A Grave Man Read Free

army with uniforms during the war. The father had been one of those hard men who ‘had done well out of the war’, as the saying was, but the son had made a better name for himself as a patron of the arts and sciences. He was said to have a fine picture collection and an even finer library. He supported many charities, notably Earl Haig’s fund for ex-soldiers. He had set up a medical foundation to develop cures for tuberculosis and polio. He had financed several expeditions to the North and South Poles and was something of an explorer and naturalist himself.
    Verity never did anything without a purpose and Edward was suspicious. ‘So why this sudden desire to look up an old school friend?’
    ‘No reason except I haven’t seen her for ages,’ she replied airily, snuggling down beneath the sheets, her appetite for toast and marmalade temporarily sated.
    ‘Hold on! I’ve just remembered. Didn’t Castlewood underwrite Pitt-Messanger’s excavations in Egypt or somewhere?’
    ‘That’s right and, as it happens, Maud Pitt-Messanger is staying at Swifts Hill. Ginny has such a kind heart and, when she heard about her father’s death, she scooped her up and took her there to recover and avoid the press.’
    ‘Really, V, you are incorrigible. You want to investigate . . .’
    ‘Chief Inspector Pride will never find out who murdered her father, now will he?’
    ‘We may not like Pride but he is a very competent police officer,’ Edward said sententiously. ‘I have every confidence . . .’
    ‘Well, I don’t, so there.’
    Edward pushed aside the breakfast tray and rolled over on Verity. ‘Stop it, you bully. You’re squashing me.’
    ‘If only that were possible!’ he retorted. They looked at each other with mutual indignation and then Verity was overtaken by the giggles. ‘Men look so absurd in striped pyjamas, particularly if they are trying to lay down the law.’
    ‘Oh really? You have experience of men in pyjamas, do you? You jade, you juggler, you canker blossom, you thief of love!’
    ‘How dare you call me a jade. I don’t even know what it means. Are you calling me a horse?’
    ‘I’m calling you a bad-tempered and disreputable woman and to prove it . . .’
    The plates and newspapers slid on to the floor as Edward caught Verity in his arms. She made inadequate attempts to escape but was soon overcome.
    Panting, Edward released her. ‘You’ve got jam on your nose,’ he said, as he kneeled astride her.
    ‘I surrender, I surrender,’ she cried in mock alarm. ‘Don’t hurt me, you nasty, ugly man. I am thinking of getting another dog to protect me. Ouch! Remember, I’m still an invalid.’
    Edward relaxed his grip. She had taken a bullet in her shoulder when the Spanish town of Guernica had been bombed and strafed by the Luftwaffe just a few months before. She had been lucky to survive. The photographer, Gerda Meyer, who was with her, had been killed. She was very much better but still not fully recovered – from the shock as much as from the wound itself. Gently, he turned her on her stomach and stroked the scar, still livid, where the bullet had pierced her. She twisted her head to look at him, for once almost meek. ‘My scar . . . I can’t even see it, damn it. Is it horrible? Does it . . . disgust you?’
    He remembered the girl who had comforted Maud Pitt-Messanger in the Abbey. Her scar had spoilt her looks. ‘No, my dearest,’ he said, his voice thick with passion. ‘I love every scar, every scratch on you.’ He bent his head and kissed first her shoulder, feeling the wound with his tongue and then, rolling her over, the little scar on her forehead.
    She put her hands to his face, pushing him back so she could look into his eyes. ‘And I love you.’ It went against all her instincts. She had held out against him as long as she could but she did love this man – she was almost sure of it. What was more, she trusted him absolutely, without reservation. She closed her eyes and