When my friends have gone I go to my laptop and type in “One Folgate Street.” Then I add “death” and finally “Emma.”
There are no matches. But I’m learning that Housekeeper doesn’t work quite the same way Google does. Where Google throws thousands, even millions, of results at you, Housekeeper likes to select one perfect match and nothing else. Mostly, it’s a relief not to be bombarded with alternatives. But when you don’t quite know what you’re looking for, it’s not so good.
The next day is Monday, one of my days to work at Still Hope, the charity. It’s run out of three crowded rooms in Kings Cross—the contrast with the stark, austere beauty of One Folgate Street couldn’t be more pronounced. I have a desk there, or rather half a desk, because I share with Tessa, another part-timer. And a creaking old desktop computer.
I type the same search terms into Google. Most of the results are about Edward Monkford. Irritatingly, an architectural journalist who also had the first name Emma once wrote a piece about him titled “The Death of Clutter,” so there are about five hundred links to that. On the sixth page of results, though, I find it. An archived piece from a local paper.
The inquest into the death of Emma Matthews, 26, who was found dead at her rented home in Folgate Street, South Hendon, last July has concluded with an open verdict, despite a six-month adjournment to allow the police more time to make inquiries.
Detective Inspector James Clarke said, “We had a number of potential leads, which at one point did lead to an arrest. However, it was felt by the Crown Prosecution Service that there was insufficient evidence to show Emma died unlawfully. We will of course continue to investigate this unexplained fatality to the very best of our abilities.”
The house, designed by leading international architect Edward Monkford, was described by the coroner in his closing statement as “a health and safety nightmare.” The inquest had previously heard that Matthews’s body was found at the bottom of an open, uncarpeted staircase.
Local residents fought a protracted battle in 2010 to try to prevent the house from being built, with permission only finally granted by the mayor’s office. Neighbor Maggie Evans said yesterday, “We warned the planners time and again something like this would happen. The best thing now would be if they pulled it down and built something more in keeping.”
The Monkford Partnership, which was not represented at the inquest, declined to comment yesterday.
So. Not two deaths, I think, but three. First Monkford’s own family, then this. One Folgate Street is an even more tragic place than I’d realized.
I picture a young woman’s body lying at the bottom of those sleek stone stairs, blood spreading across the floor from a shattered skull. The coroner was right, of course: The open staircase is ridiculously dangerous. And why, once that had been proved in the most horrific way possible, hadn’t Edward Monkford done something to make it safer—wall it in with glass, say, or put up some kind of rail?
But of course I already know the answer. My buildings make demands of people, Jane. I believe they’re not intolerable. No doubt somewhere in the terms and conditions is a clause saying tenants use the staircase at their own risk.
“Jane?” It’s Abby, the office manager. I look up. “There’s someone here to see you.” She looks a little flustered, a touch of pink in her cheeks. “He says his name’s Edward Monkford. I must say, he’s very good-looking. He’s waiting downstairs.”
He’s standing in the tiny waiting area, dressed almost identically to the last time we met. Black cashmere pullover, white open-necked shirt, black trousers. The only concession to the chilly weather is a scarf looped around his neck in the French style, like a slipknot.
“Hello,” I say, although what I really want to say is, What on earth are you doing here?
He’d been studying the Still Hope posters on the walls, but when he hears my voice he turns to me. “It makes sense now,” he says softly.
“What does?”
He gestures at one of the posters. “You lost a child too.”
I shrug. “I did, yes.”
He doesn’t say I’m sorry or any of those other platitudes people mutter when they don’t really know what to say. He just nods.
“I’d like to have coffee with you, Jane. I can’t stop thinking about you. But if it’s too soon, just tell me and I’ll go away.”
There are so many assumptions, so many questions and revelations in those three brief sentences that I can’t quite process them all. But the first thought flashing through my brain is, I wasn’t mistaken. It was mutual.
And the second, even more certain, is Good.
