A Grave Man Read Free Page A

gave a little cry, perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of protest. He needed no warning to treat her gently. With infinite tenderness he buried himself in her, his eyes never leaving her face. She threw her arms around him and held him to her fiercely as if he alone could protect her from the pain and blot out her memories of Spain.
    Afterwards, they lay on their backs smoking until Edward suddenly remembered that they had an appointment with a house agent at eleven. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was already half past nine. Verity had been staying with her friends, the Hassels, in the King’s Road since she had returned from Spain. She had sold her Knightsbridge flat before she left and owned no property in England. She had decided she needed a pied-à-terre in London, even though she was abroad for so much of the time. She did not want anything cosy. She had no wish to make a home for herself. She merely needed somewhere to leave the few possessions she did not want to carry about the world with her. She had settled on an anonymous-looking flat in a new, purpose-built block off Sloane Avenue called Cranmer Court. Before she made a final decision she wanted Edward to see it.
    London was beginning to have the air of a forgotten city – Petra perhaps, Edward thought as they stepped out of Cranmer Court on to brown, balding grass. The flat had proved to be light and airy, though expensive. Edward wanted her to look at others but Verity was impatient. ‘What is the point? It suits me and I’ve got the money.’
    It was a slight embarrassment to Verity, as a Communist, that she was rich. Her father was a successful barrister renowned for his defence of left-wing causes. She had never liked spending his money but her resolve had weakened as the years passed and, anyway, she was earning herself now. Her employer, Lord Weaver, the owner of the New Gazette , saw her as one of his stars and paid her accordingly. The Daily Worker , for which she also wrote, paid her nothing but her book on Spain published by the Left Book Club had sold well and Victor Gollancz had been after her to write another.
    The young man from the agency had been pleased and surprised that the flat had been such an easy sale. When he discovered to whom he had sold it, he had been fulsome. Edward was amused to see how Verity, in the face of frank admiration, managed to display irritation and pleasure at the same time.
    It was hotter than ever and the dust spread over everything, painting the leaves on the trees grey and casting a grey veil over Edward’s Lagonda. London was emptying, so it was with some surprise that they bumped into Edmund Cardew whom they had last seen at the Abbey when Edward had dispatched him to summon the police. He was an MP – one of the youngest in the House – and was being talked of as a ‘coming man’. The girl on his arm seemed almost a child. At first sight Edward did not recognize her but then, as she moved her head, he saw the burn scar which had transformed her cheek to rice paper, only partly concealed by the hair which fell about her face. It was she who had comforted Miss Pitt-Messanger in the Abbey.
    She proved to be Cardew’s sister Margaret – Maggie as her brother called her. Edward shook her gloved hand and they exchanged a few words about the murder. As they did so, it occurred to him to wonder if the handle of the knife which had killed the old man had been clean of fingerprints. All the ladies attending the memorial service would have been gloved of course but then it was not really a woman’s crime. He reminded himself that the investigation was nothing to do with him. He introduced Verity and explained that she had been buying a flat.
    ‘Excellent!’ Cardew said. ‘Then you must come and meet my mother. She bought one of the first flats three years ago and is quite the queen of Cranmer Court.’
    It was impossible to refuse so Verity and Maggie walked ahead of the two men towards the other side of the