The Dark Rotunda

By Herbert Howard Jones

Ralph and Leonie were made for each other; both lived a nine to five routine and had positive plans for the future and seemed destined for a happy life. Then an opportunity to buy an old mansion in their village came up which looked as if it would put them way up on the property ladder. But the auctioneer said there were problems with it which needed attending to.

It had to be modernised, and it was apparently cursed, or so people in the area claimed. However, oddly, when the couple went to visit the property, they found it in fine fettle, but it appeared to already have a tenant in it. In fact it only needed exterior repairs and could be lived-in straight away.

Obviously, the presence of another tenant was not what they bargained for, and so they decided to give the tenant his notice, except he or she couldn’t be found. However, the house was full of beautiful Victorian and reproduction furniture which clearly belonged to the tenant. Frustrated by this, Ralph and Leonie decided to get rid of it and complain to the solicitor who had finalised the sale. And this was were things got decidedly weird. The solicitor was clearly trying to avoid them, which raised the obvious question as to why?

After doing some extensive digging, it became apparent that all was not how it initially appeared. It seemed that silly local rumour had a basis in fact. There was a possibility that Kindlewood really was cursed, and the appearance of apparitions and phantoms soon made themselves felt. To sensible people like Ralph and Leonie there had to be a logical and down-to-earth explanation for these spooky events, but the minister who lived next door at the rectory only compounded the mystery. To their discomfort they discovered that he was really a Satanist who had a very wide and evil influence in the area. But worse than all that, was the fact that he appeared to be trying to kill them and was coincidently in league with Ralph’s own boss in London who had the same objective!

Ralph and Leonie needed to get to the bottom of it all, or abandon the property before disaster struck. But it turned out there was a very strange reason for all this which staggered their imaginations and soon became clear. Apparently they had been chosen for a strange special mission!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Herbert Howard Jones
• Release date: Jan 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215090619

Herbert Howard Jones

HERBERT HOWARD JONES grew up in Notting Hill, London in the sixties. He went to a boarding school in Norfolk and then local schools including Sloane School where crime writer John Creasy attended near the King's Road. When he left school he got numerous jobs, including as a porter at the BBC London, working as a jewellery assembler in a factory in Hatton Garden and also in a number of roles at a showbiz solicitor's office where he was a trainee legal executive and ran errands for a few of the British movie and music names of the time.He is a creative spirit who also likes dabbling in music and art himself. When he was in the jewellery business he personally made over ten thousand 14 carat gold gate bracelets which was a great learning experience for him. However, he was more interested in media and always wanted to write suspense books with a melodramatic element and so spent years reading them and working on various projects. He is also interested in romantic and fantasy fiction.But meeting people has always inspired him the most and he has had the good fortune to meet quite a few interesting people. He was personally friends with horror writer, Denis Wheatley's housekeeper when she lived in Blackheath, and knew poet John Pudney who lived nearby before he passed. One of the most interesting people that he met was the daughter of the Captain of the Titanic with whom he had tea in her cottage up in Suffolk. Miss Smith was a lady with a big personality and a very interesting home. She was surrounded with Titanic memorabilia wherever you looked. Jones was only a boy at the time and didn't appreciate the significance of all this stuff, but regrets not quizzing her on the catastrophic event which has forever featured large in shipping folklore!PERSONAL MESSAGE:I WANT TO EXPRESS my gratitude to readers who have bothered to download my books. I put a lot of effort into them and also design my own covers, and so it is a wonderful reward to get a download. Every author on this platform will be grateful for them because writing can be a lonely and thankless task. It is only the reader who makes it all worth while, and so thanks very much again.HHJ

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The Dark Rotunda

Herbert Howard Jones

Copyright © Herbert Howard Jones 2022

The right of Herbert Howard Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Opinions expressed in this book do not necessarily reflect the author’s own views.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Cover Art by Herbert Howard Jones

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

It is not necessarily true that all stories have a clear beginning and a clear ending. Sometimes a beginning can be blurred, or muddled or obscure, like looking into a pond of murky water. But as unclear as parts of this tale is, I can truthfully say that my personal involvement began on a Bank Holiday Monday.

