by K. J. Frost
Without any warning, Thompson pulls the car over to the side of the road, parking alongside a bare, gnarled oak tree.
“I’m sorry,” he says, applying the handbrake and turning to look at me. “I had no right…”
“You don’t have to apologise,” I interrupt, smiling at him now. “And I’m sorry I raised the subject of Victoria.”
He grimaces. “I hate my past mistakes coming between us.”
“She was my mistake too.” He smiles as I let out a sigh and stare out of the windscreen. “It’s this case,” I mutter. “It… it just feels more personal than usual.”
“Why?” he asks, and then sits forward, staring at me. “Amelie’s not pregnant already, is she?”
I turn back to him. “No, you idiot. You know perfectly well we’ve only been back from our honeymoon for two days… so I think it’s a bit early for that. And, in any case, we’ve agreed we’re going to wait a while before we have children.”
“I don’t blame you,” he chuckles, shaking his head.
“Oh? Is there a reason for that?” I consider the fact that he already has a young son, with another baby on the way and wonder why he’d make that remark.
“Not really. I mean, I love Christopher, and I can’t wait for the new baby to be born, but I’m glad Julia and I had a few years to ourselves first. Our courtship wasn’t that long – although it was longer than yours, but then most people’s are…” He smirks. “I think it just helped having a couple of years to really get to know each other before Christopher came along, especially given the job we do.”
He turns to me and I nod my head, feeling vindicated in the decision Amelie and I took before our wedding.
“So, is there another reason why the case feels so personal?” he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. “I suppose it’s just that Mildred seems to have been such a lovely person. No-one’s had a bad word to say about her, and I know deep down that even Sam didn’t mean all the things he’s just said about her. He’s hurt at the moment, and still in shock probably, and in time, he’ll realise that he was wrong to say what he did. But that still leaves us with the fact that someone killed her, and her unborn child, quite deliberately, and then they left her to bleed to death in a freezing cold churchyard, frightened and all alone, with not even a crumb of comfort as she left this world…” I turn to him. “And I want to know why. I want to know what would drive a person to do that… and then I want to see them hang, whoever they are.”
Chapter Seven
I wait until he’s been gone for ten minutes, the house echoing with silence, my heart racing in my chest as I pace the living room floor, too scared to make a move yet, just in case he’s forgotten something… just in case he should return unexpectedly.
The house remains silent though, the only sound being the ticking of various clocks, the one here in the living room, the grandfather clock in the hallway, and in the distance, the one in the dining room… all slightly out of time with each other and grating on my nerves. It’s clear he’s not going to come back though, so I turn and leave the room, going across the hall to his study.
I stand in the doorway for a moment and hesitate, staring at his desk, the green leather inlay cleared of papers, which are stacked in two neat piles on either side, his chair pushed underneath, the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and my mind filled with memories of that evening, five years ago…
I’d been to a WI meeting, but came home earlier than expected that night due to a poor turnout, almost certainly a result of some truly atrocious weather, and I let myself in through the back door as we usually do when it’s wet, taking off my outer clothes and hooking them up, before coming through to the front of the house and going into the sitting room, where I’d expected to find my husband, reading, or listening to the wireless. He wasn’t there though, and the room felt distinctly chilly, the embers of the fire dying in the grate.
Assuming he’d probably be in his study, catching up on work, I wandered across the hallway, opening the door and standing on the threshold, exactly where I am now, stilled in shock as I watched Annie Jennings, a seventeen year-old factory worker, sprawled completely naked on his desk, on top of the green leather inlay, her legs spread wide, his papers scattered to the floor, and my husband grunting and groaning as he penetrated her, over and over, harder and harder, sweat forming on his brow. His trousers were pooled around his ankles and his shirt was undone, swaying back and forth in time with each thrust. I can’t recall how long I stood there, mesmerised, but eventually Annie noticed me. He didn’t. He was in raptures until the moment when Annie screamed and sat up, trying to cover herself, at the same time as she attempted to reach for her clothes, which were on the chair behind him.
I shake my head and try to banish the memory, although it lingers. It always lingers. I can still see Annie pulling on her blouse and skirt, forgetting her underwear in her haste, while my husband stared at me for a moment, his face a picture of shock and confusion, before he turned away and pulled up his trousers, trying to tuck in his unbuttoned shirt, all the while maintaining, over his shoulder, that it wasn’t what it seemed to be. I remember laughing about that, despite the pain. How could it be anything other than what it seemed to be?
Annie left, her head bowed, showing herself out of our home, and once she’d gone, I turned my attentions back to my husband; the man who had promised to love, comfort, honour and protect me, forsaking all others. He’d promised to worship me with his body too, and yet just three years into our marriage, he was doing a pretty good job of ‘worshipping’ someone else… someone much younger.
