‘If she’d found an archaeological gem she’d have handed it over at once to some authority,’ said Jane.
‘So she wasn’t running up faked amphorae in the cellar of Abbot’s Lodge either. It’s not her ghost haunting Carol,’ Michael said.
‘Why don’t you forget it, Patrick?’ Jane said. ‘It’s making you unhappy. Usually you’re all animated when you’re on the trail of something. You’re wrong this time, surely, aren’t you? It’s just a chapter of rather unhappy accidents. The next thing you hear, Carol will be full of beans and it will all be forgotten. The broken floorboard was probably dishonest workmen – maybe they replaced the worst bits and the previous owners paid for the whole thing, all unbeknownst.’
‘You could be right,’ said Patrick. ‘I think I’ll take your advice. Anyway, I’ve a lot on next week. I’ll calm down unless someone else falls down some stairs.’ Or until he had the result of the tests on the blackberry pie.
And next week Ellen was coming to Oxford. Would she still come, or would she stand him up?
II
She did come. He met her at the station on Saturday afternoon, took her to the Randolph, parking right outside on the double yellow line in defiance of the traffic warden patrolling nearby, and saw her into the hotel. As she was led off to her room he arranged to pick her up at half-past six. Then he drove back to St. Mark’s, and after he had bathed, shaved, and changed himself he spent the remaining interval until it was time to fetch her fussing round his sitting-room, moving chairs and cushions fractionally, and adjusting the flowers which to Robert, his scout’s, astonishment he had bought that morning. Patrick had often entertained women in his rooms but Robert could never remember flowers being brought in to embellish the surroundings before.
She was coming down the staircase into the hall of the hotel as he arrived. She wore a plain black velvet dress with long sleeves and a high round neck; her only jewellery was a pair of drop earrings, garnets set with pearls. So this is what the poets meant, thought Patrick as he floated through the air towards her, managing to forget David Bruce for ten whole seconds.
‘You look wonderful,’ he said, unable to think of anything less mundane to say.
‘I thought this would be suitable,’ she answered, with the demure smile that enchanted him. He looked pretty good himself, she thought; he was tall, and sturdily built, and behind his large-rimmed glasses his eyes looked steadily into hers. He had a determined chin, but his mouth was wide and gentle-looking; it was a strong face, the face of a man who would make up his mind and stick to his decision, a man who might be stubborn but who was certainly sensitive and perceptive. For once his fine, dark hair was not flopping over his forehead but brushed smoothly back; she had met him often enough now to know that it would soon fall forward.
She was carrying her coat. He helped her into it, took her by the elbow and led her out to the car. Then he whisked her by small side roads to St. Mark’s, where it lurked in obscurity at the end of a cobbled street, one of Oxford’s smallest and oldest colleges.
‘I don’t know Oxford at all well,’ she said, as they went along. ‘I’ve just passed through a few times. Now one doesn’t even do that, with the ring road. I know the other place better. Isn’t that what you call it?’
He laughed.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Here we are.’ He turned into the wide gateway leading into the first quadrangle. ‘Parking laid on and everything.’
‘I knew dons led sheltered lives,’ said Ellen.
‘We do as regards parking, that’s certain,’ Patrick said. ‘But we come up against stark facts now and then. Our young men have their problems, and so do we. This way.’
He took her through the main quad and into a smaller one beyond it, then to the staircase that led to his rooms.
‘It’s quite a climb, but worth it when you get there,’ he said. ‘We’ve time for a quick drink before we go down.’
His efforts to arrange his decanters and heavy Waterford tumblers to best effect were successful. Her rapturous appreciation of where he lived was quite spontaneous.
‘Patrick! What a beautiful room! Look at all your books – and what lovely curtains – and the pictures!’ She flitted round, inspecting and exclaiming, and he stood like a tongue-tied boy admiring her until at last his social sense released his paralysis, and he dealt with their drinks.
