‘What a sad sound,’ he said. ‘Do you dread the drill?’
‘No,’ Jane answered. ‘I’m sighing over you. Even if there exists upon this earth a woman who would put up with your ways, how could she compete with all this?’ She waved her hand around, gesturing at the high ceiling of his large room, the cornice decorated with elaborate plaster-work. ‘You’re much too comfortable as you are.’
‘You’re right, my dear. I am, and I don’t plan to change a thing,’ Patrick said. He kissed her. ‘Can you find your way down? I’m expecting a pupil any minute. Mind he doesn’t barge into you, he won’t see you coming through his tangled mane.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Jane. ‘How can you bear it?’
‘He’s got terrible acne, poor boy. Perhaps it’s better not to have to look at all those pimples.’
‘They might go if he washed the matted locks,’ Jane pointed out.
‘He’ll clean himself up soon and face the world, when he feels a bit braver,’ Patrick said. ‘He’s a nice lad. Very bright, but rather insecure.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Jane said. Even you, in your way, she thought. ‘Thanks for lunch. Come and see us soon.’
She went away, and it was only as she entered the dentist’s waiting room ten minutes later that she realised because it was still the vacation, Patrick’s pupil must be coming to consult him about some problem, not for a tutorial.
III
Among the Fellows of St. Mark’s was a venerable don who lived in honourable retirement in a tiny cottage owned by the college. Once a year he visited an equally ancient Canon who lived in rather similar circumstances in Winchester, except that he had a wife who, though bent with rheumatism, was still able to cook and administer the household. The two old men had been friends from youth. Dr. Wilmot’s sight was very poor now, and no one thought it safe for him to make his annual pilgrimage by public transport any longer, so Patrick drove him down to Winchester on the Saturday after Jane’s visit.
It was a lovely morning in late September when they left Oxford, with the sun gilding the leaves that still clung to the trees. The harvest had been early, and the farmers were well ahead with their ploughing; there were still some fields of bleached or burnt stubble standing, but in most of them the rich, dark earth had been turned up in neat furrows. For a while they talked about a new building in a corner of the college grounds. Dr. Wilmot deplored the modern architecture of its design, but Patrick felt one could not ape the old. This discussion kept them going happily for half an hour until the old man suddenly fell asleep; Patrick drove on, enjoying the scenery in silence. Some way south of Newbury he noticed, on a straight stretch of road, a signpost pointing to the left which read Meldsmead 2 miles. Meldsmead was the village where Miss Amelia Brinton had lived, and from which her niece had written to him.
Dr. Wilmot woke suddenly and carried on at once with the conversation they had been having from the point where they had left it. Patrick, who had been mentally back in Greece reviewing Miss Amelia’s fatal fall, had some trouble in returning his thoughts to plate glass windows.
He delivered his passenger and remained for a glass of sherry with Canon Fosdyke and his wife; then, despite pressing invitations to share their cottage pie, he left. He would call at a pub somewhere on the way back and have a sandwich.
It was such a lovely day that he felt reluctant to stop, and drove past several likely places. Then he realised that he was near the turning to Meldsmead. It was only ten past one; there must be a pub in the village. He felt curious to see where Miss Amelia had spent her retirement; somehow he would have expected her to choose a spot handy for the British Museum or the London Library, not a remote Hampshire village. He slowed down to watch for the sign, and soon came to it. After he had turned off the main road he found himself in a narrow lane with high hedges on each side; it was twisty, and he went slowly, for there was not much space to pass if he met another car. He passed a farmhouse and a few cottages before he reached the village, and at a bend in the road a red mini came hurtling much too fast towards him. The side of the Rover brushed against the hedge as he pulled in to give it room to dash past. He had time to see that it was driven by a woman with auburn hair, but no more; then it was gone, scattering dust behind it as he saw in his mirror. He drove on, even more slowly than before, but met no one else, and was soon in Meldsmead. The main road, such as it was, straggled through the village, with two turnings off to the right, each saying No Through Road. Another, to the left, led on to further villages, according to a signpost. There were more houses further on, but The Meldsmead Arms was at the junction of the main road and the first of the dead-ends, so Patrick stopped there. He would have a beer and a snack, and look round the village afterwards.
