Grave Matters (15 page)

‘What’s the matter, darling? Are you feeling ill?’ asked Michael, in such an affected voice that Jane nearly burst into giggles.

‘I—I just feel a bit dizzy,’ she said, crossing her fingers to ward off ill-luck at the lie.

‘Try putting your head down between your knees,’ Patrick advised.

‘What’s wrong? Someone not feeling well?’ enquired a voice, and sure enough it was Paul Newton who now joined them on the path. He recognised Patrick and nodded to him, but curtly, his attention on Jane.

‘It’s all right – I just felt a bit giddy,’ she said. She was standing in such a way that her condition was unmistakeable; the roadway was illuminated by the porch light shining hospitably out from over the Kents’ front door. Meldsmead was much too small a village to have street lighting.

‘Oh dear. You’d better sit down and rest. Come in here – this house belongs to friends of mine, and I’m just going to see them,’ said Paul. ‘And I happen to be a doctor.’ The final sentence was ground out of him. Patrick knew from medical friends the mixed emotions with which, in times of crisis, they thus revealed themselves.

‘Come along,’ Paul said. ‘Can you manage her?’

He led the way up the short drive to the house, and Jane tottered behind, supported on either side by the other two. She made faint protesting sounds, to the effect that she was quite all right and not to bother, as they went. Patrick wondered if Paul Newton would be deceived by her act. They all trooped into the Kents’ house, where Winifred Kent appeared in the hall wearing a welcoming smile which quickly changed to one of surprise as she saw three total strangers enter.

‘Paul—?’ she hesitated.

‘Winnie, dear, good evening. I’ve just met someone strolling by who’s feeling faint and knew you wouldn’t mind your house being used for first aid,’ Paul said.

‘Of course, Paul. Come in, my dear,’ said Winifred at once, in such a concerned voice that Jane felt very guilty. Michael and Patrick stepped back, and she was conducted, still wilting realistically, into an extremely elegant sitting-room where she was led to a large sofa. As Patrick had earlier suggested, she immediately put her head down on her knees. This was a wise action, for she did not look at all pale. Paul held her wrist, and after a few seconds said, ‘She’ll be all right.’ Patrick hoped that stage fright had made her pulse erratic enough to convince the doctor that her near-faint was genuine.

There had been a babble of talk going on in the room when they all arrived, but naturally this had been halted by their sudden entrance. Brandy was proposed for the patient by Winifred, and approved by Paul. George Kent, who was hovering by the drinks trolley in a corner of the room, produced it, and Jane, who liked it, took a dainty sip.

‘I’m quite all right now, really,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, what a silly thing to do. And you’re having a party, oh, how awful.’

She began to rise from among her cushions, but Winifred pushed her firmly back again.

‘Wait a little longer, my dear, till you’re quite better,’ she insisted. ‘This isn’t a party – just a few friends, all quite informal.’

‘And we’ve met, haven’t we?’ George said to Patrick.

Patrick now made the necessary introductions and explanations. He glibly mentioned the mythical nearby friends, and Jane almost wished someone would cross-examine him to identify them, but no one did. Michael, good honest soul, was finding the acting part hard, but when a huge whisky was hospitably put into his hand and he had taken a swig he shed his inhibitions and began to praise the scenic beauty of the district with some verve.

‘I’ll go and get the car, and we’ll push off,’ he said after a while. ‘Jane’s all right now, aren’t you, darling?’

‘Yes, perfectly,’ said Jane, who looked blooming, spread out against the gold brocade upholstery of the sofa.

‘No, no. You mustn’t go yet. You must join the party,’ said Winifred.

The rest of the company had been talking together while all this had been going on. Patrick had seen that there were present only the Bradshaws, Valerie Brinton and Carol Bruce. At least, he supposed the woman with Denis Bradshaw was his wife.

She was. Winifred swiftly introduced everybody.

‘We knew Valerie was here for the night, and she told us that Carol’s a grass widow for the evening,’ Winifred said. ‘I used to be a real widow myself, and I know how lonely it can be, so we thought we’d get together here, and Paul too of course.’ Her gaze flitted from Paul to Valerie. Patrick, intently watching though he stood looking particularly vague, followed the drift of her thoughts instantly. She was obviously happy in her new marriage. Had she, a lonely widow, come between George and his first wife? She was about forty, plump as he had earlier been told, but still attractive, with a real warmth to her. Madge Bradshaw, the only other person in the room whom he had not met before, was much the same age; she wore a jersey suit and had very good legs and small, smartly-shod feet. She was taller than Denis, who seemed subdued compared with how genial he had been in the pub when Patrick had met him before.

