The Cuckoo (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 1)

by K. J. Frost

  “And murdered her?” He seems incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? And you still haven’t told me how you know it was a man…”

  I sit down opposite them, and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but I’m afraid there is evidence that your daughter was indecently assaulted before her death.” I’m trying to be delicate in the hope that he’ll understand without me having to explain in greater detail.

  “Indecently assaulted?” he whispers, staring at me.

  “Yes, sir.” I take a quick glance at Amelie and notice that she’s gone completely white. Her face is expressionless though, so I imagine she was already aware of what had happened. Hearing it put into words is another matter, however, and that explains her sudden pallor.

  “You mean she was… raped?” Templeton murmurs.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He doesn’t weep, or crumble, or rage. Instead, he turns slightly and looks out of the window, and I notice a pulse flicker at his temple. He’s holding his emotions in check, although precisely what those emotions are is anybody’s guess, being as his face is still blank. For a moment, I sympathise with him, and feel relieved and grateful that he didn’t have to see his daughter lying dead and undignified on the cold ground outside. Then I remember that Amelie did, and my relief evaporates.

  A slight sob from Amelie brings both Templeton and myself back to the present, and he twists in his seat again, pulling her close to his chest.

  “There, there,” he coos at her, stroking her hair once more.

  I feel a surge of resentment that he’s allowed to comfort her. I, on the other hand, must sit and merely long to hold her, while being aware of a strange discomfort over their intimacy, which I don’t think is in any way connected to my sudden fit of jealousy.

  “What’s being done?” Templeton’s abruptness takes me by surprise. He’s still holding Amelie, but is looking hard at me now.

  “At the moment, I’ve got men carrying out house-to-house enquiries, and searching your garden and grounds,” I explain. “I’ll be going to see the landlord at the public house, and your daughter’s bosses at work later this afternoon.” He nods then looks me up and down.

  “I’m surprised they sent someone as junior as you,” he says, somewhat disdainfully.

  “I think that’s because I grew up here.” I refuse to take the bait of his insult. “I know the area very well, and spent the first eight years of my service at Kingston.”

  Ignoring me once more, he kisses the top of Amelie’s head. “Better now?” he asks.

  She nods. “Yes, thank you.”

  Templeton gives her nose a gentle tweak. “That’s the spirit,” he says, then turns to me, getting to his feet. “I expect you to keep me updated, Inspector Stone. I’m going to see my wife now.”

  “Just a moment, sir. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  He glares at me. “And they can’t wait?”

  “No.”

  He hesitates, as though he’s about to argue, then moves to the fireplace, resting his hand on the surface of the mantlepiece and looking down at me, expectantly.

  I don’t wait to be prompted. “Are you aware of your daughter having had any enemies, or fallings out with anyone recently?” I ask him.

  “No,” he replies blankly. “I’m not here very much. And besides, Beth and I were not on those kind of terms. If she’d wanted to confide in someone about a personal matter, I imagine she would have chosen Amelie…” He pauses, glancing at her, then back at me. “And she didn’t,” he adds, not waiting for confirmation.

  I turn to Amelie myself. “Had she spoken of anything?” I ask her.

  “No,” she replies, and Templeton coughs. “Although,” she continues, “she was nervous about her promotion.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Well, that might not be the right word. Mr Johnson has a bit of a reputation…”

  “What kind of reputation?” I interrupt.

  “Oh… he’s just known as something of a perfectionist, that’s all. He gets a bit cross if things aren’t ‘just so’.”

  “You’re sure that’s all it is?” I ask and smile at her. “Feel free to give me the office gossip. I’ll ignore it if it’s not relevant to the case.”

  She flushes but manages a smile in return. “He’s had three personal assistants in the time he’s been with Hawker’s,” she says. “If you include Beth.”

  “And how long has he been there?”

  “I’m not sure. I know he’s been in the design department for about six months though.”

  “Why did the others leave?”

  “They didn’t meet his standards, evidently.”

  “I see.” I don’t question her any further, although I wonder if that’s the real reason for his high turnover of secretarial staff. I turn back to Templeton. “May I ask, sir, whether your family is of the Hebrew faith?”

  “Hebrew? No.” He seems surprised by my question and I feel I owe him an explanation, this time at least.

  “I only ask because of your daughter’s name,” I explain. “It’s Hebrew in origin.”

  “Oh, I see. No… we chose the name as a compromise,” he reveals in a moment of uncharacteristic candour. “I wanted to call her Elizabeth, after my mother, but Millicent didn’t like the name. She was worried it would be shortened to ‘Lizzie’, which she despises. I didn’t like Eliza, so we agreed on Beth.”

  “I see.”

  He sighs and looks at his watch. “I really must go and see to my wife,” he says impatiently. “She’s not well.”

  At this precise moment in time, I can’t think of much else to ask him. “Thank you for your time, sir,” I reply, and without another word, he crosses the room and leaves.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Amelie says as soon as the door’s closed again.

