by K. J. Frost
“With Amelie.” I realise I’m going to have to explain, at least in part. “She’s tired… and I think she’s a little run-down.” Mother raises her eyebrows and tilts her head to one side, a slight smile forming on her lips. “What’s amusing you?” I ask.
“Nothing, dear.”
Somehow I don’t believe her, but I don’t have time to play games. Not this morning. “She’s worrying about the smallest things,” I continue, “including the fact that she only realised after she’d spoken to you this morning that she’d forgotten to buy us anything to eat today, and that the butcher’s also won’t be open tomorrow either.”
“Well, that’s not the end of the world,” Mother reasons.
“I know it’s not. I explained that we wouldn’t starve; that I’m used to conjuring a meal out of whatever’s in the larder, but she blamed herself, even though it wasn’t her fault… like she did with last night’s dinner.”
“Why? What happened with last night’s dinner?” Mother asks.
I describe Amelie’s efforts with the toad in the hole, and my subsequent intervention, when it became apparent that something had gone badly wrong with the recipe.
“It sounds like rather good fun,” she says at the end of my story, smiling once more.
“Hmm… I suppose it was. But she was so tired, and put out by the whole thing, it was difficult to enjoy it at the time.”
She steps closer to me, becoming more serious. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?” she murmurs.
“Yes. To be honest, I think she’s been overdoing it… what with getting the house ready, and planning the wedding. I think she’s exhausted herself. She’s worn out.”
Mother opens her mouth, then quickly snaps it shut again, two pink dots appearing on her cheeks and I instinctively know she was about to throw caution to the winds and ask if I was wearing Amelie out myself. I’m grateful she didn’t though, because I’m not sure how I would have replied. Well, I do. I’d have lied, and denied it, because she’s my mother.
“You need to stop worrying,” she says calmly, nodding her head, as though she’s just made a momentous decision.
“I do?” I’d like to know how she thinks that’s even possible.
“Yes. For one thing, you can stop fretting over the food situation.”
“I wasn’t,” I tell her. “That was the last thing on my mind. As I’ve already said, I’m quite accustomed to forgetting to buy anything for dinner, and having to make do.”
“That’s all well and good, Rufus, but you’ve got other people to think about now.”
I frown at her turn of phrase. “Other people?” I repeat. “You mean my wife?”
“Yes…” She hesitates. “But you’re missing the point.”
“I am?” I’ve forgotten what the point was. But then, conversations with my mother tend to have that effect.
“Yes. Neither you, nor Amelie needs to worry about what you’re going to eat tomorrow, because there will be plenty of left over meat from the roast beef we’re going to have this evening.” She shakes her head. “We all got rather pre-occupied yesterday, and forgot to go shopping ourselves, and when we did remember, we made the mistake of letting Issa go to the butcher’s by herself, while Dotty went to the greengrocer’s and I dealt with the groceries and visited the chemist’s.” She rolls her eyes now. “Issa met us in Walton Road, looking rather pleased with herself, and showed us the most enormous rib of beef, and when Dotty queried why she didn’t get the butcher to just cut off a piece for us, she simply shrugged her shoulders and pointed out that she’d paid for it, and that we’d planned to invite you and Amelie anyway, so it wouldn’t go to waste.”
“I suppose it’s lucky that meat isn’t rationed,” I point out.
“And that there aren’t any shortages yet,” she replies, smiling. “Still, the point is, that it means we’ll have lots of left overs, even with five of us having dinner. We can explain to Amelie how to make cottage pie. She’ll like that.” Mother beams at me. “And it’ll give us something to do this afternoon.”
“Just don’t overdo the explanations,” I remind her. “She got confused about Mary’s instructions for toad in the hole. So try and keep it simple, will you?”
“Yes, dear.” She pats me on the arm. “Now, unless I’m much mistaken, you’ve got work to do. So, stop worrying and let us take care of your wife for the day.”
“All right, but don’t tire her out. And let her get some rest, will you?”
“What do you take us for?” she says, sounding scandalised… or trying to.
I roll my own eyes now, wondering if I’ve done the right thing, but knowing, deep down, that I have. Despite my frequent misgivings about my mother, and my aunts, I know they only have mine and Amelie’s best interests at heart.
I kiss Mother on the cheek and then depart, returning to the car, where Thompson awaits, trying to pretend he hasn’t been watching our conversation, even if he hasn’t been able to hear it.
“Sam Higgs?” he says, starting the engine, as I settle in beside him, waving goodbye to my mother.
“Yes,” I reply.
He turns the car and sets off along Spencer Road. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever it is that’s wrong.”
I glance over at him, but he’s concentrating on driving, or at least that’s the impression he’s giving. “Who says anything’s wrong?”
“I do,” he replies. “You were like love’s young dream yesterday, and today, although you’re still clearly very enamoured with your wife, it’s as though you’ve got the worries of the world on your shoulders. Has something happened?”
