A Well Kept Secret

by A. B. King

  He reached for his whiskey tumbler again, and as he did so, his eyes fell on an envelope lying on his desk. Why one particular envelope amongst others should attract his attention he couldn’t for a moment imagine. It had obviously been opened, and it lay there with some papers partly protruding from within. Normally, he was a tidy and methodical man, but from the moment Alicia had died everything had become neglected. Papers, post, memos, assorted documents of every sort had simply been dropped on his desk, many of them unopened. He had scarcely been in his study from the time of his bereavement, except to raid the whiskey decanter, and he knew that he really should be dealing with matters.

  He brushed the newspapers aside, picked up the envelope and pulled out the sheets of paper that were within. As he looked at them, he suddenly remembered what they were. It was a letter from his solicitor dated a good three months ago, along with some documents and other matters that had seemed important at the time. He suddenly recalled that he had actually been reading the covering letter when tragedy had struck, and from that moment, along with everything else, it had lain forgotten on his desk.

  In looking at the letter he recalled the gist of it. Matters had been so fraught after it had been received that he had done nothing about it; indeed, right up until that moment he had forgotten the matter entirely. The letter was from his friend and solicitor Charles Gordon, and referred to the will of his recently deceased uncle, Dr Henry Marston. Dr Marston was Martin’s late mother’s older brother, and as far as he could recollect, had been something of a recluse. The essence of the letter was confirmation that his late uncle had left Martin his house, together with the residue of his estate. Reading the letter again brought the whole business back to his mind.

  Martin sat back in his chair, holding the letter in one hand and the whiskey glass in the other. As far as he could recall he had only seen his uncle once, and he had been a small child of about five at the time. Apart from a few disconnected fragments, his memory of the man, his home, even the nature of the occasion of that visit was all now hopelessly lost in the mists of time. He wasn’t aware of the existence of any particular family disputes, yet his mother had hardly every referred to her brother, and certainly he had never given the man any thought himself. Why he would want to leave him the house and the residue of his estate was a mystery, presumably it was because he had no descendants of his own, and there were no other close family members.

  Being a man of considerable wealth, Martin had no need of an additional house, and in any case, from what little he could remember of the property it was a pretty old and secluded place at that. The value of the estate was not exceptional, comprising in the main of the house itself set as it was in about two acres of land, and he wondered if there were any other relatives his uncle never knew of who might have benefited more from it. He vaguely recalled that his uncle had been married, so perhaps there were relatives on his wife's side of the family who could do with the place? His initial reaction on reading the letter again was to get on to Charles at some stage to arrange for him to dispose of the property if no other family member could be discovered who might benefit from it; he had more than enough to occupy his mind right then without worrying about such matters.

  Even as the thought appeared in his mind he pulled himself up abruptly. Mentally rejecting the legacy just like that was a bit like slapping the late Dr Marston in the face. Maybe he had never really known the man, and certainly had never bothered about him, yet obviously the reverse could not be true; why else would he make him the main beneficiary of his will? To just get rid of this unexpected inheritance as being something of no consequence simply didn’t seem right. He paused reflectively, trying to remember what little he could of that single visit he had made as a child with his mother. He had a vague recollection of a grey, forbidding looking house that was set well back from the road, a rather austere but kindly man with a moustache who was his uncle, and a younger woman, his aunt. (What was her name now, May, that was it.) He had a vague memory of an extensive garden with a large pond and lots of trees that he had played in, beyond that he could think of nothing. He was on the point of dropping the letter on his desk with the half formed intention of doing something about it on the morrow, when an odd idea flitted through his mind.

  James had insisted that he should earnestly consider getting away for a while; and as he knew only too well, all the holiday resorts he simply couldn’t be bothered with; maybe this was the answer? If indeed the house was now his, perhaps he should at least go and look at it? It wouldn’t be a ‘holiday’ as such, yet it would be a break from his routine, a break from the constant echoes of his dead wife, a chance maybe to find something to divert his mind for a while. Maybe trying to revive a few childhood memories might be just the distraction he needed? No doubt it would all be a complete waste of time, but at least if he did it, he could dispose of the house and its contents with a clear conscience, thereby keeping both James and Charles happy.

  He reached for the phone and dialled Charles’ private number.

  “Charles,” he said as the phone was eventually picked up at the other end and a man’s voice came on the line, “Martin.”

  “Hello Martin, nice to hear from you,” came the solicitor’s surprisingly deep voice

  “Sorry to disturb you at home,” Martin said. “I’m just trying to catch up on a few things that have been a bit neglected of late.”

  “Not at all, always pleased to talk to you, you know that.”

  “Charles, about this legacy, you know; the house over at Wellworthy?”

  “Ah yes, the estate of the late Dr Marston; you asked me to handle all the usual details. I think I sent you a resume of things in the post?”

  “Yes, I have the papers in front of me as it happens; what’s the situation with the house? I mean, is it empty, furnished, let out, derelict or what?”

