by K. J. Frost
“I know, but being as I’m here…” I leave my sentence hanging and lean down, kissing her forehead as I hand the money over to Mr Woods, who’s grinning now, looking from me to Amelie and back again, benignly.
Giving back the change, he bids us a warm farewell, and we continue down Walton Road, crossing back over again to get to the butcher’s.
“What kind of stew are we having?” I ask Amelie as we approach the shop.
“Your mother said the type of meat didn’t really matter,” she explains. “And, to be honest, I was rather pleased about that.”
“Oh?” I look down at her and she shakes her head, although she’s smiling.
“They had me so confused by the time I left,” she says.
“About making stew?” I’m confused myself now. I’m not the world’s greatest culinary expert, but I’ve always found stews particularly simple fare.
“About making pastry,” she replies and I pull her to a stop.
“Pastry?”
She chuckles. “Yes. We went through the whole process of making the stew, which was really quite straightforward, but then Issa started telling me that the recipe for a meat pie has a similar starting point, and that you can make a stew and then use it to fill a pie, or use leftover stew, if you’ve got any… which led on to the making of pastry.”
“And that was a problem?”
“Yes, because your mother and your aunts couldn’t agree on what kind of pastry was best for a meat pie, and then they couldn’t agree on how to make it.”
“Oh dear…”
“Hello, Inspector!”
I look up at the sound of the male voice that’s just beckoned, and am surprised to see the Reverend Hodge and Mr Wharton walking towards us. It’s the reverend who’s spoken and he has a broad smile plastered on his face.
“Good afternoon,” I reply, to be polite.
“I’ve been visiting with Mr Wharton here,” the vicar explains, even though I haven’t enquired. “I wanted to make sure he’s not been too badly affected by Miss Ryder’s death.”
That strikes me as particularly odd, considering that, if anyone was going to be ‘affected’, I would have thought it would have been Mrs Wharton, not her husband… and I’m not sure Mr Wharton would have appreciated a visit from the reverend anyway, being as he’s not religious. It seems strange that the man would go all the way over to West Molesey, just to check up on someone who isn’t a part of his flock…
“We decided we’d have some lunch together,” Wharton adds, which seems equally incongruous.
“Our wives are both at the parish lunch today,” the vicar adds. “It’s a regular thing and, to be honest, I don’t mind in the slightest, being as my wife is a fairly shocking cook.” I remember him telling me that yesterday, when Thompson and I visited the vicarage, although he seems to have forgotten himself.
Wharton laughs. “I can’t say mine’s much better, so any excuse not to go home for lunch at the moment is welcome.”
I glare at the two of them, expressionless, noting the exchange of looks between them, before they turn, as one, and stare at Amelie.
“Allow me to introduce my wife,” I say, without actually giving her name. To me, it’s sufficient that these two men should know her as ‘Mrs Stone’, and if that seems a trifle possessive, then so be it.
Amelie lets go of me and offers her hand, politely, and the men in front of us step forward, almost grabbing for her, to the point where I take a half step forward myself, while placing an arm around her waist, keeping her close to me. I’m aware of her muscles tensing against me and I tighten my own, just so she knows I’m not letting her go.
Wharton is staring quite openly, his mouth slightly agape. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he croons, and Amelie nods her head. His eyes are alight with desire and I feel my anger rise, in spite of my best efforts to stay calm. The vicar takes his turn, his hand grasping Amelie’s, and I struggle not to gasp at the expression on his face, which is one of pure lust. My rising anger threatens to boil over, so before it does, and I end up punching the man, I pull Amelie back slightly.
“I’m afraid we can’t stop, gentlemen,” I say stiffly.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Wharton says, his eyes still fixed on Amelie, although when I glance at Reverend Hodge, I find his silent lechery much more worrisome than his friend’s obvious flirtation.
“Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you both… very soon,” I reply, managing to put a soupçon of menace into my voice, sufficient to make them both blanch and return their gaze to me, at least.
“You will?” The reverend says.
“Oh… you can count on it.”
Placing my hand on Amelie’s elbow, I lead her away, and she looks up at me after we’ve gone a few yards.
“At least I’m not the only housewife who can’t cook,” she jokes, her voice sounding a little high pitched and false.
I stop walking and turn to her, cupping her face with my free hand. “I don’t care. You have so much more to offer…” I lean down and gently brush my lips against hers, then hold them there, absorbing her into me, until she finally pulls away, glancing first to her left and then her right.
“We’re on the street,” she says, blushing.
“So what?” I reply, shaking my head. “You’re my wife. I’m allowed to kiss you, and in any case, I don’t care… unless me kissing you in public makes you feel uncomfortable,” I add as an afterthought.
“No, not at all. Although those men did.” Her voice drops to a whisper.
“I know.”
“The vicar was especially disagreeable. I felt like he was undressing me with his eyes.”
I pull her closer, so our bodies are touching. “No-one gets to undress you, except me,” I murmur into her ear.
“Good,” she breathes back, letting out a sigh. “I’m glad you were here with me.”
“I’ll always be with you. I’ll always keep you safe.”
