“Maybe there used to be one where you’ve got that ornamental pond now? It would explain the name of the house wouldn’t it? If the well was spring-fed as most of them I believe were, then where better to put a feature like that, eh?”
“I expect you’re right.”
“You could ask George Dawkins, he would know if anyone would.”
“That’s an idea; I’ll do that.”
At that moment Miss Grayson came up and told him that Mr Dobson was free. Taking his leave of the clerk and draining his tea, he followed the receptionist into the solicitor’s office. Mr Dobson rose to his feet as he came in, shaking his visitor warmly by the hand and inviting him to take a seat.
“And what may I do for you this morning?” Mr Dobson asked after the usual pleasantries had been attended to.
“To be honest, I am not absolutely sure,” Martin admitted. “Certain information has come to my attention, the upshot of which is that I need to say something to you which I hope will make sense. If it does not, I hope that you will excuse the mistake on my part?”
“This really sounds most intriguing,” the solicitor replied, “I trust I will not disappoint you.”
“This is the end result of some private research I have been undertaking at the house,” Martin continued, watching carefully for the man’s reactions. “There is no point in procrastinating I suppose, so I will come directly to the point. The phrase I need to use is this: Abbadon 5791”
He sat back, still watching Dobson’s face intently. This was it, the make or break point. Either he had got it right, and the answers he sought would be revealed, or he would be totally wrong, and he would have to offer the man some sort of explanation for what would otherwise seem a piece of inexplicable nonsense.
The effect of his words was virtually instantaneous; the solicitor visibly relaxed, and his face broke into a gentle smile.
“I was right,” he said with an air of satisfaction. “You are indeed the man Dr Marston assured me would come. At last it has happened!”
It was Martin’s turn to feel relief.
Dobson flipped the switch on his desk intercom.
“Miss Grayson, until I inform you otherwise I am not to be interrupted for any reason. No one is to enter my office until I say so, and please do not put any telephone calls through.”
“Very well, Mr Dobson,” came the rather tinny response from the machine’s speaker.
“I apologise if this sounds a little cloak-and-dagger-ish,” Mr Dobson explained as he switched the machine off. “I am merely following out the late Dr Marston’s explicit instructions.”
“I see.” Martin said, even though somewhat mystified.
“When your uncle completed his will,” the solicitor continued, “he placed in my possession a sealed packet. He would not discuss the contents of this packet with me beyond the fact that it contained private papers. Without naming you specifically, he advised that at some point following his death it was likely that somebody would come here and use this word and sequence of numbers. If I was satisfied that the word and sequence were correct, then this packet was to be passed directly to this person. Up to that point, on no account was I divulge the fact that I possessed the packet, or to make any reference to it to anyone who might take possession of the house or claim to be entitled to anything pertaining to the estate. I am now at liberty to admit that from the date you came here I suspected that you might be the person, and now that you have used the correct word and number sequence I am at last relieved of my obligation.”
“I think I must be as relieved as you are, Mr Dobson,” Martin said as he came to the end of his explanation. “Strictly between ourselves I admit that I have been increasingly concerned since coming to Wellworthy over the fate of my uncle and other matters. I cannot go into details now, and I confess I am hoping that the answers I seek will be revealed by whatever is in this packet you tell me that my uncle left in your keeping.”
“Then I take it that you are not wholly satisfied that matters are quite as straightforward as they would seem to be?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“I see,” said the solicitor reflectively. “Well, as you say, ‘strictly between ourselves’, I also wondered if everything was as it should be. Your uncle was undoubtedly under a lot of stress in his later years, and yet there was nothing I knew of to account for this. His death coming so soon after the making of this will was a distinct shock, and I was much relieved when I learned that his demise was due to natural causes. I sincerely hope you are not suggesting that there was some sort of foul play involved?”
“I’m not actively suggesting anything at this moment, although I freely admit to entertaining suspicions about a number of factors, including the manner of his death. Perhaps what you have for me will resolve many questions?”
“Quite,” said Mr Dobson. “Yes, I see your point.”
