Death Before Time by Andrew Puckett

wine.
    “It’ll be about ten minutes.”
    She was wearing a mini skirt under the apron and the different lengths accentuated the shape of her legs so that they seemed to twinkle at him as she went out.
    He glanced round the room, at the pictures he’d pretended to look at on Friday. There were a couple of French impressionists, a Dutch landscape and a painting that was completely unfamiliar, not that he was any kind of expert. He got up for a closer look and found to his surprise that it was an original. It was another landscape, or rather, a shorescape – a stony, inhospitable beach in winter. A grey sea slopped sullenly over the rocks while the wind tugged at some scrubby bushes on the shore. Ominous clouds scurried overhead. A figure, female and forlorn, gazed out to sea, her hair streaming from her head. The colours were muted but the detail and brushwork intense and the whole effect was disturbing, even depressing. At the bottom right hand corner was the signature “St John”.
    Helen put her head round the door. “It’s ready.”
    “Did you do this?” He indicated the painting.
    “Oh, that. No. It was my mother.”
    “Does she still paint?”
    “She’s dead.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.”
    She said, “It was a long time ago. You’d better come through, before it gets cold.”
    The kitchen had a dining area set to one side. The dark wood table was laid for two with a glass vase containing a single red rose. She poured more wine.
    “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass. He raised his and she touched it with hers to make a slight ring.
    “Is it all right?” she asked a few minutes later. “It” was lemon chicken with rice and mange tout peas.
    “It’s wonderful,” he said.
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    He told her how he’d run into Patrick the night before, how exhausted he’d seemed.
    “He works harder than people give him credit for,” she said.
    He asked her how she’d got to know him and George Woodvine so well.
    “Patrick’s ubiquitous,” she said. “You must have noticed that yourself by now.”
    “What about George?” he asked. “What does he do ? The chairmanship can’t bring in much.”
    “He’s got money of his own and does all sorts of things. You know – ‘Good Works’”. She gave the last two words emphasis.
    “Landed gentry?”
    “No, not really. His father and grandfather were more ‘Captains of Industry’, both knighted for services to the realm.” She explained how she and Philip had been to his house once and seen portraits of them hanging in the hall. “Pillars of Victorian rectitude,” she said.
    “But not George?”
    “No. He’s laid-back, doesn’t care for that kind of thing.”
    They chatted about nothing very much through pudding (baked bananas in ginger sauce) and he waited until they’d finished before asking the question that had been nagging at him since Friday.
    “Did you know about my wife?”
    She paused a moment before meeting his eyes. “Yes.”
    “Who told you?”
    “Philip.”
    “He had no right.”
    “No, I suppose strictly speaking he didn’t.”
    “So why did he tell you?”
    Again she paused, then said, “I was talking with him after he’d offered you the job. To be honest, I was sceptical as to why someone of your age and background should want it. I told him he’d been too hasty and that he should find out more about you. It was then he told me and I understood why he trusted you.”
    “Why? Why should that make you understand why he trusted me?”
    She said, “Because Philip lost his own wife when he was about your age and never remarried. He would have felt it made a bond between you.” She paused. “I’m only sorry I let it out when I did.”
    He looked at her a moment before saying, “It’s all right.”
    “How long ago did she die? Philip just said recently.”
    “A bit over six months.”
    “Leukaemia, I think he said?”
    “Yes.”
    Realising he didn’t want to talk about it, she said, “What made