Before he could open the car door, she was screaming at him. 'You killed Catherine! You killed her!' She was now beating on the door, as Wendy and her husband, Dave, were doing their best to restrain her.

With difficulty he emerged and stood facing his irate and angry mother-in-law. 'Mrs. Small!' He had never been able to call her anything else. 'You're overwrought. I suggest you go home, get some sleep and come back in the morning when we're all less tired and more rational.'

There was no calming her. 'If you'd been here more, she wouldn't have drunk so much! You're not much of a husband are you! I'll get ...'

He cut off her threats and abuse, by turning to Wendy. 'Can you and Dave throw the old bag out?' There was no need now to be pleasant. 'It doesn't take much to see, where Catherine got her temper from.' He walked past them all into the cottage and shut the door. The others continued to argue with Mrs. Small for several minutes, before she was finally bundled into the Sierra. Her husband meekly got in to the driver's seat and drove them off towards Newmarket.

***

'She'll never forgive you for that remark!' Wendy had made some tea and was handing it round.

'She deserved it!' He could now admit to himself even if he would not tell others, where most of the blame for Catherine's death lay. 'I dread the day I ever married Catherine and I dread the day I moved here even more.' He started to cry. 'If we'd carried on as before, with Catherine as my secretary, she'd still be alive today. Oh! Why?' He slumped forward into his hands.

People say very pat things at times like these. Nothing that either Wendy or her husband, Dave, said could console him at all. He just felt guilty about it all. His marrying of Catherine, the move to the cottage at Newmarket, her drinking, her temper, his mistress, his staying in London more than he should and above all her ultimate death.

***

That night was the last time, he ever went to the cottage. He didn't even go within miles of it, always in future using the more southerly exits from the main road for Newmarket and the races. When Wendy and Dave arrived in the morning, he just filled his car with the few momentos and papers he wanted, gave the keys to Wendy and then drove back to London and the flat in the Barbican. At least there behind the formidable porterage of the City of London Corporation, he would be totally insulated from the ravages of his mother-in-law.

Early that evening he was sitting in the living-room gazing out over the City from his flat on the twentieth floor. He could see the towers to his left and the dome of St. Paul's was straight ahead. But he was not looking at the cityscape. He was still turning over the questions in his mind. And he was still not getting any answers. His stare was interrupted by the phone. It had been ringing all day and all so far had been very abusive. He would pick it up to be met by screams of the most unpleasant and foul language from Mrs. Small.

He thought about letting it ring as he had the last ten times, but this time he picked it and listened apprehensively. It was Wendy's quiet and kind voice, that he knew so well. 'Thank God, Wendy!' The relief was showing in his voice. 'The old bag's been plaguing me all day! Every five or ten minutes she's screaming down the phone! ... You can't come and see me! ... But...' She had already put the phone down and his reply disappeared into nowhere.

***

'Would you two, like to join me in a drink?' He already had the bottle in his hand. Only Dave affirmed and he poured out a second Macallan malt and added water from the tap. He motioned the others to sit down with him, as he handed Dave his drink. 'Why do you come all this way, this late at night? I suspect it's important!' He had no idea, what extra had happened. 'More bad news?' He dreaded the worst.

'It is, I'm afraid!' Wendy paused. 'Did you sign a Bank Guarantee for Catherine's father's business?'

'Oh! that!' He was relieved. 'Catherine kept pestering me about it. Anyway, it was only for twenty thousand. Wasn't it? If it gets called in, the insurance on her life will cover it. Won't it?'

'Wrong! On both counts.' He handed her two formal documents, which had originally come from the Bank. 'You guaranteed twenty thousand in the first, half a million in this second one.' He could see the anger in her face. 'I try and protect you, but how can I keep your finances in order, if you go round signing guarantees, that I don't know about.'

He took the two documents, the first he remembered signing, but the second document was new to him. He looked at the dates on the second. 'It's dated the third of October, 1991, but Catherine had signed a week earlier. To me, that's strange!' He thought about why. His memory was usually good and he remembered that four years ago, he was sure he had been in the States when Catherine had signed. In fact he was certain, because that week was his mistress's birthday and he had sent a large bunch of expensive roses from New York. 'I was in New York, but I don't remember signing when I came back!'

'You were in New York! That even checks with a hotel bill from the Waldorf and one from the hotel's florists.' Wendy had obviously been thorough. 'You returned on the second. It was a Sunday. My diary states that I came to see you in Newmarket about ten on the next day and we spent all day signing accounts and letters, and sorting out papers. I can't remember seeing Catherine at all.' She thought a bit more. 'Usually, she used to hang around, being a nuisance and interrupting us, all of the time!'

He shrugged to agree with Wendy's assessment. 'Do you think she forged my signature?' He knew that many secretaries could sign for their boss, if required. 'I think she could do a reasonable impersonation. You can can't you?'

'Yes, she could and yes, I can!' Wendy had checked this fully. 'It looks like your pen. It looks like your signature. But you were jet-lagged, so you probably wouldn't remember if you did! Or if you didn't!'

