Secrets From The Past
Danielle Shaw
© Danielle Shaw 2015
Danielle Shaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2015.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 1
Max Craven replaced the handset of the phone. Another hour? Damn it, he didn’t want to wait another hour! He’d had enough of the oppressive London heat. He wanted to leave now. Why did there have to be a funeral at Church Haywood today, of all days. More to the point, why did his sister, Constance, insist on helping with all the funeral arrangements?
Max banged his fist impatiently on the rosewood desk and watched tiny dust motes rise in the air. There they appeared trapped in the narrow beam of sunlight, dancing on the heavy lead crystal inkwells. Dabbing at the dust with the tip of his index finger, he hadn’t noticed his business partner standing in the doorway.
‘What! Still here Max? I thought you’d have packed up and left ages ago. You said you couldn’t wait to leave the London smoke and dust - or are you having second thoughts, my friend?’
‘Smoke and dust is right,’ said Max, wiping the dust from his finger. ‘Just look at it! It’s a wonder anyone can breathe in this heat.’
‘Mmm,’ replied Nigel loosening his collar, ‘I have to admit this present heatwave is beginning to take its toll on everyone in the office. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, especially when our new temp starts peeling off her layers. Have you seen what she’s wearing today?’
Max shook his head and gave Nigel Painton one of his special looks - the dreaded ‘Craven glare’. He did not share his partner’s obsession with the variety of temps who’d been gracing the office, whilst the more permanent members of staff took their summer holidays.
Nigel thought it best to change the subject. ‘Well, aren’t you going to tell me why you’re still here?’
‘There’s a funeral in the village and Constance says it’s best to wait another hour until it’s over...’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Anyone you know?’
‘No. That is I can’t remember the woman, even though Constance insists that I should. Someone called… Elizabeth Benedict, I believe. Apparently she left the village years ago and moved to America with her husband. They later divorced and she returned to England. When she discovered she’d got cancer, she decided to come back to the village. There’s a family plot or something.’
‘So… what’s this funeral got to do with you? If you can’t even remember the woman…?’
‘Nothing Nigel,’ said Max. ‘But you’ve obviously forgotten just how much my sister likes to be involved with village life. Not only has she offered to help with the funeral arrangements, she’s even invited the mourners back to Haywood Grange for tea and consolation.’
‘How jolly kind. Good old Connie.’ Max strode to the window and looked out onto the busy street below. ‘That’s not how I see it. Constance is far too easy going and lets people walk all over her.’
‘Not like you, eh, Max?’ Nigel joined his friend by the window. ‘No one could ever accuse Max Craven of letting people walk all over him!’
Forcing a rare smile, Max ran a hand through his thick, dark, hair and turned his steely gaze in Nigel’s direction. ‘I expect everyone here at Craven and Painton thinks I’m a complete bastard. They’ll be only too glad to see the back of me.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied Nigel unconvincingly, ‘they’ll all miss you terribly. Besides they haven’t known you as long as I have, Max, and they haven’t...’
‘Go on,’ urged Max, almost sensing what was coming next.
Placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder, Nigel felt the muscles tighten beneath his grasp and recognized the familiar dark shuttered look on Max’s face. ‘I was only going to say,’ he murmured softly, ‘they never had to cope with losing their only child and a devoted wife within the space of a few short months. Neither have they worked practically seven days a week to get this company on its feet, as you have.’
Releasing his hold on Max’s shoulder, Nigel turned to look at the almost empty desk and the boxes of files waiting to be transported to Haywood Grange. ‘Give me a call when you’re ready to leave. I’ll help you load up your car.’
Sometime later, loading the boxes into the jet-black Saab, Nigel wiped the beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. ‘You know, Max, I’m almost jealous at the thought of you living in the countryside amongst all those trees and fields. When I think of the birds singing their dawn chorus and fields of newly mown hay... How long will you be living with Connie by the way? Perhaps I can come and pay you a visit?’
‘You can come and stay whenever you like, Nigel. Constance and George have heaps of room. I shall be using the au pair’s flat initially - and no sarcastic comments about au pairs, please! As soon as I can, I aim to look around for a place of my own. Perhaps convert one of the barns or even buy a plot of land and start completely from scratch. Only remember, life in Church Haywood is far removed from London and the Wigmore Hall.’
Remembering his plans for the evening, Nigel clasped Max’s hand warmly.
‘Max, my friend, if you’ll excuse me. Must dash, I’m off to the Wigmore tonight. Thank goodness you reminded me in time. Don’t forget to leave me Connie’s number and if you ever get fed up with life in the sticks, you know you can always have my place for a weekend. At the moment Vanessa and I appear to be spending every other weekend with her family in Esher.’
‘It will be wedding bells next, then,’ Max teased.
‘No way!’ Nigel called, running back to the revolving doors of Craven and Painton. ‘I’ve never been the marrying kind!’
He stopped himself just in time from adding ‘unlike you,’ and paused only briefly to see Max’s car pull away into the congested city street.
