by K. J. Frost
“Promise?” she says, with that lovely teasing tone to her voice.
“I promise.”
We start towards the dining room, but I pull her back again. “Also…” I say, keeping my voice down, “I haven’t told my mother and aunts about what was done to Amy… to the little girl. So, can you keep it to yourself?”
She nods her head. “Why didn’t you tell them?”
“Because… well, I—I can’t always share everything.”
“Oh, you mean it’s a secret… like when you couldn’t tell me about Uncle Gordon’s affair?”
“No. I mean I sometimes find elements of my cases hard to talk about.”
“But you told me.”
“I know. That’s because I can talk to you, darling. I can’t talk to everyone.”
She smiles and I’m just about to kiss her again, when my mother’s voice calls out, asking where we are, and we laugh, and go through to the dining room, hand in hand.
Chapter Seven
Dearest one,
It’s simply awful.
I can’t believe it’s even happening. The whole thing is like a nightmare. The worst kind of nightmare, because it seems never-ending, especially when I’m away from you.
I have to agree with you, my darling, that whoever did this must have been a madman, for who else would have done such a thing to a lovely girl like Amy?
I can’t bear to think about that sweet, darling little angel suffering… I just can’t.
To know that you miss me as much as I miss you is the only thing keeping me going through all this insanity. To know that I’ll soon be safe in your arms, being kissed by you and feeling your tender touch… Oh God… Just the thought of it is almost too much for me.
It’s driving me mad being apart from you and I sometimes wonder if we could risk meeting up, even though the police seem to be everywhere and ‘his lordship’ still hasn’t said anything about going back to work. God, I wish he would.
I wish I could get out of the house – even if only for a few minutes – to be with you and know there is still some sanity in the world.
I love you, my darling, so desperately.
Please write soon.
Your lonely Kitten xx
*****
I know Aunt Dotty said she invited Amelie over here last night because I don’t get to see her very much, but when we were sitting in the living room after supper, with Amelie’s hand in mine, it dawned on me that she and I had actually spent three consecutive evenings together, despite my workload. They’d been very different, very individual evenings, but I’d enjoyed them all. Had I enjoyed them equally? Well… maybe not. That first evening, the one Amelie planned, was spectacular. It proved several things to me; that the woman I love is capable of spontaneity, that she’s passionate, tempting and utterly endearing, and that I can’t wait for us to be married. Our second evening showed me – as if I didn’t already know – how much I need her by my side. My job can be hard at times and having her with me is only going to make it better. So much better. And last night? That was a family night, exactly as Aunt Dotty said, and it served to remind me that, even when Amelie and I are married, even when we’re settled, and can be together as much as we like, there will always be time to spend with our families – idiosyncrasies and all.
Sitting at the breakfast table, I can’t help smiling to myself, the memories of those three different evenings playing through my mind. Although I have to confess, it’s the first one that makes me smile the most.
I also recall taking Amelie home last night, kissing her on the doorstep of her house, letting my fingers run through her hair, and wishing I’d had the use of both of my hands, so I could have held her body close to mine at the same time. I only have a couple of weeks to wait until the plaster cast comes off, but it seems like a lifetime and I’m impatient to touch her and hold her properly again.
I spent the short walk home contemplating whether I should seek Gordon Templeton’s permission to marry his ward, before asking her. I know it’s considered traditional, but part of me would rather ask Amelie and then seek his consent, once I know she has accepted me. Still, I suppose I should bear in mind that, considering her age, we do need to get his seal of approval. Failure to do so would mean waiting at least a year, until she’s twenty-one, which I think would drive me insane – and might have a similar effect on Amelie, if the other night is anything to go by. That thought makes me smile and I resolve that, even if I’m not the most traditional person in the world, I will speak to him… I just need to find the time.
“Good morning, dear,” my mother says, coming into the room. “What are you smiling like that for?”
“No reason.”
She looks down at me. “Hmm… Where are Dotty and Issa?”
“They had their breakfast early and Dotty’s showing Issa around the garden. They’re discussing vegetables,” I tell her as she leans down and kisses my cheek, before going around the table and sitting opposite me.
“Good. Then I’ve got you to myself.”
“You had me to yourself earlier, while you were helping me bathe,” I point out.
“I know, but we ended up focusing on your wound then, didn’t we?”
She’s not wrong. One of my mother’s self-imposed ‘duties’ during my morning routine, has been to change my dressing, only this morning, we both decided that the wound looks so well healed that the dressing isn’t really helping anymore and I’m better off without it. I can’t say I’m sorry. Apart from the fact that the dressing is one of the things that ‘pulls’, when I reach for things, it’s also one less task for me to share with my mother during my morning ablutions. And it’s a sign I’m on the mend. And that’s got to be good.
I look up at her. “Why did you want me to yourself?” I say slowly, wondering what on earth she’s planning now.
“I wanted to ask you whether the absence of a ring is the only thing that’s stopping you from proposing to Amelie,” she says outright, putting her hands on the table and staring at me.
