by K. J. Frost
“That’s understandable,” I reply, doing my best to sound sympathetic. I mean, I am sympathetic; I’m just not in the best frame of mind for showing it today.
“Shirley’s been covering for me,” she continues, as though she hasn’t heard me. “I know I ought to be stronger, but…” She lowers her eyes.
I feel even worse now, knowing what we’re about to tell her, but I honestly don’t see how we can avoid revealing the truth. I doubt there’s anything she’ll be able to tell us, but I feel that if we delay, there’s a chance she’ll hear it from someone else.
“I’m afraid I have something to tell you,” I begin and she looks up at me, fear crossing her eyes.
“What is it?” she asks.
I take a breath, and then sigh. “I’m sorry, but I have to inform you that Mildred was three months pregnant when she was killed.”
For a second or two Mrs Ryder doesn’t respond at all, but then her face crumples and she starts to cry, great sobs wracking her body, and for a moment, I consider going to her to see if I can comfort her. But then I realise I have nothing to offer… not in these circumstances. Her grief is simply too profound for anyone to reach her. So, I let her weep, the room filled with the sounds of her anguish.
Eventually, she manages to calm and turns to face us, her eyes filled with anger, rather than sadness, which surprises me.
“Does Sam know?” she says bitterly. “Does he know what he did?”
“He knows, yes, but he denies responsibility.”
Her eyes positively flash with rage. “How dare he?” She sits forward in her chair, making me wonder if she’s found a new lease of life in her fury, and whether she intends having it out with Sam in person, not that she can, because he’ll have already left for the barracks by now. All of a sudden though, she sits back again, deflated. “How could he… I mean, how could they be so stupid?” she murmurs and covers her face with her hands. She’s not crying now; she seems bewildered and, after a couple of seconds, she lowers her hands again, looking directly at me. “I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m not making much sense, am I?” I don’t reply and she continues, “It’s just that Mildred assured me they were waiting until they were married. She… she had good reason to, you see…” Her voice fades and she gazes out of the window, avoiding eye contact, I think. Sensing that there’s more to come, and that me informing her, again, that Sam had nothing to do with Mildred’s condition isn’t going to help, I sit in silence and wait, while Thompson shifts in his seat beside me. After less than a minute, Mrs Ryder turns back to face us, her cheeks even paler than they were before. “Mildred was conceived at the end of the last war,” she says quietly, “right before Bill was due to be sent to France. Th—there wasn’t time to get married, but so many men had gone and not come back… and we both wanted something to remember the other by. We knew it was a risk, but at the time we were young, and we didn’t care.” She blinks a few times. “I think war does that to people, don’t you?” I nod my head and she continues, “Anyway, by the time Bill got out to France, the war was all but over, and he was back home again within a few months, by which time Mildred was already well on the way. I’d written and told him, naturally, and he’d proposed to me in his returning letter.” She lowers her eyes again. “I was nearly six months gone when I stood outside that registry office on the arm of my new husband, Inspector, and I thought my mother was going to die of shame… not that Bill and I ever had a moment’s regret, you understand. Not one.”
“Did Mildred know about this?” I ask.
“Yes. She found out when she was about thirteen. She was a bit shocked at the time, but we didn’t talk about it much… not until she and Sam got engaged, and then she vowed she wasn’t going to make the same mistake herself, not even if we ended up going to war, which a lot of us thought quite likely, no matter that Mr Chamberlain had been waving bits of paper around just a few months before, and telling us to sleep quietly in our beds… stupid little man.” She stops for a second and takes a breath. “That’s why this… this pregnancy doesn’t make sense…” Her voice fades and I want to tell her that I agree with her. It doesn’t make sense, for the very simple reason that it didn’t happen like that. But I’m not sure this woman can cope with hearing the whole story yet, not that I know the whole story myself, not in terms of who really is responsible for what happened to Mildred, and I think it’s best if Mrs Ryder remains ignorant of the situation until I can tell her everything.
I stand up, making it clear we have nothing further to say. “I’m very sorry, Mrs Ryder… for everything.”
She stands too, shaking her head, clearly confused, and leads the way to the front door, opening it. “Thank you for coming to tell me,” she replies, which is rather humbling, considering I know how much I’ve held back.
“Don’t think badly of her,” I say, because I think it needs saying.
“I don’t. Like I say, war makes people do things they wouldn’t normally even think about.” She sounds so sad, I re-double my resolve to find out who raped Mildred and bring him to justice… no matter who he is.
We’re driving along the river before Thompson turns and glances at me. “You decided not to tell her about the rape then?”
“Yes.”
“Any reason for that?”
“She’ll find out soon enough,” I reply. “And being as we can’t tell her who’s responsible, it seemed cruel to add to her woes…”
“And you think it’s all right for her to have misgivings about Mildred and Sam’s behaviour, do you?” He sounds cross and I turn in my seat to face him, although he’s looking out of the windscreen, concentrating on the road.
