The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  I bend down, gathering up the letter and envelope of money to take with me.

  “Wait a minute,” Mrs Hodge says, her tears forgotten as she reaches forward, grabbing my wrist with a surprising amount of strength. “What are you doing?”

  “These are evidence,” I explain. “I need to take them with me, to have them catalogued. My sergeant can give you a receipt, if you’d like one.”

  “But…” She pauses, searching for an excuse to keep hold of her precious loot. “But you’re missing the point. I—I mean, you can’t take them,” she says eventually, letting go of me and standing herself. “What will Neville say if he comes back and notices they’re not in his desk anymore? He’s already killed once…” Her voice drops to a dramatic low whisper, and Thompson coughs behind me.

  “Hmm… you have a point,” I allow. “I suppose I’d better leave them here. Be sure to put them back exactly as you found them, won’t you?”

  “Oh, I will, Inspector.” She nods her head, taking the envelopes from me and clasping them in her hands. “And thank you so much for coming to see me so promptly. I feel better already.”

  I don’t doubt that. Not for a single moment.

  “You were singularly unhelpful,” I remark to Thompson on the drive back to the station.

  “Sorry,” he says, actually sounding contrite for once. “It was just so hard not to laugh.”

  I glance across at him. “Her performance was comical at times, I’ll grant you that.”

  “It was worthy of the London stage,” he replies.

  “Hmm… to the point where it was almost believable.”

  “Surely you didn’t think she was telling the truth?” He sounds incredulous.

  “No, of course I didn’t. But I think, in her underestimation of us, in her belief that we’re too stupid to know that she’s playing us for fools, she’s not only incriminated herself, but she’s also inadvertently confirmed that her husband is responsible for Mildred’s condition. And that’s why, when we get back, I want you to speak to Sergeant Tooley and ask him to arrange to send a couple of men over to the vicarage to keep her under observation. I don’t want her to abscond at the first opportunity.”

  “Well, she’ll have to wait for now, at least until her husband comes home and she can report that fact to us.”

  “Yes, but she’s got fifty pounds now, that she didn’t have before, being as she rather cleverly insisted I leave it with her, and she’s got no reason to hang around for more than a few minutes after we’ve taken him in for questioning.”

  “I think it’ll be more than ‘questioning’,” Thompson retorts, frowning. “The man’s a rapist.”

  “I know… but we still have to prove that, and then we have to prove that his wife is a murderer. Don’t forget, we have absolutely no concrete evidence against either of them. We’re working purely on instinct here.”

  Thompson chuckles quietly. “I wonder what Mrs Hodge would say if she knew that you’d suspected both her and her husband almost since the very beginning of this case.”

  “I have no idea,” I reply.

  “Well, maybe if the interview with her gets boring, we’ll tell her and see how she reacts.”

  I shake my head, twisting in my seat to look at him. “You’re warped, you know that, don’t you?”

  “It’s been said before,” he remarks, pulling into the car park behind the London Road police station.

  I leave Thompson at the foot of the stairs, for him to go and speak with Tooley, while I go on up. The outer office is almost deserted, save for a couple of uniformed officers, who nod their heads towards me in greeting as I pass through on the way into my room, where I remove my hat and coat.

  Thompson joins me within a few minutes, explaining that he’s spoken with Tooley and given him instructions that the men who carry out the surveillance of the vicar’s wife are to follow her if she leaves the house at any time, although they’re not to approach her unless she tries to board any buses or trains, in which case, they’re to stop her and bring her to the station.

  “Very good,” I reply, once he’s finished speaking.

  He sits down opposite me. “He’s going to get Beresford on it,” he says quietly. “He’s only just come back from having the flu today, so it’ll be a nice easy job for him… just sitting quietly in a car, watching the front of a house.”

  I smile and am just about to reply when Wells and Adams appear in my doorway. That’s to say Wells appears in the doorway, and the size he is, he fills it, but I can just about make out the shape of PC Adams behind him.

  I’m surprised they’re back so soon, and I think it must show, because Wells holds his hand up defensively before I’ve even had a chance to say anything.

  “I know we haven’t been out for very long,” he says, “but there really wasn’t much point in going on.”

  “There wasn’t?” I query and he shakes his head, coming further into the room and making space for Adams to follow.

  “No, sir,” Wells says. “We decided to call it a day after we’d gone through the first four individuals.”

  “Why not call them ‘men’, Constable?” I suggest. “That’s what they are, after all.”

  “But that’s exactly the point, sir. They’re not all men.”

  “Excuse me?” I sit forward. “I gave explicit instructions that only the men in Miss Ryder’s diary should be investigated.”

  “I know,” Wells replies quickly, “and all the people we’ve been to see have been male.” He glances at Adams, and then continues, “But I really don’t think they all qualify as men.”

  “You’re going to have to explain yourself,” I say, glancing at Thompson, who merely shrugs his shoulders.

  “Two of the people we’ve seen today were only really boys,” Wells replies. “One was fourteen, the other a little younger.”

  “Boys?” I’m confused now.

