A Well Kept Secret (10 page)

Locking his car, he strolled out across the grass, and as the man saw him approaching he switched off the mower and stood waiting expectantly.

“Mr Dawkins?” Martin asked as he approached. “Good afternoon, I’m Martin Isherwood the new owner, just thought I’d introduce myself.”

He extended his hand, and it was seized in a strong grip. He liked a man with a firm grip; in his view it betrayed character.

“Afternoon,” the gardener responded. “Mrs Brent said as how you might be here this afternoon. Grass grows pretty quick this time of year; thought I’d give it a quick trim.”

He was a man of about sixty years of age, with the sort of look that comes to one who spends most of his time out of doors. He was sturdily built fellow with iron-grey hair, and shrewd eyes that looked at Martin as if expecting him to dispute the need,

“I must say the lawn looks in excellent shape,” Martin said in an attempt to put him at his ease, “as does the rest of the garden for that matter. I’ve had a word with Mr Dobson this morning, by the way, and arranged for you to continue until further notice; I hope that is ok with you?”

“Right, I
was
wondering;” the man admitted, a look of relief crossing his weather-beaten features. “Mrs Brent warned me the new owner was here and maybe thinking of making changes. Is everything in the garden to your liking, or will you be wanting something different?”

“To be honest, I’ve not yet had a chance to study everything in detail; from what I’ve seen, everything is fine.”

“Hope you don’t mind me asking; will you be moving in permanent?”

“I haven’t decided as yet; I’ll certainly let you know in plenty of time if I do plan any changes.”

“I usually comes in about three or four times a week; if you wants anything special done, just let me know. Mrs Brent has a note of my phone number.”

“I’ll do that. Tell me, have there been any visitors here this afternoon that you have noticed?”

The gardener scratched his head for a moment. “No callers at the house,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Least-ways, not that I’ve seen.”

“I see, only I happened to notice a man walking down the lane close by here, I wondered if he had called in for some reason?”

“Oh, you must mean that fellow that looked in at the gate a short while ago? Chatty sort of bloke; wanted to know who lived in the big house. I told him it used to be Dr Marston, and it was no good looking for him, because he was dead. He told me he was a stranger in these parts, and he was actually looking for somebody called Mrs Collins; said he’d been told she lived here. I told him; somebody’s been having you on, mate; there’s nobody in these parts by that name. I should know; I’ve lived round here all my life.”

“Well, let’s hope he finds the woman.”

“I told him his best bet was to have a word with Syd in the 'Rose and Crown'.”

“I would think that that was sound advice; I’ve already met Syd, and if anyone can suggest where to find someone, I should think he would be the one.”

“Right, well, if there’s nothing else, I best be finishing off this grass then?”

“Yes, please do; let me know if there is anything you need.”

“Will do.”

He started the mower up and carried on, leaving Martin standing deep in thought.

Martin couldn’t understand why it concerned him that someone had made enquiries about a person they were trying to locate. It was, after all, a perfectly natural thing to do, yet somehow he felt instinctively that there was something not quite right about it. After some moment’s thought he decided that he was simply reacting to the sheer coincidence between what the landlord of the 'Rose and Crown' had said about one of the strangers he had observed, and the fact that the man he had seen in the lane outside had born a passing degree of resemblance to the description he had been given. Even there he could not be sure; it had been such a fleeting glimpse he could easily have been mistaken. If he hadn’t been talking to the landlord of the pub he wouldn’t have given it a second’s thought. Eventually he dismissed the whole business from his mind as he returned to his car and extracted the box of papers that Jim Perkins had placed in there earlier.

He took these into the house and through to the study, where he eventually seated himself at his late uncle’s desk. He looked at the document box for a few minutes with a feeling akin to guilt now that he was about to pry into the privacy of someone he had never really known. It was a foolish thought, and with a grunt of self-disgust at his own prejudices, he opened up the box to examine its contents. With the lid removed he was not surprised to discover that there was a regular miscellany of papers and folders within. Following a superficial glance inside he formed the impression that it was quite likely that someone, the solicitors clerk Perkins perhaps, had simply taken the contents of various drawers and cupboards and emptied them into the box in completely haphazardly manner, with no subsequent attempt to go through them to instil some sense of order, or to remove unnecessary paperwork. In a way, wading through the trivia of another’s life was a bit depressing, but with nothing else he particularly wished to do at that stage, and in the hope that he might perhaps learn a little more of his late uncle he settled to the task.