  “About what?” I sit forward, looking at her. She’s emotionally drained.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about what had been done to Beth,” she explains. I’d almost forgotten about that. “I saw… obviously, but I couldn’t tell Uncle Gordon. I wouldn’t have known where to start.” She looks up at me. “I hope that’s okay?”

  “Of course it is. It’s not your responsibility to tell him anything. It’s mine. So don’t worry about it.”

  “Thank you,” she murmurs and lets her head fall back onto the sofa.

  “I’ll be out of your hair in just a moment,” I tell her, getting to my feet. “But do you think you could find me a recent photograph of Beth?”

  She shifts forward again and looks at me, obviously thinking. “Uncle Gordon took some of both of us a week or so ago, before we went to the Abercrombie’s ball,” she says. “That’s about the most recent one I can think of. Would that do?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  She gets up and goes out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a small framed photograph in her hand. “It’s only just been put out in the dining room,” she says, handing it to me. “I’m sure Uncle Gordon won’t mind… in the circumstances…” Her voice fades.

  I glance down at the picture in my hand and see a pretty young woman. Her dark hair is swept back from her face, and held in place with a simple tiara. She’s dressed formally in a pale, fairly low-cut gown. What interests me most though, is the expression in her eyes.

  “You say Mr Templeton took this?” I ask Amelie, as she crosses the room to sit down again.

  “Yes,” she says, looking back at me. “Why?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” It’s very far from nothing. While there may be a slight smile on her lips, Beth’s eyes are filled with something… it’s not quite hatred, but it’s getting there. It’s certainly distrust and uncertainty. Considering she was looking at her father at the time, I find that very interesting indeed.

  “I’ll probably be back later,” I say, carefully unclipping the frame and removing the photograph, placing it in my pocke
t, and putting the frame down on the table by the coffee tray, before making my way to the door. “Or tomorrow. It’s difficult to be precise. If you should remember anything else about last night, or this morning, just telephone Kingston police station and ask for me. If I’m not there, they’ll know where to find me.”

  She goes to get up again. “I’ll show you out,” she says wearily.

  “No you won’t,” I reply quickly. “You’ll sit back down and get some rest. I’m quite capable of finding my hat and the front door.”

  She smiles up at me. “Are you sure? I’m suddenly very tired.”

  “Then get some sleep. No-one will mind.”

  She nods. “Thank you, Inspector.”

  I want to tell her to call me ‘Rufus’, but I can’t. “You’re welcome,” I reply instead, and take my leave.

  Outside, Ellis is just walking back up the driveway towards me.

  “What’s news?” I ask him.

  “We’ve completed the search of this part of the garden. The men have moved around to the back now.”

  “And?”

  “There’s just one thing,” he says, holding out a small evidence bag. “We gathered up all the buttons from the passageway, and there are four larger ones from her jacket, six smaller ones from her blouse, and an odd one.”

  “Show me.”

  He reaches into the bag and delves around, eventually bringing out a silver coloured button that’s perhaps three-quarters of an inch in diameter.

  “We’ll check this against her clothing and possessions, when we get them back from the doctor,” I tell him. “Anything else?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Not so far. Lots of scuffed footprints, but nothing discernible.” That explains why he just walked up the middle of the driveway – contrary to my instructions.

  “And the house-to-house?” I ask.

  “Still going on,” he replies. “I don’t think we’ll get much joy though.” He looks up at the building behind me. “Most of the properties at this end of the road are similar to this one, even if they’re not quite so grand. They’re well set back from the road, and a lot of them have high walls and hedges. I doubt anyone will have seen anything worth our while.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He turns and we walk together back down the driveway towards the entrance. “What about the cook and the maid?” I ask him.

  He pulls out his notebook and starts reading from it. “The cook, a Mrs Mary Reynolds, heard nothing last night and neither did the maid. They both sleep at the top of the house, right at the back. This morning, the first thing she knew of the incident, was hearing Miss Cooper screaming. She and the maid, Miss Sarah Yaxley, ran out and found Miss Cooper standing by the deceased. They took her back into the house, and telephoned the police, and Mrs Reynolds informed Mrs Templeton of events.”

  “Did they say anything about a Mr Jenkins?” I ask him.

  “Yes. I asked if there were any other staff and Mrs Reynolds mentioned him. She said he was here yesterday as usual. He did some odd jobs around the garden and mended Miss Templeton’s bicycle, then left just after tea, which she said would have been about four-thirty.”

  “Did you get an address?” I ask him.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I don’t think we need to see him at the moment, but keep it on file, just in case… Good work, Ellis.” He smiles.

  “What next?” he asks me.

  “I think we should go and speak to the landlord of the pub Beth Templeton was in last night.”

  “I can leave Sergeant Tooley in charge of the house-to-house, and finishing off the search,” Ellis replies, nodding to a uniformed officer who’s standing by the gate of the property with his back to us. “He’ll report back later on.”

  “Very good.” He heads towards a Wolseley that’s parked near the entrance. “We won’t need the car,” I point out, catching up to him. “It’s only The Plough. We can walk.”

  “Oh. Right-ho.” We cross over at the end of the driveway onto Spencer Road. “How did you get on with the family, sir?” he asks me after a few moments’ silence.

