The last week of September was unseasonably warm and dry. Any day now, the cold would set in, bringing miserable drizzle—English weather was nothing if not fickle. “I should head to the cottage before the rains come and turn the lane into a mudslide,” sighed Vera, dialling her husband’s number for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Vera, could I duck out an hour early? Mum’s asked me to run her up to the allotment,” pleaded Sarah from accounting, her eyebrows doing that pitiful puppy-dog arch Vera could never refuse.
“I’d leave early too if I could. Fine—but be here sharp Monday. And no calling in sick. Understood? Next time, I won’t be so lenient,” Vera said, feigning sternness.
“Thank you so much! I’ll be early, promise!” Sarah’s whole face lit up, her eyes sparkling as she snatched her jacket from the coat rack and darted out like a woman who’d planned this escape all along.
“Clever girl—she’d already logged off and packed her bag before even asking. Knew I’d cave. But where *is* John?” Vera muttered, hitting redial. Again, the robotic voice told her the phone was switched off. “Whatever. Tomorrow, he’s helping me at the farmhouse, no arguments. Mum’s birthday’s coming up—potatoes to dig, pickled onions to fetch…”
She tossed her mobile aside, jiggled the mouse to wake her sluggish computer, and stared blankly at the spreadsheet.
When her phone rang, she snatched it up without looking.
“John, why is your phone off? I’ve been calling all—”
“Sorry to interrupt—Detective Slater here,” said an unfamiliar voice.
The name threw her. Slater? Had she misheard?
“John, where *are* you?” she demanded, suspicion creeping in.
“Are you the wife of John William Carter? How should I address you?”
“Vera. Just Vera.” She coughed, her heart suddenly pounding. Something was wrong. “Where’s John?”
“Could you come to St. Mary’s Hospital? I’ll meet you in A&E,” the detective said.
“The *hospital*? What’s happened to John?” she hissed into the phone.
“I’ll explain when you arrive,” he replied, and the line went dead.
She tried calling back—engaged. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the mouse, missing the ‘close’ button twice before managing to shut down. She grabbed her handbag, yanked her mac from the hook, and bolted.
Nightmare scenarios flashed through her mind—John in surgery, in a coma, or worse… “No, if he were dead, they’d have said *morgue*, not hospital,” she reassured herself, hailing the first black cab she saw.
Ten minutes later, she sprinted across the car park, frantic. “I’m John Carter’s wife!” she gasped, bursting into A&E.
A tall man in his forties stood up. He introduced himself again, but Vera couldn’t focus. Why wasn’t he taking her to John?
“This way,” he finally said, gesturing outside.
She followed, baffled. Hospitals had wards—why leave through the main entrance? Then he led her behind the building to a long, single-storey brick annex. A blue sign by the door read *Mortuary – Forensic Pathology*.
Her knees buckled. A firm grip kept her upright.
“He’s… gone?” she croaked. “I called him all day. We were supposed to go to the cottage.”
“His phone led us to you. Sit.” He guided her to a bench; her legs had turned to jelly.
“Your husband didn’t show for work today,” Slater said carefully.
“That’s impossible. He had an audit—he *told* me.” She wasn’t asking—just thinking aloud.
“Your allotment neighbour spotted a car at your plot this morning. Thought it odd you’d come midweek. Knocked at lunch—no answer. Called the police when no one came to the door.”
“Was he… murdered?”
“No signs of violence. Initial report says carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Wait—our neighbour thought *we* were there. So there *was* a woman with him?” Vera stared, uncomprehending.
“Yes. Emily Ruth Dawson. Recognise the name?”
Vera squeezed her eyes shut. “No. That can’t be.”
Twenty-one years married. Their anniversary in November. While friends’ marriages crumbled from infidelity, hers was the envy of them all—John, the devoted husband and father. Or so she’d thought. Shame burned through her as she rocked forward, sobbing into her hands.
“Don’t blame yourself. We’ll keep this discreet, but colleagues might’ve known his plans,” Slater said gently.
Her head snapped up. “I… I said that out loud?”
“Before you ID him, I need to confirm you’re ready.”
A flicker of hope. Maybe it wasn’t John. Maybe he’d lent his car…
“I’m ready,” she whispered, steeling herself.
Inside, the shapes beneath white sheets were unmistakable. She couldn’t look.
“Is this your husband?” Slater asked. Vera shut her eyes.
Later, on the bench outside, she wasn’t sure if she’d *really* seen John’s ashen face or just imagined it. Slater waved smelling salts under her nose.
“Can you walk? I’ll drive you home.”
She trembled all the way to the car, barely hearing him say, “We’ll confirm cause of death… let you know when to collect the body…”
“Not a husband anymore. A *body*,” she murmured against the window.
At her flat, Slater sat her down, helped her off with her shoes, and rummaged through her cupboards like he lived there. He poured brandy into a mug. She coughed, tears streaming, as the alcohol burned her throat. He tucked her under a blanket on the sofa.
Time blurred. When the doorbell rang days later, she stumbled up, still tangled in the throw. Slater stood there—not John, never John again.
He clattered in the kitchen, reheating soup. She ate mechanically, surprised by her own hunger.
“Final report confirms carbon monoxide poisoning,” he said, tactfully omitting *the other woman*. “Cold nights—he lit the fireplace, likely closed the flue too soon.”
“Family who can help with arrangements?”
“My mum. And my son—military academy in Edinburgh. God, when he finds out his father—”
“I can arrange leave for the funeral.”
“Please. And… did *she* have family?”
“Unlikely. Twenty-five, no records of dependents. Don’t dwell on it.” He stood. “Will you be alright?”
“Stay. Just a little longer,” she begged, dreading the empty flat.
He sat again. “Had something similar happen. Not as tragic, but…”
He told her about his ex-wife, the fishing trip, walking in on her with another man, the iron to his forehead. The divorce. The scar.
“Thank you. For the soup. For… everything,” Vera said emptily.
The funeral came. She told everyone it was a heart attack. Asked old Mister Thompson, the allotment neighbor, to keep quiet. Even started believing it herself. Easier that way. She boxed up John’s things, sold the cottage.
Days before New Year’s, shopping for office Secret Santa gifts, she spotted Slater in the toy aisle with a girl about ten.
“Unicorn or dinosaur?” he asked, holding up both.
“Dino’s for boys. But the unicorn’s prettier,” the girl said.
“I’d pick the unicorn,” Vera said, startling him. *Slater—his first name’s Daniel, isn’t it?*
“Unicorn it is,” he told the girl, eyes lingering on Vera.
“Your niece?”
“Friend’s daughter. Dumped her on me while they swanned off to the theatre.” He grimaced. “Vera, help me pick a dress? Fashion’s not my forte.”
She winked at the girl. “Shall we?”
They left with a red dress, the girl twirling. Over pizza, Vera learned her name was Poppy.
Slater drove her home, remembering not just her name but her address.
“Thanks. We’d have been lost without you,” he said as snowflakes dusted the pavement.
“Come for New Year’s? All mates are coupled up. Or is your son visiting?”
“Doubt they’ll give him leave.”
“Uncle Dan’s doing fireworks!” Poppy yelled from the car.
“I *said* no eavesdropping,” he scolded, but Vera was already at her door.
“Yes. I’ll come,” she called over her shoulder.
Grief for a dead husband was one thing. Forgiving betrayal? Impossible.