‘Well, that was a rare occurrence,’ the receptionist said acidly, flashing a vast expanse of thigh in Nigel’s direction.
‘What was?’
‘Seeing Mr. Craven smile. What with his black hair, dark eyes and that jet-black car of his, my brother reckons if Mr Craven dropped the ‘C’ from his name, he’d be just like one of those evil-looking birds who guard the Tower of London.’
Sensing that Mr Painton had not approved of her comments, the receptionist shifted uneasily in her chair before adding. ‘Well, I suppose I don’t mean evil exactly. It’s just that he always seems a bit sinister. He never says much and hardly ever smiles, although Katy in the mail-room thinks being dark and mysterious only adds to the attraction.’
‘For your information, Mandy, I doubt your brother would find much to smile about if his only child was killed in a road accident and then his wife - trying to come to terms with her grief - lost her life in a fire.’
Annoyed with himself at having said far too much, Nigel slammed his own office door behind him and reached for his cigarettes. Thank goodness he and Vanessa were going to the
Wigmore Hall, at least a Brahms symphony would have the required calming effect.
Inhaling deeply on his cigarette, Nigel considered the recent summer months. He needed something soothing, following one of Craven and Painton’s busiest periods ever. As for the shock announcement that after fifteen years of working in London, Max Craven had suddenly decided to return to Church Haywood and work from what he called ‘home’…
‘You must be mad!’ Nigel had pleaded at the time. ‘You can’t just give it all up.’
‘No - not mad - just weary of it all.’ Max had replied. ‘And I certainly don’t intend to give everything up, Nigel. I’d prefer to work out of town from now on that’s all. Let’s be honest, you’ve always been happier dealing with city contracts and I’m sure I’ll find enough to keep me occupied with urban developments. Constance tells me they’ve released some land from green belt restrictions on the outskirts of Church Haywood. She feels it would be in everyone’s interest if C and P could get the contract.’
‘In what way?’
‘My big sister,’ Max explained, ‘feels I would deal far more sympathetically with any proposed building plans likely to affect the surrounding communities. Besides...’
‘Besides?’
‘She also tells me I’m looking haggard and drawn and working too hard. Constance thinks I would benefit from a break with London life.’
‘On the latter I’d be prepared to agree with Connie, but I wouldn’t go so far as saying you look haggard... Tired maybe; perhaps you should have a checkup.’
‘I already have!’
His face full of anxiety, Nigel had waited for what was coming next.
‘Oh, it’s OK. There’s nothing to worry about,’ Max reassured. ‘I’m perfectly fit and apparently in good shape for my age and not at all overweight... unlike someone else I could mention.’
Later at his flat overlooking the Thames, Nigel struggled with the waistband of his trousers and recalled Max’s remark.
‘Perhaps Max was right after all: perhaps I should try and lose a bit of weight... take up jogging? What do you think, Vanessa?’
Slipping into an ice-blue silk shift dress, Vanessa replied with a smile, ‘I think that’s hardly your scene, Nigel.’ Her gaze took in the newly crumpled sheets. ‘I thought indoor pursuits were more your thing. Just think how you would look after running round the streets, all red and hot and sweaty.’ Vanessa tugged at one of Nigel’s auburn curls. ‘Of course, you could always join a gym - that’s if you’re really keen. But when would you find the time? We seem to be going to Esher every other weekend and now that Max has left... By the way, how did he seem?’ ‘Fine. Couldn’t get away quick enough if you ask me. Though, he was positively seething because Connie said he ought to wait until after the funeral.’
‘What funeral? Not another of Max’s relations!’
‘No, thank God! In fact it’s of little consequence. I’ll tell you about it on the way to the Wigmore.’
Reaching for his jacket, Nigel turned to admire his long-term partner. How did she manage to look so cool and elegant, despite the oppressive heat of the summer’s evening. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured, thoughtfully, ‘would you describe Max as evil looking and sinister?’
‘Good gracious, no!’ Vanessa’s bright laughter echoed in the hallway as Nigel opened the door. ‘No, most definitely not! I would describe Max Craven, as mildly moody, mysterious and…’
‘And?’
‘Very sexy.’
Watching Nigel’s crestfallen face, Vanessa whispered in his ear, ‘But not as sexy as you, Nigel darling. You know I have a thing about red-headed males.’
‘Thank goodness for that!’ said Nigel, kissing her tenderly. ‘For one awful moment you had me worried. Although, I do think it would do Max a power of good to meet someone like you. It’s been so long since Virginia died. I wonder if Church Haywood boasts any buxom rosy-cheeked maidens.’
*
Females of any description were the last thing on Max Craven’s mind as his finger flicked the indicator switch, signalling his intention to leave the motorway. Emitting a sigh, he knew it would be only another twenty minutes before a row of tall larches heralded the first familiar sign of Church Haywood and, if he was lucky, the merest glimpse of St Faith’s.
Although not a churchgoer himself, at least since the deaths of Tara, his daughter, and Virginia his wife, Max still found something strangely comforting about the golden sandstone tower with its ancient weather vane. After the familiar dreary London skyline, St Faith’s was a truly welcoming sight.