They sat sedately on either side of the fireplace drinking sherry, which was what Ellen had chosen, and he told her about his fellow dons whom she would meet later.
‘I hope I won’t disgrace you,’ she said.
‘On the contrary, you’ll make everyone regard me with envy and new respect,’ he said.
‘I will sit next to you, won’t I?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I haven’t been to anything like this before.’
‘Oh yes. And on your other side will be Bernard Wilson, the librarian, so you can talk about your great-aunt’s books to him. He’s an amiable chap – looks a bit unusual, but dons often do.’
‘I’ll try not to stare at him,’ said Ellen, smiling.
Just before half-past seven they went down to the Senior Common Room, where Ellen was introduced with due formality to the Master and his wife. The Master turned out to be a white-haired man of about sixty who did not seem in the least formidable, and his wife, who wore a curious dress of what looked like homespun tweed, had a round face innocent of any make-up, and large guileless blue eyes so that it was impossible to feel awed by her. Bernard Wilson certainly did look rather odd with his thick pebble glasses and heavy beard, but he was so pleased to meet the great-great niece, as they worked out she must be, of the celebrated E. C. Brinton whose contributions to classical scholarship had been so great, that any shyness Ellen felt was soon dispelled. Patrick saw that she had relaxed and was preparing to enjoy herself.
Ellen found it was quite an experience to be seated at the High Table facing a sea of youthful faces ranged at right angles below. An undergraduate with flowing but clean locks read a Latin grace and the meal began. The speed with which it was consumed astounded Ellen; in no time at all, it seemed to her, the hall was clear of young men, and even at the high table plates were removed with startling rapidity. Half her orange soufflé disappeared when she laid down her fork for a moment to answer some remark of Bernard Wilson’s.
After the pudding course, the members of the S.C.R. and their guests returned to the Senior Common Room for dessert. Port and madeira circled round, and this time everyone sat another way, with the don next in seniority to the Master presiding. This was Bernard Wilson. His guest, a woman don who often appeared on television and wrote learned books on prehistory, sat beside him. Ellen now found herself augustly placed beside the Master. He enquired where she lived and what she did, and talked about his married daughter in Vancouver, where he hoped to go in the long vacation. Ellen had spent a year in Canada after her secretarial training and had worked her way across to the West Coast. They talked about totem poles, and how to read the legends they told, and the problem of the Indians. Time flew, and eventually the Master and his wife left, followed by some of the other guests. Those remaining changed their seats again in another bout of General Post and began to talk shop of various sorts. Ellen was fascinated; she had never spent an evening like it, and what impressed her most was the extreme courtesy of everyone. At each introduction a potted biography of either party was related to the other so that there was some starting point for conversation, and everyone talked as if they really were interested in what they were saying, and the responses their remarks evoked. She was encouraged to talk about her own job, and learned that most of the married dons, particularly the younger ones, lived in college-owned flats or houses. The world of commerce in which she moved was alien here, Ellen realised a little bleakly.
After a while Bernard Wilson suggested that she and Patrick should join him and his guest in his rooms for a nightcap. They wound their way there along tortuous passages and up and down various flights of
stairs. Over the doorway the legend Dr. B. L. Wilson was neatly painted in white. Patrick’s door had been similarly labelled with his name. That was the only resemblance between the two sets, for the interior of Bernard’s was chaotic. There were books and papers piled on every chair and heaped all over the floor, so that spaces had to be cleared among them before anyone could sit down. Then there was a hunt for four glasses of any sort, let alone matching ones. But the drink cupboard was well-stocked. The Burmanns, which Patrick had brought back from Mulberry Cottage were displayed to Ellen, proudly shelved in a glass-fronted cupboard, and Bernard told her he was eager to buy many more of Amelia’s collection, including, on behalf of a pupil, her Oxford edition of Cicero.
‘One volume’s missing,’ Ellen said.
‘Has it not turned up?’ Patrick asked. ‘It will, I’m sure. It must have got into the wrong place somehow.’
