**Betrayal**
The end of September was unseasonably warm and dry. Soon, the chill would settle in, and relentless autumn rains would begin. English weather was as unpredictable as ever. *I must go to the cottage before the roads turn to mud—once the downpours start, I won’t be able to get there until winter freezes everything solid,* Margaret sighed, dialling her husband’s number yet again.
“Margaret Eleanor, might I leave an hour early? Mum asked me to take her to the cottage,” pleaded Lucy, the accountant, her eyebrows arched like a pleading kitten as she gazed at her boss.
“I’d love to leave early myself. Fine, but Monday—sharp on time. And no sudden sick days. Understood? Otherwise, don’t ask again,” Margaret said, feigning sternness.
“Thank you so much, Margaret Eleanor! I’ll be on time, I promise.” Lucy’s face lit up, her eyes gleaming as she snatched her coat from the wardrobe and slipped out of the office.
“Brazen thing—already had her computer off and her handbag ready. Knew I’d let her go. But where is Edward?” Margaret dialled again. Once more, a toneless voice informed her the phone was *”switched off or out of service.”* “No matter. Tomorrow, he’ll have no choice but to come with me to the cottage. Mum’s birthday’s soon—need potatoes, jars of preserves…”
She set the phone aside, nudged the mouse to wake the drowsy computer, and buried herself in spreadsheet figures.
When the phone rang, she answered without looking, relief flooding her.
“Eddie, why’s your phone off? I’ve been calling all day—”
“Apologies, this is Detective Inspector… Smith,” interrupted an unfamiliar male voice.
The suddenness and the surname *Smith* confused her. Had she misheard?
“Eddie, where are you?” she asked cautiously.
“Are you the wife of Edward James Whitmore? How should I address you?”
“Margaret Eleanor—” She choked, coughing. “Just Margaret. Where’s Edward?” Her heart hammered, sensing something terribly wrong.
“Could you come to St. Mary’s Hospital? I’ll meet you in A&E,” the man replied.
“Why the hospital? What’s happened to Eddie?” Margaret shrieked into the phone.
“I’ll be waiting,” the man said, and the line went dead.
She tried calling back, but the number was engaged. Her hands trembled, the mouse skittering uselessly as she fumbled to close files. Finally, she shut the computer down, grabbed her bag, snatched a coat from the rack, and ran.
Horrific images swarmed—her husband in a crash, comatose post-surgery, or worse. *No, he’s alive. Otherwise, they’d have called the morgue, not the hospital. Of course he’s alive.*
Too flustered to recall the bus route, she stepped onto the roadside, arm out. A cab stopped. Ten minutes later, she sprinted across the hospital grounds, frantic.
“I’m Edward Whitmore’s wife!” she gasped, bursting into A&E.
A tall man in his forties stood and approached. He reintroduced himself, but Margaret barely listened. Why stall? She needed to see Edward, to know he was alive.
“Come with me,” he finally said, gesturing outside.
Bewildered, she followed. Shouldn’t all hospital wards be accessed through A&E? Instead, he led her behind the main building to a long, single-storey brick structure. At the door, he paused.
“Forgive me for not saying sooner. People react differently—”
Her gaze dropped to the blue plaque: *”Coroners’ Court – Forensic Pathology…”* Her knees buckled, but his firm grip kept her upright.
“He’s dead?” Her voice cracked. “I called him all day—wanted to go to the cottage. His phone was off.”
“Yes, we found you through his contacts. Sit.” Smith guided her to a wooden bench.
“He wasn’t at work today,” he said gently.
“That’s impossible. He had an audit—he told me himself.” She wasn’t asking; she was thinking aloud.
“Your neighbour noticed a car at your cottage this morning. Thought it odd for a weekday. At lunch, he knocked. No answer. No reply to calls. He waited, then phoned the police. Burglars, sometimes, at country homes—”
“Was he murdered?”
“No signs of violence. Provisional findings suggest carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Wait—Uncle Geoff assumed *we* were there. So, he saw Eddie with a woman?” Margaret stared, lost.
