The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  She flushes bright red. “Um… exploring?” she suggests, smiling lightly.

  “Oh…”

  “Well, you did it the other day. It seems only fair.”

  I nod my head, because I can hardly argue with her reasoning. “And have you found anything you like?” I tease, although I’m not sure teasing is very sensible at this point.

  She nods her head. “All kinds of things.”

  “Such as?”

  She smiles. “Such as the fact that your skin is softer than I expected, especially on your sides. And your muscles flex when you move…”

  She shifts her hand from my back, down to my side. “Careful,” I warn.

  “Why?” She looks up, wide-eyed.

  “Because that’s where my wound is… the knife wound. It’s just above where your hand is.”

  “Oh God.” She removes her hand altogether and I feel it on my shoulder, on top of my shirt now.

  “I didn’t say you had to stop.”

  “I completely forgot about your wound,” she says, looking guilty now.

  “So do I, most of the time. I just didn’t want you to run your hand over it…”

  “Neither do I,” she interrupts. “I might hurt you.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not what I was thinking. It really doesn’t hurt that much anymore, but I don’t wear a dressing, and you might have felt it and been shocked.”

  “You don’t wear a dressing?”

  “No. I stopped a few days ago.”

  She tilts her head. “Can I see it?”

  “The wound?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to?” She nods her head, and with great reluctance, I sit up, missing the feeling of her body along the length of mine. Amelie twists in her seat, so she’s sitting beside me, as I pull a little more of my shirt out and raise it above the wound.

  “Gosh,” she says, sounding fascinated as she leans over, studying it. “It looks just like a cut.”

  “That’s because it is just a cut. A deep cut.”

  “And it honestly doesn’t hurt?” she says, still staring.

  “No, as long as I remember not to stretch too much.”

  I feel the gentlest touch from her fingertips, tracing around the outside of the knife wound. “The skin’s all puckered here,” she remarks.

  “I know.”

  “Will you have a scar?”

  “I imagine so.”

  I let my shirt drop again as she sits up and looks me in the eyes. “It’s not as bad as I expected,” she says softly.

  “Few things are,” I tell her and lean over to kiss her cheek. “Your imagination can always build something up to be a lot worse than the reality. That’s how fear works.”

  She nods her head and I glance down at my dishevelled clothing. “And now, I suppose I’d better re-arrange myself,” I add, smiling and getting to my feet.

  Amelie stands beside me. “Would you like a hand?” she asks.

  I grin down at her. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate, are you?”

  “Well, I did pull your shirt out. It only seems fair that I should put it back.”

  She reaches forward and I grab her hand, halting her. “Yes, except there’s a world of difference between pulling a shirt out, and tucking it back in.” I point out the obvious.

  She stares up at me and blinks a couple of times. “Oh yes.” She flushes bright red yet again. “I suppose there is.” I’m rather relieved she seems to have understood that without me having to explain, because I’m not sure where I would have begun.

  “In which case, I think you’d better let me do this.”

  “Yes, I suppose I had. Sorry.” She bites on her bottom lip again and I reach out and pull it free with my thumb.

  “Don’t be sorry.” Her eyes glisten and her lips part slightly. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

  I straighten myself out eventually, with a little difficulty, and Amelie rings the bell and orders coffee, which seems like a good idea and a reasonable distraction, considering the turn of our conversation, and the heightened emotions in the room.

  “I have something I need to discuss with you,” I say, as Amelie passes me a cup of coffee. She turns and leans back, gazing into my eyes.

  “Oh yes?” She looks so beautiful, and so alluring and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake bringing this up now, because I’m pretty sure that what I’ve got to talk about might well take the edge off of our evening. Still, I did promise… and it has to be done.

  “Do you remember me telling you that I spoke to your uncle?” I say and her face falls slightly.

  “Yes. You said you asked his permission to marry me. You’re not going to tell me now that he refused, are you?”

  “No, but he did ask me to speak to you about something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He wants to give you away.” She sucks in a breath and moves back from me slightly. “Hey… don’t do that.” I put my coffee down, bringing my arm around her, pulling her back again. “I’m the messenger, that’s all.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbles.

  “I told you; don’t be sorry. And in any case, I’m the one who’s sorry. We were having a lovely time and I feel like I’ve spoiled it. I just thought I ought to mention it while I had the chance, that’s all. I did promise him I would.”

  “I don’t understand why he wants to do it,” she says, ignoring most of what I’ve just said.

  “Because he knows you feel let down by him. He wants to make amends, to show you he’s not the man you think he is.”

  “Isn’t he?” she asks, raising her voice slightly. She leans back. “He came home last weekend, claiming it was because he knew I’d be lonely without Beth, but he only stayed for a day, before rushing back to her. What was the point?” She blinks a few times and sighs. “God, I sound like a jealous wife, or at least a resentful daughter, when the reality is I’m neither of those things. I’m nothing to him…”

  “That’s not true, Amelie, and you know it. He cares very much about you.” A tear falls onto her cheek and I brush it away with my thumb, moving closer to her again. “He’s not a bad man. Not really. He’s just a man who’s made bad choices. Trust me, after the last few days of investigating this case, I appreciate the difference more than ever.”

