The Mask of Memory by Victor Canning

Author:Victor Canning [Canning, Victor]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Her solicitor, Andrew Browning, after the formalities of condolence, and the practised paternalism towards a wealthy client, not friend, but long known, respected, privately assessed and judged as worthy, and the marital conditions no surprise to him because they paralleled a hundred others and more that came across the table to him, was entirely reassuring, which, he knew, was all that she wanted at the moment.

He said, ‘ The police will have to know about the argument between you and your husband, of course. And about your friendship with this Mr Dougall.’ He had seen him once or twice when he was playing golf at North Lobb. Sometime, years ago, he seemed to remember that the fellow had occasionally been among the caddies at the club-house. Not her type. But so far as that was concerned, he was beyond surprise. Legally, if she stayed with his firm, he would do all he could to protect her. But give a starved woman a new lease of life and her generosity could smash all the floodgates of prudence. ‘I think, perhaps, later on, I should have a talk with him. However for now, don’t worry about the police. It is entirely right and proper that you should have held your counsel until you could see me.’ He knew the Chief Inspector, played golf and bridge with him, and sat with him often at Rotary lunches. ‘ I’ll have a word with them. Of course – since there must be an inquest – you’ll have to make a complete statement.’

‘An inquest?’

‘Naturally, Mrs Tucker. It wasn’t a natural death. The Coroner must handle it. But there’s nothing to upset you in that. Leave it to me.’ He smiled thinly. ‘ You’re all right, of course, financially, as I know. You may or may not know that your husband’s will is lodged with us. Probate, of course, takes some time, but it’s not a complicated will and, of course, everything goes to you.’

‘Yes, he told me that long ago.’

‘And that he was a man of considerable substance…?’ It was less question than a floating bubble on the surface of the conversation.

‘Yes … I always assumed so.’

‘He had a flat in London, I think?’

‘Yes, a furnished one. There will be some things up there.’

‘Would you like us to handle that? With your authority we could send someone up. No doubt the keys will be … available, among your husband’s effects down here.’

She said, ‘Maybe … I’m not sure. Could I let you know about that later?’

‘Of course. Do you know the name of the firm he worked for? They must be told. There will be various matters to clear with them, and they with us.’

Bluntly, the memory of the long-standing offence firming her words, she said, ‘ I’ve no idea. He was always evasive – secretive – about it. I could never think why. Once he did say he worked on a private, sort of freelance, basis for various firms. I never pressed him. Bernard wasn’t that kind of man.

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