Free Grave Matters by Margaret Yorke

said Patrick, and Jane would have been amazed at his diffident air.
    ‘That’s all right,’ said Ellen in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘You can let me know when you want to come. I can manage almost anyShe sat there with Mildred’s list in her hand and Patrick looked at her.
    ‘Ellen?’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘We have ladies’ nights at Mark’s now and then, when we invite ladies to dinner. Will you come one day? I’d fetch you – or meet you in Oxford if you’d come for the weekend. I—there’s a spare room in my set but it would be more suitable if I arranged for you to stay at the Randolph.’ He was floundering desperately, but he must make her understand. He hoped she’d realise he meant to pay. He gazed at her earnestly through his heavy-rimmed spectacles. A lock of fine, dark hair fell forward over his forehead.
    ‘When are you inviting me for?’ Ellen asked primly.
    He could scarcely believe his ears. She would come! He plunged.
    ‘Saturday week,’ he said. ‘Please come.’
    ‘You really want me to?’ She was looking at him doubtfully.
    ‘I do,’ he said firmly. He had very seldom invited a woman to dine at Mark’s who was not a don, a pupil, or a relative.
    ‘The talk will be miles above my head.’
    ‘It won’t. Why should you think that? Dons are just people.’
    ‘All right. Thank you. I accept,’ said Ellen.
    ‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ said Patrick, beaming.
    ‘You’ll stay for tea?’ said Ellen, suddenly becoming formal. ‘There are only biscuits. Shall we go for a walk first?’
    She got up and moved away from him, towards the window.
    ‘A walk would be lovely,’ said Patrick, like a polite little boy. ‘Where shall we go? Across the fields?’
    ‘If you like. There’s a stream in the field beyond the garden and it’s a bit wet in spots. I’ve got boots, but what about you?’ She looked at his feet in their dark leather shoes.
    ‘I’ve got some in the car. I keep them there for when I go to see my sister,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll get them.’
     
    He fetched them from the Rover and changed into them outside the door of the cottage, putting his shoes inside. Ellen joined him. She had tucked the ends of her tweed slacks into a pair of Wellingtons. Patrick could see traces of damp mud clinging to them. Of course she had dug the garden, but that must have been the day before; she would not have worn Wellingtons to mow the lawn. This mud had come from the field, but she made no reference to having been that way earlier in the day as they set out across the meadow towards the stream.
    The few heifers grazing in the field took no notice of them as they passed, busy cropping the last nourishment from the grass before the winter. When they reached the stream they followed its course towards the bridge, which Patrick could now make out quite clearly. It was a rustic affair, a few planks with a handrail, and willows guarded it on either side.
    ‘It’s dry enough now, but the stream gets quite deep in winter, and these meadows sometimes flood,’ Ellen told him. ‘You find kingcups in the spring.’
    They paused for a few moments on the bridge and watched some leaves and twigs slowly drifting down. Two hundred yards away, the dark yew hedge hid Abbot’s Lodge from prying eyes.
    ‘How are the Bruces settling in?’ Patrick asked, as they resumed their walk on the further side of the stream.
    ‘Well enough, I think,’ Ellen said lightly. ‘They’ve scarcely begun on the alterations. A bit of painting’s been done. But Carol means to have a completely new kitchen.’
    ‘What do you think Miss Forrest wanted to tell you that day, at the B.M.?’ Patrick asked.
    ‘I can’t imagine. Maybe she’d heard some fable about the house – more definite than what we’d already said, like the ghost of a monk or something. She may have heard people in the village chatting. It was probably nothing, really. Anyway, we’ll never know now.’
    ‘No, I suppose we won’t,’ Patrick