  She swallows down her tears and stares up at me. “What do you think I should do?” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

  “It’s entirely up to you, darling.”

  “That’s not very helpful, Rufus,” she says patiently.

  “I know, but I can’t make this decision for you. Perhaps you should talk it through with your uncle.”

  “You don’t think that might end in an argument?” she says. “I think I’ll find it difficult if he brings his mistress into the conversation.”

  “I doubt he’ll do that. He’s not that insensitive. And besides, even he appreciates that Miss Foster can be overly demanding on his time.”

  “Then why does he give in to her?” she laments, her shoulders dropping. “Does he love her?”

  “Yes, I think he does.”

  “Then why does he stay with Aunt Millicent?”

  “Because he loves her too. Just in a different way.”

  Amelie sighs, a frown forming on her face. “You think I should speak to him about it? About the wedding, I mean, not his mistress…”

  “Yes. I think you owe him the right to put his case, and to listen to him.”

  “Why?” she asks. “Because he took me in when I had no-one else? I was a child then, Rufus…”

  I hold her tighter. “I know, and that’s not what I meant. The reason I think you should listen to him is because – regardless of Abigail Foster – he’s never actually let you down, has he?”

  “But what about Aunt Millicent?” she pleads. “What about how she’d feel if she knew?”

  I shake my head. “I know it’s hard, but you have to take her out of the equation. The problems in their relati
onship are nothing to do with you. This is about you and your uncle, and nothing else. If you don’t at least hear him out, you’ll regret it. If you listen to what he has to say, and you still decide you don’t want him to give you away, then no-one can argue with you. And I’ll support you, whatever you choose. I’ll even be there with you, when you speak to him, if you want.”

  “You don’t think he’d object to that?” she asks, sounding doubtful now.

  “He might, but if you want me there, he’ll just have to put up with it, won’t he?”

  She pauses for a moment or two, then slowly nods her head. “Alright, I’ll speak to him,” she murmurs and then leans into me, putting her arms tight around my waist. “I’m sorry.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “For being so grouchy.”

  I chuckle. “You’re not grouchy. You’re beautiful, and adorable… and mine.”

  “Entirely.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dearest Donald,

  They’ve given me permission to write to you.

  I haven’t heard from you since that awful letter you sent, where you doubted me and broke up with me. I have no idea whether you’ve written since, but then I doubt the family will forward any letters to me, not after what I’ve done. Even so, I can’t not write to you, although I know you might not want to hear from me.

  I suppose you’ll say you were right to doubt, but I beg you to believe me, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was an accident – a dreadful accident. And it wasn’t my fault.

  Amy was being an annoying brat and she tried to push me over, into the baby’s pram. I was so angry with her, I turned and hit her, hard, across the face. She toppled and fell to the ground and struck her head on the edge of the pathway, and I knew immediately that she was dead. I panicked, Donald. I couldn’t think what to do. And then I saw the shed in the corner of the park, and realised I could hide her there.

  It was only when I was covering her over that I worked out that the men might come back at any time, and she’d be discovered. I needed a way of throwing suspicion away from myself, and then I caught sight of the wooden stakes out of the corner of my eye. The plan just seemed to pop into my head, and I’d done it before I even knew what had happened. It was the work of moments really, and she didn’t feel it, did she? She was dead, after all. I hid the stake and her knickers in the pram and went straight back home.

  I promise, my darling, it was never my intention to involve you, and certainly not to incriminate you. I deliberately gave the police the description of a man who looked like the mistress’s lover, so that if they found out about us, they wouldn’t suspect you of any involvement. You have to believe me about that, if nothing else.

  The police might tell you that there was something between Mr Sanderson and myself, but you mustn’t believe them. They’re only saying it to stir up trouble between us. I promise, you’re the only man for me, Donald, and I hope you’ll remember that, especially if you’re called as a witness. I hope you’ll remember how much I love you and how how much we’ve meant to each other over these last few months.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever seen you again, but if I don’t, try to think of me fondly.

  All my love,

  Your little Kitten

  xxx

  *****

  It’s been a very busy three days, most of which has been spent re-interviewing Miss Sutton, getting her statement finalised, then closing down and clearing away the case files, and making sure everything is completed, so that I can take a few days off over Christmas. I even worked late on Saturday, just to finish off the last few bits and pieces, so no-one can claim I’ve left anything hanging over.

  Amelie’s been busy too, although I’ve found the time to pop over and see her in the evenings. We’ve kept it brief, as she’s been helping with the Christmas preparations and her aunt has been making a fuss – which Amelie assures me is perfectly normal whenever she feels she isn’t the centre of attention.

  The brief moments I’ve had to myself have only served to reinforce my own feelings that I can’t wait until Amelie and I are married. Partly, this is for the entirely selfish reason that I’ll have her to myself, and won’t have to share her with anyone else – not most of the time, anyway – but it’s also because that last whole evening we spent together, the one when I told her about Miss Sutton’s confession, was a moment of revelation for me.