I yelled. I screamed. I raved at him. He stood, and didn’t answer back. He didn’t say a word. He had no defence for his actions and when I’d worn myself out, I went to bed, telling him to sleep in the spare bedroom. Not the one next door to ours, but the one further along the landing, at the back of the house. Away from me.
For weeks and months, we lived in stony silence, punctuated only by bitter accusations and angry arguments. I’ll admit that, if I’d been able to face the ignominy of accepting that my marriage had been a mistake, I’d have left him and gone home to my parents. But I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t actually sure they’d have me back. And, in any case, I couldn’t bear being told that I’d been wrong all along, especially not by my father, who’d made no secret of his disapproval when we’d announced our engagement. He thought I could have done better... he made no secret of that. And I think he thought his permission should have been sought, even if only so he could decline it. And maybe that’s why we didn’t bother, and instead made a simple announcement of our intentions over Sunday tea, telling both him and ourselves that I was over twenty-one – just – and the tradition of asking parental consent really was terribly old fashioned.
And so I stayed, rather than admit the error or my ways, and eventually, about eight or nine months after that scene took place, he came to me one evening while I was getting ready for bed. He knocked on the door and entered, asking if we could talk. I agreed, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing me, and then he begged for my forgiveness, his tearful pleas touching even my hardened heart. He said he’d missed me. He’d missed us, and he didn’t want to keep living the life we were. He promised me never to stray again, claiming the girl had led him on, that she’d been the one to instigate things, and that he’d been weak. I couldn’t deny that, but at the time, I believed him, and I wanted our marriage to work. So, I agreed to try. It was the best I could offer him. I knew forgiving him would be hard; trusting him again would be harder still. But, that night, I let him sleep in our bed for the first time since it had happened. It was the first of many steps on a long road, and as the years went on, without a single sign of him cheating again, I honestly thought I’d got my husband and my marriage back… until I found out about Mildred…
I sit down at his desk, trying to forget the past and remember why I’m here; that I need to make sure he hasn’t left any evidence lying around
, carelessly linking him to Mildred in any way, other than the obvious one. We can’t afford for the police to discover what he’s done… either of us. Although I deeply resent even the idea of having to protect him, let alone the practicalities of it.
I try the drawers of his desk, hoping he hasn’t locked them and heave a sigh of relief when they all open. Going through them methodically, I check each document in turn, looking for clues or signs, but finding nothing until I get to the top right hand drawer, at the front of which, there’s a thick brown envelope, which I pull out and place on the desk in front of me. It’s unsealed and, holding my breath, I open it and glance inside, gasping when I see that it contains money. A lot of money. I pull it out and count the notes… “Fifty pounds,” I mutter to myself, under my breath. What on earth is he doing with fifty pounds? And where did he get it from, considering that, just a few days ago, he told me money was tight?
Mildred… My mind leaps back to her and the conversation I overheard. Is this the money he was going to give her?
“It must be,” I whisper out loud, my blood boiling, my hand shaking, even as I carefully replace the notes in the envelope and put it back in the drawer. I can’t take it, as much as I want to, because if I do, he’ll know I’ve been through his desk.
As I’m tucking the envelope away, I notice the corner of a blue envelope nestling between some papers and I pull it out, opening it, my heart pounding about what I’m going to discover next.
In my hand, I’m holding a single sheet of notepaper, with small handwriting covering both sides. It’s dated six months ago, and is addressed to ‘Dear Poochy’, which makes me want to be sick. Turning the page over, I see it’s signed ‘your little teddy bear’, and I feel my stomach churn, bile rising in my throat.
“How could he?” I cry, tears welling in my eyes.
How dare he? Annie was bad enough… and as for Mildred… but this as well? He vowed that he’d never betray me again, and he’s done so, not once, but twice – because I know this letter has nothing to do with Mildred. Not only is the timing wrong, but also, based on the conversation I overheard between her and my husband, I can’t imagine she’d ever have referred to him as ‘Poochy’.
My hands are shaking, as I try to make sense of the depth of his deception… and just think… to protect him, and our marriage, I’ve killed a young girl… and his unborn child. For a man who’s shown no more loyalty to me than an alley cat.
The grandfather clock in the hall strikes eleven and I come to my senses, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand and shoving the letter and its envelope into my cardigan pocket to be read later. I can’t risk him coming back and finding me in here, but I’m going to discover what he’s been doing behind my back… and then I’m going to decide what to do about it… and about him.
***
“Where to next?” Thompson asks.
“Well, now we know Sam Higgs definitely wasn’t the father of Mildred’s unborn child, I think we need to take a good, long hard look at the other men who are involved in the case,” I reply, glancing out of the windscreen. “And while I know we’ve got a fairly substantial list of names in her diary, I think we should deal with the more obvious suspects first, don’t you?”
