The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  “Yes?” she says, perhaps a little abruptly.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you. We’re looking for Sam? Sam Higgs?”

  “That’s my son.” She glances over her shoulder. “You’d better come in.”

  She moves aside and we enter her living room, waiting while she closes the door and flicks on the light. “I’m sorry,” she continues, “I’ve got some milk boiling on the stove… would you excuse me?”

  “Of course.”

  She disappears at speed, and I glance around, taking in the sofa and chair, crammed into the small space, along with a small cupboard and a coffee table, all of which are dark brown in colour, sucking the light from the room. Mrs Higgs returns within just a couple of moments, a little out of breath but much more relaxed.

  “It didn’t boil over,” she says, relieved. “Now… you wanted to see Sam, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he’s not here,” she says. “He’s been called up, you see.” I feel my heart sink at the prospect of having to try and trace him.

  “He’s gone already?” I ask, and she smiles, offering some hope.

  “No… but today was his last day at work, and he’s gone out for a drink with his friends, and his father’s gone with them too, because Sam’s going off on training next Tuesday morning.”

  He might not be… “When are you expecting him home?” I ask and her smile broadens.

  “Well, his father said he was only going to stop for one pint, and then come home for his dinner. But as for Sam… you know what young men are like,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It could be anytime.”

  “He’ll be home tomorrow?” I suggest.

  “Yes.” Her face falls. “Can… can I ask what this is about.” It’s as though she’s only just remembered that she’s got no idea who we are.

  “Of course. I do apologise. I should have introduced myself. I’m Detective Inspector Stone and this is Detective Sergeant Thompson.” I turn towards him, but not before I’ve noticed Mrs Higgs’ face paling in the harsh electric light.

  “He… he’s not in any trouble, is he?” she asks, clearly worried.

  “Not at all,” I reply. “It’s a purely routine matter relating to one of his friends.” I feel Thompson’s eyes on me, but ignore him. I’ve already decided that, unlike with Mrs Ryder, I’d prefer to break the news of Mildred’s death myself on this occasion.

  “I see,” she says, mollified. “Well, he’ll be here all day tomorrow. He’s got packing to do.”

  “We’ll come round in the morning, if that’s all right?”

  She nods her head. “That’s fine with me.” She smiles again. “Whether Sam will thank you is another matter.”

  Knowing what we have to tell him, I doubt that he’ll thank us at all.

  Back in the car, Thompson turns to me.

  “What next?” he asks.

  “There’s not a great deal more we can do tonight, especially as we don’t have the doctor’s report, or any sign of the murder weapon, and they’ll have called the search off ages ago. Did you drive over here?”

  “Yes, my car’s at the church,” he explains.

  I smirk. “The happy Mr Harding has probably let the air out of your tyres by now.”

  “He’d better not have done,” he replies, as I reach into my pocket and pull out all of Mildred Ryder’s diaries.

  “Can you do me a favour and drop those off on my desk on your way home?”

  He takes them from me. “Of course. We’ll go through them tomorrow, shall we?”

  “Yes, after we’ve been to see Sam Higgs.” I start the engine. “I thought you could come and pick me up in the morning… does nine o’clock sound all right? It’s Sunday and I doubt Mr Higgs will surface too early, bearing in mine that he’s out drinking.”

  “Nine o’clock sounds fine, but why can’t you drive yourself?”

  “Because I’ve been driving all day,” I point out. “And I’d like to remind you that I’m still officially on my honeymoon until Monday morning, so you can do the driving for tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of honeymoons, how did it go?” he asks. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but we barely seem to have had ten minutes to ourselves all afternoon.”

  “We had a lovely week, thank you,” I reply, giving away as little information as I can, because I know from experience that Harry Thompson will make hay with any straw of knowledge he can glean.

  “Well, there’s a cagey reply, if ever I heard one,” he jokes.

  “It’s the only reply you’re going to get from me. And, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you all afternoon, has there been any word about your brothers?” I change the subject as adroitly as I can.

  “No. But in this situation, I think no news is probably good news.”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “I’m sorry I was so quiet during your wedding… well, and the evening before. I wasn’t on my usual form at all,” he says, sounding genuinely contrite.

  “I think you had good reason,” I reply, shaking my head. “And in a way I’m grateful. At least you were too preoccupied to get me into any trouble.”

  “Me? Get you into trouble?” He does his best to sound innocent.

  “Yes.”

  “The thought of it.” Now he’s making an effort to sound scandalised, although he’s trying not to laugh at the same time, so the effect is slightly spoiled. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that rather speedy change of subject back then,” he adds.

  “I didn’t for one second think you would have done.”

  He chuckles. “So… about your honeymoon… did you get out much? You know, for walks on the Downs?” he asks, still grinning.

  “No comment.”

  He nods his head, sagely. “Was the weather too bad then?”

  I glare at him. “No comment.”

  “Okay… I’ll rephrase my original question. Did you actually leave your hotel room at all?”

  “Still, no comment.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you, you’re no fun?” he replies.

  “Not in the last seven days, no.”