Like millions of everyday British office workers, I had the day off and went for an afternoon stroll expecting my local pub to be open. It was run by an Asian family, and they ran it seven days a week and served lovely traditional English lunches. They did a particularly nice salmon bagel which went well with their ales. It was a popular watering hole in the village of Lamberdon where I had a flat and I was a regular customer.

Going into the pub, which actually styled itself as an inn, I overheard a conversation between two men. They were sitting at the bar and were discussing a local property that had just gone on the market. Apparently, the ‘old manor’ was up for sale again, and I learned that it had a name, which I wasn’t previously aware of. Ruffin House, also known as Kindlewood, and it was about half a mile from the village’s centre.

But being a bit of a local ignoramus I didn’t know much about the property, except that it was supposed to be haunted by a nude woman! However, such stories are usually dismissed by the sensible and I counted myself as one. But, and here is the point, I had just come into a bit of money and was looking for a property to buy and renovate. My father had died, a person and I had to sell his house to pay his death duties and other bills. However, it left me with a handsome lump sum. Technically I was in mourning, but my father and I never got on and so I was sort of pleased with the windful.

A windfall like that is bound to turn anyone’s head and my mind was buzzing with ideas. It even had an effect on the girl I was sort of dating, who suddenly decided that she wanted to marry me. Surely the money had nothing to do with it? Her name was Lionie Gifthurst and she had grown up in Lamberdown and was a bit lacking in worldly experience.

For instance, she had never been to London. The biggest town she ever visited was Birmingham where she got her degree, but her accent, however, was quite neutral. In fact from the way she spoke you couldn’t tell where she had come from.

However, sitting in the pub with a bagel and half pint of lager and lime, I engaged in conversation with an elderly local, who was also a regular. Derek Mathers was his name, and he was on his fourth beer, and you could see slight inebriation in his eyes. I knew he was on his fourth because there were three empty glasses on his table, with the fourth in his hand. He was sitting behind me, and I leaned backwards and asked him about this property which had just gone up for sale.

‘Ruffin House?’ he said with a strange expression on his face. ‘Oh you mean, the old manor? Otherwise known as Kindlewood?’

I frowned. ‘Kindlewood?’

‘That’s what it’s now called,’ Mathers said. ‘But a better name would be the shit hole!’ He laughed at his own crude joke.

‘Really?’

He nodded his head and sank another mouthful of beer. ‘It’s because of all the pigeon muck; they’ve infested the place. It’s been empty for quite a while and it’s going to rack and ruin. No one lives there. People don’t want to. Oh it’s very grand and all that, but there’s a lot of clearing up to do.’

‘Have you been inside it?’ I queried.

‘Not recently, but I’ve seen photos in the local library of the property back in the day,’ Mathers said. ‘It used to belong to the Earl of Ruffin, Marshall Harris. Died years ago!’

I nodded my head but couldn’t ever recall hearing about the man.

Mathers coughed and seemed to be struggling with something.

‘Are you alright?’ I asked thinking he was choking on his beer.

‘I’m trying to think of a word,’ Mathers said. ‘Occultist. That’s what he was. Local people were scared of him.’

I took a bite of my bagel. ‘Astrologer maybe?’

‘That as well I think,’ Mathers suggested. ‘But apparently he put some protection around the house and now people reckon the property and land are cursed.’

I pulled a face. ‘Really?’

‘Well a lot of strange things happen there,’ Mathers said having another quaff of his beer.

‘Such as?’

Mathers shrugged. ‘Mishaps, strange sightings, funny noises in the night. I can’t see anyone wanting to buy a building with such an odd reputation. Been some unexplained deaths. A nurse died when a stone gargoyle fell off the side of the building and hit her on the head!’

