The Nightingale

by K. J. Frost

  She says the words as though they’re meaningless, as though her actions didn’t end the lives of two people, and alter the course of many others, causing pain and grief to Mildred’s mother, her siblings, her fiancé and her friends. To Mrs Hodge, killing Mildred Ryder clearly meant nothing, other than being the means to an end.

  “You stabbed her twice?” I query.

  “Yes,” she says, her lips actually forming into a smile. “The first time was instinctive. It was self defence.”

  “Self defence?” How can she say that? “Was Mildred armed?”

  She shakes her head, smiling in a way that shows she thinks I don’t understand, which I don’t. “Not self defence in the way that you mean,” she parries. “What I mean is, it was self preservation. She was threatening my existence, my future, my very being. I had to stop her.”

  “So why did you stab her the second time?” I ask.

  She stares at me, the half smile dropping from her lips, replaced by a harsh thin line. “Because I wanted to kill the bastard child my husband had seeded inside her,” she roars, the ferocity of her hatred taking me by surprise.

  I nod at Beresford and he steps forward, placing himself immediately behind Mrs Hodge, just as Thompson gets to his feet.

  “Mrs Eileen Hodge,” he says, his voice more monotone than I’ve ever heard it before. “I am charging you with the murder of Mildred Ryder…”

  “Tell me he’ll hang,” she wails, turning to me, pleading. “Tell me they’ll hang my husband too.”

  I stand, looking down at her. “No,” I say simply and she starts to sob, showing some real emotion for the first time.

  “Why not?” she cries. “This is all his fault. He’s to blame…”

  “Not entirely,” I reply. “He didn’t wield the knife, Mrs Hodge. You did. And you alone are responsible for the death of Mildred Ryder. Your husband is responsible for her rape, but unfortunately rape is not a hanging offence. In this case, I wish it was. But I’m going to do everything I can to ensure your husband is sent to prison for the maximum term. And as for you… I will use every little bit of influence I have to ensure you are shown no mercy whatsoever… like you showed none to Mildred, when you left her, in the freezing cold, to bleed to death, alone and terrified.”

  I give Beresford another nod and, in the company of Thompson, who starts reading Mrs Hodge her rights from the beginning again, they exit the room and I sit back down in the chair, my head in my hands.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!” I call out as they slam the door closed.

  “Tell that to the judge,” the plain clothed sergeant replies. He sat through the whole of my interview, just jotting down notes and staring at me from time to time, like I was a prize specimen, as though he had any right to judge me.

  “It was her own fault!”

  This time, there’s no response, although I can hear voices talking outside. They’re clearly ignoring me.

  “Neville is to blame for this! He should be the one hanging, not me!”

  I hear a laugh – a man’s laugh – and then footsteps moving away from the door and I realise I’m alone.

  I’m completely alone.

  ***

  Back in my office, I glance at the clock, quite surprised to see that it’s still not yet noon. Not quite, anyway. Can it really be that we’ve done all of that in less than four hours? It feels like a lot longer to me. But then hearing people tell their darkest, most horrible secrets can have that effect.

  I sit at my desk and gaze at the photograph of Amelie, concentrating on her beautiful, calming face, and try not to remember the sight of Mildred Ryder’s body, the contorted expression on her lips, the fear in her eyes, the way in which she clutched at her abdomen, presumably in a vain attempt to protect her unborn child… her maternal instincts coming to the fore, even in death… despite the fact that the child was born of a vile act, rather than a loving one.

  I have an unsettled feeling in my stomach and, when Thompson knocks on my doorframe a few minutes later, I get to my feet.

  “Come on.” I march over to the hook behind my door, where I collect my coat and hat. “We’re going out.”

  “We are?” He’s surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “What about the case notes… the paperwork?” He follows me into the main office, picking up his own coat and hat on the way.

  “They can wait until tomorrow.”

  We make our way down the stairs and I go to my car, rather than one of the Wolesleys that are parked up.

  “You’re driving?” Thompson queries, following me.

  “Yes.”

  “Is something wrong?” he asks, sounding worried.

  “No… but there are a few loose ends we need to tie up before I can happily put this case to bed.”

  Thompson lets out a long breath and climbs into the car beside me. “Where are we going then?” he asks.

  “The barracks,” I reply and reverse out of the parking space.

  It’s only a short drive, but it’s one that we make in silence, because I think Thompson knows my moods well enough to understand when it’s better to just stay quiet… and that this is one of those times.

  On arrival, a uniformed sergeant stands before us, with a barrier behind him, his tunic pristine, his brass buttons sparkling, and the rifle in his arms sloped at the correct angle.

  “Can I help?” he offers, looking into the car with the air of a man who has no intention of being helpful at all.

  “I need to speak with Sam Higgs,” I reply. “I assume he’s a private? He may not be here still, but I’m hoping he is.”

  The sergeant almost smiles. Almost. “I’m sorry,” he says, even though he clearly isn’t. “I’m afraid civilians aren’t allowed…”

  “I’m not a civilian,” I remark, before he gets too far into his speech and I reach into my inside pocket, which has the effect of putting the soldier on his guard as he takes a half step back, his rifle now aimed in my direction. “I’m a policeman,” I add quickly, half tempted to raise my hands in surrender.