At the far corner of the churchyard, Alison Benedict choked back tears and stood by her mother’s newly dug grave. There were so many flowers. Where had they all come from? She must come back again tomorrow and write down all the names. Everyone would have to be thanked and those, whose names she didn’t recognise, would have to be located. No doubt Bunty and Connie would be able to enlighten her.
Wiping her eyes, Alison thought fondly of Bunty Lowther - her mother’s old school friend - and remembered how on that last fateful day at the hospice, Bunty had come to the rescue.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Alison,’ Bunty had insisted, taking her in her arms and placing a well-padded arm about her shoulders. ‘I’ll help you with all the funeral arrangements. Your mother... well, she knew just what she wanted. She wrote it all down, you see and gave it to me for safekeeping.’
Initially, Alison was hurt and upset that Bunty knew all about Elizabeth Benedict’s funeral wishes, when she, her only daughter, did not.
‘Don’t take it too badly, Alison. Your mother didn’t want you worrying and upsetting yourself when you were right in the middle of exams.’
‘But I should have been with her, Bunty!’
‘You were my dear. After all, you were… at the end.’
‘No! I mean all the time. I should have been with her all the time! My exams could have waited. I could have taken those anytime.’
Anytime perhaps, thought Bunty to herself. But it was just as well that Alison had passed her exams as an interior designer. Now that she was on her own - well apart from her two stepbrothers in America - Alison Benedict would have to make her own way in the world.
Kneeling by her mother’s grave, Alison fingered the cards on the wreaths and sprays of flowers, until she came to one she recognised. The simple, black-edged card read, ‘With Deepest Sympathy, George and Constance Henderson.’
Constance Henderson, Alison mused. It was Connie who, along with Bunty, had kept her going through what had seemed like one of the longest two weeks in her life.
In fact it had been Connie and Bunty together who, each day, while guiding her through the funeral arrangements, encouraged her to eat and offered so much kindness and support (both moral and financial) that she knew she could never repay.
‘Listen,’ Bunty had proclaimed last night after supper, ‘Connie and I were very old friends of your mother’s. We’ve only done what she would have done for us. As for repaying us… Alison, my dear, don’t insult us! We Church Haywood folk are a rum lot and take umbrage easily, or haven’t you heard? I’ve merely dipped into the nest egg my mother left me, and Connie is having everyone back to Haywood Grange after the funeral for the simple reason she’s a far better cook than I am and her place is a damn sight bigger than this cottage!’
Of the latter there was no doubt. Haywood Grange was enormous compared to Bunty’s cottage, and a great deal tidier. Eventually, too distraught and overcome with kindness, Alison had conceded defeat. This afternoon, wearing a simple mid-calf length, black linen dress and buoyed up by Bunty’s well-rounded frame, she’d followed her mother’s simple coffin into the still and welcome coolness of St Faith’s church.
It was only now, as the rays of evening sunshine illuminated the stained glass windows, that a feeling of loneliness and panic began to surge in Alison’s breast. Suddenly it was all over... there were dark shadows again. Where did she go from here?
For t
onight at least, it would be back to Bunty’s cottage, but tomorrow she would have to return to Baker’s Halt, the small terraced house where her mother had passed the final years of her life. The rent on Baker’s Halt was paid until the end of July, which gave her another two and a half weeks. Chilled by the sun disappearing behind the church tower, Alison shivered. Two and a half weeks in which to organize her life!
Moving into the shadows and unaware she was being watched, Alison lowered herself into a kneeling position by the newly turned soil with its profusion of flowers and wept uncontrollably.
Finding someone else in this particular corner of the churchyard took Max Craven completely by surprise. On hearing the clock strike, he realized it was only eight o’clock. Why shouldn’t there be other people like himself, wanting to experience the peace and tranquility of St Faith’s churchyard on a balmy summer’s evening?
Peering into the shadows of a large beech tree, Max discerned it wasn’t ‘people’, it was a lone figure of a young woman, pale and slender and dressed all in black. Small wonder he hadn’t seen her when he’d first stepped from the gravel path onto soft turf.
Anxious not to alarm the solitary mourner, Max stood perfectly still, unsure whether to complete his mission or to slip away unseen. Moments later, deciding he could visit his daughter’s grave in the morning, he decided to head back to his car and Haywood Grange.
As he stepped from the newly mown grass back onto the path, the sharp sound of leather on gravel in an otherwise still evening, caused Alison to start with alarm. Hearing her gasp of surprise, Max turned to see her struggling to her feet.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry for startling you like that. I was trying to slip away without disturbing you. I didn’t think anyone else would be here, you see.’
In embarrassed silence, Alison looked up to find dark, penetrating eyes staring straight into her own. Somehow they seemed vaguely familiar.
‘Here let me help you,’ Max continued, sensing the problem. ‘I think you’ll find you have the heel of your shoe caught in the hem of your dress.’
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