Free A Grave Man by David Roberts Page A

interest. These were the first words he had spoken at dinner and she wondered exactly who he was. A licensed fool, perhaps, to insult his host without being reprimanded? Having delivered his opinion of Sir Simon’s scientific theories, he relapsed into sulky silence. Verity, to cover her embarrassment – although neither man seemed in the least embarrassed, merely belligerent – asked Sir Simon a question about the building of the house. She sighed with relief as her host, in good spirits again, described the trials and tribulations of creating Swifts Hill. He was clearly a dreamer – not woolly and unpractical but a driven, even ruthless dreamer. He espoused projects and ideas that appealed to the romantic in him. He said himself that he liked the word ‘impossible’ when applied to some idea he had because he could then prove that it was after all possible. Swifts Hill itself might be minimal in design but the building of it was the expression of an idea as fantastic as any medieval castle. To emphasize what he thought was important, he leant right over to Verity and put his hand on hers or on her arm, as though he had to touch her in order to communicate his enthusiasm more directly than through mere words.
    Sir Simon’s volubility covered the silence of two of his guests. Maud Pitt-Messanger was steeped in profound gloom and said not a word. She was grieving for her father, no doubt, but her depression seemed too severe to be solely derived from her loss. Graham Harvey, too, seemed gloomy but his eyes glittered and Verity felt he was preparing himself for another outburst and, sure enough, he was.
    When he had stopped talking about Swifts Hill, Sir Simon asked her about Spain. He knew the country well but had not been there since the outbreak of the civil war. She told him something about what she had seen but was careful not to get into politics. She guessed that her host might well support General Franco and the Rebels and had no wish to get into a slanging match on the subject. However, she found herself describing the destruction of Guernica and the death of her friend, the photographer, Gerda Meyer.
    Before her host could make any comment, Graham Harvey, seeming to drag the words unwillingly from somewhere deep inside him, said harshly, ‘You think of yourself as a Communist, do you not, Miss Browne?’
    ‘I do because I am,’ she answered crossly. ‘Would you like me to show you my Party membership card?’
    ‘And yet you sit at the tables of the rich, dressed in what I believe must be a very expensive frock . . .’
    Verity was unnerved by this brutal attack and expected Sir Simon to come to her rescue but he seemed unperturbed and merely smiled at her, perhaps hoping for a ‘scene’. She had the feeling he wanted to see her angry and, for this reason, she refused to be. She noticed that Maud was watching Harvey intently, though whether with approval or disapproval it was hard to say.
    ‘If my eyes do not deceive me, Mr Harvey, you sit at the same table as I do and, if you think wearing dirty trousers and worn-out gym shoes makes you a member of the proletariat, think again.’ She was pleased with her response and thought she had never disliked anyone more than this streak of a man, thin to the point of emaciation, whose unpleasant body odour made her feel nauseous. By this time the whole table was silent, listening to what the young man had to say.
    ‘I have heard Castlewood talking about you,’ he said with studied insolence. ‘I gather that you are to marry a minor aristocrat. He showed me a photograph of you both in what I believe is called a society magazine. I don’t wish to be rude,’ he smiled for the first time but it was more of a smirk, ‘but just because you found yourself in Guernica and “scooped” – isn’t that the word? – your journalistic rivals, that doesn’t make you a Communist – not in my eyes. Not though you carried a card given you by Lenin himself.’
    It was