by K. J. Frost
“Really?”
He chuckles, in a sort of embarrassed fashion. “I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no harm in looking, Inspector. We all do that, don’t we?”
“No,” I reply, completely straight faced. “No, we don’t.”
I’m getting fairly sick of being judged by other men’s standards and I turn to walk away, just as Wharton grabs me by the arm. I’m aware of Thompson standing right beside me, but I just glare at the connection Wharton has created, until he’s wise enough to release me.
“Don’t you judge me,” he hisses. “You don’t have the right.”
I hesitate for a moment and then decide I have nothing to lose, so I may as well say what’s on my mind. “How long have you been married” I ask him and he frowns, clearly perplexed by my question.
“I don’t know,” he replies, revealingly. “Eight years, I suppose. There or thereabouts.”
I nod my head. “So I’ll assume, in spite of your transgression, that you can still remember your vows. Because I think you’ll find you promised to love and cherish your wife… to worship her, in fact… until you were parted by death. And if you’re so much as looking elsewhere, then you’re not doing that, are you?” He doesn’t respond, but looks at me, rather sheepishly. “I’m not judging you, Mr Wharton,” I say more softly, although I’ve just noticed Mrs Wharton has come out of the drawing room and is standing a few paces behind him, listening intently. “How you conduct yourself is entirely your business, and no-one else’s. But I can tell you that, when you marry the woman you claim to love, she’s entitled to expect something more from you than a ring on her finger, and the use of your surname.” I put my hat back on my head. “Good day to you, sir.”
Walking down the footpath towards the car, Thompson leans into me and whispers, “Nice speech.”
I turn to him and murmur, “Oh, be quiet,” and we get back into the car together.
Amelie must have been looking out for me, because she actually greets me at the door, a smile on her face, and rests her hands on my shoulders as I hold onto her, inhaling her scent, breathing her in.
“Is it over?” she whispers.
“Yes… it’s over.” Well, it is bar the paperwork, but Thompson and I decided that could wait until tomorrow and I dropped him off at home, before driving myself back here.
“Thank goodness.” She steps aside and I enter the house, turning on the lights and removing my coat and hat, which Amelie takes from me and hangs up on the hook by the front door.
“What are we having for dinner?” I ask as she turns back to me. I’m hoping that, whatever it is, it won’t be ready for at least an hour or so. Because I’ve got plans…
“I have absolutely no idea,” she replies, surprising me, and smiling so broadly that I can’t help but laugh. “What’s so funny?” she says.
“For someone who’s been so tense and anxious about what to cook, and how to cook it, ever since we got back from our honeymoon, you seem very relaxed all of a sudden.”
Her smile widens even further. “That’s because I decided I’d had enough of being anxious all the time. I felt so much better this morning, and being as I now have a plan for the future, I thought I’d have a relaxing day,” she says.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” I rest my hands on her hips and gaze down at her, as she bites her bottom lip and looks up at me.
“The only problem is, we don’t have anything to eat.”
“Nothing?” I tease. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, we do have some bread and eggs,” she says quietly, thinking, “and there’s some bacon in the larder…”
“Well, bacon and eggs sounds like the perfect supper.”
“It sounds more like breakfast to me,” she says, shaking her head.
“Breakfast, supper… who cares.” I shrug my shoulders and she moves closer, resting her head on my chest.
“How would you feel about cooking?” she asks in a low whisper. “I mean… I know I haven’t done much all day, and you’ve been working really hard, but I wondered how you’d feel about cooking us something and telling me about your case at the same time?”
“That sounds wonderful,” I tell her, my immediate plans forgotten. They can wait for now, the idea of cooking and talking, and just being with my adorable and happy wife is more than enough for me. So, taking her hand, I lead her through to the kitchen, removing my jacket when we reach the dining room and placing it over the back of one of the chairs.
“How has it been?” she asks, fetching the eggs and bacon from the larder.
“Well, we got the confessions much more easily than I thought we would,” I explain, placing the frying pan on the stove top.
“And did you have to break the rules?” She comes and stands beside me, looking up into my eyes.
I tilt my head to one side. “I may have fractured them… just a little bit.” I hold my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart, and she leans into me.
“How?” she asks.
“I threatened the man who raped the victim, in order to get him to confess.”
“In what way?” Her brow furrows and I put down the knife I’m holding and turn to her, clasping her face between my two hands.
“I told him that, if he didn’t tell me the truth, I would pin the murder charge on him anyway… even though I knew he wasn’t guilty of it. I might also have been holding him up by his lapels at the time,” I add.
“Would you have done that?” She’s wide-eyed now. “I mean, would you have framed him for something he didn’t do?”
“Framed him?” I chuckle, leaning down and kissing her forehead. “You’ve been reading too many detective novels.”
“I borrow yours,” she replies smartly. “Now stop prevaricating and answer the question. Would you have framed him?”
“Yes. I would. I’m sorry if that shocks you.”
