‘Good for her,’ said Patrick.
‘I’m sure she’d have gone to Amelia’s funeral if she could have managed it, but she was in the middle of some high-level deal and couldn’t. I think she was in Germany. I might have come, if I’d known, but I was away too. Not that it would have done any good. Amelia wouldn’t have cared either way.’
‘Why not?’
‘I told you – she thought me illiterate because I haven’t a degree and because I’m not cast in the same mould as the rest of the female Brintons. But I admired her.’
‘She terrified you,’ Patrick said.
‘Yes, she did,’ Ellen admitted. ‘She couldn’t tolerate any human weakness.’ It was a stronger statement of what Miss Forrest had already said. ‘I shouldn’t talk like this about her,’ Ellen muttered.
‘It’s all right. No one else can hear you, particularly not the ghost of your great-aunt. And she won’t be lurking in the shadows behind you in the future.’ He paused and looked down at her. ‘Don’t be afraid to be yourself, Ellen,’ he said gently.
It was something he had said before to undergraduates, who at times imagined themselves to be doing their own thing when in fact they were merely following the herd. Patrick believed most of Polonius’s counsel to be wise, but he felt some shock now at giving his advice to a pale, pretty girl with dark hair and the most enormous eyes he had ever seen gazing into his.
‘I do hope we meet again, Ellen,’ he said, and meant it.
VI
‘And did you arrange to meet her again?’ Jane asked, when Patrick told her all this the next weekend. She and Michael and their small son now lived in a village some twenty miles from Oxford. Michael’s firm had moved to one of the new industrial centres springing up in that part of the world, and as they were so near, Patrick often spent Sunday with them.
‘We didn’t part straight away,’ said Patrick. ‘I felt very curious about Abbot’s Lodge, and so Ellen offered to take me to see it.’
‘Splendid,’ said Jane.
‘You’re not usually pleased when I’m inquisitive,’ said Patrick.
‘You don’t often seem to be in the company of delightful young women,’ Jane retorted.
‘You can’t possibly know how I spend my leisure,’ said Patrick, but he grinned. It was another lovely day; Michael was mowing the lawn and small Andrew was charging around with a miniature wheelbarrow which he loaded with cut grass from his father’s big one and then carted importantly off to the compost heap, spilling a good bit of it on the way. ‘Michael’s very tolerant of all that,’ he added, pointing at his nephew’s activities.
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Well, Ellen walked with me down the lane. Abbot’s Lodge is really rather isolated, as I’ve said. It’s got a huge yew hedge all around it. Lots of clipping needed – it’s very overgrown. And it has to be double-fenced on the field side to keep the beasts out, because it’s so poisonous. It’s quite a big house, and the original part is very old but it’s been added to and improved from time to time.’
‘Did you go in?’
‘Oh yes. I hadn’t said anything to Ellen about hearing the dog barking, and of course it sprang out upon us, barking loudly but wagging its tail in a genial way. I took all the blame for our trespassing, naturally, but no one seemed to mind. I had the impression Ellen had got to know the Bruces quite well – I suppose she could have, during the house dealings. They seemed pleasant enough – a fairly ordinary sort of chap, rather quiet, and a smart wife. She looked a bit dressed up for a day in the country, in fact.’
‘No kiddy-winks?’
‘No. I don’t think they’ve got any. They showed me all round the house, and there was no talk of any of the rooms being for children. I can’t think why they want such a big house if there are only two of them.’
‘Maybe they mean to impress their business friends. Have tycoon house-parties and such,’ said Jane.
‘Maybe. They’re going to spend a small fortune on the place, making extra bathrooms and all that. It seemed pretty good to me as it was,’ said Patrick.
‘And did you get a spooky feeling there, like Ellen had said?’
‘Yes, I did. At least, that’s putting it a bit strongly but I understood what she meant. There was a weird, alien sort of atmosphere. I’d believe any tale of haunting told about the house. It’ll seem quite different when it’s been painted and furnished in the lavish style that’s evidently planned, I expect.’
