A Grave Man (12 page)

‘I don’t know – I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything.’

‘I came to return your diary.’

‘My diary?’

‘Yes, I found it in the bathroom when you . . . after you were found by Dr Morris and Mr Montillo. I don’t know why but I thought you might not want anyone else to see it, so I decided to hang on to it until you were better.’

‘Why should I mind if anyone read it? There’s nothing in it.’

‘No, of course not. Except . . . I swear I only glanced at it but . . . but it is empty except for some initials – E.P.M. Is that your father?’

‘His initials, yes.’

‘His Christian name was . . .?’

‘Edgar . . .’ she muttered. ‘Not that anyone ever called him that. His people – the few that were close to him . . . who worked with him – they called him the Prof or just E.P.M.’ A little colour came into Maud’s cheeks. ‘What did you think? That I had a lover?’

‘No, I mean, why not? Why shouldn’t you have a lover? Wasn’t Temperley your lover?’ Maud blushed scarlet. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. Let’s talk about something else . . . or would you rather I go? I can see why you don’t like me – I’m about as tactful as a rogue elephant.’

‘You heard that story, did you?’ Maud said truculently but Verity had an impression she was quite proud of having a reputation as a breaker of hearts.

‘Is it true?’

‘It’s true. In the desert these things can happen. Not much competition there, you see – not many women.’

‘You are always putting yourself down. Were you . . .?’

‘Lovers? Yes, we were if you must know.’

‘You kept it secret from your father but he found out?’

‘Guess how he found out?’

‘Someone saw you together?’

‘No, I got pregnant.’

‘Gosh!’ Verity’s eyes widened. ‘So what happened?’

‘My father sent me back to England and I had an abortion,’ she said bleakly.

‘You couldn’t have married Temperley and kept the child . . .?’

‘No. My father wouldn’t hear of it. He got in a rage and said I was a whore and . . . much worse. He was very frightening when he was angry. It’s different for you. You do what you want. That’s one of the things I envy about you.’

‘And I suppose there was no way you could have had the baby . . .?’

‘It would have ruined my reputation and my poor bastard – how would he ever have held his head up? He – or worse, she – would never have forgiven me.’

‘What about Temperley?’

‘He didn’t know until it was all over. It affected his health.’

‘He died of cholera?’

‘That’s as good a word to put on a death certificate as anything else.’

Verity was silent. She knew anything she tried to say in the way of condolence would not be welcome.

Maud went on. ‘The ancient Egyptians believed that, if you spoke the name of a dead loved one, you would make them live again. I wish it were true. I wish . . . I wish I had something . . . someone to remember him by. Can you guess who carried out the abortion?’

‘Not . . . not Montillo? But that was what – twenty years ago?’

‘He was a young doctor on the make in those days. He has never been averse to doing the odd abortion,’ she said wryly. ‘He had – has – a lot of smart clients who don’t fancy risking some back-street abortionist.’

‘He operated in England?’

‘In the South of France. It’s easier to pay off the police there and rich women can say they are going for a rest cure on the Riviera rather than having some embarrassing “illness” in London.’

‘And you have never been in love again? You’re clever and . . .’

‘What man looks for brains in a woman?’ Maud said with a snort of laughter. ‘Anyway, as it happens . . . why do you think I am here? Do you think I wanted to meet Montillo again?’

‘I thought Virginia . . .’

‘She is very kind but I still wouldn’t have come except for him.’

‘Him?’ Verity suddenly had a flash of inspiration. ‘You mean Graham Harvey?’

Maud nodded. ‘Does that surprise you?’

‘No, I think . . .’

‘He doesn’t like you,’ she said smugly.

Verity thought of their dawn talk in his cottage. Was Maud the reason he had said he could not leave – “not yet”? ‘I think that behind that sarcastic manner of his lies a kind heart and a keen brain. Or am I being sentimental?’

‘No, you’re not,’ Maud said, ‘but I am surprised you can see it.’

‘You love each other?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why did you try to kill yourself? Why don’t you get married and live happily ever after? Your father can’t stop you now.’

‘No, and he would have hated Graham,’ she said with obvious pleasure.

‘So . . .?’

‘Graham won’t marry me. He says he’s too poor to marry and, in any case, he thinks marriage is bourgeois.’

‘But you have plenty of money now.’

‘Can’t you see? That makes it worse. He could never bear to live off a woman.’

‘So it’s important his book is a success?’

