The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  “Please, take a seat,” the vicar offers, commandeering the role of host from his wife, who has already sat herself down in the corner of one of the sofas, moving a book to the table beside her, making it clear that our arrival interrupted her reading.

  We sit opposite her, although the vicar remains standing for the time being, his arms folded across his chest.

  “We don’t often get a visit from the police,” he remarks.

  “Well, I don’t imagine you often have a body in your churchyard,” I remark. “At least not one that hasn’t been buried, anyway.”

  His arms drop to his sides and he startles, while Mrs Hodge sits forward, her hand clasped to her throat. “D—Did you say a body?” she whispers.

  “Yes.”

  “A dead body?” the vicar echoes, rather unnecessarily.

  “Yes. There have been officers in your churchyard for the last couple of hours. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed them.” I watch the couple closely.

  “Well, because of the height of the hedges on that side, only our bedroom and the spare room next door, which we don’t really use, actually overlook the churchyard, and in any case, we’ve both been busy today,” the vicar says, glancing at his wife. “Eileen’s been in the kitchen, and I’ve been sorting through some old papers on the dining room table.”

  “Who was it?” Mrs Hodge asks, lowering her hand at last, her eyes wide. “The body, I mean. Was it someone local?”

  “Yes. A young lady by the name of Mildred Ryder.”

  The reverend suddenly flops down into the sofa, at the opposite end to his wife, as though his legs have simply ceased supporting him, his face pasty and pale. “Not Mildred,” he mutters.

  “You knew her?” I ask.

  “Of course we did. Although I probably knew her better than my wife, being as she sung in the church choir.”

  “In that case, I’m sorry to have to tell you that it appears she was murdered.”

  They both gasp and Mrs Hodge says, “In the churchyard?” in a tone that makes me wonder if she thinks the whereabouts of the crime is the greatest matter of consideration in the case.

  “Yes.”

  “How?” her husband asks. “How was she murdered?”

  “She was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” he whispers, incredulous.

  “But… she’s such a lovely girl,” Mrs Hodge adds, equally disbelieving. “I—I mean, she was a lovely girl. I—I don’t think she was even twenty years old, was she?” She turns to her husband, but he’s staring into space, as though in shock. “She worked for Norman and Lucy Wharton,” Mrs Hodge continues, looking back at me again, when her husband doesn’t respond.

  “In what capacity?” I enquire, as Thompson starts to take notes.

  “As their maid,” she replies.

  “And do they live in Station Road?” I ask, recalling the young woman’s address from her identity card.

  “Yes. That’s right. The second house on the left, if you’re going from the village to the station.”

  I nod my head. “Does she have family in the area?” I ask.

  “Oh yes,” she replies. “Her mother lives in Queen’s Road.”

  “You wouldn’t know the number, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Number twelve. But she won’t be there now… not just yet anyway. Since her husband died, she’s been doing cleaning jobs… you know, charring.” She raises her nose, looking down it. “She mainly works at local houses, where they don’t have a live-in, but on Saturday mornings, she cleans the offices at Wharton’s Electronics. She finishes there at about two, I think, but it takes her an hour or so to cycle home again and she often stops off to do some shopping on the way home.” She finishes talking at last and I wonder about asking her what her neighbours had for breakfast this morning, feeling fairly certain she’d be able to furnish me with the correct answers.

  “So, you think she’d be safely home by, say, half past three?” I ask, checking my watch and realising that Mrs Ryder will have left her place of employment about half an hour ago, and could therefore be anywhere on the road between West Molesey and her home in Thames Ditton… or in any of the shops in between.

  “Yes, I would have thought so.”

  “Very well,” I murmur. “We’ll have to wait until she gets home before seeing her.” I glance back up at Mrs Hodge. “And Wharton’s Electronics? Would that have anything to do with Miss Ryder’s employer?” I ask.

  “Yes. Norman Wharton owns the factory,” she replies. “It’s over in West Molesey somewhere, I believe.” She lets out a long sigh and sits back slightly.

  “Poor Mildred… She sang a solo at the Christmas service,” the vicar says wistfully, his mind still clearly fixed on the girl, as though he hasn’t heard any of the interchange between his wife and myself. “She had the voice of a nightingale… absolutely beautiful.”

  “When did you last see her?” I ask, looking at him directly.

  “At choir practice, yesterday evening.” He focuses on me now, instead of some imaginary object in the distance. “Everyone left together at just after eight o’clock and then I locked the church.”

  “Did you actually see Miss Ryder leave?”

  He frowns for a moment, thinking. “Well, I saw her leave the church, but I didn’t see her leave the graveyard, if that’s what you mean. She did tell me she’d arranged to meet someone though.”

  “She did?” I’m intrigued now.

  “Yes. I offered to wait with her, as it was so dark, what with the blackout and everything, but she insisted she was perfectly fine by herself.” He shakes his head, bringing his hand up to his neck, just above his dog collar, mirroring his wife’s earlier action. “I should have waited, shouldn’t I? She’d still be alive if I had…”

  I can’t answer that, because we all know it’s probably the truth… unless, of course, he’s the murderer.