He’s not digging for gossip. In fact, he sounds genuinely concerned, and while I’m not about to reveal anything too personal, I do need to talk to someone… someone who’ll hopefully understand, better than my mother, that this isn’t just about undercooked toad in the hole, and Amelie not knowing about the butcher’s opening hours. There’s more to it than that.
“It’s Amelie,” I say quietly.
“I’d rather assumed that,” he replies. “Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. She says she’s tired… and she certainly looks it.”
“Tired?” He glances in my direction and it’s hard not to notice the slight smile that crosses his lips, which reminds me of my mother’s expression just now, when I told her how Amelie was feeling.
“Yes… tired. What’s so strange about that?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Except for the fact that you’ve just come back from your honeymoon.”
I can’t help smiling myself now. “Okay… so we might not have had much sleep for the last seven days—”
“I knew it!” He slaps his hand on the steering wheel.
“Oh, be quiet, will you?”
He chuckles and then turns to glance at me. “If she’s feeling tired,” he says, more seriously now, “then there could be all sorts of reasons… aside from the lack of sleep.”
“I know she was really busy before the wedding… what with the house and the planning, and everything.” I give him the same reasoning I gave to my mother.
“There is that,” he muses. “But there’s also the fact that she’s trying to adjust to a new way of life. Julia found it quite hard, I know that. I used to come home from work and find her in tears most of the time.”
“Good Lord… what did you do?”
“I talked to her… and I listened to her. I don’t think I’d realised how much of a change her life had gone through until then.” He looks at me again. “For us, marriage doesn’t really alter our lives too much… other than in good ways.” He smirks. “But for Julia, and for Amelie, the change is huge. And for Amelie, I imagine this case isn’t helping much either…”
“No, it’s not. Neither of us expected to come back to this.”
“At least she’s got your mother, and your aunts on hand,” he says.
“That’s wh
y I wanted to call in there,” I explain. “Mother had invited us for lunch, which we obviously couldn’t attend, but Amelie’s going there for the day instead, and I’m joining them later on. I just wanted to make sure they’re aware of how fragile Amelie is at the moment, that’s all.”
“I’m sure they’ll take care of her,” he says, reassuringly.
“Oh, they will… providing they don’t start involving too much gin in the proceedings.”
“I don’t know, it might do her good to get a bit tipsy.”
“She’d probably be better off having a snooze on the sofa.”
“I’m sure she would… but a little bit of gin never hurt anyone.”
He’s still smiling as he parks the car outside Sam Higgs’ house, but before I can get out, he places his hand on my forearm, stopping me.
“Don’t worry too much,” he says.
“You might as well tell me stop breathing.” I shake my head.
“I know, but what I’m trying to say is, things do settle down. The first few weeks of being married are a little bit like the first few weeks after you’ve had a baby. There’s a lot of adjusting to do. But you get there in the end.”
“And what do you do in the meantime?” I ask, surprising myself by asking Harry for advice, and then the thought occurs that this is exactly the sort of conversation I’d have had with my father, if he’d still been here… and I realise, not for the first time, how much I miss him.
“Help out as much as possible,” he replies. “Make sure you spend as much time together as you can – which is difficult at the moment, I know – and just generally be reassuring, especially when things go wrong… which they will.”
“And you didn’t worry about Julia, when you first got married?”
He smiles. “Of course I did. Every minute of the day. Because worrying is part of our job, isn’t it?”
“Then why are you telling me not to?”
“Because worrying is only part of our job,” he says, looking out of the windscreen. “And if you spend too long doing that, you’ll forget about all the other things that matter so much more…” His voice fades and he looks back at me, just for a moment, before he opens the car door and climbs out.
I suck in a long breath, composing myself and then follow, joining him at the gate.
“Thank you for that,” I mutter and he shrugs, opening the gate and letting me pass through ahead of him, before we both take the two steps required to bring us to the front door, Thompson being the one to knock.
“Anytime,” he whispers back, and we turn as the door is opened by a handsome man who’s probably in his mid to late forties, with salt and pepper hair, receding at the temples, and dark blue eyes, set in a tanned face. He looks from myself to Thompson.
“You’re the police?” he enquires.
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “I’m Detective Inspector Stone and this is Detective Sergeant Thompson.”
He nods, stepping aside and bidding us to enter. “Marjory told me about your visit,” he explains. “Something to do with our Sam, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Is he here?”
He closes the door and turns to face us as I remark to myself that the dark brown furniture doesn’t fare much better in daylight, still absorbing every ounce of brightness from the room.
“Yes, he is,” Mr Higgs replies. “I’ll fetch him for you.”
He moves away, passing through the door which I assume leads to the dining room and kitchen, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs, then muffled voices, before he returns, with a younger man behind him.
“This is Sam,” he says, introducing his son, who is very much a reflection of his father, with the same handsome features and blue eyes, although his hair remains dark brown, as yet untouched by the grey of age.
“You’re from the police?” Sam enquires.
“Yes.” I tell him our names, and we both show our warrant cards this time, before Mr Higgs steps forward.
“I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” he suggests.
