The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  “Or him. She clearly loves him very much… think about what she said when we got upstairs. She went against her father’s wishes to marry him. That takes some courage, especially for someone of her background.”

  “What’s her background then?” he asks.

  “I don’t know… not precisely.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “What I mean is, you can tell just from looking at her, at the way she dresses, and stands and talks, that she’s a cut above him. She’d have been used to a certain way of life, I imagine, and in marrying Norman Wharton, she’d have given that up.”

  “I see,” he muses, as I pull up behind a delivery van that’s blocking the road.

  “And with that in mind, how far do we think Mrs Wharton might go to protect her husband?” I ask.

  “As far as murder?” he suggests.

  “At least as far as lying for him, definitely.”

  “You think he’s the murderer, then?” Thompson turns to face me.

  “Not necessarily. But I do have to wonder what he’s done to put that troubled look in his wife’s eyes. Because he’s definitely done something… mark my words.”

  He shakes his head, facing the front again, as the driver of the van comes out of a house to our left and gives me an apologetic wave for double parking. I wave back and he gets into his cab. “With a girl as beautiful as Mildred Ryder in the house, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been tempted to stray.” He sighs. “Although Mrs Wharton isn’t exactly yesterday’s news, is she?”

  “Behave yourself… you’re a happily married man, remember?”

  He rolls his eyes as I pull away again, following the van down the road. “I’m perfectly well aware of that. And I’m not saying I’d be tempted myself. I’m just conjecturing. He wouldn’t be the first man to have a fling with the hired help, would he?”

  “No… and he won’t be the last, either. But I’m not interested in Mr Wharton’s extra marital affairs. What I am interested in is whether Mrs Wharton found out about them, and whether she decided to remove her rival… permanently.”

  “Assuming she had a rival, of course.”

  “Of course.” I nod my head in acknowledgement. “We could be reading too much into the whole thing.”

  “Who are we going to see next? The mother?” Thompson enquires.

  “I think we’ll just pay a visit to the boyfriend first,” I suggest. “Mrs Ryder will probably have only just got in from work, and I want to know whether it was the boyfriend that Mildred had arranged to meet last night.”

  He nods his head, and we drive on to the end of Speer Road, turning to the right and then taking the second on the left, by-passing Queen’s Road and turning into Alexandra Road instead, pulling up outside a neat terraced house, with a small garden at the front, retained by a low brick wall.

  We get out and walk in silence to the front door, which I knock upon.

  “I don’t think there’s anyone at home,” Thompson whispers, even though we haven’t waited for very long.

  “No.” I’m inclined to agree. The house just has that empty feeling about it. “Let’s go and see Mrs Ryder and then come back here later on.”

  He nods his agreement and we make our way back to the car.

  “It’s a shame we couldn’t have told Mrs Ryder about her daughter’s death before anyone else,” Thompson says, as we both get in. He sounds thoughtful and I turn to look at him.

  “I know. But we could hardly go chasing her around at her place of work, or looking for her up and down the high street…” I let my voice fade.

  “No, we couldn’t,” he replies. “And I suppose, if I’m being honest, our time might well have been better spent interviewing the Hodges and the Whartons.”

  “Because you think one of them is our murderer?” I ask, just as I’m about to start the engine.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “Care to share your reasoning?” he asks.

  I suck in a breath. “I don’t have any. It’s just a gut reaction.”

  He sighs. “Thank heavens for that,” he murmurs. “I was starting to think I was losing my touch.”

  “Did you ever have a touch?” I ask, chuckling as I switch on the engine, and he grins.

  “I think we both know the answer to that,” he replies.

  I drive us to the end of Alexandra Road, where I turn right, and then right again into Queen’s Road.

  Number twelve is on the right, a short way down; a brick-faced, terraced building with sash windows and a tiny but neat patch of front garden.

  Knocking on the door, we hear footsteps almost immediately, but we’re both flummoxed, when it’s opened by none other than Reverend Hodge. He’s replaced his red sweater with a more formal, dark jacket, as befits his role, I suppose, and has the decency to blush as he holds the door open for us, letting us pass directly into a small sitting room, furnished with a single sofa and chair, a low side table, with a potted plant on top, and a narrow bookcase in the alcove created by the chimney breast, its shelves filled with leather-bound tomes.

  “Inspector,” he says by way of greeting, as Thompson and I remove our hats.

  “Reverend Hodge,” I reply. “We’ve come to see Mrs Ryder.”

  “Of course.” He closes the door again and holds out his arm, pointing in the direction of a door directly ahead of us. “Everyone is in the dining room.”

  “Everyone?” I query, following him as he takes the lead, which seems to be his forte.

  “Mrs Ryder and her other children,” he explains, opening the door.

  We move through, past the stairs, which go up at a right angle in the centre of the house, to a slightly larger room, where a middle-aged woman with auburn hair, almost the same shade as her deceased daughter, barring the few strands of visible grey, is sitting at the head of a rectangular table, her elbows resting in front of her, a handkerchief clasped to her nose, as she sobs woefully. Despite her obvious distress, it’s easy to see that Mildred Ryder’s good looks were inherited from her mother, who’s a very attractive woman, and I imagine in the flush of youth, would have been just as captivating as her daughter. By her side stands a boy of probably fourteen years of age, his arm resting on his mother’s shoulders, his lips pursed tightly as he attempts to control his emotions. A girl, probably a year or so older, sits on the other side of her mother, her hands covering her face, her shoulders shaking, in obvious distress.

