by A. B. King
Watching her, he decided that dressed more femininely, with a different hairstyle, and with the return of the natural ability to smile she could be quite an attractive person. He wondered idly what her life had been prior to coming to Wellworthy. So far, she had made no reference whatsoever to her life prior to being saved by Dr Marston, yet there had to be an earlier phase to her existence. There had been no mention of her having a home in the area prior to coming to Springwater House, no mention of relatives or friends. Dr Rawlinson had described her as a homeless, half-starved vagrant. If that was true, then how did she come to be in that state? And what brought her to a backwater like Wellworthy if she was not a native to the parts? It was a mystery he rather hoped she would resolve for him one day if the tentative lines of communication he had so far established became a little stronger.
Once the tea was made she produced mugs from a wall cupboard and milk from the refrigerator, and eventually poured out two steaming mugs of tea. She placed one of these in front of Martin, and the other on the opposite side of the table before seating herself and directly facing him. Watching her perform this simple ritual reminded Martin with a sharp pang of the occasions when Alicia had done much the same sort of thing on the days when Mrs Croft had had some time off. He thrust that memory away, trying to smother the pain it evoked. June Brent was a necessary distraction, and by trying to concentrate upon whatever tragedy lay in her background, he knew he was trying to ease his own heartache.
No sooner had she settled herself at the table than the gate communicator set on the wall of the kitchen suddenly bleeped into life. Not having heard it before, the sound initially startled Martin. He knew that the gates were electrically controlled of course, but he had received no visitors in the brief time he had been in the house. He felt irrationally annoyed that at the very point where he might have been able to discover at least some of what made his companion tick, he was to be thwarted by an unwelcome visitor!
“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked, rising to his feet.
“No-one; I can’t think of who it might be.”
Martin crossed over and operated the intercom switch.
“Who is it?” he enquired.
“Ah, is that Mr Isherwood, Mr Martin Isherwood?” asked a man’s voice made a bit tinny by the speaker.
“Speaking.”
“Ah, Mr Isherwood, I do apologise for disturbing you this late at night, my name is Peter Buxted.”
“I’m sorry, I know no one of that name.”
“No I don’t expect you do,” came the ready answer. “I am the Managing Director of Buxted Security Systems. I spoke with the late Dr Marston some months ago, and he wrote asking me to call in when I was next in the area. I’m afraid it was a terrible shock to learn that he has passed on. I've been told that you have inherited his estate, and it was my intention to telephone you to arrange an appointment at a convenient time. Unfortunately I have to leave the area early tomorrow morning, therefore I have taken the liberty of calling upon you on my way back from my last appointment in the hope that you may be able to spare me just a few minutes?”
“Mr Buxted,” Martin answered a shade acidly, “I am afraid I know nothing of any such letter, and I certainly do not wish to discuss security systems at this hour of the day.”
“I fully understand; I assure you this call has nothing whatever to do with marketing. I merely wish to introduce myself, and explain to you in person what it was that so concerned your late uncle; I have a feeling it may be of importance to you.”
Martin glanced across at his companion.
“He has been here before,” she confirmed in undertones. “I recognise his voice; I think he and Dr Marston knew each other from a long way back.”
“Very well, but I can only spare you a few minutes Mr Buxted,” Martin said. “Please drive up to the main entrance; I believe you know the way?”
He broke the connection and operated the button that controlled the gates.
“Looks like we will have to take a rain-check on the tea,” he sighed as June Brent rose to her feet. “I’ll see him in the study; hopefully he will not stay long, and if you still have time we will do that checking later?”
“If you wish,” she said, but if she was either relieved or disappointed by the interruption he couldn’t tell from her voice or her expression. “I’ll bring him directly to you.”
A couple of minutes later she ushered the unexpected visitor in with a brief announcement, and then retreated discretely somewhere into the deeper parts of the house.
“Mr Isherwood,” said the man advancing confidently into the room. “I do appreciate the fact that you are taking the trouble to see me without an appointment, I promise not to keep you long, but being in the area it was too good an opportunity to miss.”
He was a tall, well-built man in a smart business suit, and carried himself with a sort of military bearing. It was difficult to tell his age, probably somewhere in his middle or late sixties was Martin’s guess. He was a black haired individual, possessed of a full, neatly trimmed beard and moustache that concealed most of his face. His eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows in a way that spoke both of intelligence and a forceful nature.
“Mr. Buxted,” Martin said, rising from behind the desk and shaking his visitor’s hand in a perfunctory manner. “Please have a seat.”
“Allow me to express my sincere condolences on the loss of your uncle,” Peter Buxted said as he sat confidently back in the chair opposite Martin’s desk. “A little late in the day I know, yet it’s the thought that counts. I should explain that I have known your late uncle for many years, and I find it difficult to believe that he died so unexpectedly; quite a shock when I heard about it. Naturally I would have liked to attend the funeral, I’m afraid the news only reached me through a third party by which time it was too late. I understand that you have inherited the property?”