“Yes. She was with him. Jane Elizabeth Carter. Does the name mean anything?”
Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.
Impossible.
Twenty-one years together. Their anniversary in November. Friends envied her—Edward was the devoted husband, the doting father. She’d believed it too. The shame burned. She covered her face, rocking.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll avoid scandal. But someone at his work might’ve known where—and with whom—he went.”
She dropped her hands, startled. Had she spoken aloud?
“We need formal identification. Tell me when you’re ready.”
She latched onto his words like driftwood. *What if it’s not Eddie? Someone stole his car—or he lent it for a rendezvous and is home now…*
“I’m ready.” She stood, inhaling sharply, as if diving into icy water.
Inside, white sheets draped vague shapes. Her strength vanished. She couldn’t look—didn’t want to.
“Is this your husband?” Smith’s voice reached her. She lowered her eyes.
Later, on the bench outside, she barely registered the grey pallor of Edward’s face—real or imagined. Smith held ammonia under her nose; she recoiled.
“Better? Can you walk? I’ll drive you home.” He helped her up.
Her legs were numb, trembling. She let him bundle her into the car. Fragments of his speech drifted past:
“Further tests… We’ll inform you when the body’s released—”
“*Body*. Not a husband anymore,” she whispered, resting her head against the window.
At the flat, Smith sat her in the hallway, removed her coat and shoes, led her to the kitchen. Dazed, she watched him rummage—cups, a bottle of brandy from the fridge. He made her drink straight from the mug. The liquor seared her throat; she coughed, then sobbed uncontrollably.
He poured more. Then, to the sofa, tucking her under a blanket.
Time dissolved. When the doorbell woke her, she stumbled free of the blanket. Was it today? Last week? She prayed this was a nightmare—that Edward would walk in.
Detective Inspector Smith stood there. She hunched, shuffling back to the sofa like an old woman.
Clattering dishes, fridge doors. She didn’t care. Eventually, he coaxed her to the kitchen. Steam curled from a bowl of soup. She realised she hadn’t eaten in days. It shouldn’t go down—but she finished it, then drank hot tea.
“Much better. Some colour back,” Smith said. “The report’s confirmed—carbon monoxide. Cold nights, the cottage lost heat. He lit the fire. Probably shut the flue too soon.” He spared her, omitting the other woman.
“Is there family or friends to help with arrangements?”
“Mum. And Peter—but he’s at Sandhurst. God, when he learns his father was…” She shook her head.
“Shall I call? They’ll grant leave for the funeral.”
“Yes, please. Does *she* have a husband? Children?”
“Unlikely. She was twenty-five. Don’t dwell on it. I should go—will you be alright?”
“Stay a while longer,” she begged, terrified of the empty flat.
He sat.
“I’ve been in… a similar situation. Less tragic,” he began, wary of tears or worse—questions.
“Married at university, madly in love. My mother wanted me in finance. But I’d dreamed of CID since boyhood. *‘Our ‘obby’s ‘igh-‘azard, an’ ‘earty,’*” he half-sang. “Remember that jingle?”
“I graduated as she wished—but joined the Met. Compromise.”
“Warned Helen—no weekends, no holidays. I imagined the job like the telly. Romantic. We were young, daft. Thought love conquered all.”
“I’ve a cottage in Kent, left by my parents. By a stream. Always liked fishing. One weekend, a superintendent—also keen—tagged along. No gear, so I dashed home at lunch.”
“The door was bolted from inside. I thought burglar. Banged. Suddenly—a bloke with an iron. Didn’t see his face—just raised my arms.”
“He struck and fled. Bruised, but not broken. Couldn’t chase.”
“A thief?” Margaret asked.
“Of sorts. My wife and her lover. If not for the superintendent’”If not for the superintendent’s fishing trip, I’d never have known,” he said, brushing aside his fringe to reveal a faint scar, and Margaret realized that grief, like the chill of autumn, could thaw—but betrayal left its mark forever.
