A Rural Affair

23



The following morning, after a terrible dream in which I was chased down the street in my bra and pants by Mary Granger shouting: ‘You beastly, beastly woman!’ I dressed appropriately and headed into town. Black shirt, black jacket, black suede boots. Not exactly in mourning – although the last time I’d worn this ensemble, I realized, glancing down in the car, had indeed been to my husband’s funeral – but sombre, subfusc: serious. I’d started the day in a more defiant I’m-off-to-Tuscany-with-my-lover kit – pink trousers, boho shirt, high wedges – but lost my nerve halfway down the path and hurried back to change.

Archie was with me too. I could have left him with Jennie – should have done really, he was grotty if he didn’t have his morning sleep – but somehow I wanted the protection he afforded, I realized rather guiltily. You couldn’t hit a woman with a baby, surely? Not that Sam would hit, but verbally abuse? I recalled his grim face, the one beneath the riding hat, mobile clamped to ear, high up on his horse, not the smiley crinkly one of the solicitor’s office, and trembled. Archie, behind me in his car seat, blinked sleepily in the rear-view mirror. I wondered if I should carry him in, wrapped in a shawl? Really go for the sympathy vote? The one he was sucking now, his comfort blanket, would do. I could swaddle him in it and clutch him to my breast like a foundling, take his shoes and socks off too, so bare toes peeked out. He was quite big for that, though; might wake up and wriggle violently, exposing jeans and a hoody. Not quite the look I was going for.

Parking in Waitrose, I lifted my by-now-sleeping son into his pushchair and hurtled down the high street. Three minutes to nine. But … why was I hurtling? In such a rush? Maybe I hadn’t been able to get a parking space? Maybe Waitrose had been full? Unlikely, so early in the morning, but – OK, maybe – maybe I hadn’t got his message? Hadn’t actually played back the tape? Or hadn’t put a new tape in, had been meaning to, for weeks? These, and other shallow yet plausible excuses spooled around in my head as I neared Sam’s building. Then more punchy ones. Why on earth should I just pitch up because I’d been summoned? And why at his convenience, why not mine? Friday week would suit me much better. Next month, even. Because I was the accused, that’s why, I thought, swallowing. Because this was the way the justice system worked: one attended court. The judge didn’t come to yours, settle down in your front room with a cup of tea, did he?

I was climbing the stairs now, Archie asleep in my arms, the pushchair collapsed and hanging from my wrist. I reassembled it at the top and put Archie back in, but not as carefully as I might. With a fair amount of jostling so that … he might wake up? Have a tantrum and go shouty-crackers, as he often did when roused from a deep sleep, so that we could surely go home? I nudged him again. No of course I didn’t pinch him, but oh, wake up, Archie. Scream.

‘What a sweet baby,’ someone murmured over my left shoulder.

I jumped. It was the receptionist, Janice, who’d appeared out of the Ladies at the top of the stairs, pink lipstick reapplied.

‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘It’s Mrs Shilling, isn’t it?’

‘Er, well …’ I eyed the stairs longingly.

‘Nine o’clock with Sam? He’s in there, waiting for you.’ She beamed at Archie. ‘Would you like to leave him with me?’

‘No, no, I’ll take him in.’

‘He’ll be no trouble?’

‘He might. He’s a bit of a monster.’

‘He looks jolly placid to me.’

‘Please take your hands off my buggy.’

She blanched, surprised. Then: ‘I quite understand,’ she said quickly. ‘You’ve lost your husband and one does become terribly protective.’

Casting me a sympathetic look, she ushered us through into the reception area; and then there was nothing else for it because she was bustling to open another door, into Sam’s inner sanctum.

The room had remained as neat and tidy as on my last visit, which didn’t bode well somehow. The man himself was installed behind his desk, suit jacket and tie in place, no casual shirt sleeves rolled up, and on the telephone, communicating by way of an elegantly raised finger that he wouldn’t be a moment. His face was stern, stony even. It was with a sinking heart that I sat down opposite him, drawing Archie’s buggy very close beside me. No, in front of me.

‘I see,’ Sam was saying gravely. ‘Yes, I suspected as much.’ He massaged his brow with his fingertips, elbows on the desk, face to his blotter. ‘Thank you for confirming it.’

His dark hair was just slightly flecked with grey at the temples, I noticed. Distinguished. Handsome. An officer’s face, my father would say; he’d been one himself, many years ago, in the cavalry. How could I ever have thought him a foot soldier like me? Suddenly I felt angry. This whole set-up, the whole up-the-wiggly-backstairs-to-a-provincial-solicitor’s-practice, had been a front, a smokescreen, an attempt to appear a man of the people. But I’d seen him outside his manor on a horse, in a pink coat. Oh, yes. I knew better.