‘Nasty!’ I replied.

And so the conversation went, and I ended up buying the man another beer and a bottle for myself to drink at home. Before I left the inn and Mr Mathers to his drunken afternoon, he said, ‘Actually you rather look like him.’

‘Sorry? Who?’

‘Marshall Harris, the occultist, from what I remember of photographs!’ Mathers grinned. ‘You should go to the library and check it out for yourself.’

As I left the inn I caught sight of my reflection in a mirror, and I suppose I do have rather a dark countenance, black hair, black eyebrows and rather white skin. I saw Mathers looking up at me at my reflection and I winked back at him. But oddly when I looked around at the door to give him a wave, he was no longer at the table. Doubtless went off to the loo I imagined.

* * *

However, the old man had planted an idea in my head. If my interest in Ruffin House or Kindlewood had been slight, now it was ten times stronger. The idea of investing in a dilapidated property had been in my mind for some time now, and this seemed ideal. I therefore decided to go up to the property to have a closer glimpse of it. As it was now on the market I expected it would be thronging with viewers, if not today, the rest of the week.

Such was my curiosity that I decided to pay the property a quick visit straight away. I actually knew where it was. So I took my car and drove down a long winding lane and along the middle of a grove of fruit trees to get there and found myself outside the gates. Just as Mathers said, the property did look in a bad way.

I wondered exactly what a house like that would be on the market for. It would doubtless be more than I could afford, although I did have some significant money from the sale of my dad’s house and a good job. I was a legal executive in Holborn, London, commanding nearly fifty grand a year. I also had my own savings. But apart from the outright cost of the property itself, there would be all the renovations to attend to. It would doubtless completely clean me out.

As I stood there pondering, tempted to push open the gates and enter its grounds, a middle aged man with a walking stick approached me. He was apparently just walking by, and he had a collie dog which suddenly dashed onto the scene. It came up to me shyly wagging its tail and I gave it a pat on the head.

I nodded at the man politely. ‘Alright?’

‘Yes thanks,’ he replied. ‘Come on Brandon leave the gentleman alone.’ He was addressing his dog.

‘He’s alright,’ I said. ‘I gather this house is on the market.’

‘Fifth time,’ the man replied. ‘But this time I don’t think it will make it. A firm of property developers are after it, so I hear. They’ll get it for a song and before we know it there’ll be twenty social houses here! But the new people won’t have a happy experience, I’ll be bound.’

I nodded. ‘Why do you say that?’

The man looked at me. ‘Locals reckon the grounds are cursed!’

I smiled grimly. ‘You don’t believe that do you? I mean, this is the twenty first century!’

‘Indeed, but there have been reports,’ the man said. ‘There have apparently been quite a few freak accidents here. A nurse got clobbered by a falling statue; a postman fell into the pond and drowned; a policeman hanged himself from an apple tree at the back. The list goes on!’

I pulled a face. ‘I expect everyone of those cases can be explained. I bet the postman just slipped, and…’

‘Indeed, and speaking as the local parish priest, I have my own theories,’ the man said interrupting me.

I looked at his neckline, but he had an ordinary shirt on. Not a dog’s collar. ‘Oh, apologies, I didn’t realise who you were.’

‘Father Worsted at your service!’ he said extending his hand.

I stepped forward and shook it. ‘Ralph Sorenby, nice to meet you! Actually although I am not a church goer I do recognise your face. I’ve seen you in the inn.’

Father Worsted smiled. ‘They do a lovely curry in there! Been in the area long?’

‘About a year and a half,’ I told him. ‘But I have never ventured down here before.’

‘Well if I were you, if you’re thinking of putting in an offer don’t bother,’ he said. ‘It’s more grief than its worth.’

I nodded. ‘I’m curious that there isn’t a for sale sign up,’ I observed.

