Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

‘Ah.’ It was the solicitor’s turn to sound surprised.

But then he didn’t know what I wanted the money for, how important it was for me suddenly to find Carl. Harry Mendleson might be the name he was born with. To me he would always be Carl.

‘Well, your husband’s will was quite straight-forward, Mrs Foster...’

Each time he used that name it gave me a jolt. I might not be Mrs Peters but I certainly no longer thought of myself as Mrs Foster. I suppose I had never truly considered myself to be Robert’s wife. More his victim, really.

James Fisher was still talking. I made myself concentrate. I had to take control now, to manage things for myself. There was no one left to do that for me and in any case for the first time in my life I did not want anyone to.

‘... and the Reverand Foster had made me his executor, which simplified things. I took out probate quite soon after he died and the funds have been invested on behalf of the will’s beneficiaries. In this case yourself. They are almost immediately releasable once the appropriate papers have been signed and I am satisfied of your identity, of course.’

‘Of course.’ I hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t have that much with which to identify myself. I wasn’t even always sure what my identity was, to be honest.

‘It would be simplest if you could travel up to Hounslow to our offices here. I am sure we could sort everything out quickly then.’

‘To Hounslow?’

The place seemed like another world to me now and not one I had ever wished to return to. I reflected for a moment. Maybe I could lay a few ghosts to rest while I was there. A thought occurred to me. Could Carl have returned to west London, to his first refuge in England, perhaps even to the place where he and I had met?

‘It would be simplest, Mrs Foster...’

I was off in my own world. Thinking back. Thinking forward.

‘... Mrs Foster? Are you still there, Mrs Foster...’

I said I was there all right, just wondering how quickly I could get to Hounslow.

He suggested two days hence. I agreed with alacrity.

Only after I had put down the phone did I reflect that it was all very well inheriting £130,000, but the only cash I actually had in the world right then was about £150.

That night Mariette gave me the solution to the immediate practical problems. First of all I told her about the will. ‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Just as I was wondering where the next penny was going to come from all this has fallen into my lap.’

‘I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly,’ she said. ‘Most of it probably came from your gran in the first place. Foster stole it from you.’

‘We were married, Mariette.’

‘Huh! Some marriage.’

‘Legal, though, which has worked to my good fortune in the end, I suppose. Robert treated me as if he hated me, yet he so carefully left all his money to me. Bizarre!’

‘Guilt, I’d say. Anyway, you were married to him so you’d almost certainly have inherited with or without the will.’

I grinned. ‘Maybe. Anyway I have to go to Hounslow the day after tomorrow. I need to catch the earliest train. How much do you think it will cost?’

‘You’ll have to get the Golden Hind and saver tickets aren’t valid. It’ll be well over £100.’

‘That’ll nearly clean me out. And I have to get out to Hounslow...’

Mariette rummaged in her bag and passed me an envelope. ‘Will Jones’, she said with a chuckle, ‘took all the paintings and offered you £600 in advance. I didn’t even have to ask. Perhaps he has got a conscience after all.’

I remembered Will’s unpleasant sexual approach to me in Rose Cottage. The thought of it made my flesh crawl. ‘Wouldn’t bet on it,’ I replied. ‘Amazing the way everyone’s throwing cash at me, all of a sudden, though.’

‘Don’t knock it, maybe some of it will rub off on me,’ said Mariette.

She phoned Great Western Railways and used her own credit card to reserve me a seat on the Golden Hind leaving Penzance at 5.15 a.m. She also nobly offered to drive me there from St Ives.

In spite of the mind-numbingly early start I quite enjoyed the journey to London. I was beginning to appreciate what independence meant – freedom, really. And it’s a sad fact of life that no one can be free in the modern world without financial independence. I treated myself to breakfast – the full fry-up including potatoes, although I did draw the line at black pudding. I had never eaten a meal on a train before and I reckoned I could rather get to like it. At Paddington I planned to take the Underground, changing at Earl’s Court from the District Line to the Piccadilly Line and on to Hounslow Central. I knew it was just three or four minutes’ walk to the High Street offices of Hall, Fisher and Partners.

For once, everything worked like clockwork. The Golden Hind arrived on time at Paddington just after 10 a.m. and tube trains came along quickly for me both there and at Earl’s Court. I arrived at Hounslow before 11 and my appointment was not until 11.30. I knew exactly how I wanted to spend the half-hour.

The manse where I had endured the most unhappy years of my life was only about five minutes or so further on from the Underground station than the offices of Hall, Fisher and Partners.

For some reason I was drawn to it. I felt it was important that I went to look at the place again. I suppose I thought vaguely that I had finally to confront my past in order to overcome it.

So I carried on walking until the big Victorian villa loomed, ugly as ever, before me. It had not changed much although it badly needed a coat of paint. That kind of neglect had never been allowed when Robert had been the incumbent. He had insisted on high standards in almost all directions except his own behaviour, I reflected ruefully.

I stared at the house long and hard. Suddenly and quite vividly I could see Robert’s face in front of me, his towering bulk dwarfing me as he approached, fists clenched, ready to attack me in the way he had done so often. For a few brief seconds it was as if I were transported back through time to the horrific existence I had endured with my monstrous husband. But, to my astonishment, I felt no fear. Inside my head I stood my ground. And, as if by magic, the dreadful image of Robert disappeared as swiftly as it had presented itself. I suppose that was the moment when I realised I had become a different kind of person. I was no longer a victim. I was quite determined that nobody, absolutely nobody, was ever going to hurt me like that again.

I turned away from the horrid old house and began to walk back to the solicitors’ offices. I didn’t look round. I never wanted to see the place again. That part of my life was finally over. A few ghosts had indeed been buried, I thought to myself almost triumphantly.

James Fisher was a short, plump man, nearing retirement age, I imagined, with an easy way about him. He greeted me warmly and promptly at 11.30 in his comfortable but slightly shabby office above an estate agency. And, in spite of his earlier comments about identification, he seemed pretty sure that I was who I said I was. I began to explain that I had no papers with which to identify myself, except a library card in the name of Peters, which I didn’t think would be much help. He seemed unconcerned. He asked me to sign my name on a piece of paper and compared it briefly with my signature on a document that I recognised to be a copy of my marriage certificate. Then I noticed that in the file lying open on his desk there were several photographs of me, including a large wedding photograph with Robert. The unwelcome memories that returned made me inwardly cringe.

My meeting with James Fisher took little more than half an hour. Everything was, indeed, just as he had promised on the phone, quite straightforward.