by K. J. Frost
For myself, I’ve spent the last couple of hours in our bedroom, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, with just a fake headache and his love letter from another woman for company, trying to decide what on earth I’m going to do.
It was bad enough when I thought it was just Annie and Mildred, but to discover there’s another one – or maybe more than one – it’s too much, especially now I know he was thinking of leaving me. My God… the humiliation! Well, I’m damned if I’m going to let him keep doing this to me. Anyone could find out, and then where would we be? Because let’s face it, he’s so careless, leaving letters lying around that could incriminate him…
Wait a minute. Maybe that’s the answer.
“Could I?” I mutter under my breath.
Killing him is my first and most natural instinct, and I have to admit there would be so much satisfaction in murdering my lying, cheating husband, but then the police would be bound to suspect me, and that would never do. So, maybe incriminating him for my crimes is a better idea. That way he’ll pay for what he’s done to me, everyone will feel sorry for me, and I’ll be free of him; free to start again somewhere else, my conscience clear.
The only problem is, how to go about it?
My head genuinely starts to throb as I run through the possible scenarios, the ways in which I could implicate him, throw the blame in his direction, rather than my own. Thanks to him and his affairs, it’s complicated, and I need time…
But then, thinking about it, I have time. I have a few days at least, so there’s no need to rush. I can’t afford to. I need to make sure I work out my plan properly, so that I don’t get it wrong and end up shining too much light on myself.
I turn over and face the closed door, knowing there’s no way he’ll come up to check whether I’m all right, or if I need anything. He’s probably relieved I’m out of the way.
“I’ll make you pay,” I whisper, resting my head into the pillow and smiling to myself.
***
Thompson comes back into my office, having enlisted the help of Adams and Wells in discovering the identification of the men detailed in Mildred’s diaries.
“They’re going to go and see the church warden,” he says, sitting down in front of me again.
“You did tell them not to reveal why we want to know who those men are, didn’t you?” I ask, sitting forward.
“Of course. I may be slow, but I’m not that slow.”
“You’re not slow,” I remark and she smiles. “But I do have another job for you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Can you see if you can find out who Mildred’s doctor was?”
“I can… I’ll ring round. There can’t be too many GPs in Thames Ditton.”
He leaves my room, and I take the opportunity to read through Doctor Wyatt’s report, being as this is the first chance I’ve had since he delivered it this morning. I’m fairly sure he will have told us all the important information, but it’s good to make sure, and to check that I’m up to date on everything, which it seems I am, being as I don’t learn anything new from reading through the few pages enclosed in the brown file.
Thompson returns a lot more speedily than I’d anticipated, with a smile on his face and a piece of paper in his hand.
“Doctor Fraser,” he announces. “He’s in St. Leonard’s Road.”
I get up and go around my desk, putting on my coat and hat. “Let’s go and see what he can tell us.”
Thompson follows me out to the car, pulling on his own coat as he does so, and we’re just in time to see Wells and Adams leaving the station car park, presumably on their way to interview the church warden about Mildred’s diary entries.
“It’ll be good to get a result on that,” I say, nodding in their direction as Thompson and I climb into the car. “Even if only so we can eliminate everyone else.”
“You really are convinced you know who it is, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you can’t exactly put your finger on exactly how it was done?”
“Even then… but if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a pint.”
He smirks. “You think you can tear yourself away from Amelie for long enough to drink a whole pint?” he says.
I smile across at him, and reply, “I didn’t say I’d have one myself, did I?” and he laughs.
“You really have got it bad, haven’t you?”
“I certainly have.”
The doctor’s house is huge, set a little way back from the road, and has a brass plaque to the right of the door, announcing that this is his surgery, with his hours of business shown underneath his name.
“He knows we’re coming,” Thompson says, knocking on the door, which is answered promptly by a young woman with deep red hair, freckles and pale green eyes, who’s wearing a brown business suit, rather than the usual domestic uniform.
“We’re here to see Doctor Fraser,” I say to her, showing my warrant card.
“Oh yes… the gentlemen from the police.” We’re not often referred to as ‘gentlemen’, but I nod my head and step inside the house at her bidding.
The hallway is quite sparse, other than four chairs, which are lined up against the wall beside the door, but then I suppose this is the doctor’s place of business as well as his home and, as the woman closes the door, I glance to my left and notice a door, which is marked ‘Private’, leading I presume to his personal quarters.
“This way,” she says, by-passing the half-open door to our left, through which I can see a desk, on top of which is a telephone and a typewriter. The room – which I gather to be her office – looks out over the front of the house, allowing her to see the comings and goings of the doctor’s patients. Knocking on the second door, which is closed, she passes straight through and holds it open for Thompson and I to follow, announcing, “It’s the police, Doctor,” as she does so.
Inside, the room is comfortably furnished, with an examining couch, two chairs, a large book case, and an antique desk, behind which sits a slim, middle-aged man, with steel grey hair and a slightly darker moustache, dressed in a checked tweed jacket, white shirt and brown tie. He stands upon our entry and holds out his hand.
