35. Wren
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
WREN
I am outside Hugo Fletcher’s house.
God, I hope Cuckoo’s plan works. Crow is nearby, in case anything goes wrong, but Starling and Cuckoo are far away. We couldn’t risk Hugo’s wife seeing Cuckoo, connecting the dots. If she is innocent, she will have no idea who I am.
When we came here before, I was a nervous wreck.
But it was exciting too, I’ll admit. Crowded together between the brambles, so close we could feel each other’s breath, staring out at Hugo and his wife, their intimate, private moments together.
And then we would follow Hugo out, my heart pounding, and then that led to . . .
An expensive car pulls in the driveway, and Hugo’s wife steps out, slamming the door behind her.
She is, thank God, alone, carrying a couple of shopping bags.
I wait for her to go inside, then stare at my phone until ten minutes have passed.
Only then do I finally approach the front door, which smells faintly of fresh paint.
My hand is shaking as I raise it to press the doorbell.
There is nothing, no response. I wait a few seconds and then press it again.
This time, I see a shadow through the small frosted glass window.
Then the door opens, and Hugo’s wife is standing in front of me, and for a second I am speechless, and I fear I am gaping at her.
We have watched her so much, to see her up close in the flesh is bizarre.
She truly is the woman we observed from afar, dainty and pretty and all edges, sharp elbows and protruding collarbone and slim hips.
She is wearing a pretty polka-dot dress with black tights.
The only flaw I can find on her is a tiny chickenpox scar on her forehead.
Between her feet, a Ragdoll cat weaves around her.
“Hello?” she says, with an amused raise of her perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Hello, I’m sorry to disturb you.” My mouth is dry. I have to swallow, lick my lips. “I live the street over from here, and I’ve been asking neighbors if they have seen anything suspicious around that could help the police. I’ve been broken into, you see, and it’s been ever so dreadful.”
It is a poor imitation of Hugo’s wife’s voice, the soft, lilting tone.
But it works, somehow; her initial suspicion breaks into sympathy, and she holds the door wide. “Oh, you poor thing. I can’t say I have, but why don’t you come in for a cup of tea? I have just put the kettle on. Where was it you were broken into?”
“Barker Street,” I say, silently thanking myself for checking what the street over was called before coming here.
It is another millionaires’ road, and I am glad that the richer you get, the less likely it is you mingle with your neighbors.
She has no idea I am lying. She is actually inviting me inside. “I don’t want to trouble you . . .”
“Nonsense,” she says. She bends down to scoop the cat up, hugging it close to her chest. “This is Miss Marigold, she’s pleased to make your acquaintance. Come on in.”
“She’s gorgeous,” I say, as this admittedly stunning cat blinks her big blue eyes at me.
I stroke her gently on the head and then step into Hugo’s house.
The door shuts behind me, and there is a rush of warmth from the heating.
This is not a woman who needs to worry about which days she is going to turn it on and which will be spent underneath blankets.
There is an entrance hall to this place before even entering the house proper, another door Hugo’s wife opens, which has a huge stained glass window.
There is a clock on the gray painted wall, and underneath, one of those stylish old-fashioned-looking radiators, but otherwise this small space is empty, carpets swept clean by what I assume is a professional cleaner rather than Hugo’s wife herself.
We enter through the stained glass door to a wide-open hallway.
There is a staircase on the right, but there are doors on the ground floor in both directions, just like Bishop’s House.
There are pictures hanging on the wall, though none of Hugo, and at the top of the stairs I spy another cat, a simple tabby this time, which sits and licks its paw and is entirely uninterested in me.
“This way,” Hugo’s wife says. “That’s Mr. Chomp up there. Be careful, he bites.”
Does every cat have an honorific? I don’t need to ask how the tabby got his name.
The house is very clean.
It is all I can think about as I perch on one of the dining table chairs Hugo’s wife has directed me to sit in.
She did not bring me into the living room, which was on our immediate left when we came inside, but instead walked down the hallway (carpets meticulously scrubbed, not a scrap of anything on them), past the stairs, and through to the open-plan kitchen.
In an effort to impress me, as this is clearly the biggest room in the house, or simply because there is more space on a practical level, I am not sure.
It startles me, because this is the room I know, the one we can see from the garden.
I stare out at it, wondering if Cuckoo is really there, but if she is, she is hidden well.
There is the island, with the white marble that sparkles, but Hugo’s wife has taken me to the dining table which seats at least six, eight at a squeeze, painted white wood and hard white chairs.
