by K. J. Frost
“Aunty,” I say genially, so as not to put her off too much, “we may be related, but I will arrest you if you take another corner like that.”
She laughs. “I’ve been driving since before you were born.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you do it very well… or very legally.”
“You can walk.” She glares at me and I grab the wheel to avoid us running into the hedgerow. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re no fun?” she adds.
“Yes. Frequently.”
We get to the house in one piece and I’m gratified to see that Amelie and my mother are standing in the doorway waiting to greet us. It’s raining a little harder now, so I don’t expect them to come out, and taking my case from the back of the car, I run over to them, wondering who I should kiss first. My quandary is answered by my mother taking a very slight step back, bless her, and allowing me to greet Amelie, with a chaste kiss on the cheek, while holding her hand very tightly in mine.
“Come in and get warm,” my mother says and we all move inside, although I keep hold of Amelie’s hand. It’s good to see her again after such a week, and I don’t want to let her go.
My mother leans up and gives me a kiss, then takes my case, putting it at the bottom of the stairs, and leads us all into the living room, which is dominated by the huge grand piano that sits by the window – my mother’s pride and joy.
“Sit… sit,” my mother says and Amelie and I sit together on one of the floral patterned sofas, while my mother and Aunt Issa take a chair each. Mother has already made tea and put it out on the low table between us, together with some homemade scones and jam. We’re all facing the roaring inglenook fire, and the domesticity of the scene is a welcome tonic after the week I’ve had. “We want to hear all about it,” my mother says, clasping her hands together in excitement. Although I’ve telephoned Amelie every day, I haven’t updated her on what’s been happening with the case – mainly because I’ve found it quite disturbing and haven’t wanted to worry her.
I take my time and explain how it was really due to Thompson’s work that we found out that Ellis’s story didn’t match that of the landlord at The Fox, and that Wilberforce had no reason to lie to us, which meant the sergeant had to be the one who wasn’t telling the truth. I then reveal my trip to Ellis’s house, undertaken while I could be sure I wouldn’t be interrupted by the man himself, and reveal how I discovered the uniform, which was the icing on the cake. Actually, it was the cherry on the icing on the cake.
“Why did he need to wear a uniform?” Aunt Issa asks when I get to the end of my story. “I mean, obviously I understand that he couldn’t abduct these women from public houses dressed as himself, because someone might have recognised him, especially after you started investigating the case and he was involved in that, but why couldn’t he just have pounced on them outside the pubs, or in dark alleys?”
I feel Amelie tense beside me and reach over, taking her hand in mine. I want to give her some reassurance that, whatever she’s thinking about, she’s safe, but with Mother and Aunt Issa staring at us, my options are limited. “With the first murder, it was to prove to himself how shallow the victim was, because Miss Franklin had goaded him for not being in uniform when other men were. She let him take her home, without really knowing him, just because he was in uniform. After that, he obviously worked out that he was going to need a disguise, for just the same reason you’ve said. Not only did he frequent at least one of these pubs himself, but our investigation required him to visit several of them and interview the landlords and clientele. Besides, he said he liked the way women reacted to him when he was wearing it. They trusted him more – and he liked the irony of that. I don’t think he’d have got anything like as much of a thrill from just accosting women in the darkened streets. And also, I think he rather enjoyed becoming his brother for a brief while.”
“Becoming his brother?” Amelie queries.
“Yes.” I turn to face her. “His mother seems to have favoured his brother throughout their lives, and even after his brother’s death. We know that he used his brother’s name in at least one of the murders, and of course it was his brother’s uniform…”
“He hated his brother that much?” Aunt Issa seems surprised.
“No, I don’t think he hated his brother at all, but he despises his mother. Enacting these crimes in his name felt like the ultimate revenge, I think. Whether it started out like that, I don’t know, but it was one of the things he kept harking back to in our interviews.”
“It’s odd,” my mother says calmly, shaking her head. “He sounds quite mad at times, but then some of the things he’s done and some of his methods are very cold and calculating, as though he’s completely sane and knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“Oh, I think he’s as sane as you or I, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to plead insanity. And, having spent the last week in his company, I think he might just get away with it, too.”
