Grave Matters (7 page)

She agreed that he might call for her at Mulberry Cottage at noon on the following Sunday and take her to lunch in Andhurst as a preliminary to their bibliographical discussion.

‘And your aunt too, of course, if she’s there,’ he said, fervently hoping that Valerie would have other plans.

He drove her back to her flat in Earls Court, where she put a cool hand in his on her doorstep and thanked him for the evening. Before he could take any further action she had opened the door and vanished inside, leaving him gazing at the solid slab of black-painted wood. He got back into the Rover and sat for some minutes staring at the building, imagining her walking up the stairs to her flat, which she had told him was on the top floor. No lights went on, so it must overlook the gardens at the back of the house. She would not look out and see him still below, a faithful sentinel. It was pointless to remain, so he started the car and drove off towards the Westway and the fast road to Oxford. Soon he was cruising smoothly along the M40, back to his celibate quarters at St. Mark’s. As he drove, he thought about how he would see Ellen again on Sunday, and he had reached the Beaconsfield by-pass before he started to turn over in his mind the curious fact of Miss Mildred Forrest’s wish to talk to Ellen about the reputed jinx on Abbot’s Lodge.

Andrew Conway at three years old was an energetic little boy, keenly interested in all that went on around him. Jane often thought he had inherited some of his uncle’s curiosity. He still had what was called a rest every afternoon, when he lay on his bed with his teddy bear and a book. Sometimes he did nod off for a short time, but more often he lectured his teddy on the events of the morning, or carried on long conversations with imaginary people. On the Sunday after Miss Forrest’s death, when he had been banished in this way, Jane sat on the sofa in the sitting-room with her feet up, looking at the
Sunday Times
crossword, while Michael read the Business Section.

After a time she said: ‘I wonder how Patrick’s getting on.’

‘Hm? What’s he doing? I thought he was coming to lunch,’ said Michael.

‘He cancelled. He’s gone down to Hampshire to see that girl,’ said Jane.

Michael looked at her over the top of his paper.

‘You don’t mean to tell me that Patrick’s seriously interested in someone you’ve found for him?’ he said. ‘It’s your broody condition running away with your imagination.’

‘I didn’t find her for him, he did it himself,’ Jane said, and frowned. ‘She may be awful.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Old Amelia Brinton’s great-niece. I must have told you. He met her when he called at Amelia’s cottage a few weeks ago. He happened to be near there. You know how he does these impulsive things.’ Michael did. ‘He took a fancy to her.’

Michael knew that Patrick often took fancies to girls, but never strongly enough to want them permanently around.

‘Don’t count on it lasting,’ he advised. ‘Patrick’s pretty set in his ways. He’s probably happiest flitting from flower to flower. What’s this one’s particular charm?’

‘He hasn’t told me. I just know she’s somehow different from the others in the past. And she’s muddled up with all these old ladies who keep falling down stairs,’ said Jane. ‘You know, Amelia in Athens, and now Miss Forrest in the British Museum.’

‘They chose some pretty illustrious stairs on which to expire,’ said Michael.

‘Like being run over by a Rolls, you mean? I know. But there’s a third one. Patrick only told me about her the other day, when he cried off for this weekend. It’s a woman in Meldsmead who fell down some steps in the garden and twisted her ankle.’

‘She didn’t die?’

‘No. And she isn’t old.’

‘Anyone can have a domestic accident,’ said Michael.

‘You’re starting to talk like Patrick,’ Jane complained.

‘What’s wrong with that? I know you love him dearly. In fact I’ve always thought there was something Grecian, or do I mean Egyptian, like the Pharaohs, in the brotherly love between you,’ said Michael, grinning at her.

‘I won’t be provoked,’ Jane said, looking prim.

‘You’ll hate it if he marries. Some other woman muscling in when you’ve him and me, ready to dance to your tune,’ Michael went on. ‘And Andrew will join your band of adorers – he has, in fact, though his powers are limited still.’

‘If Patrick could only be half as happy as we are, I’d rejoice,’ Jane said, very seriously. ‘But I’m afraid for him.’

‘He’s probably only buttering this girl up because he’s intrigued by something in the set-up,’ said Michael. ‘The old ladies and their tumbles, perhaps.’

