A Well Kept Secret (21 page)

“On the contrary, in the circumstances I think it is most understandable.”

There was silence for a few minutes as they both sipped at their tea.

“May I ask you another question,” he ventured at last.

“I cannot stop you asking anything you like,” she responded, watching him with an expressionless face, “I don’t promise to answer anything I don’t wish to.”

“What happened when you finally left the care home?”

As the words left his mouth, the telephone rang.

For an instant she just looked at him, but it was so difficult to read just what was going on in her mind. She looked as if it was on the tip of her tongue to answer his question, but the sound of the phone caused her to hesitate, and finally she said; “Perhaps you should answer that, it may be important.”

There was no sense in pushing her. “You may be right,” he agreed, and left the room, crossed over to the study and picked up the receiver.

“Is that Mr Isherwood?” asked a rather high-pitched man’s voice he did not recognise.

“Speaking.”

“Good Evening Mr Isherwood,” continued the caller in a rather apologetic and hesitant manner of speaking. “I do hope I am not disturbing you. My name is Edwards; Hugh Edwards.”

“What can I do for you, Mr Edwards?”

“The Landlord of the 'Rose and Crown' gave me your number and told me your name. I want to ask a great favour of you.”

“What sort of favour?”

“I’m a lepidopterist. You know, butterflies and all that sort of thing?”

“Yes, I know what it means.”

“Well, I have been tracking down a species of moth you may not have heard of called Macroglossum Stellatarum; its common name is Humming Bird Hawk Moth; I expect you may have heard of the name at least?
 
Well, it is a fairly regular visitor to the south coast of England, and only rarely seen this far north, and at the altitude common to this area.”

“I see,” he answered, wondering what on earth the man was leading up to.

“Well, it so happens that a couple of specimens caught in this area were recently submitted to me at the university.”

“What university is that?”

“The University of Sussex, it’s on the outskirts of Brighton; I’m head of entomology, by the way.”

“That is the study of insects I believe?”

“That’s right, and my specialist field is Lepidoptary. Frankly, these specimens excited me, betraying as they do previously unknown variant characteristics. So much so that I determined to make a field trip down here to discover for myself exactly what is happening.”

“And your trip has been successful?” Martin asked, still wondering where this odd conversation was leading.

“Well, I have found one or two additional specimens in the general area close to your property, and the interesting thing is that they consistently betray these same fundamental variations currently unknown to science. I don’t know if you appreciate how important this is?”

“Frankly, no.”

“Well, in layman’s terms, I strongly suspect that the specimens I have obtained so far that consistently display the variations matching the earlier examples that were originally brought to my attention must have common origin. I grant you that this may possibly be just a local variant currently unknown to science, yet my hope is that it is an entirely new sub-species. If I can only establish the facts with suitable specimens, together with details of habitat etc., well, it will be the crowning achievement of my life’s work!”

The man sounded is if he was on the verge of discovering the Holy Grail or something similar, and how anyone could get so worked up about a butterfly was beyond Martin, although he forbore to say as much.
 
“So, how can I help you to do this?” he asked.

“I would take it as the greatest possible favour if you would permit me call upon you tomorrow with view to obtaining permission to look through your gardens to see if in fact, as I now so strongly suspect following extensive research in the surrounding area, that this species are breeding there. All the evidence I have been able to gather so far appears to indicate strongly that this is indeed the case, yet I do need to prove it. I need to establish just exactly why the garden of your home should be the focal point of this startling variation; what it is that is so vital to the very existence of these unique specimens? If, as I most sincerely hope, my hypothesis concerning the origin and propagation of this variant can be proven, well, as I said, it will be the pinnacle of my life’s work!”

The man sounded almost speechless with suppressed enthusiasm.

“That shouldn’t be any problem with you roaming over the grounds here if that is what you wish to do,” Martin responded. “What time will you call?”

“Oh, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that; I am so very, very grateful. Will ten o’clock be convenient?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Then I am indeed most terribly grateful to you for being so public spirited Mr Isherwood, you have absolutely no idea how difficult some people can be about such matters! I promise not to intrude upon your privacy in any way, and I assure you that I will not damage your plants, shrubs or property in any way, nor abuse your generosity. However, with your permission I would like to take samples, photographs and specimens if I am fortunate in my search?”

“I am happy to oblige. I shall see you at ten in the morning.”

“Thank you so much, I shall look forward to it. Goodbye, and thank you again.”

Martin hung up the receiver and wandered back to the kitchen. June was busying herself with the last of clearing things away.

“I think I will be off home now,” she announced as soon as he entered the room. “I will be back in good time to get everything organised.”

“Would you mind if I walked with you?” he asked. “I sort of fancy a short stroll before retiring.”

He thought that it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, the same wary look sprang into her eyes, but then it quickly subsided.

“If you wish,” she said lightly.