  “To the best of my knowledge it is just as your late uncle left it; fully furnished, although I have been told that your late uncle’s solicitors have removed all personal papers, etc. I have been awaiting your instructions, and in the circumstances I didn’t like to press matters of course.”

  “Quite, I must apologise for dragging my heels on this a bit. I suppose I should have gone to the funeral, whenever that was. The truth is, I scarcely knew the man, and in the circumstances?”

  “As you say; in the circumstances. Martin, you have had more than enough to cope with, and I am quite sure that nobody expected you to attend. Subsequent to my letter, I heard from your late uncle’s solicitor that Dr Marston was buried in the local churchyard in Wellworthy. Just for the record, he was actually buried before news of his bequest reached me, so unless somebody had communicated details of the funeral arrangements directly to you, there was no way that you could have attended anyway. I understand he had a reserved plot beside that of his late wife, your aunt May.”

  “That shows how little I know of my relatives,” Martin admitted. “I never even knew that he was a widower. Any idea of who attended?”

  “As far as I know; only his solicitor, his housekeeper, and quite a number of local people who apparently held him in high esteem.”

  “No family members from either side?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. He died without issue of course, and as far as I am aware there were no surviving relatives on his wife’s side of the family, and there is only Beverley and yourself on his side.”

  Martin downed the last of his whiskey.

  “I really don’t understand why he left everything to me,” he said as he placed the glass down on his desk, “I mean, I’ve had no contact with him; in fact as far as I can recall, I’ve only ever seen him once, and I was little more than four or five years old at the time.”

  “Well, whatever his reasons; ‘the deed is done’, as they say. Have you thought as yet what you propose to do with your inheritance?”

  “That is why I phoned; I suppose I should at least go and look at it. Maybe I’ll visit his grave a
nd speak to a few of the locals, and then decide about the property later.”

  “Seems like a reasonable idea to me,” the lawyer agreed.

  “Is it practical for me to gain ready access? I’m thinking I might go and spend a few days there. James keeps on at me to take a break; maybe this is a good time to do it? There’s nothing to keep me here right now, and the business can look after itself for a bit. I may spend a week there, or maybe two or three, I don’t know. It will give me a chance to inspect the place; I might even abstract anything of personal interest, and contact you later when I’ve decided what I want to do with it.”

  “That shouldn’t present any problems; if you eventually decide to dispose of the estate there is bound to be a reputable house agent in the area who can handle matters.”

  “How do I gain access?” Martin asked.

  “As I understand it, there is a sort of caretaker in residence; she is holding the keys to the house.”

  “You intrigue me; what do you mean, sort of?”

  “My information is that your late uncle had a part-time housekeeper; this is the person I mentioned who had attended his funeral. I believe her name is Mrs Brent. She actually lives in the service flat above the double garage situated in the grounds of the house. I’ve looked at the photograph of the property that your late uncle’s solicitor sent to me from which I gather that an old stable block was converted some years ago in order to accommodate cars. During this work a service flat was created on the first floor above the garage. Mrs Brent is still in residence and holding the keys. She is looking after the property pending a decision being made with regard to its future. I gather she is assisted by a part time gardener who works on the same basis”

  “Well, I suppose that helps to prevent the property from being vandalised whilst it is empty,” Martin commented. “No doubt this caretaker is already looking round for alternative accommodation?”

  “Possibly,” the solicitor said in a slightly dubious voice.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that she may have no intention of moving.”

  “Hm, that could be a bit awkward if I want to unload it.”

  “If she digs her heels in, yes I suppose it might.”

  “So it might come down to having to obtain a court order to get her evicted?”

  “I doubt it will be as easy as that; I gather she has a valid ninety-nine year lease on the flat.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “I don’t have the papers in front of me, but from memory I believe there is also a clause in the will that states that the house and grounds may not be sold together or separately unless Mrs Brent vacates the flat of her own free will.”

  “I might have known there was a catch in things somewhere,” Martin sighed, with visions of a quick sale now fading into the background. “Still, I suppose if it is her home we could not just pitch the poor woman out on the street. I imagine that a suitable cash inducement in due course will do the trick?”

  “Quite possibly; it would certainly facilitate matters if you decide that you do wish to dispose of the property. Oh, and whilst of the subject of selling, you might also care to know that I have already had an offer for it.”

  “Somebody must be a bit keen; what’s so special about the place?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of.”

  “Hm, well, if that’s the case I think maybe I ought go up and look it over. Yes, now that I think about it, if you have already received an offer maybe I will go sometime tomorrow, probably after lunch. Can you contact this Mrs, what did you say her name was? Oh Mrs Brent; that was it, and advise her of the fact. Perhaps you would be so kind as to mention that I’ll probably stop over for a day or so as well.”

  “In the circumstances, not a bad idea,” the solicitor agreed. “I’ll get onto it first thing in the morning.”

  “Many thanks; I’ll be in touch. Goodnight Charles.”

  “Goodnight Martin, I’ll be interested in learning how you get on.”