I take a deep breath. “Well, not exactly. The absence of ten minutes’ privacy has something to do with it… not that it’s really any of your business, Mother.”
I know I’m being unfair. I’ve had a lot more than ten minutes alone with Amelie over the last few evenings, but I’m not in the mood for my mother’s interference. Not this morning.
She sits back, looking offended, the twinkle having faded from her eyes, and I feel guilty.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “That was rude of me.”
She blinks a few times and I have a horrible feeling she’s about to cry. Instead, she sits forward again. “I know it’s none of my business,” she says, her voice very soft and distant. “It’s your business. Yours and Amelie’s. I was only asking because there’s something I want to give you.”
She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and brings her hand up, placing a small box on the table and pushing it across to me. “After our conversation the other evening, when you said you were trying to find a ring, I telephoned Issa and asked if she’d mind travelling up here a few days early. She said she didn’t… so I asked her to go through the top drawer in my dressing table, to find this, and to make sure she brought it with her.”
I open the box and then pick it up. Inside there’s a ring in the form of a circular emerald, surrounded by tiny white diamonds. It’s not huge, or ostentatious. It’s beautiful; and it’s absolutely perfect for Amelie.
I close the box again, and get up from the table, walking around to my mother and taking her hand in mine.
“Come here,” I say and pull her to her feet. “I’m sorry.” I look down at her. “I apologise unreservedly for everything I just said. I don’t deserve you at all.”
She smiles, putting her arms around my waist and holding me. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to and we stand like that for a moment, until she lets me go and looks up at me again. “Do you like the ring?” she asks.
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br /> “I love it.” I reach over the table and pick it up again, opening the box once more, just to have another look. She sits back down and I pull up the nearest chair, sitting beside her.
“More importantly, do you think Amelie will like it?”
“I think she will. I think it’s perfect for her.”
She nods and I half expect her to ask when I’m going to propose, but she doesn’t. Instead, she twists in her chair so she’s facing me. “It belonged to your grandmother,” she says quietly. “Your father’s mother, I mean, not mine. You never met her. She died a year or so before you were born and she left the ring to Alan… to your father. It had been her engagement ring, you see, and he gave it to me, when you were born. We agreed a few years later that, if you ever found the right woman, the woman you wanted to share your life with, then I would pass it on to you…” Her voice fades.
“You are aware I’ve been engaged before, aren’t you?” I say, smiling at her.
She pats my arm gently. “Yes, dear.”
“And you didn’t think to pass the ring on to me then?”
“No. You weren’t listening. I said that your father and I agreed that if you ever found the right woman, I was to give you the ring. That woman you were with before was not right for you. Your father knew that. I knew that… Even you knew that, Rufus. Otherwise you’d have introduced her to us, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“Why didn’t you?” she asks. “Introduce her, I mean?”
“For the very reason you’ve said. Victoria wasn’t right for me. I just wish I’d worked it out earlier.”
“She hurt you, didn’t she?” my mother says, looking into my eyes.
“At the time, yes.”
“What happened?” she asks and I think for a moment about fobbing her off, but then I decide to tell her the truth.
“She… she slept with another man.” I hear her gasp. “I found them together… well, almost.”
“Oh, my dear boy,” she says, letting her hand rest on my arm now. She looks terribly sad. “Is that why you left? Why you transferred to Scotland Yard?”
“Yes. I couldn’t be here anymore.” I don’t tell her that the main reason for that is that the person Victoria slept with was Harry Thompson and that facing him every day was just too much for me at the time. Harry and I have patched up our differences, but I doubt my mother could forgive him, even if I explained that it wasn’t his fault.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asks.
“It’s not the sort of thing a man boasts about, Mother.”
“No… I suppose not.” She leans back slightly. “Have you told Amelie about this? Because if you haven’t, then—”
“I told her right at the beginning,” I interrupt, “when we first met.”
“Good,” she says, smiling again. “There shouldn’t be any secrets in a marriage.”
“Well, I didn’t know I was going to ask her to marry me at the time. I’d told her I’d been engaged, more by accident than intention, and I wanted to explain what had happened… so she didn’t get the wrong idea.”
She stares at me for a moment. “I’m not going to ask what that means,” she says.
“Heavens… Are you saying you’re going to allow me some privacy in my own life?”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to. After all, you’ll be a married man soon.”
“If she accepts me, Mother.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I have no doubts about Amelie… That’s why I’m passing on the ring. I know she’s right for you. And you’re right for her.” Her eyes start to glisten and she blinks quickly. “Your father would have loved her, Rufus, and he’d have been so proud of you.”
She gets up and pats me on the shoulder before leaving the room. I’ve never even considered what my father would have thought of Amelie, but hearing my mother say that has made me realise that he probably would have loved her. Almost as much as I do.
Thompson and I arrive at the Sanderson house at just after nine o’clock. We deliberately decided not to get here too early, because it’s a Sunday, and nine o’clock seems like a reasonable hour to both of us.
Even so, Lois informs us, Mrs Sanderson is in bed, and her master is still getting dressed.
