The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  “I’m afraid it’s not for you to decide what is relevant and what isn’t, Mrs Sanderson. Not in a murder investigation.”

  “Even so… I—I didn’t want my husband to find out,” she adds, blushing slightly.

  “Well, we both know that isn’t true, don’t we?”

  Her blush spreads further. “What do you mean?” she blusters.

  “Come now, Mrs Sanderson. Your husband has known about your affair all along.”

  “H—How was I to know he’d guess?”

  It’s all I can do not to laugh, but I manage to restrain myself. “Guess? You’ve flaunted it. You’ve made him perfectly well aware of what’s been going on, right since the word go.”

  She sits up. “So?” she snaps. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s not long since I turned twenty-five. It was only a few years ago I was still in school, but my husband is rapidly approaching retirement. I’m not ready for that yet.”

  “So you thought you’d play games with your husband’s feelings, did you?” I know this isn’t relevant to the case, but she’s got under my skin now.

  “His feelings? Daniel doesn’t have feelings,” she hisses. “And anyway, I want to have fun. I want to be young… to be loved… to be treated like a woman, not a mother, not a prized possession, not a trophy… a woman.” She shouts the last word her eyes wide, her chin raised.

  I want to tell her that it’s a shame she’s being such a child, but I don’t bother. Instead I get to my feet and simply nod my head.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs Sanderson,” I say quietly, and Thompson and I leave the room.

  “Feel better for that?” he says, once we’re outside, with the door closed firmly behind us.

  “No. But I’ll tell you something… if we were looking for a woman, she’d be top of my list of suspects.”

  “The girl’s mother?” He’s shocked.

  “Yes. She couldn’t care less about her daughter. Her only concerns are herself and her lover. That’s it. That’s the limit of her interest.”

  He shakes his head. “Even so…”

  “You remember I told you I’d investigated three child murders before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, in one of those cases, the culprit was the mother. It happens, Harry. We don’t have to like it, but it happens.”

  “Jesus,” he murmurs under his breath, and we turn and make our way down the stairs.

  “I want to speak with the cook,” I tell him when we get into the hall. “Follow me.” I lead him towards the back of the house.

  “Why the cook?” he asks.

  “Because she knows everything that goes on in this house.”

  I open the swing doors and we pass through, to be greeted by the sight of the cook, standing by the sink, peeling potatoes. She looks up.

  “Hello,” she says, smiling. “Inspector Stone, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. And this is Sergeant Thompson.”

  She stops what she’s doing and dries her hands on a cloth, coming over to us.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” she offers.

  “That would be lovely, Mrs Slater,” I reply and Thompson nods his agreement.

  “It’s terrible,” she says, as she fills the kettle with water. “This news about young Amy, I mean. I know she could be a handful, and worse – as I said to you the other day…” She turns and looks at me. “But no-one could wish her dead.”

  She puts the kettle on to boil and sets about preparing the tea, while Thompson and I sit down at the table.

  “We know the murderer is a man,” I explain, hoping she won’t ask how we’re aware of that fact. The details will almost certainly make the newspapers soon, and everyone can find out then. In the meantime, I’d rather not have to repeat that part of the story any more than I have to. “And I wondered if you can tell me of any men who are associated with the house?”

  “Men?” she says, looking confused.

  “Yes. Anyone who calls at the house regularly, for example.”

  “Well, there’s the butcher’s boy,” she says, doubtfully, “but he’s a lovely lad. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And there’s the milkman, I suppose. But I’m not sure he’s ever seen Amy. He calls far too early and rarely even comes into the kitchen – and certainly not when Amy’s been in here.” She pauses, with the sugar bowl in her hand, clearly thinking. “Of course, there’s Miss Sutton’s young man,” she adds, and puts the bowl down on the table, before turning to fetch the cups.

  “Miss Sutton’s young man?” I ask, all my nerves on edge.

  “Yes. I don’t know his name.” She arranges the cups and saucers on the table in front of us. “And he doesn’t come here, of course.”

  “Then how do you know he exists?” I enquire, smiling, and she looks down, tapping the side of her nose with her forefinger.

