Grave Matters by Margaret Yorke Page B

some stalling action. It would be very pleasant to prolong negotiations through the winter weekends; Homer by firelight, with Ellen: what could be more alluring?
    She agreed that he might call for her at Mulberry Cottage at noon on the following Sunday and take her to lunch in Andhurst as a preliminary to their bibliographical discussion.
    ‘And your aunt too, of course, if she’s there,’ he said, fervently hoping that Valerie would have other plans.
    He drove her back to her flat in Earls Court, where she put a cool hand in his on her doorstep and thanked him for the evening. Before he could take any further action she had opened the door and vanished inside, leaving him gazing at the solid slab of black-painted wood. He got back into the Rover and sat for some minutes staring at the building, imagining her walking up the stairs to her flat, which she had told him was on the top floor. No lights went on, so it must overlook the gardens at the back of the house. She would not look out and see him still below, a faithful sentinel. It was pointless to remain, so he started the car and drove off towards the Westway and the fast road to Oxford. Soon he was cruising smoothly along the M40, back to his celibate quarters at St. Mark’s. As he drove, he thought about how he would see Ellen again on Sunday, and he had reached the Beaconsfield by-pass before he started to turn over in his mind the curious fact of Miss Mildred Forrest’s wish to talk to Ellen about the reputed jinx on Abbot’s Lodge.

 
PART THREE
I
     
    Andrew Conway at three years old was an energetic little boy, keenly interested in all that went on around him. Jane often thought he had inherited some of his uncle’s curiosity. He still had what was called a rest every afternoon, when he lay on his bed with his teddy bear and a book. Sometimes he did nod off for a short time, but more often he lectured his teddy on the events of the morning, or carried on long conversations with imaginary people. On the Sunday after Miss Forrest’s death, when he had been banished in this way, Jane sat on the sofa in the sitting-room with her feet up, looking at the Sunday Times crossword, while Michael read the Business Section.
    After a time she said: ‘I wonder how Patrick’s getting on.’
    ‘Hm? What’s he doing? I thought he was coming to lunch,’ said Michael.
    ‘He cancelled. He’s gone down to Hampshire to see that girl,’ said Jane.
    Michael looked at her over the top of his paper.
    ‘You don’t mean to tell me that Patrick’s seriously interested in someone you’ve found for him?’ he said. ‘It’s your broody condition running away with your imagination.’
    ‘I didn’t find her for him, he did it himself,’ Jane said, and frowned. ‘She may be awful.’
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘Old Amelia Brinton’s great-niece. I must have told you. He met her when he called at Amelia’s cottage a few weeks ago. He happened to be near there. You know how he does these impulsive things.’ Michael did. ‘He took a fancy to her.’
    Michael knew that Patrick often took fancies to girls, but never strongly enough to want them permanently around.
    ‘Don’t count on it lasting,’ he advised. ‘Patrick’s pretty set in his ways. He’s probably happiest flitting from flower to flower. What’s this one’s particular charm?’
    ‘He hasn’t told me. I just know she’s somehow different from the others in the past. And she’s muddled up with all these old ladies who keep falling down stairs,’ said Jane. ‘You know, Amelia in Athens, and now Miss Forrest in the British Museum.’
    ‘They chose some pretty illustrious stairs on which to expire,’ said Michael.
    ‘Like being run over by a Rolls, you mean? I know. But there’s a third one. Patrick only told me about her the other day, when he cried off for this weekend. It’s a woman in Meldsmead who fell down some steps in the garden and twisted her ankle.’
    ‘She didn’t die?’
    ‘No. And she