A Well Kept Secret (8 page)

“Certainly, Mr Dobson,” the young man responded, and promptly vanished.

Martin shook the lawyer’s hand, and presently he left the premises in company with the clerk who carried the large document box as if he was accustomed to such things. It was only a matter of a few paces to where he had parked, and he opened the boot ready for the young man to deposit the box inside.

“Thanks,” said Martin as the clerk straightened up, “One doesn’t often get such service these days.”

“That’s all right, Mr Isherwood,” said Perkins as he closed the boot of the car. “If you want the truth, I was glad to get out of the office for a bit of air anyway. You’re Dr Marston’s nephew aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

Martin looked at the young man properly for the first time. He seemed to be in his early twenties, and there was a sort of genial roguish look about his features that no doubt played havoc with young woman, and maybe even those not quite so young! He gave the impression of being a bit of a live wire, and probably quite shrewd for his age.

“Can I mention something in private like?” Perkins asked.

“Of course.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it means anything, only we live in such funny times.”

“How true!”

“Well, I was in the 'Rose and Crown' a couple of nights ago, and there was this chap in there I’d never seen before; a stranger in these parts.”

“And?”

“Well, as I went up to the bar to get another pint, I heard him talking to Syd, he’s the landlord, and asking questions about Springwater House.”

“Perhaps he was an old friend of the Doctor’s?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Perkins dubiously. “He struck me as being a bit of a shifty character; you know, one of these blokes with a baby face, yet with something about the eyes that says he could be anything but, if you get my meaning?
 
Still, probably nothing to it, but a big place like Springwater House, well, I suppose one must always think of the criminal element. We don’t have too much of a problem like that in these parts of course, only I remember wondering at the time if he was a housebreaker or something like that who thought that now the Doctor’s passed on there could be easy pickings there. Hope you don’t mind; just thought I’d mention it so you’d be on your guard.”

“That’s very good of you, I’ll certainly be careful to make sure the house is secure.”

“Right, well, I’ll be off then,” Perkins said, straightening up and closing the boot of the car.

“Yes, and thank you for bringing the box out for me, and thank you also for your warning. If you should see this man again, or hear anything about him, perhaps you would let me know? I imagine you have the house phone number?”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

As the solicitor’s clerk returned to his office, Martin strolled up the High Street, glancing in at the shops as he went. Seen now from the perspective of a pedestrian, Wellworthy struck him as being a place that had somehow been by-passed by the twenty-first century. It was almost like being in a time-warp, and seeing a small country town as it probably looked somewhere in the late nineteen-fifties. There were no large supermarkets in evidence, parking was easy, no glitz, no pop music blaring out from boutiques hawking so-called ‘fashion’ wear, no 'charity shops', and even the ubiquitous wheelie-bins being conspicuous by their absence. Even the people he passed as he journeyed up the road were all perfectly ordinary. Unlike most towns and cities he had visited, there seemed to be very few individuals about who were not ethnically British, and such youngsters as he saw were all what he would class as being perfectly normal and well-behaved, with no hint of the 'yobbish' element that marred so many of the major cities. If one liked the sort of placid, sleepy, semi-rural life that had been relatively commonplace some fifty or so years ago, Wellworthy was obviously the place to be.

He found the Doctor’s surgery without difficulty, and was not surprised to see that there were a number of people sitting in the waiting room. He spoke briefly to the receptionist, who provided him with a plastic number-disk and told him that the doctor would be free to see him in about half an hour. He thanked her and went out into the sunshine again, not being particularly keen to while away his time listening to people cough and sneeze, or discussing their individual ailments in awed tones with their companions.

His footsteps eventually brought him to the churchyard he had glimpsed briefly as he had driven through the town on the previous day. It was quiet and secluded, with the huge yew tree he had observed in passing standing only a few yards inside the lych-gate, and looking even more massive when seen close-up. By the look of it the tree must have been centuries old, and the wide sweeping boughs overshadowed most of the ancient churchyard. He entered, and strolled along the stone-flagged pathway, wondering just where his uncle lay buried. Most of the gravestones he passed looked as if they had been standing for centuries, and it wasn’t until he reached the far side of the church that he came upon more recent interments. He looked at each of these in turn, and presently he came to a double plot that he knew instinctively had to be the one he was seeking. There was one established grave, and all the signs of a comparatively recent burial.

