Free A Grave Man by David Roberts Page B

such a blatant attempt to rile her that Verity’s anger was dissipated. She did the best thing possible and broke into laughter which was echoed – with relief – round the table. Sir Simon might be disappointed at being done out of a row but he clearly admired the way she had overcome her difficulty. ‘I can’t take you seriously, Mr Harvey. Who are you trying to impress?’
    ‘That puts you in your place, Graham,’ Sir Simon said with a laugh. ‘I agree with Miss Browne. You are a poseur. I don’t recall what you have done to further the revolution. Unless . . . he’s writing a book Miss Browne – an attack on the Government, I believe. They must be shaking in their boots – assuming he ever finishes it. Are you near to finishing it, Graham?’
    Verity was interested to see that her antagonist seemed unabashed by Sir Simon’s teasing which verged on the cruel. He replied with some dignity, ‘As a matter of fact, I wrote the final words of the final chapter before coming here tonight. It was why I had no time to change, for which I apologize.’
    ‘Graham! How exciting,’ shrilled Virginia. ‘When may we read it?’
    ‘Not yet . . . not for a while,’ he said coldly. ‘I read your book on the civil war, Miss Browne. I thought it . . .’ he paused and Verity wondered what insult would follow, ‘very interesting. I have not myself been to Spain but I have talked to many who have and they bear out what you say . . . for the most part.’ He sank back into silence and – a minute or two later – Verity caught him with his eyes closed and wondered if he were asleep.
    After they had finished eating, Virginia caught her husband’s eye and rose from her chair. She led the ladies out to ‘powder their noses’, as she put it coyly, leaving the men to ‘put the world to rights over their port’. It was a convention Verity always found absurdly old-fashioned and, normally, rather insulting – as if she might be expected to have nothing to contribute to the post-prandial conversation. She knew, from what Edward had told her, that the conversation was usually unenlightening, very often degenerating into a list of prejudices and bigotries spiced with ugly sexual ‘jokes’ which according to Freud – so Edward had informed her – reflected the English upper-class male’s fear and, possibly, hatred of the female sex.
    On this occasion, however, Verity was grateful to leave the dining-room to the men and even flashed Sir Simon a smile as he drew back her chair to facilitate her escape. When they reached the drawing-room, Verity took a cup of coffee and made a beeline for Maud who had flung herself, inelegantly, into an armchair well away from Virginia, Mrs Cardew and Isolde who remained by the coffee tray. She picked up a magazine but Verity could see that, as soon as she decently could, she would slip away to her bedroom. Before she did, Verity was determined to ask the questions she had wanted to put to her ever since she had entered the house. She sat herself down in a chair opposite Maud and stirred coloured coffee sugar into her cup as noisily as she could. Maud pretended not to notice her presence and pressed The Field to her face – she was obviously very short-sighted – hoping her persecutor might take the hint and leave her in peace. Unfortunately for Maud, Verity never took hints of this kind.
    ‘I was so sorry about your father, Miss Pitt-Messanger. Have the police any clue as to who might have done such an awful thing?’
    Maud shied like a startled horse. Verity had chosen the direct approach over anything subtle, which Maud might have chosen to ignore or misunderstand.
    ‘Oh, Miss Browne, I didn’t see you. My father . . . ? I really don’t know. I don’t think so but they tell me nothing.’
    ‘They have talked to everyone sitting nearby in the Abbey, I suppose? Surely someone must have seen something?’
    ‘Apparently not. There were lots of people milling around, you