  “Yes. And the other two men were in their sixties,” Adams adds, taking up the story.

  “Well, I suppose that’s not surprising,” Thompson remarks. “After all, most of the men of Mildred’s age have been called up, or are about to be.”

  We all nod our heads slowly.

  “All four of them knew Miss Ryder through the church, as we expected,” Wells continues, “and it looked like we were going to struggle to find the reason for their names being in her diary, until the mother of one of the boys we went to see, asked what we were doing questioning her son. She got a bit cross with us, so we had to explain what it was about… without going into too much detail.”

  Adams takes a half step forward at this point, one of the diaries in his hand. “I showed her the diary, sir,” he says. “Just the page with her son’s name on it, and she pointed out that the date in question is his birthday, so we decided to take a risk and showed her a couple of the other pages, and she was able to recognise one of them as being a friend of her son’s and he then confirmed that the date beside that lad’s name was his birthday too.”

  “And then the mother remembered that Miss Ryder had sent her son a birthday card,” Wells adds. “She said she was like that… thoughtful, you know?”

  I nod my head. “I see.”

  “We’ll carry on going through the list, if you want us to, sir,” Wells says. “But we thought we should come back here first and let you know what we’d found out.”

  “No,” I tell him, “there’s no need to carry on.” I look from him to Adams and then to Thompson. “It looks like Mildred was just being kind – as usual.”

  “It certainly seems that way,” Thompson replies.

  “And it just confirms what we already know,” I add.

  He nods his head, although Wells and Adams look a little perplexed. I thank them for their hard work and they leave my office, closing the door behind them.

  “I think there’s every chance we’ll end up working quite late tonight, Harry,” I explain once we’re alone. “It might be wise if you telephone Julia and warn her.�
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  “You’re going to question them both tonight?”

  “Probably, although I suppose that all depends on Mrs Hodge, and how she behaves once we’ve brought the reverend in for questioning. But, in any case, we have no idea what time it will be before the vicar returns home, do we?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  He gets to his feet and exits the room, leaving me by myself, whereupon I pick up the telephone receiver and wait for the operator to speak. I ask for my own number and, within a minute or so, hear Amelie’s voice on the end of the line.

  “Hello,” I say, relieved to hear her again, even though it’s only a few hours since I last saw her.

  “Rufus?” I can tell she’s surprised. “Has something happened?”

  “No, darling. Not really. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll probably be a bit late home tonight. I’m not sure how late yet, but things seem to be developing here.”

  “It’s just as well I’ve made stew for dinner then, isn’t it?” she replies. She’s trying to sound cheerful, but I can hear something else underlying her voice.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. I just miss you, that’s all.”

  “I miss you too,” I reply. “And you’re sure you’ve recovered from what happened at lunchtime?”

  “At lunchtime?” she queries.

  “Yes… our meeting with Reverend Hodge and Norman Wharton. I know that upset you.”

  “It did, but I’m perfectly all right, Rufus. You were with me.”

  “And I’m extremely relieved about that.”

  “Hmm…” she muses. “So am I.”

  I glance up as Thompson comes back into my room. He sees I’m still on the telephone and goes to leave again, but I wave at him to enter, and he shuts the door and sits down opposite me, waiting, Mildred’s diaries in his hand.

  “I should probably let you get on,” Amelie says. “The sooner you finish, the sooner you can come home.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “No, neither can I.”

  “I love you, darling.”

  “I love you too.” There’s a short pause, and then Amelie adds, “Are you alone?”

  “No.”

  She chuckles. “And you just told me that you love me?”

  “Of course.”

  The line falls silent although I can still hear her breathing, and then she says, “Hurry home, Rufus.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “And take care. I need you to come home and give me a cuddle.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  I hear her sigh and we end the call.

  Glancing up, I notice that Harry is flipping through one of the diaries, stopping every so often on a page, although I doubt very much he’s reading anything and, after a few moments, he raises his head and smiles at me.

  “I don’t know why I’m asking this question, given the stupid grin on your face,” he says, “but is everything all right with Amelie now?”

  “Yes, it is, thank you.”

  He nods his head, then puts the diaries down on my table. “I picked these up from Wells on my way back in here,” he says, “not that I think we need them anymore.”

  “No,” I reply, picking them up and placing them on my side of the desk. “We’ll return them to Mrs Ryder once we’ve made the formal arrests.”

  He nods his head. “I’m not looking forward to this evening,” he says. “I hate dealing with rapists.”

  “Well, I think you can assume that Reverend Hodge is highly unlikely to admit to it. I think he’ll either deny any sexual relationship with Mildred at all, or he’ll say she consented.”

  He stares at me. “And we can’t prove otherwise, can we?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to get away with it. I’ll find a way to make it stick.”

  He frowns. “Any way?”

  I stare at him and nod my head. “If I have to, yes.”

  “Is this because of the way he behaved towards Amelie?” he asks, sitting forward, “because if it is…”

  “It’s not,” I reply, interrupting him. “Well, not entirely. Although I suppose that is a factor.”