‘You’ll be going down again soon, to see how it’s getting on, won’t you?’ Jane said.
‘I might,’ Patrick agreed. ‘Valerie Brinton’s going to dispose of her aunt’s library, and I’m not going to let a chance like that slip through my fingers. There are books on those shelves that the librarian of Mark’s will drool over.’
‘So that’ll give you an excuse to prowl around Abbot’s Lodge? What does the man who’s bought it do?’
‘I don’t want to prowl around Abbot’s Lodge. My interests are more humbly housed, in Mulberry Cottage,’ Patrick said. ‘I expect Ellen will be there quite a bit, helping to clear things up. I don’t know what David Bruce does, but it must be pretty lucrative – he had a very nice BMW parked outside the house, and he must have paid plenty for the place, besides what they’re going to lash out in alterations. I haven’t had time to look him up yet. Maybe Michael will know about him.’
‘Maybe he will,’ said Jane. ‘But it’s a great improvement on your past form to find you’re more interested in Ellen than in the evil atmosphere of Abbot’s Lodge.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Patrick lightly. He did not tell Jane that Ellen, at the sight of David Bruce, had suddenly glowed with a radiance that had made his own spirits plummet, nor did he add that as he and Carol Bruce had followed the other two down some steps that led from the terrace to the overgrown lawn, Carol had slipped on the bottom step and twisted her ankle slightly. She protested that it was nothing, rubbed it briskly and seemed none the worse, but she had gone rather pale.
‘You must be careful, darling. That’s the second time you’ve fallen this afternoon,’ said her husband.
‘Is it?’ Patrick had asked. He could see something shining on the flat stone of the step where Carol had stumbled.
Carol laughed.
‘Yes. I must be very clumsy. I trod on a rotten floorboard in the attic and put my foot right through. No serious damage, though, just torn tights and a scratch.’
Ellen was frowning. She made no comment then, but later as she and Patrick returned to Mulberry Cottage she told him that the previous owners of the house had had all the rotten woodwork renewed and such an accident should not have happened.
‘Hm. Is that so? It was odd about that stumble in the garden too,’ Patrick said.
‘Why?’
‘There was oil on that step. Fine oil, or grease, like vaseline or olive oil, something that didn’t show up darkly. While you and Bruce were giving Carol first aid I had a look at it.’
‘Someone oiling a mower nearby, or garden shears . . .’ Ellen’s voice had trailed off.
‘No one’s touched that garden with any implement for weeks.’
They were silent.
‘A poltergeist,’ Patrick said at last. ‘Your vicar will have to exorcise it.’
‘I can’t think of a more rational explanation,’ Ellen said. ‘Though there must be one. Somebody from the village, trespassing.’
‘Oil-can in hand? Very unlikely,’ Patrick said, and added, ‘Isn’t Carol going to be lonely there all day? It’s very isolated.’
‘She doesn’t seem to mind. She does some sort of freelance journalism and says she needs peace and quiet to write in. In fact she was much keener on the house than Dav—him. There was another one he liked better, the other side of Newbury. I preferred it too. It had a lovely view. She thought it might be windy. Abbot’s Lodge looks out on to all those heavy hedges, but it’s very sheltered.’
‘The hedges could come do
wn,’ Patrick suggested.
‘Yes. That would open it up a bit,’ Ellen said.
‘When do they plan to move?’
‘Quite soon. They’re going to have most of the alterations done when they’re in.’
‘Those books,’ Patrick said. ‘Your great-aunt’s library. When Miss Forrest’s catalogued them, could I have a list as your aunt suggested? I know some of my colleagues would be interested in them, and in any case I’d be glad to help dispose of them.’ The librarian of St. Mark’s would never forgive him if he let this chance to acquire some Burmanns pass.