“So that was Cambridge. But there aren’t many career openings for art history graduates. The fact is, I’d never really thought about what I wanted to do afterward. There was an internship at Sotheby’s that failed to turn into a job, then I worked in a couple of galleries—I was called something like senior art consultant but really I was just a glorified receptionist. Then I just sort of drifted into PR. At first I worked in the West End, on media accounts, but I never felt very comfortable with that whole Soho scene. I liked the City, where the clients are more buttoned-down. If I’m honest, I quite liked the money as well. But the work was interesting. Our clients were big financial institutions—for them, PR was all about keeping their name out of the papers, not getting it in. I’m talking too much.”
Edward Monkford smiles and shakes his head. “I like listening to you.”
“And you?” I prompt. “Did you always want to be an architect?”
A shrug of the lean shoulders. “I spent some time working for the family business, a printing firm. I hated it. A friend of my father’s was building a vacation home in Scotland and was struggling with the local architect. I persuaded him to let me do it for the same budget. I learned on the job. Are we going to go to bed together?”
The change of tack is so abrupt my mouth falls open.
“Human relationships, like human lives, tend to accumulate the unnecessary,” he says softly. “Valentine’s cards, romantic gestures, special dates, meaningless endearments—all the boredom and inertia of timid, conventional relationships that have run their course before they’ve even begun. But what if we strip all that away? There’s a kind of purity to a relationship unencumbered by convention, a sense of simplicity and freedom. I find that exhilarating—two people coming together with no agenda other than the present. And when I want something, I pursue it. But I want to be very clear with you what it is I’m suggesting.”
He means no-ties sex, I realize. Many of the men who have asked me out in the past, I’m sure, wanted me for that rather than love, Isabel’s father among them. But few have had the confidence to spell it out so matter-of-factly. And although a part of me feels a little disappointed—I quite like the occasional romantic gesture—another part can’t help being intrigued.
“Which bed did you have in mind?” I say.
The answer, of course, is the bed at One Folgate Street. And if my dealings with Edward Monkford thus far might have led me to believe he’d be an ungenerous or a reticent lover—would a minimalist need to fold up his trousers before sex? Would someone who disdains soft furnishings and patterned cushions also be squeamish about bodily fluids and other signs of passion?—I am pleasantly surprised to find the reality is very different. Nor was his reference to an unencumbered relationship a euphemism for one dedicated solely to the man’s pleasure. In bed, Edward is considerate, generous, and by no means inclined to brevity. Only when my own senses are blurred by orgasm does he finally permit himself to let go, his hips bucking and locking as he shudders inside me, saying my name out loud, over and over.
Jane. Jane. Jane.
Almost, I think later, like someone trying to imprint it on his mind.
Afterward, as we’re lying together, I recall the article I was reading earlier. “There’s a man who’s been leaving flowers outside the front door. He said they were for someone called Emma, who died here. It was something to do with the staircase, wasn’t it?”
His hand, which is idly stroking up and down my back, doesn’t pause in its movements. “That’s right. Is he being a nuisance?”
“Hardly. Besides, if he’s lost someone he cared about…”
He’s silent a moment. “He blames me—he’s convinced himself the house was responsible, somehow. But the postmortem showed she’d been drinking. And the shower was on when they found her. She must have been running downstairs with wet feet.”
I frown. Running seems such an unlikely thing to do in the calm of One Folgate Street. “Running away from someone, you mean?”
He shrugs. “Or hurrying to meet them at the door.”
“The article said the police made an arrest. It didn’t say who. But whoever it was, they had to let him go.”
“Did they?” His pale eyes are inscrutable. “I don’t remember all the details. I was away working on a commission at the time.”
“And he talked about someone, a man, poisoning her mind—”
Edward glances at his watch and sits up. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I completely forgot—I’m due at a site inspection.”
“Don’t you have time for some food?” I say, disappointed he’s leaving so soon.
He shakes his head. “Thank you. But I’m late as it is. I’ll call you.” He’s already reaching for his clothes.