Grave Matters Read Free

the torturer,’ said Jane. ‘I’ll just wash first.’
    She went through the door that led into his large, comfortable bedroom, off which opened a landing with a tiny kitchenette installed where once there had been a cupboard. At the far end of his bedroom a door disclosed his private bathroom. No wonder Patrick couldn’t be bothered to marry, she thought, as she often did when she visited him here. Everything was laid on for him; he had a scout to minister to his daily wants; good food provided to the accompaniment of first-class conversation and even, on gala occasions, eaten off gold plate that had been bequeathed to the college by a long-dead former member; and spacious accommodation in part of the original college building. At least he hadn’t embarked on croquet yet, though. She looked out of his bedroom window and saw the two combatants below, still warring. They were a chemist and a sociologist who sincerely hated one another and fought each other over matters of college politics whenever they got the chance, as well as joining battle of any other kind that offered. Jane feared that Patrick might get like this as he grew older, and she was sighing over this problem when she rejoined him.
    ‘What a sad sound,’ he said. ‘Do you dread the drill?’
    ‘No,’ Jane answered. ‘I’m sighing over you. Even if there exists upon this earth a woman who would put up with your ways, how could she compete with all this?’ She waved her hand around, gesturing at the high ceiling of his large room, the cornice decorated with elaborate plaster-work. ‘You’re much too comfortable as you are.’
    ‘You’re right, my dear. I am, and I don’t plan to change a thing,’ Patrick said. He kissed her. ‘Can you find your way down? I’m expecting a pupil any minute. Mind he doesn’t barge into you, he won’t see you coming through his tangled mane.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Jane. ‘How can you bear it?’
    ‘He’s got terrible acne, poor boy. Perhaps it’s better not to have to look at all those pimples.’
    ‘They might go if he washed the matted locks,’ Jane pointed out.
    ‘He’ll clean himself up soon and face the world, when he feels a bit braver,’ Patrick said. ‘He’s a nice lad. Very bright, but rather insecure.’
    ‘Aren’t we all?’ Jane said. Even you, in your way, she thought. ‘Thanks for lunch. Come and see us soon.’
    She went away, and it was only as she entered the dentist’s waiting room ten minutes later that she realised because it was still the vacation, Patrick’s pupil must be coming to consult him about some problem, not for a tutorial.

 
III
     
    Among the Fellows of St. Mark’s was a venerable don who lived in honourable retirement in a tiny cottage owned by the college. Once a year he visited an equally ancient Canon who lived in rather similar circumstances in Winchester, except that he had a wife who, though bent with rheumatism, was still able to cook and administer the household. The two old men had been friends from youth. Dr. Wilmot’s sight was very poor now, and no one thought it safe for him to make his annual pilgrimage by public transport any longer, so Patrick drove him down to Winchester on the Saturday after Jane’s visit.
    It was a lovely morning in late September when they left Oxford, with the sun gilding the leaves that still clung to the trees. The harvest had been early, and the farmers were well ahead with their ploughing; there were still some fields of bleached or burnt stubble standing, but in most of them the rich, dark earth had been turned up in neat furrows. For a while they talked about a new building in a corner of the college grounds. Dr. Wilmot deplored the modern architecture of its design, but Patrick felt one could not ape the old. This discussion kept them going happily for half an hour until the old man suddenly fell asleep; Patrick drove on, enjoying the scenery in silence. Some way south of Newbury he noticed, on a straight stretch