A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  ‘I didn’t take the dagger out of the display case,’ she said in alarm. ‘Who could possibly have removed it? It must be some sort of practical joke.’

  At that moment Sir Simon reappeared looking shocked and anxious. He was very pale.

  ‘The keys aren’t in the safe. I guess that . . .’ Normally so self-assured, he sounded uncertain.

  ‘I showed the Cartwrights round last weekend when you were in London but I didn’t need to use the keys.’ Virginia sounded defensive.

  ‘I suppose I must have left them out on my dressing-table instead of putting them in the safe.’

  ‘When did you last have them out?’ Verity asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Let me think . . . two weeks ago. Something like that. I remember! I wanted to show old General Robertson the dagger and . . .’ He stopped, suddenly stricken. ‘Oh God! I never thought . . .’

  ‘I don’t think it makes very much difference if the burglar had the key or not,’ Verity said matter-of-factly. ‘Anyone could have got into the display cases with a strong screwdriver.’

  ‘Still,’ said Roddy, sensibly, ‘the fact is that the burglar did use the key and that implies that he – or she – saw them in Simon’s dressing-room. It makes it unlikely to have been an outsider.’

  There was no answer to this and they all looked at each other in dismay.

  ‘I can’t suspect any of the servants . . .’ Virginia began. ‘They are all completely trustworthy and, even if one of them were dishonest, why choose now to burgle the collection?’

  ‘And why take one object – the dagger – rather than the whole lot?’ Roddy added.

  Verity looked at him with interest. Perhaps he wasn’t the fool she had taken him for. ‘The burglar might have thought it was the easiest to dispose of,’ she suggested, without much conviction.

  ‘Lampton’s changing the fuse in the gallery. The police will be here any minute,’ Sir Simon said. ‘I rang the station as soon as I knew the keys weren’t in the safe. The constable gave me Inspector Jebb’s telephone number at home. I felt a bit of embarrassed at bothering him. He was in bed, of course. I apologized for waking him and told him it could wait till the morning but he insisted on coming round now. I know he’ll think I have been much too careless. By the way, where’s Dominic?’

  ‘I told you. He went with Dr Morris to make sure that Maud was all right,’ Virginia replied. ‘I don’t know why he has been so long.’

  ‘Ah, here he is,’ Sir Simon said. ‘Dominic, have you heard what has happened? Why, what is it, man? You look as though you have seen a ghost. Let me get you some brandy. I need some myself, come to that.’

  ‘Castlewood, you must come at once. We have done all we can but she has lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘Who . . . ?’ Virginia asked faintly, dropping the Pekinese off her lap.

  ‘Didn’t I say? It’s Maud. She has cut her wrists.’

  Sir Simon was first out of the room, followed by the others. Verity remained where she was, undecided. She was curious but that was surely a frivolous reason for invading the poor girl’s privacy. She told herself that she was only a guest. Maud did not even like her. She had no medical knowledge. She would be in the way. Then her journalist’s instinct took over and she hurried after them. In the hall she stopped, wondering which of the staircases to go up. She could hear a babble of voices but the acoustics were strange and she could not make out precisely where the noise was coming from. For a moment she felt like Alice in Wonderland trying to decide which door to go through and unsure of what she might find on the other side.

  In the end she chose the staircase nearest to her. She found herself in the Castlewoods’ suite of rooms. A door was open and a glance showed her that they had separate bedrooms. This was Virginia’s. A dozen or so soft toys lay on the bed and cushions were strewn everywhere, many bearing winsome mottos such as ‘Home is where the Heart is’. A large doll sat – obscenely, Verity thought – in an armchair. At first she had the idea that Virginia was pretending she was still a child but then, with a flash of insight, she saw that it was the bedroom of a woman who wanted desperately to be a mother but had been frustrated. Guiltily, she opened the door into Sir Simon’s bedroom. It was surprisingly bare. There was no elaborate panelling or old masters on the walls. The bed was low and simple on a cast-iron frame. There was a door into what she supposed must be his dressing-room. Quickly, she walked across and looked in. It was quite small. The first thing she saw was the safe in the wall. He had moved a picture to one side to get at it and now it lay open, inviting further burglary. She was strongly tempted to see what was in it but her curiosity was checked when she heard steps approaching.

