by A. B. King
The doctor leaned back even farther in his chair, folding his arms defensively across his chest. His expression openly betrayed the fact that he suspected Martin of hinting at something irregular in the relationship between the deceased man and his housekeeper, and strongly resented the inference.
“Dr Marston died exactly as I have told you,” he said, and Martin could detect the beginnings of hostility in his voice. “Mrs Brent was employed as his housekeeper, and what she may or may not have been expecting in his will I could not possibly say; certainly he never once discussed such matters with me. Now, if you are implying anything beyond these facts-.”
“Please, Dr Rawlinson,” Martin interrupted, holding up a hand in a placatory gesture. “I most certainly did not wish you to infer that my enquiries are suggesting anything improper in their relationship, nor am I questioning your professional judgement; I’m sure that his death was exactly as you have said. I only ask because I assumed that you would have been closer to him than anybody else that I have met so far.”
“I am relieved to hear it.” he said, although he still sounded suspicious of Martin’s motive in asking so many questions. “To answer your question concerning Dr Marston and his domestic arrangements to the best of my understanding; I consider it most unlikely that his housekeeper had designs on anything that was his, nor entertained any expectations under the terms of his will. The ‘relationship’ as you put it was exactly what it is supposed to be; employer and employee. As you may have already discovered for yourself, she simply isn’t the sort of person who would tolerate anything beyond that.”
“I’m more than happy to accept your word on all of that. May I ask if you happen to know how he came to employ her?”
“There’s no great mystery about that,” the doctor answered immediately. “He saved her life after she was knocked down by a car right outside this very surgery. She was at that time, I believe, a penniless, homeless, half-starved vagrant. Being the sort of man he was, he took her home as soon as she was recovered enough to leave hospital, and together with his wife they nursed her back to full health. She was by all accounts desperate to repay him, and naturally he wouldn’t hear of it. He eventually offered her the position of housekeeper, the situation becoming vacant due to the imminent retirement of his existing one, Mrs Jefferson. She accepted, and as I subsequently learned from Dr Marston, it had proved to be a sound choice, for she was everything he would ever want in a domestic employee. Efficient, hard-working, caring, discrete, undemanding and thoroughly reliable; he claimed that he had never once regretted taking her on. I can also tell you for a fact that when his wife died, it was only by her efforts that he ever survived at all. The simple truth is that Mrs Brent was so grateful to him that she would have done anything for Dr Marston, and she was genuinely devastated when he died.”
“And yet he only left her the tenure of the flat,” Martin mused half to himself. “If she was so devoted to him, and with him becoming dependent upon her following the death of his wife, why did he not leave her everything, or at least a decent legacy, instead of to me, a nephew he has scarcely ever seen?”
“Assuming that your question is purely rhetorical, I can only tell you that Dr Marston was a man of impeccable principle and integrity; perhaps he placed the rights of genuine family above all other considerations? In any case, as I have already told you, Mrs Brent expected nothing. Along with myself, she was a witness to the will and knew of its contents. For the record; Dr Marston confided in me when he asked me to attend as a witness that he had wished to make a financial settlement on her, and she had immediately been very angry and upset, threatening to leave his service immediately if he put such a bequest in his will.”
“Did she indeed? Then it goes without saying that any rudimentary suspicions I may have entertained about her are obviously totally unfounded,” said Martin. “Thank you Dr Rawlinson, you have certainly put my mind at rest on that score.”
“I’m glad I was able to help,” said the doctor, glancing at his watch. “Was there anything else?”
“No, you have clarified matters admirably,” said Martin, taking the hint and getting to his feet, “thank you for your time.”
It was approaching one o’clock when Martin finally emerged from the surgery, and seeing the hostelry mentioned by Mr Dobson’s clerk Perkins, decided that he would visit the place for a light lunch. 'The Rose and Crown' was a medium sized public house that was obviously not so heavily patronised during the day, for there were comparatively few people in the lounge bar when he entered. Everything looked clean and tidy, with no evidence of pop-music or the gambling machines so beloved of the younger generation, and through an open door at the rear he saw an excellent garden with a few tables and chairs set out in the sunshine. A balding, thickset man of about fifty looked at him with a slightly interrogative expression on his face as he approached the bar
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Half of lager, I think,” Martin responded, “with just a splash of lime; do you have anything to eat?”
“Only do snacks of a lunch time,” said the man as he reached down for a bottle, “but we do a full menu of an evening.”
“I’ll remember that; would you be Syd by any chance?”
“That’s my name; who told you that?”
“I met one of your regulars earlier on; chap by the name of Perkins, works at the solicitors?”
“Oh, young Jim; that explains it. I wondered how you knew, you being a stranger in these parts.”
“Oh dear, “Martin chuckled, “is it that obvious?”
“Well, I’ve lived here all my life, I doubt there’s many as lives in these parts that I don’t know at least by sight?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Anyway, did you want a hot snack? I’ve got jacket potatoes with various fillings and side salad, hot pies, pasties, hot dogs, or a ploughman’s if you prefer?”
