The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  “Nothing,” she replies.

  “Yes, there is. Tell me.”

  She blinks rapidly a few times. “D—Did you use this ring for… for Victoria?” She whispers the last word, I presume in the hope that only she and I will hear it, but she hasn’t reckoned on the honed listening skills of my mother and aunts.

  “No,” I reply, before any of them can, because this is between the two of us. “I bought the ring I gave to Victoria – and she kept it when I broke off our engagement.”

  “She kept it?” Amelie seems surprised.

  “Of course she did. Bearing in mind what she did, that’s not at all difficult to understand, really.”

  “No,” she says, “I don’t suppose it is.”

  “I was actually having trouble finding a ring that was special enough for you,” I admit and she smiles, her eyes sparkling this time, which warms my heart. “But this… this is perfect.” I take her left hand in mine and hold it, raising it to my lips and kissing the ring. “I’ve told you before, my darling, that Victoria, and my engagement and everything that happened with her are in the past. None of that is important anymore. You’re my present, and now you are my future too. But this ring… it ties you – the woman I love more than anything – to the only part of my past that does matter.” Amelie tilts her head again, evidently confused, and although I have no doubt my mother will end up in tears at what I’m about to say, I persevere, because I desperately need to erase any doubts from Amelie’s mind, even if that does mean saying all of this out loud, in front of three of the most meddlesome women in the world. “My father is the only part of my past that means anything to me. And I wish that he could have been here to see this, and to meet you, because my mother is right about one thing… he would have loved you.” Tears form in Amelie’s eyes and I move closer. “Having you wear this ring, it’s a link to him. It means he’s part of our lives, part of us… and he always will be.”

  Amelie hesitates, just for an instant, and then throws her arms around my neck, clinging to me, and I put my arm around her, pulling her close and holding onto her. We stand like that for a brief moment until Amelie presumably remembers where we are, and that we’re not alone – although for myself, I couldn’t care less – and she moves away, looking up into my eyes a little sheepishly.

  “Are you alright now?” I ask and she nods her head.

  “Of course. How could I not be when you say things like that?”

  I kiss her forehead, just quickly and then put my arm around her and turn us both to face my relations, a smile forming on my face, as I take in the sight of them dabbing at their eyes, cheeks and noses, with delicate lace handkerchiefs – except for Aunt Issa, who’s using something a little more practical and masculine for the purpose.

  “I thought we were here to celebrate, not weep,” I remark, leading Amelie to the sofa and sitting down with her beside me, taking her hand in mine.

  “How can you expect us not to weep after that speech?” Aunt Dotty says as they all follow, putting her handkerchief in the pocket of her cardigan.

  “Well, I wasn’t actually talking to any of you,” I point out. “I was talking to my future wife.”

  “I know,” Dotty replies. “But it was very… touching.”

  “And it needed to be said.” I lean over and kiss Amelie on the cheek. She turns to me, blushing slightly and smiles.

  My mother sniffles and I look over at her, in her seat beside Dotty. She wipes her eyes and gazes at me, wrinkling her nose and looking rather pleased with life. I suppose that’s not surprising. I think it’s been one of her life’s ambitions to see me happy. And it’s been achieved. Thanks to the beautiful woman beside me.

  “We need to talk seriously about the wedding,” my mother says as we sit in the dining room, with Amelie beside me and my aunts and mother around the table in front of us.

  After a couple of Aunt Dotty’s gin and tonics, the mood in the living room lifted considerably, but we haven’t discussed the wedding at all yet – seriously, or otherwise.

  “We’re not discussing the dress,” Dotty replies. “Not with Rufus here.”

  “Thank heavens for that,” I remark.

  “What about booking the church?” Mother says and turns to Amelie. “I offered to make an appointment with the vicar, but Rufus said I should discuss it with you first… so if you’d like me to do that…?”

  Amelie glances up at me, looking doubtful again, then turns to my mother. “I—I don’t know about Rufus,” she says, sounding shy for the first time in the present company, “because we haven’t really had time to talk about it yet, but I’m not sure about getting married in church.”

  “Neither am I,” I add quickly and reach for her hand under the tablecloth. She clasps mine and grips tightly. “We’re not regular churchgoers,” I add, taking up the cause. “So it feels hypocritical.”

  “And it seems rather frivolous to go overboard on finery and frills, when the country’s at war,” Amelie remarks. “I think I’d rather get married in a registry office and have a quiet reception afterwards… if no-one minds.”

  “No-one minds,” I say softly.

  She looks up at me. “I don’t need a big, expensive wedding. That’s not what this is about.”

  “No?” I lean a little closer, teasing her, even though we’re not alone.

  “No,” she replies. “It’s about being married to you.”

  “Good.” I raise our bound hands from beneath the tablecloth and kiss her fingers, before placing them on the table, still clasped together.

  “If you’re sure that’s what you want?” my mother asks. She not interfering, she’s just asking the question – to make sure, I think.

  “We’re sure,” Amelie replies, and I nod my head.