  “Step out of the car,” he says gruffly.

  I obey his instruction and slowly climb from my vehicle, wary of making any sudden moves. “I really am a policeman,” I tell him. “My warrant card is in my jacket pocket. You can check it, if you want to.”

  He pauses for a moment and then steps forward, patting my chest, presumably to ascertain whether I’m carrying a gun, as well as my warrant card.

  “Take it out,” he says, then adds, “slowly,” and I do as he says, handing my identification over to him. He peruses it for a moment and then hands it back. “Who’s this man you want to see?” he asks.

  “Higgs,” I reply.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised. He only reported here yesterday.”

  He nods his head. “I’m sorry, but I still can’t let you onto the base,” he says and I sigh out my frustration.

  “I’m investigating a murder,” I say, exaggerating slightly, being as the investigation is over.

  “And he’s a suspect?” the sergeant asks.

  “Not exactly, no.” I’m getting bored now, as well as frustrated. “Would it be possible to speak with your commanding officer?”

  The man narrows his eyes, glances back at my car, and then mumbles, “Wait here,” before he turns and disappears into a tiny hut that sits to the right hand side of the gate.

  I turn and look at Thompson, who’s sitting in the passenger seat of my car still, trying not to laugh, judging by the expression on his face.

  The sergeant returns within a couple of minutes. “You can go in,” he announces. “Go up the drive, park in front of the main building and you’ll be met.” And without another word, he raises the barrier and I quickly get back into my car, driving through before he changes his mind.

  The man who meets us, almost the moment I’ve parked the car, is wearing a much more elaborate uniform
, with a few medal ribbons dotted across his chest. He’s in his early forties, I would say, and beneath his cap, has mid-brown hair, greying at the temples, and after he’s introduced himself as Captain Abbott, he explains that he is the colonel’s adjutant.

  “The colonel is very busy today,” he adds as we shake hands, Thompson and I removing our hats. “Is this something I can help with?”

  “Very probably,” I reply and, as he shows us into the main building, through the large double doors, and up a wide flight of stairs, I explain the situation to him, without going into too much detail.

  He guides us into a busy office, where several men and a few women – all wearing khaki uniforms – are sat at desks, typing or writing furiously. We follow, in silence now, ignoring the inquisitive glances of those we pass, and eventually enter through a door on the left, which the captain closes behind us. “This is a sorry business,” he says quietly, speaking for the first time since I began giving him the outline of our reason for being here.

  “It is indeed,” I reply.

  “I had no idea Higgs’ fiancée had been killed.” He shakes his head. “I—I’ll arrange to have him brought to you in here,” he says, indicating the seats in front of his desk.

  “Would you mind being present while we speak with him?” I ask as he turns to leave.

  He frowns. “You want me here?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t mind at all. I’m just intrigued.”

  “The things I have to tell Sam may well be very difficult for him to hear,” I explain. “I’d just like to know that he’s got someone here who understands. I appreciate that he may well be sent somewhere else quite soon for training, but at least for the next few days, it may be useful for him to know he’s got someone he can talk to, should the need arise.”

  “What are you going to tell him?” the captain asks, looking concerned now.

  “I’d rather not have to say it all twice, if you don’t mind.” I twist my hat between my hands and he nods his head, indicating that we should feel free to sit and wait for his return, and then he leaves the room.

  Sergeant Thompson follows Captain Abbott’s unspoken instructions and sits down, but I don’t. The painting behind his desk has caught my eye and I take a moment to study the scenic view, of a delightful country church. It’s not one that I’m familiar with, but it’s very attractive, painted in the evening, with a beautiful sunset filling the sky. There’s something familiar about it, or at least about the style of it and I wander over to take a closer look.

  “Well, I’ll be…” I mutter to myself, smiling as I recognise the signature in the bottom right hand corner.

  “What is it?” Thompson asks, keeping his voice down.

  “It’s one of Aunt Dotty’s,” I reply.

  “Really?” He gets up and comes over, looking more closely at the painting himself. “She painted this?”

  “Yes. That’s her signature.” I nod to the bottom corner of the frame, just as the door opens and the captain comes back in.

  “Private Higgs will be here in a few minutes,” he says. “I’ve sent someone to fetch him.” He closes the door and turns, looking up for the first time, and then he smiles. “Oh… I see you’re admiring my painting.”

  “Yes,” I reply, feeling a little self conscious for having intruded, and Thompson and I both move back around to the other side of his desk, taking the seats Abbott offered prior to vacating the room.

  “I know the artist,” he says, sounding a bit smug, as he sits down opposite us, twisting in his chair and looking up at the picture, before turning back to us again. “Well,” he adds, “that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I don’t know her personally, although I have met her a few times. But my father knows her well… and knew her husband even better.”

  “Oh yes?” I ask, playing dumb – at least for the time being.

