Did she honestly think he would just let her walk out and live a life without him? That there would be no consequences? No price to pay for destroying his life?
She would learn soon enough she was wrong. And be under no illusions about the trouble she was in. There was no hiding place for her, and no escape either. The top of the front door was bolted tightly, too high for her to reach up and unlock it without standing on something, and he’d taken the back door key after locking it and had the key safely hidden in his trouser pocket. He would put it back afterwards, after he’d finished dealing with her. She was somewhere inside this house, and soon, very soon, he would find her. Her perfume would give her away. Lead him where the scent of sweet jasmine and soft lavender grew stronger. He just had to follow his nose. Then he could punish her.
In the kitchen he picked up a heavy mallet, its double-sided, spiked-faced head shiny new. It was well crafted with a generous wooden handle for a good grip. He used one like it often to tenderise tough cuts of meat, to break down tough muscle fibres to a silky softness that melted in the mouth once cooked. This one would only be used once, and then got rid of. He didn’t want reminders, or any microscopic cells of her blood finding their way into his food.
At the bottom of the wide staircase he stood still and listened. The house was never silent. Tick… tick… tick… clocks keeping time, passing time, stealing time with their endless arrogant ticking. Wooden floors and wooden doors creaked and sighed and moaned with age. But once you were familiar with hearing them – these sounds of aging and time – you could hear the other sounds trying to be unheard. She was being very silent, but the longer he waited the harder it would be for her to stay silent and hidden.
His fingertips brushed against the flock wallpaper as he climbed the stairs. The familiar velvet-like texture comforted him – the laurel leaf design in keeping with the period of the house. She had wanted to change and modernise their home, but he was all for tradition. It was a shame she didn’t share the same values, didn’t see the role she had been given to cherish when he placed a ring on her finger. She had broken her vows and thought she could be free.
He stilled halfway up the stairs as he heard a soft whimper. The sound was too young to have been made by her. It cut off abruptly. An infant cry – and his grip on the mallet handle was now less sure. How selfish of her to hide with the child. She must know she put them both in danger. He imagined her hand pressed over the small mouth, her eyes desperately urging the child to be still and quiet. Perhaps she thought hiding together might protect her, might ward off her punishment. She was a selfish mother to have taken such a risk. He was in no mood to be lenient, in no mood to take pity.
At the top of the stairs he strengthened his grip on the hammer. Through the landing window behind him sunlight shone across the oak floor, turning the polished floorboards the colour of autumn leaves, their surface pitted and marked with the imperfections of the past. Mothers and fathers and children had walked this floor and their maids and servants swept it clean. This house had served seven generations, if not more, and soon it would only be him left standing – the last of the line.
There were seven closed doors to choose from, three on each side of the corridor and one at the end. The master bedroom was third on the right and it was to this door he went. As he neared it he heard again the sound of whimpering, followed by a shushing noise as she tried to quieten the child. It was too late for that. He breathed in the air around the door and placed his hand against the grain as if to absorb her essence. He stroked the wood’s silkiness before reaching for the doorknob, the cool round shape of it familiar in his palm. It turned with the lightest pressure and let him in.
Her yelp moved him further into the room with a sudden step.