The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  “I’m sorry I’ve been out for so long,” I say to begin with, and he shrugs his shoulders, because in reality, I don’t have to apologise to him, and we both know that. “I had to go home and see Amelie.”

  “Is she all right?” His concern is touching, and I smile.

  “She’s still tired, but she’s okay,” I reply, deciding against telling him that she was unwell this morning, being as that might have been my fault for overdoing things last night… and in the bath before breakfast. “Th—the problem – the reason I had to go home – it wasn’t to do with Amelie,” I explain. “It was to do with me.”

  “So it’s you that’s ill?” He sits forward. “Don’t tell me you’re coming down with this flu as well?”

  I smile. “No. Physically, I’m perfectly all right.”

  “Oh…” He stops talking and sits, waiting.

  “Amelie and I had an argument last night,” I say quickly, just to get the words out. “It was entirely my fault.”

  He shakes his head now, the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips. “What did you do?” he says, sighing patiently, as though I’m an errant schoolboy.

  “I told her off for digging the garden.”

  “In February?” he queries and I sit back, chuckling.

  “That was rather my point actually, but I didn’t handle it very well. I was a bit overbearing.”

  “You? Overbearing?” he mocks. “Surely not.”

  “I could demote you, you know?”

  “I know… but you’d be lost without me… and in any case, I still don’t really understand why you and Amelie having an argument meant you had to go home,” he says, his brow furrowing.

  “Because I needed to make sure she was all right.”

  “You mean you didn’t make it up with her last night?” he queries. “You broke the first rule of a happy marriage and went to bed on an argument?”

  “Of course I didn’t. I made it up with her straight away, but there was something not quite right about her this morning.” That’s as much detail as I’m going to give him and he stares at me for a second or two, before he takes a breath and leans back in his chair.

  “I know it’s still early days, but you’re going to have to get used to being a married man, Rufus,” he says quietly.

  “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “It means, you and Amelie are going to argue from time to time.”

  “God, I hope not.”

  He smiles. “Well, you are, and my point is, that you can’t fall apart every time you do.”

  “I didn’t fall apart.” I defend myself, placing my elbows on the desk.

  “Can I be the judge of that?” he replies, his face quite serious. “I’ve known you for a good many years now, and I’ve never seen you like you were this morning.”

  I look down at the papers in front of me for a moment, and then return my gaze to him. He’s just staring at me, a concerned expression on his face. “I know,” I say finally. “That’s why I took myself off to find Amelie. I knew there was only one way to straighten myself out.”

  “And have you?” he asks.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I sit back again. “And I apologise for this morning.”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologise,” he says, “but next time it happens, you could try talking to me instead.”

  “Next time?”

  He smiles. “Yes, next time. And now, before I start to pine for Julia and you start giving me details as to how you’ve just spent the last hour or so of your time…”

  “As if I would,” I interrupt. “I’m not as open as you.”

  He chuckles. “No, you’re not. But if you were, maybe we’d have got to the bottom of your problem a bit sooner.”

  “Maybe we would,” I allow with a nod of my head. “But in any case, there are no details to make you pine for Julia, because I’ve spent the last hour or so helping my wife with the shopping.”

  “Shopping?” He’s incredulous, staring at me across the table. “Shopping?” he repeats. “You were trying to apologise to your wife, to make up for being an ogre, and you took her shopping?”

  “I wasn’t an ogre. I’m not that bad. And I didn’t take her shopping,” I explain. “I happened to see her walking along Walton Road, and I caught up with her. She was already going shopping herself; I just joined her.”

  “I see,” he says. “Well, I suppose that’s more acceptable.”

  “I’m so glad you approve,” I reply sarcastically.

  “And you ironed out your problems while shopping?” he asks, perplexed.

  “Yes… well, sort of. I think we ironed them out before we even got around to the shopping part, but then something interesting happened…”

  “Are you sure you want to tell me this?” He sits forward in anticipation, despite his words.

  “Yes, because it’s more connected to the case than it is to Amelie and myself… well, mostly.”

  “Oh yes?” He frowns.

  “We met the Reverend Hodge and Norman Wharton,” I explain.

  “In East Molesey?”

  “Yes. They said they were going to lunch together.”

  “The vicar and Mr Wharton? Together?” He’s clearly as surprised as I was.

  “I know. I thought it was odd too. The vicar told me he’d been over to Mr Wharton’s factory, to see how he was getting on after Mildred’s death.”

  “That doesn’t sound right either,” Thompson replies, shaking his head. “Wharton doesn’t even go to church, so what has his welfare got to do with the vicar?”

  “Precisely.”

  “So what was he playing at? Hodge, I mean.”

  “I’m not sure, but that’s not all of it,” I add.

  “Oh?”

  “No…” I sit forward again. “After we’d been talking for a minute or so, I introduced them to Amelie, and their reactions were… interesting, to put it mildly.”

  “In what way?” Thompson asks.

  “Well, Wharton couldn’t take his eyes off of her.”

  “Your wife is very beautiful, Rufus… you do know that, don’t you?” he reasons.

