When Rupert goes to work, I watch him walk briskly along the street in the direction of the train station, his coat pulled up around his ears against the March chill. In a few weeks it will be Easter, and I think back to last year, to Rupert getting down on one knee in front of everyone and the way I had felt just the tiniest flutter of panic before I said yes. Premonition, maybe? I wait until he is out of sight and then scan the road both ways, double-checking that no one (Caro) is lurking outside. The street outside is empty, but I close the blinds anyway before I head upstairs, my feet slowing as I approach the door to the spare room.
It makes sense to start in here, as Rupert had moved Caro’s things in before I’d even met him. Sitting on my feet, I pull out the shoeboxes that line the bottom of the closet, riffling through each one, but none of them contain anything other than shoes. I pull out drawers, dig beneath mattresses and even try Rupert’s desk, but there is nothing. There is no trace in the house, other than the wardrobe full of clothes, that Caro ever even existed, let alone lived here.
Sweaty and dusty – I did a much better job of cleaning the house than Anya has, that’s for sure, despite wrecking the marble tiles – I head downstairs for a glass of water, pausing as I reach the orangery doors. Rupert has closed them back up again, despite my leaving them open. Could there be anything in there? I push the doors open, marvelling again at the light that floods the room. Such a waste, not to use it.
The only thing in the orangery that could possibly hold any answers to Caro’s secrets is a large footstool, with storage inside. Even though I’m ninety per cent sure it won’t contain anything of interest, I pull up the lid, to reveal a half-sewn cross-stitch pattern, the H and O of HOME embroidered in navy blue, and two photo albums. The sight of the half-finished needlework gives me a pang in my chest as I lift it to one side, imagining Caro sitting in here, stitching it for the house, only for it to be left unfinished. Lifting the albums, I dust off the covers and open one up. The first picture is of Caro and Rupert in a dingy pub. They are young, barely in their twenties and it must have been taken in the Nineties as Rupert is holding a cigarette. I didn’t even know he’d ever smoked. Flicking through, I chart their progress together – graduation days, fancy dress parties, other people’s weddings, their own wedding, and then finally the last photo – a grainy black and white scan picture, Caro’s name and the date at the top. I slam the album closed, not expecting the sharp fingers of hurt that ripple through me. I knew Caro was pregnant when she died, but I just hadn’t ever imagined a real baby.
As I get to my feet, writing off this whole search as a waste of time, I catch sight of the shed at the bottom of the garden. Could there be something in there? It was Caro’s, after all, and she might have left something. Rupert doesn’t go in there, and I’ve never bothered, apart from to fetch the gardening things. Shoving my feet into my trainers I snatch up the key to the padlock and hurry across the damp lawn, not noticing the chill in the air.
As I slide the key into the padlock it turns easily, and I shove my way in through the door, sticking and swollen with damp. The shed is tidy, with the garden tools hanging on nails on the wall, and racking against the far end filled with boxes, all slightly musty-smelling. Brushing aside cobwebs, I reach for the first box and open the flaps, only to find it full of damp, mouldy card beer mats. I vaguely remember Rupert telling me his dad used to collect them for him, so I close the box and place it on the floor and pull the box behind it towards me. This box is newer, with no sign of the damp that has infected the others. A tingle works its way up my spine, and I shiver, tugging the box down and opening it before I can change my mind.
Pay dirt. That’s what runs through my mind as I reach in and pull out a sheaf of envelopes and paperwork. Ignoring the spiders that run out from under the racking, I scan the envelopes first – they are unopened, all in Caro’s name and appear to have come from the bank. I pause for a moment, listening hard, and once I’m sure I am alone, I run my fingernail under the flap and slide out the sheet of paper inside. It’s a bank statement, for an account in Caro’s name only, dated June last year. Rupert must have taken it from the pile of post and hidden it out here. I run my eyes down the columns, gasping when I see the balance. There is a vast amount of money in the account, but no transactions have taken place.
I turn to the pile of papers and start to flick through them. They are bank statements too, some for Caro’s account, and some for an account that is in both Rupert’s and Caro’s names. This account has a significant amount of money in it, too, but it’s not an account I recognize as Rupert using regularly. I start to organize them into date order, and I see that occasionally a lump sum will leave the joint account, transferred into an account I recognize as Rupert’s sole account. Nothing has left Caro’s account since the day of the party. I check every single one painstakingly, going through over two years’ worth of statements but