‘There was, but its fallen down and no one has bothered to put it back up,’ the Father said opening the gates of the property and pulling out a mouldy estate agents’ board. It had been leaning against the railings. ‘It was up for sale for yonks and then withdrawn and now it’s up for sale again!’

I cast a curious eye over the board which looked as if it was thirty years old. ‘Hmm. Actually I am interested in acquiring it.’

The Father frowned. ‘To redevelop I presume?’

‘Well, renovate and then live in,’ I said uncertainly. ‘So what’s the story here? An astrologer lived in the place, puts a curse on it and then dies and then funny things start to occur? And then what?’

Father Worsted sighed. ‘Others obviously came to occupy the place. Would you mind turning your hands over so that I can see your palms?’

I hesitated. ‘Sorry? See my palms?’

The holy Father smiled self-consciously. ‘I know it’s a strange request, but it’s a thing I do. I’m a bit of an amateur palmist and I always like to try my skills out on new people, see what I can pick up.’

I nodded and extended my hands palms upwards. ‘Be my guest.’

He came a bit closer and then leaned down and inspected both my hands. ‘Hmm, well that’s interesting…’

‘Oh yes?’ I said. ‘I’m not going to be clonked on the head by a piece of falling masonry am I?’

‘Well, it’s hard to say precisely,’ Father Worsted said with a playful grin. ‘But combining my intuition with my hand reading, I see romantic love, but it will come at a price. I also get that you should walk away from here and never return. There’s trouble ahead!’

‘Ah,’ I replied. ‘What kind of trouble?’

But he didn’t answer my question. The Father’s face suddenly became very serious, and a squall of cold wind suddenly rustled the foliage around us. He looked up at the sky. ‘I sense rain. Best get back to the rectory. Brandon’s done his shit! See you in the inn sometime, I’ll treat you to a pint!’

I was more surprised at the man’s abrupt departure than his language which amused me, and I watched him go off with a wave. His dog rushed ahead also apparently eager to get away too. I gave Kindlewood a quick glance and was astonished to see what seemed to be a whitish female figure looking out of a lower window. To my imperfect sight the figure seemed to be cupping its bare breasts at me and then it moved away. Or was it the waving net curtains in the cold wind? I was tempted to go up the path and have a closer look, but the sky was changing colour and not in a nice way.

I pushed open the gates, my eyes glued to the window hoping to see the figure again but all I received was a thwack in the face. It came from a very thin branch from the tree next to the gates, blown by the wind. Perhaps telling me to skedaddle! I decided to abandon my adventure and go back into the village to see if I could get some more information about Kindlewood. Seeing that I was looking for a property to invest in, I thought this might be it.

However, when I passed the inn again, I saw one of the men I’d seen earlier in the inn at the bar. He was nailing up a sign on the inn’s external message board. I paused to read what it said.

AUCTION

FINE VICTORIAN PROPERTY – KINDLEWOOD, FOR SALE.

NEEDS MODERNISING

LAMBERDON CHURCH HALL – SUNDAY 13th March 2 PM.

Conducted by Messrs Payne and Whittle auctioneers.

I read the sign about three times and realised that the venue of the auction was Father Worsted’s parish base. So at least I would know one person there. There was no indication as to what the reserved price would be, and I didn’t know where the auctioneers were. But I was curious, and perhaps even intrigued to see that ghostly white figure at the window again.

I decided to go, especially as the auction was only taking place the very next week. I had an idea where the church hall was because the church tower stuck out a mile and so all I had to do was drive towards it. But more dangerously perhaps, I had the notion that if the property was cheap enough I’d put in a bid. At the very worst I could always immediately sell it again if my plans to modernise it went awry. However, what was really compelling me I don’t know. I do not usually think of myself as a person who makes rash decisions.