'But the Bank's not going to call it in now? Is it?' Doubts were now growing in his mind. 'Catherine's father's haulage business is fine? Isn't it?'

'They haven't yet! But they put his business into receivership, yesterday morning!' She waited for everything to sink in. 'Catherine knew because her mother told her. I think she committed suicide because she knew you'd find out she'd forged your signature. Or perhaps tricked you into signing!'

***

'You need half a million!' Wendy handed him her plan.

'Can we raise it?' He took his glasses and looked at the figures she had set out. Life insurances, the sale of the cottage and odd bits and pieces could quickly raise four hundred thousand. The difference could be made up by selling some shares or by taking out a loan.

'You won't be broke, but after those wonderful ventures Canning setup for you, you're nearly back to square one.' Canning had been his previous accountant, beloved of safe property schemes. 'Trouble is, you're several years older and not a lot wiser. That girl and her family were poison. Pure one hundred percent poison.'

'You two never got on!' It had rather disappointed him and was often a source of strain between Wendy and himself. 'It all seemed to go wrong, when I married her!'

She ignored him and continued. 'Can I get going on this, tomorrow?' Wendy always wanted things neat and tidy, filed and finished. 'If I hint of the forgery and make an offer, I might be able to get a discount.'

'Can't we fight it! I'm certain she forged it!

'No!' She was adamant. 'You may or may not have signed. She may or may not have forged it. Any whiff of suicide and you may or may not have problems on the insurance.' She paused to let what she was saying sink in. 'You'd have to slag Catherine off, against all of her family. You've got the bills for the lawyers. You've got the years of hassle. If you won, then no bank would touch you or your businesses.' She paused again, as if waiting for an answer. 'Do you want me to go on?'

***

The next day, Wendy arrived around midday and found him tapping at a computer. It had always been a cure-all for any unhappiness in his life and he was now attacking a rather intransigent problem with almost a new gusto. She knew that in the long term, that this was the solution to his life. She knew he'd find another woman, with hopefully a better manner and temper, but first he'd got to sort out his current software and his business, and then tackle all his woes.

'How's things!' He asked the question in a manner, that could have been described as cheery. He was certainly in a happier mood than yesterday.

'Not so good!' She handed him a letter. The Bank wrote to us today and it looks like they'll insist on everything.' She pointed out the relevant sentences. 'I've not spoken to them yet, but I have sent them a confirmation, asking for a joint meeting with Mr. Small and the Bank. Can you sign this to give me the authority to go instead of you?'

'That sounds what we expected.' He signed the document as she had requested. 'There! You do it all for me, please.'

Wendy took the single sheet of paper back. 'What did you just sign?'

'The authority for you to have the meeting with the Bank.' She put it back in front of his face. 'Oh! I just agreed that you could have a hundred percent rise! You don't think Catherine did that? Especially, as at that time, I was just getting used to my first glasses!'

'I know you never read anything and I bet your life that she knew it too. After all, she was your secretary for four years.' She put another paper in front of him. 'Look at this. It's a copy of the covering letter, I left with a load of cheques, accounts and other letters for you to sign, when you got back from the States.' She pointed to one of the items mentioned. 'There's a Bank Guarantee for Charles in the sum of five thousand pounds. It was about the time his marriage broke out and you helped him out a little.'

'So you think she slipped the other one in!' He could now remember the signing and Catherine had helped by turning the pages and showing him where to sign. He couldn't be sure, but he may not have been wearing his glasses. It had almost been like old times, when she had been his secretary. This time though, she had been serious and not the laughing and teasing Catherine of old. Perhaps, she had had something to hide.

'Yes!' Wendy paused. 'I'm sorry. You did love her once and that's probably the last straw.' She put her hand on his shoulder. 'You were well and truly setup.'

***

She had made an egg and tomato sandwich and she brought it to him on a stainless steel tray, with a can of Coke and some crisps, she had found in the cupboard. 'Lunch?' Wendy announced. 'It's not much, but it was all I could find!'

He turned, took the tray and started to greedily eat the food. 'Thanks! You know this is first thing, I've eaten since Catherine died. I've drunk a lot.' He laughed. 'But this is the first solid food.' She had now sat next to him on another chair. 'Aren't you eating?'

'No! I had breakfast and as Dave is out tonight, I'm having an early dinner with the kids.'

He had finished the sandwich and was half-way through the Coke before he spoke again. 'Thanks! I needed that!' He took another sip. 'Have they decided when and where the funeral is?'

'It's Tuesday at eleven in the morning, at Newmarket Parish Church. She's being buried in the cemetery at the end of the town afterwards.' She reached across and touched him. 'The Funeral Director phoned to say that you are not to send flowers or come. You're not welcome!'

***

So it was, that a sole figure stood in the wind and rain, and watched through binoculars from the distance as the coffin was lowered into the ground in the bleak cemetery, that lies on the London Road, between the town and the Heath. He could see a crowd of about thirty, most of whom were from the family, whose grip on Catherine he had not been able to break.

It was only an hour after all the others had gone, that he sneaked quietly into the cemetery to pay his last respects.

Copyright 1999 by Ewart Higgins