A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  It was little more than five miles to Swifts Hill and though the ancient Rolls travelled at a stately twenty-five miles an hour, it felt as if she had only closed her eyes for an instant when Mrs Cardew touched her on the arm and said, ‘Do look, Miss Browne. Your first view of Swifts Hill . . . isn’t it a dream?’

  Mrs Cardew tapped on the glass partition and asked Barry to stop the car for a moment. Verity ought to have known what to expect because she had only recently been reading about it but the photograph in Country Life had not done it justice. Swifts Hill had originally been a medieval castle rebuilt for Henry VIII in the 1520s. Young Prince Edward was lodged there for a time but Queen Elizabeth had no use for it and it fell into disrepair. When Simon Castlewood bought it in 1933 nothing remained but the walls of the great hall. The Castlewoods began by rebuilding it as he and the Swedish architect imagined it must have looked in its first incarnation complete with minstrels’ gallery. At huge cost the hall was capped with a magnificent oak roof – an elaborate ‘false’ hammerbeam construction. Then, in daring and powerful antithesis, the Castlewoods added a modern house attached to the hall by a low curved building surmounted by a cupola made of concrete and glass. The main part of the new house was circular and quite unlike anything yet built in England.

  Thoroughly awake now, Verity could hardly wait as they crunched up the drive and crossed the bridge over the dry moat. As she walked through the glass doors into the triangular entrance hall she was struck by its airy simplicity. Light streamed through the glass roof and was absorbed by a huge circular carpet. On it several very modern-looking and possibly uncomfortable chairs were grouped around two small tables. A huge vase of flowers stood on a pedestal in the centre of the room re-minding Verity, momentarily, of the foyer of the Ritz in Paris. The hall was lined in wood and decorated with marquetry panels showing scenes of Venice, clearly a favourite city of the owners. Two staircases led out of it up to a gallery which encircled the hall below it. Magnificent bronze-framed glass doors led through to rooms on the ground floor. Verity could not help noticing the coin-operated telephone booth and the cloakrooms to one side of the hall. It confirmed her impression of being in a hotel lobby and she had to smile.

  As she looked around her there was a whooshing sound and in swept Virginia carrying in her arms a Pekinese which, Verity subsequently discovered, was called Halma. She dropped it on the carpet where it began to yap at Mrs Cardew’s Lulu which, understandably, yapped back. The noise was deafening but Virginia seemed not to hear it. She kissed Mrs Cardew, calling her Emily, and then turned to Verity. Holding her first at arm’s length, she studied her face and then embraced her. Just as Verity thought she would never be released, Virginia thrust her away but still held on to both her hands.

  ‘My dear Crumbles – how wonderful to see you after all this time! And who would have thought you would be so famous. Let me look at you. Yes, I do believe you are the same devil-may-care rapscallion who gave poor Miss Haddow several nervous breakdowns before she finally gathered up enough courage to expel you. Your dear father was heartbroken. I remember him arriving in his green Rolls-Royce to take you home with him. I admired you so much, you know. You never shed a tear though I do believe your lip trembled when we said our goodbyes. You strode out with your chin in the air. Indignant – that’s what you were. As though Miss Haddow had done you wrong when in fact she had gone to so much trouble to keep you on the straight and narrow. “That poor motherless girl,” she said to me. “She needs all the love we can give her.”’

  Virginia paused for breath which enabled Mrs Cardew to say, ‘Crumbles! Is that what they called you at school, Miss Browne?’

  ‘I had quite forgotten,’ Verity said, blushing, ‘and, Ginny, I absolutely forbid you to use that name again.’ In her imagination she saw Edward doubled up with laughter.

  ‘But why Crumbles?’ Mrs Cardew persisted.

  ‘She used to take biscuits and cakes to bed with her. She was always hungry though she never got fat, which was so annoying.’

  ‘You make me sound ungrateful, Ginny. How was I to know Miss Haddow was . . . doing her best for me? She never said so. I just thought she was a bully and an old fuss-pot.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear! Here I am gossiping about old times and you are hardly in the house. Shall I show you to your rooms or would you like a cup of tea first?’

  They opted for tea and were led through glass doors into the drawing-room. It was unlike any which Verity had seen before. It was entirely false and yet, for all its theatricality, conveyed Virginia’s personality which was wholly sincere: exuberant, impetuous and enthusiastic. Verity looked about her in amazement. ‘Ginny – what an extraordinary house! It’s so light and . . . uncluttered . . .’