* * *

Now, the thing about my fiancée, Lionie Gifthurst was that she had quite a strong set of personal beliefs. She believed that life was meant to be lived and was prepared to do just that, live, and live dangerously. This involved taking in as much of life as she could within the limited boundaries of Lamberdon. Perhaps a visit to London might have done her good. However, arguably she took her philosophy to extremes. Particularly when it came to sex. Frankly, that was an area where she had no boundaries. It seemed she didn’t have to love you to sleep with you.

In fact, to her sex was vastly over-rated and she didn’t put a premium on it at all. If she fancied you she would jump in bed with you. Sex to her was just a primal urge, like eating, an instinct which needed to be fed from time to time. Also, age was not an inhibiting factor. She’d had a long affair with a much older man. She admitted that she was only with him because he bought her things and paid for everything.

And I must admit that since meeting her, she had been dipping into my wallet quite a lot. Not literally but in essence. And I suppose you could view me as a catch who had a bit of mullah behind him. I was employed as I may have mentioned by a firm of solicitors in Holborn London as a legal executive in their probate division. Legal executives do all the actual ‘legal work’ directed by the solicitor himself.

He never bothered filling in forms or drawing up Wills, that was left to a flunky like me. The solicitor merely legalised the process, chatted amiably to the client and discussed his options. Then all the notes were passed to me and my secretary Gail, and we knocked out the documentation for the client.

Documents had to be stamped and signatures had to be placed neatly on the line or lines. But it was a job I had worked towards from the age of eighteen. Now I was reaping the rewards of being a fully-fledged registered Legal Executive for a topflight legal firm. My salary was handsome with bonuses and the firm had secured me a cheap mortgage. I drove a nice motor and wore expensive shirts, suits, shoes and ties and not necessarily in that order! I even had some plastic surgery and had my eyebags removed. Lionie reckoned I looked thirteen and a half years younger than my chronological age, which I thought was an odd bit of calculus.

But ever since my father died and I found myself swimming in all this extra cash, I noticed that she couldn’t keep her hands off me. Not being a woman who respected boundaries, when she had the ‘urge’ it had to be instantaneously gratified. This meant I frequently found myself with my trousers down in the most compromising of situations. But a lot of the time, we would make out in my cramped Austen.

She was very experimental. And during the act of love, if that is what it could be called, she would grunt and use bad language and pull grotesque faces. It was almost a relief when we reached our climaxes. I felt like a sexual novice in her company. I was particularly fascinated by her Jekyll and Hyde transformation from a prim looking, very pretty woman into a sexual weirdo.

For a brief time I thought she was mad, but after she’d had her fill she would return to normal, and her frenzied expressions would fade. I decided to be philosophical about it and not worry and found that drink was a factor in this behaviour. For sure it was a trigger as was spicy food, cheese on toast, vinegary chips and chocolate. In fact I did a bit of research and discovered that chocolate contained selenium and it may have been this metal which was the mischief maker.

But hey, I couldn’t complain. I was still young enough to enjoy it, being thirty-eight, and my energy was the equal of hers. My main point being that when Kindlewood came on the market, Lionie seemed to have made several life changing decisions. I mentioned that she had already expressed an interest in marrying me, but now she wanted to move into the grand house as well. She wanted Kindlewood, quite badly it seemed.

When I first told her about it over supper that following Friday night, she was hooked. At the time we were eating fish and chips. Sitting at the opposite end of my dinner table she said, ‘I know the property well. I used to walk down there with my old boyfriend Julian and screw!’

I almost choked on my bit of cod. ‘When was that?’

‘Oh don’t worry, it was long before your time,’ she said giving me a saucy smile. ‘And I even knew the old witch who lived in it! Mrs Baxter was her name.’

I nodded and resumed chewing my bit of fillet. ‘I see.’

‘Me and Julian used to go to the orchard which was all overgrown,’ Lionie said her eyes glazing over. ‘There were all these unpicked apples and pears on the ground. All wasted. We used to pinch a few and then get colic the next day.’

I nodded again and stared down at the chips on my plate. ‘So, what was the woman like, this Mrs Baxter?’

