Unspeakable

by Marturano, Tony

  She had even been specific enough to say that, although his obliging behaviour may have suggested the contrary, it was her belief that Adam had been with her just for her money. It was for this reason that, should he outlive her, she wanted him thrown out like the trash that he was, penniless.

  As for the rest of her estate: two million was to go to her favourite charity, Alcoholics Anonymous, and the rest was to go to the one person who meant everything in the world to her, Rupert.

  Rupert went on to explain that the will was relatively new, and it was believed that Elisabeth wrote it the day after a booze binge that had poisoned her blood, and nearly killed her.

  Apparently, it was that near death experience that prompted her to summon her lawyer, and have him witness her scribble her final wishes.

  Ashley couldn’t help but wonder, had the will been updated more recently, if Elisabeth would have been spiteful enough to exclude Rupert for wanting to marry her. He dismissed the idea, stating that Elisabeth may not have liked Ashley, but it was only because she felt protective of him, and that she would never have been so vindictive.

  Ashley nodded, thoughtfully, as they drove home towards London.

  57 The Curtain Call

  The bistro was situated on one of the many quiet back streets of London’s West End.

  Frequented mostly by theatregoers, ‘The Curtain Call’ was a tidy little place bustling with activity, the aroma of coffee and fresh baked cookies.

  It was lunchtime and the place was packed with people.

  Rupert had to push his way through the throng to get to the annex at the back where his contact agreed to meet him. The idea was that there would be so many people in the eatery, nobody would notice them tucked away in a small cubicle.

  When Rupert arrived, his contact, a short man in his late forties with cropped black hair and a pair of spectacles, was drinking tea and munching his way through a bacon sandwich.

  When he saw Rupert, he smiled, wiped his hands on a paper napkin, and quickly swallowed his food to speak. “Good to see you again, Mr Harrison,” he mumbled, still chewing and shaking Rupert’s hand.

  “Hello,” Rupert said, squeezing into the seat opposite.

  “Sorry to drag you out here, but when you specified absolute discretion, I figured this might be a good place to meet.”

  Rupert didn’t particularly agree, but he said nothing. After all, this man was supposed to be the professional.

  “I love this place,” he said, taking another bite from his sandwich and then garbling, “Excellent bacon rolls, and the chocolate chip muffins, hmm,” he closed his beady green eyes in ecstasy, “absolutely pukka.”

  He gestured to a plate of them on the table.

  Rupert declined with a smile. He felt uncomfortable sitting opposite that man. He didn’t like the situation, it felt wrong.

  He felt that he was being deceitful, but what other choice did he have? He needed to know the truth, and he had made a pact with himself to do whatever he could to find out, including hiring a private investigator.

  But that was two weeks ago, before everything else, before he buried his cousin. In fact, he’d actually forgotten about the man until he left several voicemail messages on his phone. He told him that he had the information he requested, and that he would find it very interesting.

  So Rupert told himself that he wasn’t spying on Ashley, but just wanted to ensure that his fiancé was alright. Of course, he could have just asked her but, like most affairs of the heart, that would have been too easy, and probably wouldn’t have revealed the whole truth.

  And he needed to know everything because he loved her. He wanted to move on with their life together, and he couldn’t do that if he was constantly wondering about secrets. That’s why he wanted this man to dispense with the small talk and just get down to business.

  “What do you have for me?”

  The man laughed. “I see, just want to get down to business. That’s fine, I’m like that too. I like to just cut to the chase, none of that small talk crap. I just thought that if we had a cup of tea, you know, maybe some of these lovely muffins, you would be able to relax…”

  The man stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed the look on Rupert’s face. He reached down, into a rucksack, and pulled out an orange A4 envelope.

  “Of course, you only asked for the generic service so I have only compiled the basics. But, if you wanted to upgrade to the premium service, I would be more than happy to…”

  “…What did you find out?” Rupert asked, as quietly as was possible, considering the din in the room.

  The man pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it across to Rupert, who studied it with deep interest as his companion narrated.

  “It seems that Ashley Marshall was a bit of a rebel as a kid. She was born into a relatively wealthy family, her father owned a construction company; she’s had a fairly privileged upbringing.”

  “Owned?”

  “Yeah, he died a few years back. I think I included it in there, construction accident. Built the business from scratch, turned over a couple of million in the first year, and it took off from there. Had a bit of a reputation for being a control freak, though, you know the kind that likes to keep his hands dirty. He often helped on construction. Only, one day, a crucial safety check was missed, and Robert Marshall died, along with two other men, when the scaffolding collapsed.”

  My God, Ashley.

  “Apparently, the girl was kind of brainy, what you would call a ‘straight A’ student. She was studying law at Kings when the accident happened. She was your typical daddy’s girl, never got over losing im’. The two of them were close. After the funeral, she refused to go back to college, opted instead to travel the world with some of her inheritance. Seems she didn’t get on with her mum; hasn’t seen her since she left home.”

  The man took another bite from his sandwich and washed it down with tea.

