The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  “Yes. I’m afraid she was murdered.” They both gasp. “I’m very sorry,” I add as I sit forward. “The thing is… the thing that’s confusing me at the moment is that the last time she was seen – that we know of – was at just after eight o’clock last night, when she left the church after choir practice. Her body was discovered not long after ten o’clock this morning… and yet you’ve just told me that you only reported her missing ten minutes ago. Can you tell me if there is a reason why it’s taken you so long to notice that she wasn’t here?” I let my eyes dart from one of them to the other, noticing the pallor of Mrs Wharton’s complexion, and the confusion that continues to light her husband’s eyes.

  “We… We were out very late last night,” Mr Wharton says, slowly coming to terms with the news, I think.

  “Early this morning would be more accurate, Norman,” his wife whispers.

  “Yes, I suppose it would. We didn’t get in until nearly three.”

  “I see… And where had you been?”

  “We’d been at the home of some friends of ours, who were celebrating a birthday. They live in Ashley Road…” He glances at his wife and I notice she’s frowning at him.

  “Would this be the same Ashley Road that leads into Church Lane?” I ask, noting his confused expression and trying to get my bearings at the same time.

  “Yes,” she murmurs, blinking a few times.

  “We walked home,” Mr Wharton continues quickly, glossing over that minor detail, “because we’d had quite a lot to drink, and then we didn’t get up until after eleven this morning.”

  “That was when we noticed Mildred wasn’t here,” his wife says helpfully. “But to start with, we thought she’d probably gone shopping… That’s quite normal, you see, for a Saturday morning, especially if she’s been busy on the Friday… which she was yesterday, because we were going through the linen together for most of the morning, and then she took the older things that we didn’t want anymore, together with some clothes that I’d sorted out, down to the WVS shop in the village just before they closed up for the day… They’d dropped a leaflet through the door, asking for donations, you see.”

  “So you weren’t overly surprised to find her absent this morning?” I ask, just to clarify, being as Mrs Wharton has rather gone off on a tangent, that speech of hers made in nervous, undulating waves, with frequent pauses and gaps, although none were long enough for anyone else to say anything, as though she was determined to keep talking in order to prevent me from asking questions. I’ve seen this before, usually in people who are guilty of something – or at least who have something to hide – and it always makes me suspicious.

  “No,” her husband replies. “But when she hadn’t returned by lunchtime, we started to wonder.”

  “And that was when I went to check her room,” Mrs Wharton says. “Her bed didn’t seem to have been slept in. So, I called Norman and he came upstairs too.”

  “I did point out to my wife that it was perfectly possible that Mildred had got up and made her bed before leaving the house, but we talked it through and decided that her prolonged absence was out of character, and that we should really notify the police.”

  “You didn’t think to contact her mother, perhaps? After all, something might have occurred to a member of her family, requiring her presence.”

  “Her mother isn’t on the telephone,” Mr Wharton points out a little huffily. “And, in any case, we decided that, if she’d been called away for some reason, she would have left a note.”

  “She was a very responsible girl,” his wife adds.

  “I see.” I glance at Thompson, who’s writing furiously in his notebook, trying to keep up with their changing conversation, it seems. “Can you tell me the name of your friends?”

  “Our friends?” Mrs Wharton seems confused.

  “The people whose party you attended last night in Ashley Road,” I explain and she nods her head, although it’s her husband who responds to my question.

  “Susan and Laurence Conroy,” he says. “They live at number sixteen. I’ve been friends with them since we were all at the village school together… many, many years ago.”

  “Was it his birthday, or his wife’s?” I ask.

  “It was Laurence’s,” he replies.

  “And you were there all evening?”

  He frowns and I half expect him to object to my line of questioning, but instead he just nods his head.

  “You didn’t leave the party at all?”

  “Well, we didn’t leave exactly but we both popped out into the porch for a cigarette from time to time,” Mrs Wharton says. “But that’s only because Susan doesn’t like people smoking in her house.”

  “And did you do that together?” I ask.

  “Sometimes,” she replies. “Although sometimes I went by myself. I’m sure Norman did the same.” She glances at him quickly and then looks away and it’s hard not to read something into that gesture… a sense of distrust, perhaps?

  “I see. And other than that, you remained at the party?”

  “My wife has already said so,” Mr Wharton’s voice takes on a frosty tone, his blue eyes matching it in their chilly gaze.

  Part of me wants to point out that, in fact, she hasn’t. She’s merely told me that, on occasion, each of them left the party, both alone and with each other, but she hasn’t actually told me what else they did. Even so, I don’t see the value in antagonising him. Not yet, anyway. Instead, I ask, “Do you know who your maid might have been meeting after choir practice?”

  “How do you know she was meeting anyone?” Mrs Wharton asks, while her husband continues to glare at me.

  “Because she told Reverend Hodge about it.”

  She turns to her husband, and for a moment, I wonder at the troubled expression on her face, but it’s gone within seconds, and she looks back at me. “She didn’t really have that many friends, although she knew some of the people at church, I suppose, and in the choir, but I’m not aware of her socialising with any of them, and it wouldn’t make sense for her to be meeting them after choir practice – because she’d have just seen them, wouldn’t she?”

