Sam Bourne - Pantheon

Two of the girls rushed forward to do as they had been told. Rosemary supervised the handover, then waited while the rest of the group overtook them, ensuring that she and James were well out of earshot. ‘Gone since this morning, you say,’ she said at last.

‘Yes.’

‘And you thought she might be with us.’

‘Well, it’s Thursday evening. She never misses her weekly walk, rain or shine.’

‘Ramble, Dr Zennor. We call it a ramble. And, you’re right, Florence is a stalwart. She hated missing the last couple of weeks.’

‘Missing them? She didn’t miss them.’

‘Well, she wasn’t here.’

‘I think you must have that confused. I remember it distinctly, Florence left at five o’clock, walking boots on. Same as always. I can picture her coming home, telling me about it.’

‘Well, I run this rambling club, Dr Zennor, and I’ve never missed a week. Not one. And I can tell you that Florence was absent last Thursday, as she was the week before. She’s not the kind of woman whose presence goes unnoticed.’

James was baffled. ‘Did she give any explanation?’

‘Only that something had come up. Something important. She was very apologetic.’

James was working through the different logical possibilities, trying to rank them in order of probability: that Rosemary was lying; that Florence had joined some other group and lied to her friend in order to spare her feelings; that on both Thursdays Florence had indeed been somewhere else, somewhere important, and had lied to him about it.

Rosemary spoke again. ‘This is very awkward, Dr Zennor. When speaking about the affairs of others, one never knows how much one is meant to know. Or how much the other parties themselves know.’

‘Affairs? What do you mean, “affairs”?’

‘Sorry. That was a very poor choice of word. Sorry about that. When one is speaking about the lives of others, let’s put it that way, one is never quite sure where the boundaries lie.’

‘Look, Miss-’ he ran dry, immediately regretting the attempt at a name.

‘Hyde, it’s Rosemary Hyde. And that rather makes my point, Dr Zennor. I have been your wife’s friend for at least ten years, since we were at school together. I suspect I am her closest confidante. And yet you are not entirely sure of my name.’

‘That’s not true,’ he said, without much conviction. ‘It’s just that I always thought your friendship was… well, I just left you two to get on with it.’ He was still preoccupied by the notion of his wife pretending to have gone out walking the last two Thursdays, putting her boots on, arranging for Mrs Brunson to look after Harry. Why would she have done that? Where would she have gone?

‘It’s not a criticism,’ Rosemary was saying. ‘Rather it might illustrate your problem.’

He could feel the red mist descending. ‘Yes? And what exactly is my “problem”, Miss Hyde? Because as far as I can see my only “problem” is that my wife and child are missing. I have been sent on a wild goose chase to the Bodleian library that proved no use at all and now you want to play games with me — suggesting that my wife has been lying about her recent movements — rather than just spitting out where the hell she is. That’s all I want to know, Miss Hyde. Where is she?’

It came out as more of a plea than he had intended, his voice desperate and imploring. That much was apparent from the change in Rosemary’s expression. Her features had softened into a look unnervingly close to pity.

‘I don’t know where Florence is,’ she said quietly. ‘That is the truth.’ She resumed walking. ‘But I am not surprised she’s gone. I expected it.’

‘You expected it?’

‘Didn’t you? If you’re honest. Given everything that’s been going on?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I really don’t, Miss Hyde. And I’m getting pretty damned irritated with people speaking to me about events I know nothing about.’

‘These are not “events”, Dr Zennor. This is about day-to-day life. At home. You and Florence and Harry.’

‘Our day-to-day life is fine, thank you very much. We’re a very good family. I love my wife and I love my son.’ His eyes widened in sudden understanding. ‘Oh, so that’s why you spoke about “affairs”. Well, let me tell you, I have always been faithful to Florence, from the very first moment-’

‘Nothing like that,’ she said, looking at her feet. She lifted her eyes and met his gaze directly. ‘Tell me, how well do you sleep?’

‘I don’t see this is any business of-’

‘It’s no business of mine at all. But your wife needed someone to talk to and that turned out to be me. So: how well do you sleep?’

‘And if I answer you, is that going to help me find my wife?’

‘It might.’

‘I go to bed late and I get up early, and I sometimes wake in the night. There, I’ve told you. Now, what can you tell me?’

‘Florence told me that you often wake up in the dead of night, shouting and screaming.’

‘I know the incident you’re referring to. It was-’

‘Incident? Florence said it happens all the time. You’re in a sweat, sitting bolt upright, bellowing out-’

‘I really don’t see…’

Rosemary ignored the interruption. ‘Night after night. And that would set Harry off. He’d be crying so hard, he couldn’t be settled. And if he did fall asleep, he’d only wet the bed an hour later. Then there was the time she found you sleepwalking.’

‘I don’t remember any-’

‘She found you in the kitchen, holding a knife. She said you just stood there, your eyes staring, frozen still with a knife in your hand. She was scared half to death.’

‘You’re making this up!’ he roared suddenly.

Rosemary turned and faced him, her teeth clenched tight. ‘And this is what she said was making life utterly impossible. Your constant pretence that nothing had happened. And your aggression. “Is he lying, Rosemary — or does he just not remember?” That’s what she would say to me. And she didn’t know what was worse: the thought that you would deny what she had seen with her own eyes or that you were so ill you couldn’t remember your own actions.’

‘ Ill? I’m not ill.’

‘I know about this too. Your refusal to see a doctor. She’s been begging you to see-’

‘Oh, for heaven’s-’ He struggled to get to the end of the sentence; the bright light in his head was becoming unbearable… but he couldn’t stop her. Not if she knew something he needed to know. He tried to speak calmly. ‘I did see someone. About the insomnia.’

‘Yes, but you didn’t tell him the truth, did you? You just said you had “the odd bad night”. You said-’

‘How the hell do you know all this?’

‘Because your wife had no one else to turn to. She didn’t dare speak to her parents. She knew how much you resented them for-’

‘Resented them?’

‘-for the help they had given you.’ His puzzled expression prompted her to be more explicit. ‘Resented the money they had given you.’

‘Look,’ he said, his voice firm and steady. ‘All I want is to know what information you have. You need to tell me that. Now.’

She paused, looking out over the river unwinding ahead, gazing at the top of Christ Church Cathedral in the middle distance. ‘All right,’ she began. ‘The important thing is Harry. Florence wanted to protect him.’

‘From what?’

‘From you, of course. Initially. ’

He was about to object, but the throbbing in his head was getting too insistent. It was easier to be quiet, to walk and to listen.

‘She said she had almost got used to you being angry all the time. After the-’ she glanced at his shoulder. ‘After the, um, accident. But once Harry was born, it began to worry her. The truth is, she was frightened.’