She snuggles into me again, and I turn us, keeping my arm around her, as we continue our walk to the butcher’s, our eyes fixed on each other, oblivious to everything and everyone else.
Inside the shop, Amelie studies the various cuts of meat on display. “We had beef yesterday,” she muses. “How about mutton?”
“Or we could have rabbit,” I suggest, pointing to the display of grey and brown furry creatures hanging upside down behind the counter.
“Rabbit?” She sounds almost afraid and I try not to laugh. “I—I don’t think I could skin a rabbit,” she says quietly.
“You don’t need to, madam.” The man behind the counter steps forward, his rotund figure covered with a blue and white striped apron, his red face smiling across at my wife. “We have some already skinned out the back, if you’d like…?”
Amelie glances up at me. “You want rabbit?” she asks.
“Why not?”
“Very well.” She turns back to the butcher. “One rabbit, please,” she says, then stops and looks back at me again. “Is one enough?”
“One will be fine, darling.” I kiss her forehead and give the butcher a nod of my head, whereupon he disappears through a door behind him, returning within moments, carrying a fairly large, skinned rabbit. “Could you portion it for us, please?” I ask and Amelie looks at me. “You don’t want to do that, do you?” I check, and she shakes her head quickly.
The butcher grins, but turns away before Amelie notices, and makes quick work of quartering the rabbit, then wraps it in paper and hands it across the counter for Amelie to put into the basket, before I go and pay at the booth to our right, where an older woman is sitting, waiting.
“You realise your mother didn’t tell me how to cook rabbit,” Amelie says once we’re outside again, walking back home, hand in hand.
“Just treat it the same as you would any other meat,” I explain. “If you were going to brown the beef, or the mutton, then brown the rabbit, and add the vegetables…”
She nods her head. “Do yo
u think I’ll ever get the hang of all this?”
“Of course you will. It just takes practice, that’s all.”
“Well, I just hope you don’t regret your decision,” she murmurs.
“In choosing rabbit?” I query.
“No, in marrying me.”
I chuckle and grip her hand tighter. “That’s one thing I’ll never regret.”
When we get home, I deposit my hat on the back of the sofa and carry the basket straight through to the kitchen, placing it on the draining board, and then return to Amelie, who’s standing in the living room still, staring into space.
“What’s wrong, darling?” She looks a little pale and I wonder if she’s feeling unwell again.
“Nothing,” she replies and I undo the buttons of her coat, easing it from her shoulders and hanging it on the hook behind the door.
“Why don’t you sit down for a while?” I suggest.
“I’m fine, Rufus, honestly,” she says, coming back to her senses.
“You don’t seem fine. You drifted off for a minute then.” I rest my hands on her shoulders, gazing at her.
“I know… that’s because I’ve just realised something.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I’ve just realised how lucky I am.” I step closer, moving my hands up and cradling her face instead.
“What’s wrong?” I repeat.
“Nothing’s wrong… except that I’m grateful for you.”
“Grateful?” I query, because that seems like such an odd thing to say.
“Yes.” She nods her head, her eyes locking with mine. “Just now, when we met those two men, before we went to the butchers, they looked at me like I was a piece of meat… it was uncomfortable.”
“I know it was,” I reassure her.
“But that’s the point,” she says quickly, like she’s impatient to get her point across. “You knew, maybe even before I did, how nervous those men would make me feel. And that’s what makes you so special, because – rather stupidly – I’ve only just realised how chivalrous you really are. I mean… I’ve always known it, I suppose, but perhaps I’ve never appreciated it fully, until now. I’ve got no experience of other men, you see, or how they behave around women, but I think it’s just hit me how lucky I am. And I’m sorry… I’m so sorry I ran from you last night, and that I didn’t tell you I how much I love you this morning… because I do, Rufus. I really do love you. P—Please forgive me…”
“There’s nothing to forgive… and if I remember rightly, we said we weren’t going to keep apologising to each other, didn’t we?” She nods her head, just once. “I just want to keep you safe, my love.”
“I am safe, because you’re here.”
I smile down at her. “I’ll always be here,” I whisper, leaning down and kissing her gently. “But you’re wrong about one thing…”
“What’s that?”
“I’m the lucky one.”
Chapter Eleven
The parish lunch was an idea the WI came up with a few years ago, supposedly as an event for newcomers to the village, to enable them to introduce themselves, and for existing congregation members to socialise… but in reality, there aren’t that many newcomers. It’s just an excuse for everyone to gossip, and today is certainly no exception. The usual village scandal-mongers are out in force, gathered together in small huddles around the sparse interior of the church hall, whispering none too quietly about the shameful incident that has rocked our sleepy little community.
None of them seem to be aware of Mildred’s pregnancy, not from anything I’ve heard, and I’m not about to alert them, just in case they start asking too many questions about who the father might be.
Today, it’s my turn to help clear away the tables and, as I pass around checking to see who’s finished, before removing their plates, I overhear Mrs Barlow comment to Miss Simmons that she came to the church hall a different way today, ‘to avoid walking anywhere near where it happened.’
