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Chapter 27
Chapter 27
The following morning, as Jenny rides Charlie, she sees a familiar figure waiting by the track.
“Good morning, Mr Bennett.”
“Good morning, Jennifer. I was hoping I would find you.” Chad’s father sounds unfriendly. “I’d like a
word while Chad’s not around.”
“Oh? What about?”
“What’s this I hear about you going to university?” His arms are folded, his eyes flat.
Her face falls. “I haven’t decided yet. I was just looking at the prospectus to see what it was all about.”
“And what put this idea in you head? Physics is it?”
“I’d like to. And Mr Kalkowski said….”
Mr Bennett cuts her short, snapping a forefinger towards her. “That old man's job is to teach you to
read and write and add a column of figures well enough to balance your bank account. Not to fill you
with air-headed nonsense and impossible fantasies. You want to marry my son. Yes?”
She nods, fighting back tears.
“That's fine Jenny. We all like you. But you can't be both a good wife and go to university. It's one or the
other. If I find you carrying on with this foolishness, I'll stop the marriage. I'm not having you hurting
Chad through negligence. Do you understand me/”
Her head hangs. “Yes, sir.”
*****
The Present - Klempner
“Sir, she’s back.”
“Jennifer?”
“Yes, sir. She’s in the Haswell Building. She was sighted at one of the penthouse windows.”
Klempner’s face is sour. “You did tell me, Bech, that we were keeping a close eye on those offices.
How does she come to be in there and we didn’t see her arrive?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to find out. Sir, following your instructions, I have been trying to learn who
Elizabeth Haswell is, or more accurately, who she was before she married….”
“And?”
“Sir, for the wife of such a prominent figure, there is astonishingly little information about her. It's as
though she only came into existence a couple of years ago.”
Klempner’s head tilts. “I'm listening.”
“There is almost nothing in the papers. I had assumed, wrongly as it turns out, that the wedding would
have been a high-profile, society event. In fact, it was very low key, and I only managed to track any
information at all from Central Records, which of course provided the date and place of the marriage,
names of witnesses and of course, the maiden name of the bride.”
“And the name was?”
“Sir, Elizabeth Haswell’s maiden name was ‘Kimberley’.”
Klempner laughs; a short bark of a sound, entirely devoid of humour. “And there we have our
connection.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, do you want me to track her further?”
“I do, yes. Track her down, Bech; where she came from. Everything you can learn about her. Let’s find
out where our two ladies link up.”
“Very well, sir. Can you give me any more information as a starting point? Did you know anything about
the family of Michelle Kimberley?”
“No, she said almost nothing about them.”
“Any idea why, sir?”
“She was a whore, Bech. If her family took offence at that, it's a good enough reason in its own right.”
Bech ponders that. “Yes, sir. I think you’re probably correct there. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, Bech. It seems we have both women in their nice little hidey-hole. No doubt they think they’re
safe in there.”
“They have to come out sometime.”
“Of course they do. But it might not be convenient.”
“What would you like me to do, sir?”
“Flush them out, Bech. Flush them out.”
“Sir?” Bech sounds startled.
“Did you not hear me, Bech? I’m not looking for arguments here.”
“No, of course not, sir.” But as Bech turns to leave, his expression is disturbed.
*****
Six Years Ago
Charlie canters into the yard, her movement as smooth and graceful as that of her rider. Despite the
frost, both are sweating, the horse snorting and the rider flushed and smiling. Jenny dismounts easily,
leading the horse back to her stall.
The top half of the stable doors are open during the day, and Dancer nickers a greeting as they pass,
reaching out to nuzzle for one of the small apples he knows Jenny always carries. She laughs as the This material belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.
velvet nose prods at her pocket. Small and wizened from winter storage, still the fruit is sound and
sweet, and Dancer snorts with pleasure as she offers him his prize. Stallion though he is, Jenny is not
afraid of him. She is not permitted to ride him, but she and Dancer are friends, albeit a friendship
purchased with apples.
By the stall, Jenny tethers Charlie, a loose loop over the wall hook, takes off the saddle, then tugs away
the saddle blanket, heaving up to drape the sweaty, hairy thing over the door.
She checks hooves, one by one, picking out grit and small stones, then begins brushing down her
mount. Swiping practised circles over the lovely coat, she carries off loose hair and itching dust. Charlie
shivers with pleasure under the combing, snickering and swinging her head around, butting her rider
gently in the side.
A shadow falls across the pair and simultaneously, a sour smell washes by.
Jenny doesn’t stop her brushing, doesn’t turn around. “Hello, Jacob. I’ll bring your breakfast out when
I’ve finished here.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry,” grunts the old tramp. “There’s no-one around now anyway. I just thought I’d have
a little chat, you know, while it’s just you and me.”
Jenny swings her face away from the stench, trying to inhale only lightly.
What was he doing this week?
Oh, yes, Clearing out the ditches on the top pasture….
So, what’s he doing here? Now?
Dancer snorts and stamps and she looks up to see what is bothering him. The stallion’s ears are back.
She turns to see Jacob is all but on top of her; close, far too close.
He reaches out, stroking her forearm and she snatches it away. “Stop that!”
But he doesn’t. Stepping forward, he wraps his arms around her waist.
“Get off me!” She tries to back away, but Charlie is tethered behind her and Jacob follows her as she
moves.
“Get away from me!” She tries not to breathe in the stink of him, but he’s pulling her to him, his fetid
breath over her face.
Dancer is stamping and circling. His snorting turns to a bellow. Charlie picks up his tone, her head
tossing.
“Come on, Jenny. We can be friends.” This close, she sees his snarled teeth, the dirty skin. “Chad’s not
here. He doesn’t have to know.”