Grave Matters Read Free Page A

of road, a signpost pointing to the left which read Meldsmead 2 miles. Meldsmead was the village where Miss Amelia Brinton had lived, and from which her niece had written to him.
    Dr. Wilmot woke suddenly and carried on at once with the conversation they had been having from the point where they had left it. Patrick, who had been mentally back in Greece reviewing Miss Amelia’s fatal fall, had some trouble in returning his thoughts to plate glass windows.
    He delivered his passenger and remained for a glass of sherry with Canon Fosdyke and his wife; then, despite pressing invitations to share their cottage pie, he left. He would call at a pub somewhere on the way back and have a sandwich.
    It was such a lovely day that he felt reluctant to stop, and drove past several likely places. Then he realised that he was near the turning to Meldsmead. It was only ten past one; there must be a pub in the village. He felt curious to see where Miss Amelia had spent her retirement; somehow he would have expected her to choose a spot handy for the British Museum or the London Library, not a remote Hampshire village. He slowed down to watch for the sign, and soon came to it. After he had turned off the main road he found himself in a narrow lane with high hedges on each side; it was twisty, and he went slowly, for there was not much space to pass if he met another car. He passed a farmhouse and a few cottages before he reached the village, and at a bend in the road a red mini came hurtling much too fast towards him. The side of the Rover brushed against the hedge as he pulled in to give it room to dash past. He had time to see that it was driven by a woman with auburn hair, but no more; then it was gone, scattering dust behind it as he saw in his mirror. He drove on, even more slowly than before, but met no one else, and was soon in Meldsmead. The main road, such as it was, straggled through the village, with two turnings off to the right, each saying No Through Road. Another, to the left, led on to further villages, according to a signpost. There were more houses further on, but The Meldsmead Arms was at the junction of the main road and the first of the dead-ends, so Patrick stopped there. He would have a beer and a snack, and look round the village afterwards.
    There were several cars parked outside the pub, and the public bar was very busy. He went into the saloon bar, where his entrance caused very little interest. Three youngish middle-aged couples, the men in polo-necked sweaters and the wives in smart trouser suits, sat at a table talking hard and barely glanced at him. They were discussing some trip by boat they planned for the next day, and Patrick, eavesdropping as he drank his beer, gathered that one of the couples owned some sort of yacht or cabin cruiser.
    The publican was a large man with an almost totally bald head and a small, neatly trimmed moustache. Patrick mentally labelled him an ex-serviceman; he discovered later, in fact, that Fred Brown was a retired regimental sergeant-major. The girl helping him behind the bar was obviously his daughter. Despite an unruly mop of dark brown curls she looked exactly like him.
    The sailing group were talking about tides. Patrick drank his beer and listened to them. The boat seemed to be moored somewhere in the Solent. Besides them, there was a trio of men at the window all talking together. Patrick was too far away to hear what interested them, but soon one of them came to the bar to order another round for all three, and while he waited asked Patrick if he were just passing through.
    ‘We don’t get many casual callers,’ he explained. ‘Eh, Fred?’
    Fred, behind the counter, agreed, with some regret, Patrick thought.
    ‘We do well when there’s racing at Newbury, though,’ he allowed. ‘People think it’s worth turning off the main road then.’
    ‘Yours the Rover TC?’ Patrick’s new acquaintance enquired.
    ‘Yes.’ Patrick knew very well that it was the only strange