Grave Matters Read Online Free PDF

enormous eyes of some dark colour; could it be violet?
    ‘Whether they’re valuable.’
    ‘I’m not an expert,’ Patrick said.
    ‘Some of them are first editions,’ Ellen told him. ‘They belonged to Amelia’s father.’
    They might, in that case, be of interest to his classical colleagues who were always bemoaning the impossibility of obtaining various out of print works for their own use or as replacements for volumes lost or stolen from the college library.
    ‘Mildred is going to spend a week here later, making a list,’ said Valerie.
    ‘It’s so kind of you, dear, to let me. I shall enjoy staying here,’ said Miss Forrest.
    Cataloguing the books would be quite a task, and Patrick wondered if she were physically equal to it. He peered at the nearest shelf and what he saw made him whistle.
    ‘I see you’ve got a Burmann Petronius,’ he said. ‘I know someone who’d be very glad to get hold of that.’
    ‘Dr. Grant had better have a copy of the list, Milly, when you’ve done it,’ Valerie said. ‘Perhaps you would advise us?’ she asked him.
    ‘With pleasure,’ Patrick said. He could soon enlist more expert advice than his own, and there were some treasures here.
    ‘Milly lives in London and spends her days beetling round museums and art galleries,’ Ellen said. ‘She’s just the person to do this sort of cataloguing.’
    ‘Amelia used to visit me,’ Miss Forrest said, ‘and I often used to come here too.’ She looked wistfully round the room.
    ‘Now Milly, you’ve done quite enough work for the present,’ Valerie said. ‘You take Dr. Grant into the garden while Ellen and I do some clearing up in here and get tea ready.’ She spoke quite kindly to the old woman. Despite the fizzing image she projected she was not without compassion.
    ‘Oh—very well, Valerie, if you say so,’ agreed Miss Forrest meekly.
    ‘Do we go this way?’ Patrick asked, indicating the front door, and at her nod opened it and stood aside for her. She walked with quick steps down the path and across the lawn. Patrick ducked his head to clear the door as he followed. There was a wooden seat under the mulberry tree and they made their way towards it, Patrick taking one long stride to about three of Miss Forrest’s bird-like hops. She was rather out of breath when they arrived; no, she would not have been fit to climb the Acropolis of Athens this summer.
    ‘Earlier in the year mulberries keep landing on one’s head, sitting here,’ she panted as they sat down. ‘But it’s safe now.’ Sure enough, the seat and its arms had crimson splodges on them, the dried-out stains of crushed fruit.
    Sitting beside her on the bench, Patrick described how he had first seen Miss Amelia Brinton at Delphi, so that he knew her again when they were both looking at the Caryatids. Then he told her about the accident and what followed, stressing the kindness of the Greeks and the British Embassy and minimising the horror of the accident.
    ‘Poor dear Amelia. I am glad she was buried in Greece, she would have liked that. But I shall never see her grave. When you next go to Athens, Dr. Grant, will you put some flowers on it for me?’
    Patrick promised to do this.
    ‘She was my friend,’ said Miss Forrest simply.
    Patrick was silent while she extracted a handkerchief from the sleeve of her grey crimplene dress and mopped her eyes with dignified delicacy. Then he said, ‘She must have been a remarkable woman.’
    ‘She was. She had a first-class brain. Some people thought her hard and too inflexible. She could never forgive a girl who let down the high standards she had set,’ said Miss Forrest. ‘But one must have ideals. If not, what is there to live for?’
    A good question, and one that might with advantage be asked more loudly and more often nowadays, thought Patrick.
    After a little prompting, Miss Forrest described some of the holidays she had shared with Miss Amelia.
    ‘She made all the arrangements and took total