Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

And that’s when Wilfie saw her. Blond hair, swirled up and round on top, it couldn’t be anyone else. Even with his fuzzy vision, how could he miss that long grey skirt and lacy blouse, and though he couldn’t quite make it out from here, he’d bet his pocket watch that that brooch glinting at her neck was a swan in flight.

“Michelle!” His heart was pounding. “Michelle!”

She couldn’t hear above the piercing shrill, so he waved his crutch, and it was due to the combination of excitement and fighting to stay upright that he hadn’t quite realised what he’d been looking at.

Where all the other staff had rushed away, Michelle remained beside Ron’s chair. She was laughing — so help him, he could see her white teeth shining when she tipped her head back — and then bending down to whisper in Ron’s ear.

Nah. Don’t be daft, Wilfie told himself. Of course she’d have to lean down close, he couldn’t hear her otherwise, could he? Not with this flaming racket going on. All the same, he stopped. Watched while she ruffled Ron’s hair with genuine affection. While she laughed again, in the way that only close friends do. And when she walked away, Wilfie watched the slit in her skirt swishing this way and that, to reveal her shapely ankles.

Stop it. Stop it, Wilfie, don’t do this. They’re friends. Good pals, that’s all, and what do you expect after all that signalling through the bloody window? It’s you she wrote to, remember? You she came to see each day, and you, Wilfred Herbert Baines, that she wanted to hear about, not Ron, so don’t you go making a damn fool of yourself. Not this time. You’ve screwed up enough already in your life, so you get this bloody right for once.

But then it happened. As Michelle strode off down the corridor, she turned and glanced at Ron over her shoulder. Not a quick glance, either. A direct and lingering look, probably the very one she’d given Wilfie when she cycled through the village. Except this time there was someone to acknowledge her. Someone to wave back...

Oh, yes, Ronnie Tyler had the lot. Courage, brains, good looks, and charm; he was popular with both sexes of all ages, and could have any girl he wanted.

Yet the minute Wilfie’s back was turned, he’d stolen his.

In the end, it was very simple. Everyone had gone, even Michelle, God love her, and the corridor and the stairs were deathly quiet. Only Wilfie, Ron, and the ghosts that stalked the chateau stayed, frozen in some kind of limbo in which the passage of time was marked by dust motes dancing in the air.

“Wilf!” Ron turned, his mouth breaking into a grin. “Congratulations, mate! Wasn’t expecting you back until tomorrow.”

“So I gather,” he growled, knocking the brake off the wheelchair with his crutch.

“Look, Ma,” Ron laughed, throwing both arms in the air as Wilfie gave the chair a good, hard shove. “No hands!”

The stairs were stone.

The drop was steep.

Those were the last words that Ronnie Tyler ever spoke.

And the weird thing was, Wilfie didn’t even feel bad about it. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, he’d broken free of his cocoon, and he didn’t mean his bandages. The clumsy, sloppy, sullen Wilfie had emerged into a poised and confident individual, and ironic as it was that Ron had been responsible for that transformation, you can’t go round stealing a man’s only chance of happiness and not expect to pay the price.

Wilfie didn’t blame Michelle for what had happened, how could he? She’d never even met him, and even though he’d only been gone a day or two, this was war, where time was measured on a different scale, and in any case Ron could charm the birds down from the trees.

“Oh, fancy, would you look at that!”

He couldn’t make out sister’s expression as she ran towards the jumble of twisted metal at the bottom of the staircase. But Wilfie could hear the sorrow in her voice.

“I told him,” she sniffed. “I told him time and time again not to go wheeling himself about on his own, and now look what you’ve done, Ronnie Tyler! You’ve gone and killed yourself, you silly fool.”

See? Even in a place that was hardened to tragedy and carnage, Ron was still their darling. But what the hell. Wilfie let him have his triumph, and why not. He couldn’t say whether he and Michelle would make it as a team, it was still very early days, but he didn’t see why not. Because while Wilfie could never be a teacher (and nothing in the world would keep him stuck inside a bloody bank all day), Michelle worked in a bread shop, didn’t she? Who better to teach him shopkeeping skills, and what was to stop them from opening their own little baker’s shop back home?

He would love her, cherish her, devote his whole life to her if she would only let him, because this was the new Wilfie now. Hadn’t he already proved that he was no longer that sloppy worker who lost his concentration? It was a pity, in a way, that he could never tell her that he hadn’t just committed murder, he had committed the perfect murder. No witnesses, no weapon, no clues, no motive, it was absolutely textbook, but the point is, if a man can get away with that, he can do anything he puts his mind to.

A question of attitude, right, Ron?

He didn’t wait while they untangled the body from the wheelchair and laid it on a stretcher. He needed to find Michelle. Better Wilfie broke the news than have her hear it from a stranger, but first he needed to see what kind of mangled mess she’d be confronted with. Ron might have lost his legs, he remembered sourly, but at least his face had remained intact, and though Wilfie was no coward, he didn’t mind admitting that his hands were shaking as he hobbled towards the massive gilt mirror at the end of the hallway.

“Corporal Baines?”

He was so absorbed in examining the raw, red mess that was his face that he smelled her perfume before he even saw her. Jasmine, with soft hints of patchouli — and not a trace of disinfectant. And when he looked into the mirror, he saw that, yes, she did come up to about here on his shoulder, and yes again, it was a flying swan, that brooch.

“You were Lieutenant Tyler’s friend — oh, I say, are you all right?”

“I—”

When she smiled, Wilfie didn’t need 20–20 vision to see there was no grief clouding those heavenly big blue eyes. Only kindness and comfort shined out to him. The trouble was, in the unforgiving glare of the crystal candelabra, the strands of grey in that lovely pile of hair stood out. Hundreds, yes hundreds, of silver, glinting threads that were in keeping with the furrows round her eyes, the lines around her mouth, and no wonder he hadn’t paid attention when she cycled round the village. Michelle was old enough to be his bloody mum.

“I’m... fine.”

He was. Honest. Because so what that Michelle was older than Ron made out? She cared about him, didn’t she? At least it wasn’t the fat girl with ginger hair and thighs like tree trunks, and knocking on or not, she was a damned good-looking woman, so stop stuttering, you fool. You’re the new Wilfie, remember? Strong, confident, got away with murder? Just calm down, ask her if she’d like a cup of tea, and take it from there.

Except...

There was something here that Wilfie couldn’t quite put his finger on. Admittedly, he was so confused, so amazed, oh Christ, so bloody happy that his brain was out of focus, but something was still bugging him. Not that he might be ashamed to be seen with an older woman. Not that. Michelle was still a stunner — Shit. A stunner who spoke English ...

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call somebody, Corporal? You’ve gone terribly pale and I’m concerned about your sudden change in breathing.”