A Well Kept Secret (27 page)

She stopped speaking suddenly and shot him a glance that told him once again that she had let something slip out that she had not intended.

Martin finished his tea, placed the mug down carefully, and disposed of the last of his biscuit.

“An interesting diminutive,” he remarked, breaking the uneasy silence that has sprung up, “I recall that my father would call me ‘Arty-Marty’ on occasions, or if he disapproved of something I was doing or saying, something a good deal less polite! Quite a lot of parents do it; a form of alliteration I suppose, just like your father’s name for your mother.”

She said nothing.

“Kiss-Kass,” he murmured ruminatively. “I cannot see how that ties in with June, nor even Carpenter for that matter. Could it be that you have another name you haven’t mentioned?”

She was watching him as he spoke, and he could see the conflicting emotions that lay behind her expression, the desire to accept what he was offering in the way of help and support, and at the same time the wariness that reminded him of a fugitive.

“Cassandra,” she said quietly, as if finally coming to a decision. “My real name is Cassandra.”

“I see,” he said. “What a fascinating name, Cassandra; yes, I quite like it.
 
I wonder if your parents knew that you were named after the daughter of Priam, King of Troy in ancient times. So; why June?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do. I will also agree with you that it is none of my business why you chose to use any particular name, only I seem to recall that we agreed earlier to be very honest with each other?”

She sat there looking increasingly uncomfortable. “I’m being honest,” she said with a slight air of defiance in her voice, “I’ve told you, my name was Cassandra; what difference does it make if I choose to call myself June?”

“No difference at all,” he agreed equably. “I just feel a bit sad, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel that you still don’t trust me, and yet I feel that I could trust you with anything.”

“June’s just a name; I like it,” she said, looking even more uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry you think I don’t trust you, because I do. I think I now trust you more than I have trusted anyone since the doctor died.”

“Then who is Mrs Collins,” he asked at last.

Just as Martin spoke figures suddenly appeared on the path that swung round the side of the pool and headed towards them. Beverley and Georgie were in the lead, closely followed by the gardener, who was listening with an expression of long-suffering resignation on his face to a running discourse from Hugh Edwards the naturalist, who was trotting inelegantly at his side, complete with outsize butterfly net and specimen jars. As they appeared, June rose quickly to her feet, obviously relieved by the interruption, and commenced gathering up the used mugs and putting them on the tray. She said nothing to Martin, and looking at her face he instantly regretted uttering the question that had been hovering in the background ever since he had spoken to Jim Perkins.

“Hi Dad,” Beverley called as she came bouncing up, “Hi June, you’d be amazed how many different species of butterfly we have in this garden. Do you know, we saw seven different sorts of Red Admiral in just under fifteen minutes? Georgie and I have been helping Mr Edwards; it’s been fascinating!”

“I thought you two were out on your bikes?” he observed, dragging his eyes away from the clearly upset housekeeper. “I do hope they haven’t been pestering you?” he added as an aside to the naturalist as he approached a few paces behind the youngsters.

“Not a bit of it, Mr Isherwood,” the little man gushed as he finally relinquished his hold on George Dawkins’ arm. “The girls really have been most helpful, most helpful indeed. See, I already have several fine specimens that I need to get back to my lab to study with the minimum of delay. I assure you that my two young assistants have been invaluable, absolutely invaluable! I doubt I would ever have achieved such a high degree of success without their enthusiastic assistance. It is so refreshing to see such enthusiasm and dedication in the young these days, you should be very proud of them both, yes indeed, really proud. I only wish that my own daughter was half as diligent, but there it is, we cannot all be the same can we? I expect my little Sarah, or Sally as my wife insists on calling her, may turn out to be a brilliant mathematician one day, she certainly has a remarkable head for figures, for example-”

“You actually have your specimens?” Martin interposed hastily as the little man showed no signs of abating his verbal torrent.

“Oh, indeed yes; Mr Dawkins here very kindly shown me the most likely places in the garden where they may be found, and his assistance has saved me no end of fruitless searching. Mr Dawkins certainly knows a thing or two about butterflies as well as everything else in the garden; quite an amazing fount of wisdom is Mr Dawkins, yes quite astonishing, He even explained to me about the correct way to propagate Azaleas that I never knew, he-”

“I’m pleased he was able to help,” Martin cut in again, rising to his feet. “May I take it that you now have all the material you want?”