“That is correct.”
“Must have come as a bit of a surprise to you; not being that close to your uncle? In all the years I knew him, your uncle never once spoke of you; one can only guess why that was. Not that it is any of my business of course. Do you think you will take up permanent residence here?”
“I’m afraid I cannot say; why do you ask?”
“Mr Isherwood, please don’t think I am simply being inquisitive; I assure you that I do have a valid reason for asking you.”
“I shall be interested to hear it.”
The bearded man leaned forward as if anxious not to be overheard.
“I’m not quite sure how to put this,” he said in a lower voice. “As I have said, I knew Dr Marston for many years. I do not live in these parts, but being old friends I always looked him up when I was in the area. I must be honest and admit that more than once I suggested to him that a security system should be fitted to the property; not necessarily one marketed by my own company, but he laughed at the idea. I mention this fact, because it was never a big issue between us, you understand?”
“I’m not sure that I do, so allow me to be equally honest with you, Mr Buxted, and repeat: I am not in the market for a security system here or anywhere else for that matter.”
“I am sorry that you so completely misunderstand me,” he sighed. “The reason I have called to see you in person is simple. Dr Marston wrote to me some while ago and told me that he was becoming concerned that somebody was threatening his life. I immediately phoned and advised him to acquaint the police with his fears without delay. He was reluctant to do that, and when I asked him why he explained that there was nothing tangible that he could advance to support his belief. There was no convincing him, so I accordingly cancelled my appointments and came here to Springwater House. I have to admit that I could discover no corroborative evidence to support his suspicions, but as he remained convinced that some personal danger threatened I suggested again that a system should be fitted. He was reluctant to make a decision on the spot, and that was in keeping with the character of the man. He told
me that he would think about it, which is what he has said to me more than once in the past. Needless to say; I heard nothing further on the matter. Now, it goes without saying that if his subsequent death had been anything other than natural, proof or no proof, I would have unhesitatingly relayed his suspicions to the proper authorities. However, death was from natural causes I understand, therefore I had no choice than to dismiss the matter.”
“You suspected that with advancing years he was perhaps becoming a trace paranoid?” Martin asked, wondering where all this was leading.
“Well, perhaps,” he admitted. “Certainly I was fully prepared to forget all about it, but when I was in the 'Rose and Crown' in Wellworthy a day or so ago, I saw this man; tallish fellow, with blonde hair, and I realised that he was asking questions about this house.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the connection?”
“When Dr Marston first discussed his concerns with me, he told me that he had seen a fellow skulking around in the neighbourhood who’s description I suddenly realised matched the fellow I saw in the pub.”
“I see,” Martin commented. “However, being realistic, there must be any number of people in the area that would match a general description such as that?”
“I quite agree, it was the interest he was showing in this house that concerned me. He obviously wasn’t a local, so what was he trying to learn about Springwater House? I tell you, it made me suspicious, and I was on the point of accosting the fellow when he upped and left.”
“And you think this person may pose some sort of threat to me or the property, is that it?”
Peter Buxted shrugged expressively. “Who knows?” he asked rhetorically. “He certainly looked a shifty sort of character; jail-bird if ever I saw one; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he hasn’t done time. I’ve no idea what he is after, but you have to admit that this place is a little off the beaten track, and add to that the doctor’s belief that somebody was threatening him, well; it is enough to make anyone suspicious. So, with you being my old friend’s heir, I thought it only proper to warn you.”
“Well, that’s very decent of you, I appreciate it. I shall certainly be on my guard. May I offer you any refreshment before you leave?”
“It is kind of you to offer, I’m afraid I must regretfully decline; I have much to do before I leave early tomorrow, and I have done what I set out to do here.”
“Well, thank you for taking the time and trouble to call in and warn me. If you will be so kind as to leave me your business card, I may be in touch with you later if I decide that the fitting of a security system is necessary.”
His visitor rose, pulling a card from his pocket and passing it over to Martin. “Thank you for your time,” he said, “I do hope I have not alarmed you unnecessarily; perhaps we will meet again?”
“Perhaps we will at that,” Martin agreed, and escorted his visitor out into the hallway.
Peter Buxted paused, and glanced round the area.
“Hasn’t changed a bit,” he commented, heading off towards the front door. “That’s what I always liked about this place; the atmosphere. You don’t get this sort of quality these days. If it was mine, I’d leave everything as it is; unchanged since the day it was built. Well, good night Mr Isherwood.”
“Goodnight Mr Buxted,” Martin replied, and then watched as his visitor climbed into a late model Bentley parked opposite. Obviously security systems paid well!
Deep in thought, he made his way back to the kitchen, and was not overly surprised when he saw June Brent busy with some obscure domestic task on the far side of the room.
“I heard Mr Buxted leaving,” she said, glancing up at him as he entered. “I took the liberty of putting the kettle on in order that we may have that cup of tea after all.”