There were several cars parked outside the pub, and the public bar was very busy. He went into the saloon bar, where his entrance caused very little interest. Three youngish middle-aged couples, the men in polo-necked sweaters and the wives in smart trouser suits, sat at a table talking hard and barely glanced at him. They were discussing some trip by boat they planned for the next day, and Patrick, eavesdropping as he drank his beer, gathered that one of the couples owned some sort of yacht or cabin cruiser.
The publican was a large man with an almost totally bald head and a small, neatly trimmed moustache. Patrick mentally labelled him an ex-serviceman; he discovered later, in fact, that Fred Brown was a retired regimental sergeant-major. The girl helping him behind the bar was obviously his daughter. Despite an unruly mop of dark brown curls she looked exactly like him.
The sailing group were talking about tides. Patrick drank his beer and listened to them. The boat seemed to be moored somewhere in the Solent. Besides them, there was a trio of men at the window all talking together. Patrick was too far away to hear what interested them, but soon one of them came to the bar to order another round for all three, and while he waited asked Patrick if he were just passing through.
‘We don’t get many casual callers,’ he explained. ‘Eh, Fred?’
Fred, behind the counter, agreed, with some regret, Patrick thought.
‘We do well when there’s racing at Newbury, though,’ he allowed. ‘People think it’s worth turning off the main road then.’
‘Yours the Rover TC?’ Patrick’s new acquaintance enquired.
‘Yes.’ Patrick knew very well that it was the only strange car drawn up outside the pub.
‘Hra. Nice car. Wish I could run to one. I have to use a pick-up for the market-garden. My wife has a mini. We use that on smart occasions.’
‘A red one?’ Patrick asked, warily.
‘No, mustard-coloured. Why? Did you meet a red one in the lane?’
‘Yes.’ Patrick said no more but drank deeply from his tankard.
‘Going rather fast, eh?’ said the other man, and Patrick nodded. His new friend chuckled.
‘She’s not a real native of Meldsmead, though she may become a permanent fixture,’ he said. ‘I say,’ he called out to the pair remaining by the window. ‘Someone else has met our Valerie in the lane and managed to survive.’ He added to Patrick, ‘George Kent there met her bonnet to bonnet last weekend. A narrow miss, he had, ha, ha! Miss Valerie,’ he added, in case anyone had not got the point of his quip.
The crack provoked satisfactory mirth, and on its wave Patrick found himself included in the group. He supplied his own name, and learned that his sponsor was Denis Bradshaw. The third man was Paul Newton.
Patrick had been alerted at the mention of Valerie. From what had been said it seemed that the wild driver he had met might be Miss Amelia Brinton’s niece. The other men were continuing to talk about her.
‘Is she going to stay on here, George?’ Denis asked.
George Kent was a red-faced man with bright blue eyes. He looked cheerful.
‘I don’t think she’s decided yet,’ he said.
‘The lady Jehu you met has just inherited a cottage in the village,’ Denis explained. ‘It belonged to her aun
t, an odd old woman, very brainy, but nice with it, if you know what I mean. It’s down one of the dead-end lanes up there.’ He gestured in the direction of that part of the village where Patrick had not yet been. ‘The old girl died about a month ago, rather suddenly. Some sort of accident. Fell down some steps in Greece.’
Patrick did not want to let a web of deceit accumulate.
‘Was that Miss Amelia Brinton?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. Had you heard about it? There was a bit in some of the papers. Turned out the old girl was rather well known in her day. Had a famous father, it seems.’
‘And the niece?’ Patrick prompted.
‘She’s inherited the lot. Not that there’s much except the cottage, I don’t suppose, and it’s in pretty poor nick. Every wall smothered in books, I should think that’s what holds it together, stops the walls falling down. Isn’t that right, Paul?’
Paul Newton took his pipe from his mouth.
‘There’s something in what you say, Denis, as always. But I think the cottage is sounder than you imply. It’s been standing a good few years now.’