‘Actually it was Miss Baxter, I don’t think she ever married,’ Lionie replied. ‘Well she was ugly and even looked like a witch, long nose, pointy fingers etc. She used to swear at us. We’d climb on her gates.’

I smiled. ‘Well, I’d swear at you if you climbed on my gates! And did she own the property?’

‘Dunno, maybe, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone else there,’ Lionie replied.

‘And what was the place like then?’ I asked. ‘In the state that it’s in now?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said stuffing a bit of salad in her mouth. ‘But I always remember this big car being there parked out front. Not a Daimler but the other similar model.’

‘Rolls Royce?’ I ventured.

She gave me a hard look. ‘No! A Daimler doesn’t remotely look like a Rolls Royce. You need to brush up on your cars!’

I was thoughtful. ‘Hmm, the presence of a car suggests there was a man in the background. Possibly the owner of the house and possibly Miss Baxter worked for him!’

Lionie nodded. ‘That’s an interesting deduction Sherlock. Now why didn’t I think of that?’

I looked at her. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

‘Well of course there was a man somewhere, duh!’

‘When was all this?’ I asked.

‘About fifteen years ago,’ she said. ‘When I was still a kid.’

‘You’re still a kid!’ I said with a grin.

She gave me a ‘v’ sign with her fingers, and I decided not to pursue it. ‘And then what happened, I mean to Miss Baxter?’

Leonie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, died,’ she said. ‘I also heard that quite a few people died there in sort of strange circumstances! Spooky!’

I nodded. ‘I didn’t tell you I met this priest when I went to see the house and he reckons it’s cursed.’

‘It is!’

‘You sound confident. Why do you say that?’

‘The local sweet shop owner told me, and I sense it,’ Leonie replied widening her eyes. ‘It would be fun to live in a haunted house, don’t you think?’

I pulled a face. ‘Not really. Actually I think I did see a ghost when I went down there.’

Leonie laughed. ‘It wasn’t of a nude woman cupping her breasts was it?’

I looked up from my plate surprised. ‘Actually it was, yeah. Why? Have other people reported it?’

‘Quite a few actually,’ she said. ‘But it’s not a ghost. It’s an old oil painting on the opposite wall that you can see through the net curtains of the window. But the sun has to shine in to light it up.’

I laughed. ‘Huh! It’s a wonder it hasn’t been stolen.’

‘Well its firmly attached to the wall and someone has drawn a cock on it!’

‘No!’

‘Local youths break in all the time,’ she said. ‘But they don’t stay long, so I’ve heard.’

I gave Leonie a suspicious glance. ‘You weren’t one of them, were you?’

Leonie smile was wide. ‘I might have been. Anyway, I like the place and I would very much like to own it, save it from destruction. Otherwise some builders are going to get hold of it!’

I picked up the paper napkin next to my plate and dabbed my lips. ‘You can’t beat a Birdseye fillet!’

‘So what do you think?’ she asked.

‘About what?’

She smiled. ‘You and me buying the old place, doing it up, and turning it into some sort of business, like a spooky guesthouse. People love that kind of thing.’

I drummed my fingers on the table. ‘If you’re serious it would probably take more money than I’ve currently got. I mean, I was thinking of putting in a bid for it myself. But we’d have to get a bank loan to top up the money. And I don’t fancy being in debt particularly.’

‘You wouldn’t have to be,’ she said.

I stared at her. ‘Really, why? Are you a secret millionairess who just happens to live in a pokey one bedroom flat and works in the library?’

She leaned forward and fixed me with her beautiful green eyes. ‘Well actually, now you mention it…’

* * *

Our conversation was interrupted by a phone call on my mobile from my mother who was now living in a care home due to her advancing dementia. On good days it was possible to have a decent conversation with her, and today was a good day.

‘Ralphy, could you do me a favour dear?’ she asked.

‘Yes mum.’