“Yes, at the moment, I do. You heard her at the end… she said she doesn’t think badly of Mildred, but can you imagine what would happen if we told her Mildred had been raped? She’d be wondering by whom, and how much she’d suffered as a consequence, and why she hadn’t noticed any change in Mildred herself… It would be so much worse for her.”
“Well, she’s going to have to hear about it eventually,” he reasons, angrily.
“I know, but at least when she does, we’ll be able to tell her who the guilty party is, and hopefully, exactly what happened. There won’t be anything for her to mull over and drive herself insane with. And the man will be in custody, so any thoughts she might have of confronting him will come to nothing.”
He turns into the station, driving under the archway that leads to the small car park, and pulls up alongside my MG. “I suppose,” he says glumly and gets out of the car.
I check my watch and notice that it’s nearly a quarter to twelve, before climbing from the car myself.
“Can you manage without me for an hour?” I ask as he walks around the back of the vehicle, heading for the door.
“Yes,” he replies, and I wonder if he’s relieved at the prospect of my absence, given my foul mood.
“Good.” I go straight to my car, looking over the top of it as he stares at me. “I’ll be back later.”
He nods his head, looking confused, but doesn’t reply, and I climb in, starting the engine and reversing out of my parking space.
As I drive back to Molesey, I reason that Amelie should have finished with my mother and the shopping by now, and that we can spend at least half an hour or so talking, because I honestly think I’m going to go mad, if I don’t get this off my chest… if I don’t tell her how I feel, and how worried – no, scared – I am, since this morning.
I’m in Walton Road within ten minutes, the traffic being light and my right foot being heavy on the accelerator pedal, and am just passing The Fox public house, when I notice Amelie coming out of School Road, her shopping basket on her arm. She’s wearing her navy blue coat and a grey beret on her head, which is bowed down, and she hasn’t even glanced in my direction, so I pull over to the side of the road, park the car, and get out, calling to her. She turns, looking around and then her eyes settle on me and although her initial reaction is confusion, a smil
e quickly forms on her lips, which lightens my leaden heart, and I run across the road to her.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, looking up at me.
I don’t reply, not directly anyway, but take her shopping basket from her. “Would you mind if I joined you?”
She tilts her head, still smiling. “Of course not, although I’m not going anywhere exciting… just to the greengrocer’s, and the butcher’s.”
“Then let me walk with you.”
She links her arm through mine and we start off down the road, facing into a fairly chilly wind. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” she asks, after just a few paces.
“To see you,” I reply, leaning into her. She looks up and I turn to her, seeing the suspicion in her eyes. “Okay, I’ll admit… I’ve had an absolutely terrible morning.”
“Why?” She stops walking, her concern obvious. “What’s happened?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She frowns. “And that’s terrible?”
“It is at the moment, yes.”
An old woman walks past, tutting, because we’re blocking the pavement, and I pull Amelie aside, closer to the shop window behind us.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“I mean that I still feel guilty about our argument last night. But also… this morning… it was all wrong.”
Now she really frowns, to the point where I wonder if she’s about to cry. “What was wrong with it?” she says, lowering her voice to a mere whisper. “We had a lovely time in the bath… at least, I thought we did. I thought it was perfect.”
“It was,” I reply quickly to quell her rising doubt. “That part of the morning was completely perfect. But that’s not the part I’m talking about.”
“Then I don’t understand,” she says, leaning back.
“I’m talking about what happened afterwards.”
“Afterwards?”
“Yes… you were so detached, so distant over breakfast, and then at the door, when I asked you, you didn’t say you loved me.”
“Yes I did,” she reasons.
“No you didn’t. You kissed me and sent me on my way to work.”
She shakes her head just slightly, her brow furrowing. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve come home in the middle of the day because I wasn’t quite as talkative as usual over breakfast, and because I didn’t say ‘I love you’ when you asked?”
“Yes. And I know that all makes me sound ridiculously insecure, but the thought of spending another moment in turmoil, worrying about what might be wrong between us was beyond me. Ask Harry… he’ll tell you. I’ve been an absolute bear to work with this morning, and if I’m going to stand a chance of getting anything done today, I knew the only hope I had was to come home and talk it through with you.”
She reaches out, placing her flattened palm on my chest. “You need to stop,” she says firmly.
“Stop what?”
“All of this. You need to stop feeling guilty about our argument, for one thing.”
“Why? I hurt you. I don’t like how that makes me feel. And I especially don’t like the thought that you ran from me.”
“Well, I’m sorry I ran. I shouldn’t have done that. It was very childish of me, but you know me well enough to know that I can be childish at times.” She smiles up at me, and I try to smile back. “I do understand why you said the things you said,” she says calmly, moving closer to me.
“You do?” I’m not even sure I understand them, so her statement surprises me.
“Yes. You were trying to protect me, like you always do.” Well, that’s true enough.
“I know. But I went about it the wrong way. I was overbearing.”
“No you weren’t. You just didn’t express yourself very well, that’s all.” She leans into me, looking up into my eyes in a very tempting way, forcing me to remember that we’re in a public place, as she whispers, “I like being protected by you.”