‘It’s Winifred’s birthday,’ Denis said. ‘Many happies, my dear.’ He raised his glass, and now that everyone felt the invalid was on the mend the party began. Jane, on her sofa, was at the disadvantage of any seated guest, but as soon as Winifred had prettily accepted the greetings of the company she perched on the end of the sofa and began to ask her uninhibitedly about the forthcoming baby.

Patrick joined George, who was talking to Valerie and Carol, while Michael discussed gardening with the Bradshaws. Valerie wore a lime-green trouser suit and huge dangling earrings; she was easily the smartest woman in the room. Carol was dressed in some soft woollen material in pale fawn; she looked rather more fragile than he remembered.

It would have been odd not to have spoken to Valerie about Mulberry Cottage, Ellen and Miss Forrest, and Patrick did so, in that order.

‘I was sorry about Miss Forrest,’ he said.

‘Yes, it was shocking,’ Valerie agreed. ‘Of course, there was nothing of her. A puff of wind would have blown her away. Her heart was very dicky, and she’d been very upset by my aunt’s death.’

Patrick had a sudden mental picture of Miss Forrest collapsing into a little bundle on the stairs in the British Museum. But she hadn’t just folded up; she’d rolled down the whole of the first flight, with impetus, then lain spread-eagled on the middle landing. Would she really have pitched down so far from just a heart attack? He supposed so: it was probably a question of weight distribution, however minute the body. Miss Brinton, too, had pitched down the steps of the Acropolis.

‘Did you meet Miss Forrest?’ he asked Carol. ‘She was your neighbour, wasn’t she?’

‘No, we never met,’ said Carol. ‘She left just as we moved in. It was a tragic thing to happen to her.’

‘You’ve been very kind about the books, Dr. Grant,’ Valerie said. ‘Ellen has kept me posted with your various dealings. I’m gratified to find they’re worth something. I was afraid they’d be too obscure. Superseded by more modern translations.’

‘Oh no. The classic editions are always in demand,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s just a question of finding the person who really wants each one.’

‘Well, you’ve taken a lot of trouble and I’m grateful,’ Valerie said.

‘I wonder if that volume of Cicero’s
Orations
has turned up yet,’ Patrick said.

‘Oh? What was that?’ asked Valerie.

‘There’s an Oxford edition of the
Letters
and the
Orations
,’ Patrick said. ‘Miss Forrest had listed both as being complete, but volume five of the
Orations
was missing. Neither Ellen nor I could find it. We thought it must have been replaced in a different shelf.’

‘That’s unlike Milly. She was methodical,’ Valerie said. ‘I expect it will turn up.’

‘It spoils the set, does it, to have a volume missing?’ Carol asked.

‘Well, it’s a standard text always in print, so it could be replaced,’ Patrick said. ‘And the whole set’s not of great value – it would just save an impecunious student having to buy it at the full cost of a new one.’

‘I see,’ said Carol.

‘How are you settling down now?’ Patrick asked her. ‘I suppose you’ve got workmen all over the place?’

‘We haven’t finished deciding what’s to be done,’ she said. ‘I think you need to live in a house for a time before you can be certain how you want things.’

‘Very true,’ said Madge Bradshaw. ‘We made lots of mistakes through trying to get everything done at once. We’d lived in quarters much of the time in our Army life, and I suppose we just lacked experience. But you see so many houses in your work, don’t you, Carol? That must give you plenty of ideas.’

‘Yes – it’s a question of trying to include all the best ones,’ Carol said.

‘What is your work?’ Patrick asked. There was no reason for her to suppose that he knew, and what he had heard had been very vague: some sort of freelance journalism.

‘I write about houses where interesting people live, and about interesting people – women in unusual jobs, that sort of thing,’ Carol said. ‘I’d like to do a piece about this house, it’s so lovely. But I’m not sure if I’ll be able to.’

‘She means because we aren’t particularly interesting as inhabitants,’ said George. ‘Anyway, it’s not a museum piece. You should see it when my daughters are at home. One’s at university and one’s working in London. When they’re home there’s coffee on the carpet and records blaring away.’