It dawns on me that I’m about to break the worst possible news to his son, and that having his father there might be helpful to this young man, whose age is probably no more than twenty, or twenty-one. “You can stay, if you want,” I reply, giving Mr Higgs a meaningful look.
He frowns and nods his head.
“Why did you want to see me?” Sam asks, clearly inquisitive about our visit, and I wish I could prolong my announcement, give him a little longer to live in innocence of Mildred’s fate.
“We’ve come about Mildred Ryder,” I say, because I know I can’t delay. The next few words that leave my mouth are going to change this young man’s life forever, but they have to be said. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.” How inadequate does that sound?
“Has something happened to her?” he asks, his face paling.
“Yes.”
Sam Higgs sits, flopping onto the arm of the chair that is fortunately right behind him.
“What is it?” his father asks. “What’s happened?”
Not taking my eyes from Sam, I continue, “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid she’s dead.” It doesn’t matter how many times I have to say that, it doesn’t get any easier.
Sam doesn’t look at me. Instead he shakes his head, then lets it drop into his hands and, after a few moments of silence, he sobs like a child, a heart-wrenching cry emitting from deep inside him, filling the room; the shocking reality of grief manifesting itself before our eyes, as this young man literally disintegrates, falling forwards onto his knees, clutching his arms around him, throwing back his head and howling.
His father moves quickly, and with my help, we lift the boy and move him to the sofa, setting him down. Then I step away and let Mr Higgs sit beside his son, cradling him, rocking him gently, as though he were still an infant, not a grown man.
“Tea,” I whisper to Thompson and he nods his head, disappearing through the door to the rear of the house. I’ve made the assumption that Mrs Higgs isn’t here, being as I’m certain she would have come running at the sound of her son in such distress, a fact which is confirmed when Mr Higgs turns to look at me.
“My wife’s gone to church,” he says. “And she said was going to call in on her mother on the way home. She… she’s not been well, you see.” I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’d rather have his wife here with him, to help their son.
I move forward again and stand in front of Sam, in his line of sight and, as he becomes aware of me, he slowly starts to calm, to breathe more easily, his sobs subsiding.
“W—What happened to her?” he mumbles, stuttering over his words.
I crouch before him, taking a deep breath, noting the fear that forms in his eyes, my actions telling him that what I’m about to say won’t be easy to hear. “I’m sorry,” I say clearly. “She was murdered.”
His eyes widen with shock, his mouth flopping open at the same time, although no sound comes out.
“Murdered?” His father speaks for him.
“Yes, sir.”
At that moment, Thompson comes back in, carrying two steaming cups of tea, which he places on the low table just behind me.
“Thank you,” I say, looking up at him as he steps back, removing his notebook and standing, poised.
I pick up one of the cups and hand it to Sam Higgs, whose father releases him. “Drink this,” I tell him and he obeys me, automatically, drinking from the cup and wincing slightly.
“It’s sweet,” he says.
“It’ll help,” I reply and he takes another sip, as though he hopes I might be right.
“How was she killed?” he asks, after a few moments’ silence.
“She was stabbed.”
He closes his eyes, pain etched on his features and I remove the cup from his shaking hands, placing it back on the table again. “Stabbed?” he whispers.
“Yes. Do you think you could answer some questions?” I stand again, keen to forestall the inevitable enquiry about
whether she’d have suffered, because I’m not sure I can lie to him, so I get straight to the point.
“If it’ll help catch whoever did this to my Milly, I’ll answer anything you want,” he says, with renewed strength in his voice.
“Milly?” I query, being as he’s the first person to use that name.
“Yes.” He blushes. “It’s what I called her. Just me… no-one else.”
He glances at his father, who shifts slightly on the sofa, giving his son some room.
“What can you tell me about her?” I ask.
“What do you want to know?”
“What was she like?”
“Quiet,” he replies, simply. “And shy. But also caring and kind. She never hurt anyone and she always tried to help people, if she could.” He looks up at me. “Why would anyone want to do this to her?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh deeply. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask everyone connected with the case… can you tell me where you were on Friday evening?”
He blinks a few times and swallows. “I was here,” he says.
“Alone?” I glance at his father.
“Yes,” Sam replies. “Mum and Dad had gone out, and Mildred and I didn’t normally see each other on Fridays anyway, because she had choir practice, so I spent the evening here.”
“You didn’t arrange to meet her after choir practice?” I ask.
“No. Wednesday afternoons and evenings were our regular times. We’d sometimes be able to meet up on Saturdays too, if Mr and Mrs Wharton were going out somewhere and Milly wasn’t needed. They were good to her, like that…” He narrows his eyes. “I’d never have harmed her, Inspector, if that’s what you’re thinking. I—I loved her.”
I nod my head. “How long had you been engaged?” I ask.
“Nearly a year,” he replies. “We were supposed to get married just before Christmas last year, but… but Milly came and saw me towards the end of November and said maybe we should wait.”
“Did she give you a reason?”
“She said it was to do with me being called up,” he mumbles.
“Had you been called up back then?” I’m surprised. It seems like a long time ago to me, considering that he’s only just received his orders to report for training.