“Naturally.”
“In which case, being as we’re just a few yards away from it, why don’t we start with the vicarage?”
“You want to ask the vicar whether he’s been having extra marital relations with one of his choir members?” Thompson says, looking at me, and tilting his head to one side.
“Not in so many words, but yes.”
He shakes his head and pulls the car away from the kerb again, driving the short distance to the vicarage and parking up on the driveway.
We’re just climbing out of the car, when I hear footsteps and turn to see the vicar himself approaching from the direction of the graveyard, down one of the narrow pathways. He’s wearing his dog collar, which is visible above a dark blue jumper that he’s wearing underneath his jacket. He hasn’t got a coat on, although he looks warm enough, having seemingly been walking, his complexion somewhat flushed from the exertion.
“Good afternoon,” he says and I check my watch quickly, seeing that it’s just gone noon – literally by a minute.
“Good afternoon,” I respond.
“Have you come to see us?” he asks, smiling and evidently more cheerful than he was on our last visit.
“Yes, we have.”
“Well, you’re lucky to have caught me. I’ve just popped home for some lunch.”
“I see.”
He shrugs his shoulders, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. “It’s rather pot luck here at mealtimes,” he remarks, in a conspiratorial manner, lowering his voice and leaning towards me. “I’m afraid Eileen isn’t exactly blessed in the culinary department, but she does her best, poor thing. She’s always saying she’d like for us to have some domestic help, but I don’t really approve of such things… even if the diocesan purse strings would stretch that far.”
“Did you approve of Miss Ryder?” I ask, watching him closely to gauge his reaction, which is a startled confusion that interests me more than I’m willing to show.
“That’s not for me to say,” he replies, loosening his collar with his forefinger. “If others choose to employ servants, that’s up to them.”
That wasn’t entirely what I’d meant by my question, but I let it stand and, after a couple of seconds, he turns towards the house.
“Do you want to come in?” he offers, opening the front door with his key and going in ahead of us. We enter, both removing our hats and, as he closes the door, Reverend Hodge, calls out, “I’m home, Eileen,” in a loud voice.
From the back of the house, his wife appears, an apron tied around her waist, hiding a rather frumpy looking tweed skirt, above which she’s wearing a pale yellow blouse, and a brown cardigan, a tea towel held in her hands. “Oh,” she says, looking embarrassed, “I didn’t know we had company. Why didn’t you say, Neville?” She glares at her husband.
“It’s just the police, dear,” he replies, rolling his eyes through his implied insult.
“How was Mrs Ives?” Mrs Hodge asks of him.
“No better,” he says forlornly. “I doubt she’ll last the night.” He turns to us. “I’ve just been visiting a dying parishioner,” he explains. “She’s in her nineties though, so she’s had a good innings.” He looks back at his wife again. “What’s for lunch?”
“I’m going to try and make a cobbler for tonight’s supper, with the left-overs from yesterday’s roast. I’ve found a recipe and it doesn’t look too difficult… so I thought we’d just have soup for lunch. It’s easy and takes care of itself. It’ll be ready in about half an hour.”
“Good,” he says, rubbing his tummy. “I’m famished.”
I feel as though Thompson and I might as well be invisible and clear my throat to make our presence felt.
“I am sorry, Inspector,” Mrs Hodge says, stepping forward and depositing her tea towel on the hall table. “Do please come into the drawing room. I’m sure you’re not here to listen to us discussing our domestic arrangements, are you?”
I smile at her, but don’t bother to answer, and we all traipse into the living room, which feels just as sparse and cold as it did yesterday, despite the fire crackling in the hearth, and I wonder if that lack of warmth actually emanates from the occupiers of the house, rather than from the room itself.
“How can we help?” the vicar asks, neither of them offering us a seat, nor taking one themselves.
“I was wondering if either of you was aware that Mildred Ryder was pregnant.” I say, keeping my eyes on the reverend as I speak. He stares at me, deliberately I think, his eyes fixed, not wavering. His reaction feels like a challenge, and although I’ve got no intention of doing anything about it, I do find his response quite unusual.
“Good Lord,” his wife says. “We had no idea, did we, Neville?” She turns to face hi
m and he shakes his head, coming out of his trance.
“No, dear.”
“And I must say I’m surprised at Sam,” his wife continues before I can put either of them straight. “I thought he was brought up better than that… and as for Mildred.” She folds her arms across her chest, shaking her head and pursing her lips in very obvious disapproval.
“We mustn’t judge too harshly, dear,” the vicar says, surprising me. Based on his comments, it seems he disapproves of domestic servants, but has a much more liberal attitude towards pre-marital sex. In my limited experience of the clergy, that’s an unusual stance, to put it mildly.