‘It’s old, is it?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes – beamed and thatched,’ said Denis. ‘Too quaint for Valerie, I’d guess.’
‘You hope, you mean,’ grinned George Kent. ‘You don’t want to risk your neck every time you go down the village street.’
‘It’ll be too quiet here for Valerie,’ Denis said in a hopeful voice. ‘Anyway, she’d only use the cottage for weekends. She’s got some very high-powered job in London,’ he told Patrick.
‘Can’t you commute from here?’ Patrick asked.
‘Easily,’ said George. ‘I do.’ He finished his beer and glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I must be off now or Winifred will be after me.’
He left them, and through the window Patrick could see him walking briskly down the lane.
‘George doesn’t spend long in here these days,’ said Denis. ‘He’s got a pretty new wife – plump, you know, but comely, like the poet said.’
Patrick had a feeling he was really quoting the Bible and had got his adjectives confused, but kept silent.
‘His second,’ added Denis. ‘Can’t neglect her.’
‘Here comes Valerie again,’ said Paul Newton, who seemed content to remain in the conversational background. ‘Hope George hears her coming.’
They watched the red mini skelter past; it sped on and then swung wildly round to the right.
‘She’d a passenger,’ Paul said.
‘Must have been to fetch her from the station,’ said Denis. ‘We’ll have to train Valerie if she’s going to stay on here. Or get her copped. Can’t have our lane a death trap. Still, you’re usually around, aren’t you, handy enough. Paul’s a sawbones,’ he said to Patrick.
Patrick had been wondering what the quiet man did. He was tall and very thin, and had an abstracted expression.
‘I’m a pathologist,’ he said to Patrick. ‘I don’t often get at living bodies. Not that there’d be much of you left alive after a head-on collision with Valerie Brinton.’ His face took on a more sombre look as he said this.
‘Interesting profession,’ Patrick said, his eyes lighting up. This man must know a great deal about forensic medicine, a subject Patrick found absorbing, to his sister’s great disgust: she thought it morbid. ‘You live here too?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Up that way, near the church, past George’s house. His is just out of sight round the bend.’
‘Do most people work locally, or are there many commuters?’ Patrick asked.
‘A good number go to Newbury or Winchester, or even as far as Southampton,’ Paul said. ‘George is a stockbroker. He goes up from Newbury, and so do a few more. Denis here has the best of things. He grows vegetables and sells them.’
‘What does the chap who’s bought Abbot’s Lodge do?’ Denis asked. He spoke quickly, almost cutting into what Paul was saying. Patrick guessed he had been made redundant in middle age and been forced to find a new career; it was a common enough story.
‘I didn’t know it had been sold,’ Paul said.
‘Oh yes. All signed and sealed, and the new people move in any day, I believe,’ said Denis. ‘They’re going to spend a fortune on it, doing it up, so I’m told.’ He explained to Patrick: ‘It’s down the lane past Mulberry Cottage, where that maniac in the red mini is temporarily installed. Got a terrible reputation. The house, I mean.’
So had the unfortunate Valerie, it seemed, though only for her driving.
‘Why? Is it haunted?’ Patrick asked.
‘It was once part of an old abbey,’ Paul Newton said. ‘You know how stories grow about these old places. Naturally through the centuries it’s seen its share of tragedy. Well, I must go. Nice to have met you, Grant. See you soon, Denis, I expect.’
‘Certainly,’ said Denis, and when Paul Newton had gone he said to Patrick, ‘Clever chap, that, but melancholy. His work, you know. Must be most depressing. And I shouldn’t have said that about him mending the victims if Valerie Brinton mowed anyone down in her wild way. His wife was killed in a car smash a couple of years ago.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Patrick. ‘Well, you can’t watch every word.’
‘One forgets, you see,’ said Denis. ‘But he doesn’t, poor chap. He was at the hospital when they brought her in. She was in an awful mess.’
‘Has he a family?’
