Grave Matters Read Online Free PDF Page A

dilapidated, reminded him of one where Jane had lived for a while when Michael was in America, in a village not so far away from here. Country villages were not always the peaceful places they appeared to be on the surface, and Meldsmead probably had its share of undercurrents like the rest.
    A lawn ran away from the cottage at one side, and in the corner, its boughs spreading wide, was a mulberry tree. Patrick was conscious of a movement as he approached the front door, and before he could knock, it was opened. A woman with carroty hair stood before him; she was about forty, of medium height, and slightly built. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, and she was skilfully made-up, wearing lipstick that toned with her well-cut purple trouser suit. Far from being garish, the whole effect was impressive. Patrick found it easy to believe, on her appearance alone, that she was a powerful force in whatever firm she worked for, and he saw the point of the vicar’s exhortations.
    ‘Miss Brinton?’ he asked, ducking to address her, for the lintel of the door was very low.
    ‘Valerie Brinton. Not Amelia. She’s dead,’ was the uncompromising answer.
    ‘My name is Patrick Grant,’ he said. ‘I happened to be passing—’
    She interrupted him.
    ‘Oh, Dr. Grant, do come in.’ Her tone was still brisk, and she did not smile, but she stood back, inviting him to enter. He thought she probably seldom softened more than this.
    Bending still further, Patrick entered the cottage. Once inside, he could only just stand upright without touching the ceiling. After the bright, clear day outside it seemed dark at first until his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light within, but the living-room, into which the front door opened, was gloomy. The ceiling was heavily beamed, and the walls were, as he had been told, completely covered with books. Every available space was filled with them. On their knees amongst a pile of volumes on the ground were, he saw, two other women, both staring at him. One got up; she was young and slim, with long dark hair clasped into a slide at the nape of her neck.
    ‘My niece Ellen,’ said Valerie Brinton. ‘And this is Miss Forrest, a friend and colleague of my aunt’s. Dr. Grant, who was in Athens.’
    ‘Oh!’ came a little cry from the floor, and Miss Forrest made fluttery movements. Patrick was meanwhile shaking hands with Ellen, who offered him a cool, firm palm. At first glance she bore no resemblance to her aunt except in build.
    ‘Please don’t get up, Miss Forrest,’ Patrick urged the figure on the floor.
    ‘But I must, I’ve got cramp,’ said Miss Forrest, hauling herself up by clutching at a chair.
    Patrick was a big man, and his presence made the small room seem crowded.
    ‘Mind you don’t trip,’ Ellen warned him. ‘There are books all over the place.’
    Patrick’s eyes were adjusting to the light, and he took in more details. He saw that Miss Forest, now upright, was tiny; her neat head was covered with snow-white curls. She came up to him and caught hold of his arm with her two little paws.
    ‘You were so kind to write as you did about poor Amelia,’ she said, and her voice trembled, with emotion, Patrick thought, and not extreme age.
    ‘We’re just sorting out some of my aunt’s books,’ said Valerie, briskly. ‘Milly thought they might be valuable, and anyway I can’t possibly keep them. This whole place will have to be done up from top to toe.’
    ‘You’ll be keeping the cottage, then?’ Patrick asked.
    ‘Oh yes. For a time, anyway. I’ll do it up and see how things go. I might sell it eventually,’ Valerie said. ‘I’d make a bomb.’
    She would, too. She’d enlarge the windows, get all kinds of grants and add heating and so forth. Quite right, really. The place would fall down if it wasn’t rescued soon, and olde-worlde charm could pall in cold, wet weather.
    ‘You would know about the books,’ said Ellen.
    ‘What about them?’ Patrick turned to her. She had