A Well Kept Secret (12 page)

Her words, he decided, were a sort of compliment; she obviously distrusted men in general, perhaps for good reason. Given time, she might even tell him why. “Thank you,” he said, “and if I may be permitted to say as much; I think you are also a very caring person.”

She looked as if she was about to make some sort of response, then she changed her mind and commenced to ascend the stairs.

“I understand that you came to know my uncle because you were involved in some sort of accident,” he said, falling in slightly behind her, and not so close that she might feel threatened. “I believe he treated you as a patient?”

“That is true,” she agreed as she ascended the stairs at a steady pace. “I was knocked down by a car that didn’t stop. Dr Marston just happened to be only a few feet away from me when it happened. I’d stopped breathing, and he did whatever doctor’s do in such a situation. I was taken to the local cottage hospital, and while I was there he visited me several times. There was something about him that made me instinctively trust him; he was that sort of man. Once I was over the worst of the accident he offered to take me to his home where his wife would continue nurse me. At first I wouldn’t hear of it, yet when she also came to see me, and said how very disappointed they would both be if I refused, I gave in and came. It was a decision I never for a moment regretted. In their care, I recovered quickly, and it was then that I learned that his housekeeper, an elderly widow called Mrs Jefferson who had been with him for many years, was going to retire to a cottage that had been left to her in a will. I was offered the job of housekeeper, and they seemed pleased when I finally accepted.

Truly, I had never met such kind people in my life. They couldn’t have treated me better if I was their own daughter, and yet they never crossed over that boundary between being good employers and something else.
 
Working for them was the happiest time of my life, and I think I was almost as distressed as Dr Marston was when his wife died. He didn’t weep, or look for sympathy, yet there was a dead look about his eyes that haunted me, and from that time onwards he seemed to lose interest in nearly everything. Even in the depths of his grief, he was always the perfect gentleman. Right after the funeral he said it was not proper that I should continue to share the same roof as him now that he was alone, and that was when he insisted that I take on the flat over the garage. This had been vacant for some years following the retirement of the general handyman who had once lived there. As you know, he had no children of his own, and following the death of his wife I think maybe he came to look upon me as a member of his family. He wanted to leave me his money in his will, but I could never have allowed him to do such a thing; I could well imagine what local people would have thought if he had.

That was when he first mentioned you to me. I confess I didn’t pay much attention at the time, because I foolishly thought he would live for many more years, but of course I was wrong. Looking back on it, I now suspect he died of a broken heart. His death was a terrible blow; not only because I felt that I had lost both of the only true friends I had in the world, but because suddenly, the lovely home and security he had provided me with was about to vanish as well, and that was why I both feared and resented you. I’m sorry, because I see now that it was most selfish of me to think like that about someone I had never even met. In my mind you were the vulture coming in to pick over the remains of a great man. Maybe I was even blaming you for his death because you never bothered with him when he was alive. I realise now that I was twisted inside; blaming you for everything I felt I had lost. Before I had even seen you, to my mind you were the heartless scavenger who would come here, and when you came, you would destroy everything that Dr Marston had ever stood for, and I would be left with nothing more than memories of a life that had been snatched away from me.”

She paused in her ascent of the stairs and looked back at him.

“I am genuinely sorry that I so badly misjudged you. I had no right to do that with someone of whom I knew nothing,” she finished, and there was no doubting the look of sincerity in her eyes as she spoke. “I would like you to know that no matter what decision you make with regard to this lovely old house that has been home to me these last few years, I shall do my best to help.”

Martin sensed that it had cost her a lot to speak as she had, and he felt a sense akin to relief in knowing that she now trusted him at least to the extent of admitting so much about her personal feelings. There was still no real sense of human warmth about her, yet he felt instinctively he had made a start in breaking down the wall the woman appeared to have built about herself. Everything about her indicated that she was a person who did not make friends easily, a person who perhaps had been badly hurt in the past and thus permanently embittered. It was a small but important step in breeching those defences.

“June,” he assured her quietly. “There is nothing whatever for you to feel sorry about. In your shoes I would probably have felt much the same; I might even have made my views more physically obvious than you have done. I’m just glad it’s now out in the open, and because of that I’m sure we can get along quite well together. I assure you that no matter what decision is ultimately made about the house, I guarantee you will remain secure in your home for as long as you wish.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she suddenly looked a little embarrassed at allowing herself even that minor degree of intimacy, and continued her ascent to the head of the stairs.