Everything is white apart from the cabinet handles, which are matte black; the oven, which is also black and has the cleanest screen door I’ve ever seen; and the floor, which is dark tiles and must have underfloor heating.
The white blinds are dust-free, the skirting boards as if they were wiped moments before I arrived.
There is a tray (white, of course) and six silver bowls on the floor beside the bin.
Water is in three; the others are wiped clean.
For the cats, I assume, but there is no sign of any cat hair or mess.
Looking at Miss Marigold, with all her fluff, it seems impossible she doesn’t constantly make her mark.
It’d be nice to have a cuddle with her, but something tells me this place doesn’t have a cuddly environment.
Hugo’s wife is very clean too. As she puts Miss Marigold on the ground and begins making the tea, I study her.
She has the pinkish complexion of someone freshly showered, ruddy cheeks and smelling of bath salts.
Her hair is tied into a delicate side plait that skirts her left shoulder.
She does not sit down, even when she brings the mugs over, which are matching china.
She stands at the head of the table, hands wrapped around the back of a chair, revealing navy-blue fingernails manicured to perfection.
Her mouth is set in a thin line, hiding her full lips.
She’s pretty, but I suppose Hugo would not have had her any other way.
She taps her fingers on the back of the chair, a nervous habit, and I see that her wedding ring, that huge engagement ring she wore on all the television appearances, is gone.
Hugo’s wife has no idea she has offered to make a cup of tea for one of the women who murdered her husband.
“There are three cats,” she says suddenly, her first words since checking whether I take sugar. She must have seen me looking at the bowls. “I can fetch them if you’d like. I used to have the one, before . . .”
Before Hugo died?
Went missing, I hastily correct my thoughts. That’s all she knows.
“That’s alright,” I say. “I love cats. Though I am rather wondering if I should get a dog, after the break-in.”
“Of course,” she says. “It can be scary being alone in a house. I haven’t seen anything, but I am sure the police are doing everything they can.” She clears her throat. “They still look for my husband. I am sure you’re aware of him.”
“Yes,” I say, because is it weirder to say no? “I am so sorry.”
“Well,” she says. “It has been a long time.”
She starts to pick at her nails; any second now a chip of varnish is going to come off and spoil her flawless look. Does she have bottles of the stuff upstairs, ready to touch up at a moment’s notice?
Is she the person who sent us that message?
She drums her long fingernails on the counter. “We were buying a property together, going to be starting a business in the rental market. And then . . .”
Bishop’s House.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, because she seems to be speaking without me needing to press her, and it’s going so well I can’t believe it.
She wipes her eyes. I hope I haven’t made her cry. “It was that abandoned old palace, the one on the hill? Have you ever been there?”
The question, she has no idea, is so unintentionally loaded my throat swallows of its own accord, and I have to take a sip of my tea to try and disguise it. She is looking at me innocently, slight frown between her brows. I have to recover this.
“Never,” I say. “I think I have heard of it though. You did not buy it in the end?”
“No,” she says. “I hear it has sold recently at last. I wish the new owner luck.”
It’s not her. Part of me wondered, as she had almost bought it before, in what feels like another lifetime ago, if she had now gone through with it.
I’m not sure if it is relief that sluices down my arms and legs, or simply a release of adrenaline, of finally understanding she is not going to hurt me, there is no trick here, she did not send us the message.
“I am sorry.” She shakes her head. “You’re here about your burglary. What was it you wanted to talk about exactly?”
“Right.” I take a sip of the tea; in my nerves, I asked for two sugars, and it tastes far too sweet, sickly in my mouth. “You really haven’t seen anything?”
She inhales deeply, frowns, and stares off into the garden behind me. “It’s funny, but I am sure there was someone watching me from the bushes out there once.”
My heart, regular as always, begins thumping. “Watching you?”
“Yes. Gosh, you don’t think they were casing my place out?”
“Perhaps it was simply a fox.”
“A fox,” she says. “Do you know, I have never seen one?”
“Me neither,” I say, even as the memory of that fox and our innocence hits me deep in the chest.
I make my excuses, thank her for her hospitality, and leave. We are no closer to finding out who sent the message.
I am thinking exactly this when across the road, caught out, obviously not expecting me to have left Hugo’s wife’s house so quickly, I see Patricia standing there.
Patricia. Goldie’s aunt.
All thoughts of Hugo’s wife are forgotten.
She has seen me too. She raises a hand to her mouth, looks left and right, and then breaks off into a run.