  “Who… who are you?” Mrs Ryder asks, pulling the handkerchief from her face and looking up at me, her green eyes overflowing with tears.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Stone,” I reply, making every effort to control my voice, despite my raging anger that Reverend Hodge has clearly hot-footed it down here to break the news to the family. He may have meant well. He may even have had their best interests at heart, although having sat with him for the best part of half an hour earlier, I doubt both of those sentiments; but the point is, this situation is very far from ideal.

  “You’re looking into what happened to M—Mildred?” she asks, stumbling over her daughter’s name.

  “Yes,” I reply, “and I apologise for not coming to see you earlier.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have been here anyway,” she replies, sniffing and dismissing my apology. “I’ve only been home for a few minutes. But luckily the vicar was already here with Joe and Shirley. He… he told us the news.” She stutters her words, struggling not to cry again.

  He was waiting for her? I glance at him, but he’s currently pre-occupied, staring at the floor.

  She puts her handkerchief down, taking her daughter’s hand in hers and leaning slightly into her son, clearly wanting to offer her support to them, as much as to feel theirs in return, I imagine.

  “The reverend assures me Mildred wouldn’t have felt any pain,” Mrs Ryder says, blinking back her tears. “So I suppose that’s something.”

  I take a breath, reining in my temper and admitting to
myself that I’d have told her the same thing, given the chance. I certainly wouldn’t have told her that her daughter bled to death on a grass verge, alone, and no doubt terrified.

  “Can you tell me when you last saw Mildred?” I ask.

  “Not for a couple of weeks,” she replies, her voice cracking. “She was kept very busy at work, but used to have Wednesday afternoons and every other Sunday off. She’d spend her Wednesdays with Sam… her fiancé, but she’d come here after church on Sundays, regular as clockwork, and have lunch with us, and then stay for the afternoon. She was due to come tomorrow…” She starts to cry again now, releasing her daughter’s hand and picking up her handkerchief once more, dabbing at her eyes, while Thompson and I glance around the room, to give her time to compose herself.

  The shelves in the alcoves on either side of the small fireplace are littered with religious artefacts; a postcard of the Madonna and child, propped up against a few books, a statue, which I presume to be of Christ, his arms outstretched, a couple of angelic figurines and two crosses – one wooden and one made of a shiny golden coloured metal of some kind. There are also several framed photographs. One is of Mildred, perhaps from a couple of years ago, taken at Christmas, by the looks of things, and I’m struck once again by her beauty, which death did not diminish, it seems. There’s another of a man, in his mid-forties, perhaps, who I assume to be Mrs Ryder’s late husband. The others are of babies and children, but whether they’re of a younger Mildred, or of Joe and Shirley, it’s hard to say.

  “Come now, Edna.” Reverend Hodge steps forward, intervening between Mrs Ryder and her daughter, placing his hand on her shoulder. She looks up, a plaintive expression on her face, and seems to calm in an instant, and while a part of me is grateful, I still resent his intrusion, and simply glare at him myself, before returning my attention to the grieving mother.

  “Did your daughter leave any of her possessions at home?” I ask. “After she moved out, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Mrs Ryder replies. “There’s a box upstairs with a few things in it. We’ve got a lodger now, who has Mildred’s room.”

  “A lodger?” This sounds more interesting.

  “Yes. The money comes in handy since my husband died…” She sniffles again. “George Buxton is his name. He’s out at the moment, I’m afraid, and I can’t tell you when he’ll be back.” I nod my head.

  “Did your daughter know this Mr Buxton?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll need to question him then.” I pull a calling card from my inside pocket and hand it to Mrs Ryder. “Perhaps you could ask him to telephone the police station in Kingston when he returns, to make an appointment for me to come back.”

  “We don’t have a telephone,” she remarks, looking down at my card, and I remember Mr Wharton explaining that fact to us earlier.

  “Don’t worry about that,” the vicar says, before I have the chance to reply, to explain to her that he can just pop into the local station and they’ll help him. “You just send him down to the vicarage. He can use our telephone.”

  “Oh, you’re so kind,” Mrs Ryder says, looking up at him again, as yet more tears start falling onto her cheeks.

  I wonder if it really is kindness, or a desire to know everything that’s going on with regard to our investigation, which is driving the vicar’s actions. Either way, I say nothing about his offer. “Would it be possible to see your daughter’s belongings?” I ask.

  She nods and turns to her son. “Joe, could you go and fetch the box? It’s on top of the wardrobe in my room.”

  The boy beside her nods his head and silently leaves the room, returning just a few moments later with a cardboard box, which he deposits on the table, returning to his place beside his mother and giving his sister a sympathetic glance, being as her place has been rather usurped by the vicar.

  “Do you mind?” I ask Mrs Ryder, before opening it and she bites her bottom lip.