  “Before he retired, my father was at the Foreign Office,” he explains, clasping his hands together in front of him, “and through his dealings there, he got to know a man called Sir Samuel Lytle. He was a really big cheese out in the Far East, although he returned to London several years ago, I believe, and settled down to a peaceful life of retirement with his wife, Dorothy.” He pauses for a moment. “Anyway, when I got married back in ’35, this arrived out of the blue, literally just a few days before the wedding.” He turns again, admiring the painting. “I have no idea how Dorothy found out the date, unless she’d been talking to my mother, of course, but this is the church where Jane and I were married. It was a perfect present, and when the war’s over and we can go back to our house in Oxford, we’ll hang it back there, above the fireplace in the drawing room again. Our flat in London is too small, I’m afraid… but neither of us wanted to leave it behind…” He turns back and smiles at us, looking embarrassed perhaps.

  I nod my head and decide to come clean. “Dorothy Lytle is my aunt,” I tell him and his mouth drops open.

  “Excuse me?” he mutters, stunned.

  “Lady Dorothy Lytle… she’s my aunt. She’s my mother’s sister.”

  “Good Lord,” he exclaims. “Why on earth didn’t you says something? Preferably before I called your uncle a big cheese?”

  I smile at him. “Because I think that’s a fairly good description of Uncle Sam. I think he’d have liked it too.”

  “We were all sorry to hear about his death,” the captain says, lowering his voice.

  “Thank you,” I reply. “And I’m pleased you brought the painting with you. Dotty will be thrilled when I tell her.”

  “Do you see much of her?” he asks.

  “Oh yes,” I reply. “She only lives around the corner from my wife and I.” I stop speaking, enjoying saying ‘my wife’, yet again.

  “Then please will you send her my regards?” the captain says. “I’m Ralph Abbott, and my father’s name is Bernard. I’m sure she’ll remember him.”

  I smile at him again. “I’m pretty sure she’ll remember you,” I remark. “She’s like that.”

  He smiles back. “Yes, she is, isn’t she?”

  We’re interrupted by a sharp knocking on the door and the captain sits up abruptly.

  “Come in!” he barks, his demeanour changing completely. He’s an officer again now.

  Thompson and I both turn, and then stand as the door opens behind us, admitting Sam Higgs, who looks very different in the khaki uniform of a private, his hair trimmed a little shorter beneath his sloped cap.

  “Inspector?” he looks at me, puzzled, but then remembers himself and salutes the captain, who salutes him back, as the door is closed softly and invisibly, behind him.

  “Come and sit down,” the captain says to Sam, before moving to the side of the room to fetch a third chair, which he places at the end of his desk.

  Sam obeys, looking nervously from myself to the captain, and back again as he removes his cap, clutching it in his clasped hands. “Has something happened?” he asks me.

  “Yes, Sam… it has.”

  “You know who did it, don’t you? You know who killed Milly?”

  “Yes. We do.” I put my hat down on the captain’s desk and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, looking directly at Sam. “But that’s not really why we’re here.”

  “It’s not?” Sam looks even more confused now. “In that case, I don’t understand.”

  “We’re here because I wanted you to know how she came to be pregnant,” I tell him, and the captain coughs rather pointedly. I want to ask him not to, but I don’t. Instead I keep my eyes focused on Sam.

  “We all know how that happened,” he says, although I notice there’s no bitterness in his voice now. He simply sounds resigned. And very, very sad.

  “Do we?” I query.

  “Of course we do,” he replies. “Unless you’re here to tell me it was an immaculate conception, or whatever it is they call it.”

  “No, I’m not here to tell you that,” I say, patiently.

 
; “In that case, I think it’s fair to say that Mildred was having an affair – or at least a fling – with someone…” He eyes me closely. “And you know who, don’t you?”

  I shake my head. “She wasn’t having an affair, or a fling,” I tell him and then add, “and she wasn’t unfaithful to you, not in the way you think,” before he can interrupt.

  “Oh come off it, Inspector,” he cries, getting to his feet, and wringing his cap between his hands.

  “Sit down, Private,” the captain says, without raising his voice in the slightest. “I think you should listen to what the inspector has to say.”

  Sam turns, as though to argue, but then remembers the consequences of doing so, and sits back down meekly. “Go on then,” he says, truculently, narrowing his eyes, “you explain it to me.”

  I take a breath, knowing I can’t dress this up in any way that’s going to make it easier for him to hear, and that being the case, I may as well just say it. “Mildred was raped.”

  Sam gasps, drops his cap to the floor, and clamps his hands over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he mutters, shaking his head at the same time. “Oh my God… no.”

  I get to my feet and move forward, standing right in front of him. “I’m sorry, Sam… Reverend Hodge forced himself on her in the vestry one evening after choir practice.”

  “Reverend… Reverend Hodge?” he says, his face contorting, and then crumpling as tears start to fall. “Reverend Hodge?”

  “Yes,” I confirm, as he holds up both of his hands, rather like a child, giving me no choice but to take them, to let him ground himself, and to comfort him in the only way I can.

  “He… he raped her?”

  “Yes. He’s confessed to it, and is now in police custody. I wanted to come and tell you, because I didn’t want you to go to war thinking badly of her. I didn’t want you to hate her. She didn’t deserve your hatred. She was faithful to you, Sam, insofar as she was allowed to be.”