A Well Kept Secret (17 page)

“I am quite secure, thank you,” she answered at once. “I have excellent locks and a strong door, and the same applies to the windows. I think it would need force well beyond the average criminal to break in, and I would certainly never answer my door at night to anyone.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he commented. “However, if you should ever suspect that there is a prowler about, please don’t hesitate to phone me at once.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

“Have you prepared that list of suppliers I mentioned on the phone last night?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, I’ve written it out, together with telephone numbers, and taken the liberty of placing it on the desk in the study.”

“Good, I’ll contact all of them and organize charge accounts for you to make use of. I shall be pretty busy this morning, and I hope to be on my way by approximately ten-thirty. I shall treat the girls to a lunch out somewhere, and with luck I will be back somewhere in the region of four to half past.”

“I shall have everything ready for you.”

“The downside of all this, of course,” he remarked, “is that we shall have to postpone checking through the stuff in the upper rooms until tomorrow, if that is ok with you?”

“I don’t see any problem with that.”

“Good; maybe we can then get the girls to give us a hand?”

For the first time that morning she permitted herself a slight smile. “I think,” she replied, “that maybe you do not know young girls as well as you imagine. Would you like more coffee?”

There were a number of things that Martin needed to attend to before setting off to collect Beverley, and once he was able to, he withdrew into the study and settled down to attend to them. He spent some time on the telephone to his secretary, where he was able to deal with a number of purely business matters that had arisen in his absence. Following this, he also rang the various businesses on the list that June Brent had provided, and arranged charge accounts. In the midst of these calls he received one from the school that Beverley had warned him about, and following apologies and explanations from the Head, whom he knew quite well, he confirmed that he would be collecting both youngsters from the school later in the morning, and that arrangements were well in hand for dealing with Beverley's friend. With these calls out of the way, he then called Buxted Security Systems. A very professional sounding receptionist advised him that Mr Buxted would not be available until late afternoon. He left a message requesting a return phone call during the evening.

At about ten o’clock June Brent brought him in a cup of coffee. “I’m off to the town,” she announced. “While I am there, I will arrange to take my holiday as agreed. The post has just arrived.” She placed some envelopes on his desk as she spoke.

He put down the pen he had been using and looked up at her. “How do you usually get down into the town?” he asked, “I haven’t seen a car?”

“I have a bike.”

“I see; are you sure that you are going to be able manage the additional shopping on that?”

“It is fitted with large panniers.”

“Well, don’t take any undue risks. Arrange for anything you cannot carry in comfort to be delivered.”

“I’ll do that,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

“No, but I expect that I shall be gone by the time you return.”

“I hope everything goes well,” she said, and closed the study door behind her as she left.

He glanced at the post she had placed on his desk. Most of it consisted of circulars of one sort or another, and he speedily transferred these to the waste-paper bin. There was just one that was obviously a private letter, written in spidery handwriting, and addressed to Dr Marston. He looked at the envelope for a few moments, well aware that by rights he should pass this on to his late uncle’s solicitor, yet something about the handwriting suggested to him that the writer was an elderly person, and he thought that a personal reply from a relative might be more in keeping than a communication from a solicitor. He took the paper-knife that lay on the desk and slit the envelope open before extracting the single sheet of cheap notepaper that lay within.

Dear Dr Marston, (he read)

I do hope that you will forgive me for writing to you like this. I am hoping that you can spare me an hour of your time this coming Thursday afternoon? There is something I need to talk to you about; something I think that you have the right to know.

I am very sorry that I have not kept in touch. I have been rather unwell, and following a spell in hospital I am now staying with my daughter, Mrs Higgins at the above address.

I hope that you and Mrs Marston are well,

Yours sincerely,

Mary Jefferson, Mrs.

He laid the letter down on his desk, rubbing his chin thoughtfully; the name rang a bell in his mind, he had heard it recently. Of course, it was the name of June Brent’s predecessor; the housekeeper had mentioned it when she had explained how she came to secure the position. He looked at the letter again, and it was immediately obvious to him that the poor woman had absolutely no idea that her former employer and his wife were both dead. A sudden pang shot through him; anything connected with the loss of a friend or relative always brought his own loss to mind. His own bereavement still weighed so heavily on him that he could already imagine how this Mrs Jefferson would feel once she realised what had happened. Just for an instant he considered phoning Mr Dobson to get him to deal with it, but the thought died before it was born; that was a coward’s way out. June Brent hadn’t said how old the former housekeeper was when she had retired, if the handwriting was anything to go by she was indeed quite elderly.

He hunted through the desk until he found some notepaper, and then after pausing a moment to marshal his thoughts, he started to write.

Dear Mrs Jefferson, (he wrote)

Thank you for your letter addressed to Dr Marston, which has been passed to me for attention. I am Dr Marston’s nephew, and currently dealing with all his affairs. I would like to take the liberty of calling on his behalf to see you next Thursday afternoon, when I shall be pleased to do whatever I can to assist. I understand from your letter that there is something private that you would like to discuss. Please understand that if you do not wish to disclose personal matters to me as the Doctor’s representative I shall fully understand.

I am sorry to see from your letter that you have been unwell; I trust this note will find you in improving health. Please write or telephone if you do not wish me to call.

Yours sincerely,

Martin Isherwood.

He read the note through again and satisfied, he thrust it into an envelope and wrote the address from the top of Mrs Jefferson’s letter onto it. Further rummaging in the desk disclosed a book of first class stamps. He abstracted one and affixed it to the envelope, which he then put to one side. He felt sure that somewhere on his journey he would find a post office or pillar-box within which to post the letter. He glanced at his watch and realised that time was starting to run away with him. He gulped down the coffee, tidied away a few last-minute items and finally left the study as he busied himself with final preparations for his journey. Ten minutes later he was in his car and on his way. Less than half a mile down the road he paused just long enough to post the letter, and then he settled down to the journey.