  “Because I’m no fool, Inspector. And that girl, for all her pretty little ways, is no genius. She thinks we don’t notice the letters that come for her, regular as clockwork, but we do.” She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, between her and the mistress, writing to that Mr Cooke on a daily basis, I think they must be keeping the post office in business, I honestly do.”

  I can’t help but wish Mrs Slater would change profession and come and work for me, but I doubt she’d like the conditions – or the lack of tea.

  “So, if Miss Sutton’s young man never comes to the house, he wouldn’t have met Amy, would he?” I suggest and she smiles.

  “Well, there’s no guarantee of that, is there?” she says, as the kettle starts to whistle and she switches off the gas. “Miss Sutton takes the children out with her, doesn’t she? So, who’s to say she doesn’t meet her young man while they’re with her?”

  I look up at her. “But I thought Mr Sanderson didn’t like his female employees having male friends,” I say, putting it as delicately as I can.

  “No, he doesn’t,” she replies, pouring the boiling water into the teapot before she sits down opposite me. “But then that’s really a rather stupid rule, don’t you think? I mean, what’s the sense in employing someone as beautiful as Miss Sutton, and then forbidding her from having a boyfriend?” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  After we’ve finished our tea, we leave Mrs Slater to get on with preparing the vegetables for Sunday lunch, and we go upstairs to the top floor, to the nursery. I’m not going to bother asking Mr Sanderson’s permission to speak with his nanny. Not this time.

  The door to the nursery is ajar, so I push it open and find Miss Sutton, sitting in the chair by the window, gazing down at the baby cradled in her arms. For a moment, she’s unaware of our presence and she kisses the infant’s forehead, smiling and rocking her, humming a quiet tune. Seen like this, I’m struck by her maternal instincts, and I can’t help reflect on the contrast between this scene and the one we experienced a little earlier, in the bedroom on the floor below, with the child’s actual mother.

  I cough, to make her aware of our presence and she startles, looking up.

  “Inspector,” she says, flushing. “I didn’t see you.”

  “We’ve only just come in,” I lie. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “You haven’t.” She gets to her feet and crosses the room, laying the baby down in her cot, where she gives off a couple of plaintive cries, but the nanny hands her a rattle, which she clasps in her fist, quietening.

  “We won’t keep you a minute,” I say, before she can remind me how busy she is, or attempt to use her feminine wiles to their best advantage. They’re not going to work on either myself, or Thompson, but I don’t want to waste time letting her bother. “I just wanted to ask you about your boyfriend.”

  She pales, and even though she’s wearing a fair amount of make-up, it’s possible to see the change in her skin tone. “My what?” she says, with a sterling attempt at bravado.

  “Your boyfriend, Miss Sutton.” I stare her in the eye, keeping a straight face.

  “I don’t have
a boyfriend,” she replies, her demeanour changing, a smugness descending over her. “Mr Sanderson doesn’t permit such things.”

  “Even so, you receive letters, on a regular basis from someone. If they’re not from a boyfriend, who are they from?”

  A blush rises up her cheeks again. “A friend.”

  “And his name is…?”

  “Who said it’s a he?” she asks.

  “I do.” I make a show of looking at my watch. “Miss Sutton. I don’t have time for this. We haven’t made this general knowledge yet, but Amy was sexually assaulted…” She stares at me, and then raises her hand to her mouth. I wonder for a moment if she’s going to be sick, like Mr Sanderson, but she swallows hard and lowers her hand again, blinking a few times, so I carry on, “I need to interview any men who are associated with this house – in whatever capacity. Now, I know you have a boyfriend. You know you have a boyfriend. So, you can either give me his name… right this minute, or I’ll have my sergeant take you into Kingston police station and you’ll be charged with obstruction. Oh… and I’ll still find out who your boyfriend is.”

  She glares at me for a full twenty seconds, her arms folded across her chest. “Donald would never do anything to harm Amy,” she says eventually.

  “I’d rather be the judge of that myself,” I reply. “Can you tell me Donald’s full name, please?”

  She pauses again, and then says, “Curtis.”

  “Donald Curtis.” I turn to Thompson and he makes a note. “And his address?”