  “Go ahead.” Her voice is a strangled whisper, and I decide to just get through the task in hand and leave them to their grief.

  The box contains four more diaries, going back to 1935, together with some drawings, which were obviously done when she was young and which, for some reason either Mildred or her mother have decided to keep. There are a few birthday and Christmas cards, probably retained for sentimentality, and a couple of small, slightly worn teddy bears.

  “Would you mind if we took your daughter’s diaries away with us?” I ask, holding them in my hand.

  “If you think it will help to find whoever did this, you can take whatever you like,” Mrs Ryder replies, her voice a little stronger. “But you will bring them back, won’t you?”

  “Of course we will.” I smile at her. “And I really am very sorry.”

  “She didn’t deserve this,” she says, choking up again. “Not Mildred…” She starts to sob as she says her daughter’s name and I take this as our signal to leave. There’s nothing more they can tell us, and we’re not helping them.

  “We’ll keep you informed of our progress,” I say quietly and Mrs Ryder nods her head, unable to speak now, although she nudges her son and waves her hand vaguely in our direction.

  “I’ll show you out,” he murmurs, his voice deeper than I’d expected it to be.

  “You don’t have to,” I reply.

  “It’s no trouble. And anyway, I’d better do the blackout at the front.”

  He comes around the table and escorts us from the room, closing the door firmly behind us and taking us into the living room once more. “Wait here a minute,” he says and we stand by the door in the darkness, the room’s only illumination coming from the moonlight filtering in through the window, while Joe makes his way across the room, pulling the curtains tight and then going to the front door and switching on the light.

  “Will you be all right?” I ask as we join him.

  “We’d be a lot better if the vicar would leave us alone,” he replies, then glances up at me, a guilty expression on his face. “Sorry,” he adds quickly. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t very generous of me.”

  “Don’t be sorry. There’s no need.”

  He takes a breath, running his fingers back through his thick hair, which is more of a reddish brown than his mother’s or his older sister’s. “I don’t even know why he’s here,” he says, looking at the door to the dining room.

  “He’s just come to help your mother,” I reply, trying to sound reasonable, even though I don’t feel it.

  “To interfere, more like,” he says, resentfully. “Surely he knows that, when someone is killed…” His voice fades for a moment, but then he squares his narrow shoulders and continues, “When someone is killed, it’s up to the police to inform the next of kin… not for busy-body vicars to barge their way in.”

  I smile, just lightly. “And how do you know so much about police procedures?” I ask him.

  He smiles himself. “I like detective stories,” he says, but then his smile drops. “And that’s how I know he shouldn’t be here… not like this. He should have waited.”

  It’s hard not to agree with him, but I don’t want to fuel the fires of his anger, just in case he goes back into the dining room and starts an argument with Reverend Hodge. He might feel better if he did that, but his mother wouldn’t thank him.

  “Well, sometimes things don’t go to plan,” I say instead and he sighs deeply, clearly dissatisfied.

  He switches off the light again and opens the front door, stepping to one side, to let us exit into the now dark street.

  “Before we go,” I say, stopping on the threshold, “can you tell me how old your sister was?”

  “She turned twenty last summer,” he replies and it dawns on me that Mildred would have been very close in age to Amelie, being only six months or so older, which sends a shiver down my spine. “Mum wanted to have a party,” he continues, unprompted, “but Mildred wouldn’t hear of it. She said it was a waste of money… what with all the ta
lk of war that was going on back then.” He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

  “Look after your mother and your sister, Joe,” I say as I move onto the pathway.

  “I will,” he replies with determination, and Thompson and I make our way out onto the street, hearing the door close behind us.

  “Nice lad that,” Thompson says as we get to my car.

  “Yes.”

  “And maybe a future copper in the making.”

  “Maybe.”

  He stalls. “You’re not very happy are you?”

  “That would be one way of putting it.” We climb into the car and both face forwards. “I’m inclined to agree with Joe, only a little more forcefully.” I turn to look at Thompson. “What the hell did Hodge think he was doing? I’d made it fairly clear that we were delaying our visit to Mrs Ryder until she got home from work. The man must have come straight down here almost as soon as we left the vicarage.”

  “It certainly looks that way,” Thompson replies.

  “The only thing we need to know, is why?”

  “I suppose it’s possible he just wanted to be helpful,” he says and I stare at him for a moment. “Okay… so it’s not very likely,” he adds.

  “No, it’s not. It’s infinitely more likely that he wanted to make sure he had some influence over the proceedings. Which means, either he’s just plain nosy… or…”

  “He’s the murderer?”

  I sigh. “Well, if he isn’t, he might be very keen to protect the murderer… let’s put it that way.”

  “You think it’s his wife?”

  “I’m not sure. But if I were a gambling man – which I’m not – I’d be willing to wager a week’s salary that it’s one or the other of them.”

  Thompson raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t reply and I start the car. “Shall we just try Sam Higgs once more, before we call it a night?”

  He agrees and settles back into his seat, although I’m not sure why he’s getting comfortable, being as it takes me less than two minutes to get back to Alexandra Road again..

  This time, the door is answered promptly by a middle-aged woman, who stares up at me in the darkness.