by A. B. King
“If you wish,” he agreed, surprised at her sudden decision not to continue working as they had agreed. It was obvious to him now that the description of the blond haired man had disturbed her in some way. He was tempted to press her on the subject but had the sense to realise that if he tried to interrogate her she would withdraw into her shell once more, and all the ground he had gained would be lost.
“Yes,” he added, glancing at his watch, “I suppose the time is getting on a bit; I hadn’t realised. Thanks for all the help, and the tea.”
“I’ll be back in time to prepare your breakfast,” she said, rising from the table, “Goodnight.”
“Good night, June,” he said, and watched her as she left the room, giving the impression that she could not escape from his presence quick enough. A few moments later he heard the front door close behind her as she left the house.
He sat there at the table wondering what it was about the blond haired man she had recognised yet obviously did not wish to admit to. Well, it was none of his business; if she wished to tell him, she would do it in her own good time. By and large he was pleased with the progress he had made so far in getting her to thaw just a little; there was no sense in trying to rush the job. His mind reverted to his unexpected visitor. If June Brent was to be believed he wasn’t exactly the bosom friend of his late uncle that he claimed to be. They were undoubtedly acquainted; the question in his mind was whether the association was based on friendship or something else. He claimed that he had received a letter mentioning a possible threat from the man he had seen in the pub, the same man Martin imagined he had probably seen in the vicinity of the house. June Brent doubted the existence of such a letter, and he had no reason to suppose that she would lie about such a thing. On the other hand, the man Buxted had described could very well be someone that June Brent knew, judging by her reaction. Was the whole business nothing more than coincidence, or was something decidedly odd going on?
What was it Peter Buxted said that hadn’t rung true? He ran through in his mind the comparatively brief meeting, and the things that were mentioned, looking for something that jarred. For several seconds he couldn’t figure it out, and then suddenly the penny dropped. It was what had been said just as he was leaving.
“Hasn’t changed a bit,” Peter Buxted had commented as he surveyed the hall. But it had changed; there was additional panelling; he had seen the receipt for the work in the papers he had been examining earlier. The lighting was quite good in the hall; he couldn’t help but have noticed it. By his own account he had been to the house both before and after this work had been carried out. Was he just plain unobservant, or was the man lying? He sighed as he realised that he was trying to make something out of nothing; why on earth would a man lie about something as trivial as that? He shook his head, and dismissing the whole business from his mind he returned into the study.
Chapter Seven. Monday Night.
Martin spent the rest of the evening sorting methodically through the remainder of the papers left by his late uncle, alert for anything that might suggest there was more to things than met the eye. He was hoping that he would discover something which might explain why he had bequeathed his estate to a nephew he had never seemed to bother with in life. In spite of his hopes he found no explanation or anything to indicate that his deceased relative was anything other than what he purported to be; a well respected retired family G.P. By the end of the evening, as he drew ever nearer to the bottom of the box, he had more or less arrived at the conclusion he really was allowing his imagination to run away with him. Common sense told him the probability was high that Peter Buxted was perfectly genuine; that the yellow haired man was just co-incidental, that June Brent’s reaction to matters existed only in his own imagination, and that his inheritance was in all probability nothing more than the result of an old man’s whim.
He had come to Springwater House in an effort to distract his mind from his own private grief, and undoubtedly he was creating mysteries where no mysteries existed, simply to enhance that distraction. About the only genuine ‘mystery’ was why a well-loved and widely respected general practitioner had been so completely estranged from his only sibling and why, if the inheritance was not just a whim, he had subsequently left his estate to a nephew with whom he had had no contact since early childhood? He had hoped that by searching through the material he had obtained from the solicitors he would find something in the way of a clue, yet as he approached the last few files and papers he suspected that was about to be disappointed. If there was indeed any sort of ‘reason’ behind his uncle’s decision it seemed it was forever destined to remain a mystery. He was still methodically examining the last few items when his mobile phone rang.
“Hello?” he said perfunctorily as he flipped it open and held it to his ear.
“Hi Dad!” came a familiar voice.
“Beverly!” he exclaimed in delight as he recognised his daughter’s usual bubbly tones. “Lovely to hear from you; how’s everything?”
“Everything’s great,” she responded chirpily. “Listen dad, I just had to phone you; we’ve all had some terrific news!”
“What’s that?”
“The school is being closed down for about a week!”
“What!” he exclaimed.
“It’s true; we’re all on holiday!”
“You’re not serious?”
“Honest; you will get a phone call about it tomorrow morning from Mrs Carruthers.”
“Why, what on earth has happened?” he asked in astonishment.
“Don’t worry dad, this is not St Trinians; we haven’t tried burning the place down!”
“Well, that’s a relief; so what has happened?”
