Grave Matters by Margaret Yorke

he studied an ordnance map of the area. This showed that there was a footpath from the lane where he was now, across the fields to the bridge over the stream where he and Ellen had found the body of Rufus. Could he, he wondered, find his way along this route in the dark and the wet? He could not risk meeting any of his new acquaintances by going through the village past Mulberry Cottage down to Abbot’s Lodge, especially as Valerie was here for the night. Well, at least he could try this cross-country venture. Thank heaven for a country-dwelling sister, he thought, getting his gumboots out of the car and putting them on. He tucked his trouser ends well in and set off, torch in hand.
    The rain had stopped, and a fitful moon appeared now and then through the clouds. Patrick found the stile that marked the start of his journey, climbed it, and embarked across a very soggy field, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Rustlings and grunts in the field indicated the presence of beasts; he made out the dark humps of them in the brief moments when the moon shone: steers, he supposed. He did not want to shine his torch; there was no explanation he could possibly give for his presence here, if challenged. On he blundered, guided by the intermittent shafts of moonlight that filtered past the mass of nimbus in the sky, and at length he met the stream. He had only to follow it now to reach the bridge, and this was easy enough, though there were several wire fences to cross. But his legs were long and he stepped over them easily. He came to the bridge, crossed it, then went on to the hedge that bounded the grounds of Abbot’s Lodge. This was the way he had walked with Ellen. Tonight he did not open the gate that led into the garden; he could see a light burning in an upstairs window: Carol’s bedroom, where she lay in her four-poster recovering from her malaise. He skirted round the hedge and slipped in through the main gate. Here he risked a brief flash from the torch and soon saw the dustbin by the back door. It was one of a kind issued by many councils now, a solid wire frame with a hinged lid, with a plastic bag attached ready for neat removal by the refuse disposal men. Because the lid was made of rubber he was able to raise it silently and examine the contents; he had to shine his torch, but he quickly found a newspaper parcel containing a large slice of blackberry and apple pie. With his penknife he shaved off a thin sliver, put it in an old envelope he had in his pocket, wrapped up the parcel again and restored it to the squalid interior of the dustbin. Then he set off on the return journey back to his car by the way he had come.
    This time he glanced at Mulberry Cottage as he walked along beside the stream. There he had consoled Ellen about the dog’s death only five days before while they listened to Verdi on her transistor radio. Now all was dark. Valerie must keep early hours.
    He had acquired several pounds of mud on either boot by the time he reached his car again, but his eyes had grown used to the darkness and the return journey was easier than the outward one. It was lucky there were cattle in the fields, whose hoofmarks would obliterate his tracks. He hoped he had left no traces of mud around the yard at Abbot’s Lodge.
    As he drove back to Oxford he reflected on the lucky chance that decreed Meldsmead’s dustbins should not be emptied on Thursdays. He managed to banish from his mind the conviction that David Bruce was with Ellen in her flat until he had wrapped up and labelled the slice of blackberry and apple pie neatly, ready to give it to a friend of his the next day to be analysed.

 
PART FIVE
I
     
    ‘I can’t get this business of the dog out of my mind,’ said Patrick. It was the following Sunday evening, and he had spent the day with Jane and Michael. Young Andrew was in bed, and they had just had soup, cold pork, baked potatoes and salad, and cherry flan, sitting by a log fire in the