by K. J. Frost
“Sam Higgs denies that the baby is his,” I say, again watching for their reactions. The vicar remains stoney faced, but his wife scoffs, rolling her eyes.
“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?” she huffs.
“Did Mildred ever socialise with any other young men in the church, do you know?” I ask.
“What makes you think it was someone associated with the church?” Mrs Hodge seems very offended by my inference.
“Because, from what we’ve learned of her, it appears to have been her only source of meeting people.”
“Well, I’m sorry to inform of you of this, Inspector,” Mrs Hodge says, her hackles seriously raised now, “but I’m afraid that Christians don’t generally approve of fornication.”
I take a deep breath, giving her time to calm – hopefully. “And I hate to disillusion you, Mrs Hodge, but adultery is just as alive and well in the Church of England as it is everywhere else. I’m assuming you’re suggesting adultery, in your use of the word ‘fornication’. That is its usual definition, isn’t it?” She glares at me, a blush creeping up her neck. “Although I’d dearly love to know why it is that you are assuming that the man involved was married. Perhaps you’d like to explain?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again in despair.
“We didn’t know her well enough to form an opinion,” the vicar replies before his wife can get her lips around her response. “And I’m afraid that, outside of choir practice, I don’t know of anyone with whom she met regularly, other than Sam. I didn’t meet up with her myself, you see.”
“You must have done, surely?” I suggest.
“Excuse me?” He raises his voice and takes a step closer, his face reddening. “What are you implying.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m merely pointing out that you must have seen something of Mildred outside of choir practice.”
“I’ve just told you, I didn’t,” he says, affronted by my conjecture. “And perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of believing me when I tell you something.”
“So you didn’t have anything to do with the planning of her wedding?”
He stills, to the point where I actually think he’s stopped breathing for a moment, and then lets out a long, slow breath.
“Well, of course I did… what I meant was, that I didn’t see Mildred outside of the church, and my duties... but I don’t see what her wedding plans have to do with anything. That was ages ago.”
“Not that long ago,” I remark. “She postponed it in November, I believe?”
“Yes,” he replies. “She and Sam came to see me together.”
“Did they?”
“Yes. They explained that they were worried about what would happen to Mildred if Sam was called up.”
“Did you try and talk them out of their decision?” I ask.
“No.” He seems surprised by my question. “I didn’t see that as my role, Inspector. And, in any case, they’d already made up their minds.”
“So you left them to it?”
“Yes. It wasn’t a cancellation; merely a postponement.”
“And did they set another date?” I ask.
“Well, no. No they didn’t, as it happens.”
“Why would they?” Mrs Hodge asks, cutting into the conversation having rediscovered her voice. “The whole point of the postponement was because of the war and Sam being called up… and in case you haven’t noticed, Inspector, the war hasn’t finished yet.”
I stare at her for a moment, her eyes sparking with anger and wonder how much it would take for her to really lose control… and how far she’d go if she did.
“We’ll leave you to get on with your lunch,” I say, turning to the door.
“Yes, I’ll say goodbye,” Mrs Hodge replies. “I’d better go and check on the soup.”
She scuttles away towards the back of the house, leaving her husband to see us out.
As we get to the door, he hesitates, holding it open. “Don’t take Eileen too seriously,” he says quietly as we stand on the threshold. I turn back and he twists around, looking down the hallway, presumably to check the coast is clear. “We’ve been trying for a baby, if you must know,” he murmurs. “Only things aren’t working out. This news about Mildred…” He lets his voice fade.
“I see,” I reply, with as much sympathy as I can manufacture.
“She’s taking it to heart,” he says, giving me a knowing look.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”
He nods his thanks and we depart, getting into the car. Thompson reverses out of the driveway and onto the road, waiting for a truck to pass, and then pulling away.
“Did you believe that?” he asks, driving down Summer Road and back towards the village.
“Which part?”
“That last bit… about them trying for a baby.”
“No.”
“No, neither did I,” he says. “Where am I going, by the way?”
“Mr and Mrs Wharton,” I reply, then add, “Why didn’t you believe him, just out of interest?”
“A couple of reasons,” he says, stopping to let another car pass through a narrow part of the High Street. “Firstly, I don’t think it’s something people talk about, not really… not to a complete stranger, anyway.”
“Well, not unless they were the guilty party, and they were trying to throw suspicion elsewhere.”
“There is that,” he replies.
“And secondly?”
“Secondly, I got the feeling they were both covering for each other.”
I smile. “So did I. There was something odd about their reactions… even odder than yesterday. If you want me to be honest, I think they both believe the other one did it, and they’re doing their best to protect each other… and ultimately putting their foot in it. Quite spectacularly, as it happens.”
“They are both behaving like they’re as guilty as sin, aren’t they?” he says, grinning and parking a few houses down from Mr and Mrs Wharton’s property, just like he did on Saturday, when we were last here. “The question is, which one of them actually did it?”
I turn to him. “You think it’s only one of them?”