On reaching the landing they walked the length of the hallway and immediately ascended the second set of stairs that led up to what had once been the servants’ quarters. Probably it had never been used as such in a hundred years, and the rooms were no longer furnished. As Martin had already noticed from his preliminary visit, it was abundantly clear that they had been used as a storage area for decades in much the same way that people in smaller houses make use of loft space. In the main the rooms contained a wide miscellany of items that had been accumulated over the years; old chairs, sundry boxes, packing cases, trunks, various odds and ends of furniture, books, an old gramophone, even an antique sewing machine. There were scraps of carpeting, a couple of ancient vacuum cleaners, piles of old curtains, and a wide miscellany of packages tied with string.

“It will take forever to go through this lot,” Martin remarked as he surveyed the last room on that floor. “Unfortunately it is something that will need to be done eventually.”

“If you like, I will assist you,” she offered tentatively, “unless you wish to do it on your own, of course?”

It was a sort of olive branch, and he knew it. “I would be most grateful for your help,” he responded at once, “only when on earth will you find the time? I mean, you run this house, you have your own home to care for, and you also have a job in Wellworthy?”

“It shouldn’t take too long,” she countered. “I’m free most evenings anyway; we can make a start this evening if you wish, once we have been over the rest of the house?”

“Would you? That is extremely kind of you, and I would certainly appreciate your help. I shall of course pay you for your time-”

He saw at once that he had said the wrong thing from the way her features suddenly hardened.

“I did not offer to help for monetary gain,” she said stiffly.

“I’m sorry; I had no intention of insulting you. I should have understood that you offered out of the goodness of your heart. Guess I’m not used to anyone being genuinely decent in this hard commercial world we now live in. I shall be very glad of your offer to help in the spirit it was made.”

She appeared to accept his words, for nothing further was said on the subject, and the inspection of the house proceeded methodically from room to room, cupboard by cupboard, item by item. He was not surprised to see that, just as he had surmised, she knew the house intimately. In the course of the tour he also noted that his uncle had never disposed of his deceased wife’s clothing, and naturally enough, all of his own was still hanging in wardrobes or packed away in chests of drawers and the like. He knew that all of this would need to be disposed of before any decision about the house could be reached. As June pointed out, much of the furniture was antique and potentially quite valuable, as were many of the fittings and furnishings. It would make sense to employ a quality auctioneer to assess and dispose of these in due course. Cataloguing it all would be a lengthy procedure, and best left to a professional.

Finally, at the end of the lengthy tour they reached the kitchen area and examined everything in there as well. For such an old house it was surprisingly well equipped with all manner of modern labour-saving devices, all of which were in pristine condition, which was yet one more indication of June Brent’s efficiency and dedication. From start to finish the detailed tour of the house and examination of its contents had eaten up the better part of an hour.

“I think,” the housekeeper said as the last cupboard had been checked, and the last drawer given a cursory examination, “if you are still of a mind to continue working this evening, we should stop for a cup of tea before returning to the task of sorting what is stored in the upper rooms?”

“An excellent idea,” he agreed at once, and pulled out one of the small chairs set by the kitchen table and sat down. As far as he was concerned, her spontaneous offer was encouraging evidence of one more chink in the armour June Brent had built about herself, and the last thing in the world he wished to do now was to offer any degree of rebuff. He sensed a mystery about the woman, and thinking about that helped to distract him from his own personal heartache.

June busied herself with the task of boiling a kettle and going through the ritual of making tea. As she worked, Martin covertly observed her, noting the natural grace with which she moved, and as he watched, he wondered just what sort of tragedy was lurking inside her. It was none of his business of course, never the less he felt a sense of empathy towards another human being who had also suffered and having to live under the never-ending strain that such suffering produced.

Watching her, he decided that dressed more femininely, with a different hairstyle, and with the return of the natural ability to smile she could be quite an attractive person. He wondered idly what her life had been prior to coming to Wellworthy. So far, she had made no reference whatsoever to her life prior to being saved by Dr Marston, yet there had to be an earlier phase to her existence. There had been no mention of her having a home in the area prior to coming to Springwater House, no mention of relatives or friends. Dr Rawlinson had described her as a homeless, half-starved vagrant. If that was true, then how did she come to be in that state? And what brought her to a backwater like Wellworthy if she was not a native to the parts? It was a mystery he rather hoped she would resolve for him one day if the tentative lines of communication he had so far established became a little stronger.