  Chapter Four

  I pull the brush through my hair, keeping an eye on him in the mirror as he sits on the end of the bed, the sage green eiderdown beneath him, the sheets turned down ready for the night, and he unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off, and leaving it on the bed while he removes his vest. Then he gets up and places both items into the laundry basket, which is over by the window, and without turning, unfastens his trousers, letting them fall to his ankles. These he folds and puts over the back of the chair in the corner of the room, his movements measured and predictable, like a man twenty years his senior, who’s been performing this ritual for decades, rather than for the eight years of our marriage.

  He moves back across to the bed and I remember to brush my hair once more, to at least give the impression of being occupied, even though my eyes are fixed on him, as he pulls on his pyjama top, buttoning it up, and then he removes his underpants, throwing them into the laundry basket and, although I can’t see without turning around, probably missing. He usually does, and I’ll pick them up myself in the morning. He turns then and bends, giving me a view of his behind as he pulls on his pyjama bottoms, concealing himself in an instant. That brief glimpse of his backside is as intimate as he and I get these days, and a week ago, I regretted that. Now, I don’t. But then, everything has changed now. I know what he is, and because of what he is, I’ve become a murderer.

  “Just off to the bathroom,” he announces, using exactly the same tone of voice and turn of phrase that he does every other night.

  I don’t reply, but once he’s gone, I put down my brush and let my head fall into my hands.

  We lead separate lives nowadays, at least in private, and have done for a long while; although in public, we do our best to maintain the façade of a perfect marriage, for appearance’s sake. But when we’re alone, I’m always reminded that I’m
not enough for him. I’m not sure that I ever was. And he does nothing to make me think any differently. Judging from the things he says, and the way he behaves, I think I’ve been a constant source of disappointment to him since the moment of our marriage. Although what he fails to take into consideration, and always did, is that when we married, I was young and extremely innocent. I knew he was more experienced than me, more worldly wise, but I honestly had no idea what was expected of me as a wife, especially when it came to the physical aspects of our union. And it never seems to occur to him that, if he’d been kinder, more gentle, less demanding, less critical… I might have been able to learn from him. I was certainly willing to try, at the beginning at least, and if he’d been more considerate, I might, in time, have developed more expansive tastes, and I could have learned to satisfy him. Instead of which, he looked elsewhere, and when I found out, he told me his infidelity was my own fault, because I was ‘boring’.

  I blink back my tears, clenching my fists and rubbing my eyes. “I will not cry,” I whisper, as I listen to him whistling something unintelligible and slightly out of tune.

  He’s carrying on with his life, behaving as though he hasn’t a worry in the world, which he hasn’t now, because I’ve taken care of his problem for him. After all, Mildred had threatened to report him to the police for what he’d done to her. That’s why he offered her the money. So, the fact that she’s dead, and can’t reveal his violation must feel like he’s had a huge weight lifted from his shoulders.

  I glance up at myself in the mirror and try to imagine how my life would be if I hadn’t killed her; if she’d been allowed to report him instead. I picture the police coming and knocking on the door, rather like they did today, only this time, they’d have been taking my husband away, in handcuffs, I should think, most probably arresting him. There would have been newspaper reporters, a court case… and of course, there would have been the looks of pity on the faces of the villagers as they whispered about me behind my back, wondering if I’d known what he’d done, whether I was guilty by association. I’m not a native of these parts and I’d have had to leave, naturally. I’d have had to start again somewhere else, because I couldn’t have gone back to my family… I can’t even go back to them now. It would have been hard enough before all of this… but now…

  I want to scream. It’s so unfair…

  Why do I have to be the one to suffer? I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s is all his fault. He’s a cheat… a philanderer.

  “No,” I whisper under my breath, “call him what he really is…”

  He’s a rapist.

  ***

  I walk into the house, grateful that Amelie has thought to leave the lights off in the living room, which means I can open the door with impunity.

  Once inside, I pull across the blackout curtain – one of several made by my mother – and switch on the main light, before taking off my coat and hanging it up on one of the hooks behind the door. I place my hat on the end of the stairs, and remove my jacket, leaving it over the back of the sofa, but then change my mind about the lighting and turn on the two side lamps instead, extinguishing the central light, in favour of a more gentle glow. The fire is almost out, so I add a log from the basket and wander through into the dining room, smiling as I note that it’s been laid for two, and then follow my nose into the kitchen, where I find my beautiful wife, standing at the stove. I have no idea what she’s prepared for our supper, but there’s a medium sized saucepan belching steam, and I can smell something else cooking as well… something familiar…

  She’s intent on whatever it is she’s doing, blissfully unaware of me, it seems, and I walk over, placing my hands on her waist, whereupon she yelps and jumps, turning in my arms and slapping me gently on the chest.

  “You scared me to death…”

  I swallow the rest of her words with a kiss, endeavouring to make up for all the hours we’ve lost today, although I doubt that’s possible with just a single kiss.