Bernard’s guest had taken off her shoes which she said pinched her toes. She padded about the room in bare feet picking up papers and inspecting them, then casting them from her in a despairing way. After that she fell to bemoaning the intellectual levels of her pupils and declared that none would get any sort of degree, much less good ones.
Later, Patrick told Ellen that this woman was a brilliant teacher and one of the best brains in the university, but drinking made her melancholy.
‘And she has a rare virtue. She isn’t afraid of being outclassed by her pupils – she welcomes any challenge,’ he added.
Ellen digested this information as they trekked back through the building to his rooms, where she had left her coat.
‘Don’t you ever leave papers about?’ she asked him, looking at its orderly state.
‘Often. But I tidied up for you. I wanted to create a good impression,’ he said. ‘Have I managed it?’
‘Yes, you have,’ she said. ‘How nice they are, all your colleagues. Their manners are so marvellous. People push and shove so, in London. It’s restful to be somewhere where there’s ritual in what goes on.’
‘Customs and ceremonies have their merits,’ Patrick agreed. ‘But dons can be pretty beastly to one another, when aroused. Many are the feuds among us. Have you enjoyed your evening?’
‘Very much,’ she said, and meant it.
III
In the morning Patrick showed her the college by daylight, and they spent some time in the library. Ellen was intrigued by the ancient volumes still chained in place as they had been centuries before. Then she said she must go down to Mulberry Cottage and was there a bus?
‘I’ll take you,’ he said.
‘Oh no, Patrick. I couldn’t put you to all that trouble,’ she replied.
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘It’s no trouble.’ Just a very great pity and dire disappointment; he had planned a day in the Cotswolds and then a return to Mark’s for tea in his room. She softened the blow a little.
‘We could look out a few more of those books Dr. Wilson wanted, perhaps,’ she suggested. ‘There’ll be something we can eat, I’m sure, even if it’s only a tin.’
He brightened. She had not, then, got an assignation in the meadows with David.
She was wearing her blackberry-coloured trouser suit and her hair was freed from its usual clasp, so that it hung loose on her shoulders. It made her look very young. As they drove off Patrick was silent. Having successfully banished all thought of David Bruce from his mind for hours, now he could not get rid of it; old-fashioned sentiments on the lines of how dare he trifle with her rushed through his head, and were followed by the notion that it might not be just trifling. Ellen sensed the tension in him, and could only think of trite remarks to make about the landscape as they passed. The easy feeling there had been between them had disappeared and she began to regret that they were committed to spending a good part of the day together.
There were a number of cars parked outside the Meldsmead Arms.
‘Shall I nip in and get us some beer? Or would you like to have a drink here?’ Patrick asked.
‘Let’s take some back with us,’ Ellen said.
‘Right.’ Patrick stopped the car and got out. ‘Won’t be long,’ he said.
Both bars were busy but Fred Brown had time to greet him at once. He bought four pints of light ale. That should do for today and for some future occasion when Ellen entertained David Bruce, he thought bitterly. Perhaps this evening, after he had gone, David would come to visit her.
He pulled himself together as he went back to the car; what had happened to his obedient mind that it was wandering along such profitless paths?
Ellen picked up various letters from just inside the front door before they stepped inside. Patrick’s sharp eye noticed the electricity bill and what looked like a rates demand. There was one letter without a stamp which she stuffed quickly into her pocket; the rest she laid on the table in the sitting-room. One large envelope was addressed to Miss Amelia and came from some classical society to which she had belonged.
‘Their computer doesn’t seem to have caught up with things,’ said Ellen. She opened the window. ‘It smells stuffy, doesn’t it, yet it’s cold.’
‘Shall I light the fire?’ said Patrick. It would give him some occupation while Ellen foraged for lunch, and take his mind off his churning thoughts.
‘Oh, what a good idea. There are sticks and things in the shed.’