“Well, not exactly,” the naturalist admitted with an apologetic expression on his face. “I mean, I certainly have found ample proof of what I suspect, only I’m afraid that I still need to study the habitat in greater detail, and I’m still looking for the caterpillars that should be hatching at about this time. I do apologise for seeking to trespass even further on your good nature, but I am hoping that I may be permitted to call again for the next day or so in order to continue with my researches?”

“I’m sure that will be no problem,” Martin said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few pressing matters of my own that need to be attended to?”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Edwards said hastily. “I mustn’t take up any more of your valuable time, indeed I must not; I’m more than grateful to you and Mr Dawkins, and the youngsters as well, for all the help I’ve had, yes, more than grateful indeed. One so rarely gets this degree of co-operation in scientific research you know, Why, I could tell you of one place I had to visit where the reception was unbelievably rude-”

“There is of course absolutely no excuse for rudeness,” Martin said blandly, seizing the naturalist’s waving hand and shaking it firmly. “I am pleased that your day has been successful; Mr Dawkins and the girls will now be delighted to accompany you back to your car. Please feel free to return whenever you wish. Now, you really must excuse me; good day, Mr Edwards.”

Without giving the man a chance to reply he beat a hasty retreat along the same route that June had taken moments earlier with the tray leaving the others to the unenviable task of getting rid of the fellow. He didn’t doubt the man’s sincerity or gratitude, only that didn’t stop him from being a complete crashing bore, and right then he had more pressing concerns to worry about than natural history!

June was already in the kitchen and hard at work by the time he reached the house.

“I hadn’t realised how much time had slipped by,” she said rather woodenly by way of explanation as she busied herself around non-stop. “I have to start on preparations for the evening meal now.”

There was no mistaking the note of tension in her voice. Without doubt his question had struck an extremely sensitive spot within her, and he found himself regretting even more keenly that he had allowed the final question to slip out when it was already obvious that the whole business made her uneasy. But of course it was too late now to take back his words.

“I see,” he answered, sitting down in the chair at the end of the table.

There was a period of uneasy silence as she bustled and clattered about the kitchen. Her every movement suggested to him that she was uptight, and he knew that it was the mentioning of the name of Collins that had so seriously unsettled her. Without a doubt she was hiding behind her domestic duties, every action bespeaking the fact that she really wanted him to get up and leave her, yet she must have known that there was no going back now; her very attitude betrayed the fact that the name had considerable meaning for her. He sat there, sensing her strain and pressure, wanting to do something to ease it, yet knowing that anything he said or did at that point would only make matters worse. He had no choice but to wait for her to come to her own decision.

“Do you
really
want to know about Mrs Collins?” she snapped out quite suddenly, stopping her scurrying around abruptly, yet resolutely refusing to look at him. “Is it
that
important to you?”

He could see the pain and the defiance in her face and in her posture and it touched a deep chord within him. She was like a wounded animal hitting out at her tormentor, yet knowing in the end she would be the loser. He now wished more than ever that he had never uttered the question but it was too late, and the damage was done. He simply hadn’t appreciated to what extent his probing might pain her, and now that he could see it with his own eyes he would have given anything to have never uttered those words. The last thing in the world he had ever wanted to do was to cause her yet more pain and distress, yet that was all he could see in her eyes and it twisted him inside. He stood up from the table, walked slowly round to where she suddenly turned to face him, her features quivering with suppressed emotion as her eyes finally sought and held his. He stopped in front of her, then raised his hands slowly and placed them gently on her shoulders.

“June,” he said softly but with heartfelt sincerity, “I should never have asked you about that; it’s absolutely none of my damn business, and I am truly sorry. It was never my intention to cause you distress, believe me.”

“But you will never rest until you know, will you?” she returned bitterly.”Even if it is never mentioned again, you will always be wondering what I’m hiding. Maybe you will never ask me direct again, but the question will always be there, grinding away at you.”

“Then I am saddened if you still think that little of me,” he sighed. “Look, if you genuinely want to tell me anything, I will listen. If you do not, then I respect your privacy and I promise you that the matter will never be raised again. As I said; it is none of my business and should never have mentioned it and you most certainly do not have to tell me anything at all. All I ask is that you will forgive me for causing you the dreadful unhappiness I can read so clearly in your eyes.”