  Rupert’s mind reeled as he attempted to process everything he was hearing.

  “What about a picture?” he asked.

  The man smiled. “Sorry, you asked for the generic package. And that is just text. If you wanted…”

  Rupert waved the man quiet.

  It wasn’t that he begrudged spending the money. Rupert wanted the generics because he somehow thought that by not asking this man to dig up every personal aspect of her life, he would somehow feel less of a shit.

  It hadn’t worked.

  But he needed to know. After all, this was one of the reasons why his first marriage had failed.

  His ex, along with being a gold digger, failed to tell Rupert that she was madly in love, and that it wasn’t with him, but a slimy club owner, who cared for her less than he did the scantily-dressed girls he employed.

  “Have you been there?” Rupert asked.

  The investigator stopped his chewing and looked up. “Been where?”

  “To her house.”

  The investigator paused. “Well yeah, it’s standard practice when investigating…”

  “I want the address.”

  “What?”

  “I want the family’s address.”

  The investigator shook his head. “Oh no, mate, I don’t think you should…”

  “…Why not?”

  “Well, for a start, her mum still lives there, and you know, in cases like these, you have to be discreet. You can’t just drop by for tea and biscuits. Especially if you don’t want your lady to know that you know. No, not a good idea, not a good idea at all.”

  Rupert thought about this and then said, “You know, I often think that some of my best decisions have stemmed from bad ideas, but I still hired you, didn’t I?”

  Rupert leaned forward and repeated very slowly, “I want that address.”

  58 Ashley Marshall

  Half an hour later, Rupert was steering the Lexus out of London and onto the M2, southeast towards Canterbury.

  He drove fast under a thick cotton wool sky of grey clouds, that some
forecasters believed would bring early snow.

  The drive took longer than the satnav had originally predicted, with traffic and road works.

  He’d been on the road for nearly two hours before he turned off the motorway, and onto a narrow winding B-road that snaked through woods and grassy hills. It delivered him somewhere in the Kent Downs, before the chequered flag on his car’s digital map told him that he was finally nearing his destination.

  He drove through an archway of spindly trees where branches, like long bony fingers, reached down and almost touched the car.

  To his left, a deep glassy river raced him, to his right, yet another copse of trees.

  After rounding another bend, he turned right and drove down a steep road, into a valley, parallel with the river.

  A sign welcomed him to ‘Acorn Falls.’

  He drove through an avenue of manicured lawns leading to an array of large stone houses, set back amidst the cover of old oak trees.

  There was no doubt that Acorn Falls was exclusive to those with a healthy bank account.

  It became apparent to Rupert why Ashley never appeared remotely interested in his wealth. It was so obviously something that she had grown up with and had most probably tried to escape, as rebel children often do, for most of her life.

  He turned at the post office corner, passed a field called Acorn Green and then turned left into Erdington Road, where he stopped the car outside number one.

  It was a large stone building that resembled more a plantation mansion than a typically British house.

  He emerged from the car to the roar of rushing water. It seemed that the river had followed him here. He looked over to see it cascading over a mini waterfall that sent a cloud of mist fizzing into the air.

  He looked around, the place was surrounded by trees, each standing tall and regal, like centurions on patrol.

  He imagined what it might be like here in the summer, when the sun shone in a blue sky and warmed the colours of this Constable painting of a place. The place where Ashley had grown up.

  Suddenly, he felt sad.

  Why Ashley? Why didn’t you want me to see this place with you? Why didn’t you want to tell me about your parents?

  He looked up to the double front doors of the house. He did not doubt that the answer would be found behind them.

  He walked up the few stone steps and rang the doorbell.

  Within seconds, he could hear footsteps and then the door opened, revealing a tall woman in her late sixties.

  She was elegantly dressed in grey trousers, white blouse and red cardigan, with shoulder length silver-white hair that hung neatly over a slim face housing lucid grey eyes. A bead of pearls hung around her delicate long neck, complimenting an identical set of earrings.

  Ashley’s mother?

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked in a cultured husky voice.

  “Mrs Marshall?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied, curiously.

  Rupert froze.

  Of all the thoughts that had coursed through his mind on the way down here, he had not considered this moment, the moment where he would come face-to-face with Ashley’s mother.

  What should he do? Introduce himself as her fiancé?

  And give her a heart attack? No!

  “My name is Rupert Harrison,” he blurted out, as if the name would mean something to this woman, who stood, patiently waiting for him to speak. “I’m here about your daughter.”

  There was a flicker of interest behind the woman’s eyes.

  “My daughter?”

  “Yes, Ashley, Ashley Marshall.”

  “What about her?” the woman asked without emotion.

  Rupert looked around them and then back at the woman. “May I come inside?”

  Mrs Marshall looked Rupert up and down, as if she could discern his intentions by checking him over. And he did look respectable enough, in his blue corduroys and cashmere pullover. Moreover, there was something vaguely familiar about this man, although Mrs Marshall couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

  “Rupert Harrison.”

  “Rupert Harrison as in Harrison Publishing?” she asked dubiously.