‘Can you tell that bitch of a staff nurse Mrs Pierson not to keep putting cow’s milk in my tea please!’ My mother sounded quite upset. ‘She knows I only drink soya. She does it deliberately!’

‘Okay mum, I’ll get onto her!’

‘Thank you and how are you and that bird you’re shacking up with?’

I cupped the phone. ‘It’s mum!’

Leonie got up and cleared the table.

‘We’re fine thank you mum,’ I said. ‘I think we’re going to get married.’

‘Married! Well, I think you’ll be making the biggest mistake ever,’ my mum said brutally. ‘And dad came through again. He says you can be such a dope sometimes. He says you’re planning to buy an old ruin and it’s going to be one big headache. Is that true?’

I was quite surprised at this prescient prediction. ‘Mum, I’ve already told you, dad isn’t coming through, it’s one of the symptoms of your illness.’

‘What illness?’

I sighed. ‘Never mind. I’ll speak to Mrs Pierson tomorrow as it’s a bit late to be phoning her now.’

‘Alright dear. And remember, you can never be too careful!’ and she abruptly hung up.

* * *

When I went into the lounge, Lionie was sitting on the sofa with her feet up watching the news on the tv. She gave me an unfriendly look. ‘You’re not very polite to your mother, are you?’

I sat down next to her. ‘That was a private conversation, you weren’t supposed to be listening.’ I had spoken to my mother on the landline in the kitchen.

‘Also, what did you mean when you said, I quote, ‘I think we’re going to get married?’

I shrugged. ‘I meant that I’m not a hundred percent sure if we are or not.’

‘I see. Does that mean you don’t want to?’

‘No it means that I’m not sure if you want to.’

She turned her head ninety degrees to face me. ‘Well, I want to, but it’s obvious that you’re getting cold feet about it,’ she stated.

I held up a hand. ‘Lionie, I’m perfectly fine with the idea. But very often it’s the women who make this decision.’

‘That’s it, put it all on me!’

‘Lionie, look, I think we would make a good team,’ I said. ‘And there are lots of things I admire about you. And you’re a good cook and you make the effort to have a conversation. I like the way you take the lead in things…’

‘You mean as in what we do in bed?’ she said with a smile.

‘That, and practical everyday things too,’ I said. ‘Also I like your sincerity and your honesty.’

At this she shook her head. ‘Now that’s where you go too far. Honesty, no!’

I looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

She pursed her lips as she considered what she was going to say. ‘Actually I’m the biggest liar going.’

‘Meaning?’

She sighed. ‘Well, I was about to tell you before we were interrupted by your mother’s phone call that what you see is not quite what I am.’

I nodded as I stared down at one of her bare arms. ‘Okay, enlighten me, the floor is yours. Just one thing. I have to confess that I believe you only want to marry me because I’ve come into a bit of money. But that’s normal. All women want security.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I want security, who doesn’t?’

I picked up the tv remote squeezed between us and turned the volume down. ‘So enlighten me.’

‘Well I was afraid that you might be wanting me for my money,’ she said. ‘See, when we met, about eighteen months ago, although it feels like years ago, I had just got wind of an inheritance.’

I looked at her in surprise. ‘Really? You too? No way!’

She nodded. ‘And the first thing I thought was that it would make you more interested in me as a marriage prospect. And then your dad died, God bless him, and you became a hundred-thousandaire overnight. In other words, you were now on my level financially, so I decided it was safe to propose to you!’

‘I can’t believe this!’ I said. ‘You’re a dark horse!’ I could see the logic of what she was saying but I was a bit shocked. ‘So, how much did you get and who left it to you? Not your parents because they are still alive.’

She leaned back on the sofa. ‘Boker Harrison!’

‘Who the hell is Boker Harrison?’

‘He’s an Australian adventure writer I had an affair with when I was nineteen,’ Leonie said. ‘I went to Oz as part of a college trip and met this old drunk in