“Doctor Fraser,” he says, introducing himself.
“I’m Detective Inspector Stone,’ I reply, shaking his hand. “And this is Detective Sergeant Thompson.” The doctor shakes Thompson’s hand too, going up in my estimation, unlike so many others, who choose to ignore him. “I apologise for interrupting your day.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, indicating the seats in front of his desk, as the door closes behind us, his secretary departing and leaving us in peace. “When Miss Hayward told me you’d phoned, I knew what it was about.” He sits down himself, leans his elbows on the desk and stares at me. “This is to do with Mildred Ryder, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Such a bad business,” he says, his voice soft and quiet. “And such a lovely girl.”
“So I gather.”
“I heard about what happened to her on the village grapevine, yesterday evening,” he adds, explaining himself. “But then, it’s hard to keep anything a secret around here.”
“Well, I don’t think many people knew Mildred was pregnant,” I remark, watching his reaction. He blinks a few times, then lowers his head for a moment, before raising it again, his eyes saddened.
“No… I don’t think they did,” he says.
“She saw you a few days before her death, I understand?”
“Yes… I had Miss Hayward look up my appointments after your telephone call. Mildred came to see me at twelve-thirty last Wednesday.”
I nod my head, recalling the entry in her diary, which tallies exactly. “Did she realise she was pregnant before she came here?”
“She suspected,” he replies.
“And yet she waited quite some time before coming to see you,” I say, almost to myself. “She was three months gone, I believe.”
> He sighs. “Yes, she was, but that’s not unusual, Inspector. We quite often don’t see women until they’re three, or even four months along. At the risk of giving you more information than you might want or need, a lot of women don’t have a regular cycle. So they don’t necessarily notice if they miss a period, or even two, or three.”
“And if they do have a regular cycle?” I ask, recalling the crosses in Mildred’s diary.
The doctor smiles now, as though I’m an errant child, and he’s the patient teacher. “Are you married, Inspector?” he asks.
“Yes. Just.”
His smile widens. “Then you’ll learn that there are all sorts of reasons why a woman’s menstrual cycle can become unbalanced, assuming it was ever balanced in the first place, of course.”
“Such as?” I’m intrigued now, on several levels.
“Illness, stress, emotional upheaval…” He lets his voice fade.
“So postponing your wedding might be enough?”
He shrugs “I think Mildred was hoping so, yes.” He slowly shakes his head. “Obviously she was wrong, in this instance.”
“I see. And how did she react when you told her the news?”
“To start with, she just sat there, right where you are, and didn’t say a thing. And then she broke down.”
“Is that a normal reaction?” I ask, having no knowledge of such things myself.
He smiles. “With unmarried mothers, it can be. Of course, if they’re looking to ensnare a young man into marriage, then their response can be markedly different.” He raises his eyebrows for a moment, and then continues, “But that wasn’t the case with Mildred.”
“She told you it wasn’t Sam’s baby?” I ask.
“Not in so many words,” he replies, sitting back in his chair. “What she said was, ‘That’s it. He’ll never want to marry me now,’ which made me think it couldn’t be Sam’s, because I’m fairly sure he’d have jumped at the chance.” He hesitates, tilting his head to one side.
“What is it, Doctor?”
“You realise I can’t discuss Sam Higgs with you?” he says and I nod my head. “But what I can tell you is that he came to see me early in December, not long after Mildred had asked him to postpone their wedding. He was concerned that there was something wrong with her.”
“Why?” I ask. Sam didn’t mention this when we spoke to him, and I’m wondering why that might have been.
“Because Mildred wasn’t being herself. That’s what he said, anyway. He was understandably upset and frustrated about the wedding at the time, but his main concern was with Mildred. He said she seemed distant. He used the word ‘remote’.”
“I see. And what did you tell him?”
“I suggested that he try to get Mildred to come and see me. I couldn’t diagnose her, or even advise them, without seeing her.”
“Did she come and see you?”
“Not then, no. The next time I saw her was when she came last Wednesday.”
“Oh.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know whether Sam tried to persuade her and failed, or whether he decided to leave it and see what happened.”
“And when you say he was upset and frustrated, do you think he’d have done anything… stupid, shall we say?”
“Sam? Good God, no,” he exclaims, then pauses, thinking. “Sam loved Mildred very much, Inspector,” he says at last. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple so well suited as they were. He wouldn’t have cheated on her, if that’s what you’re thinking, no matter how frustrated he was. And he wouldn’t have hurt her either.” I can’t help smiling as I nod my head, and the doctor smiles back. “You’d worked that out about Sam for yourself, had you?” he asks.
“Well, something along those lines, yes.” I sit forward. “So, were you surprised by Mildred’s pregnancy?”
“Stunned,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
“Have you remembered something?” I ask, recognising the signs.
“Yes,” he replies softly, getting up and coming around the desk, standing directly in front of me. “She… she took a while to calm down after I’d given her the news, and then once it became clear that the baby wasn’t Sam’s, because of her comment about him not wanting to marry her anymore, I stood here, where I am now, and asked her outright who the father was.”
