Philippe had insisted on being close by when Alice tackled her husband, but though it best, for her sake, if Ross didn’t actually see him. For that reason, they had decided not to drive up to the front of the house. Instead, they intended to park in the lay-by and approach the house from the rear, by walking along the cinder track. That way, Philippe could wait just outside the back door and would be available if needed. They locked the car, climbed the stile, then set off along the track towards Moor End Farm, grateful for Philippe’s umbrellas.
The house looked dark as they drew near, but as they climbed up onto the patio and peered in through the glass doors, they could see some light spilling down the stairs from the galleried landing above. ‘Looks like he’s upstairs,’ Alice said.
She led them around to the kitchen door, then retrieved the key from underneath a plant pot that was sitting on the window ledge. Next to the back door, there was a second door leading into a small outhouse that had originally been the outside toilet. Now it was used as a vegetable store.
Alice handed her umbrella to Philippe, and pointing to the outhouse door said, ‘You can shelter in there if you want, it will be warmer, I won’t be long.’
‘No, I will wait next to the open door,’ he said, ‘just in case you need me.’
She unlocked the kitchen door and went to go through, but then stopped and rushed back to him. Standing on tiptoes, she reached up and hugged him. ‘Wish me luck,’ she murmured.
He held her trembling body close for a few seconds. ‘You have nothing to be afraid of, I will be just here,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Just remember everything we have talked about.’ She nodded, then slowly released her grip. They stood looking into each other’s eyes for a few moments. ‘Have you got your envelope?’ he asked.
She patted her jacket and felt the statement they had written sitting in her inside breast pocket. ‘Got it right here,’ she said.
‘Then go and give him hell,’ Philippe said.
A look of determination came over Alice’s face. She turned and slipped through the back door.
The dull, watery light, filtering through the windows into the house was enough to illuminate the ground floor to the extent that Alice could see where she was going. As she made her way through the kitchen and out into the hall, she could see the light from above was coming from the master bedroom. There was also a strange, rhythmic, animal like noise coming from that direction. Alice stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. At first, she didn’t recognize what she was hearing, then with a sudden shock of realization, she knew exactly what was going on.
He’s got a woman up there! Alice’s inner voice shrieked incredulously. Only a few hours after my funeral and he’s in bed with another woman! How much lower is he going to sink? She slipped out of her shoes and started to make her way slowly up the curved staircase, her mind whirling. I knew it… I knew it all along! I wonder who she is? I wonder if I know her? This is going to be perfect, catching him with another woman, in flagrante delicto, more ammunition for the divorce.
She reached the top of the stairs and turned left towards the master bedroom, which was at the far end of the galleried landing. The noises from the bedroom started growing louder and the tempo quickened as she crept along with her back to the wall. Just as she got to her own bedroom door, the noises from inside seemed to reach a crescendo, and as she stuck her head around the door frame, the full, shocking reality of the situation hit her like a hammer blow.
In a split second the scene was imprinted on her mind like a flash photograph. The noose around Alex’s neck, tied on a thick rope which passed through the iron ring on the ceiling where her delicate fabrics used to hang. The handcuffs. The blond wig. The women’s underwear he was wearing. The riding whip her husband was using. The way they were locked together in a disgusting, degrading, outrageously unnatural act. And the smell…
Alice’s hand flew to her mouth as acid spurted into the back of her throat. In an instant she’d turned and dashed down the landing, through her son’s bedroom and into his bathroom. Sinking to her knees in front of the toilet she whipped the lid up and sent her lunch splattering against the porcelain, coughing and gagging as the acid seared the back of her throat.
Slowly the spasms in her stomach subsided and she sank back on her haunches, wiping her mouth on a piece of toilet paper. Her face was flushed and burning and she could feel the sweat on her forehead standing out in beads. She closed her eyes and slumped sideways against the wall, covering her face with her hands and started to cry uncontrollably.
After a while, the tears stopped but she stayed huddled there, shocked and numb, until a distant humming noise broke through into her consciousness, making her mind start to work again, pulling her slowly out of her dark emotional vacuum. She couldn’t place it at first, then suddenly realized it was the sound of the power-shower in her en-suite bathroom making the water pipes vibrate. One of them must be taking a shower, she thought, which must mean they’ve finished… thank God, I could never face that sight again.
Abruptly the sound stopped. Things started to fall into place in Alice’s mind. Lots of little things. Remarks and looks that had passed between Ross and Alex that she hadn’t understood. The way they were often away from home at the same time. The way Alex had just appeared overnight as their secretary. Of course, she would have been suspicious if her husband had suddenly introduced a woman into the household. But Alex, gentle, friendly, effeminate little Alex? She’d accepted him without question.
And what a fool they’d made of her! Carrying on right under her nose! She couldn’t believe she’d been so blind… but then, what wife would suspect her husband of that? Then she remembered the summer holidays. Charles and his teenage friends, the way Ross had been all over the boys in the swimming pool, the wrestling matches, the presents, the outings, the treats. That made her feel sick again, sick to her stomach. She was suddenly seized by an iron resolve to give them both exactly what they deserved.
She stood up weakly, and going to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, rinsed her mouth and tried to gargle some of the acid out of the back of her throat. She dried her face on the towel then stood looking at herself in the mirror. The woman that stared back was cold, hard and determined. ‘You know what you have to do,’ she said aloud. ‘You’re already dead and gone, remember? You can be back in France by midnight and no one will ever know.’
With eyes glazed like a sleepwalker, she marched out onto the landing, down the stairs, and into her husband’s oak paneled study. Behind the door, she slid one of the panels aside which automatically caused a small strip-light to come on, illuminating a gray, steel cabinet about four feet high by two feet wide with a heavy handle and combination lock dial on the front. She spun the dial then selected four numbers, reversing the direction of rotation between each, before grasping the handle and swinging the heavy door of the gun-safe open.
Just as she was reaching for one of the Purdey shotguns, she heard her husband’s voice and footsteps on the polished wood of the upstairs landing. He was saying goodbye and something about tidying up. She quickly grabbed two shells from a box in the bottom of the safe, and breaking the Purdey, expertly slipped them into the breech. She snapped the gun shut, slipped the safety catch off, then stepped back into the shadows of the study behind the large antique desk, from where she had a clear line of fire from the bottom of the stairs to the front door. She hefted the big gun up to her shoulder assuming the stance her father had taught her, and with her finger resting lightly on one of the triggers, waited for her husband to come into view.