  ‘What are you looking at, Crumbles?’

  ‘Oh sorry, Ginny, but all these windows – wonderful in weather like this but surely in winter . . .’

  ‘You might think so because, as you can see, we have no radiators, but I am very susceptible to the cold. Something to do with being always frozen at school, I expect. I said to Simon, “My darling, I don’t mind what you do to the house but it must be warm.” So the clever architect – who is Swedish and the Swedes know all about the cold – put in underfloor heating – hot pipes. I have to say, sometimes it is even too hot. In fact, everything that can be concealed is. The idea was to keep the inside absolutely pure: simple, smooth curves. I’ll let Simon bore you with the full lecture. He will love to have someone new to talk to about Swifts Hill. It’s his pride and joy.’

  Verity walked over to a window to look more closely at the plaster panels depicting scenes from past civilizations, including fanciful evocations of ancient Greece and Rome. They were illuminated by spotlights housed in false beams in the ceiling.

  ‘Who made these? They are beautifully done.’

  ‘Gilbert Leward. Do you know of him? He’s a genius and it was so clever of Simon to find him. Now, tea. You must be parched.’

  Verity gazed about her fascinated. It was all false – down to the last Etruscan pot on the huge fake-marble fireplace in which an electric fire ‘burned’ fake logs. The floor was laid with imitation Turkish rugs and copies of Old Masters hung on the wall. Verity thought longingly of Edward’s home, Mersham Castle, where nothing was false. Swifts Hill was too much like an hotel – or rather, it suddenly came to her, the interior of the Queen Mary – to be truly beautiful. Its saving grace was the abundance of flowers. Vases of roses, crimson, creamy white and yellow, stood on tables and in the windows scenting the air and giving life to the scene.

  While she and Virginia discussed the house, Mrs Cardew had been talking to the two women sipping tea at the other end of the drawing-room. Verity knew one of them, Maud Pitt-Messanger, but it was the other girl who caught her eye. She was, Verity thought, in her late twenties. She had obviously been playing tennis – she wore a white shirt and skirt and white plimsolls – and exuded the healthy glow of an athlete. She was tall and strongly built but what made the word ‘Viking’ spring into Verity’s mind was her flow of golden hair which framed an almost perfectly oval face. Her eyes were a startling violet and she was heartily glad Edward was not there to be tempted. She noted with relief that she wore on her finger a large diamond ring. No man who had wooed and won this beauty was going to let himself be easily deprived of her.

  Maud looked dowdy by comparison. There was no other word for it. Despite making a valiant effort to smile, she wore an expression of profound misery. Her face was grey and unhealthy-looking and her pallor was emphasized by the harsh red with which she had unwisely coated her lips. There were dark pouches under her eyes and, though she could never have been a beauty, she now looked ill and much older than her forty years. In part this was due to the ugly woollen cardigan she wore over a cotton dress that might have looked well on a young girl but on Maud was frankly ridiculous. There could be no doubt that her father’s death had left her distraught and desolate.

  ‘Darlings,’ Vir
ginia said, ‘I don’t think you have met Verity Browne. Verity and I were at school together and she was always getting into scrapes and now she is a famous foreign correspondent – that’s right, isn’t it, dear? I checked with Simon who said I mustn’t call you a journalist.’

  ‘Oh no, Ginny, I am just a journalist who gets into scrapes,’ Verity replied modestly.

  ‘It’s too, too shy-making meeting you, Miss Browne,’ said the girl with the violet eyes leaping out of her chair as if she was about to serve for the match. ‘I am such an admirer. You must be so brave and, you know . . . brave.’

  ‘Verity, this is Isolde Swann. She has been longing to meet you.’

  Verity shook the warm, powerful hand of the young Amazon and wondered if she could possibly be being satirical. ‘Please, Miss Swann, there really is nothing to justify . . .’

  ‘No, but really, I read your reports in the paper. You were wounded at that awful place with the ugly name – something like “hernia” . . .’

  ‘Guernica. Yes, I was but I am quite better now.’

  ‘And Maud Pitt-Messanger . . .’ Virginia went on, almost dropping her Pekinese which was wriggling in her arms.