Methodically removing one item at a time from its resting place and on to the blotter before him, he examined it carefully before either placing it to one side for further examination later with view to retaining, or on the other for eventual disposal. It was a time consuming task to which he applied himself to in a systematic manner. Even those papers that were of no particular relevance or importance collectively helped to build up a picture of his late relatives, and the sort of life they must have led. As he progressed, it became evident to him that although his uncle had been a medical man, following his retirement he had obviously cleared out everything directly pertaining to his many years in practice. That miscellany of papers and files gave the impression that in life the doctor had been a man of a neat and methodical approach to life who wished to keep his private and professional life entirely separate. Martin had no doubt that all of his medical records were now in the safe keeping of Dr Rawlinson.

There were naturally a plethora of receipts for domestic items, furniture, decorating, electrical appliances, car servicing, and even one from a builder who had laid the patio area to the rear of the house. Many of these were grouped together in files, secured in a way that betrayed the Doctor’s methodical approach to life. Others were loose and jumbled as if sorting them was a task he had never got around to dealing with. The ones pertaining to the service history to his car Martin decided should be kept, for they would be useful when the time came to dispose of the vehicle. Many of the others, some stretching back over many years were of no value, and he knew that these could be safely destroyed. There were copies of correspondence with various professional bodies, and even a copy of ‘The Lancet’ in which an article penned by Dr Marston had been published. He glanced at this briefly, but many of the scientific terms employed were too obscure for him to follow, and he put it to one side as he continued with his systematic examination.

There was a file of receipts and correspondence relating to building and alteration work that had been carried on over the years to bring the old house up to date with modern requirements. He noted in passing that the house had been completely rewired about twenty years earlier, and subsequent to that date additional power points had been installed in the kitchen. There was even a receipt for some additional wood panelling that had been done a good many years ago. Working his way steadily through the minutia of another’s life, he was unaware of how time was slipping by until he was brought back to the present by the sound of a discrete tap on the door, which was then opened to admit Mrs Brent.

“I will be serving you meal in about fifteen minutes,” she said in her usual brusque manner, “if that is convenient?”

Her tone implied that even if it was inconvenient, it would make no difference.

“Good heavens, is it that time already?” Martin exclaimed as he looked up from the papers that had been engrossing him. “I had no idea!”

She stood looking at him patiently, her face as usual quite expressionless. A detached part of his mind observed that if only she did her hair less severely, wore clothing that was less drab and unflattering, and above all, learned to smile, the redoubtable Mrs Brent could be a passably attractive woman. As he had already noticed, she possessed perfect teeth, the bone structure of her face was quite fine, and her hands delicate and feminine.

“I’m afraid I rather got carried away by all this,” he explained, rising from the desk, “I apologise if I have kept you waiting, I will be in the dining room within fifteen minutes.”

She made no comment, and turned to leave.

“Mrs Brent,” he called, and she turned to look back at him with a mildly interrogative expression on her face.

“I would take it as a favour if you could spare me a little time this evening. You are naturally well used to this house, whereas I am not. Of course, if you already have other arrangements I quite understand?”

He thought for a moment that she was about to refuse, but after only the very briefest instant of expressionless hesitation she said; “Very well,” and with that she left the study.

Following a hasty toilette he reached the dining room a few minutes ahead of his housekeeper. She served him with the same lack of expression and retired, presumably to the kitchen or somewhere similar, whilst he had his meal. Without question she was an excellent cook, and as he ate, he idly wondered what it would take to crack the cast-iron exterior she consistently presented to the world. Somehow, he didn’t really think it was her true nature, and he theorised that there had to have been some tragedy in her life that had created the need for such a hard shell. He knew only too well from his own recent experience how tragedy could affect a person’s attitude to life, and if something similar had happened to her, then doubtlessly she could be feeling pretty much as he did himself. Being a woman, she wouldn’t necessary exhibit the same symptoms of personal loss that a man would. Reflecting on his own situation, he knew that trying to relate to other people as one had done in the past was far from easy. There had been no mention of a husband, so perhaps she was a widow, and had never really come to terms with what had happened to her?

She reappeared soon after he had finished his main course to serve an excellent sweet followed by coffee. She also brought the evening paper with her, and he sat for a while reading this before finally returning to the study where he continued working his way through his late uncle’s papers. He came across a file labelled ‘Service Flat’, and in this he saw receipts for various structural improvements, which he scanned through without taking in too much detail.
 