‘Overwhelming evidence,’ he was saying. ‘I agree. Circumstantial as well as actual. And such obvious guilt at the time. Fleeing the scene of the crime for one thing.’ He looked up at me. Hard. I flushed. Shit. He was talking about me. ‘She doesn’t have a leg to stand on,’ he went on. My thighs felt gripped in the frozen lock of my tights, which seemed to shrink like a vice. I waited, paralysed.

After a moment he said goodbye. His face was grave as he put down the phone. But then an odd thing happened. He got to his feet, beamed, came around his huge leather-topped desk, and bent to kiss me on both cheeks.

‘Poppy. How lovely to see you. You survived, I see! I must say I thought you were tremendously brave sailing over those hedges and ditches when I gather you hadn’t ever hunted before. Everyone was terribly impressed, and old Gerald Harper even went so far as to tell me in a very loud voice that he thought you had spunk!’ He threw back his head and laughed.

I blinked, confused. I thought I had hours to live; a condemned woman. But apparently I had spunk? Could he have been talking about someone else on the phone? Another client?

‘And let me tell you, that wasn’t an easy meet. Sometimes we toddle around the woods for hours on end and bugger-all happens; but we had a five-pointer yesterday, and there you were, galloping away at the front with the best of them!’

‘Yes, just … a little too much at the front sometimes,’ I managed to stammer, wondering what was coming next.

‘Oh well, that happens to everyone. When I first went out I overtook the master, the hounds and even the bloody fox! Ended up sinking a lonely pint in a pub miles away with my heaving horse tied up outside, too bloody frit to get back on again!’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ I croaked, baffled. His eyes seemed to be glowing at me in a rather admiring way and he was still standing quite close; he was leaning back on his desk, his crotch at eye level.

‘Is this Archie?’ He crouched down to the pushchair and gazed equally admiringly at my son. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’

Now he was admiring babies? Like a politician, I thought suddenly. Is that what this was? A softener, before the killer blow? Was ‘bigot’ privately on the tip of his tongue? Or ‘dog killer’, with a sensational snarl and a deft spit in my eye?

‘Um, Sam, why did you ask me here?’

He looked surprised. Taken aback, even, as if he’d overstepped some kind of mark.

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry.’ He straightened up. Went back to his desk and looked serious again as he sat down. He shuffled some papers about. Then he looked up at me. ‘Poppy, something rather interesting has come to light.’

Ah. Here we go. Here it comes. I mentally adopted the in-flight crash position. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘It seems Emma Harding has retracted her claim on the profits from your husband’s business. In other words, her claim on his estate.’

I stared. ‘She has? Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I imagine because she’s now married to Simon Devereux. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was his influence, or his family’s.’

‘But – why?’

‘Well, aside from being a decent guy who’d probably be horrified at the very idea, he’s also a budding parliamentary candidate, Poppy. Doesn’t look good amongst all the expenses scandals, does it? MP’s new wife extorts inheritance from dead lover’s widow? Not something Simon would want splashed over the local papers, or even the Daily Mail, for that matter. I don’t imagine it’s the career move he’s looking for.’

‘No – I suppose not.’

‘And perhaps you coming out with us yesterday scared Miss Harding a bit. Made her think. Realize you’re not going to go away. Won’t go quietly.’ The eyes began to shine unnervingly. I had a nasty feeling he was going to mention spunk again. ‘Anyway, for whatever reason, the upshot is she’s backing out, which, aside from the Shillings – who I wouldn’t mind betting will back out too, without Miss Harding at the helm – makes you sole inheritor to your husband’s will, and, incidentally, to any shares within the bank that he owns, as majority shareholder.’

As we already knew, that amounted to a great deal of money. I remembered the figure on the piece of paper he’d placed in front of me. But it was a rather irrelevant amount too, under the circumstances. Because it was, after all, only money. The poignancy of that phrase went like a dart to my heart. Only money. Not honour, or integrity, or doing the right thing, however difficult. Not owning up, or stepping up to the plate – no. Hard cash. Filthy lucre. Like filthy lies. And deceit.

I raised a smile. ‘Thank you. How marvellous. Yes, that’ll make a tremendous difference.’

He blinked. I’d just won the lottery and was calmly agreeing it would make a difference?

‘I should say! It’s a huge relief, surely?’

He looked delighted for me. How sweet. Yes, truly thrilled. But then it was a coup for him too, wasn’t it, to win a case for a client? Which is what I was, of course. Something to celebrate in the pub tonight with the boys. ‘Result! Stitched up the Harding woman and got a bung for my client, some serious cash. What are you having, Dave? These are on me.’ Except his life wasn’t like that, was it? I kept forgetting. In the billiard room at home, then, in his smoking jacket, puffing on a cigar with another cove. ‘Had a bit of a coup today, Peregrine. Kept a widow out of the workhouse, I should think.’

‘I say, well done, old boy,’ growled Perry. ‘Noblesse oblige and all that. Your shot.’

I took a deep breath.

‘And thank you so much for all your advice and … valuable instruction.’ Was that the word? Probably not. And actually, there hadn’t been much of it, in the event. It was all over now too.