“Mary Hardacre, she’s a girl in the upper fourth, has gone down with some horrible bug; Bubonic Plague or Legionnaires Disease or something like that. Whatever it is, it’s supposed to be highly infectious, and they carted her off to hospital this morning. Since then some big-wig from the Department of Health has been here, and says the school must be closed as a precaution. I think they are going to fumigate the place or whatever it is they do when they think there’s an infection. Anyway, we will all be given a letter to be passed on to a doctor if any of us shows sign of being ill.”
“You are not sickening for anything yourself are you?”
“Not me, dad; I’m bomb-proof; you ought to know that!”
It was a fact; Martin knew from experience that his daughter was an extremely healthy girl, and even when people all round her were going down with colds or flu she rarely picked up an infection, and even when she did, she threw it off very quickly.
“Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I’d better come up for you tomorrow and bring you home?”
“I was hoping you’d say that; can you manage just before lunch?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, only now that I come to think of it, we won’t actually be going home.”
“Oh?”
“I sent you a postcard about it, but I suppose it hasn’t reached you yet. I’m staying at Springwater House in Wellworthy for a few days. It’s a big old house that belonged to your great uncle; I can’t remember if I told you or not, but he died recently, and I’m here sorting everything out.”
“I didn’t even know I had a great uncle?”
“No, I have to admit that I haven’t thought much about him either, he was your paternal grandmother’s brother.”
“Well, that sounds great,” she said, and then added hastily; “Not great that he’s dead; I’m jolly sorry about that of course. I mean great that we will be going somewhere other than home.”
He knew exactly what she meant. She had coped remarkably well with the loss of her mother, yet being at home, as he knew only too well from his own experience, would inevitably bring too many painful memories flooding back.
“Yes, well; look on it as an unexpected week in the country,” he advised.
“I love big old houses,” she said in her usu
al excited manner, “so I’m sure I’ll have great time; I hope it’s haunted?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh well, can’t have everything I suppose.” She paused, and then added in a slightly wheedling tone he picked up on at once; “There’s just one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s my friend Georgie; you remember her don’t you?”
Martin had vague recollections of a rather serious girl that Beverly had teamed up with at the school.
“Sure,” he answered, wondering what was coming.
“Well, her parents are in America, and there isn’t anyone else she can go to; can she come with me?”
“Well,” he started to say.
“It’s all right,” she interrupted, “I’ve spoken to her mother on the telephone, and she says if you don’t mind, she will be extremely grateful, and Mrs Carruthers will ask you properly tomorrow. She won’t be any trouble; please say you don’t mind?”
It was on the tip of Martin’s tongue to say that it really wasn’t at all practical; that there was no Mrs Croft to take on the responsibility of looking after two boisterous young girls, quite aside from the propriety of the matter now that he was a widower. Quite apart from that, he wouldn’t know what on earth to do with them. On the other hand he also realised just how disappointed she would be if he said no, and now that Alicia was gone he realised that he needed his daughter even more than ever. He had met Georgie’s parents some while ago when Beverley had been invited to stay with them during last summer’s vacation, and he rather disliked not helping them out in the circumstances. If Beverley wanted to bring her friend, and the Head was agreeable, then why not?
“Well, if you are absolutely sure that nobody has any objections?”
“Oh Dad, that’s great,” she exclaimed delightedly, and then as an obvious aside to someone in the room with her, “I told you it would be all right; Dad will come and get us tomorrow!”
“Beverley,” he called loudly to bring her attention back to the phone again. “You make jolly sure that Mrs Carruthers understands that, well, you know; that we will be here on our own. What I mean is, there’s no Mrs Croft, and-”
“Oh don’t worry about all that nonsense Dad, Georgie knows you are not going to eat her.”
“That’s not quite what I meant!”
“I know what you meant; your secret life as a sex-mad monster preying on little schoolgirls,” she laughed, then added; “Don't blow blood vessel; I’ll tell Mrs Carruthers that Georgie and I will be sharing a room; how’s that?”
“I just hope you do,” Martin said dubiously. “Anyway, you make certain that Georgie brings everything with her she needs, I don’t have anything here like there is at home, clean clothing, toiletries-”
“Yes Dad, I know all of that,” she cut in. “She will have everything ready, don’t worry!”
“Right, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“We will be waiting,” she said, and then added in a softer voice, “thanks Dad; good night.”
“Good night Beverley.”
He broke the connection and sat back in his chair, his mind now filled with the quite unexpected event that had thrust itself across his horizon. Having a couple of children wished upon him at virtually a moment’s notice was certainly not something he had bargained on when he had decided to come to Wellworthy for a few days. After he thought about it for a couple of minutes, he suddenly realised that, inconvenient or otherwise, he was actually looking forward to seeing them! It had been so difficult allowing Beverley to return to her school, and when she had gone, that was when the depression had really hit him. Maybe it was only for a week, yet in a way, having two youngsters running riot around the place might be just the tonic he needed.