  “This is outrageous,” Miss Sutton blusters. “What happened to Amy has nothing to do with Donald.”

  “In which case, he won’t mind answering a few questions, will he?”

  “Well, no…” she says.

  “So, give me his address. It’ll save us all a lot of time and trouble in the end.”

  She lets out a sigh. “He lives around the corner,” she huffs. “In Fleece Road. Above the greengrocer’s.”

  I nod my head. “Thank you. See? It wasn’t so hard in the end, was it?” I hate being so facetious, but she deserves it.

  Downstairs, Mr Sanderson is waiting in the hallway.

  “Lois told me you were here,” he says. “Have you been talking to Miss Sutton?”

  “Yes, and your wife.”

  He nods his head, as though it’s suddenly dawned on him that he should have mentioned her first. It’s too late now though.

  “Did you need to see me?” he asks.

  “No. We have other lines of enquiry to follow up.” I turn towards the front door.

  “Oh yes?” He clearly wants details, but I’m not going to give them to him.

  “Yes. If we have anything to impart, we’ll let you know.”

  He opens his mouth, I think to object, but then has second thoughts and closes it again, and Thompson opens the door to let us out.

  “He didn’t like that,” he says to me once we’re in the car.

  “I’m rather past caring,” I reply.

  “Are you alright, Rufus?”

  “No. I’m weary of their games. To be honest, I wonder why they even bothered to have children, for all the attention they seem to pay them.”

  He nods his head and starts the car. “I can’t imagine not spending as much of my spare time as possible with Christopher, but I doubt Mr Sanderson saw his daughter from one day to the next.”

  “No. And Mrs Sanderson openly admits to feeling ambivalent towards her children. And that’s putting it mildly.”

  He sighs. “As you say, why did they bother?” He reverses the car out of the driveway. “Fleece Road, I assume?” he says.

  “Yes. Let’s see what Donald Curtis has to say for himself.”

  Being as it’s Sunday, the greengrocer’s is closed, a brown, slightly tattered blind lowered across the inside of the window, but there’s a wooden door to the left upon which Thompson knocks twice, and we wait… and wait. He knocks again, and we hear a distant, “Okay… I’m coming,” from inside the building.

  The door opens and a man stands before us. He’s probably in his late twenties, or more likely early thirties, tall, with short dark hair and rather piercing blue eyes and is undeniably handsome, although he looks as though he’s only just got out of bed, having slept in the clothes he was wearing yesterday, judging from their creased and dishevelled state.

  “Yes?” he says, tucking in his shirt, rather unnecessarily, considering the condition of the rest of his attire.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Stone,” I say, holding out my warrant card. Thompson does the same, without revealing his name and the man leans forward, squinting at our identification. “Are you Mr Donald Curtis?”

  “Yes.” He scratches his head, rather confused, by the looks of things.

  “May we come in?”

  “Um… yes.” He steps to one side and we enter into a narrow lobby area, leading to a set of stairs. “Go on up,” he says.

  I follow his instructions, climbing the stairs, and enter his flat through the door to my right, coming into a small hallway with four doors leading off of it, and I stand, waiting to be invited in, even though Mr Curtis is behind me. “Go straight on ahead,” he says, and I do, directly into the large and very nicely furnished living room.

  “Sorry,” he says, picking up a jacket from the back of the sofa, which is covered with pale green material. Opposite it are two chairs, one with matching upholstery, the other with a pattered covering, that resembles peacock feathers. This pattern is replicated in the cushions that are scattered across the sofa, which Mr Curtis suddenly seems to notice, and straightens accordingly.

  “I was out with some friends last night.” He smiles. “Had a little too much to drink.” He nods towards his jacket, which he’s still clutching. “I’ll just get rid of this.”

  “Feel free,” I reply and he leaves the room, giving me the opportunity to look around. The parquet flooring is polished to within an inch of its life, but the rug we’re currently standing on is thick and luxurious. On the glass topped coffee table, there is an etched silver cigarette box and lighter, and several large books, arranged for display purposes, I assume, rather than to be read, although there are two bookcases either side of the chimney breast, which are filled with leather-bound tomes, interspersed with the odd ornament or photograph. It’s a very contemporary, rather elegant abode.

