Grave Matters by Margaret Yorke Page A

drinking with their pheasant. ‘We went out to drinks in the village on Saturday evening – people had heard the Bruces had moved in and wanted to be friendly. When we all left, their car – the Bruces’, I mean – had a puncture.’
    ‘That smooth BMW? What a pity,’ Patrick said.
    ‘It wasn’t David’s car. It was Carol’s Lancia. It’s rather unusual, isn’t it, to have complete flats like that? When you’re parked? More often tyres go down gently, don’t they?’
    ‘Well, yes. But nails and things do lie around,’ said Patrick. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean that a ghost from Abbot’s Lodge followed the Bruces down the road and slashed the tyre. Where was the party?’
    ‘At the Bradshaws’. He’s a market gardener who lives down the lane near the church.’
    Patrick’s chatty friend from the pub.
    ‘Was it a good party?’
    ‘Yes, I suppose so, as these things go,’ said Ellen. ‘It was prompt of the Bradshaws to ask them so soon.’
    ‘Meldsmead must be a friendly place.’
    ‘It is, fairly. Of course, it’s so small that any newcomer is an object of curiosity. And Abbot’s Lodge has been empty so long that I should think everyone was extra eager to inspect the Bruces.’
    ‘What’s Mrs. Bradshaw like?’ Patrick asked. ‘I’ve met him.’ He had already told Ellen about his visit to the Meldsmead Arms, the day they met.
    ‘Very efficient,’ said Ellen. ‘She must be a great blessing to Mrs. Merry – the vicar’s wife. She helps with things in the village, bazaars and so on. Denis was in the Army, he took up market gardening when he retired. I suppose Madge got used to running things when they were in the Army, organising the soldiers’ families and so on. I imagine that still goes on.’
    Patrick felt sure it did.
    ‘What do you do at weekends if you’re not at Mulberry Cottage?’ he asked her.
    ‘Sometimes I stay in London. Sometimes I go home. I’ve already told you I get on well with my family,’ she said.
    ‘You seem to expect me to be surprised,’ said Patrick mildly. ‘Even some undergraduates like their parents, oddly enough. In any case, I should think you have few foes.’
    For some extraordinary reason, as he looked at her, he longed to quote Byron and tell her that she walked in beauty. There was some magic, ethereal quality about her tonight. No female had ever had this effect on him before. He took a stern grip on himself, lest his lunatic emotions be reflected in his face.
    ‘The next time someone’s down at Mulberry Cottage I’d like to come over and talk about the books,’ he said. ‘Our librarian is very interested in a lot of them.’
    ‘You could come almost any time,’ Ellen said. ‘I’ve got a key now, and Valerie says I can go there whenever I like for the moment. She’s going to do it up, but it’ll take ages to arrange about a grant and all that.’
    ‘Would your aunt part with the books individually? She could sell the whole lot to some bookseller, but it might pay her to dispose of them separately, and some of my colleagues would be very anxious to get hold of certain ones.’
    ‘You told me in your letter,’ Ellen reminded him. ‘I’m sure Valerie would let any of your colleagues take their pick before selling the rest. There hasn’t been time to ask her, since you wrote. But I think you can take it she’d agree.’
    Patrick knew that Bernard would be eager to grab the plums from Miss Brinton’s library at the first opportunity. The difficulty would be to avoid having to bring him on the expedition to collect them.
    ‘May I come and pick out a few fairly soon?’ he asked. ‘Is there a chance that you’ll be going down there before long?’ He did not want to discuss the books with Valerie; he wanted to inspect them with Ellen.
    She shrugged.
    ‘I’ve no plans for next weekend. And the garden should be cleared up before the winter,’ she said.
    Patrick would get a few titles out of Bernard instantly. Then he could take