‘And we love it,’ Winifred said, patting him as she joined their group. ‘I haven’t any children of my own. It’s lovely to have a ready-made family.’

‘These two are rather sweet,’ said Valerie. ‘They believe in happy-ever-after.’

‘Yes, we do,’ said Winifred. ‘Now come and talk to Paul.’ She led Valerie firmly off, watched by Carol and Patrick with some amusement.

‘Winifred’s determined to pull that one off. Because she’s been lucky second time round she wants everyone else to be paired off neatly. Paul’s a widower,’ Carol said.

‘I’d heard that,’ Patrick said. ‘Won’t it work?’ He watched Paul and Valerie; they were talking together in a friendly way.

‘Things never do if you set them up,’ said Carol. ‘They have to be spontaneous.’ Her tone was ironic. Patrick tried to conceal how interested he was in observing her; this was the woman whose husband was having an affair with Ellen. What was wrong in her marriage that made her cynical and made her husband stray? He hoped Jane, from her sofa, was able to cast a few shrewd glances in this direction and make some assessment. As far as he could tell, Carol seemed attractive; she was well made-up but not aggressively, and her dress looked expensive. She was obviously competent: too competent, perhaps. It was very easy to understand how David found Ellen so much more appealing, for so did he. He’s too old for Ellen, thought Patrick crossly.

‘I was sorry about your dog,’ he said.

‘Oh yes. It was sad. I’d forgotten, of course it was you who found poor Rufus. David told me. Clever of you to know whose dog it was.’

Patrick opened his mouth to say that Ellen knew; then he realised that David must have suppressed her part in the incident. Denis had not included her in his account of it.

‘I’d seen the dog when I met you that first time, before you moved in,’ he reminded her, keeping his head.

Michael had been talking to the Bradshaws for a while; his reactions to them could be discovered later. Patrick felt that not much more could be usefully learnt by staying any longer, and he did not want to strain the Kents’ goodwill too far.

‘Jane, if you’re all right, shall I go and get the car? We’ve trespassed quite long enough on our hosts’ kindness,’ he said.

‘I’m fine,’ said Jane, and stood up, with a glance at Paul, who still stood beside Valerie obediently exchanging small talk with her, like a good guest, but not looking very animated.

A small tussle of looks now took place between Michael and Patrick about the car, but Patrick held Michael’s gaze sternly.

‘Oh – will you fetch it? Thanks,’ Michael said, finally giving in.

‘You’d better stay with Jane. I won’t be long,’ said Patrick.

Michael gave him the keys, and Patrick left the house. Once out in the road he broke into a brisk trot. He was very fit, because he took a boat out on the river at least twice a week. He loped off down the lane that led to Mulberry Cottage, sped past, and went on to Abbot’s Lodge. As he had hoped, the back door was unlocked. He went in, using his small flat pocket torch, and made his way to the drawing-room. He looked round quickly, shining the light on bookshelves stacked with expensive books full of coloured plates, coffee-table books, he’d heard them called, and then on a beautiful Sheraton bureau.

He was only in the room three minutes but he found something that interested him very much. Then he ran back up the lane and fetched the car.

‘What a long time you were,’ said Michael, earning several black marks.

‘I—er—we’d left the car at the pub – I popped in—er—’ Patrick searched about for a suitable phrase for mixed company.

Jane rescued him.

‘Oh, please, before we go, may I do the same?’ she pleaded, looking suddenly pitiful, and Winifred bore her aloft to the bathroom.

‘I’ll buy you dinner on the way home,’ Patrick said, as they drove away down the lane.

‘It’s the least you can do. What an embarrassing hour,’ said Michael. ‘I hope you got what you wanted. They all seemed thoroughly nice, ordinary types to me.’

‘I didn’t think they were at all ordinary,’ said Jane. ‘I was fascinated.’

‘Where are we going to eat?’ Michael interrupted. ‘I’m starving, I only had a sandwich for lunch so as to leave the office early.’

‘Poor old you,’ said Jane. ‘Patrick and I had genteel afternoon tea with Andrew, didn’t we, Patrick? Toast and honey.’

‘There’s a good pub about seven miles on,’ said Patrick. He’d marked it as another spot to take Ellen to if he got the chance. ‘Let’s go there – turn right at the next crossroads. It’s not really out of our way.’

‘Nice house your new chums have got,’ Jane said. ‘They must be doing all right.’