“You what?” Mark seems flabbergasted. “You did what?”
“I wanted to ask him a few questions about Anna May Winchester.”
“Anna?” Bafflement enters his face. “But why?”
“She was the girl you were taking to the Trinity May Ball, wasn’t she? The one who went missing for nineteen days afterwards before reappearing again. I’ve connected the dots, thanks to what Richardson said. Anna May Winchester. That was her name, wasn’t it? The first in the shameless string of mistresses you’ve kept over the past twenty years. A list with Sophia’s name at the bottom.”
“I can’t believe you went all the way to Parkside just to ask about an ex-girlfriend of mine,” Mark says, incredulity spilling out of his eyes. “You’re preoccupied with the wrong things, as usual. As fucking small-minded as ever. Even with things collapsing around us. Now I know why you’ve been poking about in that folder of mine.”
I freeze, like a child caught red-handed in the act of stealing sweets from a shop. So Mark knows I’ve been snooping around.
“I don’t blame you,” he continues, taking me by surprise. “For wanting early proof that I’ve slept around. That I’m a serial adulterer. So you can humiliate me even further in public. But I can’t believe you went to talk to Richardson, of all people. With him closing in on us.”
I freeze again.
“What do you mean us?”
Mark does not reply. Instead his head sinks forward into his hands.
“Mark?”
He does not look at me.
“Why is Richardson closing in on us?”
My husband’s silence is ominous. A sudden chill strikes my heart.
“What have we done, Mark? Does it have anything to do with Sophia?” A quiet tremor has crept into my voice. It is not from anger.
Mark sighs again, getting up with slumped shoulders. He slouches in the direction of the kitchen door. But before leaving the room, he turns and says: “I’ve done you wrong as a husband. But I did try to protect you from the consequences of your actions. First Cath. Then Sophia. But the inspector’s not one to be deterred. I sense this in my bones. He let me go this morning, but he’ll be back again soon.”
He disappears into the darkened hallway outside. He must be heading for his study. Fact: Mark beats a hasty retreat to the bottom of the garden whenever our conversation reaches a dead end. This phenomenon has happened with increasing regularity in recent years. But this time, the dead end is much worse. Sophia Ayling is dead. And our marriage has come to an end.
But how did Sophia die?
Is Mark trying to say that we were involved in her death?
I must have spent fifteen minutes typing “Sophia + Ayling” over and over again into my iDiary. But nothing shows up on the screen. Nothing at all. I’ve even tried various permutations of her name: Sofia, Sophie, Sofya, and others. But my diary’s a blank.
First Cath. Then Sophia.
What is Mark trying to say?
Fact: Catherine Louise Evans was my poor baby. My only baby. Who was taken away from me after three months by that scourge known as sudden infant death syndrome. I found her one afternoon, looking pale in her crib, causing everything to dissolve into a terrible blur. My diary says as much.
Fact: Mark has not mentioned our child in recent years. She has become something of a taboo topic in our household. He prefers to say “I’d much rather not talk about her” whenever I bring up the subject. To confirm this fact, I type “Cath + Mark” into the search box of my iDiary before tapping the SORT BY DATE—DESCENDING icon.
The hit that surfaces first is dated 21 October 2012. Part of it reads:
Asked Mark over breakfast if he would like to try for another baby. After all, I’ll be turning thirty-seven soon. Mark shot me horrified look, one suggesting I was mad to bring subject up. Almost dropped spoon into bowl of cereal. Trying not to be discouraged by Mark’s response, I said Cath’s death had left terrible void in our lives, one that has grown wider over years. We should try to fill it with another child. A little one to care for, cherish, and love.
It’ll be terrible for both you and baby if we have another, said Mark. And I’d much rather not talk about Cath, he added, abandoning cereal and stomping out. Spent next two hours moping in bed, shattered by Mark’s brusque response. But I soon felt more resigned after conducting search for sudden infant death syndrome on computer. Turns out that scientists in Heidelberg have proved the existence of genetic predisposition to SIDS. Woman’s second child has more than negligible probability of dying from syndrome if first child suffered from it.
Mark could be right: it may be bad for both child and me. After all, didn’t Dr. Jong once say that my depression was exacerbated by Cath’s death? The death of second baby would devastate me. Ought to banish all thoughts of having another. But I still want a baby, irrational as it may be.
Why did Mark decide to talk about Cath? After dodging the subject for years?
First Cath. Then Sophia.
Why did he list the two names in quick succession?
First Cath. Then Sophia.
I can think of only one connection between the two. They are both dead. Could their deaths somehow be related?
My mind spirals back to what really happened yesterday. I woke up in the morning and cried my eyes out for an hour before staggering out of bed. Mark was nowhere to be found; as the morning wore on, I became increasingly worried. I let myself out of the conservatory and stumbled down the garden path to his study. The wooden door was ajar; I flung it wide open. Mark was sprawled on the sofa, face contorted in sleep, torso twisted at an alarming angle above the waist. His fingers were curled around the neck of a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
“Mark,” I said, rushing forward to remove the bottle from his hand.
His eyelids trembled. He groaned. I winced; his breath reeked of stale alcohol.
“Wake up, Mark.”
His eyes flickered open; they were lined red, just like mine. His pupils gained focus; they settled on me.
“Claire…”
“What…what did you do to her in the end?”
“I…she…” His voice was a hoarse crackle.
“How can I live knowing that…” My hands began to shake; hot tears spilled from my eyes.
Mark pushed himself up on the sofa.
“How can I even—”
“Look here, Claire,” he said, a sudden sharp edge to his voice. “You did as told, didn’t you? You wrote in your diary that you watched television yesterday night. That you spent the evening at home.”
“But…”
“Please say you did.”
“I did.”
“Good,” he said. “It will be better tomorrow. For you, at least.”
“But you can’t just cover up—”
“I can.” His voice was hard, shot through with steel. “And I will.”
“Oh, Mark.”
“Don’t ever raise the subject again.”
“But…”