‘Yes.’ Maud’s eyes brightened. ‘Even if he doesn’t make a lot of money out of it, publishing it will make him feel . . .’

‘Worthy of you?’

‘Don’t laugh, but yes. He keeps saying he’s a failure but I tell him he can’t be if I love him. He likes that.’

‘Why are you telling me all this? I thought you didn’t like me.’

‘I don’t dislike you. I’m just jealous you live the life you want to lead. I wanted to ask you . . .’ She hesitated.

‘What?’ Verity was curious. What could she do for this unhappy couple?

‘If you could help him finish it . . . the book, I mean, and get it published . . .’

She was pleading and Verity had no idea how to respond. If she did what Maud asked, might not Graham – it sounded so arrogant even to think of it and she would never say it – but might he not fall in love with her? And that would destroy his and Maud’s happiness. ‘I’ll willingly help get it published – not that I think he’ll need help from me but he doesn’t need me to help him write it. He says he’s finished it.’ Maud could not be allowed to know that Graham had told her he hadn’t even started it.

‘I don’t think he has finished it,’ she said sadly. ‘I’m not sure he ever will.’

‘I can’t help Graham with his book,’ she said decisively. ‘We’re . . . we’re different . . . we look at things differently.’ In fact what she really meant was that they were too similar in their outlook on the world. ‘In any case, I have a job to do. I’m a journalist . . . And he would not want me to help him.’ She knew she was offering too many excuses.

‘Of course,’ Maud said meekly. ‘I expect you are right. I hope you didn’t mind me asking?’

‘No, of course not. As I say, once it’s finished I’ll help all I can.’

They were silent again, thinking about what had been said.

‘So you tried to kill yourself because Graham won’t marry you?’

‘I wasn’t really serious about killing myself.’ Maud smiled almost naughtily. ‘I knew Dominic would save me.’

‘You wanted Graham to feel . . .?’

‘No, I wasn’t blackmailing him . . . I don’t know – I just felt very low.’

Verity glanced at the bedside table. ‘Are you taking these to pick you up?’

‘Benzedrine? Yes, it’s quite a new thing. Montillo got them for me.’

‘Well, be very careful. I used them in Spain when I was very tired but had to be alert. I took too many and started getting hallucinations.’ She laughed. ‘My enemies would say most of my reporting is an hallucination but it isn’t. It’s so cosy, here in England, what I have seen in Spain must seem unreal – like a nightmare.’

Maud’s eyes widened. ‘I will be careful. They do make me feel funny sometimes.’

There was a pause and then Verity said, ‘Has he been to see you?’

‘Graham? No, he probably doesn’t know yet.’ She sounded like a naughty child – flirtatious and rather desperate.

Verity felt guilty. Why had it not occurred to her to tell Graham about Maud cutting her wrists? ‘I’ll make sure he knows,’ she said. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me if I am being impertinent, but did you love your father? Ginny says he wasn’t very kind to you.’

‘Ginny’s a good woman but she talks about things she knows nothing about.’

‘He wasn’t cruel to you . . . your father?’

‘He never thought so! It’s not fair to say he was ever unkind to me deliberately – except for that one time. It was just that he lived for his work. He was always searching for that one great find which would give him a place in archaeological history . . . he wanted to be another Schliemann.’

Verity tried to look as if she knew who Schliemann was.

‘Don’t say you don’t know who Schliemann is?’ Maud said, quite shocked.

‘I think I do . . .’

‘He discovered Troy. He dressed his wife in what he said were Helen’s jewels. He called his children, poor mites, Agamemnon and Andromache. At least my father didn’t call me Sheba!’ Maud seemed quite animated and Verity was pleased that she had made her smile.

‘I know what you mean,’ she said soberly. ‘I love my father but it’s difficult sometimes.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a lawyer . . . a barrister. He only represents what he sees as good causes. I admire that. He defends the indefensible . . . Fenians, murderers . . . anybody who no one else will help. He spends his money on supporting the
Daily Worker
, which I write for so I know it doesn’t make any money.’ She laughed to show she was not complaining. ‘I love him but I never see him.’

‘And your mother. . .?’

‘She died when I was born. I suppose I killed her but I am being melodramatic – forgive me. I like to think it gives me an excuse for not leading a normal life.’

Maud was interested now. ‘You mean being a journalist and not settling down with a husband and children?’

‘I do. It’s not approved of.’

‘Not even by . . . by your friend, Lord Edward?’

