Chapter One
“Doesn’t it go any faster than that?” I asked, as the chandelier descended from the ceiling at glacial speed.
The contractor rubbed his chin. “Aye.” He pressed the switch on the wall and the speed increased to iceberg.
“Any more?”
He nodded and pressed the switch again and I could actually see it moving, but anyone standing under it would have plenty of time to get away if they needed to.
“Have you ever seen one just drop from the ceiling and fall to the ground?” I asked.
“Nah, it’s got a safety cord, would stop it if the chain broke. Safe as houses. Anyway, better slow it down, don’t want to burn the motor out and leave it hanging halfway.” And that we could agree on. “The top speed’s for emergencies only,” he remarked as the chandelierreturned to its glacial dignity, but he didn’t elaborate on the kind of emergency you might encounter.
“So, has nobody ever had a chandelier drop on them?” I wanted to make absolutely sure before I abandoned the idea.
“You’ve been watching too manyMidsomer Murders.” He chuckled, and I nodded. I had. I was going to have to find another way to kill my husband.
***
On the days when I felt it was worth making an effort, I would haul laundry up and down the stairs, beneath the portraits of the ancestors, under the gaze of their ghosts, past the priceless antiques, around the chairs so valuable no one dared to sit on them, and into the washing machine that had a room all to itself. I’d dust the spots Mrs. Billings had missed and tidy until I didn’t know where anything was. Then I’d vacuum until I bashed my knee or tripped over the hose. After that, I would return to the laundry and iron until I damaged one of James’s Egyptian cotton shirts, which wasn’t usually more than two or three shirts in.
Then, I’d flop onto the sofa, craving a whodunit, or three, and as I watched them, my mind would wander to the parts of the house I hadn’t touched: the grime in the ancient carpets in the unused bedrooms, the dust in their heavy velvet curtains, mothballs in the wardrobes harboring the old, old clothes from long-dead former residents. I’d reflect, in dismay, on the herculean task I would never complete and the knowledge that I would never truly be mistress of this house. My enthusiasm would evaporate.
But that was just on the days when I felt it was worth making an effort. Most days, I would leave the cleaning to Mrs. Billings; unconcerned about the quality of her work, I would merely shift from mybed to the sofa and watch TV for much of the time, the long stretch of hours broken into manageable segments by morning chat shows and afternoon thrillers.
My only break from the TV would be time spent at my sewing machine, if I had a particularly good idea for a new dress or skirt or top. As I stitched, my mind would wander, not to the state of the house but to the parting of ways of James and me and how much longer it would be until I could put into play the perfect murder and inherit his wealth.
When James and I first got engaged and I moved into Langley Hall, I sold the house I had inherited from my mum, an old thatched cottage in the middle of our village, and invested all the money in his cryptocurrency business. All of it.
Years later, I decided enough of this marriage was enough and I asked him for my money back, along with the gains I had made, only to be told that of the £350,000 I had invested, I would only get around £20,000 if I cashed it in now.
Apparently, you had to leave it for many years to get the fortune promised at the end. I asked a few more times over the years, but I was always told, just a little bit longer.
“Think of it more like a pension plan than short-term savings,” James said to me.
Apparently, we had discussed all that before I invested and, apparently, I said I understood. James had money because he was paid for managing the currency, but we investors had to bide our time.
I couldn’t leave with only £20,000 of the inheritance my mum had left for me, and I had no realistic means of supporting myself—after years of not working, my job prospects were limited. So I had no choice but to wait until either it was worth something or I could claim the equivalent under the terms of our prenup.
“Hasn’t anyone ever taken their money out sooner?” I asked.
“Not without making a huge loss,” James said. Then he looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should make it clearer in the contract, then people wouldn’t be so confused. I’m having to explain it all the time.”
So I continued as I was.
Most days, around half past five, whether I was making an effort or not, I’d rise from the sofa and shimmy over to the kitchen, where I’d concoct nothing more technical than a Meal to Share from Marks and Spencer. For health and safety reasons, I am forbidden from making anything from scratch.
An M&S ready meal was the peak of fine dining for us. On a more average night, I’d slide fish fingers under the grill, and into the oven would go a trayful of oven chips. I’d microwave some frozen veg and serve it all out. Sometimes James would come home and eat it; sometimes he wouldn’t, and I’d either put his in the oven to keep it warm or throw it straight in the bin, depending on my mood.
When he was here to eat, it would be like attending a work meeting. He’d ask me about tasks he had set while I fussed about nervously, wondering if he was going to catch me in a lie:
“Did you get Mrs. Billings to iron the curtains?”
“Yes,” I said. No, that was a ridiculous task, I wouldn’t demean myself, or her. He couldn’t tell if they’d been ironed or not.
“Did you count up how many new roof tiles we need?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve made a note of it somewhere.” No, that was like trying to count the stars, but that was often the point of these tasks. We needed a professional to come and look at it properly.
