by A. B. King
They stood there looking at each other, and Martin could hear the clock on the wall slowly ticking the seconds away. She didn’t move and she didn’t say any more, they just looked at each other, and suddenly he began to feel increasingly uncomfortable and unsure of himself because the desire to crush her to his breast to comfort her was suddenly so difficult to resist.
“I think,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides, “that it might be better if I leave you to it now, and I hope you will join the girls and myself at dinner? Until then, well, I’ll go back and do a little more jumble sorting I think.” He paused, and then added; “I will be in the lounge after the girls have retired; if you still really want to talk to me I shall be there waiting. Only come if you feel it is the right thing for you to do, and I will understand if you decide in the end that you do not wish to tell me anything. Whatever your decision I promise you it will make no difference between us, nor will I ever raise the matter again.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly, and there was a ring of sincerity in her voice. Without a further word he left the kitchen and returned once more to the top landing.
He worked mechanically, and with no real interest in what he was doing, his mind far from the task in hand. He kept thinking about June Brent who was Cassandra Carpenter, and perhaps even Mrs Collins as well. From being simply an intriguing challenge; an enigma that was a necessary diversion to enable him to come to terms with his bereavement, she seemed to be figuring more and more in his life. The paramount question now in his own mind was what did she really mean to him? Why should he feel so guilty and upset because she was? Why did he feel it so important that he should do all he could to help her? Why did it all feel so much more important than mere concern over the welfare of another person?
On the face of it she meant nothing to him; she was simply a paid employee, albeit one with connections to his own family. She appeared to have had a terrible background, and he needed to remind himself that he only had her word for the details of this. It seemed unlikely that she was lying, yet why was he accepting as Gospel everything she told him? Up until a matter of a short while ago he had tried to regard her as nothing more than an interesting puzzle, even though he was undeniably attracted towards her in both the physical and emotional sense. When he had risen from the kitchen table, his over-riding emotion should only have been one of sympathy for a suffering human being. Patently, it was much more than that. The root of the problem was that he couldn’t really understand the true nature of his own feelings towards her. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing more than the physical need of a man for an attractive woman, yet he feared it was now going much deeper than that, and in all honesty he wasn't sure he could cope with that realisation.
When he had placed his hands on her shoulders, when he had looked into her eyes, when he had felt the warmth of her flesh through the thin material of her blouse, he had suddenly become acutely aware of her as a wonderfully desirable person in every sense, and it was this sudden awareness that had shaken him. He hadn’t thought of another woman since Alicia had died, and even now he still pined for her, so what really was it he was feeling for Cassandra Carpenter; simple carnal desire, or was it something else? He tried to rationalise the situation as being nothing more than evidence of a long suppressed sexually motivated requirement, activated by the proximity of an attractive woman. The effort was a non-starter; he knew instinctively it was much more than that. He had observed more than once since meeting her that she was physically attractive, yet there had been no thought of trying to forge anything other than a friendly working relationship. Maybe that had been true at the outset yet in the brief time he had known her she had started to grow upon him in a manner he had never anticipated. When he had touched her in the kitchen he had suddenly experienced the desire to hold her, to crush her to his breast, to possess her body and soul. Was that purely carnal lust; an unexpected reaction to the unfairness of his own bereavement? Was he, as he was starting to genuinely fear, simply trying to make use of her?
He tried to think about the whole question objectively. If it had been lust and nothing else he might have felt it easier to understand; only he knew instinctively that it wasn’t just a physical thing. He had no choice than to admit it to himself that there was something about the woman that drew him now like a magnet, something he had not experienced since he had first met Alicia. What was it? It couldn’t be love; he loved Alicia, and he still loved her. He would love her to the day of his own death, so how could he possibly have fallen for another woman? No, it just had to be lust and nothing else! It was the logical explanation and yet try as he might, he could not convince himself of the fact.
He thought again and again about those few brief seconds in the kitchen when he had placed is hands upon her shoulders, when their eyes had met. He recalled the shock that had gone through him as he finally recognised that he wanted her, not just in the physical sense, but in every sense! He knew in his heart that if she had shown one sign of being drawn to him in equal measure they would have embraced, and from there on God alone knew what might have happened!
He knew that June had seen this latent desire in him much sooner than he had recognised its existence within himself; she had certainly sensed it the day she had invited him briefly into her home. He had thought at the time it was only something purely physical, and that was shocking enough, but she had recognised something he had failed to see for himself. No wonder she had been wary of him. Whatever it was he was feeling, there was no future in it; the stark truth was that she didn’t want a man in that sense at all. From the little she had told him, physical contact with any man was the last thing in the world she desired. She was developing a trust in him because he placed no demands of that nature upon her. In a brief moment of madness he could so easily have destroyed all of that hard-won trust. The thought made him grow cold inside.