  Praying it was not Sir Simon or Virginia, she stayed out of sight and whoever it was walked by without stopping. She thought it might have been a man by the heavy tread. She went back to the top of the stairs and listened. The babble of voices guided her down a corridor to a bathroom from which the naked body of Maud Pitt-Messanger was being lifted by Sir Simon and Roddy Maitland. Maud’s bedroom was just across the passage and Isolde helped the men to dry her, lay her on a towel in her bed and cover her with blankets.

  Dr Morris, or perhaps Montillo, had already bandaged her wrists and she seemed to be sleeping or unconscious. Verity poked her head into the bathroom. The bath was a large one on four sturdy legs. The water, the colour of light burgundy, was still in the bath. The floor was awash where it had spilled as the men had lifted her out. An old-fashioned razor lay on the floor beside the bath. She bent to pick it up. It had an ivory handle carved with the initials E.P.M. She guessed it must have belonged to Maud’s father. A tartan wool dressing-gown lay on the floor. She picked it up and, as she did so, a small brown leather diary fell out of the pocket along with a handkerchief. Guiltily, and for no very good reason, she leafed through the diary which she at first thought was empty. Leafing through it again, she saw there was one date – April 27th – against which were inscribed the letters E.P.M.

  She decided on the spur of the moment to secrete the diary so she could examine it more carefully. Perhaps she had missed something. She was faced with the problem that her dress had no pockets. She contemplated putting it in her brassiere but that would mean almost undressing. She had an evening bag but that was downstairs. There was nothing for it but to leg it back to her room, hide the diary and then return. There was a good chance that, in the mêlée, her absence would not be noticed. She darted out of the door and bumped into Roddy.

  He seemed more embarrassed than she was. ‘Oh, I say, sorry and all that. I was just . . . I thought I ought to clean the bath, don’t you know.’

  It sounded lame to Verity. ‘The maid will do that.’

  ‘I know, but the water . . . and the blood. I thought . . . not fit for her to see, if you get me. Is that the razor?’

  Verity had put it on the round stool beside the bath. ‘Yes, I think it must have been Mr Pitt-Messanger’s. It has his initials on the handle.’

  As Roddy picked up the razor and examined it, she hid the diary behind her back. ‘How is she?’ she asked, with an intensity which owed more to her shock than a real concern for Maud.

  ‘The doctor thinks she’ll be all right. Thank God he was on the spot but then again, I suppose Dominic would have coped by himself if it had been necessary. It was prescient of them to see the poor woman was suicidal.’

  ‘Anyone could see she was at the end of her tether,’ Verity said, squashingly.

  Roddy, rather abashed, said, ‘Well then, I’ll clean up the bath.’

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll see if I can help Maud. It’s rather silly but I’m not too good with blood. I’ve seen a lot of it . . . in Spain and it makes me feel sick.’ She put her hand to her mouth and muttered, ‘Back in a sec.’ She took off for her room leaving Roddy looking rather surprised.

  Verity cast around for a hiding place and, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped the diary into one of her shoes. She glanced at herself in the mirror and g
rimaced. Why on earth had she stolen it? An instinct? Was she being absurd? There was probably nothing sinister about its single entry but it struck her as odd for Maud to have taken it into the bathroom if she was planning to commit suicide.

  When she returned, no one seemed to have missed her. Everyone was crowded round the bed staring at Maud. She was as white as the towel she was lying on but she was alive. Her breathing was light and fast and her eyelids fluttered. She was moaning. Isolde was sitting on the bed holding her hand very gently so as not to disturb the bandages.

  Virginia touched Montillo’s arm. ‘She will have you to thank for saving her life. If you hadn’t gone after her to see how she was . . .’

  ‘Morris and I were both worried about her. I thought she might need something to help her sleep but when I knocked on her door, there was no answer. We were just about to go downstairs again – I thought she must already be asleep – when Morris noticed the bathroom door was open. The light was on and there was steam pouring out into the passage. I put my head round the door and saw her.’