“What?” Amelie’s shocked. “Get away with the murders?”
“No. Get away with an insanity plea. He’ll escape the noose, is what I mean. He may not be mad, but he’s exceptionally good at manipulating people.”
“Was he the man who followed me?” she asks, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Yes. He admitted that quite openly. He did it to throw me off the scent, to distract me from the case, just as I suspected.”
“So you were right,” she says, triumphantly.
“Well, yes, but it worked, didn’t it? He did distract me. I came down here, and Doris Cole died because of that.”
My mother leans over and touches my knee. “Stop being so hard on yourself,” she says. “You did the right thing. You saw he was trying to distract you, and you got Amelie to safety.”
“Yes,” I reply, “Realising I was being deliberately distracted was one thing. It would have been a lot more useful to work out that it was Ellis who was doing it.”
“True, but your sixth sense must have told you something,” she reasons. “Because you didn’t tell Ellis what you were doing, did you?”
“No, I suppose not. But I still feel as though I should have seen things earlier. He was leading me up the garden path at every turn. He deliberately steered me towards Gordon Templeton, and then Keith Johnson, manipulating my thought process at every turn.” I remember Ellis’s raucous laughter in the interview room, as he recounted my reactions to his mis-directions. “I should have seen it sooner.”
“Perhaps if you’d known him, that might be understandable,” Amelie says quietly, “but he was a stranger to you.”
“Hmm. And part of my job is to understand the behaviour of strangers.”
“Oh, stop wallowing.” Aunt Issa’s harsh words cut through the conversation and we all turn to look at her. “Well, you are,” she adds, a little more gently, justifying herself.
“Five women are dead,” I tell her.
“Yes, but you didn’t kill them. He did.”
“And if I’d caught him sooner?”
“Then you’d have been a miracle worker, by the sound of things. You were up against a calculating, cold killer, operating in your own court. And that’s the last place you expected to find him.”
“Your aunt has a point,” Amelie says, giving my hand a squeeze.
“I’m sorry about Beth,” I whisper to her.
She smiles. “It’s not your fault, Rufus. Kenneth Ellis is the only man to blame for what happened to Beth… and all those other women.”
I nod my head, although I have yet to be convinced, and judging from the look Amelie gives me, I think she realises that.
While Mother and Aunt Issa cook the dinner, Amelie and I sit by ourselves on the sofa and watch the fire.
“Thank you for keeping me safe,” she says quietly, and I lean closer to her.
I decide to take my courage in both hands. “I’ll always keep you safe, Amelie. You must know that by now.”
She smiles and moves a litt
le nearer, takes a deep breath, then shifts, twisting to face me. “Does this mean you’ll be going back to London now?”
“Yes.” I see her face fall and even the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “But,” I add quickly, “I’m only going for a short while.”
“You are?” Her brow furrows in confusion.
“Yes. Inspector Styles is retiring, and…”
“Who’s Inspector Styles?” she asks, interrupting me.
“He’s one of the men at Kingston. I met him while I was working on the case.” She nods her head and waits for me to go on. “He’s not very well, and he’s decided to take early retirement. And that means there’s a vacancy for an inspector at Kingston.”
“There is?”
“Yes. And to make it even better, Chief Superintendent Meredith – the bane of my life – is being put out to pasture. A new man is going to be brought in, and the Chief Constable has asked if I’d be prepared to move back and take over from Styles.”
“And would you be?” she asks, with an almost breathless note of hope in her voice.
“Yes.” I smile down at her. “Yes, I would. I was going to ask for a transfer back to Kingston anyway, but this makes it so much easier.”
She blushes properly this time. “You were going to move back to Kingston?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her voice drops to a whisper, as though she’s slightly worried about what my response might be.
“I think you know the answer to that,” I tease.
She blinks a couple of times. I wonder if she’s going to ask me to clarify my reply, but she doesn’t. Instead she says, “And arranging all of this is only going to take a short while, is it?”