Once the tea was made she produced mugs from a wall cupboard and milk from the refrigerator, and eventually poured out two steaming mugs of tea. She placed one of these in front of Martin, and the other on the opposite side of the table before seating herself and directly facing him. Watching her perform this simple ritual reminded Martin with a sharp pang of the occasions when Alicia had done much the same sort of thing on the days when Mrs Croft had had some time off. He thrust that memory away, trying to smother the pain it evoked. June Brent was a necessary distraction, and by trying to concentrate upon whatever tragedy lay in her background, he knew he was trying to ease his own heartache.

No sooner had she settled herself at the table than the gate communicator set on the wall of the kitchen suddenly bleeped into life. Not having heard it before, the sound initially startled Martin. He knew that the gates were electrically controlled of course, but he had received no visitors in the brief time he had been in the house. He felt irrationally annoyed that at the very point where he might have been able to discover at least some of what made his companion tick, he was to be thwarted by an unwelcome visitor!

“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked, rising to his feet.

“No-one; I can’t think of who it might be.”

Martin crossed over and operated the intercom switch.

“Who is it?” he enquired.

“Ah, is that Mr Isherwood, Mr Martin Isherwood?” asked a man’s voice made a bit tinny by the speaker.

“Speaking.”

“Ah, Mr Isherwood, I do apologise for disturbing you this late at night, my name is Peter Buxted.”

“I’m sorry, I know no one of that name.”

“No I don’t expect you do,” came the ready answer. “I am the Managing Director of Buxted Security Systems. I spoke with the late Dr Marston some months ago, and he wrote asking me to call in when I was next in the area. I’m afraid it was a terrible shock to learn that he has passed on. I've been told that you have inherited his estate, and it was my intention to telephone you to arrange an appointment at a convenient time. Unfortunately I have to leave the area early tomorrow morning, therefore I have taken the liberty of calling upon you on my way back from my last appointment in the hope that you may be able to spare me just a few minutes?”

“Mr Buxted,” Martin answered a shade acidly, “I am afraid I know nothing of any such letter, and I certainly do not wish to discuss security systems at this hour of the day.”

“I fully understand; I assure you this call has nothing whatever to do with marketing. I merely wish to introduce myself, and explain to you in person what it was that so concerned your late uncle; I have a feeling it may be of importance to you.”

Martin glanced across at his companion.

“He has been here before,” she confirmed in undertones. “I recognise his voice; I think he and Dr Marston knew each other from a long way back.”

“Very well, but I can only spare you a few minutes Mr Buxted,” Martin said. “Please drive up to the main entrance; I believe you know the way?”

He broke the connection and operated the button that controlled the gates.

“Looks like we will have to take a rain-check on the tea,” he sighed as June Brent rose to her feet. “I’ll see him in the study; hopefully he will not stay long, and if you still have time we will do that checking later?”

“If you wish,” she said, but if she was either relieved or disappointed by the interruption he couldn’t tell from her voice or her expression. “I’ll bring him directly to you.”

A couple of minutes later she ushered the unexpected visitor in with a brief announcement, and then retreated discretely somewhere into the deeper parts of the house.

“Mr Isherwood,” said the man advancing confidently into the room. “I do appreciate the fact that you are taking the trouble to see me without an appointment, I promise not to keep you long, but being in the area it was too good an opportunity to miss.”

He was a tall, well-built man in a smart business suit, and carried himself with a sort of military bearing. It was difficult to tell his age, probably somewhere in his middle or late sixties was Martin’s guess. He was a black haired individual, possessed of a full, neatly trimmed beard and moustache that concealed most of his face. His eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows in a way that spoke both of intelligence and a forceful nature.

“Mr. Buxted,” Martin said, rising from behind the desk and shaking his visitor’s hand in a perfunctory manner. “Please have a seat.”

“Allow me to express my sincere condolences on the loss of your uncle,” Peter Buxted said as he sat confidently back in the chair opposite Martin’s desk. “A little late in the day I know, yet it’s the thought that counts. I should explain that I have known your late uncle for many years, and I find it difficult to believe that he died so unexpectedly; quite a shock when I heard about it. Naturally I would have liked to attend the funeral, I’m afraid the news only reached me through a third party by which time it was too late. I understand that you have inherited the property?”

“That is correct.”

“Must have come as a bit of a surprise to you; not being that close to your uncle?
 
In all the years I knew him, your uncle never once spoke of you; one can only guess why that was. Not that it is any of my business of course. Do you think you will take up permanent residence here?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say; why do you ask?”

“Mr Isherwood, please don’t think I am simply being inquisitive; I assure you that I do have a valid reason for asking you.”

“I shall be interested to hear it.”