She hesitates for a moment, then whispers, “Don’t be sorry,” and puts her arms around my waist, leaning into me. I let go of her face and stroke her hair instead. “I assume he confessed?” she says eventually.
“Yes… to the rape.”
“But he didn’t murder her?”
“No, his wife did.”
She leans back. “It was a woman?”
I nod my head. “I’m afraid to say it was.”
“What was her motive?” she asks.
I let out a sigh. “She did it to protect her status in society, to keep up appearances.”
Amelie’s face falls and she frowns. “Sorry?” she says, confused. “Is that even a motive?”
“It’s an unusual one, I’ll grant you, but this woman seemed to think that being a vicar’s wife gave her some kind of social superiority, and she wasn’t about to let that go, just because her husband had…”
“Wait a minute,” Amelie interrupts, stepping away from me, her face darkening. “Are you telling me that the rapist was a vicar?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good God,” she says, with feeling, pushing her fingers back through her hair, and messing it up in the process, right before her face pales and she stares at me. “Do you mean it was that vicar we met the other day? The one who made me feel so uncomfortable?”
She leans back against the sink, in shock. “Yes.” She starts to tremble and I go straight to her, pulling her into my arms. “Don’t be afraid,” I whisper. “You were perfectly safe… I promise.”
“I know,” she murmurs, even though I can hear the emotion building in her voice. “I know I was safe. You were there.”
We stand for a while, just like that, holding onto each other, until eventually, I lean away and look down at her. “Shall I make a start on this supper?” I suggest. She nods her head, smiling, and I kiss the tip of her nose, before turning back to the stove and switching on the gas.
It doesn’t take long to rustle up some bacon and eggs, and while I’m doing that, Amelie makes a pot of tea and lays the table, taking through the bread a
nd butter at the same time.
Sitting opposite each other, as usual, we tuck into our feast and Amelie smiles at me.
“I’m so glad I married you,” she says, swallowing down a mouthful of bacon.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because you know how to cook,” she replies, teasing.
I nod my head. “Is that the only reason?”
“No, but at the moment, it seems like the most important one. I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
“Well, I’m not much good with cooking horse, so you’ll have to settle for bacon and eggs for tonight.”
She chuckles and cuts into her egg yolk and I settle back into my chair, feeling properly relaxed for the first time since we came back from the South Downs on Saturday lunchtime. Hopefully, I’ll have a quiet few days now, and Amelie and I can spend some time together.
“If you got the confessions so easily,” Amelie says, putting down her knife and fork and pouring the tea into our cups, “what have you been doing for the rest of the day? Did you have to finish up the paperwork and things?”
“Ordinarily we would have done, yes, but in this instance, we had a few people to go and see.”
“Oh yes?” She passes me my tea cup.
“Thank you, darling.” I smile across at her and she smiles back.
“Who did you have to go and see?” she asks.
“The victim’s fiancé for one,” I explain, taking a slice of bread. “He joined the army just a couple of days ago, so I had to argue my way into the barracks first, and then I ended up meeting with a captain, who it turned out was a friend of Dotty’s.”
“Really?” She smiles.
“Yes, really.”
“But you met the fiancé in the end?”
I nod my head. “Yes.”
“Why did you want to see him?” she asks.
“Well, it was partly to explain about who had killed Mildred.”
“Was her name Mildred?”
“Yes, although her fiancé called her Milly.”
Amelie smiles at me. “That’s nice,” she says softly, tilting her head. “Were they very much in love?” She sounds sad now.
“Yes. That’s really why I went to see him. I—I felt he deserved to know that Mildred hadn’t cheated on him. Do you remember, we talked about it?”
“I do, although I also remember being confused about the whole thing,” she replies.
“Well,” I explain, “Sam – he’s the fiancé – he was extremely angry when we told him that Mildred was pregnant. He accused her of seeing another man behind his back… and his language was rather choice, to put it mildly. He wasn’t very kind about her.”
“I suppose, in the circumstances that’s understandable,” she reasons and I feel myself frowning, involuntarily.
I take a moment, before continuing, “I—I wanted him to know that, although she was pregnant, she hadn’t consented. I didn’t want him to go to France – or wherever they end up sending him – and not know the truth.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Rufus,” she says.
“I just didn’t want him to think badly of her… but as it turned out, he’d already forgiven her.”
Amelie pauses for a moment, taking in what I’ve said. “You mean, he forgave her, before he knew what had happened to her? He forgave her, thinking she’d been unfaithful?” I nod my head and she sighs, saying, “Well, I don’t think I could do that,” and I carefully put down my knife and fork, and look at her.
“You couldn’t?” I ask, desperately wanting to know… to understand.
“No.” She shakes her head, quite firmly. “If you… if you did that… with another woman, I don’t think I could forgive you.” She stops talking, as though she’s thinking it through. “I mean, I’d love to sit here and say that I could be as generous as that young man, and that I could forgive and forget, but I honestly don’t think I could. The trust would be gone, wouldn’t it? And without that, where would we be?”
