A Rural Affair (37 page)

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.

When I came round later, I was horizontal. I also appeared to be on a red chenille couch in the corner of a strange room that
had a plaster rose in the middle of the ceiling and an ornate but faintly cracked cornice running around the edge. Sam and
Janice were gazing down at me; Janice was hovering with a glass of water.

‘Archie –’ I struggled to sit up.

‘He’s here,’ said Sam quickly. He wheeled my still-sleeping child into view near my feet so I could see him. ‘He’s fine.’

I sank back. ‘Did I faint?’

‘You did. Quite dramatically. But I suppose any faint is dramatic; I’ve just never seen anyone do it before.’

‘God, how embarrassing. I’m so sorry.’ My eyes roved around. ‘Am I supposed to say: where am I? Where am I?’

He grinned. ‘In the senior partner’s room, the only one with a sofa.’

‘Christ –’ I struggled to move. He put a hand on my shoulder.

‘Don’t panic, he’s in Mauritius. You could stay there for another ten days and he wouldn’t be any the wiser.’

‘Water?’ Janice proffered the glass anxiously.

‘Um, thank you.’ I managed to half sit, although Sam sort of helped me. This was beyond embarrassing.

‘Did you eat any breakfast, dear?’ Janice was asking as I sipped. ‘Or have you got your monthlies?’

I flushed, mortified, which was impressive given my pallor. ‘Um, no. I mean, I didn’t have any breakfast.’

‘Well, there you are, then,’ she scolded as I sank back again. ‘You young girls, running around with nothing in your tummies.
Oh, those wretched phones.’

They were indeed jumping off the desk behind us.

‘Please get it,’ I begged her. ‘I’m fine, really.’

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ She looked doubtful but then scooted off to reception, handing Sam the glass and calling over her
shoulder, ‘Don’t let her get up yet!’

‘Did you have to carry me here?’ I asked, appalled, as he dragged up a chair. There was something faintly psychoanalytical
about our configuration now as he sat at my head. I quickly unlaced my fingers on my chest.

‘Well, between us, yes. You don’t weigh much, though, Poppy. Janice is right, you should eat more.’

It was a long time since anyone had said anything like that to me: Phil certainly hadn’t and Dad wouldn’t notice. Mum. It
would have been Mum, then. I looked up at him. Lovely eyes. Greeny-brown, and sort of flecked with hazel. Suddenly I remembered
why I was here.

‘Shit – the dog!’

‘Ah yes, Peddler. But you know, these things happen, particularly in the country, Poppy. People get very worked up at the
time, but he was an old hound, and he died doing what he loved most. Not such a bad way to go, surely?’

‘Was he? Old? Not a puppy?’

‘No, no, at least twelve. And it wasn’t you who kicked him, don’t forget. And anyway, it was hardly premeditated.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t own up.’

‘Well, you have now. And at the time I imagine you just panicked. We all do that.’

‘Really?’ I gazed up at the calm, kind face above me. Hard to imagine he ever did. I must get up. Must get off this sodding
couch. I felt ridiculous.

‘Here.’ He held my arm as I swung my legs around, but in my haste my skirt got hitched up along the way so that I flashed
far more leg than I’d have liked and I saw him avert his eyes, embarrassed. But I felt better, actually. I’d admitted my crime.
And out loud, twenty-four hours later, it didn’t seem so heinous. He was right: it had been my horse, not me, and the hound
had died in its natural habitat, doing its job. Although the huntsman might not see it like that, I supposed. I remembered
him taking his hat off, passing a hand across his shattered face.

‘I’d like to explain to the huntsman. Mark, isn’t it? Apologize. Tell him what happened, face to face.’

For some reason Sam looked as if I’d handed him half of my inheritance. His eyes shone. ‘D’you know, I think he’d like that.
Thank you, Poppy. I’ll give you his address.’

And he did, together with his phone number, when I’d followed him back into his office, pushing Archie. As he turned and handed
me the piece of paper, he held my eyes for just a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

‘How’s the book club?’ he asked suddenly.

I blinked, wrong-footed. ‘Oh, pretty much disbanded, sadly. I think the party line is Literary Differences.’ I made ironic
quotation marks in the air then realized I hated it when people did that. ‘Most of us wanted to read rollicking commercial
fiction, which we knew we’d enjoy and polish off by the following week, and then gather for a chat and a bit of a party. But
then we were given a really hard book to read and we all sort of gave up.’

‘Oh. Shame. Who suggested the hard book?’

‘Hope Armitage.’

‘Ah.’

‘Clever girl.’ I grimaced.

He nodded. Glanced away.

‘A lovely one too,’ I said quickly, in case he thought I was knocking her. ‘She’s got pretty much everything, actually. Beauty,
charm, brains. Chad,’ I added foolishly with a laugh, then wished I hadn’t. I could feel myself colouring. Why was I gabbling?
‘But unfortunately we couldn’t match her in the cerebral department.’ More quotation marks in the air around cerebral. Why?
‘Well, not that we could match her in any department,’ gabble gabble, ‘certainly not the looks department, obviously! Not
that we were trying to, or anything.’ Do
stop
, Poppy.

‘I hadn’t realized she was in your group.’ He’d moved to the window to look out at the street below; had his back to me. He’d
gone a bit clipped and terse suddenly. Not so shiny-eyed.

‘Well, as I say, it’s pretty much defunct now anyway. Although one or two people were talking about forming another one, a
sort of radical offshoot, but minus the highbrow literary slant.’