  ‘It must have been awful.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m more used to this sort of emergency than other people. In my sanatorium, I have many patients with nervous problems. I have had my eye on her ever since she has been here and it has been quite obvious that she is mentally unstable. I might suggest she spends a few weeks in my sanatorium. She has obviously been traumatized by her father’s death and she might benefit from a complete change of scene. For now, I think it would be best if we all went downstairs and left her alone with the doctor. It won’t do her any good to have a crowd round her bed. She just needs to sleep and regain her strength.’

  Verity knew he meant to be kind but there was something arrogant about the way he talked of Maud as damaged goods which grated.

  Virginia led the way downstairs. When Dr Morris reappeared in the drawing-room he was able to reassure them that Maud was in no danger.

  ‘Thank God we found her in time. It would have taken her an hour or two to bleed to death – longer perhaps. She’ll be very weak tomorrow and must stay in bed but she’ll be all right. I will visit her about midday.’

  ‘And I’ll look in on her before I turn it,’ Montillo added.

  ‘Now, Lady Castlewood, I think I will go home,’ Dr Morris said, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘I am not as young as I was and to see a young person in Miss Pitt-Messanger’s state makes one feel even older. Mr Montillo has been telling me about his sanatorium in the South of France. He has suggested that Miss Pitt-Messanger might benefit from sunshine and sea bathing. I am inclined to agree with him.’

  As Dr Morris was being shown out, Inspector Jebb arrived. The two men knew each other well and Morris gave him a brief account of Maud’s suicide attempt before getting into his ancient Austin and driving off. It was after one in the morning and, in the end, there was nothing for Jebb to do but examine the glass case from which the dagger had been stolen and take brief statements from Sir Simon Castlewood and his guests. He agreed that questioning the servants was something better done the next day.

  ‘You are absolutely sure it has not merely been lost or mislaid, Sir Simon?’ he asked.

  ‘We will search the house from top to bottom tomorrow but I really don’t think it could have been.’

  ‘Have you a photograph of the dagger which we can circulate to dealers in this sort of antiquity?’

  ‘Yes, certainly. All the important finds from any archaeological dig are photographed and catalogued.’

  ‘So you can let me have a detailed description of the dagger? Presumably it was very valuable?’

  ‘Very valuable, Inspector. It was unique and therefore, I hope, unsaleable.’ Sir Simon was rapidly recovering from the double shock of the theft and Maud’s attempted suicide and his tone was almost patronizing. He was, after all, a Justice of the Peace.

  4

  Despite the glories of her bedroom and Psyche keeping guard over her as she slept, Verity had a restless night. As dawn dispatched the shadows, she lay staring up at the ceiling trying to make sense of what had happened the previous evening. Maud, unable to get over her father’s death, had tried to kill herself. It was natural that she should be grieving – her grief exacerbated by the circumstances in which he died – but Verity was sure there was more to it than that. Perhaps there was guilt given that, at least according to Virginia, she hated him for depriving her of life as she wanted to lead it.

  On an impulse, she got out of bed and went to the window and looked out over the garden. In the cold light of early morning, the lawn running down to a belt of trees looked silver – cool and calming. She washed her face under Psyche’s amused, rather quizzical gaze, then slipped on a shirt, slacks and a jersey. She tiptoed downstairs and made her way to the front door. It was locked and there was no key in the door. Frustrated, she went into the drawing-room. She seemed to remember that the windows had not been secured and she was right. She opened one, sticking out her tongue as she did so at the plaster panel by Gilbert Ledward of a naked man standing on a column looking up at a squadron of aeroplanes. Sir Simon had told her it represented the modern world’s debt to classical civilization but it looked to her like a phallic symbol – a typical male fantasy of aggression. It reminded her, uncomfortably, of the horror of modern warfare. She jumped down three or four feet on to the wet grass and her canvas shoes were immediately soaked. For no very good reason, except sheer delight at being free of the house, she started to run. By the time she reached the trees she was sweating, though her feet were cold. She stopped, turned round and looked back at the house. It had a strange beauty despite its aggressive modernity and the great hall lay alongside it like an ocean liner.