The receipts dealt mainly with such things as decoration, carpeting, as well as furniture and the installation of a central heating system. Dr Marston was evidently most concerned that his housekeeper should be perfectly comfortable in her home. Further down the file he saw that he had even installed a new mortise lock on the outside door. The good doctor seemed to have thought of everything.

Soon after he had finished browsing through this file he heard the sound of a tap on the study door, and it immediately opened to allow his housekeeper to enter. She had shed her apron, but still wore the same rather frumpy clothing, and she still looked as stern and forbidding. She struck him as being the original female iceberg.

“Have a seat,” he said, giving her a warm friendly smile, but there was no answering expression on her face. “I won’t keep you a minute.”

She sat on the chair opposite his desk and he noted that she did not relax but sat upright as if expecting to jump up at a moment’s notice. He finished the file he had been scanning and placed it carefully to one side before looking up.

“Thank you for sparing me your time,” he said. “As I expect you can see, I’m trying to sort out the late Dr Marston’s private papers. Frankly, it’s not the sort of job I relish, yet it has to be done. I imagine they were all collected by Mr Dobson from the house soon after his death?”

“He left that task to his clerk, Mr Perkins,” she answered as if it was of no interest to her. “I accompanied him around the house to ensure he missed nothing, nor took anything he shouldn’t.”

She said it without emotion, yet he could picture her doing just that. He wondered what would have happened to Perkins if he had even tried to remove something that Mrs Brent would not have regarded as appropriate.

“I know you thought highly of Dr Marston,” he observed. “I imagine the feelings were reciprocated; you might like to know that both Mr Dobkins and Dr Rawlinson confirmed that he held you in the highest regard. Even on brief acquaintance I can well understand the reason for his appreciation.”

He had hoped that the implied complement would serve to break the ice, and in this he was once again disappointed.

“Dr Marston was a good man to work for,” she agreed woodenly. “I have no complaints.”

“Mrs Brent,” he said patiently after observing her stony expression for a few moments. “I would like you to know that I really am very sorry that the good doctor went and died. I am sure it is something that we both very much regret in our own separate ways, and I am also well aware that I can never be the same person as he was. I am certain you also appreciate that it is still too early for me to make any decisions about Springwater House, and when the time comes I hope to make the right one for all concerned. I am also hoping that you will assist me in coming to this decision.”

“I will do my best.” There was still no answering expression or comment. He decided to try a slightly different tack.

“I have no doubt of that, or I would not have tried to involve you in reaching the decision, yet I would be lying if I did not admit that the latent hostility you consistently exhibit concerns me not a little. I do not doubt that you are the ideal person to run this big house, and I am certainly not criticising you or your work in any way. What I am trying to say is this; for the brief time that we are together, I am hoping that we can clear the air between us, thereby making the task of winding up this estate somewhat easier for us both by establishing a better relationship than we seem to have at present?”

He paused, yet she still made no response. She just sat there looking at him with the same lack of expression. He started to wonder if there was anything at all he could try that would spark some feedback from the woman.

“Perhaps it will help if I mention that I already have a large house,” he continued, “and with it the services of an excellent housekeeper who has been with me for years, coming in on a daily basis. She is the mainstay of the establishment, and at the same time she is like a member of the family. At present, and much to my disappointment, I cannot see even the faint glimmerings of anything approaching that sort of relationship with you. I know that I am not my uncle, nor can I ever hope to take his place, but you have to accept that what has happened has happened, and neither you nor I can change that, and this resentment that appears to exist only serves to make things difficult.”

She still said nothing.

“I am not an unreasonable man,” he resumed, determined to hold on to his fast diminishing patience, “and I fully respect your rights and your privacy, if that is what is worrying you. I simply want a much better working relationship with someone whose services I appreciate and value. Therefore, I am hoping that you and I can at least be on amicable terms?”

He paused yet again, and still there was no change of expression on her face. It was a bit like trying to get an emotional response out of a robot.

“So, in view of what I have just said, may I suggest that we start again,” he continued doggedly. “For a start, we need to forget all this ‘Mr & Mrs’ nonsense; to me, it is like something out of the last century. It went out with forelock-tugging and curtseying. It only serves to widen the unnecessary gulf that appears to exist between us. You and I are just individuals. Maybe we do different jobs, maybe we have different backgrounds, but that does not make one of us better than the other. My name is Martin, and I would feel more at ease if you would call me that. I believe your Christian name is June; will it cause offence if that is how I address you?”