French Onion Soup

“It was April 6th, 1989, when I killed Rebecca Walsh.”

The tape clicked as it began to record. The room was cold, filled with the steady hum of the fluorescent light above.

Detective Inspector Kingsley didn’t look up from his notebook. “Would you like to start with your name?” he said. “For the recording.”

The elderly man let out a tired sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Carl Edwin Russell.”

Kingsley nodded before gesturing with his hand. “Go on, Mr Russell.”

Carl stared at the now cold tea between his hands. “It’s been twenty years. I felt it was finally time to tell the truth.”

“And that is…” Kingsley asked.

“Well,” Carl began. “I suppose I ought to start at the beginning.”

“Wow, aren’t those flowers just lovely!”

I looked up from where I was kneeling on the ground. Just a few feet ahead of me was a lady, one I’d never seen before, in a lovely floral dress with her hands held together in front of her.

I stood, dusting off my trousers. “Why, thank you. I find daffodils perfect for this time of year.” I removed my muddy gloves, holding out a clean hand towards her. “I’m Carl Russell. And you?”

She shook my hand, a smile on her face. “It’s lovely to meet you, Carl. I’m Rebecca Walsh, your new neighbour.”

I tilted to look behind her, watching as workers helped bring in box after box. The house in question had been vacant for the past few months, after my previous neighbour took an unfortunate turn.

“So you’re the brave soul replacing Mrs May,” I smiled.

Rebecca looked towards the house, with a quaint white picket fence. “I hope I don’t struggle to fill her shoes.”

“Don’t worry,” I comforted. “You don’t.”

“No?”

“They’re still inside.”

She let out a startled laugh, covering her mouth as she did. Her eyes lit up, and I laughed too.

“What brings you to this old place?” I questioned. She didn’t look awfully old, but perhaps she was blessed with a youthful appearance.

Rebecca sighed, holding a hand over her chest. “Unfortunately, my heart is ageing, as am I. My children thought that by living here, at least I’d be properly cared for.”

They weren’t wrong, I supposed. Here, we had freedom to live, cook, and clean as we wanted. But the staff and care allowed for help when needed. Whilst it sometimes felt like I’d been left to the wolves, I couldn't deny the quality of care we received.

“Well,” I said. “Let me be the first to welcome you to our humble village.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, looking towards her new home. “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be here for a while.”

“Mr Russell, I hate to rush you, but what does any of this have to do with her supposed murder?”

Carl looked at the detective, giving him a flat smile. “I’m getting there, I promise,” he said. “But I feel you have to understand the whole picture.”

“Okay.” Detective Inspector Kingsley nodded. “Go on.”

It wasn’t until the next evening that I saw her again. Once she had settled into her new home, she popped round for some tea.

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” she worried. “I’d invite you round to mind, but the house is in a state.”

“It's no bother,” I told her. “It’s been a while since I’ve had company.”

She’d brought a small tin of biscuits with her, and over them with a spot of Earl Grey, we discussed what had brought us to this point. She told me of her childhood, of the years in the city farm, of the trip she took to France, where she fell in love with the food. In turn, I told her of my career as an architect, my travels, my children and their children too. By the time we had finished, the sun had long set, and the streets were lit with warm lights, lighting the road.

“Well, I suppose I ought to head off,” she stated. “Thank you for having me.”

“Nonsense.” I smiled. “Rather, thank you for the company.”

I watched as she walked back to hers, waving as she entered through the front door. I stayed and watched a bit longer, till her porch light turned off.

That night I slept better than I had in a while. I wasn’t sure why, but part of me knew it was due to the presence of Rebecca Walsh.

“You were an architect?” the detective asked.

“Yes, for twenty-eight years, if you can believe it.”

“Well, that's quite the accomplishment.” The detective said. “Whereabouts did you work?”

Carl froze, his eyebrows scrunching together. “Well, it was…” He stopped, collecting his thoughts. “No, not there,” he muttered to himself. “I’m so sorry, detective, but I can’t seem to remember.”

The detective nodded, jotting something down. “No problem, Mr Russell. Please, continue.”

“Okay, where was I…”

For the next couple of weeks, we spent most moments together. She was a breath of fresh air, a reminder of the life I’d once had. I found her stories and antics to be compelling, and I grew to look forward to her company.

Some days we’d walk the winding paths that cut through the village, greeting neighbours who insisted on stopping for conversation.

Other days she’d simply appear at my door.

“Carl!” she’d call before I’d even answer it, “I’ve made far too much bread again.”

She’d taken quite the interest in my little vegetable patch. Whilst cooking was still a skill that evaded me, I did appreciate an organic meal.

“You grew all of this?” she asked one afternoon, crouching beside the raised beds.

“Proudly.”

She walked around as I pointed out each bed.

“Those are the leeks, and right next to them are the carrots.”

“And those?” She pointed to some thin hollow leaves, growing long from the ground beneath.

“Onions,” I replied. “Both red and white, I like the variation.”

“Fascinating.” She smiled. “It’s simply marvellous.”

Kingsley cleared his throat. “So, you were a fan of gardening?”

A small smile graced Carl’s face. “I was.”

“And did you grow vegetables to eat?” he questioned.

“Yes,” Carl straightened in his chair. “I found eating home-grown vegetables to be far more fulfilling than anything I could buy at the store. Those, alongside the flowers, were my favourite pastime.”

“The flowers, you mentioned them before.” The detective looked towards his notes. “That spring you were growing daffodils, yes?”

Carl hesitated, frowning ever so slightly. “Yes, I was.”