‘Oh, not at all,’ Sam said, adopting a more serious tone, becoming more solicitor-ish. More professional. He’d had to check himself from tumbling over the friend line, and a week ago I’d have been delighted to have him tumble. Would have given him a hefty push. But not now.

‘Of course there are countless hoops to jump through yet,’ he was saying, putting on his glasses – nice glasses – and reading from a ring-bound file. ‘Your late husband’s business deals were profitable but intricate, to say the least; it all needs unravelling. I made a few phone calls, did a bit of initial delving, and it seems the bank is under investigation at the moment by the Financial Services Authority. Did you know that?’ He looked at me over his glasses.

‘I did, actually,’ I said mechanically. ‘I had a letter from one of the partners.’ Ted Barker had written, hot on the heels of his condolence letter, to say that if I was to read in the financial press that the bank was being investigated I wasn’t to worry; it was purely routine. Financial press? I hadn’t even been reading the tabloids.

‘It’s routine, I gather,’ I repeated now, for Sam’s benefit.

‘Yes. Although …’ He hesitated.

I waited. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s just there’s a certain amount of discrepancy within the accounting, apparently. A complaint from a client too.’

I shrugged. ‘Clients often complained if they felt their investment hadn’t paid off. Phil always said so.’ I smiled wanly. ‘For all my husband’s faults, Sam, he was as straight as a die. They won’t find anything.’

‘No. No, I’m sure they won’t. But it’ll be a while, I’m afraid, until the money comes through. Because of this intervention, everything has to be gone through with a fine-tooth comb now, so it’s not entirely straightforward.’

Nothing ever is, I thought miserably, picking up the soft toy which Archie had dropped. He’d liked my baby. Crouched in front of my baby. But everyone liked babies.

‘But I think that within six months we’ll have it all straightened out and, hopefully, a settlement in time for the summer.’

‘Marvellous.’ I managed a smile. Stood up.

He looked surprised. Was I ending the interview? Yes, I was. I extended my hand – no, no kisses, Sam – and he slowly got to his feet, removing his glasses.

‘And once again, thank you so much for your professional counsel.’ I sounded like a policeman. Any minute now I’d say: and in conclusion. But hey, I’d got through it. Escaped, some might say. But it didn’t feel like that. I felt I was deceiving him.

Hand shaken, I turned my sleeping child around. The interview I’d dreaded so much was over, and I was on my way. I was a wealthy woman too. The reality of that, the difference it would make to my life, would kick in soon, I was sure. Within moments probably, out there in the high street, when I realized I could buy everything in the shop windows. And then everything else would be put in perspective. Become minutiae, forgotten. Money had a way of talking, didn’t it? Quite loudly. Shouting other things down. It had a way of hushing things up – hushing people up – and shuffling assuredly to the top of the pile. And I was shuffling out. I felt rather light-headed. Was that the money, I wondered? No, I didn’t think so. I hadn’t had any breakfast, which didn’t help, of course. Hadn’t eaten anything at all yesterday, come to think of it. No breakfast before hunting – too scared. No lunch – too busy leaping ruddy great hedges. No supper – too shocked. No breakfast this morning – too scared. A bit of a pattern emerging there, then.

Aware that Sam was watching me, I called a cheery goodbye over my shoulder, but as I wheeled Archie through reception and passed a smiling Janice, I stopped. Felt a bit peculiar.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ She frowned up at me, concerned. ‘You look terribly pale.’

‘Yes. Fine, thanks.’ I took a moment. Was about to push on, then halted again. ‘Um, actually, d’you think you could watch him for me?’

‘Of course.’ She looked surprised. Delighted too, as she bustled round.

I turned and went unsteadily back into Sam’s room. Shut the door behind me. Then I approached his desk. He hadn’t sat down; was still standing thoughtfully, gazing down at the file, fingertips poised on the desk like those of a pianist lingering on a final chord. He glanced up. Looked pleased, if surprised, as I tottered back towards him.

‘I killed your dog,’ I croaked, clutching the edge of his desk.

‘My dog?’

‘Yes. It was me. Kicked it to death.’

‘But … Betsy? I just left her. Asleep in her basket …’

We stared at one another. Slowly the penny dropped.

‘Oh no, not that one,’ I said quickly. ‘The hunt dog. Hound, even.’

He frowned. ‘Peddler?’

‘That’s it. I kicked it. Or Thumper did. Same thing. And although I didn’t dig a grave, I did cover him in bracken. But it was instinctive, sort of – out of respect, like a blanket. I can see how it would look furtive, though. Like I was covering up a murder.’

Murder. I shut my eyes. A mistake. The room spun and I lost my balance, stepping backwards and letting go of the desk. I opened my eyes quickly and put out my hand to steady myself but there was nothing there. Instead my hand went to my forehead, which was damp. Then I saw the floor coming up to meet me, and knew, in a split second, it was too late. I was passing out.