Read Online Slight Mourning by Catherine Aird - Free Book Online

found myself ‘super visum corporis.’”
    Annabel Pollock heard him, even if Great-Uncle George didn’t: Quentin Fent being clever at everybody else’s expense as usual.
    â€œWhat’s that, my boy?” asked the octogenarian again.
    â€œI always come down in August, Uncle. Nobody buys pictures in August.” Quentin Fent worked for a West End firm of art dealers. He was some years younger than his cousin Bill, and rather precious.
    â€œShould have thought you’d prefer the continent at your age,” said Great-Uncle George.
    â€œCan’t afford it.” Quentin gave the sort of winning smile that had sold many a picture to a hesitant client. It cut no ice at all with Great-Uncle George.
    â€œNot married yet, are you?” commented the octogenarian with all the candour of the old.
    â€œNot yet. The lady’s father—er—won’t have me.”
    â€œI didn’t think anyone asked him any more,” grunted the old man.
    â€œHe’s Battersby’s Bearings,” murmured Quentin as if this explained everything. “Jacqueline’s his only daughter.”
    Great-Uncle George heard that. “Ah, he thinks Botticelli’s a cheese and that you don’t know ‘A’ from a bull’s foot.”
    â€œEr—exactly,” agreed Quentin ruefully. “There’s another thing too. He started out without two pennies to rub together. Now he thinks anyone who needs more than two pennies to get started is a bit of a failure.”
    The old man grunted unsympathetically. “In my young day you’d have …”
    â€œI might have stood more of a chance,” went on Quentin, “if I hadn’t tried to change a wheel when Jacqueline and I had a puncture last month …”
    â€œMade a mess of it, did you?” he remarked, unsurprised.
    â€œThe jack slipped.” The corners of Quentin’s mouth curved downward dolefully. “Had to call out the heavy recovery people. That set me back a bit, too. The worst of it was that we’d borrowed the old man’s car without asking.”
    Great-Uncle George snorted. “So it was Strontfield Park for you, was it? Instead of Florence …”
    â€œI like to keep in touch with the family,” said Quentin a trifle defensively, “and believe you me, I’d rather do it in the summer.” He looked round the large cool drawing-room. “You can keep your Christmas in the country. You’d never believe how cold this room can get in the winter.”
    â€œOh, yes, I can,” snapped the old man crisply. “I knew this room a long time before you did, don’t forget. Came here first when my niece Mary married Bill’s father. Before the war. Only coal fires in those days, too.”
    Quentin ducked. “Sorry. Of course you did. Must have been worse then.” He steered the conversation hastily in another direction. “Rotten thing to happen on holiday—Bill being killed, I mean. Hell of a nice fellow.”
    â€œSteady as a rock,” said Great-Uncle George, a quavering note creeping into his old voice.
    â€œStraight as a die,” supplemented Quentin, adding sotto voce , “and he died.” He moved away from the old man toward Helen Fent. “Hey, Helen, just a minute! There’s something I wanted to ask you. Something important.”
    â€œWhat is it?” Helen had completed her progress round the drawing-room. She was standing now in front of the Quare clock that had been her husband’s pride and joy, still talking to Mr. Puckle, the family solicitor. In spite of the heat of the day she looked cold and remote. She passed her tongue over dry lips and spoke without interest as though to a child. “Did you want something, Quentin?”
    â€œYes. I want to know why there were policemen at the funeral.”
    â€œPolicemen at the funeral?” echoed Helen, sitting down rather suddenly on