A Grave Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

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,’ Virginia 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