says. ‘Tea? Coffee? Rubis? And feel free to fire questions at me while I make drinks.’
‘What’s Rubis?’ I ask.
‘You’ve not discovered Rubis? Oh, my good God! I’m about to become your favourite person. Oh.’ She frowns. ‘You’re driving, probably. It’s alcoholic.’
‘Tea for me, thanks,’ I say.
‘Rubis is heaven. Imagine the most yummy chocolate that’s also a delicious velvety red wine.’
‘I’ll have some,’ Zannah says sweetly.
‘You do right – as we Yorkshire folk like to say!’ Tilly beams at her.
‘Just a tiny bit,’ says Zannah’s killjoy mother. Yorkshire? Tilly’s accent couldn’t be less northern if it tried.
She hands Zannah a bottle and glass, then puts the kettle on. I tell her a much-curtailed version of the story so far: that I saw Flora at number 16 and in Huntingdon, and that, despite this, the Caters and Lewis have all insisted that Flora’s in America.
‘Huh. Interesting,’ says Tilly. ‘As far as I know, they live in America now. Is it possible Flora was back, or is back, to visit the Caters?’
‘Yes, but then why would everyone lie? On the phone, Lewis didn’t say, “Yeah, you might well have seen Flora, she’s in England at the moment.” Flora herself rang me and said she was in Florida – no mention of any trip to Hemingford Abbots. And when I told her I was sure I’d seen her outside her old house, she said, no, no way, impossible. She ended the phone call after about ten seconds, having promised to ring me back, which she didn’t. And then the next day, I bump into her in a car park in Huntingdon.’
‘That is deeply, deeply peculiar,’ Tilly says, handing me my tea. ‘Lewis is, though. Or was when I knew him. Maybe his wife is too. Maybe she was back, and didn’t want to see you. Nothing against you, just a case of “This particular trip is about this and I don’t want to use any of it to do that.”’
‘That’d explain her saying, “How’s things? Hope all’s well! Gotta dash.” But lying about what country she’s in when she knows I’ve seen her? And Lewis lying, and the Caters lying?’
‘You’re right,’ says Tilly. ‘No one would go to those lengths to avoid maybe having to have a coffee for half an hour with an old friend they’d rather not see.’
Zannah says to Tilly, ‘You said before that maybe Lewis’s wife is weird too, because Lewis is weird. Didn’t you know Flora, when they lived here?’
‘No. That was one of the weirdest things about Lewis: his wife, whom he worshipped – but no one ever saw her! It was the talk of the WLRC.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Sorry. Wyddial Lane Residents’ Committee. We all decided Lewis’s wife was a hermit who never left the house. Lewis was very sociable – came to every meeting and every drinks do, sometimes with his kids – but never invited anyone over to his place. Ever. Normally, that would make you unpopular – very keen on proper turn-taking, is the WLRC; drives me crackers! Sometimes I can’t face hosting a party for forty people! So shoot me! – but everyone loved Lewis because he’d make every party a success. He was a one-man show – and a brilliant one, too. And he’d always arrive laden down with booze and cakes and treats. But … yeah. We all wondered about the invisible wife. He talked about her non-stop but it was almost as if …’
‘As if he wanted to make her feel like a presence in spite of her absence?’ I suggest.
Tilly slaps me on the arm with the back of her hand. ‘That’s it precisely. That very thing.’
‘Even if she didn’t come to events, people must have seen her, though.’
‘Yeah. One or two did report having seen a dark-haired woman driving out through the gates but that was about the extent of it. And, actually, it’s maybe unfair to label Lewis an oddball since she might well have been the weird recluse, and he was covering for her, trying to present a show of normal family life, but even if that was the case, what he did later …’
‘What did he do?’ Zannah asks. I notice that her glass is full. Last time I glanced at it, it was empty. I pick up the Rubis bottle and move it away from her.
‘If I tell you, you must never tell anyone. Swear on all you hold dear. I’ve never told anyone on Wyddial Lane. Only Justin, my husband.’