  “Yes. You say she didn’t have many friends?” I ask, picking up on her comment.

  “No. She was a very quiet, reserved kind of girl,” Mrs Wharton continues, her earlier uncertainty about her husband seemingly forgotten. “I think that’s why she went into service, to be honest – or more likely, why she came to work in a small household, like ours, rather than in an office or a factory, where she’d probably have had to meet more people. And obviously, she wanted to stay close to her family as well.”

  “Her family?” I query. “I know she has a mother, but…”

  “There’s also a younger brother and a sister as well,” she says. “They’re very close, and Mildred used to go and visit them every other Sunday afternoon, without fail.”

  “I see.”

  “You know about her fiancé, I presume?” Mr Wharton says, speaking again at last.

  “Yes. Mrs Hodge informed us about him.”

  “Well, I think he’s the most likely candidate for Mildred’s mystery meeting, don’t you?” He sounds rather smug and is still put out by my earlier questions, that much is obvious from the sour expression on his face.

  “Very possibly,” I reply, turning back to his wife once more, although she’s gazing at him again, with that same curious expression on her face. “Mrs Wharton?” She flips her head around, plastering a smile on her lips and focusing on me.

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  “Would it be possible for us to take a look at Miss Ryder’s room?”

  “Oh… yes, of course.”

  She gets to her feet at once, and Thompson and I follow, leaving Mr Wharton sitting in the corner of the sofa, his legs crossed, his eyes fixed in the middle distance, and the thought crossing my mind that these two are doing a fairly good job of looking guilty, even if they’re not. Between his over-reactions and her peculiar glan
ces, they’re certainly giving me a lot to think about.

  We follow Mrs Wharton from the room, back into the hallway, and up the stairs.

  “What does your husband do?” I ask her when we get to the first landing, even though I already know the answer to that. I’d like some meat on the bones of the scant information Mrs Hodge has provided and I’m not sure I’ll get it from Mr Wharton at the moment.

  “He owns a small factory in West Molesey,” she replies, repeating Mrs Hodge’s information. “They make wireless parts,” she adds, more usefully. “Well, they did before the war, anyway. I’m not exactly sure what they do now, and I’m not sure he’ll tell you either.”

  “Why not?” I ask as we start up the next flight of stairs, which are narrower and uncarpeted.

  “Because he’s just been awarded a contract by the War Office, and it’s all very top secret. Even I don’t know what it’s about, so I doubt he’ll be forthcoming.”

  “I understand that Mrs Ryder works for your husband?” I ask and she turns at the top of the stairs, looking down at me.

  “Yes, she does. But I’m afraid I know nothing about their arrangements. Even before he got this new contract, my husband kept his business dealings very much to himself, Inspector,” she says, lowering her voice. “I do know he hadn’t been doing very well before the war, and I believe the government contract came along at just the right time… There were some financial issues, not long after we were married, but I didn’t ever ask him for details. I just accepted what Norman told me, even though my father tried to fill my head with nonsense about impending bankruptcy…” Her voice fades, but then she looks up at me, takes a deep breath and smiles. “None of it was true, of course. Norman was nowhere near bankruptcy. But my father didn’t approve of my marriage, you see, and takes every opportunity to find fault. But then… you can’t help who you fall in love with, can you?” There’s a heartbreaking sadness to her voice, and for a moment, I wonder if her father isn’t the only one who regrets her decisions. But then I see the look in her eyes and realise that her regrets almost certainly don’t stem from her choice of husband, but probably from some hurt that’s been caused between them, because it’s clear to me that she still loves him very much indeed.

  I nod my head, returning her smile, although mine is more genuine than hers, and she moves away, opening the right hand of two doors on the small landing, revealing a medium sized bedroom, the walls of which are painted white, with a couple of paintings of nondescript landscapes on the wall opposite the window to break up the monotony. The room is simply furnished, with a single bed against the far wall, a bedside table and a chest of drawers, and small wardrobe. There’s also a bookshelf above the bed, with a few leather-bound volumes and some worn paperbacks along its length.

  “We have to search her belongings, I’m afraid,” I point out to Mrs Wharton. “It’s entirely up to you whether you wish to remain present or not.”

  She blinks a couple of times, then says, “I’ll stay, if that’s all right with you.”

  “That’s perfectly all right.”

  She nods. “It’s just that they were her things, after all,” she says softly. “It seems only right that someone should be here.”

  I smile at her again, appreciating the sentiment, and then, leaving her in the doorway, set about going through the maid’s belongings.

  She was a neat girl, her clothes folded tidily in place, within her drawers, her shoes stacked at the bottom of her wardrobe.

  “How was she killed?” Mrs Wharton asks, interrupting my search of Miss Ryder’s bedside table.

  I look up, seeing her standing upright, her arms folded across her chest, taking in our movements. “She was stabbed,” I reply and notice the grimace that briefly crosses her face, and I wait for her to ask the question which to me is inevitable – namely whether or not the girl suffered in death. Fortunately, Mrs Wharton lowers her eyes in silence and I continue my search, grateful that I didn’t have to lie to her.