  “What else is it then?” he asks. “Because, while I know you can be unorthodox, you’re not normally one for breaking rules.”

  “In this case, I’ll make an exception,” I tell him quietly. “I’ll break every rule in the book if it gets us a conviction… and that’s entirely because of Mildred. I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone quite so universally loved as Mildred Ryder seems to have been. She didn’t deserve to die at all, but she certainly didn’t deserve to be left for dead in a freezing churchyard. The very least we owe her is justice, and this time, I’m really not sure I care how we go about getting it.”

  He nods his head and is just about to open his mouth, when the telephone rings on my desk, it’s shrill sound making us both jump.

  “Stone,” I say into the receiver, holding it to my ear.

  “I have Mrs Hodge for you again, sir,” Tooley says. “She’s insisting on whispering, which is making her quite hard to hear, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sergeant. Just put her through.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  I wait for a couple of seconds and then hear Mrs Hodge’s muttered tones. “Inspector?” she whispers.

  “Yes.” I speak normally.

  “He’s home.”

  “Very well. Can you try and keep him there for the next twenty minutes or so?”

  “Y—Yes,” she stutters. “But please hurry. I’m scared.”

  The line goes dead and I hang up, rolling my eyes.

  “She’s still giving a fine performance, I assume?” Thompson says, standing, and I copy him.

  “Oh yes. She’s scared, evidently.”

  “God knows what of,” he remarks, opening my office door. “I don’t think that woman is capable of fear.”

  I stop in my tracks and turn to him, my hat in my hand. “Oh, she’s capable,” I tell him. “Just not in the way you think.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, tilting his head.

  “That’s what this is all about,” I explain, placing my hat on my head and shrugging on my coat. “It’s Mrs Hodge’s fear that has driven the whole case.”

  “Fear of losing her husband to another woman?” he asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Fear of losing her way of life.” We go into the main office, where Thompson collects his own coat and hat. “That letter she showed me made it clear her husband had been contemplating leaving her. Even if he never saw it through for whatever reason, the intent was there.”

  “Exactly.” He turns back to face me. “So, she was scared of losing him.”

  “No. She doesn’t love him enough to worry about that. She’s just scared of losing face; of losing her position in society, and having to admit that her marriage is a sham… that terrifies her.”

  “And she’s killed someone, just for that?” He’s shocked.

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes… you wait and see.”

  We take Wells and Adams with us, telling them to follow in a separate car, just in case the vicar decides to cut up rough, or make a run for it. I doubt that he will, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m not in the mood for chasing around the back streets of Thames Ditton in the dark; it’s far easier to have a couple of extra men on hand than to be caught short.

  In the car, Thompson asks if we’re going to be picking up the letter and the money.

  “We’ll collect the letter, because we need that as evidence, but I’m going to leave Mrs Hodge with the money.”

  “You are?”

  “Oh yes. I want to give her enough rope to hang herself… quite literally.”

  We pull up outside the vicarage for the second time today, with Adams parking his vehicle immediately behind ours. I instruct him and Wells to wait, while Thompson and I approach
the house in the early evening dusk, knocking on the front door, which is answered by the vicar himself.

  “Oh, Inspector, it’s you,” he says, peering out and looking surprised.

  I pause, just for a second and then say, “Mr Hodge, we’d like you to accompany us to the police station.”

  “What on earth for?” he blusters, turning red, his eyes bulging slightly. I’ve seen fear before many times, and I can recognise it easily these days, so I know I’m staring at a frightened man right now.

  “So we can ask you a few questions.”

  “Why can’t you ask me them here?” He folds his arms, making it clear he intends to stand his ground.

  “Because I’d rather ask you them at the station,” I reply. “And if you refuse to cooperate, I’ll have my sergeant arrest you.” I move aside just slightly, allowing the reverend to see behind me, to where Adams and Wells are standing and notice his face paling as he glances over my shoulder, and then looks back at me.

  “It doesn’t look as though you’re giving me much choice,” he huffs. “I suppose I’d better fetch my coat. It’s by the back door.”

  “My sergeant will come with you,” I tell him and he opens his mouth to argue, but then stops, closes it and lets Thompson into the house.

  Mrs Hodge appears from the kitchen, coming towards me. “What’s going on?” she asks, putting on another sterling performance – although it’s for the benefit of her husband this time.

  “We’re just taking your husband into the station so he can answer some questions,” I reply. She nods her head and I lean forward, whispering, “Can you fetch me the letter, please? We may need it.”

  “Oh… certainly.”

  She disappears through a door just inside the hallway, returning a few seconds later, with the blue envelope tucked inside her cardigan, and hands it over to me, just as the reverend re-appears from the rear of the house, with Thompson in tow.

  “Ready?” I say to the vicar.

  He nods his head, not saying a word now.

  “When will he be home?” Mrs Hodge asks me.

  “That’s hard to say, madam,” I reply.

  “Oh,” she says and the vicar takes a step towards her, resting his hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” he soothes. “I’ll be back before you know it… once these idiots realise they’re barking up the wrong tree, that is.”