  “The father is a bit of a cold fish,” I reply, thinking out loud. “Either that, or he’s just very good at concealing how he really feels.” I decide against mentioning the way he behaved around Amelie. I need a little more time to piece those thoughts together before I air them. After all, there’s always the chance that my suspicions may have more to do with my jealousy than any justified misgiving.

  “That generation does tend to be,” Ellis says a little wistfully, and I wonder for a moment if he’s speaking from personal experience.

  “I suppose so.” I pause for a moment. I don’t want to come across as harsh, but I have to say something. “While we’re on the topic of the family,” I say, “was it you who suggested to Miss Cooper that she should telephone Mr Templeton this morning?” He nods his head. “Well, you shouldn’t really have done that.”

  “Sir?” He seems surprised.

  “She’s very young,” I point out. “And she was in shock. But regardless of either of those things, that’s something we should have done. I appreciate that you’re quite new to this job, but you could have found out the address of where Mr Templeton was, then called the local police station, and asked them to go and see him. Aside from the proprieties, it can be useful to see how a person reacts on first hearing the news.”

  “Oh. I see. I didn’t realise. Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just try and remember in the future.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We get to the end of Spencer Road, cross Walton Road and enter the pub.

  “We’re just closing, gentlemen,” says the burly man behind the bar, picking up a couple of glasses.

  “We’re not here for a drink.” I pull my warrant card from my pocket and hold it up to him.

  “Oh.” He puts the glasses down again and runs his podgy fingers through his dark, slicked back hair. “What can I do to help?” he asks, although I get the impression that ‘helping’ is the last thing on his mind. He looks nervous – bordering on shifty.

  “You’re the landlord of this establishment?” I ask.

  “Yes. That’s me. Bert Davies. Been here coming up for twelve years.”

  I take out the photograph of Beth and put it on the bar between us, turning it, so he can see her better.

  “Do you recognise that woman?”

  He studies her and thinks for a moment. “Yes,” he says eventually. “She was in here last night, I think. I’ve seen her a few times before as well, usually with a very pretty young thing.” I know he’s talking about Amelie, but try not to be distracted by that. He looks back at the photograph again, then up at me. “Why?”

  “Do you remember if she left the pub with anyone in particular last night?” I ignore his question and continue with my own.

  “I don’t know. That rather depends on what time she left.”

  “Probably between eight and nine?” I suggest.

  “In that case, I wouldn’t have seen her leave. I was out the back then…” He lowers his eyes and doesn’t finish his sentence.

  “Doing what?” I enquire.

  “Just seeing to a few things.” He’s being very evasive.

  “Such as?”

  “Why the interest, all of a sudden, eh?” he asks, raising his voice and looking offended. “I thought you came in here to ask about this ’ere young lady, not to question me.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Mr Davies, this young woman was raped and murdered last night…” He pales, sucking in a sharp breath. “Now, I don’t particularly care what you get up to in your own time, on your own premises, but if it relates to this woman, or anyone who was with her, then I need to know about it.”

  “It doesn’t,” he says, his voice more subdued.

  “Can I be the judge of that?”

  He hesitates for a moment, then says, “I do a little business – unofficially, as it were.”

>   “And who were you doing business with last night?” I ask.

  “Just regulars. No-one that would’ve hurt this young lady, that’s for sure.”

  I stare at him for a full thirty seconds. “Very well. Who was manning the bar in your absence?” I ask.

  “My missus, Joan.”

  “And is she here?”

  “No. She’s gone to visit her mother for a few days. The old witch… I mean the old dear had a fall this morning.”

  I sigh again. “Very well.” I pass him one of my cards, first writing down the telephone number of Kingston police station on the back. “When she gets back, can you call this number, and ask for me.”

  He holds it up. “Will do,” he says, putting my card between two beer glasses on the shelf above his head.

  Outside, Ellis just looks at me and shrugs. “Well, I suppose it was always a long shot… that she’d have been noticed leaving a busy pub,” he says.

  “I’m not giving up yet. There’s still the wife to speak to.”

  “Hmm…” He doesn’t sound convinced. “What now?”

  “Now we go back and get the car, and go over to Hawker’s. It’s high time I made the acquaintance of Mr Pickford.” We cross the road and start to retrace our steps towards the house.

  “Who’s Mr Pickford?” he asks.

  “Beth Templeton’s boss – until recently. She’s just been promoted. Her new boss is a Mr Johnson.”

  “In which case, shouldn’t we be talking to Mr Johnson?”

  “We will be. But I’ve been looking forward to meeting Mr Pickford.”

  “You have?”

  I smile down at him. “Yes. We spoke on the telephone a little while ago.”

  “And?”

  “He lost.”

  “This should be fun then,” Ellis chuckles.

  “Mr Pickford will see you now.” His secretary – a plump middle-aged woman with hair like wire wool, and a pink, rounded face – opens a door and shows us into a large wood-panelled office.

  Pickford rises from behind his desk. He’s a short man, probably around five foot eight in height, with a balding head and an over-large, reddened nose. To be honest, he’s exactly what I’d expected.