All of them were wicked tormentors and schemers, liars and murderers. Perhaps when I was free, I would find the courage to write a letter to the police, anonymously of course, and tell them everything. I would give names and dates.
There was a real possibility that Thomas would hunt me down in Reading, harass me and demand I return to him. I was his property after all. I needed to protect myself from this dire eventuality. Thomas could only be hurt in two ways: financially or by reputation. I had no money or way of disinheriting him or damaging his income, and besides, he was doing a fine job of that by himself. I would have to target his reputation. I needed something compelling with which I could threaten to shame him publicly, something to keep him on the back foot and far away from me, something that neither he nor Mrs Wiggs would want to risk drawing attention to.
31
Not long after the clock struck nine, the front door slammed, and sent its thunderous crack through the house, making the legs of my bed shake. I was ready. I looked outside and saw Thomas striding down the garden path. Mrs Wiggs had retired to her bedroom just after eight.
I hurried out onto the landing. I was wearing one of Thomas’s hats, a long black overcoat, a white shirt without a collar and a pair of trousers I’d had to fasten around my waist with a scarf. I tried my best to tiptoe down the stairs to stop them from creaking. I had on my own boots with a small heel, but the trousers were long enough and covered them. I convinced myself no one would notice.
I considered going out the front door, but if I was attuned to the noise of it, then it was certain that so was Mrs Wiggs. Instead, I snuck towards the back of the house, down the narrow staircase, past the pantry and into the kitchen. It was dark and empty now that Cook and Sarah were gone. Mrs Wiggs was struggling to keep up with the housework; dust had gathered and a conspiracy of spiders’ webs had sprung up everywhere. The moonlight pouring through the kitchen’s large windows illuminated the web over the back door and I had to clear it away to get out. I left the door unlocked for my return.
I ran around to the front of the house just in time to catch Thomas’s receding silhouette. Tonight he looked like a stickman drawn in charcoal, bobbing across the watery grey flagstones, elbows jutting out at right angles.
I followed him along Chelsea Embankment and then onto Pimlico Road. I hoped he wasn’t about to jump into a cab or go to a station as I had no plan for that – I didn’t even know if trains ran at night. I almost never went out that late and when I did, it was always with Thomas and we always took a cab. I felt exposed being alone on the streets of London. It was dark and gloomy, the rain had turned the black pavement into shiny mirrors, and the yellow moon was reflected in the puddles. It was a relief to be a man. Even so, I could not but think of all the stories in the newspapers, and I walked in exhausted anticipation of being attacked at any second: stabbed, raped, murdered. My only comfort was the presence of my own murderous husband, albeit at a distance.
After twenty minutes, he turned left onto Buckingham Palace Road. The streets were deserted save for a few men who hurried along, huddled in pairs or alone, all of them walking with purpose. I watched the way they bowled along the pavement and attempted to adopt the same gait. I wrapped the lapels of Thomas’s coat around my face and pulled my hat down. I was the same shape and height as any slim young man; only should someone study me with a lamp in my face would they discern that I was a woman in baggy trousers and women’s shoes.
Not long after we’d both passed under the shadow of Westminster Cathedral, Thomas entered a pub called the Duke of Wellington on Victoria Road. I did not know this part of London at all. Because of the cathedral I’d assumed it would be populated by scholarly types, but I have come to realise that such men only existed in my imagination.
The pub was on a corner with a big double door in the middle. There were a few scattered drinkers outside, all men, smoking and drinking in pairs and groups. I approached the entrance but dithered, and instead leaned against an exterior wall with my hands in my pockets. I seemed to be making a habit of this these last few weeks – spying on my husband in one seedy drinking den or another. I couldn’t see much through the window, it was steamed up, so I used my sleeve to rub a space and then felt foolish since it was clear the moisture was on the inside. Mostly what I could make out was a haze rippling with swirls of thick smoke above dark heads like the rooftops of houses, and a low chorus of voices like the rumble of a distant train. Hats, whiskers, smoke and dreary clothes.
Thomas’s head stuck up above all the others. He inched his way to the bar, leaned on it, then turned towards the window as if he’d sensed me there. I ducked, petrified, and stayed low, my back against the cold wet bricks.
