Grave Matters

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘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.’

  II

  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.’

  ‘She’d have noticed if volume five was missing?’

  ‘I’m sure she would have. Maybe it’s slipped down the back somewhere.’ Ellen pulled out several of the books and looked about, but there was no sign of it. ‘How very strange,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll turn up, I expect,’ Patrick said. ‘Maybe it got replaced wrongly. I’ll make a little note so that we find it later.’

  He wrote in the margin of the list.

  ‘This looks a rather ordinary, unglamorous sort of edition, compared with most of Amelia’s books,’ Ellen said, surveying them.

  ‘It’s a good working set. I’d have expected your great-aunt to have the Teubners – she did, here they are. But they’re old and much used. P
robably she lent these to pupils, these newer ones,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t risk her more precious ones.’

  ‘You’re right, I expect,’ Ellen said.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll want the Teubners,’ Patrick said. ‘What I’m taking now is only a first bite.’

  ‘You’ll want to come down again, when you’ve had more time to consult with your friends,’ Ellen said.

  ‘If I may,’ said Patrick, and Jane would have been amazed at his diffident air.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Ellen in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘You can let me know when you want to come. I can manage almost anyShe sat there with Mildred’s list in her hand and Patrick looked at her.

  ‘Ellen?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We have ladies’ nights at Mark’s now and then, when we invite ladies to dinner. Will you come one day? I’d fetch you – or meet you in Oxford if you’d come for the weekend. I—there’s a spare room in my set but it would be more suitable if I arranged for you to stay at the Randolph.’ He was floundering desperately, but he must make her understand. He hoped she’d realise he meant to pay. He gazed at her earnestly through his heavy-rimmed spectacles. A lock of fine, dark hair fell forward over his forehead.

  ‘When are you inviting me for?’ Ellen asked primly.

  He could scarcely believe his ears. She would come! He plunged.

  ‘Saturday week,’ he said. ‘Please come.’

  ‘You really want me to?’ She was looking at him doubtfully.

  ‘I do,’ he said firmly. He had very seldom invited a woman to dine at Mark’s who was not a don, a pupil, or a relative.

  ‘The talk will be miles above my head.’

  ‘It won’t. Why should you think that? Dons are just people.’

  ‘All right. Thank you. I accept,’ said Ellen.

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ said Patrick, beaming.

  ‘You’ll stay for tea?’ said Ellen, suddenly becoming formal. ‘There are only biscuits. Shall we go for a walk first?’

  She got up and moved away from him, towards the window.

  ‘A walk would be lovely,’ said Patrick, like a polite little boy. ‘Where shall we go? Across the fields?’

  ‘If you like. There’s a stream in the field beyond the garden and it’s a bit wet in spots. I’ve got boots, but what about you?’ She looked at his feet in their dark leather shoes.

  ‘I’ve got some in the car. I keep them there for when I go to see my sister,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll get them.’

  He fetched them from the Rover and changed into them outside the door of the cottage, putting his shoes inside. Ellen joined him. She had tucked the ends of her tweed slacks into a pair of Wellingtons. Patrick could see traces of damp mud clinging to them. Of course she had dug the garden, but that must have been the day before; she would not have worn Wellingtons to mow the lawn. This mud had come from the field, but she made no reference to having been that way earlier in the day as they set out across the meadow towards the stream.

  The few heifers grazing in the field took no notice of them as they passed, busy cropping the last nourishment from the grass before the winter. When they reached the stream they followed its course towards the bridge, which Patrick could now make out quite clearly. It was a rustic affair, a few planks with a handrail, and willows guarded it on either side.

  ‘It’s dry enough now, but the stream gets quite deep in winter, and these meadows sometimes flood,’ Ellen told him. ‘You find kingcups in the spring.’

  They paused for a few moments on the bridge and watched some leaves and twigs slowly drifting down. Two hundred yards away, the dark yew hedge hid Abbot’s Lodge from prying eyes.

  ‘How are the Bruces settling in?’ Patrick asked, as they resumed their walk on the further side of the stream.

  ‘Well enough, I think,’ Ellen said lightly. ‘They’ve scarcely begun on the alterations. A bit of painting’s been done. But Carol means to have a completely new kitchen.’

  ‘What do you think Miss Forrest wanted to tell you that day, at the B.M.?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘I can’t imagine. Maybe she’d heard some fable about the house – more definite than what we’d already said, like the ghost of a monk or something. She may have heard people in the village chatting. It was probably nothing, really. Anyway, we’ll never know now.’

  ‘No, I suppose we won’t,’ Patrick agreed. They walked on, following the course of the stream which looped round close to the boundary of Abbot’s Lodge; they were near enough to see the stout fence that kept the grazing cattle away from the menace of the yew hedge. Just as they were about to turn back, Patrick caught sight of something in the water.