There was as yet no headstone on the new grave; he recalled being told whilst arranging Alicia’s funeral there had to be a period of settlement before a memorial stone could be erected. On the slightly older grave immediately next to it there was a simple stone giving the details of his late aunt. He stood there looking at the graves reflectively for a while, ostensibly paying his last respects to his departed relative, yet his mind was elsewhere, thinking of that other lonely graveside where he had watched Alicia being laid to rest. In a strange sort of way, just gazing at the graves of the aunt and uncle he scarcely remembered went some way towards helping him to come to terms with the natural inevitability of life and death. It was certainly a peaceful spot, and he found himself wishing he had thought to have brought a few flowers.

No doubt his aunt and uncle had loved one another, and he could imagine only too readily how his uncle must have felt when he had been widowed. Standing there in that quiet churchyard he found himself wishing that he had known them better, that he had made an effort to open a channel of communication whilst there had still been time. It was too late to think of such things now of course. He had been so busy with his own life that the passing of the years had meant nothing; the future was something that had stretched limitlessly before him. Only now that it was too late did he realise that not only was life a transient thing, one never knew when time would be called, and those closest would be suddenly snatched away. It was a hard and bitter lesson to be learnt.

The Marstons had had no children, and whether that was by design or just the way nature had treated them he had no way of knowing. Everything he had heard so far about his uncle was that he was a good, decent and well-respected man. Maybe in his declining years he had felt this lack of anyone to carry on the name? Perhaps, as Mr Dobson had tactfully suggested, that was why he had left everything to his sister’s only child? If that was true why had he made no attempt to maintain contact? For that matter, why ensure that he knew nothing about his intentions until matters were fait accompli?

And then there was the enigma of his housekeeper. Perhaps there was something about Mrs Brent that had struck a chord in her late employer’s mind; perhaps in a way she fulfilled the role of the child he never had?
 
If that was true, then why did he not leave her provided for in a more fitting manner? There was nothing in the will about her beyond the question of security of tenure of the flat over the garage, and if she had been anything other than what she purported to be, he would have expected more. It was all sheer speculation of course, yet he could not get away from the conviction that there had to be something about her he didn’t as yet understand that had caused his uncle to take on such a prickly person, and to the extent of even providing her with a secure home.

Not for the first time he wondered where she had come from. There had been no mention of a husband during their brief discussion, no mention of a family of any sort, no mention of a previous home. Granted he had not made specific enquiries in these directions, but he wondered if she had been a stranger to the area and had simply remained when she was offered a job and a home. Perhaps she was a homeless widow? Maybe she was even a distant relative of his late aunt? It was something he hadn’t considered before and perhaps should enquire about.

He pulled himself up short as that particular thought crossed his mind. What business of his was it to ask the woman such personal questions? How would he feel if somebody started prying into his own background in such a manner? What did it matter where she came from, so long as she carried out the functions she was employed to attend to, and in an efficient manner? All the evidence supported the fact that she could certainly do this. Just because the woman did not wish any degree of social integration with him was no grounds for him to start nosing into her background.

After a while spent deep in his musings by the graveside he glanced at his watch and decided that it was time to stroll back to the surgery. He re-entered the waiting room, and on glancing up at the board where each patient hung their token as they went in to see the doctor, he noted with satisfaction that there was only one more now ahead of him. He settled himself into a chair and browsed through one of the magazines spread out over the table for the benefit of patients, and some minutes later he saw the ‘doctor ready’ light winking.

Dr Rawlinson was a man of about his own age, or perhaps a year or two older. He was dressed quite casually, and sitting at a small desk with a computer terminal placed in the middle of it. He was tapping away at the keyboard as he entered the room, and following the brief aside asking him to ‘take-a-seat-I’ll-be-with-you-in-a-minute’, which no doubt was vouchsafed to all patients on entering, Martin obediently sat on the small chair beside the desk and waited. Finally, with a small sigh of satisfaction, the doctor turned away from the monitor, his task apparently completed as he looked up at his visitor.

“Ah yes; Mr Isherwood,” he remarked, glancing at some papers on his desk. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I’m hoping that you can provide me with some information, Doctor,” Martin responded, extending his hand. “I will try not to take up too much of your time; I know how busy a GP’s practise can be.”

“I’ll do my best,” the doctor responded, accepting the hand and shaking it briefly. “What is it that you wish to know?”

“I am the next of kin of your late colleague Dr Marston; I can show you some I.D. if you wish? As you may be aware, I have inherited his property.”