  “Of course. But he wasn’t just admiring her, he was gawking at her, quite openly, in front of me.”

  “And he survived?” he jokes.

  “Yes… because what he was doing was nothing compared to Reverend Hodge.”

  “Why? What did he do?”

  “Amelie said he made her feel like he was undressing her with his eyes, and I could see what she meant. There was something about him, Harry. There was a kind of hunger on his face… a lecherous hunger. But it was something more than that. He looked… menacing.” It’s the only word I can think of to adequately describe the vicar’s expression.

  “Is Amelie all right?” he asks.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “It’s a good thing you were there.”

  I nod my head in agreement. “This rather confirms our theory,” I say aloud.

  “Which one?” Thompson remarks. “You have had rather a lot of theories in the last couple of days.”

  I smile at him. “The theory that the vicar might have raped Mildred.”

  “Not Wharton?” he suggests and I shake my head.

  “I’ll grant that Wharton probably had the better means of keeping Mildred quiet, being as he could have threatened her with the sack, but now I’ve seen Reverend Hodge at close quarters in the company of a beautiful woman, I’m of the opinion that the man probably wouldn’t be willing, or even able, to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, Harry. You had to be there… you had to see his face…”

  “Do you want me to bring him in for questioning?” he asks, going to get up.

  “No.”

  He relaxes back into his seat again. “Why not?”

  “We need to make absolutely sure that list of names doesn’t amount to anything, before we reveal our hand, because I have the feeling
that, once we do, there’ll be no turning back… not this time.”

  “Well, I can lend Wells and Adams a hand,” he says, just as the telephone rings on my desk and I pick up the receiver.

  Tooley’s voice sounds at the other end. “Inspector Stone?” he says, respectfully.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I have a Mrs Hodge for you,” he announces. “She seems upset and wants to speak to you.”

  “Very well,” I reply, raising my eyebrows at Thompson. “Put her through.”

  I wait, as the line goes dead, and then hear the click as the call is connected.

  “Mrs Hodge,” I say, and notice Thompson tilting his head to one side and leaning forward. “This is Inspector Stone. How can I help?”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she breathes, sounding agitated. “I’ve been so scared, I didn’t know what to do… or who to turn to.”

  “Try and calm down, and tell me what’s happened.” I sit back in my chair.

  “I—I can’t tell you over the phone,” she replies. “Do you think you could come over here?”

  “Of course,” I say, smiling lightly to myself. “When would be convenient?”

  “Could you come now? I’m too scared to wait any longer.”

  “Certainly.” I check my watch, which says it’s just after two. “We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh… thank you so much, Inspector.”

  I put down the phone and look up at Thompson, who’s staring at me, bemused.

  “Well?” he says, impatiently.

  “At the risk of sounding like Sherlock Holmes,” I reply, standing up, “the game is afoot.”

  “What on earth does that mean?” Thompson says, following me to the door, where I grab my coat and hat and make my way out to the main office.

  “It means we’re going to the vicarage,” I reply cryptically and he rolls his eyes at me, picking up his own overcoat and fedora, as he passes his desk.

  Adams and Wells are sitting together, their heads bowed, and I go over to them.

  “Sergeant Thompson and I have to go out,” I say to them. “But can you start following up the names on the list?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wells replies, standing, and showing himself to be one of the few people of my acquaintance who is actually taller than me. “We’ve just finished cross checking the last of the addresses, as it happens.”

  “Very good.” I look up at him. “Can you pay them all a visit?” I suggest. “And ask them in what capacity they knew Mildred Ryder? I’m fairly sure they’ll tell you that the connection was through the church, or the choir, but what we want to know is, did any of them see her outside of those confines.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Try not to raise any suspicions while you’re about it, won’t you? This is just a routine enquiry.”

  Wells nods his head and Adams gets to his feet, gathering together all the documents on the desk in front of him.

  “Report back here later,” Thompson adds, and we leave together.

  Thompson parks directly outside the vicarage, fairly close to the front door, which I’m grateful for, as the wind has picked up considerably since my lunchtime walk with Amelie, and it’s threatening to rain as well.

  We haven’t even climbed out of the car, before Mrs Hodge opens the door, a white handkerchief clutched to her nose.

  “Please come in,” she calls out, glancing around as though keen for us not to be seen, and we follow her inside the house. “I don’t know what to do,” she says, as soon as the door is closed.

  “Well, I suggest you start at the beginning and tell us what’s happened.”

  “Yes,” she replies. “Yes, of course.”

  She indicates the drawing room, holding out her hand, but then leads the way, leaving Thompson and I to fall into step behind her. I don’t look at him, nor him at me, and once we’re inside the room, I sit down on the sofa, while he remains standing behind me.

  Mrs Hodge is already sitting opposite, and I notice that on the table between us, there’s an overstuffed brown envelope, which Mrs Hodge is gazing at. She seems to come to her senses, then she sniffles into her handkerchief a couple of times, before she begins her story.