As far as he knew, it was quite possible that the 'Mrs' was not a courtesy title, and that she really was a married woman. Maybe she had not as yet made any reference to a husband, but until he knew that she was a widow or a divorcee he had to accept that she was married to somebody else, and thus beyond his reach even if she could ever be interested in him. What seemed to him to be the one important factor in the whole business was that she appeared to be developing a degree of trust in him, and he knew instinctively that she only gave trust warily, and to very few. If he once betrayed his baser feelings, that trust would inevitably evaporate. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to cope with that; to see the look of betrayal in her eyes would be more than he could bear.
He worked on in a mechanical and desultory fashion for maybe an hour, and then finally gave up and went for a shower. As he was getting ready to descend for the evening meal he heard the girls clatter up the stairs to their own room. Just hearing them made him feel suddenly guilty; instead of mooning about June Brent or Cassandra Carpenter or whoever she really was; someone whose problems he could so easily add to, he should be concentrating on his daughter. There was no question but that was what he ought to be doing, only of course it was one of those decisions more easily made than adopted!
Some while later they all foregathered at the table, and both girls seemed delighted that June was joining them for the meal. The youngsters prattled on about their cycle ride around the local lanes, the things they had seen and where they hoped to go to on the morrow. They went on at some length about the complexities of butterfly hunting, and even more about their plans for the tree house they were building. Their chattering helped to ease away any tension that may have otherwise existed between Martin and the housekeeper, and for that he was glad. He looked at her covertly from time to time, and was pleased to see that she had either recovered her spirits or was being extremely good at hiding her feelings. She entered freely into the discourse of the girls, suggesting to them several places of interest within easy reach of young cyclists, even offering to pack them a picnic lunch to take with them in the morning shoul
d the weather appear suitable.
“Mrs Brent,” said Beverley suddenly as they sat at the table at the end of the meal, “May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” was the immediate response, “and can we please drop this ‘Mrs Brent’ business? You are making me feel at least ninety years old, you must both call me June.”
She glanced quickly at Martin as she spoke, as if expecting him to disapprove.
“Alright then, if you insist, June,” Beverley answered. “I was wondering; do you have a computer in your flat? I mean, there doesn’t seem to be one in the house, I’ve left my lap-top at school, and-”
“And naturally you want to catch up on your homework?” June asked innocently, yet with a mischievous smile on her face.
“No way!” the girl exclaimed hotly, “I just wanted to look something up on the Internet, that’s all.”
“I see, well yes, as it happens, I do have one. I’ll tell you what; if you both come and give me a hand in the kitchen once we have finished you can both come with me to make use of it. Is that a deal?”
Both girls chorused instant approval, and presently they trooped off together, leaving Martin to his own devices. Still feeling unsettled, he returned to the upper landing and continued with the slow methodical sorting of the remaining rooms. Much of what he uncovered was of no conceivable value, and put aside for disposal. A certain amount he put with the stuff that might perhaps be auctionable, and he was mildly disappointed that he uncovered of personal interest. He was virtually at the end of the task when tucked away inside an old box he had earlier put to one side and subsequently overlooked he came across an expensive-looking tooled-leather presentation case. He opened the catch and looked inside and saw that it contained of all things a stethoscope. He was no expert in matters medical, yet to him it looked fairly old, of good quality and as far as he could tell, unused. There was an inscription on the lid, and he peered at it to read the small gold lettering.
‘Presented to Dr Henry Lloyd Marston’ he read, ‘from his colleagues at Charterhouse Hospital.’ It was dated the first of June, 1970.
He sat there looking at it for a few moments, and in an odd sort of way just seeing that token of appreciation somehow brought him even closer to the uncle he had never really known. He wondered what outstanding service he had rendered to warrant an award of such a nature. More than ever, he wished that he had known the man in life instead of through the eyes of the few who had had that good fortune. After gazing at it thoughtfully for a few moments, he closed the case and picked it up, deciding that of all the things he had uncovered in the house, this forgotten presentation was the only thing of real importance as far as he was concerned. Everything he had heard about his uncle since he had been at Springwater House had slowly built up an image of him in his mind, and somehow, this presentation brought it all together. He was determined to keep it as a permanent memento.
As he descended the stairs with the case under his arm, he heard the girl’s voices emanating from the kitchen. He glanced at his watch and noted that it was already half past nine. He crossed over to the study, placed the case on the desk, and then went across to the kitchen where he saw that June was preparing a light meal for the girls before they retired.
“Had a good time?” he asked as he entered. “I hope you haven’t made too much of a nuisance of yourselves’?”
“Hi Dad,” Beverley responded excitedly. “Georgie and I have had an absolutely fabulous evening; June’s got some great CD’s; she’s even got a copy of the ‘Barbecue Boys’ latest release!”
The weird cacophony of discordant noises that appeared to send Beverley and other youngster of a similar age into raptures of delight never ceased to amaze Martin. He had tried more than once to make sense of it before reluctantly accepting that it was completely beyond him.
“I have mixed tastes,” June explained, catching his expression. “I think there is more to the lyrics of some of them than meets the eye, so-to-speak!”
“I’ll take your word on that!”
“And there were some really great games as well,” Georgie interposed.
