by A. B. King
“I cannot for a moment imagine my father agreeing to something like that?”
“Perhaps that was never part of the agreement he entered into when he decided to take part in whatever enterprise was being cooked up at that time? If the murders were something that wasn’t planned, then the need to get rid of the vehicle may have only become necessary at the last moment. Maybe your father drove it to Castleman’s yard believing that he would get a replacement vehicle; all sorts of things may have happened, we just don’t know. Personally, I doubt he did drive it there; I’ve a feeling that somebody else did that.”
He could sense the anguish his words must have caused, yet beyond a tightening round the eyes she did not betray the fact overtly. “Which makes it even more likely that he is dead, don’t you think?” she asked tightly.
“Yes, I’m afraid so; I’m sorry.”
She looked down at the table for a few moments, a faraway look in her eyes. There were no tears, but he could sense only too well how she felt.
“I suppose I’ve always known in my heart he was dead,” she said at last, turning to look at him once more, “Only I have never wanted to admit it to myself. Well, it’s no good me continuing to fool myself any longer; time to grow up and face reality. If only I knew where his body was, maybe; but that I suppose is wishful thinking.”
He leaned over the table and took hold of her hands. “Unless I’m much mistaken,” he said quietly, “if he is dead, then I believe he is buried somewhere in the grounds of Springwater House.”
Her eyes widened a little as she took in what he was saying. “Surely you don’t think that your uncle had anything to do with his death? You have to be mistaken; I can tell you for a fact that he would never do anything like that!”
“No, nor do I believe it to be possible either, yet there is a connection.”
“Connection?”
“June, just think about it for a minute; why on Earth do you think my uncle took you under his wing?”
“I don’t know; I always assumed it was because he was such a kind hearted person?”
“I do not doubt that, yet he must have helped countless people over the years and never took them into his house and into his life in such a complete way. Did you not tell me that when you first talked with my uncle, you disclosed to him your true identity?”
“Yes; what difference would that make?”
“I think he realised at once from what you told him who your father was, I think he knew who killed him, and being the sort of honourable man he was he determined to do all he could for you to atone in some small measure for what had happened to your father. You said yourself he even wanted to leave you his entire estate; why else would he want to do such a thing? You have to admit that if he knew that your father had been murdered, yet unable to disclose that fact for reasons we cannot even guess at, it makes sense out of an otherwise illogical situation?”
She looked at him reflectively for a few moments. “I never thought of it like that before,” she said at last. “Now you put it into words, yes it does make sense of sorts. Only I simply cannot understand why, if he knew that murder had been committed, he never alerted the police?”
“Because I think the killer had some hold over him.”
“You mean, blackmail?”
“Of a sort, yes; I can find no evidence that he was paying out large sums of money to anyone, but yes, I think he was blackmailed into silence.”
“Then, if you are right, what should we do about it?” she asked. “I mean, if we find my father, this whole terrible business will all have to come out, won’t it?”
“I’m not sure yet what we should do for the best,” he admitted, and then added a bit hastily; “Look out, the girls are coming back now, we will talk about it later this afternoon if you like?”
The meal was a pleasant affair, and June managed to keep her feelings well hidden as she laughed and joked with the youngsters. In between whiles Martin managed to have a few words with Syd the landlord and ascertained that he had seen nothing else of the tall man that Martin was certain was June’s husband. He hoped this meant that he had moved away from the area yet doubted it. For his money, the man would try to make trouble for June sooner or later, and in a way Martin hoped that he would try; he wouldn’t need much of an excuse to thrash the man, and would no doubt enjoy the experience!
Whilst he was in the bar area he bumped into Jim Perkins. They chatted together for a few moments, and then Martin invited him out to be introduced to Beverley, and of course her friend Georgie. They all stood around chatting for a while, and then the solicitor’s clerk suddenly remembered the time, and with rapid excuses, scuttled off back to his office. Martin decided that it was time that they made a move also, and having settled up with Syd, he escorted the others back to the car. When they finally got back to Springwater House the girls announced that they would go out again on their cycles, and once they had vanished from sight, Martin went out on the terrace where he was eventually joined by June, who brought with her a tray with cups and saucers together with a pot of tea.
Once tea was poured, Martin outlined in more detail the gist of what he had learned from various sources, and by stringing together all the bits and pieces of information he had gathered, outlined what he honestly believed it all added up to. June followed his words carefully and without interruption, and when he finally came to an end, he waited to see what her reaction would be.
“So, everything points to the fact that when my father left for this ‘new job’ all those years ago, he actually knew that he was coming here to take part in a major crime that was being planned,” she said at last. “His job being to provide transport and a fast get away for the criminals, is that right?”
“That’s how I see it.”
“And he wouldn’t have known that murder was being planned?”
“I very much doubt it. Maybe it wasn’t actually ‘planned’ at all.”