“I know,” Miss Simmons replies. “My dear, I know exactly how you feel. There might be a policeman still standing there, but I simply cannot bring myself to go anywhere near the place.”
I’m so tempted to tell them not to be so stupid. It’s not like Mildred’s body is still there, after all. She’s not going to rise up from the dead and start wailing at them either. But I’m determined to remain as anonymous as possible, and so I pass on, wondering to myself how any of these people manage to cope on a day-to-day basis, with so little between their ears.
I’m carrying a stack of plates through to the kitchen, when I spot Clifford Lacey out of the corner of my eye, looking like he’s going to follow me, more’s the pity. He’s one of the few men who attend these luncheons, mainly because most of men in the congregation are working during the day, and those who aren’t probably have better things to do with their time than sit around listening to a group of women gossiping. Personally, I think he likes the gossip, and of course, he’d never say ‘no’ to a free lunch.
I’ve always thought of Clifford Lacey as a rather pernickety man. He’s probably in his mid-sixties, I suppose, short and rather wiry, with a balding head, and half-moon glasses.
“There’s still a policeman in the churchyard,” he says, coming into the kitchen behind me, as I expected. “Have you seen him?”
No-one answers, even though there are five of us in here, either clearing plates, washing up, or drying.
“Well,” he continues, when it becomes clear none of us is particularly interested, “they didn’t come and ask me… you know that, don’t you?”
“Were they supposed to?” Mary Norris asks from her place by the sink. She doesn’t turn around, but then she doesn’t need to for me to hear the smile in her voice, which makes my own lips twitch upwards, and I turn around myself, so that Clifford can’t see me stifling a laugh at his pomposity.
“Of course they were,” he replies. “It’s my responsibility as Church Warden to maintain peace and order in the churchyard.”
“Well, you’ve got a policeman to help now,” Mary replies.
“That’s not really the point,” Clifford replies, sneering at her behind her back. “The point is, they didn’t have the courtesy to ask, even though I had two of them with me for a good couple of hours, yesterday afternoon.”
We all stop what we’re doing and turn to face him.
“You did?” Mary asks, water dripping from her hands onto the floor.
“Yes,” he replies, seemingly gratified to have got everyone’s attention, at last.
“Why was that?” I ask, intrigued, wondering if perhaps I might learn something to my advantage about the way in which the case is developing. I have more of a vested interest than anyone else, after all.
“Well, I’m not sure I should tell…” he teases, even though we all know he can’t help himself. “But I don’t suppose it can do any harm.” He glances around, like he’s checking to make sure no-one else is listening, and then moves a little further into the room. “They came to see me because they wanted me to identify a list of names.”
“Names?” Mary queries, sounding disappointed, although I’m still very interested myself.
“Yes. They were all entries in Mildred’s diary.” He suddenly turns to face me. “Your husband was among them,” he says, “along with half the other men in the village.”
“Just men?” I ask, even though my heart has just leapt into my mouth, making it quite difficult to speak.
“Yes,” he replies, nodding his head sagely.
“Who were the others?” I ask, pretending an interest.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” He preens himself, leaning back on his heels and tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. “But I did wonder if it might mean that Mildred was blackmailing them.”
“Blackmail?” Margaret Thorpe almost spits out the word, but then she is prone to overreactions at the best of times.
“Well, can you think of any othe
r reason why the police would be asking?” Clifford says, defensively.
“No, I can’t. But then, I don’t know whose names were on this list, do I?” she says.
“And I’d like to know what you’re implying, Mr Lacey,” I add, stepping forward and doing my best to sound offended, while lacing my voice with just sufficient emotion to embarrass the man, and garner sympathy from everyone else in the room. “Are… are you suggesting my husband is being blackmailed?”
Clifford takes a half step closer to me, his face falling. “Oh, my dear,” he says, solemnly. “I didn’t mean anything… I’m sure there’s nothing in it at all.” He smiles. “You don’t want to go listening to anything I say.”
I manage a slight sniffle, just for effect, and take my leave, making my way towards the ladies’ toilets, where I shut myself inside a cubicle, trying hard not to laugh out loud.
What a stroke of good fortune! And so soon… Well, who’d have thought?
***
I get back to the station by one-thirty, well aware of the fact that I’ve been significantly longer than the hour I said I’d be, but not feeling even remotely guilty about that. In fact, I feel so much better than I did earlier, that as I walk through the main office towards my own room, I’m whistling a little tune to myself.
“Sir?” Thompson says, greeting me officially, being as we’re not alone, and I notice the surprised look on his face. Given my mood this morning, his confusion is completely understandable.
“Sergeant,” I reply, nodding my head towards my office and he follows me in, closing the door and then waiting while I remove my hat and coat, hanging them up, before I sit down behind my desk.
“How are things going?” I ask and he comes over, taking a seat in front of me.
“Fine,” he replies. “I’ve just been using your absence to help Wells and Adams with verifying the addresses of the men from the diary, that’s all.” He sounds as bewildered as he looks and I decide to put him out of his misery.