“But not smothered,” I say, without thinking.
“You never smother me,” she replies, sighing. “You love me.”
“Yes, I do. So very much… and I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry. You’ve apologised enough and you need to stop that too, and let me apologise for once.”
“What on earth for?”
“For this morning,” she says. “I’m sorry if you thought I was detached, and I’m especially sorry that I didn’t say ‘I love you’. I thought I had, but obviously not. The truth is, after we’d finished our bath, I—I… didn’t feel all that well…” Her voice fades and I drop the basket to the ground, pulling her into my arms and holding her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she replies, leaning her head on my chest. “I think I’m still just a bit tired and run down, that’s all. I feel fine now.”
“You need to rest,” I tell her, raising her face to mine. “And we need to get to bed earlier.”
She leans back, smiling up at me. “I don’t think it’s the getting to bed that’s the issue, do you?” she murmurs.
“No, but I could try being less demanding, and let you get more sleep.”
Her face falls. “That’s not the problem,” she says, biting her bottom lip. “And in any case, I like your demands… although that’s not how I see them. And I’m sorry I didn’t say I love you when you asked me this morning… I really am. It wasn’t consciously done, I promise. I love you so much, Rufus, and I need you all the time. I miss you when you’re not with me…” She pauses and looks up into my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I’m doing my best.”
“Hey…” I cup her face in my hand, the other still holding her close to me. “You’re doing an amazing job, but the next time you don’t feel well, can you promise to tell me? I’ve been worried sick all morning…” I stop talking for a moment and decide to be completely honest with her. “Actually, that’s not true. I’ve been absolutely terrified all morning, that I’d done something else wrong, other than hurt you yesterday, that is. I thought I’d done something to lose your love… and if I ever did that, it would break me, Amelie.”
I gaze into her eyes and she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I say, brushing my thumb along her bottom lip.
“Then you have to stop being sorry too,” she replies, finding her voice.
“Okay… as long as you promise that you’re not angry, or upset with me in any way.”
She sighs and just stops short of rolling her eyes. “Do you think I could have done what we did last night, and this morning, with quite so much enthusiasm, if I’d been angry or upset with you?”
“No. Probably not.”
“There’s no ‘probably’ about it, Inspector.”
She’s right. There isn’t. I know her well enough already to know that she wears her heart on her sleeve. If she’d still been cross with me, there’s no way we’d have ended our evening the way we did, and she certainly wouldn’t have agreed to bathe with me this morning. She just isn’t capable of that kind of pretence.
“So can we stop apologising?” she asks, tilting her head and looking up at me.
“Yes, we can.”
She nods her head in satisfaction, and I pull her close to me once more, stroking her hair for a few moments, until she leans back in my arms, looking up at me, a little recovered.
“Now…” she says, her voice a little stronger. “I think it’s high time you went back to catching criminals, don’t you?”
I smile down at her. “Only after I’ve helped you with the shopping. You’re tired, remember?”
“I’m not that tired.” She is. I can hear it in her voice.
“Even so…” I pick up the basket and hold out my arm to her, and without a second’s hesitation – I’m pleased to say – she links her hand through and we walk on down the street. “Where to first?” I ask.
“The greengrocer’s,” sh
e replies. “I’d have gone there straight from your mother’s but I neglected to bring a basket… or any money. I’m being so forgetful, I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
“I think we’ve already established, haven’t we, that you’re over tired. Which is why I’m here.”
She leans into me. “And I’m very grateful. But are you sure you’ve got time for this?”
“Positive.” I steer us towards the road and wait for a car to pass before we cross to the other side. “And even if I didn’t, I’d make time. I told you once, not that long ago, that I would stop time, if I had to, for you.”
She looks up into my eyes and sighs, “Yes, you did, didn’t you?” and then nestles into me, her head on my shoulder, and we walk on a short distance, arm in arm, until we come to the greengrocer’s shop, where I reluctantly let go of Amelie, allowing her to pass through the doorway ahead of me. The owner, a Mr Woods, turns to us as we enter, raising an eyebrow at my presence, but saying nothing.
“What can I get you?” he asks Amelie.
“I need a pound of potatoes,” she says quietly, almost as though she’s shy of the man, and he turns and starts weighing them, adding one more and tipping them, loose, into the basket.
“And a pound of carrots,” Amelie says as he turns back.
He weighs out the carrots, adding them to the potatoes.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“No, I think that’s it.” Amelie seems uncertain and I recall that she’s supposed to be making a stew this evening.
“What about onions?” I suggest and she looks up at me, with a half smile on her lips, before turning back to Mr Woods.
“Do you have a couple of onions?” she asks.
“We do indeed,” he replies, giving her a wink, then placing two small onions in the basket and smiling up at me.
“That’s everything,” Amelie says with confidence and I place the basket on the floor, reaching into my jacket for my wallet. “I’ve got money,” Amelie says quietly. “You gave me some on Saturday, remember?”