‘There’s something odd about one of the houses in Meldsmead. The one where the other woman fell and twisted her ankle. It’s ill- fated in some way,’ Jane said.

‘Well, there you are, then. He wants some problem to chew over, so he’s found one. This girl’s just an excuse. Don’t worry about it. He’s got a genius for getting mixed up with odd types, I agree, but he won’t marry one.’

‘He’s been around so often when people are up to no good, I sometimes wonder if he acts as a sort of catalyst. By just being there, perhaps he sets off the chain of murky events.’

‘Darling, don’t be crazy. It’s just chance. He’s happened to be present when people have died in mysterious circumstances once or twice, and being Patrick, he’s seen more of what’s gone on under the surface than other people.’

‘There’s something bothering him about Miss Forrest,’ Jane said. ‘Poor old Amelia’s death really was a most unlucky accident – some rough youth rushed up those steps leading up to the Acropolis and jostled against her when she was standing above a sheer drop, and she fell. Someone younger wouldn’t have, or if they did, would have bounced.’

‘And Miss Forrest got dizzy. Bad heart, wasn’t it? Maybe she shouldn’t have walked up the stairs.’

‘I’m surprised she did. There are lifts,’ said Jane.

‘Perhaps she went up by lift and was walking down,’ Michael suggested. ‘That would seem reasonable. There must have been witnesses.’

‘Oddly enough, there were very few people about at the time, Patrick said. Evidently no one else was on the stairs. She pitched down on her head.’

‘Well, she wasn’t pushed if no one else was around,’ said Michael. ‘You usually ridicule Patrick when he gets these fanciful notions.’

‘I know. But he’s been right before, so I’m beginning to take him more seriously,’ Jane said. ‘When he suspects foul play, I mean, like they say in the papers.’

‘Well, he doesn’t suspect it this time. He’s just using it as an excuse to get together with this dolly-bird, and good for him,’ Michael chuckled.

‘That’s the direct opposite of what you said a moment ago,’ Jane declared triumphantly. ‘You said she was an excuse to get a foot in that house with the bad reputation.’

‘Well, it doesn’t much matter which way round it is, really, does it?’ Michael asked. ‘If he’s having an affair, that’s fine, and his business. If he’s doing a bit of sleuthing, he probably won’t do any harm even if he does no good.’

‘Miss Forrest had asked that girl to meet her at the British Museum,’ Jane said. ‘She wanted to talk to her.’

‘What an odd place to choose for a
rendez-vous
,’ said Michael.

‘Oh, I don’t know. There are plenty of seats about, and it’s quiet. You can talk. Patrick said Miss Forrest often went there.’

‘Well, maybe he’ll bring the girl to see us. When he does that, you’ll know he really is interested,’ Michael said. ‘Then you can start planning Andrew’s page’s outfit.’

Patrick, in his eagerness to see Ellen again, had reached the turning to Meldsmead at half-past eleven. She wouldn’t be up yet, or she’d be washing her hair, or whatever girls did on Sunday mornings, he thought, feeling strangely unsure of himself. He shouldn’t arrive early. He drove on past the turning for half a mile, until he came to a lay-by at the side of the main road, pulled in, and got out of the car. There was a gate into the field beside where he had parked, padlocked. He climbed over it and walked across the grass, which was quite dry as there had not been much rain recently. When he had gone a little way into the field, he could see the village of Meldsmead before him, spread out below. The church tower stood out against the pale autumn sky; the trees had shed most of their leaves, exposing buildings that would not be visible from this point in summer. The cluster of houses that made up the village huddled together in a wide valley; a wood rose up a little hill in the distance beyond, and a stream ran through the fields below where he was standing. He could see Abbot’s Lodge; it stood apart, to the right of the village, its mellow tiled roof dull red in the thin sunlight. A grey blob some distance from it must be the thatch of Mulberry Cottage. His binoculars were in the car, and as there were still twenty minutes to occupy before it was time to call for Ellen, he went back for them.

