“For the most part, very good. Although over the May bank holiday, while we were asleep in the house, someone threw a petrol bomb through the front window into the living room and started a fire.”
Aunt Millicent’s tea mug froze on its way back to the tray.
“While you were—?”
“Asleep. I was asleep in the upstairs back bedroom, the one overlooking the back garden. Fortunately I’m a light sleeper. We managed to get the fire under control before any permanent damage could be done. But of course the police and fire services had to be called, and the incident officially reported.”
Seeing his aunt’s ashen cheeks, Leonard felt sure this piece of information came as news. What he was not about to tell her was that since then, he had arranged for security lighting and a comprehensive camera surveillance system to be installed both front and back. If anyone tried anything similar again, he would catch them. Of course, since the incident, nothing more had happened.
“The bank holiday, you say? Probably hooligans on holiday from the Midlands. That part of Wales always did have a problem with petty crime over the holidays. Caused by heathen youths, no doubt. I blame the parenting. Discipline seems to be a thing of the past.”
Leonard said nothing. He cringed inside to think of his aunt’s views on discipline.
“I’ve gotten to know a number of people in the area since I started the work. Some you might know. Megan Llewellyn at the Manor Inn, Pippa Redfern, Freya Williams.” Leonard took a sip of the milky tea before continuing. “Had a good chat with PC Morgan, too, when he came to investigate the fire. He remembers you well.”
“Does he?” asked his aunt, her stare unwavering.
“Sounds to me as though you had some lovely holidays in the area. As a child, with my father, and also with your own family.”
His aunt put her mug down on the table and composed herself, a thin smile on her face.
“We did, Leonard. Which is why families need to stick together and help each other—”
“By threatening to take them to court?”
“And on the subject of helping each other,” she said, ignoring his question, “I hope you don’t mind me offering you some advice.”
Leonard hesitated. What advice could his aunt possibly have that he would want to hear?
“I was informed you have a Mr Lamperton working for you at the house. A freelance builder. Is that correct?”
Leonard met her gaze, staunching the temper rising in him.
“Informed by who?”
“Whom, dear. It’s informed by—”
“Who told you?”
“Does it really matter? The point is, how well do you know this man?”
“Well enough.”
“Look, I may seem like a humble woman—”
Leonard had to stop himself from snorting out a laugh. Aunt Millicent could be called a lot of things, but humble was not one of them.
“But I do have connections,” she continued. “And one of those who has links to the police force did a—what does one call it?—background check on this Lamperton person as a favour to me. You need to be careful, Leonard. Were you aware this man has a past as a known deviant and a sex worker with a number of criminal convictions including soliciting and assault—”
“Stop right there. I know who Mr Lamperton is, and he is completely trustworthy. We went to school together. And, moreover, he has explained everything to me. Due to a cold, heartless, uncaring family, who thought more about their faith than their own son, he had a tough time finding his way early on in life. What kind of monster does that to their child? Anyway, he is a good person, a better man than me.”
Aunt Millicent put a hand up in defence.
“Fair enough. If you already know, then that’s fine. I just wanted to make sure you understood the kind of person you’re employing, the kind of lifestyle he chooses, and ensure you’re taking all necessary precautions, especially if he’s doing manual labour. Make sure you’re not in a situation where you might be tainted by this man’s blood.”
Hoping to give nothing away, Leonard met her frosty stare. Was she implying what he thought she was implying, that Adrian was HIV positive? Or was this merely the wild speculation of a nasty woman? Despite his best efforts to ignore her words, the insinuation wormed a hole into the pit of his stomach. Whatever she intimated, he would not give her the satisfaction of reacting.
“I trust Mr Lamperton—Adrian— unreservedly. And if by ‘the kind of person he is’, you mean the fact that he’s gay, then you should know that we are the same kind of person, Adrian and myself. I trust you are not too obtuse to understand my meaning, Aunt.”