  Tucked down the side of the drawer in her bedside table, I discover two small books, both leather bound, one red, the other blue, and both with the year embossed in gold numbers on the front. One says ‘1939’, the other ‘1940’. Being as it’s only early February, I’m not entirely surprised that she still has last year’s diary and, rather than going through them now, I put them into my pocket.

  “What’s that?” Mrs Wharton asks, eyeing me suspiciously from the door.

  “Her diaries,” I reply. “I’ll take them away for now, and if they don’t prove useful, I’ll return them to Miss Ryder’s mother.”

  She hesitates, and I’d swear I notice a look of fear cross her face, before she nods slowly.

  There is no doubt about it, Mrs Wharton is hiding something; or she’s at least very troubled by something. I’m not sure whether it’s related to Miss Ryder’s murder, but as we leave the room, with just the diaries to show for our search, I determine to find out.

  Chapter Three

  As much as I detest having to cook and clean, and the kitchen really isn’t my natural domain, I came straight out here as soon as the inspector and his sergeant left, unable to look my supposedly loving husband in the face for a moment longer, knowing what he’s done, knowing that he’s to blame, that his actions have caused all of this and that, because of him, I’m having to lie to the police, and pretend to be something I’m not.

  The way he bluffed and blustered, and the guilty look on his face when the inspector was asking his questions was such a giveaway, I’m surprised they didn’t just arrest him there and then, and I have to admit, I’m exhausted now, not only from having to put on an act myself – for obvious reasons – but from having to try and prevent him from giving himself away. Because if he did that, he’d give me away into the bargain. And I’m damned if I’m going to let him do that, not after everything else he’s done. Not after the promises he made me, and then broke, without a second thought. Whatever happens, I have to protect myself, and unfortunately at the moment, that means I also have to protect him. I have to hide his role in all of this, and I have to lie to shield him… even though he doesn’t deserve it.

  The door opens behind me, but I remain focused on the sink and the untouched washing up, left over from lunchtime, that has lain in the tepid water since before the police arrived.

  “That was all a bit shocking, wasn’t it?” he says, stating the obvious.

  “Yes, it was.” I pick up a saucer, attacking the tea stain on it with the cloth, then rinsing it under the tap and placing it on the drainer.

  “I certainly didn’t expect that, when they knocked on the door.”

  “No.”

  “It must have been Sam she was meeting, don’t you think?” he says, coming over and standing beside me, leaning back against the draining board, and getting in the way, rather than actually helping.

  “Who else could it have been?” I avoid answering him, because I know perfectly well who she was meeting – and that it wasn’t Sam at all.

  He shrugs, folding his arms. “I don’t know.” I nudge him slightly and he moves aside, so I can put the teacup on the drainer. “It just seems so sad…”

  I glance up at him, noting the regret in his eyes, which hardens my heart, even as I murmur, “Yes, doesn’t it?” in reply.

  “Well, I think I’ll go out for a while,” he says, lowering his arms and walking towards the door, as though he hasn’t a care in the world, which I suppose he hasn’t. Not any longer. In solving my problems, I’ve also solved his, no matter how inadvertently, and even if he does harbour some regret at Mildred’s passing, that will be easily overshadowed by his relief that he’s safe now… she can’t hurt him anymore.

  I want to call out after him, to ask where he’s going, but I’m scared of hearing the answer, so instead I pick up the drinking glass in the bottom of the sink, gripping it tightly, my anger almost overwhelming me. How can he look me in the eye and lie in the way he does? And how can he be so blasé about
everything? I jump out of my skin and yelp with pain when the glass shatters in my hand, unaware I’d been holding it quite so tight. A few drops of blood seep into the water, turning it pink, and I reach for a tea towel, holding it over the small cut on my finger, desperately trying not to cry. It’s not the pain that hurts so much as the knowledge that I’ve killed to save my position and my marriage, and I’m not sure it was ever really worth saving.

  ***

  The light is fading by the time we leave the Whartons’ property and I glance up at the clear sky above, wondering if the men in the churchyard will have finished their search yet. A frost is already forming on the edges of the fir tree that overhangs the pavement, and I recall that last night was just as cold – at least according to Thompson, anyway – and that Mildred Ryder would have lain on the freezing ground behind the church, alone, cold and frightened, knowing that she was going to die, with no-one to comfort her.

  “Another interesting couple,” Thompson remarks, interrupting my thoughts, as we get into my car.

  I turn to face him, switching on the engine and pulling away from the kerb. “What did you make of him?”

  “He was hiding something,” he replies. “But then, so was she.”

  I nod my head. “That’s what I thought too. The question is, are they hiding the same thing, and is it connected to the case?”

  “That’s two questions, Rufus,” he points out. “But I think the answer is the same to both.”

  “So do I.”

  “Namely that we don’t know yet?” I can hear the smile in his voice, even though I’m concentrating on the road.

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you think she was scared?” he asks.

  “Yes, but more of us than of him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she didn’t stop talking. It was a nervous response to my questions; an attempt to steer me off course.”

  “To protect herself?” He twists in his seat slightly as I turn right just before the railway bridge, into Speer Road.