A Loveless Marriage

Chapter 23: Fred

There was no greater shame than to be on the floor, tearful, in front of William Chorley.  What that woman had done to me, to make me so feeble in front of another man.  I would have preferred his mirth to his sympathy, for that would have turned my shame to anger.  My fingers squeezed around the tumbler of whiskey, the familiar burn gave me little comfort as it could not fill my emptiness. I knew that now.

    "I need her safe," I said.  "I don't want Mary's reputation ruined by my misdeeds.

    "You can count on my discretion," he said.  "How can I help?"

   "You want to help me now, do you?" I said with some bitterness.

   "I want to help Mary, she is all that matters."

It was natural, apart from me, there was not another person who loved Mary more.  I should have resented it, but I knew it would help bind him to secrecy.  I rubbed my eyes and drained the glass, he hesitated and poured me another one.

    "What do I do?" I groaned.

    "You need to go home and sleep," he said.  "It looks like you haven't slept for days."

His words made my tiredness hit me, not in waves but in a flood.  I became aware of how my eyes throbbed and my body felt heavy.  I could not sleep because, in the silence of my empty bed, all I could think of was that I had lost her. I couldn't go home without her, I had no home without her. 

   "She'll be back in a day or two," he said with an attempt at a smile. "She's probably gone to some friend's pile in the country, telling everyone who will listen that you are the biggest scoundrel in Britain."

I nodded silently, but I did not believe it.  William might adore my wife, but he did not know her.  He did not know how meticulously she detailed her social engagements in the red bound book that was still left on her desk. He did not know about the large carpet bag she kept hidden in her wardrobe, packed neatly with all the essentials for a swift departure. She didn't know I knew about it either, I'd guessed it was a relic of her childhood.  Living with a profligate father like mine, I knew the sound of bailiffs  at the door and the need to keep one step in front of the creditors.  I remembered the letters from her father to my uncle, a new address every few months.  They were a family who ran.

    "Maybe we should speak to Scotland Yard?" William suggested. 

  "And have it all over Fleet Street the next day?" I said.  "Mary will hate that."

He frowned with concentration.

   "We should speak to my Aunt Agatha then," he said. 

    "Speak to that old gossip?  Why on Earth would I want to do that?  I might as well announce it on a soapbox in Hyde Park!"

  "Well I don't mean tell her what has happened, but find out who Mary's people are and see if she is staying with them."

   "Her people?" I said.

   "The family in Kent that she was living with before she became my Aunt's companion.  Distant cousins or something."

I stared at him.  William Chorley was a secret genius.  Mary had not sprung up from the foam of the waves, she had come from her family in Kent.  My mind went back to the grimy private detective, the stringy saliva as he licked his tobacco-stained fingers before leafing through the notebook.  I did not need to speak to Agatha Chorley to get the address, I already had it written up in a file.  I would not need to disclose how I knew about this to William, I could not trust him to keep it secret from Mary.

    "I have their address," I said.  "They are family, after all."

It struck me how Mary had never introduced me to those cousins, although she had mentioned them once or twice.  A horrible suspicion crept up on me, that Mary was still ashamed of our marriage and did not want it known.  Still, I could not dwell on that now as I had in my possession the address that would end the mystery.