He frowns. “Well, I don’t think they’re in it together, not based on the hash they just made of trying to cover for each other, anyway. If they were working together, they’d have prepared their stories a lot better than that.”
“I know… and I’m not suggesting they are working together.”
His frown deepens, his brow furrowing. “Then what are you suggesting?”
“At the moment, I don’t know. They’re both behaving so oddly, it’s hard to tell. And we really need to keep an open mind, because it’s still perfectly possible that we’re not looking at either the vicar or his wife. We’ve got a few other suspects still to consider.”
“I know, but if it isn’t them, then that would mean you’re wrong… because let’s face it, you’ve thought it was one of them almost since the beginning, haven’t you?”
“I have. But I’ve been known to be wrong before, Harry. I’ve made mistakes in the past, you know that.”
I get out of the car, and he follows suit, looking at me over the top of it. “Can you name the date that last happened?” he asks, smiling.
“Well, whatever date I proposed to Victoria… I can’t remember exactly when that was, but it was a huge mistake.”
“Yes, but it’s one you got to rectify,” he says, coming around to the pavement and falling into step beside me.
“Thanks to you I did, yes,” I remark, leaning into him.
He shakes his head. “I did you a favour, sleeping with your fiancée, did I?”
“Well, you didn’t sleep with the only fiancée who mattered, so yes.”
He chuckles and I go in through the garden gate ahead of him, walking up the path and knocking on the bright red door.
Mrs Wharton answers herself, dressed in a very smart, very fitted navy blue dress, with matching cardigan and a s
tring of pearls hanging from her neck, her light blonde hair styled away from her perfectly made-up face. The contrast between her sophisticated elegance and Mrs Hodge’s old-fashioned dowdiness is too marked not to notice.
“Oh… Inspector,” she says, sounding both surprised and disappointed at the same time. It’s a response I’ve become accustomed to over the years and I smile at her.
“Yes. I’m sorry to intrude. We were hoping to speak with you and your husband again, if that’s not inconvenient?”
“Well, I’m afraid Norman’s at work,” she replies, “but you’re welcome to come in.”
She opens the door wider, letting us enter, and then closes it behind us, before indicating the drawing room, holding out her hand in invitation. “Please come in,” she says.
“Thank you.”
We follow her and enter the stylish room, and I’m reminded of Susan Conroy’s comments, and the difference in taste, style and gentility between the two women.
“I’m sorry my husband isn’t here,” Mrs Wharton says, sitting down on one of the sofas, and nodding to the other, where Thompson and I sit, side by side, our hats held in our hands. “He sometimes comes home for lunch, but he’s in meetings today, I believe…” Her voice fades, as though she’s uncertain about what she’s saying, but then she looks up suddenly. “I do apologise… would you like some coffee?” She smiles, just slightly. “I can’t guarantee it’ll taste very nice. I’ve placed an advertisement for a new maid, but I doubt I’ll be able to find one, not at the moment. Young girls don’t seem to want to go into domestic service anymore… and I’m completely out of my depth in the kitchen. As Norman is discovering.” Her smile fades and she lowers her eyes.
“We don’t need coffee, thank you,” I reply and she looks up, blinking but grateful, I think.
“How can I help?” she asks. “Or was it Norman you wanted to see?”
“It was both of you,” I reply. “We need to ask if you were aware of the fact that Miss Ryder was pregnant when she was killed?”
Mrs Wharton pales significantly, her skin becoming almost the same shade as the pearls around her neck, despite her make-up.
“Pregnant?” she whispers, clasping her hands tightly together, her knuckles whitening. “Do… do you know who the father was? Was it Sam?”
“Sam denies it,” I reply.
“Well, I suppose he probably would, in the circumstances,” she says, shaking her head. “Mildred was such a quiet girl though… I can’t see how…” She looks up, her eyes filled with tears, which seems like a very odd reaction to me. “It would have to be have been someone she knew, wouldn’t it? I mean, someone she knew well?”
That seems fairly obvious to me, but I don’t comment.
“Were you aware of any other men in Mildred’s life?” I ask her instead, noting that she’s only just managing not to cry, not to break down completely in front of us.
She shakes her head, seemingly unable to speak.
“Are you all right, Mrs Wharton?” I have to ask. She seems so genuinely upset.
“It’s just… the unborn child…” she blurts out, but then her voice fades and she looks completely distraught and utterly hopeless. After a moment, she coughs and adds, “My husband and I have been talking about starting a family, you see…” The cracks in her voice become even more apparent, and she stutters in a breath, struggling for control.
I give her a moment, not saying a word, being as this has clearly become very personal to her, and eventually, she squares her shoulders and looks across at me, managing a slight smile.
“I’m sorry, Inspector,” she says.
“Please, don’t apologise. I do understand. And we can come back later on, if you’d prefer…?”
“No, please…”
She waves her hand, which I take as a signal to continue. So I do, clearing my throat first. “You knew that Mildred and Sam had postponed their wedding, didn’t you?” I sit forward slightly, gauging her reactions again.
“Yes. Mildred informed my husband of that, in November, after she and Sam had been to see Reverend Hodge about it.”