  “Where do you think you’d like to have the reception?” Issa says, moving us on to the next topic as Dotty starts to dish up the rabbit pie, passing the plates around.

  Amelie leans forward slightly. “I don’t want to sound like I’m taking control of the whole day…”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” I interrupt. “It’s your wedding.”

  “It’s yours too,” she reasons, looking up at me.

  “And if you’re happy, then I’m happy. So, what did you want to say about the reception?”

  “Well, I was just going to say that, Aunt Millicent is unlikely to be persuaded to leave the house, but she might be talked into coming downstairs… so do you think we could have the reception at our house?”

  “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

  I think it’s a shame that she’s convinced her aunt won’t be talked into attending our wedding ceremony, but I have to admit – even if only to myself – that she’s probably right. The mention of Amelie’s aunt also reminds me that I’m supposed to be putting in a good word for her uncle, with regards to giving her away, but I think that’s a conversation best had when we’re alone.

  “We’re going to have to think about rationing,” my mother says, bringing up Issa’s point from this morning. “That will start early in January, won’t it?”

  “Yes, on the eighth,” Dotty says. “But why do we need to worry about it? They’re only rationing bacon, butter and sugar to start with.”

  “To start with,” Mother repeats, knowingly, helping herself to carrots.

  “You’re just desperate for us to set the date, aren’t you?” I suggest and she looks over at me.

  “Yes… I mean, no.” We all laugh at her discomposure as she gets flustered in her reply and drops the serving spoon. “I’m just pointing out that you probably shouldn’t delay for too long… just in case.”

  I’ve got no intention of delaying any longer than is absolutely necessary, and that’s got nothing to do with bacon, butter or sugar.

  “Well, unless we’re having bacon sandwiches at the reception, I don’t think we need to worry too much,” Issa says.

  “We’re definitely not having bacon sandwiches,” I reply.

&nb
sp; “You’re all missing the point.” Mother passes the carrots to Dotty and tries to get us to concentrate and take her seriously for a moment. “It may only be a few things on ration for now, but all that could change within a matter of weeks, and then where will we be? And with sugar being rationed, what are we going to do for a cake?”

  “Oh yes.” Dotty passes the carrots on to Issa. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “I’m sure we’ll cope,” Amelie says, sensing their rising anxiety over something that doesn’t really matter, not to us, anyway.

  “Do we have to cope?” I ask, twisting in my seat to look at her.

  “Well, we don’t have to have a cake,” she muses.

  “I know we don’t. But that’s not what I meant.” I turn completely, so we’re facing each other. “My mother is desperate for us to name the day…”

  “I’m not,” Mother interrupts.

  “Yes, you are,” Issa and I both reply at once and we all laugh again, as I turn back Amelie.

  “Bacon, butter and sugar aside, I don’t want to wait, do you?” She shakes her head and her lips twitch upward. I think I know what that means, but I try not to react and just smile at her in return. “Our birthdays fall on Tuesdays next year.” I’m thinking this through as I speak, working out the dates and days in my head. “Yours is five weeks from today.” And mine is exactly one week later.

  “Yes?”

  “So why don’t we get married on the Saturday in between our birthdays?”

  “Which would be the…” She fishes around for the date.

  “The twenty-seventh,” I supply.

  She smiles broadly. “The twenty-seventh of January. It sounds perfect.”

  “Wait…” I can hear the panic in my mother’s voice. “Now, just wait a minute. I didn’t mean…” She falls silent and I look over at her. “I didn’t mean you had to get married that quickly, just that you should make a decision, so we can plan… that’s all. I’m not sure we can get everything ready…” She looks to her sisters for support, but they’re both smiling broadly. “Oh dear,” she mutters.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Mother. We’re getting married in…” I do a quick calculation in my head. “Thirty-nine days.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” She stares at me for a moment, but then lets out a long breath and shrugs her shoulders before she smiles and settles back in her chair, resigned.

  “Thirty-nine days,” Amelie says beside me, sighing.

  “Yes, and then you’ll be mine.” I lean towards her, lowering my voice, although I have no doubt everyone else can hear me. The room isn’t that big.

  “Um… I think I already am,” she replies.

  “Well, it’ll be official… Thirty-nine days… and counting.”

  She giggles and, not for the first time since I came home this evening, I wish we were alone. Although, if we were, I doubt we’d be counting. Or waiting.

  “I think we rather shocked my mother.” I close the garden gate behind Amelie and take her hand in mine as we cross the road in the moonlight. The earlier clouds have dispersed and it’s even colder, than it was, but there’s still no snow – yet.

  “Yes, I think we might have done.” She looks up at me. Even in the near darkness, I can see the sparkle in her eyes, and the twitch of her lips as she tries not to smile.

  “Are you happy with everything that’s been decided so far?”

  “Of course.” She leans into me, her head resting on my shoulder, but then pulls back and looks up at me again. “I’m sorry. I’ve just realised we’ve spent the whole evening talking about the wedding.”

  “And what’s wrong with that? The wedding is important. Especially as we’ve given ourselves such a short time to prepare.”

  “I know, but that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?” I ask.

