Free A Well Kept Secret by A. B. King Page A

instinctively had to be the one he was seeking. There was one established grave, and all the signs of a comparatively recent burial.

    There was as yet no headstone on the new grave; he recalled being told whilst arranging Alicia’s funeral there had to be a period of settlement before a memorial stone could be erected. On the slightly older grave immediately next to it there was a simple stone giving the details of his late aunt. He stood there looking at the graves reflectively for a while, ostensibly paying his last respects to his departed relative, yet his mind was elsewhere, thinking of that other lonely graveside where he had watched Alicia being laid to rest. In a strange sort of way, just gazing at the graves of the aunt and uncle he scarcely remembered went some way towards helping him to come to terms with the natural inevitability of life and death. It was certainly a peaceful spot, and he found himself wishing he had thought to have brought a few flowers.

    No doubt his aunt and uncle had loved one another, and he could imagine only too readily how his uncle must have felt when he had been widowed. Standing there in that quiet churchyard he found himself wishing that he had known them better, that he had made an effort to open a channel of communication whilst there had still been time. It was too late to think of such things now of course. He had been so busy with his own life that the passing of the years had meant nothing; the future was something that had stretched limitlessly before him. Only now that it was too late did he realise that not only was life a transient thing, one never knew when time would be called, and those closest would be suddenly snatched away. It was a hard and bitter lesson to be learnt.

    The Marstons had had no children, and whether that was by design or just the way nature had treated them he had no way of knowing. Everything he had heard so far about his uncle was that he was a good, decent and well-respected man. Maybe in his declining years he had felt this lack of anyone to carry on the name? Perhaps, as Mr Dobson had tactfully suggested, that was why he had left everything to his sister’s only child? If that was true why had he made no attempt to maintain contact? For that matter, why ensure that he knew nothing about his intentions until matters were fait accompli?

    And then there was the enigma of his housekeeper. Perhaps there was something about Mrs Brent that had struck a chord in her late employer’s mind; perhaps in a way she fulfilled the role of the child he never had?   If that was true, then why did he not leave her provided for in a more fitting manner? There was nothing in the will about her beyond the question of security of tenure of the flat over the garage, and if she had been anything other than what she purported to be, he would have expected more. It was all sheer speculation of course, yet he could not get away from the conviction that there had to be something about her he didn’t as yet understand that had caused his uncle to take on such a prickly person, and to the extent of even providing her with a secure home.

    Not for the first time he wondered where she had come from. There had been no mention of a husband during their brief discussion, no mention of a family of any sort, no mention of a previous home. Granted he had not made specific enquiries in these directions, but he wondered if she had been a stranger to the area and had simply remained when she was offered a job and a home. Perhaps she was a homeless widow? Maybe she was even a distant relative of his late aunt? It was something he hadn’t considered before and perhaps should enquire about.

    He pulled himself up short as that particular thought crossed his mind. What business of his was it to ask the woman such personal questions? How would he feel if somebody started prying into his own background in such a manner? What did it matter where she came from, so long as she carried out