He rose from his desk and went over to an old fashioned safe that stood in the corner of the room. He opened this up and fished inside, finally withdrawing a parcel wrapped in brown paper and carefully sealed.
“If you would be so kind as to sign this receipt for me,” the older man said as he resumed his place at his desk, “that will complete my part of the transaction.”
Martin signed the small formal document that was pushed across the desk towards him, and on handing it back the packet was placed in his hands.
“I trust that what lies within will help you as much as you hope,” Mr Dobson said. “And if you should feel the need to confide anything to me as a result of what you learn, well, I shall be pleased to assist in any way that I can.”
“I have a feeling that all the answers I seek are in here,” said Martin, rising from his seat and proffering his hand. “Thank you for everything Mr Dobson; I will of course keep you informed of any developments.”
Minutes later he was out in the sunshine again, the packet held securely under his arm. He felt a great sense of satisfaction that his deductions had not been as wide of the mark as he had feared, and he determined that after one more call he would return to Springwater House to examine the contents of the packet at his leisure. Five minutes after leaving the solicitor’s office he was back at Castleman’s Cars.
“As I was passing,” he announced to the villainous looking proprietor, “I thought I would drop in to see if you had had any luck locating the car, or even the number plate?”
“I’ve made lots of enquiries,” was the not entirely unexpected answer. “No luck I’m afraid.”
He didn’t seem to be too worried that he had lost the chance to make some easy money, nor did he say that he would widen the search if Martin was prepared to pay for his time and efforts, and that served to confirm Martin’s suspicions; the man knew something, and rather than incriminate himself was determinedly saying nothing.
“Oh well,” Martin said airily. “At least we’ve tried. Do I owe you anything?”
“No, sorry I couldn’t help.”
Martin returned to his car well satisfied with the way things were going.
Chapter Twenty Five. Saturday Afternoon.
The very first thing that Martin did on returning to Springwater House was to phone June. He did this on his mobile phone before he entered the building, and she answered within seconds.
“Hi,” he said as soon as he heard her voice, “how are you and the girls doing?”
“The girls are doing fine,” was the instant response. “They are up on some horrible type of scenic railway thing at the moment, but how are you? Is everything all right? You haven’t run into any trouble I hope? I’ve been really worried ever since we got on the train!”
“Everything is just fine,” he assured her. “Looks like our surmise was correct, as soon as I said the magic words to Dobson he coughed up a package that my uncle left with him for me to claim once I’d come up with the right formula.”
“A package?”
“That’s right; feels like papers of some description. I haven’t opened it yet, but by the time you get back I would think we will have all the information we need to get this whole sorry business wrapped up.”
“Martin, that’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. “I can’t wait to get back now!”
“You just enjoy the rest of your day, give my love to Beverley and say hallo to Georgie as well when they come back down to earth. I’ve just got a few more things to sort out before you get back.”
After few more minutes’ general conversation, Martin hung up and let himself into the house, where he went through to the kitchen with the intention of preparing a sandwich prior to dealing with the mysterious packet he had collected. Before he had had a chance to finish his simple task his mobile phone rang.
“Martin, it’s Charles,” a familiar voice greeted him. “How is everything going?”
“Hello Charles,” he responded. “Just bear with me for a few moments will you?”
He exited the kitchen and went out into the garden via the back door. Things were getting to the point where he didn’t want to take any more risks than necessary.
“Sorry about that,” he resumed. “I’m glad you rang; things are going well, in fact I believe that the suspicions I have been harbouring ever since I’ve been here will all be resolved before the weekend is out.”
“I must say that sounds encouraging,” was the response. “Before you go into detail, I think perhaps you might care to know that the mysterious offer for Springwater House has been suddenly withdrawn. I may be wrong, but I have a suspicion it is because I have been trying a bit too hard to discover who the bidder is. It may not have any special relevance of course, yet in view of everything else you have been talking about I thought you ought to know.”
“That’s very interesting; in a way it ties in nicely with what I have been uncovering this end.”