“Can you ask Mrs Sanderson if she’ll see us, please?” I ask, and Lois nods her head, leaving us in the hallway while she goes upstairs.
“What are you going to do if she says ‘no’,” Thompson asks, once Lois is out of earshot.
“Let her know we need to speak to her and arrange a time to come back later, I suppose.” It’s not ideal, but I have to keep in mind that the woman’s daughter has just been murdered.
“There’s something about this house.” Thompson has moved closer to me, lowering his voice. “I know it sounds odd, but it gives me the creeps.”
I turn and look at him. “It doesn’t sound odd; I know exactly what you mean.”
“Can you feel it too?” he says and I nod my head.
“It’s like there’s something here… something underlying the veneer… something…”
“Evil.” He finishes my sentence for me.
Lois appears at the top of the stairs right at that moment, and slowly walks down towards us.
“The mistress says she’ll see you. I’m to take you up.”
I nod my head and we follow her back up the stairs, going around the landing and waiting by the third door on the right. Lois knocks once and we wait until we hear the quiet response to ‘enter’, before she opens the door, and steps to one side, allowing us to pass through, before closing it behind us.
Thompson and I both stand just inside the doorway of a rather lavish bedroom. There’s an ornate dressing table in the bay window, and a sizeable wardrobe and chest of drawers lining the opposite wall, along with a couple of armchairs, neatly placed in the corners of the room, which is dominated by an enormous bed, with pale grey silky coverings, in the centre of which, lies Mrs Sanderson, her auburn hair spread out on the white pillows behind her.
“Please come in,” she murmurs, indicating the chair in the nearest corner.
I pull it closer to the bed and sit down, while Thompson remains standing behind me.
Mrs Sanderson looks pale and rather fragile, not helped by the white, diaphanous gown she’s wearing, and I open my mouth to speak, but before I can say anything, she raises her hand, silencing me.
“M—My husband told me last night that Amy was… that Amy was…” She hesitates. “He told me what was done to her,” she continues. “H—He said he mentioned David to you?”
I’m surprised, although I try to keep it hidden and I try to imagine the scene after our departure; Mr Sanderson waiting for his wife to awaken from her sleep, telling her what had been done to Amy, and deciding to twist the knife a little further by mentioning our conversation about David Cooke, even though he’d agreed that the man was an unlikely candidate for his daughter’s assault and murder. Sanderson’s hatred for his wife must run a lot deeper than I’d thought.
“David didn’t do it.” She raises her voice to an almost hysterical pitch. “I was with him. I was with him the whole time.”
She’s lying about that. “No, you weren’t,” I say calmly. “We’ve already spoken to Mr Cooke and he’s informed us that you were with him between twelve-thirty and one, or just after. Your nanny only got back from her shopping trip at between one and one-thirty. Then she had to get the children ready to take to the park, so she couldn’t have got there before about one-forty-five, and the call came in, reporting your daughter missing at just after two-thirty. If you’re hoping to provide Mr Cooke with an alibi yourself, Mrs Sanderson, I’m afraid that’s not possible. Even he admits that.”
“But… but… he didn’t do it,” she repeats, sitting up a little, her eyes wide with panic. “I know he didn’t. He couldn’t.”
“He’s told us he had a meeting after he saw you. It was due to start at one o’clock, but because he
was with you, he was late arriving and got there at one-twenty. We’ll be finding out who that was with to see if they can verify Mr Cooke’s movements during the actual time in question… because we know he wasn’t with you, Mrs Sanderson.”
She stares at me, tears forming in her eyes. “You can’t suspect him,” she murmurs. “You just can’t.”
“I can – at least until he’s proved to me that he has an alibi.”
She lets out a sob, clutching a lace handkerchief to her mouth. “This… this is so awful,” she says, between sniffles. “I know he’s innocent.”
I’m having to bite my tongue, to repress the urge to ask her why she seems so much more concerned for her lover, than she is for her daughter.
“How well do you know Mr Cooke?” I ask her. “I’m aware of the fact that you’ve only been seeing him for a few months…”
She lets her hand fall. “I’ve known him for years,” she says defiantly. “That’s how I know he could never do anything so… so… disgusting.”
“So you knew him before your affair started?” I can’t see any point in mincing my words.
“Yes. I’ve known David for almost as long as I’ve known Daniel.”
“And yet you still married your husband, rather than the man you claim to love?”
I know I’m being harsh, but I’m not sure I care. This woman is heartless, beyond even my experience.
“I don’t claim to love him. I do love him. And I told you… Daniel was romantic at the beginning. And David was a very junior banker at the time. I wasn’t to know Daniel would become boring beyond words and that David would become the bank’s youngest rising star, was I?”
So, this is as much to do with money and status as anything else. Somehow that really doesn’t surprise me.
“Why did you want to see me?” she asks, tipping her chin in a defiant fashion.
“I wanted to ask why you failed to mention that you were with Mr Cooke on the day your daughter went missing.”
“Because it’s not relevant. This has nothing to do with David.”