“But why use his own car? I mean, from what little I know of such things, criminals tend to steal cars for this sort of job, and dispose of them afterwards?”
“I don’t doubt that that was what happened, yet he would still need his own car to get to Wellworthy. It is not impossible that he rendezvoused with the killer or killers here at Springwater House. He would then use the ‘get-away’ car that perhaps was already here and waiting in order to provide the fast get-away service or whatever it was that he was being retained for. When all was done he would then return home in his own vehicle. I have a feeling that the murders changed everything.”
She sat quiet for a bit trying to picture the scene in her own mind
“I fear you are probably right,” she said at last. “It’s so difficult trying to get one’s head round all this.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Are you are saying that the criminals knew the victims would use this particular route you have mentioned because of some sort of tie-up with the police?”
“There had to be prior knowledge, and far as I know, that sort of information could only come from that source.”
“You also said that Sergeant Burton was a frequent visitor to Springwater House,” she said, half to herself, “and that suddenly he never came any more. Is that evidence of some sort of guilty participation in murder, or simply coincidence? You tell me that Mrs Jefferson suspected, probably rightly so, that he had some sort of hold over Dr Marston, and she has held her peace all these years because she thought the doctor had murdered him?”
“I believe she was right to suspect that somebody was killed here, only I now think the victim was your father, and it’s an odds-on bet that Phillip Burton or one of his associates was the killer. I think that it is most probable my uncle knew that the man was ruthless, and that is why he ostracised my mother and myself; he was genuinely trying to save us. Why couldn’t he speak out? The only reason I can think of is some sort of blackmail.”
“Then as far as you are concerned, either Phillip Burton, or
someone he was involved with is aware that a body could be found here, and wants to prevent it from coming to light?”
“That’s about the size of it. That would also explain why such a high bid has been made anonymously for the purchase of Springwater House. Almost certainly ‘Carl Bremner’, the name used by the bidder, is a pseudonym for the killer. If, as I suspect, Phillip Burton is the killer, it leaves me wondering if, after effectively disappearing from the scene, he has returned to the area after all these years?”
“If he has, surely he would be recognised?”
“After twenty five years? I doubt it.”
She fell silent again, her mind so obviously back in the days of her childhood when her father had set off on the journey from which he was destined never to return.
“It’s very strange,” she said quietly at last, “ever since I came to Springwater House I’ve felt that my father was close by. Now I’m finally convinced that he is very much closer that I ever imagined. If we could find out where he is buried, then we would have something definite to take to the police. Maybe after all these years whoever was responsible for his death will never be caught, yet I would feel better if we tried.”
“June,” he said gently, “much as I’m tempted to agree, I'm starting to think there is enough circumstantial evidence already to support the idea of what may have happened here, perhaps we really ought to go to the police now?”
“Maybe there is,” she agreed, looking at him with sorrowful eyes, “and I know it is the right and proper thing to do, but will you not bear with me for just this weekend? I’ve been searching for my father ever since he vanished; it has been the driving force that has kept me going when I was so tempted to give up on everything. After twenty-five years, will these last few days make any difference? Don’t you see; if I can only find him, then all the hope and speculation of a lifetime will be over, and nothing much will matter anymore. Is one last week-end of endeavour, now that we are so close to learning the truth, too much to ask you for?”
He could see the appeal in her eyes and knew he could never refuse her.
“Alright,” he conceded at last, “as you say, a few more days after all this time will make little difference to an official investigation. Finding his grave won’t be an easy task with the girls here, and there is an awful lot of ground to be searched, because if he is here at all, he could be anywhere.”
“I know,” she said, and he could read the gratitude she felt by his concession in her eyes. “In a way that very degree of uncertainty will be a help. We can tell the girls that we suspect that your uncle buried a box of valuable gold or silver or something like that, and they must thoroughly search the grounds for any signs that such a thing may have happened.”
“They wouldn’t know what to look for,” he said dubiously.
“Tell them that any unusual mound or any strange unexplained depression in the ground, or anything else that strikes them as being unusual might be the clue we are looking for. You can stress that under no circumstances are they to dig, because that might damage the contents of the box; it will need a specialist to do that. Only once they are out of the way will we check any possible sites they may come across.”
“It will be a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, and we are not even certain that we have the right stack?”
“I know it’s a long shot,” she agreed, “and I promise you that if we have not found anything suspicious this weekend we will pass the whole business over to the police. If they believe us, no doubt they will have a whole team up here, dragging the pond, uprooting the garden and goodness knows what else.”