Ellen promised to see that a list was sent to him as soon as it was ready, and Patrick drove away from Meldsmead having arranged to ring her the next time he was in London, in the hope that she would lunch with him. How Jane would approve, he thought, turning from the cul-de-sac that led from the cottage into the main village street. But there wasn’t much point in spending time with a girl who appeared to be attracted to another man, albeit a married one, to whom she had just sold a very expensive house. In fact, he was not really sure if it was Ellen herself or the reputation of Abbot’s Lodge that he found so fascinating.
PART TWO
I
Mildred Forrest finished cataloguing Amelia Brinton’s books on the day the Bruces moved into Abbot’s Lodge. In a way it had been a labour of love, but an arduous one, moving them around, re-shelving them, and often being carried back on waves of nostalgia into the past. She felt a sense of achievement, though, now that her task was done. The books were a varied collection: some that had belonged to Amelia’s father were very old and she thought might be rare editions; they were bound in leather and the pages were thick and yellowed. There were volumes that Amelia had won as prizes as a girl, and others she had bought through the years or been given by former pupils or by friends. Though possibly only of interest to a limited circle of scholars, the collection must be valuable and Valerie would now have to decide whether to sell it as a whole or part with the books one by one, with the aid of Dr. Grant. Mildred favoured this latter plan; it seemed more personal. Anyway, her part was done now; Ellen would type up the list and a copy would go to Dr. Grant for his advice.
Mulberry Cottage was soon going to be very different. It would look so bare when the books were gone, and Valerie had plans to pull the whole place about. Mildred wondered if she would ever visit it again, and thought it most unlikely. Valerie would intend to ask her, but the weeks would pass with no invitation.
Saddened by these reflections, Mildred made herself some tea, drank it, and ate a bourbon biscuit, her weakness. Then she dozed for a while. She woke to hear the furniture van trundling down the lane from Abbot’s Lodge. How happy and excited those two young people must be, moving in to their beautiful new home. She would have liked to ask them round as a gesture of welcome, to sherry: she had half a bottle left, a gift from Ellen who had driven her down in Valerie’s car the previous weekend for this second visit since Amelia’s death, and was coming to fetch her tomorrow. But the Bruces would be too busy settling in, and anyway it was not her cottage; Valerie might not like her asking people in. The vicar had called, during the week, and stayed to tea, but that was different. However, she could take some flowers round to Abbot’s Lodge. No one would object to that, and it would be an appropriate way to wish them well, an action Amelia would have approved.
She went out into the garden and picked a large bunch of the yellow chrysanthemums with which Amelia had annually won prizes at local flower shows; then she set off with some eagerness to Abbot’s Lodge.
Dusk was falling and the lights were on in the house. The front drive had been weeded and the grass was cut; someone had trimmed the yew hedge. Miss Forrest had seen builder’s vans going back and forth, but a gardener must have been at work too. Already the place looked much less derelict. She approached the house, walking on the new-mown turf beside the driveway, making no sound, and drew level with the windows of what she knew was the dining-room; the drawing-room was on the other side of the house, overlooking the garden. She had been there several times with Amelia to visit poor Mrs. Fellowes in her last illness.
Unnoticed in the dusk as she stood outside, Miss Forrest could see David and Carol Bruce facing each other in the room, and from their attitudes she sensed at once the tension between them. Then she heard, coming through the open window, the sound of David’s angry voice.
‘I’ve bought the house you wanted, Carol, and I’ve given you a blank cheque for doing it up and furnishing it. What more must I do to make you happy?’
Aghast, Miss Forrest saw the rage on his face, and something else: the pain. Then, as she turned to flee before they saw her standing there, all the lights went out.
She stumbled away down the lane, her heart thumping, back to the sanctuary of Mulberry Cottage. Much later she realised that in her agitation she had dropped the bunch of flowers somewhere on the way, but she did not go back to look for them. She did not at once turn the lights on in the cottage but sat gasping in a chair till she got her breath back. When she did try the switch, they worked.