“That sounds quite intriguing, tell me more.”
Martin launched himself into a brief resume of what had transpired since they last conversed, omitting only the personal details relating to June, and concluding with his retrieval of the packet from his late uncle’s solicitors.
“Fascinating,” Charles commented as Martin finished, “and you genuinely think that there is a body buried somewhere in the grounds of Springwater House?”
“Well, in view of everything I’ve told you I think that that is a strong possibility, don’t you?”
“Well, I suppose it is certainly that,” the solicitor admitted. “My advice to you is to get on to the local police without delay, and pass everything over to them. Even if only half of your suspicions are correct, you, Mrs Brent and the children could conceivably be in danger!”
“Look, I’m sure you are right Charles, I just need to see what it is my uncle has left for me in this packet. I have not had a chance to open it as yet, but I promise you that once I have done that and I have all the facts straight in my head, I will pass the whole business over as you suggest.”
“I’m very pleased to hear you say that; just don’t leave it too late!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Oh, by the way, you can tell your housekeeper she can relax a bit, it seems that Collins has left Wellworthy and returned to his old stamping grounds; he has been seen in several places by people who know him well. Even if he was in Wellworthy at one time looking for his wife he appears to have given up that idea as a bad job. I expect you scared the socks off him when you so nearly nabbed him trying to break in the other night.”
“I’d like to think so. Meanwhile the news will certainly be a relief, I will tell her when she returns; she has taken the girls out for the day.”
“Right, then give me a ring when you have had a chance to study whatever it is that your uncle has left for you; the sooner we get all this business sorted out the better.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
After he had hung up, Martin returned into the house, finished making his sandwich, and having also brewed himself a mug of tea, he settled down at the table in the kitchen to have his snack, setting the packet squarely in front of him. Now that he was on the point of hopefully discovering the truth he suddenly hesitated. What would he do if the contents amounted to a confession of murder? Could he still betray his uncle to the world, or would he destroy the evidence and play everything down? His first instinctive reaction was to allow sleeping dogs to lie, and then he thought of June and her long search for her father and knew that he could never do that. After taking a bite of his sandwich he broke the seals and cut the cord that bound the package. Inside was a sealed envelope, and on it in his uncle’s handwriting he read the following words.
‘The contents of this envelope are for the eyes of Martin Isherwood only, and must be destroyed unopened if in any other hands’ and it was signed ‘Henry Marston, M.D.’
He opened the packet, and extracted several sheets of notepaper from within. He carefully unfolded these, laying them on the table in front of him, and then he settled to read his uncle's neat script with a feeling of almost nervous anticipation.
‘My dear Martin’, he read, ‘I have no choice other than to assume it is you who reads these words. I naturally hope that my precautions have been effective, yet as I have learned to my cost, nothing is ever certain in this life. If eyes other than yours are now reading this, then I will have failed in my endeavours to protect you and others. Having no choice, I will proceed as if I am speaking to you direct, even though I will doubtless be in my grave by the time this screed falls into your hands. I am sure that your mind must be full of many questions, and in the lines that follow I hope that not only will you discover the answers to most of these, you will also come to understand the reasons and motivation behind events and matters that may currently seem inexplicable to you. When you have finished, I leave you to exercise you own judgement on what should be done.
The situation I find myself in as I write has its roots firmly in the past. No doubt your mother will have told you something of the family background, so what I need to pass on to you begins from the time I went to university. By and large my sojourn in that hallowed place of learning passed much as it did for most students; a certain amount of work, a fair amount of play, and the usual round of youthful excesses and indiscretions. It was during my final year that circumstances arose that eventually combined to bring me to the sorry situation of which I must write.