“Very well,” he sighed, “we will tell the girls when they get back; it will give them something exciting to get involved in tomorrow. I fully expect that I will have to be taking them back to school by the early part of next week, and that will give us ample opportunity for following up any additional leads that may be uncovered in the meantime without their inquisitive eyes peering in.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the singing of the birds in the trees, savouring the fragrance of the blossom. It was so hard to credit that somewhere, perhaps not that far away from them lay the body of a murdered man. It all seemed to so peaceful, that such things as sudden death seemed so hard to even imagine. But of course death was never that far away, even in the most idyllic situations. He had learned that all too painfully when Alicia had died so suddenly. Death could happen in an old country house just as easily as in an inner city ghetto.”
“What was she like?” June asked suddenly as if reading his thoughts, yet still gazing out over the garden.
“Who?” he exclaimed, jerking his mind sharply back from where it had been drifting.
“Your wife, Alicia?”
She turned to look at him, and he saw that there was genuine sympathetic interest in her eyes, and not just idle curiosity. Suddenly, he didn’t really know what to say, and yet perversely he felt an unexpectedly imperative need to explain everything. He had never been able to do that for anyone since Alicia had died because he knew that nobody could ever understand the sheer agony her death had caused him, the anguish and despair it had created in its wake, or the terrible blackness that had then swept over his life to devolve into an everlasting night of the soul. Many a person had tried to get him to talk, yet it had always been beyond him. Somehow, June was different; of all the people in the world she was the only person to whom he felt he could really confide in, to unburden his mind of the dreadful blackness that had haunted him since the evil day Alicia had been taken away from him. As never before, he suddenly felt the overpowering need to really face up to what had happened, to give vent to the feelings that had been locked away within him for so long. Somehow, he just knew that June of all people might understand at least something of what that terrible tragedy had meant to him.
“You must have loved her so deeply,” June sighed, breaking in to his silence as he tried to sort out how best to convey to her what the bereavement really meant to him.
Yes,” he admitted in a low voice. “I don’t think I ever knew just how deeply I loved her until fate took her away from me. Only then did I realise that she was my whole life, my very reason for existence. You want to know what she was like? I can only describe her as I still see her today in my mind. Saying that she was an ‘angel come down to earth’ doesn’t really convey what she was to me. I suppose you could say that she was just a warm, vibrant wonderful person. She could laugh, she could dance, and she could even shed tears at times. She could be as soft as silk, yet where necessary as strong as steel. She was beautiful, caring, witty, intelligent, inspiring, and comforting, yet at the same time so utterly human. She was a fantastic mother, possessed an utterly charming personality that impressed any who came in contact with her. At times she exhibited endless patience, and at others she could be firm and controlled. If there are such things as ‘angels’ that come down to earth in human form, then I suppose she was always my idea of one. She was all I ever wanted in life; with her I was capable of everything, and without her?”
He paused and glanced across at her, and he could see that she was listening closely, and there was both genuine compassion and understanding in her eyes. He suddenly felt a bit guilty about going on so much about someone who would never again figure in anyone’s life, yet at the same time he felt that it was terribly important for to understand how he felt. “I guess this must all sound rather pathetic to you,” he added, “but you did ask.”
“And I’m glad you told me,” she said softly. “I only wish I had known her. In a way I truly envy you.”
“How can you possibly envy someone who has gone though what I have?” he asked, trying hard not to show the bitterness he felt.
“Wasn’t it Tennyson who said; ‘tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all’?”
For a few moments he sat there immersed in bitter-sweet memories of the past that had now vanished forever, then turned
to look at her, and the sympathy he had seen was still there, shining in her eyes.
“I suppose you are right,” he sighed, “but it is not an easy philosophy to adopt.”
“I’m sure it isn’t, yet there is a school of thought that says that grieving for the departed is actually an act of selfishness.”
“I’ve not heard that one before.”
“I cannot remember the details; it is something to do with the fact that if the religious ethic is to be believed, then the departed soul has gone to a far better place, and in time the bereaved will be re-united. If the materialists are to be believed, then once the spark of life is extinguished there is nothing. In both cases grief for the departed is unnecessary, for in the former it will only cause suffering for the departed soul who can do nothing to assuage that grief, and in the latter the departed with be indifferent to it. In both cases the bereaved is thus grieving for his or her own loss.”
“I suppose that is true; I’ve never thought of it that way.” He gave her a wry smile. “You are not just a pretty face,” he added, “you are also quite the philosopher, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I just want you to know that I can sympathise with the way you feel. It is only natural to grieve for a loved one, only sooner or later one has to accept that life must go on.”
“You know, that is what everyone has been telling me, but you are the only person who has been able to show me how it can go on. I truly believed that when Alicia was taken from me that there was no longer any point in life; I only persisted because of Beverley. When I first saw you, even though I did not recognize what was happening, the seeds of hope were planted in my mind. Although I have only known you for such a short time, you have done more than anyone to renew my hope of being able to return to life, a reason for continuing my existence. In truth, I honestly believed that I could never find another soul mate, I wasn’t even interested in looking, and then you appeared.”