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“But don’t you see?” Simon says urgently. “This proves he was there when Emma died.”
We’re sitting in the coffee shop, close to Still Hope, where Edward Monkford first made a pass at me. Two people coming together with no agenda other than the present. What a monstrous lie that turned out to be. No doubt he meant it at the time—thinking he could recapture just the parts of the relationship with Emma he liked, without the bits he didn’t. But, as Carol pointed out, you can’t tell the same story twice and expect a different ending.
Simon’s still speaking. “Sorry,” I say. “What was that?”
“I said, she only wore that necklace for him—she knew I hated it. She was supposed to be seeing me that day. We’d half made an arrangement. But then she canceled. She said she wasn’t feeling well. Even at the time I wondered if she was actually seeing Monkford.”
I frown. “You really can’t read all that into a single pearl. It doesn’t prove anything.”
“Think about it,” he insists patiently. “How did Monkford get the necklace to give it to you? He must have been there when it got broken. But he knew if he left pearls scattered all over the floor, it would look like a struggle, not suicide or an accident. So he cleared them up before he left—all except the one you found.”
“But she didn’t die in the bathroom,” I object. “She was found at the bottom of the stairs.”
“It’s only a few steps from the bathroom to the stairs. He could easily have dragged her there, then pushed her down.”
I don’t believe Simon’s overwrought suggestion for one minute, but even I have to admit that the pearl might be considered evidence. “All right. I’ll get hold of James Clarke—I know he comes into town on Wednesdays. You might as well come along too. Then you can hear him dismiss your theories yourself.”
“Jane…would you like me to come and stay at One Folgate Street for a few days?” I must look surprised, because he adds, “I offered to stay with Emma. She didn’t want me to and I didn’t like to push it. I’ll always regret not having been more insistent. If I’d only been there…” He leaves the sentence hanging.
“Thank you, Simon. But we still can’t even be sure Emma was murdered.”
“Every tiny piece of evidence points to the fact that Monkford killed her. You’re refusing to admit it for reasons of your own. And I think we both know what they are.” His gaze goes down to my bump. I flush.
“You have emotional reasons for wanting him to be guilty,” I counter. “And for the record, Edward and I had a brief relationship, that’s all. We’re no longer together.”
He smiles, a little sadly. “Of course not. You’ve broken the biggest rule of all. Just remember what happened to the cat.”
THEN: EMMA
I’ve tweaked and tweezed, depilated and buffed. Finally I put on the pearl necklace, tight against my throat like a lover’s hand. My heart sings. Waves of anticipation wash over me.
There’s still an hour before he gets here. I pour a large glass of wine and drink most of it. Then, still wearing the necklace, I head toward the shower.
There’s a sound from downstairs. It’s hard to identify, but it might be the squeak of a shoe. I stop.
Hello? Anyone there?
There’s no reply. I grab a towel and go to the top of the stairs. Edward?
The silence drags on, thick and somehow meaningful. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Hello? I say again.
I tiptoe halfway down the stairs. From there I can see into every corner of the house. There’s no one here.
Unless they’re directly below me, hidden by the slabs of stone. I turn backward, taking one step at a time, peering through the gaps.
No one.
Then I hear another sound, a kind of snort. It seems to come from above me this time. But as I turn toward it I become aware of a high-pitched whine, a frequency right at the edge of human hearing. It gets louder and louder, like a mosquito. I put my hands over my ears but the noise penetrates right into my skull.
A lightbulb pops in the ceiling, the glass blowing out and tinkling to the floor. The noise stops. Some malfunction of the house’s technical systems. In the living area, my laptop’s rebooting. The house lights slowly fade down to nothing and then up again. Housekeeper’s homepage appears on my laptop screen. It’s as if the whole house has just reset itself.
Whatever the glitch was, it’s over now. And there’s no one here. I pad back upstairs toward the shower.
NOW: JANE
“Well, this is fascinating,” James Clarke says, looking from the necklace to the single pearl and back. “Fascinating.”