“I’ll have a jacket potato if I may.”
“Filling?”
“I don’t mind. Cheese?”
“Cheese it is; side salad?”
“That will be fine.”
Syd finished pouring the lager, took the note that Martin pushed across the bar to him. He walked a few paces sideways and called the order through the hatch that obviously communicated with the kitchen. After ringing up the sale on the till, he returned to pass the change back to Martin.
“Food will be up in a few minutes,” he said. “You down here on business?”
“I suppose you could call it that, yes,” Martin agreed, taking a sip of his drink before replacing the glass on the bar. “I’ve recently inherited a house on the outskirts of Wellworthy; thought I’d come and look it over.”
“That would be old Doc Marston’s place I imagine?”
“My, you really do know what’s going on in these parts!”
“There’s not a lot that gets past me!” Syd chuckled.
“Young Jim Perkins tells me I’m not the only stranger in these parts. He mentioned something about a shifty looking character he saw the last time he was in here; was that someone you noticed as well?”
“I’ve seen two or three strangers about here recently as it happens. Strangers always tend to stick out a bit like a sore thumb in a backwater like this. I think I know the chap Jim mentioned to you; gave me the impression of being a bit of a sly character all round. Nothing you could put your finger on mind, but the sort of man I instinctively don’t trust. Not that he made any trouble mind you. Came in, had a drink, asked a few questions, sat around for a bit looking at people in the way that suggested he was looking for someone, and eventually left.”
“Looking for information was he?”
Syd eyed him reflectively for a moment. “You connected with the police at all?” he asked casually.
“Good heavens no; I’m a business man.”
“I see, well, I don’t look to get anyone into any sort of trouble; bad for business.”
“I ca
n quite understand that.”
“He was asking questions about Springwater House.”
It was what Jim Perkins had mentioned to him, and Martin’s curiosity was naturally aroused.
“And you think he was a crook weighing up his chances of breaking in?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that; just struck me as odd, that’s all. I think if he had been a housebreaker, even an amateur one, he’d been a bit more discrete about his intentions. No, he just gave the impression of being a bit of a nosey type; wanted to know how many people lived there, whether there were any dogs, and all that sort of thing.”
“I agree that it sounds a bit odd; I’ll have to keep my eye open for anyone snooping around. Thanks for the friendly warning; what did this chap look like?”
“Oh, about six foot, blonde hair, quite well built, quietly dressed, sort of babyish face, but there was something about his eyes that said his looks didn’t match his nature if you know what I mean?”
“Well, it certainly doesn’t sound like anyone I know, so I guess it cannot be anyone actually looking for me; not that many people know I’m down here anyway.”
“Maybe he had seen the place was empty and was thinking of trying to buy it?”
“Yes, possible I suppose,” Martin agreed, remembering that Charles had already mentioned that an offer had been received. “You say there have been other strangers about; not all crooks looking for easy pickings in an empty house I hope?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” Syd laughed. “But yes, there’s been quite a spate of them of late. Mostly they appear, you see them maybe once, or sometimes twice, and then you don’t see them anymore. Generally they are perfectly ordinary individuals just passing through, or maybe visiting local residents and so on. Some of them tend to stick in your mind more than others. There was a chap came in the other night for example; big-built fellow with a beard. Told me he was a rep for some security company and that he was in town looking for possible leads. He was making notes about all sorts of business’s and big houses, explaining that he planned to cold-call them all while he’s here; seemed to be a real keen pushy type to me. I guess he got what he was looking for because I haven’t seen him since. Maybe he’ll be up to see you sometime?”
“Thanks for the tip, if I see anyone matching that description I shall get the redoubtable resident housekeeper to say I’m out!”
“You do that,” Syd laughed. “It’ll take a very determined rep to get past Mrs Brent I’m thinking!”
“You know her as well then?”
“Not to speak to; there’s not many granted that privilege I can tell you. I’ve seen her a few times of course; she works part-time down at Groggins the Estate Agents. Good at her job, I’m told, but hard as nails as a person.”
“Yes, I rather got that impression when I met her; still, I have to say that she’s very efficient as a housekeeper.”
“So I believe, but she certainly isn’t the matey type. I’ve heard that one or two people have tried to get sociable with her and she freezes them out straight away. I doubt that one has a friend in the world.”
“I know what you mean; she didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for me either.”
“I can believe that!”
“So, are they all suspicious looking characters that come wandering in here?” Martin asked in a jocular manner, “or do you get a few normal ones as well?”
“What, aside from yourself, you mean?” Syd responded good-humouredly. “No, like I said, almost all of them are perfectly normal people; you just notice that they are not locals. Now and then, like the chap I’ve just mentioned, you get one that sort of sticks out. For example, there was another fellow in here a few days ago; little guy with a round face who looked as if he should never have been let out without his mother. He came in here at lunchtime; had a glass of lemonade and a hot pasty as I recall. Sat over at the table by the end window and read some hefty looking book all about butterflies or moths or what-have-you. When a couple of lads from the local building site came in, he scuttled off like he was a scared rabbit. I haven’t seen him since, either.”