  “I—I found this,” she says, handing me a blue envelope from her cardigan pocket, which I take from her.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “In my husband’s desk.” She stares at me.

  “You searched your husband’s desk?” I raise my eyebrows, looking down at the letter, but not opening it yet.

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Oh heavens, this is so difficult,” she wails, but then adds, “I still can’t believe it’s happening…”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Well, I—I went to the parish luncheon today,” she says, calming slightly, “and Clifford Lacey was there. He’s the church warden?” She phrases her words in the form of a question, and I nod my head in understanding before she continues, “He was telling us that he’d had a visit from some policemen yesterday, asking about a list of people whose names were in Mildred’s diary… my husband’s name being one of them.”

  “Yes, I know,” I reply and her eyes widen slightly, although why it should surprise her that I’m aware of the situation is beyond me, being as I’m in charge of the case.

  “Anyway,” she says, gathering herself together, “Mr Lacey seemed to be under the impression that your investigations might have something to do with Mildred blackmailing people.” She stares at me expectantly, but I don’t respond. “Before I continue,” she says, “I think it might be wise if you were to read that letter.” She nods to the envelope in my hand and I pull out the single sheet of paper, which I notice has been screwed up at some point, and then an attempt made to flatten it out again. I unfold it and scan the neatly printed words, trying not to smile.

  “This is dated six months ago,” I remark, looking back at Mrs Hodge.

  “Yes, I know,” she says, “but the thing is…” She stops talking, tears forming in her eyes, and although I’m not convinced by all of her performance so far, I think this part at least is genuine. “The thing is,” she continues, “it’s not the first time he’s done this.”

  “Your husband has had an affair before?”

  “Yes.” She nods her head for emphasis. “I actually caught him in the act last time,” she says, her voice a little too firm, too gloating, to make her story entirely credible. “They were in his study… on the desk. He and Annie Jennings.” She blushes as she speaks. “She’s always been a bit promiscuous, that girl, but he promised me that it would never happen again, and I was stupid enough to believe him… it seems this letter just goes to show what a liar he is.”

  “This isn’t from Annie Jennings?” I ask.

  “No. The timing doesn’t fit,” she replies, and I nod my head, replacing the piece of paper in the envelope.

  “The thing is, Mrs Hodge, I’m not entirely sure what this letter, or your husband’s past misdemeanours have to do with Mildred Ryder?”

  “Well, that’s because I haven’t shown you this.”

  She leans forward and nudges the brown envelope across the table. I place the blue one beside it and take a look inside, where I discover at least fifty pounds, in folded notes.

  “She must have been blackmailing him,” Mrs Hodge says, sitting back, almost too triumphantly.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Mildred, of course,” she replies.

  “But why?”

  “Well… I assume she must have found out about his affair with whoever this woman is,” she says, leaning forward and tapping on the blue envelope repeatedly with her forefinger. “My husband isn’t exactly subtle, you know.”

  While there are a great many things to disbelieve in Mrs Hodge’s story, I don’t doubt that particular statement, not having seen her husband’s reaction to Amelie.

  “You think Mildred Ryder somehow discovered that your husband was havin
g an affair with whoever wrote this letter?” I speculate, just for the sake of form. “And that she was blackmailing him?”

  “Yes.” I seem to be trying Mrs Hodge’s patience, but that’s all part of the game as far as I’m concerned. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Not to me, it isn’t. I take a few moments, pretending to contemplate the scenario she’s presented me with. “You don’t think it’s possible that he might have been having an affair with Mildred?” I suggest, watching her closely.

  She just about manages not to gasp, but her eyes widen in surprise and she hesitates before replying slowly, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, you did say he’d done it before,” I add.

  “Yes, I know…” She seems thoughtful, but before I can respond, Mrs Hodge gets to her feet and comes around the coffee table, sitting down beside me.

  “The thing is, Inspector… I—I’m so frightened,” she whimpers. “I—I mean, I feel terrible for telling you all of this. It feels like I’ve betrayed Neville… but what if he decided to kill Mildred, rather than paying her off? I mean, regardless of whether he was having an affair with her, or not… what if I’m living with a murderer?”

  That seems a little melodramatic to me, but that appears to be the effect Mrs Hodge is aiming for, as she clutches her handkerchief to her nose and lets out a loud sob, falling back onto he sofa in floods of tears. I turn and look up at Thompson, and immediately wish I hadn’t, being as he’s struggling not to laugh, which doesn’t help the situation in the slightest.

  “Where is your husband now, Mrs Hodge?” I ask, getting to my feet.

  She stops snivelling and looks up at me. “I—I don’t really know,” she says, fear etched on her face. “H—He told me he was going to lunch with someone, although I can’t remember who… if he even bothered to tell me… and then he said he had some parishioners to call on. But for all I know he could be seeing another of his fancy women.” Her face crumples and she starts crying again.

  “You need to try and calm down,” I say, with as soothing a tone of voice as I can muster. “Your husband will come back soon, I’m sure, and when he does, I need you to telephone me at Kingston police station… preferably without alerting him as to what you’re doing.”