissing my cheek. I drop Amelie’s case and return the greeting.

  “Aunt Issa. It’s lovely to see you.”

  “Likewise.” She pulls back and turns to Amelie, expectantly.

  “This is Amelie Cooper,” I say, making the introductions. “Amelie… this is my Aunt Clarissa.”

  Amelie offers her hand, which Issa accepts, giving her a strong handshake.

  “Absolutely adorable.” She turns to me again, smiling. “You can sit in the back,” she says, going around to the driver’s side of the car. “I’ll have Amelie in the front with me. That way we can talk about you.” She chuckles.

  “Oh, dear God,” I mutter under my breath, opening the front passenger door for Amelie.

  “Sounds perfect,” she quips, looking up at me, a broad smile on her lips.

  “Behave yourself,” I reply.

  “Don’t be boring,” Aunt Issa interrupts. “And hurry up. Your mother told me to get you back… post haste.”

  As I put Amelie’s case on the back seat and climb in myself, settling in beside it, I’m already starting to regret my decision to bring her down here. Still, I know she’ll be safe, so what are a few hours of embarrassment?

  Aunt Issa drives north, at a speed for which I should probably arrest her, and we arrive at the thatched cottage where she and my mother live within ten minutes or so. En route, I manage to keep her from humiliating me, by asking her about her latest novel, which keeps her on the topic of the Holy wars for the whole journey – thank goodness.

  Mother is waiting by the living room window and comes to the door to greet us, running out and throwing her arms around me before I’ve properly got out of the car.

  “Rufus, darling… it’s so wonderful to see you,” she gushes. She’s quite different in appearance to Issa. Smaller and more delicate, my mother has retained her long brown hair, which she wears in a loose bun – although I notice there are a few flecks of grey here and there – and she refuses to dress in country outfits, choosing a much more Bohemian style of apparel, featuring flowing skirts, blouses with flouncy collars and long ruffled sleeves, and home-made cardigans that come down to her ankles. And then there are the scarves. There are lots of scarves.

  “You too, Mother,” I reply, pulling back from her so I can help Amelie from the car.

  “Is this your young lady?” my mother enquires and both Amelie and I look at each other.

  “This is Amelie Cooper,” I say, hopefully covering the situation. Again, she shakes hands, although Mother does so with less gusto than Clarissa.

  “Delighted to meet you,” my mother says to a wide-eyed Amelie. “Now, you must come in.” She turns to the house and ushers us towards the front door. Clarissa has already rescued Amelie’s case and follows us into the wide hallway.

  “I’ll just take Amelie up and show her to her room,” Aunt Issa offers, moving towards the stairs. Amelie looks at me somewhat fearfully, so I give her an encouraging nod, and she follows Issa up the stairs. My mother takes advantage of the situation and, holding me by the arm, she drags me into the large country-style kitchen, at the rear of the property.

  “So?” she says, looking up at me, as soon as we’re safely out of earshot.

  “So what?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Don’t be obtuse, Rufus. Tell me about your young lady.”

  “She’s not my young lady,” I reply, although I’m not sure that’s strictly true. Let’s face it, Amelie and I have agreed to see each other once the case is over. And while I don’t know how she feels about me, I do know I’m in love with her. But the problem is, if I confirm any of that to my mother, she’ll almost certainly have booked the church and started writing the invitations before I get back to Molesey, and I’d rather do things my way.

  “Poppycock,” she replies, leaning back against the kitchen table and folding her arms across her chest. “I’ve spoken to Dotty this morning. She’s already told me you’re keen on this young woman, so you can stop pretending.” She stands up again, and comes over to me. “And even if she hadn’t told me, it’s written all over your face.” I don’t reply, and she waits for a
moment, before continuing, “It’s high time you settled down, Rufus.” She sounds concerned, rather than interfering, so I don’t interrupt. “Amelie seems like a lovely girl… and, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not getting any younger.”

  “I’m not that old, Mother.”

  “No, but there’s a war on,” she adds, standing right in front of me now, and bringing with her all the authority of her status as my mother, even though she only comes up to my chest. “And for all we know, it could last for years.” There’s a cheerful thought. “You should take your chances while you can.”

  I’m not sure my mother has ever said anything quite so serious to me before. Well, not since my father died, anyway, and for a moment, I’m silenced.

  “Besides,” she adds, when it’s clear I’m not going to respond, “I’d quite like to have a few grandchildren… preferably before I get too old to remember their names.”

  I laugh. “Mother, aside from the fact that you’re getting ahead of yourself, you call everyone except me either ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ anyway… so what would it matter?”

  I’m saved any further interrogation by the reappearance of Amelie and Aunt Issa. Amelie gives me a plaintive look and I go straight to her, risking my mother’s enquiring tongue.

  “Are you alright?” I ask her, keeping my voice quiet.

  “Yes,” she replies.

  “Sorry if it’s all a bit overwhelming.” I’m guessing at what’s wrong, but I know I’ve got it right when she gives me a grateful smile.

  “It’s just…”

  “Going to take some adjustment?” I suggest.

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reply, taking her hand in mine. “I feel like that every time I come here, and I’m related to them.”

  She laughs and I feel her relax a little.

  “What’s for lunch, Mother?” I ask, turning back to face her and Aunt Issa, who are standing watching us.

  “Toad in the hole,” my mother replies, smiling.

  “Oh, good.”

  “Is that a favourite of yours,” Amelie asks, looking up at me.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s also partial to any kind of stew,” my mother replies, “in case you’re looking for tips.”