  “Just that I haven’t had a chance to ask you about your work, and I’ve been meaning to.” We turn into the driveway of her house and start towards the front door. “How’s the case going?”

  “Not very well.” I feel the tension in my shoulders, which has been blissfully absent all evening and I lower my head. She stops walking, pulling me back with her, and I turn to her, looking down into her upturned, concerned face.

  “What’s wrong?” she says. I’m not sure where to start and, after a few moments’ silence, she moves closer. “Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice soothes that tension and I realise that, despite my earlier resolution not to mention the latest developments, I do need to say something, and I need to say it all out loud, to try and make sense of the day’s events.

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  She nods her head. “Come inside. It’s too cold out here.”

  She leads me to the door and pulls a key from her pocket, using it to let us in. The hallway is in darkness – but it’s late, so that’s not surprising – and once the door is closed, and the blackout curtain pulled across, she switches on a lamp on the hall table, bathing us in a soft glow. As she undoes her coat, I shrug mine off and she puts them both over the end of the stairs, then pulls me towards the drawing room.

  It’s still warm in here, although the fire’s embers are dying, and Amelie turns on a side light next to the sofa.

  “Do you want a drink?” she offers.

  Considering that we had gin and tonics before dinner and a bottle of claret during it, I should probably say ‘no’, but… “Whisky?” I suggest and she raises an eyebrow before going over to the drinks cabinet.

  “It’s that bad, is it?” she says.

  “Yes,” I reply and she stops, the decanter in her hand and looks over at me, before pouring a finger of whisky into a cut glass tumbler and bringing it back to me. “You’re not having one?” I take the glass from her as we both sit down on the sofa, with me in the corner and her right beside me.

  “No. I’ll never get up in the morning if I do.”

  I take a sip of the strong, peaty-flavoured liquor and lean into her. “If I have to go through another day like today, then I don’t think I want to get up,”

  She twists in her seat to face me, resting her hand on my thigh. “This isn’t like you, Rufus. Tell me what’s happened.”

  I focus on her beautiful face and wonder where to start, knowing I’m going to have to choose my words carefully. “The police doctor was waiting in my office for me this morning,” I begin. “He’d been carrying out further tests on little Amy’s body, and he’d got the results back.”

  “And?” Her voice is a whisper.

  “And he’d discovered that there were no traces of her attacker having been a man.”

  She stares at me for a moment. “I—I thought she’d been sexually assaulted,” she murmurs.

  “She had.”

  “But surely…” Her voice fades.

  “Whoever it was – and it may still have been a man – used an object, a wooden object, we think, to… to penetrate her.”

  She slaps her hand across her mouth, her body convulsing slightly as she tries not to retch, and I lean forward, putting my glass down on the table, before pulling her into my chest.

  “I’m sorry, my darling,” I whisper into her hair, feeling her arms come around my waist, as she holds onto me and starts to whimper, quietly to begin with, although her sobs quickly become louder. “I should never have told you.”

  She shakes her head and mumbles something I can’t understand, then leans back, wiping at her face with her hand, before reaching into my jacket pocket, where she knows I keep a clean handkerchief, taking it out to complete the job. “No,” she says, more coherently as she dabs at her cheeks. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m supposed to be here for you… to listen to your problems and comfort you. And I’m not doing a very good job, am I?”

  I smile down at her and take the handkerchief, moping up the last of her tears from beneath her eyes. “You are being here for me,” I tell her.

  “By making you comfort me?” She shakes her head. />
  “You didn’t make me do anything.” I cup her chin with my hand, keeping hold of it as I gaze into her eyes. “I like comforting you. It’s my job, and I can’t wait until I can do it full time.”

  She blinks, and then a slow smile forms on her lips. “Neither can I,” she whispers.

  “And I really am sorry I upset you. I shouldn’t have…”

  “It’s not your fault,” she interrupts, putting her hand back on my thigh again. “I’m glad you told me. I’m glad I know what you’re going through.”

  “I wish I wasn’t,” I murmur, letting go of her and sitting back into the sofa again. She comes with me and leans her head against my shoulder.

  “How do you?” she asks. “How do you deal with a case like this?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Have you had to do it before?”

  I change position slightly and put my arm around her, so she’s resting on my chest now, her arm around my waist and she puts her feet up on the sofa. It’s more relaxed like this.

  “Not this bad, no. I’ve had to deal with three child murders in my career, one of which had a sexual aspect. The victim in that one was thirteen.” I feel her nod her head.

  “This feels worse, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Much. I mean, it already felt awful, because Amy was so young, but now… now we know it might have been a woman…”

  “Surely no woman could do that to a child,” she says, moving her arm down and letting her hand rest on my thigh again.

  “I’d like to say they couldn’t,” I reply, “but over the years, I’ve come to realise that there aren’t really any depths that human beings won’t stoop to.”

  “But why?” she asks. “Why would a woman do that?”

  “To make it look like the perpetrator is a man.”

  “Oh… of course.” She sighs. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?” she murmurs.

  “I have my suspicions, but I can’t arrest someone based on my suspicions.”