The first matter I need to acquaint you with, which at the time seemed of no consequence what-so-ever, was the unexpected re-appearance of a chap I had known briefly at college, a man called Phillip Burton. I cannot say that I ever much cared for his company even when I first met him, and frankly, I was surprised when one day he accosted me on the campus and treated me as if I was indeed an old friend. Frankly, I had no particular wish to deepen the relationship, yet neither did I wish to cut him dead. From time to time we met, although we never actually socialised in the true meaning of the phrase. I only realised some time later that he was a ruthless, devious, amoral and quite unprincipled sort of person. In his philosophy, there was never any questioning the fact that the end justified the means. He could be deceptively charming when it suited him and fooled many people into believing that he was a person of no consequence. However, as I very soon discovered, he was a good deal more intelligent than most people suspected; he always got what he wanted and never too fussy about how he achieved his goals. The full extent of his complete lack of a normal moral approach to life was something I was only to learn by the time that it became too late to do anything about the situation.
The second matter relates to one of those unfortunate incidents that occur to many a young man in his formative years. It was birthday party, and to this day I cannot actually remember whose it was, and as you may recall from your own university days, so long as the drink and food was free the reasons for being able to attend were at best of secondary importance. The essence of the incident to which I refer was that most of us who attended inevitably drank far more than was good for us. Other students joined the party during the course of the evening and ensuing night, and as most of them brought a generous supply of alcohol, the drink flowed endlessly. I am ashamed to relate that along with most of the other people who attended, I imbibed far more than was wise, and the latter part of proceedings became lost in alcoholic oblivion.
The resulting hangover was so severe I think I was probably suffering from alcoholic poisoning, and the only good thing to come out of it was that the experience proved sufficient to put the brakes on my drinking for the rest of my life. Once I had physically recovered I buckled down to my studies and at the finals I achieved my degree with honours. It was at this time that I met May Brent. Up to that point I had had a number of relationships of varying degrees of seriousness, but from the moment I set eyes on May I knew that there could never be anyone else for me. At that time she was a second year philosophy student, and quite sensibly kept me at arm’s length for a while. Love blossomed between us, and after I qualified I finally proposed, and when I was accepted I felt that there could be no greater pleasure for me in this life.
I should perhaps mention here that May came from a family with extremely rigid principles, and May herself was the true daughter of her parents. She placed the very highest value on moral integrity, and to her mind there was never any excuse valid enough to warrant breaching the code of what she regarded as good and proper behaviour. If there was any flaw at all in May’s character, it was this unswerving belief in what was right and what was wrong. There were no grey areas for her, and more than once I saw her sever all connection with a friend who had transgressed, and even relatives. I mention this, for it has a bearing upon what followed.
Not long after we were married I applied for and obtained a position as a general practitioner in a medical practice in Wellworthy. I’m not sure what initially attracted me to the place, yet both May and I fell in love with it, and upon being accepted as a junior partner, May and I looked around until we found a suitable property in which to live and raise a family. Springwater House was just on the market, and with May and I pooling our resources we were able to make an offer, and we were again delighted when it was accepted. In due course we moved into our new home and settled down to married life. It goes without saying that that period was the highlight of my life, May and I could not have been happier, and the only thing that marred our happiness was discovering that for purely genetic reasons, May was unable to bear a child. It was something that we eventually came to terms with. By this time your mother had married, and we were as delighted as she was when you were born. I doubt you remember the visits you made here as a babe and as a small child, but they were a source of great pleasure to May and I.
Be that as it may, the period of bliss was drawing rapidly to a close. One day, a familiar face from the past appeared at the surgery: Phillip Burton. I hadn’t seen him since graduation, and to be honest I had quite forgotten his existence. He remembered me well enough, and initially he seemed just reasonably happy to renew an old acquaintanceship. By this time he was in the police, and on being promoted to Sergeant, had been transferred to Wellworthy; I only learned later that he had been sent down from university for reasons I never discovered. By all accounts he was a zealous officer, and well respected by his colleagues and superiors. What I did not realise until a good deal later was that he was still basically the same sort of unscrupulous amoral person that I had known at university. I suspect, although cannot prove, that he indulged in a certain amount of blackmail of people with criminal backgrounds, yet he was extremely careful never to be directly involved. Certainly he always seemed to have more money than I would have expected would be normal for a man on a police officer’s salary.