  “Did she say who she was intending to meet?” I ask instead.

  “No, but I assumed it was her fiancé, given that she’d gone in the direction of Summer Road.”

  “Who is her fiancé?”

  “Sam Higgs,” Mrs Hodge supplies. “They’ve been walking out for years. He lives in Alexandra Road, which is just this side of Queen’s Road.” She points in the vague direction, over her shoulder.

  “Thank you. I know where it is.” I turn back to her husband. “Did you come straight home from the church then, Reverend?”

  “No,” he replies, without hesitation. “I started to, but then I realised I’d left my sermon in the vestry, so I went back for it. I’d been working on it before choir practice and I wanted to read it through before going to bed. So, I went back and collected it.”

  I nod my head and turn to Mrs Hodge, who is staring directly at me. “And were you with your husband?”

  She smiles. “No, Inspector. I can’t sing a note, so I doubt I’d be welcome in the choir. I stayed at home all evening, listening to the wireless and doing some knitting.”

  “My wife was here when I got back,” the vicar confirms, without me asking him to – something which always makes me suspicious. “She was just pouring our cocoa, actually. I took mine to my study, so I could read over my sermon in peace.”

  “And I took mine up to bed with me,” his wife adds. “I wanted to finish reading a book I’d borrowed from the library.”

  “You didn’t hear a scream, or voices, or footsteps?” I ask.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” the vicar replies.

  I get to my feet, with Thompson following suit, replacing his notebook in his pocket and picking up his hat from its place on the sofa beside him. “Is that it?” Mrs Hodge asks, and I recognise the familiar signs of a village gossip, who I have no doubt will be spreading rumours of Miss Ryder’s demise before we’ve even made our way down their considerable driveway. If anyone ever accused her of being a tittle-tattle, she’d be mortally offended, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

  “Yes… for now.”

&n
bsp; Mrs Hodge gets up, clearing her throat to attract her husband’s attention, being as he doesn’t seem to have realised that we’re about to leave.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles, standing at last. “I was elsewhere…”

  “That’s understandable,” I reply, moving towards the door.

  “Yes. This has all come as a terrible shock,” Mrs Hodge says a little unnecessarily, smiling as she lets us out.

  Thompson waits until we’re at the end of their driveway before he turns to me.

  “Well?”

  “Unusual pair,” I comment.

  “That’s putting it mildly. He was a strange one.”

  “Him?” I look at him. “I was thinking more of her, actually.”

  “Oh, she’s just a typical vicar’s wife,” he says, shaking his head and smirking slightly. “Full of overbearing self-importance and too busy trying to run everyone else’s life to notice the cracks in her own.”

  “Cracks?” I query, interested in hearing his opinion of the couple we’ve just left, even though I’ve formed a few of my own.

  “Yes. I imagine those two either live in stony silence, or bicker incessantly.”

  I nod. “There didn’t seem to be a huge amount of togetherness going on between them, did there?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” he says, shaking his head. “What did you think was wrong about him then?” He changes the subject to the reverend, and I let him, even though I think there’s more to be said yet about Mrs Hodge.

  “He seemed a bit too affected by the whole thing, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s not the most pleasant situation to find yourself in, is it?” he reasons, as we turn into the churchyard again, noticing the many uniformed men, searching behind gravestones and under bushes. “It’s not every day that a member of your choir is killed in your own churchyard, after all.”

  “I know. But there was just something about his reactions that didn’t quite ring true.”

  “You think he was lying?” Thompson asks.

  “No… but I don’t think he was telling us everything. Not by a long chalk.”

  He chuckles quietly. “If everyone told us everything we needed to know at the first time of asking, Rufus, we’d never have anything to do, would we?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Where are we going next?” he asks.

  “Mr and Mrs Wharton, I suppose. We can’t go to see Mrs Ryder yet. There’s no point if she won’t be home from work.”

  He nods. “Mrs Hodge certainly seemed to know about her movements, didn’t she?”

  “Hmm… in minute detail. But then, Mrs Hodge struck me as the type who’d know about everyone’s movements… while keeping her own very much to herself.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again as we reach the end of Church Lane, where there are even more cars parked than there were earlier, and the constable on duty seems to be in a heated discussion with a member of the public.

  “What’s going on?” Thompson asks, wading in, while I hang back a little.

  “This gentleman is…” the constable begins, but before he can complete his sentence, the man interrupts him.

  “Are you in charge?” he says, his leaning forward and jabbing Thompson in the chest with his forefinger.

  “No,” Thompson replies. “But I suggest you stop doing that.”

  “I don’t care what you suggest. I want to speak to whoever is in charge.”

  “That would be me,” I say, stepping forward.

  The man, probably around sixty-five, with thick, iron grey hair, metal rimmed spectacles and a ruddy complexion, turns to face me, narrowing his eyes slightly.

  “And you are?” he demands.

  “Detective Inspector Stone,” I reply. “And you are?”