The detective licked his lips before making a small note.

Daffodils.

“Okay, let’s continue.”

Rebecca insisted on cooking for me, as a way to repay the fresh produce I gifted her every morning.

“You’ve been too kind,” she’d tell me. “At least let me cook.”

From her years abroad, she’d grown to adore French cuisine. I myself preferred to make simpler things, such as stews, pies, or soups. I especially like soups.

“You can’t just make soup all the time!” She scolded me. “It may be easy, but surely you’d like variation?”

One Thursday afternoon she knocked on my door carrying an old recipe book tucked beneath her arm.

“I’ve decided,” she announced. “I’m making French onion soup.”

“So, just to be clear, she came to cook for you?”

“Yes,” Carl replied. “While I had a knack for gardening, it was often wasted on bland meals. She, on the other hand, had extraordinary taste.”

“And that day, she planned to cook soup?” Kingsley wrote something in his notebook.

“French onion, one of her favourites from her time in France.”

We knelt together in the dirt, picking onions from the soil.

“I must admit, it doesn't get fresher than this,” she laughed. She picked a partially misshapen bulb, holding it up to me. “This is a strange little one.”

“They may look strange, but I promise they taste better than they look.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she replied, adding it to the basket.

Back in the kitchen, the house smelled of butter and thyme. Rebecca moved around with ease, clothed in a beige and pink apron.

“You know,” she said, slicing the onions into thin crescents, “French caramelised onions can take hours to make.”

My eyes widened as I watched her work. “I could never be that patient, not for onions at least.”

“It’s worth it, believe me,” she said as she tipped the chopping board, adding the onions to the pot.

She was right. By the time she had finished, I was presented with a bowl of sweet and rich onion soup.

“I’ll admit,” I said, eating another spoonful. “You were right.”

It was one of the best meals I’d ever had. It was savoury and comforting, warming me from the inside out. However, there was a strange bitter taste that seemed to nag at my tongue.

Outside, rain began tapping at the windows. For a while we ate, talking as we did every night about past and present, plans and events. It may have been the happiest evening I'd had since moving to that small village.

But then, something changed. I watched as Rebecca placed her spoon down, scrunching her face.

“I don’t feel…” She frowned. “...quite…” Her hand flew to her chest. The smile that once stood strong was gone. “Carl.” She turned to the side and was sick onto the floor.

I hurried to her side, catching her as she slumped out of her chair. She collapsed into my arms, unmoving.

Kingsley inhaled, jotting down every detail. “What happened next?”

Carl didn’t answer immediately. He twiddled his thumbs, his face dropping as he looked down.

“To this day, I still don’t know whether there was anything I could have done." He swallowed, taking a deep breath. “I called for help as soon as I could.”

The paramedics arrived within minutes. They had her on a gurney and to the hospital within half an hour. But, upon her arrival, I was told there was nothing to be done. She had suffered a heart attack, and Rebecca Walsh was now dead.

I didn’t leave my room for many days after that. Outside, the world continued, but I was numb to it all. What I hadn’t known at the time was that some of the workers had taken it upon themselves to attend to my garden. Spring was coming to an end, and that's when I realised what I had done.”

“What do you mean?” The detective questioned, leaning forwards. “What did you realise?”

Carl’s eyes filled with water. “That morning, when I went to weed the garden, I saw something wrong with my onions.” A lone tear fell from his eye. “Among the hollow onion leaves were a couple of flowers, beginning to bloom.”

Kingsley frowned, tilting his head. “What do you mean?”

“Where we had been pulling onions…” his voice broke as he began to sob. “...daffodils had started blooming.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. I hadn’t known at the time how bad my memory must have gotten. But somehow, I’d mistaken some daffodil bulbs for onions, and mixed them together in the same bed.”

Kingsley handed him a tissue as Carl blew his nose.

“What I later learnt was that daffodil bulbs were poisonous. And whilst normally, one may have been able to recover…”

“Her heart.” The detective finished.

“She was the strongest person I ever knew,” he sniffed. “But her body didn't follow that sentiment.”

“So why confess? Why now?”

Carl looked at him for a long time before answering. “I tried to move on, to keep living, but I couldn't. Every day I mourned her loss, and every day I thought of coming here.” He straightened in his chair. “But I feared for my kids, my family. What would they think?” He paused for a moment. “But my memories are getting worse, and I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up, not knowing how Rebecca died at all.”

“Mr Russell… I’m not sure you’ve committed a crime.”

Carl looked confused, and Kingsley took that as a chance to continue.

“From what you’ve told me, neither of you knew about the bulbs, and ultimately, Rebecca's death was ruled to have been from natural causes.” He put down his notebook. “From what I've heard today, this sounds like a tragic accident.”

Carl looked down towards his hands. “Maybe.” Tears streaked down his face as he did his best to wipe them off. “There was one thing I didn’t tell you, though.”

Kingsley tilted his head. “What’s that?”

“Just before she collapsed…”

Rebecca laughed. “I suppose,” she said, “if I have to spend the rest of my life anywhere…” She looked around the little kitchen. “...I’m glad it’s next door to you.”

She smiled, the same smile she gave me the very first day we met. I never got the chance to tell her that I’d like that too.

Kingsley gathered his notes, but he didn’t stand. In this case, there wasn’t much to be done. Something had happened, something terrible. But it was an accident, one which Carl Russell had spent years suffering for. They both sat there, not a word spoken.

Outside, beyond the interview room window, a row of daffodils swayed gently in the spring breeze.