“In this instance, yes. The Chief Constable is going to speak to my boss at Scotland Yard and get them to expedite my transfer, so all I’ll have to do is go back up there while until the paperwork is sorted out, then clear my desk and move out of my flat… I imagine it’ll take a week, maybe two at most. That should just about give me enough time to get everything done.”
“So, where are you going to live?” Amelie asks. “When you come back to Kingston, I mean?”
“With Aunt Dotty. At least for the time being. We talked it all through this morning and she’s thrilled. We get on very well, when she’s not trying to poison me with toxic gin and tonics, and I can help her with her garden,” I explain. “Let’s face it, she’s probably the most sensible of the three sisters.” Amelie laughs. “How’s it been down here?” I ask her.
“Well, I learnt my lesson with the sloe gin on the first evening,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “But other than that, I’ve had a wonderful time. They’ve both made me so welcome. Your mother’s a hoot and Issa’s full of information about all kinds of things… I’ve taken up sketching,” she adds. “Your mother says I’m quite good. She says I should show Dotty what I’ve done.” She blushes and lets her eyes drop. I place my finger beneath her chin and raise her face to mine.
“My mother, for all her foibles, is a woman of impeccable taste, so if she says your sketches are good, then I’m sure they are. You’ll have to show me later.”
“Your mother doesn’t have that many foibles,” Amelie says, smiling, “although she does come out with some odd things, just out of the blue.”
“Such as?” I ask, dreading what she’s going to tell me.
“Well, she keeps talking about her grandchildren.”
“What grandchildren? She doesn’t have any.”
Amelie frowns again. “Really?”
“Yes. I’m an only child, so if my mother had grandchildren, I think I’d know. Why? What has she said?”
“She keeps saying how lovely it will be to have the grandchildren to stay, and about all the fun she’s going to have with them. Just things like that… I assumed she already had grandchildren and she was talking about them coming for a weekend, or something.”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s my mother, being meddlesome.”
“Meddlesome?” She pauses, and I actually see in her eyes the moment when the penny drops. “Oh,” she says, blushing again. “She was talking about…” She points from herself to me and back again.
“Yes. I’m sorry. She can’t help herself. I’ll speak to her.” I go to get up, with the intention of telling my mother to stop interfering in my love life once and for all, but Amelie grabs hold of my hand and pulls me back down again.
“You don’t have to. I mean… well, I—I don’t mind, if you don’t,” she stutters, blushing deeply.
I feel my heart swell in my chest and I lean over her. “Oh… I don’t mind either,” I reply. “But I’d rather do this our way.”
“Our way?”
“Yes. Call me old fashioned, but I’d like to at least take you out for dinner before my mother starts choosing baby names, if that’s alright… mother?” I raise my voice on the last word, because I’m aware of her standing just outside the door, and I can hear her twittering giggle from behind me. Then I lean a little closer to Amelie, whispering, “So, as a beginning, how does dinner sound? No relatives, no sergeants, no murderers – mad, or otherwise – no interruptions. Just you and me.”
“Just you and me?” She looks into my eyes and I nod my head. “That sounds perfect.”
The End
The Rufus Stone Detective Stories will continue in Book 2,
The Blackbird, due out in June 2019.
Copyright © K. J. Frost, 2019.
The right of K. J. Frost as the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First Published in 2019
by GWL Publishing
an imprint of Great War Literature Publishing LLP
Produced in United Kingdom
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication, with the exception of any obvious historical characters, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.
GWL Publishing
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Dedication
To S.L.
Acknowledgements
Firstly, I would like to thank Paul Stenning for his indispensable assistance in all matters relating to East Molesey and the surrounding areas. I may have grown up there, but the years have taken their toll on my memory and Paul’s help has been invaluable in the writing of this book.
I would also like to thank Chloe Hilton for taking the time to read through my final manuscript and giving me a reader’s perspective, pointing out the various errors of my ways and helping me to correct them.
My love and appreciation goes to my family, who bear my obsession with tolerance and understanding.
And finally, my greatest thanks and all my love go S, who endures much, encourages always and inspires more than these mere words can say.