  I turn as Mr Curtis comes back into the room. He’s changed into clean, neatly pressed trousers and a shirt, which is undone at the neck, and has combed his hair, slicking it back from his face. He remains unshaven, but in the space of time he’s had available, he’s made a significant improvement in his appearance.

  “How can I help?” he says, indicating the chairs, and taking a seat opposite us on the sofa.

  He opens the cigarette box, offering it, and we both decline, although I’m reminded that it’s only a few weeks since I gave up the habit myself, as he takes one and lights it, replacing the lighter on the table before getting up again to fetch an ashtray from the bookshelf, placing it on the arm of the sofa beside him.

  “I understand you know Miss Elizabeth Sutton?” I ask.

  He frowns, then says, “Lizzie? Yes, I know her.” His lips twitch up slightly. “The Sandersons insist she calls herself Elizabeth, but she prefers Lizzie – well, she does when she’s with me, anyway.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “About six or seven months, I suppose.”

  I nod my head. “Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday last?”

  “At work,” he says rather abruptly.

  “Where do you work?”

  “Sugden’s Engineering.”

  “And what do you do there?” I ask.

  “I’m a draughtsman, but I can’t tell you any more than that. We’re doing war work now, so it’s confidential, I’m afraid.”

  “I see. And you were there all day, were you? You didn’t leave your offices at all?”

  “Well, I went out during my lunch break
…”

  “What time was that?”

  His eyes narrow. “Look, what’s going on here?” he says, putting his cigarette down in the ashtray and sitting forward. “I’m assuming you’re here because of the little girl. I know she’s been found dead, and while she could be difficult – well, downright annoying actually – she didn’t deserve that.” He pauses. “But I don’t understand what any of that has to do with me? Why are you here, asking me questions? Has Lizzie said something about me?”

  I’m careful not to answer his last question and reply, “We’re just making routine enquiries of all the men who are associated with the household.”

  “‘Associated with the household’?” he repeats. “Well, now I know she’s told you something, otherwise how did you even know I exist? No-one else in that place knows about me. And how did you find out my address, if she didn’t give it to you?” He sits a little further forward. “And anyway what do you mean ‘men’? Why only men? You do realise that women are perfectly capable of killing children, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. But in this instance, we know it’s a man.”

  “How?” he asks.

  “Because the girl was assaulted… sexually.”

  He stares at me, his face paling significantly. Then he sits back, picking up his cigarette again, his hand shaking. “Sexually?” he says. “You mean she was…?” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the expression on his face gives away his revulsion, even as he takes a long drag on his cigarette, calming his nerves. “I like sex just as much as the next man,” he says eventually, with disarming honesty. “But only with consenting adults. You think I’d do that… with a child? A four year old child? Jesus… what do you take me for?”

  “We don’t take you for anything, Mr Curtis. But the time at which Amy disappeared on Tuesday, could reasonably have been during the lunch hour of someone who was at work, so can you please account for your whereabouts?”

  “At lunchtime?” I nod my head and he stubs out his half smoked cigarette. “I met Lizzie,” he says.

  “Was this while she was Christmas shopping?” I ask.

  “She wasn’t Christmas shopping.” He looks at me as though he feels sorry for me. “She just told them that to get out of the house, because she’s not supposed to have a boyfriend, let alone be meeting him for sex in the middle of the day. And before you start looking down your noses, passing judgement on that, it’s a free country, last time I checked. And anyway, it’s not just a fling. I’ve been thinking of proposing to her, so there’s nothing wrong with it… not really… although she doesn’t know about the proposal, so I’d be grateful if you’d keep that bit to yourselves, if it’s all the same to you” He stops talking for a moment and reaches for another cigarette, although he doesn’t light it, but stares down, clasping it between his fingers. “Mind you,” he adds thoughtfully, “I have to say, sometimes I wonder if she enjoys the sneaking around almost as much as she does the sex. I think she gets off on the thrill of it.” He glances up and smiles, then lights the cigarette, placing his arm along the back of the sofa, rather nonchalantly. “Not that I’m complaining either way.”