Then it occurred to him that there were practical considerations that needed taking care of. It was one thing to say yes to taking on a couple of youngsters, it was another to get everything organised to receive and house them. He was not a particularly well-domesticated man, and there was no Mrs Croft who would have taken such a situation in her stride. The big question was; how would June Brent react to things? There was only one way to find out. He picked up the phone and dialled the number that would put him directly through to the flat. The phone rang for some minutes, and he started to wonder if perhaps she had already retired or was in the shower or somewhere else away from the phone. Then he heard the received lifted.
“Hello June,” he said at once, “I do hope I haven’t disturbed you?”
“No,” she responded in an odd tone of voice. “I was in another room.”
“I apologise for calling you at this hour, I’m afraid something has come up rather unexpectedly that I need to talk to you about it and I’d just as soon not wait until the morning.”
“Not bad news I hope?” she asked.
“No, nothing like that,” he answered quickly. “The situation is this; I have a daughter, her name is Beverly, and she is away at boarding school. She has just telephoned to say that the school has been suddenly closed down for a week due to some health scare; I have to fetch her tomorrow.”
“I see; you are telling me that you will be away tomorrow, is that it?”
“Not exactly.” He hesitated, momentarily unsure of how to explain matters to her. “The thing is, I will be bringing her back here; there is nowhere else she can go at such short notice, and to make matters worse, she will have her friend with her. I’m afraid this has rather caught me on the hop. I was wondering, well, to be blunt, I am wondering if you would be prepared to take on some additional responsibility for a week? I mean, there will have to be a bedroom prepared, food to be got in and goodness knows what else. I am fully aware that you have said that you will not undertake additional hours, or accept responsibility for entertaining, so if you can’t manage this extra work I shall fully understand?”
There was silence for a few moments, and he could almost picture her weighing up the situation.
“Are there no other relatives?” she asked at last.
“I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “I honestly cannot think of anyone I can call on at such short notice. I expect Mrs Croft my housekeeper would take the responsibility on if I really pressed her, I just don’t like the thought of my daughter being alone in the house where her mother died so recently. Of course, if you cannot help, I will have return home and complete my work here at a later date.”
“I see,” she said. “And I take it you don’t particularly wish to cut short your visit here if you can avoid it?”
“Frankly, no; now that I have made a start on things I would prefer to get them finished. I’m not sure when I will find the time otherwise; business commitments you understand. If you are unable to help, maybe I can rustle up someone from Wellworthy to come here for a few days? Trouble is, it will be at very short notice, and I don’t really much fancy putting such responsibility onto a complete stranger.”
There was another brief silence, and then she asked; “How old are these girls?”
“They will both be thirteen in a few weeks.”
“I see,” she said, then after a pause she added; “As it happens, I am due some holiday from Scroggins. I will see in the morning if I take a week off as from tomorrow. If I can get leave, and it’s pretty quiet at work at the moment so I don’t expect any problems with short notice, I should be able to help out. I’ve always liked caring for youngsters, so this will make an interesting change. Yes, on thinking about it, I’m sure that I will be able to have everything ready for you when you return.”
He heaved a huge sigh as he heard her words. “You have no idea of how relieved I am to hear you say that,” he said. “I do so much appreciate you taking this on. First thing in the morning I will open charge accounts at whatever shops and stores you use; anything you think will be needed to cater for a couple of youngsters, just get it.”
“Very well; I will bring a list with me at breakfast time of what I feel is necessary, and the va
rious suppliers I anticipate using,” she said.
“That will be fine,” he said, “and I repeat; I really am most grateful. Right, I’d better let you get back to what you were doing. Thanks once again; goodnight.”
“Good night.”
He replaced the phone and sat back in his chair again, his mind now pre-occupied by the sudden and completely unexpected turn of events. In a way, now that he had time to get used to the idea, he was actually glad that he would be able to have a few days with his daughter again. He had been so absorbed with his own grief he knew that he had failed to give her the sympathy, understanding and support she had needed at the time. Now that she had been back at school for a few weeks, in a sense the dust had settled a little; having her with him again would help him to make it up to her.
As his mind revolved around these matters, he continued to absently sift through the last of the papers on his desk. Old receipts, quotes for minor property repairs, notes to tradesmen; so much of the residue from the box was rubbish. He came across a small blue folder, and on casually opening it he saw that it contained old bank statements. A glance at the date showed them to be a good twenty years out of date and like so much of what he had looked at, really only fit for destroying. Out of sheer habit his eyes glanced down the neatly printed columns of transactions, and as his eyes reached the bottom of the page he suddenly stopped. Something was ringing a bell in his mind, and he went down the figures again, finally stopping at a single line entry about half way down the page. It was an entry for a direct debit payment of five hundred pounds. It was paid direct to another account, and it was the number of this account that had caught his eye. He looked at it again to ensure that he was not mistaken. He recognised the number immediately; it was his late mother’s personal account!