“I thought you only wanted to make quick use of the computer?” Martin said, seating himself at the table, “I didn’t expect you to monopolise all of June’s free time!”
“Oh, we took care of that as well,” June answered, looking up briefly from her preparations. “All very interesting as it happens.”
“Oh? Not more pop music I hope?”
“No, we were doing a bit of important research on the internet,” Beverly said.
“I thought you said that you weren’t interested in catching up with your homework?”
“I’m not, at least, not directly,” his daughter answered seriously. “I just needed to check up on something.”
“Like what?”
“Butterflies.”
Martin blinked at her. “Now, why on earth would you want to do a thing like that?” he asked curiously.
“Well, it was something that Mr Edwards said; it didn’t seem quite right but I wasn’t sure enough to say so. We are studying entomology at school as part of the biology programme this year. By sheer coincidence Miss Jenkins, she's our biology teacher, was talking about Macroglossum Stellatarum; you know, the Humming Bird Hawk Moth, the one Mr Edwards has been going on about. Well, what she was telling us didn’t tie in with what he was saying.”
“Well, you must have heard your teacher wrong; the man is a scientist and head of entomology at some university; Sussex I think he said. If he doesn’t know what he is talking about on the subject, then who would?”
“That’s what we thought,” Georgie agreed, supporting her friend. “We talked about it after he had left, because it would be great if we could shoot Miss Jenkins down in flames, and that is why we asked if we could look it up on June’s computer just to make sure before we went and made idiots of ourselves.”
“So, how did your research go?”
“Well,” Beverley said in a conspiratorial tone. “I sneaked one of his specimens when he wasn’t looking, and kept it. When I looked it up on the computer, I discovered that he was confusing the Hummingbird Hawk Moth with the Privet Hawk-Moth, Sphinx Ligustri. The two might look similar at a quick glance, yet when looked at closer they are obviously quite different.”
“She’s quite right,” June interposed. “I checked their results; on the face of it, it really does look as if our expert has got his lines crossed.”
“And that’s not all,” Georgie announced, obviously keen not to be left out of the discovery of the error. “We looked up Mr Edwards on the computer as well. He is not on the list of staff at Sussex University, which is what he said, nor is he listed on the sites of any other universities we could think of. We couldn’t find any trace of him at all!”
“Are you absolutely sure?” Martin asked doubtfully.
“June checked our results; there’s no mistake.”
“It is true,” June confirmed, laying food and drink on the table for the girls. “On the face of it, it would seem that Mr Edwards is a bit of a fraud!”
Chapter Fifteen. Wednesday Night.
After the youngsters had eventually been persuaded to retire, Martin settled down in the lounge. He wasn’t sure if June would come in to talk to him, yet something seemed to tell him that she would. He had said that he would be there if she decided that she really wanted to, and in a way he rather hoped that she would, because he badly wanted to clear the air. He found it increasingly difficult to imagine that there was anything sinister about the woman, and he felt convinced that the question mark that hung over her would be quickly dissipated, either from what she would tell him, of perhaps from the researches being undertaken by Charles’ investigator. In the brief time he had known her he had become aware of her natural integrity and goodness and could conceive of nothing that would shake that strong inner conviction.
As he sat there quietly waiting, he sought to distract himself by musing over what
the girls had uncovered about the ‘mad butterfly hunter’, as he now thought of the man. June had certainly verified the girl’s findings, and on the face of it there seemed little doubt that the man was not exactly what he claimed to be. It was far too easy to jump to conclusions and imagine all sorts of things, and as he had assured the girls whilst talking on the subject, more than likely there was a simple explanation. He could be, for example, an enthusiastic amateur who had invented his background in order to follow up what he may sincerely believe was a major breakthrough, thereby gaining fame and fortune as a result. Certainly he had not attempted anything beyond his avowed interests. All he had talked about was Lepidoptary, and even if he was wrong in his assumption about discovering something quite new, it didn’t make him a criminal. He finally decided that if the man returned as promised, he might perhaps have a quiet word with him to get at the truth.
Any further thoughts he may have had on the subject vanished abruptly when he heard the lounge door open, and on glancing up he saw June entering the room. She had shed the apron she had been wearing for clearing up after the girls had retired, and seen in the soft light of the standard lamp she looked somehow younger, and her sheer natural femininity came through quite strongly. She walked over towards him, and he could see the determined set of her jaw. He didn’t need to be a genius to realise that she had been screwing herself up to face whatever it was that lay in her background by relating it to him. He rose to greet her as she approached.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” he said. “Sit yourself down; you have had a rather long and tiring day.”
She gave him a fleetingly rapid smile of acknowledgement, and sat on the chair opposite the one he then resumed for himself.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
She shook her head. “You wanted to know about Mrs Collins,” she said tautly.
“If you want the honest truth I very much regret having asked you,” he responded. “I don’t need to be a genius to see that my words are still causing you considerable stress, and truthfully, that was never my intention. Even though you are here, and I am pleased that you are, you still don’t have to tell me anything.”