At that point a couple of men walked in and went to the far end of the bar, and Syd went off to attend to them. They were evidently well known to the landlord, for he stayed talking to them, and Martin picked up his glass and strolled over to a table by the window where presently, a pleasant buxom lady with a pleasant smile and reeking of cheap perfume brought his meal to him, and he settled down to enjoy it.
There were not many patrons in during the time he was there, and with his meal complete he took his leave, calling out a quick “cheerio” in response to Syd’s call from the bar as he went to the door. Once out in the sunshine he strolled around a bit, getting the atmosphere of the place, and presently on a whim he wandered into a small newsagents where he eventually purchased a local-view postcard. Having paid for this and a book of stamps, he took out his pen and scribbled a few lines to his daughter Beverly. There was a post-box just a matter of yards away from the shop, and he dropped the card in as he passed. With his business completed, he walked to his car, and a few minutes later he was heading back to Springwater House. There was very little traffic about, and only a scattering of pedestrians. As he neared the entrance to the lane that led to the house he saw a man on the side of the road waving something in his hand. As he drew nearer he saw that it was a butterfly net, and the man appeared to be trying very hard to catch something flitting along the hedgerow. He idly wondered if it was the man the landlord of the 'Rose and Crown' had said was drinking lemonade as he read a book on butterflies?
He turned into the lane that led up to the house, dismissing the butterfly-catcher from his mind along with many other things he had seen on the brief journey. As he slowed down ready to turn into the drive he saw another lone pedestrian, and this one was walking towards him along the nearside of the road. There was nothing particularly unusual in that, yet seconds after he had passed him it occurred to Martin that this man actually matched the description of the fellow Jim Perkins had claimed he had seen in the pub. He smiled faintly as the thought crossed his mind; at this rate he would be seeing burglars and housebreakers behind every bush and tree!
Passing through the gates of Springwater House, he pulled up in front of the double garage, noting that it was open. Being a converted stable-block, there was ample room inside for at least four vehicles. There was a highly polished Mercedes in the far left hand corner, probably the property of the late Dr Marston, which no doubt formed part of the estate he had inherited. There were no other vehicles in there, but off to one side he saw a pile of miscellaneous junk of the sort that people are wont to accumulate in outbuildings. Just to the side of the garage was an old motorcycle. He drove his car into the garage, and as he exited the vehicle he noticed that there was a man busy on the front lawn with a motor mower. He deduced that this was the gardener he had been warned might be there, George Dawkins. Most likely the motorcycle was his.
Locking his car, he strolled out across the grass, and as the man saw him approaching he switched off the mower and stood waiting expectantly.
“Mr Dawkins?” Martin asked as he approached. “Good afternoon, I’m Martin Isherwood the new owner, just thought I’d introduce myself.”
He extended his hand, and it was seized in a strong grip. He liked a man with a firm grip; in his view it betrayed character.
“Afternoon,” the gardener responded. “Mrs Brent said as how you might be here this afternoon. Grass grows pretty quick this time of year; thought I’d give it a quick trim.”
He was a man of about sixty years of age, with the sort of look that comes to one who spends most of his time out of doors. He was sturdily built fellow with iron-grey hair, and shrewd eyes that looked at Martin as if expecting him to dispute the need,
“I must say the lawn looks in excellent shape,” Martin said in an attempt to put him at his ease, “as does the rest of the garden for that matter. I’ve had a word with Mr D
obson this morning, by the way, and arranged for you to continue until further notice; I hope that is ok with you?”
“Right, I was wondering;” the man admitted, a look of relief crossing his weather-beaten features. “Mrs Brent warned me the new owner was here and maybe thinking of making changes. Is everything in the garden to your liking, or will you be wanting something different?”
“To be honest, I’ve not yet had a chance to study everything in detail; from what I’ve seen, everything is fine.”
“Hope you don’t mind me asking; will you be moving in permanent?”
“I haven’t decided as yet; I’ll certainly let you know in plenty of time if I do plan any changes.”
“I usually comes in about three or four times a week; if you wants anything special done, just let me know. Mrs Brent has a note of my phone number.”
“I’ll do that. Tell me, have there been any visitors here this afternoon that you have noticed?”
The gardener scratched his head for a moment. “No callers at the house,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Least-ways, not that I’ve seen.”
“I see, only I happened to notice a man walking down the lane close by here, I wondered if he had called in for some reason?”
“Oh, you must mean that fellow that looked in at the gate a short while ago? Chatty sort of bloke; wanted to know who lived in the big house. I told him it used to be Dr Marston, and it was no good looking for him, because he was dead. He told me he was a stranger in these parts, and he was actually looking for somebody called Mrs Collins; said he’d been told she lived here. I told him; somebody’s been having you on, mate; there’s nobody in these parts by that name. I should know; I’ve lived round here all my life.”