“The phone call was from a Mr Edwards,” he explained as they exited the front door and locked it. They stepped out onto the driveway that led to the garage block, enjoying the cool freshness of the late evening air. “I gather he is some sort of butterfly man,” he continued, falling in beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. “He’s coming here at ten tomorrow to hunt for some rare moth or other. He sounds like a real old fusspot on the phone; beats me how people can get so worked up about insects, but there it is. I expect he is perfectly genuine, only it will not hurt to keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll do that,” she responded. “George Dawkins is in tomorrow; no doubt he will also keep a bit of a watch on him.”

“Good, I don't suppose there's any harm in the fellow, it’s just that in this day and age you never know.”

She didn't reply, and they walked on a few paces in silence.

“I thought I might take the girls into Wellworthy in the morning,” he said, more to break the silence than anything else. “I might get them a bicycle each to use while they are here. Beverley is a mad keen cyclist, and I think her friend is too. From what I have seen so far, there seems to be lots of little bye-ways round here they could explore.”

She passed no comment on this, and the silence continued as they strolled at a slow pace towards the garage block. She kept a safe distance from him as if anxious to preserve what psychologists like to refer to as a person’s private space. Given what she had told him earlier he was not greatly surprised at that and took care to maintain a respectable distance from her. Raised in a secure family unit, it was hard for him to imagine what her early existence must have been like. Although he had lost his father very early in life, he had always enjoyed a stable background with a loving mother and a secure home. If June was to be believed and, after all, why would she lie, her background had been the complete opposite.

“Do you remember you real parents?” he asked at last. “I mean, you told me that you were about five when you were orphaned. I wasn’t much older than that when my own father died; although my mother only passed away recently.”

By this time they had reached the garage block, and she came to a halt as she leaned her back against the angle of the wall and looked at him.

“Yes,” she answered in a sort of far away voice. “I still remember them. To me they seemed to be the most wonderful people in the world.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged and looked away from him. “I don’t really know,” she finally admitted. “I was so young. My dad seemed to disappear one day. I don’t know how or why, he just wasn’t there anymore. All I can remember was that my mum got more and more worried, and then she cried a lot, and then she took ill, and then one day someone told me that she had died.” The stark simplicity of her words failed to hide the pain that recalling the event still caused her, and he could see it in her eyes.

“It must have been terrible,” he said at last. “Did you have no relatives that could take care of you?”

“No, there weren’t any,” she said wistfully. “Both sets of grandparents were dead and there were no aunts, uncles, cousins, or anything like that. There wasn’t anyone.” She fell silent, and looked down at her feet.

“What happened to your home?” he asked after another period of silence.

She shrugged again. “I don’t really know that either; I found out later that our home was a council house. We didn’t have a lot of stuff, just a few sticks of old furniture and a few odds and ends, but nothing special. I expect it was either sold or taken away to the local tip.”

The more he heard, the sorrier he felt for her. No wonder she had an outsize chip on her shoulder. To lose one’s parents was bad enough, but to lose everything, to be reduced to a complete nobody was, in his opinion, appalling.

“Are you telling me that you have nothing left at all as a memento of your parents?”

“I have an old photograph.”

It was the way she said it that struck a chord deep within him. All that was left to link her to her past was one solitary photograph! His heart went out to her, yet he knew he couldn’t even begin to comfort her as he instinctively wanted to; with her background she would inevitably place the worst possible construction on anything he said or did.

“Perhaps, if you would like to, you could bring it with you tomorrow and show me?” he said at last.

It was hard to tell just what was passing in her mind, but in watching her eyes he thought he saw that same conflict he had detected before, the conflict between natural wariness, and the very real human need to have a true friend, someone with whom to share the burden she had been carrying for so long. The hard shell she exhibited to the world was a necessary protection against the harshness with which life had so far treated her, and at the same time it was a barrier between her and the rest of the human race. He had heard that she didn’t have a friend in the world, and he could readily believe it.

“If you like, you may come up to see it now,” she said at last.

Not wishing to intrude upon anything so sensitive, it was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, and then he realised just exactly what was implied by the briefly worded offer. It was a tacit acknowledgement of trust and friendship. If he threw it in her face by a refusal it would never be offered again. He had a good idea of what it must have cost her to make the gesture, and he knew he could not refuse.

“Well, if you are quite sure,” he replied “Yes, I would like to.”

She turned without a word and led the way to the rear where the stairs led up to the entrance to her flat. The door was illuminated by a porch-light, and she preceded him up the stairs without a further word. At the top she put her key into the lock and opened the door, switching on the light as she entered.

There was a small entrance lobby with doors leading off from it. She opened one of these and led the way into a small but comfortable lounge. It was carpeted and modestly furnished with modern-style furniture. The walls were emulsioned, with a few modern prints hanging at eye-level on each of the walls that served to break up the essential starkness of the decor. They rejoiced in such titles as ‘Sunrise on Dartmoor’, ‘The Weald in Spring’, ‘Autumn Leaves’ and ‘The Victorian Farmyard’. All of them by so-so artists he had never heard of. There was a small television set on one side of the room, complete with a video and DVD player. In a recess on the far side of the room was a computer. Everything was spotlessly clean, with nothing out of place. In a way, her home was just like its tenant; neat precise, orderly, and controlled.