  After he had hung up Martin sat quiet for a while, thinking about his late uncle, and how little he actually knew about him. Probably there were a few photographs of him lying around somewhere; he recalled that his late mother had some photograph albums which had been passed on to him when she had died a few years back. He couldn’t think where they were right then; probably stowed away in the loft somewhere. After mulling the matter over in his mind for a while he stirred and went across to his p.c. Having activated the machine, he eventually went on the Internet, and without too much bother he managed to locate the web page for the local Wellworthy newspaper. A short while later he brought up on the screen the late Dr Marston’s obituary. Underneath a rather indistinct picture of a gathering of people in front of an ancient church was a brief article advising of the sudden death of a retired, well-loved and highly respected local g.p. who for many years had been the sole physician in the area. There were a number of glowing tributes from an assortment of friends and ex-patients, together with a long list of the various charitable things he had done throughout his life.

  He studied the photograph for a few minutes wondering which of the figures was the caretaker that Charles assured him had attended the ceremony. There was no caption identifying the individual mourners pictured, and with his interest waning he eventually gave up looking. He switched the machine off and turned his attention to the food he had brought in. He wasn’t particularly hungry; it was just an automatic reaction to seeing it sitting waiting on his desk. As he ate in a desultory manner, he leafed through some of the other papers that lay scattered before him. There was nothing there that roused anything more than a passing mild interest, and by the time he had finished sorting through them he noted that it was well past midnight. He couldn’t put off retiring forever, yet as always he dreaded the prospect. He hoped that for once he might be able to snatch an hour or two’s sleep with the help of one of James’ wonder pills.

  Chapter Two. Sunday.

  Martin woke to the sound of birds twittering under the eaves. It took him a few moments to realise that for once he had actually managed to sleep for several hours. He had retired with the conviction that he was likely to be faced with yet another sleepless night, and had armed himself with a book in an effort to while away the hours. Incredible as it seemed to him he had dropped off to sleep whilst reading this, and the book now lay spread-eagled on the floor beside the bed. Was this the effect of James’ pill he wondered, or the prospect of getting away for a few days, or just the cumulative effect of so many bad nights? Well, whatever the explanation, he was both surprised and relieved at one and the same time. He rose, took a quick shower, and once he was dressed he wandered downstairs to be greeted by the sounds of activity in the kitchen that told him that Mrs Croft was as punctual as ever. Originally engaged as a daily help just to give Alicia a hand, she had proved to be a godsend in the dreadful days that had followed. A rather forbidding looking widow of ample proportions, she was an excellent cook, a conscientious housekeeper and a surprisingly shrewd person. It was mainly due to her efforts that he had managed to survive at all, and he considered himself extremely fortunate that he had her to lean on.

  “Good morning Mrs Croft,” he said as he entered the room. “it looks set fair to be a nice day I’m thinking.”

  “Morning Mr Isherwood,” she responded as she continued busying herself around the kitchen. “Can I interest you in a decent breakfast, or are you leaving early again?”

  “You know, I really wouldn’t mind a cooked breakfast this morning,” he admitted. “Yes indeed, bacon and eggs, followed by toast and marmalade would be quite acceptable I’m thinking!”

  If she was at all surprised by his easy acceptance of her offer after so many weeks of either eating nothing at all, or just pecking at a piece of toast she didn’t show it. “Your papers are in the breakfast room,” she said. “I will have everything ready for you in a few minutes.”

  Whether it was another side effect from James�
� pill, a reasonable night’s sleep, or the prospect of actually getting right away from everything for a few days Martin couldn’t be sure, yet he had to admit that he felt just a little better in himself that morning than he had for some considerable time. He went into the breakfast room, helped himself to a glass of orange-juice, and was perusing the morning papers when Mrs Croft bustled in with a well laden tray and set out his meal with her customary efficiency.

  “By the way,” he said as he pushed the papers to one side. “I shall be going away for a few days; I expect to be leaving early this afternoon.”

  “I see,” she said. If she was at all surprised by such short notice, she did not display it by any change of expression. “Will you be lunching at home before you leave?”

  “Yes, I think so, something light perhaps; I’ll leave it to your discretion. I’m not sure how long I will be away, probably only for a few days or possibly as much as a week or so. You have my mobile number, so you can always get in touch if necessary, and I’ll advise you when I expect to return.”

  “Very well, shall I pack a case for you?”

  “If you would be so kind it would be a great help, but nothing formal.”

  It being a Sunday morning, after breakfast he telephoned his private secretary at her home and advised her that he would be away for an indefinite period. She already had a note of his mobile number and promised to contact him if anything required his urgent attention. She sounded relieved that he was going to take a few days off, and he belatedly realised that he had been giving those closest to him a hard time since the bereavement. He phoned his works manager, his sales director, and his chief designer in turn to tie up a few loose ends, following which he made calls to a few close business contacts. With these calls out of the way, he also managed to speak briefly to the secretary at his daughter’s school, advising her of where he would be if required, ensuring that she had his mobile number for use in emergencies. He had hoped to speak to Beverley as well, but was advised that she was competing in a cross-country run. With the phone calls completed, he dealt with one or two other pressing matters, and before he knew it Mrs Crofts was advising him that luncheon was served.