‘Rather a nice schoolgirl daughter, and a student son, going to be a doctor. We don’t see much of the boy, now, but the girl appears in the school holidays and rides a pony round the place. She’s at boarding school. Miss Amelia Brinton, the old girl who died, helped Paul fix it up, in fact. They were great friends, he and Amelia, they used to talk about Egyptian tombs and things. It seemed best for the girl after Angela died. Paul’s lonely, though. We see quite a bit of him, he plays bridge and so does my wife, and he comes for a meal now and then. You’d think he’d marry again but he seems to be interested only in dead bodies.’ With this pronouncement, Denis finished his beer. ‘Well, I must be off now. I live down the lane on the left, Meadow Farm, my place is called. Come in any time if you’re back this way.’
He called out a farewell to the landlord and was gone. Patrick bought himself another beer and ate his sandwiches, which he had felt unable to tackle during this burst of friendly conversation. The sailing party had produced some charts now, and were engrossed in their plans, though the three women spared him a glance as he sat down in a corner of the bar. But he was prepared too. He took a little book from his pocket and began to read it while he ate. It was a paper-back volume of essays about the tragedies of Shakespeare by one of Patrick’s colleagues, whose theories he always tried to demolish when he got the chance.
IV
Later, Patrick drove through the village to the church. He went slowly past a pleasant Queen Anne house, with a well maintained garden separating it from the road. Several houses built of mellow brick were clearly converted from what had once been farm cottages, and there was a small close of neo-Georgian modern houses which would blend in well when their bricks had weathered and their newly laid-out gardens had matured. He wondered where George Kent and his new wife lived, and which was the lonely abode of Paul Newton. In the centre of the village, opposite the post office, was a garage, with a workshop at the side of a row of petrol pumps.
He went into the church, part of which dated from Norman times. In the porch, among notices of service times and posters about charity appeals, was pinned a list of names and dates: the flower-arranging rota shared by women in the parish. He saw the names of Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Bradshaw among others.
Inside the church there were box pews and a fine marble tomb which held the remains of a fifteenth century abbot. A short history in a frame on the wall told the visitor that the church had once been part of the abbey, and remembering the talk in the pub about Abbot’s Lodge, Patrick wondered if an abbot’s ghost rose from here and stalked across the fields. He went ro
und reading the inscriptions on the walls, and had lifted up a strip of carpet in the chancel to inspect the brass below when a voice behind him spoke.
‘Do you want to take a rubbing?’ asked the vicar. He was a small man with a round, cheerful face, and he was wearing a cassock.
‘No—no. I was merely curious,’ Patrick said, restoring the carpet to its original position and standing up again. He felt as guilty as a schoolboy caught cribbing.
‘It’s quite a good one,’ said the vicar. ‘We get a lot of people coming in. I never mind if they ask, naturally, but sometimes you find them here, crouched like mantises, just when there’s about to be a wedding, or worse, a funeral. It leads to complications. The vicarage is just next door. It’s so simple to seek permission first.’
‘Quite,’ Patrick agreed, and deemed it wise to introduce himself. As soon as he mentioned his name the vicar looked alert.
‘You are the good soul who saw our dear Miss Amelia Brinton to her rest,’ he said, greatly embarrassing Patrick by this verbal extravagance. ‘And you wrote such a thoughtful letter. Valerie showed it to me. I should like to see that corner of Athens you described, where she lies now. We were all so shocked by the accident. It was very sad.’
‘It was horrifying,’ Patrick said.
‘I suggested a memorial service here, but Valerie would not agree. She thought no one would come. I knew the whole village would turn out, but she still refused. We said some special prayers in our ordinary services.’
‘It was all very proper, in Athens,’ Patrick said, as he had emphasised in his letter.
‘Oh, I’m sure. There is solace in ritual,’ said the vicar. ‘Have you come here to see Valerie? She’s staying at Mulberry Cottage this weekend.’
‘No. I just happened to be passing,’ Patrick said, and explained his presence in Meldsmead. It turned out that the vicar, whose name was Lionel Merry, knew Canon and Mrs. Fosdyke, so they explored this link for some time, until the vicar remembered why he had come into the church, which was to look up something in a register.
Grave Matters Page 2