“An excellent idea,” he agreed, resuming the seat he had occupied before being interrupted by the unexpected caller. He was aware of her bustling quietly about, but his mind was on the black bearded man who had just left. There was something about him that didn’t ring true, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Maybe it was something he had said? On the surface he was friendly enough, and he hadn’t made any overt attempt to sell him anything. He claimed to have been a friend of his late uncle’s; but was this true?
“You say that our late visitor and my uncle were friends?” he asked as June set down fresh tea, and resumed her seat opposite him, “Was he a frequent visitor?”
“Dr Marston told me that he was an old friend,” she answered. “I’ve only seen him once or twice.”
There was something in her tone of voice that Martin interpreted as a ‘but’!
“Do I detect an element of doubt about the relationship?”
“I’m probably quite wrong,” she said almost defensively. “I was never present when they were talking together, and in any case, whatever passed between the doctor and anyone who came to see him was nothing to do with me.”
“Only you obviously have some reservations?”
“None that you would understand, I just don’t like men, particularly the pushy and overbearing types.”
“Which of course is a description that might well fit Mr Buxted,” he agreed.
“Please don’t misunderstand me; I have nothing to complain of about the man, only…”
“Only?”
“Only I had the impression that Dr Marston was never that pleased to see him, and often seemed really pre-occupied once he had left.”
“Interesting,” he observed as he took a pull at his tea. “I have to admit that my own views tend to coincide with yours. The man was charming and polite, yet I suspect that there is an almost ruthless streak lying under the surface. He told me that he had received a letter from Dr Marston before he died, expressing concern about somebody he felt might wish to do him harm. That was his reason for calling in; in case the late doctor’s fears were more than imagination. He suggested that whatever Dr Marston feared might be visited on myself.”
June looked at him in her customary expressionless fashion. “The doctor never once told me that he felt concerns about anyone who might wish him ill,” she said. “I find the whole idea most unlikely; he was probably the most widely respected and well-liked person in the whole area. In all my time with him I never heard anyone speak an ill word about him.”
“Which is rather the impression I have gained from talking to other people,” he agreed. “Yet why else would his erstwhile friend make such a claim? He certainly didn’t try to sell me a security system!”
She looked at him blankly. “I don’t think there ever was a letter,” she said at last.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I posted all Dr Marston’s mail for him as part of my duties; he was sometimes a bit forgetful about putting stamps on so I always checked. He wrote very few letters anyway, and never one to Mr Buxted.”
“I see; so the man is lying?”
She held his eyes for a moment. “I didn’t say that,” she said at last. “I only said that I have never posted a letter to him from the Doctor. That doesn’t mean that one could not have been written and posted secretly. If such a letter exists, I just don’t understand why he would ever do such a thing.”
“No more do I,” he agreed.
“Did he tell you who he thought had threatened the doctor?”
“Not exactly; he said that my uncle had described the man in his letter, and he had thought little more about it until he saw a man in the ‘Rose and Crown’ who matched the description, and was asking questions about this house. This aroused his suspicions, and was the reason why he felt I should be warned.”
She stared at her cup thoughtfully for a few seconds, and then looked up at him again. “How did he know about you?” she asked.
“I’ve asked myself the same question. I supposed at first that my uncle must have mentioned me to him, only he claimed that my uncle never spoke of me once, and I’m inclined to agree that this is true, because I cannot t
hink of any reason he would lie about such a thing. I expect that he heard from one or other of the locals that I was here to claim my inheritance; it seems to be pretty common knowledge now. There are several ways it may have happened, and however he learned about me, he seemed to know quite a lot.”
“Maybe he made it his business to find out?”
It was obvious to Martin that she didn’t like Peter Buxted much and was suspicious of him. Was that because she didn’t like him as a person simply because he was a man, or was there something else?
“Now why on earth would he want to do that?” he asked curiously.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Who was this man he claimed was asking questions about this house?” she asked, changing the subject, “I mean, he could have made the whole story up?”
“Ordinarily I’d be inclined to agree with you, only again I suspect he was telling the truth. I was talking to Syd in the 'Rose and Crown' myself lunchtime, and he mentioned the same person, and confirmed that he was asking questions. I think you will agree it is an unlikely coincidence?”
“You are probably right,” she admitted almost grudgingly. “What was he like, this person in the pub asking the questions?”
“As near as I can recollect, he was described as being tall, baby-faced, blond-haired, and shifty looking.”
He was looking at her as he spoke, and he immediately detected the slightest of reactions to his words. A mere tightening of the eyes, a slight setting of the chin, it was over almost before it became visible. It was so fleeting he knew he could have imagined it, yet instinct assured him otherwise.
“Does this sound like someone you know?” he asked casually, covertly assessing her reaction.
“No-one I can think of,” she answered at once, yet somehow her words didn’t ring true; the answer had come too quick and too pat. She glanced up at the kitchen clock as she spoke, and added; “If you don’t mind, I’m a bit tired now; if it is all right with you I will assist with sorting out the upper rooms some other time; tomorrow afternoon perhaps?”