She didn’t flinch under his touch, she just stood there, looking at him, the doubts, hopes, worries fears all chasing across her quivering features. He wanted so much to ease the pain he could see there, yet he was powerless to do anything. Suddenly she sighed and relaxed a little.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said resignedly. “You were bound to find out the truth about me sooner or later. I have no doubt you will keep your word and never ask the question again, yet I will know that it is there in your mind. Maybe it is better this way. If you really want to know, maybe I can tell you after the girls have gone to bed tonight?”

“But
only
if you genuinely feel that it is the right thing to do,” he said, and he squeezed her shoulders gently as if to emphasise his words.

“I want to,” she sighed, and there was a note of hopeless resignation in her voice, a tone that said she had been struggling with some terrible burden for too long, and the time had come when she had to accept that she could carry it no further.
 
“I never wanted this to happen, I won’t deny that your words came as a very unpleasant shock, yet now that the question has been asked, maybe it is for the best.”

They stood there looking at each other, and Martin could hear the clock on the wall slowly ticking the seconds away. She didn’t move and she didn’t say any more, they just looked at each other, and suddenly he began to feel increasingly uncomfortable and unsure of himself because the desire to crush her to his breast to comfort her was suddenly so difficult to resist.

“I think,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides, “that it might be better if I leave you to it now, and I hope you will join the girls and myself at dinner? Until then, well, I’ll go back and do a little more jumble sorting I think.” He paused, and then added; “I will be in the lounge after the girls have retired; if you still really want to talk to me I shall be there waiting. Only come if you feel it is the right thing for you to do, and I will understand if you decide in the end that you do not wish to tell me anything. Whatever your decision I promise you it will make no difference between us, nor will I ever raise the matter again.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and there was a ring of sincerity in her voice. Without a further word he left the kitchen and returned once more to the top landing.

He worked mechanically, and with no real interest in what he was doing, his mind far from the task in hand. He kept thinking about June Brent who was Cassandra Carpenter, and perhaps even Mrs Collins as well. From being simply an intriguing challenge; an enigma that was a necessary diversion to enable him to come to terms with his bereavement, she seemed to be figuring more and more in his life. The paramount question now in his own mind was what did she really mean to him? Why should he feel so guilty and upset because she was? Why did he feel it so important that he should do all he could to help her? Why did it all feel so much more important than mere concern over the welfare of another person?

On the face of it she meant nothing to him; she was simply a paid employee, albeit one with connections to his own family. She appeared to have had a terrible background, and he needed to remind himself that he only had her word for the details of this. It seemed unlikely that she was lying, yet why was he accepting as Gospel everything she told him? Up until a matter of a short while ago he had tried to regard her as nothing more than an interesting puzzle, even though he was undeniably attracted towards her in both the physical and emotional sense. When he had risen from the kitchen table, his over-riding emotion should only have been one of sympathy for a suffering human being. Patently, it was much more than that. The root of the problem was that he couldn’t really understand the true nature of his own feelings towards her. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing more than the physical need of a man for an attractive woman, yet he feared it was now going much deeper than that, and in all honesty he wasn't sure he could cope with that realisation.

When he had placed his hands on her shoulders, when he had looked into her eyes, when he had felt the warmth of her flesh through the thin material of her blouse, he had suddenly become acutely aware of her as a wonderfully desirable person in every sense, and it was this sudden awareness that had shaken him. He hadn’t thought of another woman since Alicia had died, and even now he still pined for her, so what really was it he was feeling for Cassandra Carpenter; simple carnal desire, or was it something else? He tried to rationalise the situation as being nothing more than evidence of a long suppressed sexually motivated requirement, activated by the proximity of an attractive woman. The effort was a non-starter; he knew instinctively it was much more than that. He had observed more than once since meeting her that she was physically attractive, yet there had been no thought of trying to forge anything other than a friendly working relationship. Maybe that had been true at the outset yet in the brief time he had known her she had started to grow upon him in a manner he had never anticipated. When he had touched her in the kitchen he had suddenly experienced the desire to hold her, to crush her to his breast, to possess her body and soul. Was that purely carnal lust; an unexpected reaction to the unfairness of his own bereavement? Was he, as he was starting to genuinely fear, simply trying to make use of her?