  ‘Yes,’ Verity said, stretching out her hand. ‘You probably won’t remember, Miss Pitt-Messanger, but we – Lord Edward Corinth and I – met you and your father with Lord Benyon some months ago. And then . . . well, I am very sorry indeed . . .’

  Maud seemed to stir herself with an effort. She spoke in a low husky voice as though it came from deep inside her. ‘You and Lord Edward were so kind . . .’ she murmured. She fumbled in her bag and Verity, guessing what she was searching for, offered her one of her cigarettes.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Browne,’ she muttered.

  Verity lit the cigarette for her and had a strong desire to put out a hand to calm her. She was obviously very agitated, though whether from meeting her and being reminded of her father’s death or because she was anxious and depressed Verity could not say.

  ‘Where are the men?’ Virginia inquired, as though trying to distract attention from the state Maud was in.

  ‘They are sweating out London grime on the tennis court, Ginny,’ Isolde told her. ‘At least that’s what Roddy said. He’s my . . . my fiancé, Miss Browne.’ She blushed and smiled. ‘Dominic – that’s who Roddy’s playing – he’s a doctor, or rather a surgeon, says we all ought to exercise more but I’m afraid he’ll never get Ginny out on the court.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ Mrs Cardew broke in. ‘It’s very bad for your skin – perspiring like that. And the sun – you’re as brown as a nut, Izzy. It can’t be good for you.’

  Isolde blushed again. At that moment the glass door swung open and a footman entered bearing a tray with a silver teapot on it. Behind him, a maid carried a second tray with sandwiches and cakes on three silver dishes.

  ‘Tea! I must have tea! And a sandwich. I’m dying for a sandwich!’ It was a man’s voice, low and attractive. Verity turned to see that they had been joined by two men still carrying tennis rackets. The young man who had spoken took a sandwich off the tray and made a grab at Isolde and tried to kiss her.

  ‘Go away, Roddy darling.’ Isolde turned her face away, perhaps to draw attention to her fiancé’s ardour. ‘You are all hot and . . . no, you can’t kiss me till you’ve showered.’

  ‘Who won?’ Virginia inquired.

  ‘Thrashed him!’ Roddy replied, waving his sandwich above his head in triumph.

  ‘What rot, Roddy! You’re such a liar. I hope your inability to tell the truth isn’t hereditary. It was 6-4 in the third set. Roddy’s line-calls . . .! You believe me, don’t you, Mrs Cardew?’

  This was Dominic, Verity supposed.

  ‘I am sure you were well matched,’ Virginia said annoyingly. ‘Now, leave Isolde alone and let me introduce you to Miss Browne. I have told them all about you, of course,’ she added to Verity.

  ‘Oh, I hope that doesn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I thought you would be a harridan – positively frightening,’ Roddy said. ‘I was terrified.’ He raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. ‘Ginny, why didn’t you tell me your old school chum was a beauty?’

  ‘Roddy, behave yourself,’ Isolde reprimanded, not altogether pleased, Verity thought, by her fiancé’s readiness to appreciate another woman.

  ‘Well, it’s your fault, old girl. If you won’t let me kiss you . . . I always behave badly when I’m thwarted. If I can’t kiss you, Izzy, at least let me have another sandwich.’ He smiled at Verity and then winked at the maid carrying the sandwiches. She blushed prettily as she passed him the plate. This was an attractive man, Verity thought, but didn’t he just know it. ‘Mrs Cardew!’ he took her hand with exaggerated gallantry. ‘How rude of me! I was so hungry . . . ’

  ‘Miss Browne,’ Isolde said, ‘I apologize for this greedy young man. Please forgive him for being a prize idiot. I certainly can’t.’ The adoring look she gave Roddy belied her words.

  ‘Yes, please forgive me, Miss Browne,’ he said, catching at her hand and carrying it to his lips. ‘I do apologize. Truly, it is a great honour to meet you. I am Roddy Maitland and I am engaged to this wonderful girl who has just been so frightfully cross with me.’ He furrowed his brow and pretended to look chastened before turning back to Mrs Cardew. ‘It’s very nice to see you again, Mrs Cardew. How was Le Touquet? I saw Teddy at the club the other night and he told me he had dropped a packet at the casino when he was visiting you.’

