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