‘He says he doesn’t mind and I honestly think he believes it but, of course, he
does
mind.’

‘That’s why you won’t marry him?’

‘Yes. I think it would be unfair on him and on me. You see, I love to be free. I can’t bear to be chained . . . not even to someone I love.’

Maud looked thoughtful. ‘I understand. It was different for me. I could not escape. I did not want to escape . . . not for most of the time anyway. I loved my father. I wanted to help him in his work but in the end, I suppose I thought I had sacrificed myself for . . . for a heap of bones.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She died when I was seven, She was what they would call now a hysteric. I think she was just selfish. Oh sorry, I ought not to say such things about my mother but whenever she wanted something and was frustrated she would scream.’

‘Literally?’

‘Yes, literally. She had migraines. When she got one she would scream like an ill-behaved, dispossessed child. My father would have to massage her neck for hours. She used it as an excuse not to sleep with him.’

‘But you . . .’

‘Yes, I was born . . . I don’t know how because they never shared a room. She never forgave me for the pain I had caused her. It’s a terrible thing to say but I think I was glad when she died.’

‘And he had his triumphs . . . your father. I read about them in his obituary.’

‘He was lucky. There has to be luck in archaeology. You can dig for months . . . years even and find nothing, while someone with half your skill can dig a few thousand yards away and find gold. Actual gold. My father’s very first big find was when he was working with Leonard Wooley in Ur of the Chaldees. He found several tombs . . . a royal cemetery. Abraham’s city they called it. Among the first things he found was a gold dagger and sheath – maybe five thousand years old. The hilt was decorated with lapis lazuli and studded with gold. The blade was burnished gold in a sheath of solid gold, its front intricately carved in filigree. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Then he found a gold wig that a king would have worn. It was two thousand years older than Tutenkhamun.’

‘It must have been wonderful. When did your father become involved with Sir Simon?’

‘He financed the 1933/34 season. He hoped to prove some ridiculous theory he has on race.’

‘Did your father believe in it . . . this theory?’

‘He went along with it. He needed the money. He would have said anything to get it.’

‘So he wasn’t a friend of Sir Simon’s?’

‘My father had no friends,’ Maud said bitterly. ‘He had disciples and he had enemies . . . a bit like Jesus,’ she added, making a choking sound which might have been a laugh.

‘And Mr Temperley . . .?’

‘Sidney found this tomb at Nineveh . . . but I don’t want to talk about it. My father claimed . . . he said he found it. What did it matter? It was my father’s dig. No one was going to cheat him of the glory but . . . you can’t imagine how important it is to find something newsworthy. Most of the time archaeologists just turn up rubbish – I mean literally rubbish. From ancient rubbish dumps you can piece together how a whole civilization lived, worked and died, but it’s not dramatic. It’s not beautiful. It is only interesting because it is so old . . . because it survived.’

At that moment there was a knock at the door and, without waiting for an answer, Virginia came in with Dr Morris.

‘Oh good,’ she said, ‘I see you are feeling better, Maud? I hope Verity hasn’t been tiring you?’

‘No. I
am
feeling better. Miss Browne and I have been talking of fathers. It seems we have more in common than I had at first imagined.’

5

Saturday morning found Edward at rather a loose end. He woke early and, feeling a little queasy, made himself a cup of tea, dosed himself with Lacteol and then Eno’s for good measure and went back to bed with the paper. After returning from Chartwell, he had spent a long evening at Brooks drinking and smoking too much and playing backgammon increasingly badly. It was hardly surprising he had woken with a headache. There was nothing in the newspaper and he fell into an uneasy doze. Twenty minutes later he woke with a start and found he had a stiff neck. He tossed away
The Times
in disgust and jumped out of bed. The sun was shining and he did not feel in the least like staying in London for the weekend. He did his stretching exercises and wondered, as he always did when he was flat on his back with his legs in the air, if he was getting old. He tried to work out why he was so restless and came to the conclusion that it was the almost tangible
absence
of Verity that so disturbed him. He imagined her surrounded by tweed-suited hearties enjoying herself and playing fragile, which she did sometimes when she wanted to ingratiate herself with the male sex. It didn’t work with him, he told himself, pursing his lips. He knew her too well. She was as tough a nut as ever fell off a tree and cracked open a man’s skull. But then, he reminded himself, she could be deliciously vulnerable and he would want to protect her. Was that an act? No, she was complicated and that made her interesting.