  Rupert smiled and nodded.

  “Why, of course,” she said, in amazement, “I saw you on TV the other day. Do come in,” she added, stepping aside.

  The house could have been straight out of a luscious movie set; grey flagstone flooring, a sweeping mahogany staircase, with magnolia painted walls, and canvasses depicting life across the centuries.

  Rupert took everything in for this was Ashley’s childhood home and this elegant woman, who was leading him through the hall, was her mother.

  The lounge was spacious, and tastefully decorated in creams and reds, with a gigantic window seat that offered a view over the river.

  “You have a very beautiful home, Mrs Marshall,” Rupert said, appreciatively.

  “Thank you. How very nice of you to say. May I offer you a beverage of some kind? Some tea perhaps?”

  “That would be nice, thank you,” Rupert said, admiring the view from the window, all the time imagining Ashley here as a little girl.

  “I’ll be right back. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable,” the woman said, and left the room.

  Rupert pulled himself away from the window and looked around. He wasn’t surprised to see a gleaming, black Steinway piano to one side of the room. On top of it, were silver photo frames depicting smiling people in various casual and formal poses. Many of them were of a heavy set man with grey hair, dressed in a tuxedo. Rupert had to look twice, because in one of them it looked like he was shaking the hand of a well-known politician, and he was.

  In other pictures, the man, who presumably was Mr Marshall, was posing with a woman Rupert recognised as his elegant hostess, only a few years younger. There were also some older looking pictures, tinged in sepia. One of them, in particular, caught his eye. It was the only one of its kind and it had captured a happy family beach scene; a fit young man with black hair was holding a little girl in his arms. They were laughing and looking towards the camera, as was a familiar looking blonde. Both were tickling the little girl who was doubled over in fits of laughter, but whose eyes just happened to be looking past the camera’s lens. It was a charming family portrait, and it tugged at Rupert’s heart.

  Ashley.

  He took the frame in his hands and smiled; the little girl couldn’t have been much older than ten with pigtails. Given the tone of the image, he couldn’t tell the pigmentation of the eyes or the hair.

  This picture was taken a long time ago, fifteen, twenty years or more. The hair could be different now.

  “Margate,” the woman said, as she deposited a silver tray on the coffee table.

  Rupert turned around still clutching the picture.

  “You know, people always turn their noses up at Margate, but I’m quite fond of the place, it reminds me of very happy times.”

  Rupert smiled. “Yes, you all do look very happy in this picture.”

  “We were,” Mrs Marshall fondly agreed.

  “Is this your husband?”

  “Robert, yes. Such a wonderful man too, beautiful and very kind,” she said fondly. “Please, come and sit down.”

  Rupert carefully replaced the picture and complied.

  He sat in an armchair opposite Mrs Marshall, and with his back to the window, so that what little daylight that was left shone off the woman’s hair, and sparkled in her grey misty eyes.

  Mrs Marshall was an attractive woman, but far from the blonde beauty Rupert had just been admiring in the photograph.

  “Sugar?” she asked as she poured the tea.

  “No, thank you, just white.”

  There was silence, but for the humming of the river and the chinking of china, as Mrs Marshall prepared the beverage.

  “So, what’s on your mind, Mr Harrison?” she asked, handing Rupert his tea.

/>   Rupert smiled at the woman’s directness and couldn’t help but think of Ashley, “Well, I’m not quite sure how to put this.”

  Mrs Marshall smiled encouragingly. “Anyway you like.”

  “Well, Ashley and I, um, wow, I feel like a teenager. We’ve been seeing each other for some time now.”

  “You have?” Mrs Marshall asked with a raising of a thin eyebrow.

  Rupert smiled, almost with embarrassment. “Yes. Just she’s never mentioned you and I was wondering…”

  “…How you managed to convert her?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Mrs Marshall forced a laugh. “I think there’s been some confusion here, Mr Harrison.”

  “Please, call me Rupert. What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you seem to believe that your girlfriend is my daughter, but that cannot be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why, my daughter is a lesbian, Mr Harrison, has been since she was a teenager. And she isn’t even in the country right now. She’s travelling around Australia with her partner, I think. I’ve lost track.”

  Rupert could feel his excitement ebb.

  He was so keen on coming out here to find out more about Ashley, that he hadn’t even stopped to consider if the information he had been given could be trusted.

  He felt foolish.

  Mrs Marshall continued, “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look as stunned as I did the day she told me. I dare say the circumstances didn’t make it any easier. It was the day after her father’s funeral. I suppose she didn’t think I was already hurting enough, she decided to throw that bit of news at me too.

  You see, things have always been a bit strained between us. She had always been a bit of a daddy’s girl and, of course, when he died, well, it was just me. She left as soon as she was able to cash her inheritance. Took off to travel around the world and I haven't heard from her since. Oh, except for the odd postcard, of course, just to let me know how much she is enjoying life away from me.”

  Rupert was ready for the floor to open up and swallow him. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have trusted that waster so implicitly, and barged into this woman’s home, her life?