II
Ellen was prompt in sending a typed copy of the book list to Patrick. He glanced down it, whistled to himself, and took it straight round to the librarian of St. Mark’s, who was a classical scholar. The library was in fact run by a young man who had trained for the job, but Bernard Wilson was titular chief presiding over all and doing his best to control the committee. Patrick found it politic to keep on good terms with both Bernard and his assistant so as to make sure the proper quota of library funds was spent on behalf of the English department, with an adequate outlay for his own period. Quite often he worked in the library himself, when he wanted to check references; it was on the first floor of the college, a huge room with a high vaulted roof and windows overlooking the college gardens. He found it interesting to observe which of his pupils used the place.
Both Dr. Wilson and his assistant were enthusiastic over several items on the list.
‘Look at these Burmanns,’ Bernard Wilson said. ‘I’d like to bespeak those, Patrick. Can you arrange it? And there are plenty of other things here, too, that I’d like either for myself or for the library.’
‘The Burmanns are special, aren’t they?’ Patrick said.
‘Yes, indeed. Published in Holland in the 18th century and never been reprinted – I see there’s a set of Ovid here in four volumes, and the Satyricon of Petronius – get these for me, I beseech you, Patrick.’ Bernard Wilson read eagerly on down the list, his eyes alight behind his thick pebble glasses, and his bushy black beard twitching.
‘The owner hasn’t decided yet whether to break up the collection or deposit it with some bookseller complete,’ Patrick said.
‘It would be more profitable to sell off individual items through us and our colleagues, and then dispose of the rest in to to,’ Bernard said. ‘We could pay a fair price – Thornton’s would advise.’
‘True enough. I’ll do my best,’ Patrick said.
‘These Loebs and Teubners aren’t of much value – but it’s a chance to replace missing items. I should think the whole library would be worth quite a lot of money,’ said Bernard.
‘I’ll tell the owner,’ Patrick promised. ‘Leave it to me.’
He went happily back to his rooms and had time to write telling Ellen of this reaction and put the letter out in the box for the messenger to mail before his first pupil of the day arrived.
After lunch his telephone rang. It was Jane.
‘You’re not teaching, are you, Patrick?’ she asked at once.
‘No. It’s all right. What’s up? You sound fussed.’
‘I am. Two things, one good, one bad.’
‘Let’s have the bad one first,’ said Patrick. It couldn’t be Michael or Andrew; she’d be frantic and unable to see good in anything.
‘It’s Mildred Forrest. The one you met, the little one, Amelia’s friend.’
‘What’s happened to her? Is she ill
?’
‘She’s dead, Patrick. It’s in the paper today, a tiny paragraph. I noticed it by chance.’
‘You mean in the obituary column?’
‘No. In the home news section, tucked away, just a few lines. She had an accident. Patrick, she fell down the stairs of the British Museum.’
There was silence on the line.
‘Patrick? Did you hear me?’ Jane demanded.
‘Yes, I heard. I was just rendered speechless,’ Patrick said.
‘It shocked me too,’ said Jane.
‘Which stairs? That entrance flight? Surely that wouldn’t kill her?’
‘It might, at her age. But it wasn’t there, it was inside. I think it must have been that imposing staircase that rises up out of the entrance hall on the left, you know. I suppose she had a heart attack. You said she’d got a weak heart, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, she had.’ He remembered how breathless she had been, tripping along beside him in the garden of Mulberry Cottage. ‘I suppose that must have been what happened. How dreadful, though.’ Patrick paused. ‘Jane?’
‘Well?’
‘It seems to me that too many people have been falling about the place lately.’
‘I thought you might think that. But it’s sheer coincidence. Two elderly ladies, who happened to be friends.’
Jane did not know about Carol Bruce’s minor tumble.
‘She lived somewhere near the Cromwell Road, she told me so,’ Patrick mused. ‘Her address might be in the telephone directory.’
‘I doubt it. Didn’t she have just a bed-sitter? Try Ellen, if you want to know more. She’ll be sure to have heard what happened, won’t she?’
‘You mean you actually want me to stick my nose in?’ Patrick asked, unable to believe the evidence of his ears.
Grave Matters Page 4