“What did she say?” I’m holding my breath in anticipation now.
“She stared at me for ages, and then she shook her head and said she couldn’t tell me, and burst into tears again.”
I want to swear, loudly, but then I suppose an actual name was too much to hope for. And in any case, I think the doctor would have told us before now, if he’d known.
“Did she say anything at all after that?” I ask.
“Yes. I—I was trying to calm her down,” he explains, “and I said to her that she didn’t have to tell me, but that she ought to tell the man concerned… whoever he was. She refused to start with, becoming almost hysterical at the prospect, but I reasoned with her, that it was his responsibility. She stopped crying then, rather suddenly, and I’m fairly sure she said, ‘It is, isn’t it? It’s his fault’, although it was hard to tell exactly what she was saying, because she only whispered that part, and she was still very upset, but I’m almost certain that was it, and then she got up and left. I followed her out, telling her to come and see me again in a couple of days, but I don’t know whether she even heard me. It was like she was in a trance, Inspector.”
“I’m going to ask you something now, Doctor,” I say, much more seriously. “And I want you to think carefully about your answer. I’m also going to ask you to treat this part of our conversation in the strictest of confidence.”
“I’m treating every part of our conversation in the strictest of confidence,” he replies, leaning back on his desk and folding his arms.
“Good.” I smile up at him. “You knew Mildred Ryder quite well, I take it?”
“Yes. I brought her into this world,” he replies.
“So, do you think she’s the sort of girl who would have been unfaithful to Sam?”
He shakes his head at once. “Absolutely not,” he says, unfolding his arms and pushing his fingers back through his hair. “And, to be honest, that’s been worrying me since I heard about her murder. I mean, it was troubling me before, but I’d hoped to be able to see her again, to talk things through with her and find out exactly what had gone on…” His voice fades.
“You think she was raped?” I ask and he blanches.
“That’s a strong word, Inspector.”
“It’s the only word we have. If she didn’t give her consent and willingly have sexual relations with whoever the man was, then she was raped. Legally, that is the definition… morally, that is the definition. There’s no dressing it up because the consequences might be unpleasant.”
“No, I know,” he replies, going back around the desk and flopping into his chair. “The problem is that this is a small village and the list of suspects isn’t exactly lengthy. And I know them all. It’s personal, Inspector, however you look at it.”
“I’m aware of that, Doctor. But you can leave the suspects to me. I just need your professional opinion.”
“Well, obviously the event itself took place too long ago for me to be medically certain,” he says, frowning. “But in terms of Mildred’s personality, coupled with her reactions when I told her of her condition, I’d be willing to wager a month’s income that she didn’t give her consent to whatever took place.”
“In other words, it is your view – albeit not a medical one – that Mildred Ryder was raped.”
He pauses, lets out a sigh, and then nods his head.
By the time Thompson and I get back to the station, it’s nearly five and there’s no sign of either Adams or Wells anywhere. The prospect of churning things over and over for the next hour or so doesn’t appeal, especially as I don’t think we’ve got anything new to say, despite our visit to the good doctor. All he’s re
ally done is confirm my suspicions, but there’s not a lot we can do about that tonight.
“I’m going home,” I announce, not bothering to take off my hat and coat. “I’ve had enough today.” It’s been one of those days, and this is one of those cases… and at the moment, I’m not sure we’re getting very far. We’re nowhere near close enough to being able to make an arrest, even if I do think I know who’s responsible for Mildred’s death. Knowing it and proving it are two different things and I’m a long way from being able to prove my theories.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with a need to get back to your wife, would it?” he suggests.
“No comment.”
“I don’t think you need to comment,” he replies, smirking. “It’s written all over your face.”
“What is?”
“That you should have left here five minutes ago, instead of standing around talking to me,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rufus.”
I wish him goodnight and go straight back down the stairs again. My car is parked in the corner, but I can manoeuvre it out of the parking space and I set off home, looking forward to seeing Amelie again after the day I’ve had, and wondering how she’s been faring with the cottage pie. I resolve to myself that I’m going to praise it to the hills, regardless of how it tastes, because I know how much it means to her… and when I’ve done that, I’m going to take her to bed.
I let myself into the house, which is in darkness, shutting the door behind me and checking that the curtains and blackout are closed before I turn on the light and remove my hat and coat, placing them on the hook behind the door. Taking off my jacket, I leave it over the back of the sofa, calling out a loud, “Hello,” to Amelie as I do.
“I’m in here,” she replies, her voice coming from the kitchen, and I make my way through, keeping my fingers crossed that this evening goes better than Saturday did – at least in terms of her attempt at cooking, anyway.
I pass through the dining room, where the table is already laid, and follow the lovely smells that are emanating from the kitchen, discovering my beautiful wife, who is standing, leaning with her hip against kitchen sink, looking rather pleased with herself. She’s wearing her brown wide-legged trousers and a thick beige sweater, and she looks utterly adorable, as ever. I know men are supposed to find their wives more appealing in tight fitting, more revealing outfits, but for myself, I find this kind of casual attire much more enticing.