  It wasn’t surprising to discover that we want each other, with a breathtaking need. I think we both already knew that, being as every time we’re together, we can’t keep our hands to ourselves. It also wasn’t news that feeling her touch directly on my skin was arousing beyond words, and that I can’t wait for more of the same. It didn’t come as a shock to sit and hold her, to look at her, and to feel the pull of her, the desire for her, or to see that reflected in her eyes. I wasn’t taken aback by the fact that talking to her, telling her about the case, and how I felt about it, made me feel so much better about all of it. She has that knack; to just make everything better. No matter what it is. No… the revelation came in the knowledge that, after we’d finished discussing Amelie’s forthcoming conversation with her uncle about the wedding, we were able to just sit. And we did. For a very long time, in each other’s arms, not saying a word, our breathing naturally synchronised as we stared into the flickering flames of the fire and did absolutely nothing. We didn’t need words. We didn’t need actions. We just needed each other. When I got home, I realised that there are going to be times in our life together, when we won’t necessarily be able to say how we feel, or even show how we feel, but we’ll have each other. And that’s all we need.

  Today is Christmas Eve and I’m having breakfast with my mother and aunts, who are busy discussing our plans for later. Amelie is coming for lunch, and will be spending the rest of the day with us. I have no doubt the wedding will be discussed at length, and I don’t mind – not as long as she doesn’t, anyway. I’m just looking forward to a whole afternoon and evening with her, so much so, that I can’t stop myself from smiling.

  “You’re looking cheerful,” my mother remarks, pouring me a second cup of tea and passing it across the table.

  “I’m feeling cheerful.”

  “Is this because your case is finally over?” Aunt Issa teases, because I’m fairly sure they all know why I’m so happy.

  “No. It’s because Amelie’s coming for the day.” I may as well say it before they do. “And because the case is over. It’s been a horrible one.” I’ve explained it to them all now, over the course of the last couple of evenings. They were appalled by what had been done to Amy Sanderson, and I think a little cross with me for keeping it from them, ‘bearing it all myself’, as my mother put it, until I pointed out that I hadn’t. I’d told Amelie. She smiled when I said that, and only just stopped short of preening herself.

  The telephone rings, but we all ignore the shrill tone, knowing Ethel will answer it. “Do you want some more toast?” Mother offers, holding out the rack in my direction.

  “No, thank you. I’m sure we’ve got a big lunch and tea planned. I think I’ll save myself for that.”

  “Well, being as they’ll probably have rationed everything by next Christmas…” Aunt Issa’s doom laden prophesy is interrupted by Ethel entering the room, her eyes finding mine straight away.

  “There’s a telephone call for you, Mr Stone,” she says and I feel my heart fall to my boots. Not today… please.

  I put my serviette down beside my empty plate and get to my feet, going over to the door and out into the hallway. Ethel has left the telephone receiver on its side, on the hall table, and I pick it up, putting it to my ear.

  “Stone,” I say, dreading hearing either Thompson, or the chief super on the other end of the line, telling me I’ve got another case to investigate.

  “Rufus?”

  “Amelie? What’s wrong?” I can hear from her voice that something is, and besides, I’m due to see her in a few hours
. Why would she be telephoning?

  “Nothing,” she says. “But can you come over?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Is that alright?”

  “Of course. I’ll come straight away.”

  “Thank you.”

  We end the call, and I go back into the dining room, where my mother and aunts turn to look at me, worry etched on their faces. I can only assume their thoughts had run the same way as my own, and I smile, hoping to allay their fears. “That was Amelie,” I tell them, and they smile back at me. “She’s asked me to go over there.”

  “Instead of her coming here?” Dotty says, looking panicked, presumably at her lunch plans being spoiled.

  “No. She didn’t say why. But she didn’t mention cancelling lunch. I assume something’s come up. I’d better go.”

  My mother waves me away. “We’ll see you later on,” she calls.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I reply over my shoulder and dash across to the cupboard by the front door, pulling out my coat and shrugging it over my shoulders, before running over the road.

  Amelie answers the door herself and looks me up and down, her eyes shining, as she steps to one side to let me in. She takes my coat, putting it over the end of the stairs, and then turns to me.

  “You look lovely,” she remarks, smiling and resting her hand on my chest.

  “So do you.” I let my gaze roam over her dark green long-sleeved dress, which accentuates her waist, and I’m about to kiss her, when the door to her uncle’s study opens and he steps out into the hallway.

  “Er-hem…” He announces himself with a fake cough and we turn to face him, my arm around Amelie’s waist. I don’t care if he does or doesn’t approve; we’re engaged, we’re together, we’re in love, it’s Christmas and we’re happy. To hell with it… “Can you both come in here?” He indicates the room behind him.

  Amelie looks up at me, smiling slightly, and then moves forward as requested. I follow, wondering if we’re about to have ‘the conversation’, and steel myself for the awkward situation that might follow. It won’t be easy to hear their argument, I’m sure. Still, I said I’d be here for Amelie, to support her, and I will.