  When I pull back, she smiles up at me, her hands now resting on my arms. “You’re forgiven,” she remarks and I smile, leading her away from the stove, further into the room, before reaching behind her and unfastening the button of her skirt. “What are you doing?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

  “I’m picking up where we left off at lunchtime.” I kiss her again. “I’ve been thinking about you… and this… all afternoon.” I let my hands rest on her backside and she nestles into me invitingly.

  “And would it be possible to think about me… and this… for a bit longer?” she asks, with a tease in her voice.

  “I intend thinking about you for the rest of my life, so I suppose so… why?”

  “Because dinner’s ready,” she replies.

  “And you think I can wait that long… for this?” I gently pat her behind.

  She grins. “Being as it’s taken me most of the afternoon to prepare and cook our dinner, yes I do.”

  “And what are we eating?” I ask, glancing over her shoulder at the stove.

  “The saucepan contains carrots,” she replies, “but as for what’s in the oven… that’s a surprise.”

  “Very well,” I say softly, doing up her skirt again, with a great deal of reluctance. “But after dinner, you’re all mine.”

  She leans up and kisses me on the lips. “I’m all yours now.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  She chuckles, then claps her hands together, gleefully. “Go and sit at the table,” she says, “and I’ll bring the dinner through.”

  She’s like a child with a new toy and, as much as I’d rather just stay out here with her, I don’t want to spoil her obvious enjoyment of having cooked our first meal in our home together. So, rather enjoying my own role of obedient husband, I go back into the dining room and around the table, sitting facing the kitchen door. She’s found a lace tablecloth that I didn’t know we possessed, and laid out our new cutlery, together with two cups and saucers, and the breadboard in the centre, topped with the bread, which has already had a couple of slices taken off of it, for Amelie’s lunch, I presume. I’m about to pick up the bread knife to start cutting us a slice or two each, when I hear a startled cry from the kitchen and leap to my feet, running back out through the door, to find her crouched by the oven, a folded cloth in one hand.

  “What’s wrong, darling?” I step up behind her. “You haven’t burned yourself, have you?”

  She shakes her head. “No… but look.” She points into the oven and, although it’s a tight squeeze to fit both of us into the narrow space, I bend, my face level with hers, and look inside to the enamel dish that’s sitting on the middle shelf, containing a pale, rather congealed mess.

  “What is it?” I ask and she stands, glaring at me.

  “Rufus!”

  “I’m sorry… but what’s it supposed to be?” I’m trying so hard not to laugh.

  “It’s supposed to be toad in the hole,” she says, turning back around and, using the cloth she’s holding to remove the dish from the oven, placing it on top of the stove, while we both stand and examine its contents.

  “Well, I can see those are sausages,” I remark, pointing to the four, clearly undercooked sausages which are lying neatly in the centre of the container, surrounded by a coagulating mass of what I presume is meant to be batter, and she hits me around the arm with the tea towel.

  “So help me God, if you say one more word, I’m going to tip the whole lot over your head.”

  She turns to face me as she’s speaking and I can’t help it, I burst out laughing, and so does she.

  “What happened?” I ask, looking back at the dish and scratching my head.

  “I’ve got no idea. But then I can’t cook, remember?” She lets out a long sigh, her hands resting on her hips. “What are we going to do?” she says. “There’s half a pound of sausages in there, not to mention the flour and milk… and an egg.” She starts listing the ingredients and I have to smile, because although she’s got everything
right, somehow it’s still gone completely wrong.

  “Would you like me to come to the rescue?” I ask, putting my arms around her and pulling her close to me.

  “I’d love you to… this cooking malarky is a lot more challenging than it looks.”

  I smile and lean down, kissing her, just briefly.

  “In that case… remind me… do we own a frying pan?”

  “Of course we do. We’ve got the one that used to be yours, from your flat.”

  “Oh yes. Why didn’t I think of that?” She goes to move away, presumably to fetch it, but I pull her back, holding her close to me, and looking down into her eyes. “If I’m going to come to the rescue, I need sustenance first.”

  “Sustenance?” She looks up at me, her eyes sparkling.

  “Yes.” I pull her body tight against mine and kiss her, very hard indeed, as she sighs into me.

  When we break away from each other, we’re both breathless and I’m almost tempted to forget dinner and take Amelie straight to bed, but I feel as though it’s important we try to make something out of the meal she worked so hard to create, so while she fetches the frying pan, I retrieve the sausages from the uncooked batter, scraping off the worst of the congealed mess with a knife.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks, coming back to the stove.

  “Well, first you’re going to tell me if we’ve got any potatoes,” I reply, “and then we are going to cook these sausages.”

  “We do have potatoes… but I’m not sure it’s safe to let me anywhere near food. I’m dangerous.”

  I smile down at her. “No you’re not. It just takes time to learn, that’s all.”

  I add some fat to the frying pan, turning on the gas, and then put in the sausages, letting them sizzle while I cut the potatoes into thin slices, before adding them to the pan as well.

  “How do you know what to do?” she asks, watching my every move, as I check on the carrots, making sure they’re not boiling dry. They’re going to be overcooked, but it doesn’t matter; not in the grand scheme of things.