  ‘Hullo, what’s that?’ he muttered, and strode forward to the edge of the little stream. He clambered down towards the water, the bank crumbling a little under his weight, and pulled aside some reeds that grew at the edge. Ellen, close behind him, saw it almost as soon as he did.

  ‘Oh no!’ she cried. ‘Oh, it’s Rufus.’

  The Bruces’ golden retriever lay on his side underneath the water, quite sodden, and quite dead.

  III

  Patrick lifted the dog out and laid him on the bank. Water streamed from his thick coat which clung to his body. He was surprisingly heavy, and he was very cold. Bits of weed and vegetation were tangled in his hair, and his tail drooped, its fine featheriness totally obliterated.

  ‘He’s been dead for some time,’ Patrick said. But he had been alive at twenty minutes to twelve that morning.

  ‘How could it have happened?’ Ellen’s face was white with shock and her eyes huge. ‘Dogs can swim. Anyway, the water’s not deep, he could stand in it. He hasn’t been shot or anything, has he? There might have been boys out with air guns.’

  Patrick carefully turned the body over. There seemed to be no mark anywhere.

  ‘We’d better get Bruce,’ he said. ‘We’ll need a sack or something to carry him. I suppose he’s at home? Are you all right, Ellen?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Just horrified,’ she said. ‘We can get through the hedge over there and go across the garden.’

  They walked together, without talking, along the path that he had earlier seen David Bruce take. Here the grass was worn into a definite track; either this route was often taken from the house, or it was the way the cattle used. There was a stile in the wooden fence which separated the yew hedge from the field; they climbed it, and opened a wrought-iron gate that led into the garden of Abbot’s Lodge.

  ‘We’d better go round and ring the front door bell, I suppose,’ said Ellen, a little uncertainly.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll see us coming,’ Patrick said.

  Someone had clearly been busy in the garden since he was last there; the grass had been cut, and several of the beds were ready for planting, though others were still over-grown. They walked up the stone steps where Carol had twisted her ankle and round the side of the house. David Bruce was there in the yard, washing his car. He had the hose on, and did not hear them coming. They went round to the far side of the car and he started with surprise when he saw them suddenly appear. He could tell at once from their expressions that something was wrong, and immediately laid down the hosepipe and turned off the tap.

  ‘What’s up, Ellen? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said.

  ‘It’s your dog,’ Patrick said bluntly. ‘I’m afraid there’s been some sort of accident. We found him in the stream. He seems to have been drowned.’

  ‘Drowned? Rufus? But how could he—it’s impossible . . .’ David gaped at them.

  ‘I know. It seems like that, but it’s true. We were walking by the stream and we found him,’ Ellen said. ‘Patrick got him out, but he’s very wet indeed and it needs two people to carry him.’

  ‘He was Carol’s dog,’ David said.

  Patrick saw Ellen’s look of surprise at this information, but she said nothing.

  ‘We’d better tell her then,’ he suggested. He had already not
iced that both the garage doors were open and there was no sign of the second car; Ellen had said Carol had a Lancia.

  ‘She’s out,’ David said. ‘She’s visiting some house she wants to write about.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just as well, since the dog is a rather pathetic sight,’ said Patrick. ‘We can deal with it before she comes back. Have you got a sack or a tarpaulin or something?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. There’ll be something in the cellar,’ David said.

  He went off towards the house and down a flight of steps outside the back door.

  ‘We’ll cope with this. Don’t you come, Ellen,’ said Patrick.

  ‘I don’t want to stay here by myself,’ said Ellen. ‘Carol might come back and I’d have to explain.’

  ‘Funk sticks, eh?’ said Patrick, in a gentle voice.

  She nodded. He longed to touch her, to make some sort of physical contact, but his hands were damp from touching the dead, wet dog.

  ‘Why not go back to the cottage, then? I’ll come along as soon as we’ve finished here.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be best,’ she said. She looked sheepish. ‘Sorry to be feeble. After all, it’s just a dog, not a person.’

  ‘Well, he’s a big dog. That somehow makes it more shocking,’ Patrick said. And more difficult to account for, he thought. ‘Make that tea we were going to have.’

  ‘All right. I’ll have another look for the Cicero too.’

  ‘You do that,’ Patrick said. ‘We shouldn’t be too long. I’ll have to help Bruce see to things.’

  She knew he meant bury the dog.

  ‘I understand. I’ll be off, then.’

  She left, and David Bruce emerged from the cellar carrying a sack as she passed the head of the stairs. Patrick saw him look at her, but she went unsmiling past, without a word.

  ‘Ellen’s a bit shaken, so she’s gone home,’ said Patrick shortly. ‘The poor brute does look very pathetic. Where shall we bury him?’