said Edith hadnât come in that evening. I said that she must have done but he said she never did. He knows our Edith, you see. So I began to get worried because she had not taken anything with her, just about enough money in her purse to buy the pint of milk she went out for. I checked when I got back, all of her clothes were there, all of her shoes, all of her documents, even her passport and her birth certificate, her Canadian driving licence, her jewellery, it was all still there. All of it. She hadnât left me. She left the house to go to the corner shop to buy some milk for herself and her husband so that we could have a nice cup of tea on a quiet Sunday evening before we went to bed for the night and that was it.â
âI see,â Hennessey sat slowly back in his chair. âDo you know of anyone whoâd want to harm her?â
âNo, sir, no one, she only knew me in York. Thatâs all, just me. She had no friends . . . no enemies but . . .â Hemmings voice faltered.
âBut?â Hennessey pressed.
âBut what?â Webster assisted Hennessey.
âBut . . . well, I didnât know her very long, she might have been my wife but she seemed to come from nowhere . . . like she was suddenly there . . . out of the blue . . . but she did always seem to have a history. She gave the impression that she had left some sort of life behind her. But what that was I cannot say . . . I do not know. Even in marriage she was a private person.â
âShe must have told you something about herself?â
âShe told me that she had grown up in Quebec and moved to Ontario when she was very young. She told me that. She never mentioned any brothers or sisters . . . she said that her parents were both deceased. She did tell me that sort of little orphan Annie number but apart from that she really hardly told me anything.â
âWhat was your marriage like?â
âWhatâs any marriage like?â Hemmings reacted defensively, Hennessey thought. âWe were middle-aged, we settled down . . . quietly. We had an understanding, she didnât like too many demands made on her . . . if you see what I mean.â
âAll right, I understand, we wonât go there . . . unless it becomes relevant.â
âThank you, sir, I appreciate that.â Hemmings paused and took a deep breath. He clearly had powerful lungs. âShe cooked the meals and kept the house tidy and did the laundry and I worked at the biscuit factory and earned our money. And that was our little house. Hardly glamorous, hardly the good life, but we ate, we were dry when it rained and we didnât fight. Never had fights . . . that I appreciated. No fights. It was just nice to have someone to come home to after years of being alone. She even warmed my slippers by the fire for me to come home to. That was a nice touch, especially this winter just gone. I must admit things could have been more passionate but it was convenient for both of us and at our age that means a lot. It wasnât marital bliss but it was better than being alone and she, like me, was beyond the first flush of youth.â
âUnderstood. Did she seem worried?â
âNo more than usual.â
âWhat does that mean?â Webster asked suddenly and perhaps a little too aggressively for Hennesseyâs liking.
âWell . . . how can I describe this?â Hemmings sat back and glanced round the interview suite. âIt was her manner, she didnât like the summer. She was strange like that, was Edith. In the summer she had her hair cut short, really short . . . didnât suit her. I think the style is called âboy cutâ. You know, as short as a schoolboyâs hair and then when it was short she wore a long blonde wig and large spectacles but the plastic in the frames was