Frowning, I lay the statements to one side, a flicker of doubt stirring low in my belly. Maybe I have it all wrong after all? But then who, if not Caro, has been doing all this? I dig deeper into the pile of paperwork, determined to leave no stone unturned. Just because she hasn’t used that bank account doesn’t mean she doesn’t have another one, one that she had been siphoning money into. Maybe, despite Rupert’s adamance that Caro would never have left him, she was planning to leave all along. The box seems to be never-ending, full of receipts, theatre tickets, formal correspondence and handwritten letters, that appear to be from a friend to Caro, written while they were at university. I resist the temptation to read them, not sure if my heart can take written descriptions of Rupert and Caro’s love affair, and I am ready to bundle everything back into the box when I see there is one final envelope at the bottom, the first spots of mildew starting to discolour it.
I slide it out and pull out the contents. It’s only a couple of pages long, and is on headed paper, from a solicitor in West London. As I scan the words, realization dawns, and only because my mother had been up in arms the day her third husband to be (who never became her third husband in the end) asked her to sign a similar document. It’s a pre-nuptial agreement between Rupert and Caro. It states that in the event of a divorce Rupert would not be entitled to half of Caro’s estate, and would only be entitled to certain amounts on prior agreement. However, if Caro died before Rupert, he would inherit everything, with a clause stating that on Rupert’s death, any inheritance shall be divided between any children born to him and Caro, and not to children born by a subsequent partner. All pretty straightforward. I pull out the bank statements and run my eye down the column again, disappointed in my failure to prove what I was so convinced was right.
Shoving the paper back into the box, I square the corners neatly and put it back on the shelf, placing the mildewed box in front of it, before surveying the shed to make sure everything has been left as it was. A wave of tiredness washes over me, and for a moment I feel sick and dizzy, nausea making my mouth fill with saliva.
If Caro hasn’t been in the house, leaving dead animals on the doorstep and filling her wardrobe with her clothes then who has?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rupert is home early, catching me unawares as I stand at the stove, stirring a big pot of chilli, a glass of red wine in my hand. My mind is still ticking over everything that I uncovered today, and something isn’t sitting quite right, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.
‘Something smells good.’
I jump, a slosh of red wine jumping out of my glass and running over my fingers as Rupert enters the kitchen silently. I haven’t even heard the front door open, and I feel my shoulders tense. Anyone could have let themselves in and I wouldn’t have heard. I need to start putting the chain across.
‘Rupert, you made me jump. Good day?’
‘Eventful.’ He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Didn’t you get my message? I rang and said I’d take you out for dinner.’
‘No, sorry.’ I glance towards the telephone and hope he can’t see the cord that has been pulled from the wall. ‘I was outside in the garden for most of the day.’
‘I told you to just leave it. It looks fine for now.’ There is something snippy in his tone and he moves towards the wine bottle. ‘Do you mind if we stay at home after all?’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say, ever the peacemaker. Rupert seems to be in an odd mood, not his usual self. He hasn’t pulled me into his arms, or kissed me properly, just a dry peck on the cheek. There is an aura about him, something fizzing and volatile. ‘Why don’t you go up and have a shower? Dinner will be ready soon.’
I give him a winning smile and feel myself relax as he smiles back. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. It’s hard to know how to respond after being with Harry and his unpredictable reactions.
‘Emily, I think we need to talk.’ Rupert’s voice is grave, and I feel the smile slide right off my face as I pass him the rice. I look down at the tablecloth, straightening my knife and fork so they are the exact same distance apart.
‘Yes,’ I say eventually, ‘I think we probably do. Listen, Rupert, I’m sorry for what I said about Caro… about Caro still being here. I was wrong. I know I shouldn’t have but I—’
‘It’s not about Caro,’ Rupert says, talking over me before I can confess to rummaging through the paperwork in the shed.
I reach for my wine, my eyes never leaving his face as my pulse starts to increase, a steady beat I can feel in my temple.
‘I had a visitor today. Well, no, that’s not strictly right. I agreed to meet with someone today,’ Rupert says.
‘Who?’
‘A man called Henry Carpenter. Harry.’
Rupert waits for a moment, as I sit there unable to speak. A wave of dizziness washes over me and I swear I can feel the blood drain from my face.
‘Harry?’ I whisper. My hand goes to my throat and I massage the skin there, hoping to ease the lump that rises. ‘What did he say to you, Rupert?’
‘Some pretty vile stuff, to be honest.’ Rupert stalls, taking a sip of his wine. He watches