  “I’m Randolf Harding.” He makes it sound as though I should know who he is, so I make an effort to look at him as blankly as possible. “I live here.” He points to the house on the corner of the churchyard. “And I’ve had just about enough. You’ve completely blocked the lane with your cars; there are policemen coming and going all over the place, and the…”

  “It can’t be helped, Mr Harding,” I interrupt, his face reddening with anger. “We’re conducting a murder enquiry and I’m afraid there will be further disruptions over the coming days.”

  “A murder enquiry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s been murdered?” he asks, his ire forgotten, his inquisitiveness rising to the fore.

  “A young lady of this parish,” I reply, moving away slightly, and dismissing him in the process. “And now, if you don’t mind, we’ve got work to do.”

  He goes to speak and then thinks better of it, stepping back and allowing us to pass.

  “Idiot,” Thompson mutters under his breath, and I smile at him as we approach my car. “We’re taking yours, are we?” he asks, eyeing the Wolseley that’s parked alongside.

  “Yes. We may as well be comfortable.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call your car comfortable,” he replies, lowering himself into the seat, “but it definitely has style.”

  “I like to think so.”

  I turn the car with some difficulty, pondering that, despite his attitude problem, Mr Harding may have a point, considering the number of police vehicles that are currently blocking the narrow lane, but I manage to make my manoeuvre eventually, and we start on our way back towards the village, passing along the High Street and into Station Road. It’s only a short journey – not long enough for us to enter into any conversation – and I suppose we could have walked it really, but we’re going to need the car later, and I didn’t want to cause any further antagonism towards Mr Harding and the other local residents by leaving my car there any longer than was strictly necessary.

  I park a little further along the street, at a safe distance from the junction with Watts Road, and we walk back to the second house, which has a wrought iron gate. I pass through that, with Thompson behind me, and then lead the way up the long garden path, taking the five steep steps in my stride, before finally reaching the bright red door.

  Thompson knocks, but then steps back, allowing me to take his place, just as the door opens, revealing a tall, dark haired man, probably in his early thirties. He’s casually dressed, in dark brown trousers, with a paler coloured jumper on top, and rather worn looking brogues on his feet. I don’t think there’s anyone alive who wouldn’t call him handsome, but has a slightly pompous look about his face, as though he thinks all men should want to be his best friend, and all women should fall at his feet and worship him.

  “Yes?” he says, impatiently, looking over my shoulder, which strikes me as odd.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I reply, being as it’s clear we are. “I’m Detective Inspector Stone and this is my colleague…”

  “You’re from the police?” he interrupts, his eyes darting to mine. “Oh… do come in. We’ve been expecting you.”

  I glance at Thompson, who shrugs. “You have?” I ask, feeling confused.

  “Yes.” Mr Wharton stands back, letting us enter his house, and then closes the door. “Please come through.” He barely gives us time to take in the rather smart hallway, with its parquet flooring and very fine grandfather clock, which seems to have pride of place at the bottom of the stairs, before he motions towards a door on the left and, taking off our hats, we follow him into a neatly furnished drawing room. The contrast between this room and the one we’ve just left is too great not to notice, for where the vicarage furniture was worn and a little old-fashioned, everything in here is pristine and stylish, from the understated oak sideboard that graces the wall opposite the wide french windows, to the much more refined paintings, and the three large sofas arranged in a ‘U’ shape around the blazing fire, on one of which is a very pretty young woman, who stands upon our entrance. She’s in her late twenties, or possibly early thirties, I would say, with extremely light blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and
an air of sophistication that exudes from every pore, and every stitch of stylish fabric that cleaves to her slim body. Her surroundings may be tasteful, but there’s something about this woman, in the way that she holds herself, the manner of her standing, the grace of her pose, that makes her seem almost too elegant for the setting… and definitely too refined for her husband. “It’s the police, Lucy,” Mr Wharton says to her, and she smiles.

  “Goodness, that was quick.” Her voice is just as cultured as the rest of her, but I’m confused by her response and look from her to him, shaking my head.

  “I feel as though we might be talking at crossed purposes. You said you were expecting us?”

  “Of course,” Mrs Wharton replies, before her husband can. “We telephoned the police station just ten minutes ago.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “To report that our maid has gone missing,” her husband says, moving further into the room and standing beside his wife, looking and sounding confused himself now. “Isn’t that why you’re here?” He tilts his head slightly.

  “Well, yes… and no.”

  They both stare at me for a moment and then Mrs Wharton seems snap out of her trance, apologises profusely for forgetting her manners, and offers Thompson and myself a seat, indicating the sofa opposite to hers, where she perches again, her husband sitting beside her.

  “I should probably explain that last statement,” I say quietly.

  “I wish you would,” Mr Wharton replies.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you that we’ve just come from the graveyard at St Nicholas’ Church, where the body of Mildred Ryder was discovered earlier this morning.”

  “Body?” Mrs Wharton says and reaches out, clutching at her husband’s hand. “You mean she’s…”

  “She’s dead?” Mr Wharton completes her sentence, forming the inevitable question.