The weather was warm and sunny, and traffic was surprisingly light for the time of year which made the journey agreeably pleasant. As he drove, he mulled over the letter from the former housekeeper in his mind. Although his motive in offering to keep the appointment was simply to break the news of his uncle’s death as kindly as was possible, he secretly hoped that he might glean something from the old housekeeper that would help him to better understand his uncle and his motivations. It was perfectly possible, if not most likely, that the matter Mrs Jefferson wished to discuss was something entirely private and not connected in any way with what he saw as an odd situation, yet even if that was the case he hoped that she would at least be able to provide him with a better understanding of the man. If she had worked with the doctor for some years, then it was possible that she knew him and his wife better than anyone else he had spoken to. She might, for example, be able to throw some light on the nature of the friendship that was supposed to exist with Peter Buxted?

It also crossed his mind that she might have a slightly different version on how June Brent came to be her successor. Not that he suspected June of anything untoward, never-the-less it was a most unusual set of circumstances that had brought her into the situation. Although everything was probably as she had told him, somebody else’s version might still prove interesting. The miles slipped by under the wheels of the car, and a few minutes after mid-day he saw the outline of Ravenspark School ahead of him. A tall, imposing looking place, a strange mixture of traditional and innovative architecture, it was a strictly girls-only establishment; Alicia had always felt that co-educational institutions led to poorer long-term results than single sex ones. Whether that was valid or not he couldn’t say; Beverley had certainly done well since she had been enrolled there. Although to his way of thinking the fees were a bit steep, she seemed happy in the environment, and so far the examination results confidently predicted an easy passage to university in due course.

He brought the car to a standstill in the visitors’ car-park, and as he stepped out of the vehicle he saw a knot of uniformed school girls hovering near the main entrance, doubtless those pupils who were destined to be collected during the lunchtime period. As he walked forward, one of the girls broke away and ran towards him, followed at a more hesitant pace by another. It was Beverley and her friend Georgina Monkton.

“Hi Dad!” she called as she ran up to him and flung her arms round his neck, “I’m so glad to see you!”

“Hello Beverley,” he responded warmly, returning her hug and then finally disentangling himself as he looked at the other girl.

“Hi Georgie,” he said, given the other girl a friendly smile.

“Hello Mr Isherwood,” she replied politely. “Thanks ever so much for allowing me to come with Beverley.”

“Think nothing of it,” he assured her, and then added with a little twinkle in his eye; “Just don’t let her lead you into more mischief than you can cope with!”

“
Da
-ad!” Beverley cried reproachfully.

“Come on,” he said, putting an arm round each of their shoulders, “Let’s go and get you signed out, then we can go and have some lunch somewhere.”

It was part of school regulations that none of the girls were allowed to leave school premises with anyone other than a regular member of the staff unless they had been signed out. Martin had been through the procedure before and thoroughly approved of it. It was useless pretending that sordid sex crimes only happened to other people; innocent children were all too commonly the victims of these increasingly frequent outrages. Anything that increased the pupils’ security he was in favour of.

With formalities completed, luggage stowed in the boot of the car, and last minute farewells made to various friends they finally drove out of the gates and commenced the journey back to Springwater House. As a matter of course he enquired of the girls as to where they wanted to lunch, and was not unduly surprised when ‘MacDonald’s’ was immediately voted for. Alicia had been a great one for healthy eating, sensible diets and all that sort of thing, and no doubt it was a regimen well enforced within the school, yet he saw no harm in indulging them just for once. He well remembered as a young lad ‘pigging out’ in a manner that he now found difficult to imagine, and he had come to no lasting harm as a result.

They reached the chosen venue some ten minutes later, and were quickly ensconced at a table in the local branch of this noted fast food outlet. He tried not to look too shocked at the sheer quantity and unlikely constituents of the meals the girls ordered; it never ceased to amaze him the amount of food his daughter could pack away without ever being in the slightest degree overweight. He was personally content with a coffee and what passed for a bread-roll, complete with a filling he tried hard not to think about too much. As he sought to tackle this with a minimum of decorum, he did his best to ignore the constant comings and goings of people as they bustled in and out.

“What’s this place like, Dad,” Beverley asked as she swallowed a huge mouthful. “I mean, I know you said it belonged to some great uncle I never knew I had, but is it a ‘fun’ place? I mean, is it the sort of house one can explore; is it all big and spooky, with secret passages or hidden rooms?”

“You have obviously been watching some highly unsuitable television programmes, my girl,” he commented with mock severity.

“You mean, it’s not old-old, just; old?”

“Well, it's not as old as a Norman Castle, if that is what you mean,” he responded, “but yes, it’s probably about a hundred and fifty years old or thereabouts, quite large, has a good acre or so of land round it with a large ornamental pond halfway down the rear garden. If it has any secret passages or rooms, they are still that: very much a secret I’m afraid. It is situated just outside the country town of Wellworthy, and no, I’m afraid it’s not in the least ‘spooky’ as you put it!”

“Oh well, I suppose that was too much to hope for,” she sighed regretfully.

“I should perhaps add that Wellworthy is a very small country town where nothing much ever happens; I’m afraid you are both in for a bit of a quiet week.”

“Oh, if only we had our bikes, we could go exploring?”

“I expect Mrs Brent can organise bicycles if that is what you want to do.”

“Who’s Mrs Brent?” Beverley asked suspiciously.