In the field once again, he trained the glasses on Abbot’s Lodge. There was a dark hedge round the house. No smoke spiralled from the chimneys, so it must have a modern central heating system installed. As he watched, he saw a figure emerge, apparently through the hedge, and start walking over the fields to where a row of willows, leafless now but pollarded, though not for some years, indicated the course of the stream. It was a man. It must be David Bruce. He walked across the meadow, and at his heels followed the golden retriever whom Patrick had seen before. Then he saw another figure approaching from the opposite direction; slight, in slacks and a dark jacket, with her hair tied at the nape of her neck, Patrick would have recognised Ellen without the binoculars. She was coming from the far side of the stream, and they met on a bridge that crossed it. With a sense that he was spying, Patrick lowered the glasses and turned away; all his elation left him. He put the glasses back in the case and locked them in the boot of the car. Then he got a chamois which he kept in the compartment of the dash, pressed the screen-washers, and busily wiped the windscreen till it shone. After that he walked up the road for two hundred yards in the direction of Winchester, turned and walked back again, and looked at his watch. It was four minutes to twelve. He got into the car, started the engine, and drove to Meldsmead.

When he reached Mulberry Cottage and stopped at the wicket gate in the fence Ellen immediately appeared. Her hair was drawn back into a big slide at the back of her head and she wore a blackberry-coloured trouser suit. She seemed pleased to see him.

‘Hullo. You’re very punctual,’ she said. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Gorgeous,’ Patrick agreed, with his eyes fixed on her.

‘I mowed the lawn this morning. That should fix it for the winter, don’t you think?’ she asked. She seemed animated and happy, more than he had ever seen her before. Perhaps she had just bidden farewell to David, for good, Patrick thought, on a fanciful tide of rising hope. His own spirits revived, he admired her handiwork in the garden. The flowerbeds had been forked over and the grass edges trimmed. A few roses still bloomed.

‘Do you like gardening?’ he asked her.

‘It’s peaceful,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about it, but it’s nice to see a reward for your labours.’

Andhurst was ten miles away. Patrick had already booked a table at an excellent pub which he knew of in the little town. He successfully expelled from his mind all dark thoughts about Ellen’s earlier meeting with David Bruce; it was wholly innocent and accidental, he decided.

When they got back to Mulberry Cottage, Ellen made coffee and they settled down to the books. Patrick had a list of twenty titles which Bernard Wilson wanted, including the Burmanns. More would be wanted by the college and by other classicists once Bernard had picked the best for himself, and they had decided the fairest method of pricing them was to enlist the help of a specialist antiquarian bookseller.

‘But your aunt might like to get her own expert,’ Patrick said.

‘I’m quite certain she trusts you and the librarian of St. Mark’s not to do her down,’ said Ellen demurely.

They packed the books into two large cardboard boxes which Bernard had provided. Patrick looked round the shelves.

‘It’s a marvellous sight, isn’t it? A room full of books,’ he said.

‘Yes, if one could only read them,’ said Ellen ruefully. She pulled one at random from the shelves and looked inside, made a face and put it back. ‘I suppose you can read them all,’ she said.

‘I can’t. With enormous difficulty I might make out the Latin, but not the Greek,’ he said.

‘What’s your subject, then? I somehow thought it must be classics, because you were in Athens I suppose,’ she said.

She knew nothing about him. Only his name. His spirits plunged once more. They had talked about Rupert Brooke, and she hadn’t made the mental connection when he talked about his pupils. But why should she, after all, he thought dismally.

‘English,’ he said. ‘I’m particularly interested in Shakespeare.’ As she had done, he now plucked a book from the shelves without looking at it and turned the pages over. He wanted to avoid looking at her for a moment.

‘He knew it all, didn’t he,’ said Ellen. ‘About people I mean. How they behave. Power, and all that, and jealousy. Things haven’t really changed a great deal.’

‘No, they haven’t,’ Patrick said. He reached to put the book back, since now they were to talk. It was a volume of Cicero’s
Orations,
the blue-bound Oxford edition, Volume IV. ‘Hullo, that’s odd,’ he said, pausing with his hand on the space from which he had taken the book.

‘What is?’

‘I thought that set was complete. Cicero’s
Orations
in six volumes. Volume five doesn’t seem to be here.’

‘Is it on Milly’s list? Let me look.’

Ellen took the list from the floor in front of him. They were both sitting on the carpet with their empty coffee cups beside them. As she moved, a strand of her hair brushed against his face.

‘”Cicero: Orations, six volumes,”’ Ellen read. ‘And see, she’s noted that the
Letters
are three volumes in four parts, volume two in two parts. She’s been very thorough.’