Patrick went off on his errand. In the shed, which was at the rear of the cottage, he found kindling and some logs. There didn’t seem to be any coal. There was a tin of paraffin and another of creosote, various garden tools, and a pile of old papers and magazines which he thought would be too damp to ignite with any ease. He collected up a load of twigs and logs, found some dry newspaper in the kitchen, and soon had a promising fire going in the big hearth. It smoked a little at first, but as the wood caught and the chill left the chimney it drew better. He piled on logs and went in search of Ellen, who had disappeared.
He saw her from the kitchen window. She was at the far end of the garden near the fence by the field, reading a letter, the one she had so swiftly pocketed when they arrived, no doubt. She had taken off her jacket, and with her hair loose she looked almost like a boy as she came back towards the cottage, walking slowly, looking at the ground.
As soon as she came indoors the illusion was dispelled; she was utterly feminine. She produced a large tin of curry and cooked some rice. With this, and fresh apples from the garden, and the beer, they had an excellent meal. Then they found the Cicero Letters for Bernard; Ellen said the Orations must wait until the missing one was found. Finally Patrick felt obliged to leave, and Ellen did not press him to stay. She had a date, he thought in fury.
But she thanked him with every appearance of sincerity for the evening at Mark’s, and for bringing her back to Meldsmead.
‘How will you get back to London?’ he could not resist enquiring, rubbing salt into his already smarting wound.
‘Oh, I’ll get the early train tomorrow. George Kent commutes. ‘He’ll take me to the station,’ she said. She did not mention David, who probably went up each day on the motorway in his BMW.
Patrick drove off, moving rapidly up through the gears to get away quickly, since it had to happen. Watching him out of sight, Ellen felt suddenly forlorn; it came to her that she was letting go something of great value that might never come her way again.
PART SIX
I
Jane was definitely plumper. She had acquired a placid look, and was knitting.
‘You do look cow-like,’ Patrick said.
‘Thanks very much.’
‘Must be strange,’ he mused.
‘It’s quite often rather uncomfortable, but it’s gratifying. I feel smug and docile,’ Jane said.
They sat in silence for a while, while Patrick meditated and Jane knitted calmly on. Michael was away at a conference and he had come to spend the evening. At last Jane said, after casting several shrewd glances at him: ‘Patrick, something’s eating you. What is it? Wasn’t t
he weekend a success?’ For she had known that Ellen was coming to Oxford.
‘It was wonderful. She’s a marvellous girl with a good brain – she doesn’t realise herself how good it is – and she’s pretty and gentle . . .’ his voice trailed off and he looked somewhat embarrassed.
Jane was amazed at this extravagant speech.
‘Well then, why don’t you bring her over here some time?’ she said, pretending to count her stitches.
‘She’s messing about with David Bruce. That’s the chap with the haunted house and the dead dog.’
‘How do you know she is?’
‘I’ve seen them together,’ he said. He recounted his experience in the British Museum. ‘I’d meant to ask her out to lunch,’ he said. ‘But there wasn’t any point. There was no doubt about the situation between them – if you’d seen how they looked at one another—’
‘Why were you prowling round among the marbles?’ Jane asked.
‘I was casing the joint. I wanted to see if someone could push an old lady down the stairs and vanish upwards,’ Patrick said.
‘And could it be done?’
‘Easily.’
‘But that didn’t happen. It would have been seen. You can’t go pushing people down stairs and running off. A witness would collar you.’
‘Someone you knew, if you were an old lady, could take your arm and then suddenly shove you, when no one seemed to be looking,’ Patrick said.
‘Not Ellen! Why should she want to get rid of poor Mildred Forrest?’ Jane exclaimed.
‘No. Why should she? But someone else might.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t think. She must have been utterly harmless,’ Patrick said. ‘I’m imagining things again.’
Could Miss Forrest have stumbled on the truth of the relationship between Ellen and David, and bidden her to the museum to chide her? She might have felt it her duty, as Miss Amelia’s friend. Or if not to chide, to advise?
Grave Matters Page 9