“Your husband?” I query because that strikes me as a little odd.
“Yes. I was out that evening… at a WI meeting, if memory serves. I remember, my husband wasn’t best pleased that she’d interrupted his radio programme to bother him with her domestic problems, but I suppose she must have forgotten that I wasn’t going to be at home.”
“Did you speak to her about the situation at all?” I ask.
“Yes. The next day.”
“And how did she seem to you?”
“Upset, obviously, which is understandable, although I did try and get her to see reason. Sam was only doing what was best for them, after all.”
I feel my skin tingle slightly and take a breath. “Can you explain that?” I ask, not wanting her to suspect that she might just have revealed the first real anomaly in our evidence.
“Well, Mildred told my husband that Sam had wanted to postpone the wedding because he was worried about being called up and leaving her by herself… and what might happen to her if he was injured… or killed.” She whispers the last word and turns away, staring at the fireplace, but then looks back at me. “I told her I thought it was sweet, and really quite sensible of him to be so concerned for her.”
I nod my head. “And can I ask whether Mildred getting married would have meant her losing her job here? Was that something she spoke to you about?”
She stares at me for a moment, confused. “No, she didn’t. And of course it wouldn’t, especially not at the moment.”
“Is that because domestic servants are so hard to come by?” I ask, feeling cynical.
“No,” she says, outraged now. “Things are different in war, Inspector, and I’m not talking about the difficulty with finding household staff. What I mean is that, if they had got married last December, as they’d planned, Mildred would have needed to keep her place. Sam would have still been called up, and she’d have needed the security of her income and the stability of her job and her home here with us to keep her going. In peacetime, things would have been different, of course, and I imagine that if we hadn’t been at war and they’d got married, Mildred would have handed in her notice straight away, so that she could set up home with Sam instead. They’d have wanted to live together and he’d have been working and would have been able to provide for her. It would have been a different thing entirely. I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, Inspector, but I can assure you…” She falls silent and I feel a little ashamed of having judged her, but then she smiles, quite unexpectedly. “Of course,” she says, her voice softening, “you’ve spoken with Susan Conroy, haven’t you?”
“Yes. We visited her and Mr Conroy yesterday.”
“Well, that makes sense.” She coughs, raising her hand to her mouth. “I can assure you, whatever Susan may have told you, I am not heartless, nor am I money-grubbing, or feckless. Susan is a very bitter woman, I’m afraid.”
“She is?” I query, even though I’ve seen evidence of the woman’s jealousy with my own eyes. I want to see what Mrs Wharton has to say on the matter, without any influence from me.
“Yes,” she replies, letting out a long sigh and running her fingers along her pearls. “Norman, Laurence and Susan all went to school together,” she explains. “But then Laurence went to university, while Norman went to work for his father at the factory, and Susan stayed here in the village. Norman and Susan started seeing each other some time after that – I’m not sure when – and before long, they were in a relationship. I have no idea whether it was physical and, quite frankly, I don’t care. I’m not the sort of woman who’s interested in the things that happened in my husband’s life before he met me. The past is the past, as far as I’m concerned. It’s what he’s done during our marriage that matters so much more…” She stops talking and seems to choke on her emotions, her bottom lip trembling noticeably, but then she remembers where she is, an
d our presence, and gathers herself together again. “I do know that Norman was the one who broke it off,” she continues, with some effort, “and shortly afterwards, he and I met, and we were married within a few months… for better or worse…” Her voice fades, but then she looks up again and says, “Susan has always resented me, no matter how hard I’ve tried to be friendly with her. So now, I’m afraid I don’t really try anymore.”
I nod my head, making sense in my own mind of Susan Conroy’s attitude, her jealousy, not only of her own husband, but also of Norman Wharton, adding a new angle to the case, as I wonder what she might do to protect the man she so clearly still loves… or what she may be willing to do to incriminate the woman who – in her mind at least – stole him from her.
Outside, once we’ve taken our leave, we make our way back to the car, walking slowly.
“I think that confirms our thoughts about Susan Conroy and her jealousy, don’t you?” Thompson says, pulling the car keys from his coat pocket.
“I do indeed. Not that they really needed confirming, but it’s interesting to know the background.” I fasten the buttons of my coat to stop it catching in the brisk wind. “I think it also confirms that Norman Wharton isn’t entirely faithful in his marriage, and that his wife knows about it. That comment she made about the things he’s done during their marriage mattering more… that was very telling, I thought.”
“Yes, so did I,” Thompson replies.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s still being unfaithful, but I think she suspects as much, don’t you?”
“Yes. And what we have to ask ourselves is whether he was being unfaithful with Mildred Ryder. She was their maid, after all.”
“Exactly.” I stop and turn to face him. “This is what I meant about the personalities of the people involved being so important to the case,” I explain. “Between their jealousies and obsessions, their personal frailties, and people assuming guilt in others, we’ve got ourselves a tangled web here. All we have to do is to work out who’s telling the truth, and who’s lying – and why – and then it should all untangle.”