“Ah yes,” Dr Rawlinson said, leaning back in his chair as he observed his visitor. “I remember Mr Dobson saying something about that. Yes, sad business, very sad.”

“I agree, and neither Mr Dobson, nor Mrs Brent his housekeeper have been able to tell me how he actually died. Mrs Brent said that she discovered him dead in his bed, and that you were called in to certify death.”

“Yes, that’s true. His heart seemed to have just stopped working sometime during the night; no obvious reason, he just stopped living. It happens sometimes; I think he had simply lost the will to go on. He had been pretty down since his wife died. He had been dead several hours by the time I saw him.”

“Death by natural causes then?”

“In laymen’s terms, yes.”

“Tell me doctor, was his death quite unexpected? I mean, was he otherwise fit enough for a man of his age?”

Dr Rawlinson appeared to study him for a few moments, no doubt wondering where all these questions were leading. “There was nothing in his medical history to suggest that such a sudden death was a likely possibility,” he said guardedly at last, “nor that it was virtually impossible. His heart was quite sound for a man of his age, likewise his principle organs. He had the beginnings of arthritis in his hands, but in general terms he was a pretty fit man. Why do you ask?”

“I am just trying to clarify things in my own mind. As I expect you know, I was not close to my uncle; scarcely knew him in fact. I have come to Wellworthy in order to clear up his affairs, and perhaps dispose of the property. It is my intention to stay on at the house for a few days attending to such matters.”

“I see,” said the doctor. “Something tells me that this poses a question for you?”

“Yes, in a way it does,” Martin admitted. “Upon arrival at Springwater House I was greeted by my late uncle’s housekeeper, and I’m sorry to say she appears to greatly resent my presence. As Dr Marston’s one-time colleague and personal physician, it occurred to me that you may be aware of a reason for this attitude, and I am hoping that you may also be able to throw some light on the nature of the employment arrangements between the two of them. I am also hoping that you may be able to tell me if it is possible she had been led to expect something under the terms of his will besides security of tenure of the flat?”

The doctor leaned back even farther in his chair, folding his arms defensively across his chest. His expression openly betrayed the fact that he suspected Martin of hinting at something irregular in the relationship between the deceased man and his housekeeper, and strongly resented the inference.

“Dr Marston died exactly as I have told you,” he said, and Martin could detect the beginnings of hostility in his voice. “Mrs Brent was employed as his housekeeper, and what she may or may not have been expecting in his will I could not possibly say; certainly he never once discussed such matters with me. Now, if you are implying anything beyond these facts-.”

“Please, Dr Rawlinson,” Martin interrupted, holding up a hand in a placatory gesture. “I most certainly did not wish you to infer that my enquiries are suggesting anything improper in their relationship, nor am I questioning your professional judgement; I’m sure that his death was exactly as you have said. I only ask because I assumed that you would have been closer to him than anybody else that I have met so far.”

“I am relieved to hear it.” he said, although he still sounded suspicious of Martin’s motive in asking so many questions. “To answer your question concerning Dr Marston and his domestic arrangements to the best of my understanding; I consider it most unlikely that his housekeeper had designs on anything that was his, nor entertained any expectations under the terms of his will. The ‘relationship’ as you put it was exactly what it is supposed to be; employer and employee. As you may have already discovered for yourself, she simply isn’t the sort of person who would tolerate anything beyond that.”

“I’m more than happy to accept your word on all of that. May I ask if you happen to know how he came to employ her?”

“There’s no great mystery about that,” the doctor answered immediately. “He saved her life after she was knocked down by a car right outside this very surgery. She was at that time, I believe, a penniless, homeless, half-starved vagrant. Being the sort of man he was, he took her home as soon as she was recovered enough to leave hospital, and together with his wife they nursed her back to full health. She was by all accounts desperate to repay him, and naturally he wouldn’t hear of it. He eventually offered her the position of housekeeper, the situation becoming vacant due to the imminent retirement of his existing one, Mrs Jefferson. She accepted, and as I subsequently learned from Dr Marston, it had proved to be a sound choice, for she was everything he would ever want in a domestic employee. Efficient, hard-working, caring, discrete, undemanding and thoroughly reliable; he claimed that he had never once regretted taking her on. I can also tell you for a fact that when his wife died, it was only by her efforts that he ever survived at all. The simple truth is that Mrs Brent was so grateful to him that she would have done anything for Dr Marston, and she was genuinely devastated when he died.”