  A hand came over her mouth to stifle a scream and another pulled her back into the shadow of the trees. She shook herself and dug her heel into her assailant’s unseen ankle.

  ‘Little vixen!’ a voice said as she was released. She turned to see that her attacker was Graham Harvey. He was stroking his leg and smiling wryly. Verity was furiously angry. ‘How dare you jump on me like that! You gave me the most awful shock. Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I may as well ask what you are doing here. My cottage is just a quarter of a mile away and when I can’t sleep I like to walk in the garden. What about you? Why have you left your comfortable bourgeois bed to wander in the cool of the morning? Perhaps you couldn’t sleep either?’

  Verity was still angry but she was also getting cold. ‘I would give anything for coffee. My feet are soaking. I had no idea the dew would be so heavy.’ He looked at her for a moment and then turned, motioning her to follow him.

  The cottage, though small, was comfortable enough. There was a primitive-looking cooker on which a kettle sat. A pile of books lay on the floor. She noticed one was the bestseller no Marxist writer could be without: Stalin’s Measures for Liquidating Trotskyites and other Double-Dealers. Beneath it, she could see a well-thumbed copy of Lenin’s Socialism and War and, rather surprisingly, a polemic on the nature of Communism by Trotsky. Harvey told her to take off her shoes and gave her a dirty-looking towel with which to wipe them. There seemed to be no running water because he took the kettle out to the back door and there was the sound of water being poured into it from a can.

  ‘There’s a well,’ he explained grudgingly. ‘The water’s sweet but it’s not so easy having a bath.’

  She recognized that he was trying to be civil so she refrained from making a smart remark indicating that she had noticed as much at dinner the previous evening. She spied a pile of paper beside a small typewriter. ‘Is that your book? Tell me about it.’

  ‘You don’t have to be polite, you know.’

  ‘I had no intention of being polite. I am still waiting for you to apologize for attacking me. You might have given me a heart attack.’ He smiled a little sourly but made no effort to apologize. ‘Anyway, I’d like to hear more about it.’

  ‘Well, if you really want to know, i
t’s an attack on the whole rotten thing – the way we live now.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No you don’t. I’m not sure I do. It’s the rage. It seems to blur my vision. I know I should be more effective if I were cool and clinical but I just can’t be.’

  ‘That’s what I feel about the war in Spain,’ she admitted.

  ‘I really did like your book, you know. I liked it because it was so angry. I only came to dinner to meet you.’

  ‘You didn’t show it,’ she said, gratified but still suspicious.

  ‘When I saw you dolled up in all your finery with all those men leering at you – I don’t know, it just made me mad. I wanted to smash that man’s face in but, of course, I can’t.’

  ‘Whose face? Roddy’s?’

  ‘No. He’s just an oaf. One of those bad actors who come on stage in the first scene and say, “What ho! Anyone for tennis?”’

  She giggled. He had an unexpected gift for mimicry. ‘I don’t see you as a regular theatre-goer.’

  ‘Why should I be? Even if I had the money I wouldn’t want to see rubbish by fairies like Noel Coward. Why isn’t anyone writing plays about what is really happening in England?’

  ‘Like Shaw?’

  ‘Yes, but he goes in for satire. I want . . . I want anger. I want to make greedy pigs like Castlewood lift their snouts out of the trough for long enough to see what is going on right under their noses. When I was on the Clyde last year I saw things which . . . burned my eyes. Children starving . . . literally starving and living – if you can call it living – in dank basements without light.’ He was becoming excited and Verity, who the night before had considered him ugly, now found him disturbing, almost attractive. ‘I say – have you come across a fellow called Bill Brandt – a photographer? I met him in Sheffield. He was photographing everything he saw. He gave me this one.’

  He threw over a creased photograph of three dirty, thin-faced children peering out of a basement window. ‘Stepney. It breaks your heart, doesn’t it?’