  Mrs Cardew frowned and Roddy put a hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, and I gave him my word not to let on. Please say you aren’t angry, Mrs Cardew. I really don’t think it was as much as he pretended.’

  ‘Roddy, you talk such nonsense. Edmund isn’t a gambler and I do wish you wouldn’t call him Teddy. It’s such a horrid name – so common, I always think.’

  Verity smiled at the performance but she thought Mrs Cardew seemed genuinely upset and she had an idea that Roddy had annoyed her deliberately. Might this young man, despite his charm, turn out to be rather tiresome? She glanced at the older man who had also been watching her with amusement.

  ‘May I introduce myself, Miss Browne? It is difficult to get a word in when Roddy is around. I am Dominic Montillo. Please believe me, I am honoured to meet you. I take the New Gazette solely to read your reports from Spain.’

  Verity went a little pink. She knew she was being flattered but could not pretend it was not pleasurable. This handsome man with his white mane of hair, bright black eyes and fleshy lips was fascinating. He was not quite English, she thought, and then remembered his name. He must be Spanish or Portuguese but he spoke like any upper-class Englishman – clipped and rather nasal.

  ‘Dom, come over here and pay me a compliment or I will be quite jealous,’ Virginia called playfully. He strode over dutifully and kissed her cheek. ‘There,’ she said, ‘I think you have met everyone now, Verity, except Simon of course. My husband had some urgent letters to finish off. Oh, here he comes now.’

  A slightly stooped, distinguished-looking man in his early forties appeared with a thin woman dressed rather severely in brown.

  ‘Emily, Miss Browne! I do apologize for not having been here to greet you but Miss Berners keeps my nose to the grindstone.’

  ‘Oh really, Simon,’ Virginia said crossly, ‘you spend more time in Miss Berners’ company than mine. I should be jealous but I’m not.’

  To Verity’s ears, this sounded like an insult. Was Miss Berners too plain to attract her husband? If that was the thrust of her remark, Miss Berners seemed not to mind or even to hear it. Verity looked at her. Dressed in a drab skirt and jacket over a blouse drawn tightly round her neck, she did look severe but she had good bones and, Verity guessed, a smile might transform her face and make her positively attractive. If Virginia was a little jealous perhaps she had, despite first impressions, a right to be.

  Miss Berners disappeared. She was obviously not expected to have tea with the guests and Sir Simon, cup
in hand, took Verity’s arm and guided her over to a window seat where they perched uncomfortably. He might not be loquacious like his wife but he knew how to ask questions and listen to the replies. Verity found herself recounting the horrors of Guernica and was surprised to find that it was something of a relief to do so. The conversation then turned to the condition of the poor, about which Sir Simon seemed to feel almost as strongly as Verity.

  ‘Did you know,’ Verity was saying, unconsciously putting on her lecturing voice, ‘that in our city slums malnutrition is killing more children than tuberculosis? Low-paid workers live on a diet of bread, margarine and tea, with a main meal of potatoes with a little stewed meat to give it flavour. Mothers seldom give their babies fresh milk, only condensed. Fruit and green vegetables are a luxury – and this isn’t because of the ignorance of the working-class housewife but because she is too poor to buy fresh food.’

  She glanced round and blushed, realizing that her tone had become strident. All the chatter in the room had ceased and even Virginia was silent, staring at Verity in horror.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to harangue you, Sir Simon.’

  He looked at her with a half-smile, which she could not interpret, but it was Dominic Montillo who came to her rescue.

  ‘I do agree with you, Miss Browne. It is a scandal which needs to be addressed if we are not to be cursed by the next generation for having sat back and let them – the children of the poor – grow up stunted and weakened, morally and physically. You may not know it but Simon has invested heavily in the future by funding a foundation of which I am privileged to be the director. We are looking at ways to improve the health and physical well-being of our poor, particularly the children. We are well on our way to finding a cure for tuberculosis and we are demanding that the Government introduces compulsory vaccination against common child-killing diseases such as measles. In Germany they are already doing it. If we cannot breed healthy children, then our race will atrophy and we will deserve to give way to a better-fed, better-educated species from some other quarter of the globe. Our research shows that pauperism is hereditary. We have traced some pauper pedigrees which reach back four generations. There is no doubt there exists a hereditary class of persons who will not make any attempt to work.’