She blinks a few times, and I wonder if she’s about to cry. She doesn’t, but I reach over and take her hand in mine anyway.
“Don’t get upset,” I murmur. “You don’t need to worry about it, because it’ll never happen. I’ll never do anything to hurt you.”
She smiles, her eyes twinkling with what I know to be unshed tears, and she whispers, “I don’t need to ask you whether you could forgive me,” she says, “I already know the answer to that.”
“You do?”
She frowns, just for a moment. “Of course I do. I know you could never forgive me either… You couldn’t forgive Victoria, so I know you’d never forgive me.”
I look down at our joined hands, but I obviously delay my reply for a moment too long, because Amelie pulls her hand away from mine.
“Rufus?” she whispers and I look up at her. The tears are brimming now.
“Don’t cry,” I urge, but she shakes her head and, pushing her chair back from the table with a loud scrape, she jumps to her feet and bolts for the door. Unfortunately for her, she has to pass me on the way and I grab her arm, pulling her back. “Don’t you dare,” I say to her, getting to my feet and looking down at her. “Don’t you dare run away from me again.”
“But…” she mumbles, as she blinks and two tears fall onto her cheeks.
“But what?” I let go of her arm, moving my hands to her face, cupping her chin and holding her, staring into her eyes.
“But I thought I meant more to you than Victoria.”
I smile, shaking my head. “Of course you do,” I reason. “You mean everything.”
“And yet, you… you wouldn’t mind if I… if I went to bed with another man?”
I frown. “Did I say that?”
She thinks for a moment. “Well… no, I suppose not,” she allows.
“If you went to bed with another man, I’d be devastated… completely devastated. It would finish me, I think. But that isn’t the point here, is it? The point is, could I forgive you?”
“And what’s the answer?” She blinks again, more tears falling, and I wipe them away with my thumbs.
“The answer is, that it would depend.”
“On what?”
“On the reason why you did it.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t understand,” she mumbles, and I step closer, my feet either side of hers, so our bodies are fused, melded together.
“If you slept with another man because… I don’t know… because you were curious about how it would feel to be with someone else, or because you just met someone and you simply fell head over heels in love with them, and realised I wasn’t the man for you after all, then no, I don’t think I could forgive you. As you said earlier, that would be a betrayal of our trust. You would have broken the bond between us, and I don’t think I’d be strong enough to mend it. Maybe that’s a failing on my part, I don’t know, but I really don’t think I could put something like that behind me.”
“Then you do feel the same way as I do,” she says, sounding a little stronger.
“In that set of circumstances, yes, I think I do. However, if you slept with another man because of something I’d done…”
“Do you mean like revenge, because you did it first, or something like that?” she asks, tilting her head to one side.
“No, darling. Because I’d never do it.”
“Well, neither would I,” she says forcefully.
I brush my thumb along her bottom lip and rest my forehead against hers. “I know… I know… but we’re talking hypothetically here, and I want to explain this to you, because you seem to be in some doubt.”
She sighs and pauses, and eventually whispers, “Go on then.”
“What I meant was, if you slept with another man because I… because I wasn’t paying you enough attention, or because I’d stopped telling you every single day how much I love you – and meaning it – or because you stopped feeling loved by me, or because you felt second best for any reason… if you
slept with another man because I was neglecting you and not doing my job as your husband… then maybe… just maybe, I could forgive you, because it wouldn’t be your fault. It would be mine.” I kiss her lips. “If you ever felt the need to seek attention and affection from another man, then I would be responsible for that.” I kiss her again. “I’d have failed you.”
“You never fail me,” she says, her voice catching with emotion. “Never. You never neglect me, or make me feel second best, and you always make me feel loved. You always make time for me, even when you’re busy… I know that.” She reaches up and touches my cheek with her fingertips. “This is your case talking,” she whispers. “You see so much lying, so much cheating, so much wickedness, but none of that is ever going to happen to us. I promise.” She gulps down her tears. “We don’t need to talk about this, Rufus, because I don’t want anyone but you.”
“And I don’t want anyone but you,” I echo and she smiles. “You’ll never have to look to someone else to make you happy, or to make you feel loved,” I whisper, leaning down and kissing her deeply. “Because there is no-one in the world who could love you more than I do.”
Without another word, I bend down and lift her into my arms and, leaving our half-eaten supper on the table, I carry her through the house and up the stairs, to our bedroom, closing the door quietly behind us.
The End
The Rufus Stone Detective Stories will continue in Book 5,
The Peacock, due out in Autumn/Winter 2021.
Copyright Material
Copyright © K. J. Frost, 2021.
The right of K. J. Frost as the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First Published in 2021
by GWL Publishing
an imprint of Great War Literature Publishing LLP
ISBN 978-1-910603-81-9
Produced in United Kingdom
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.