Sweet Sorrow by David Roberts Page A

who was awarded one of the first Victoria Crosses in the war, was one of my chaps. He remained with his machine-gun despite very heavy bombardment and was bayoneted at his post. A very gallant soldier. We had nine Indian Victoria Crosses awarded on the Western Front and, in the war as a whole, over forty thousand Indians lost their lives in the service of this country. People forget the part played in our victory by troops from every corner of the Empire and of every kind of creed and colour. I was a proud man, I can tell you, when I led my boys “over the top”. And now we’ve got it all to do again.’ Heron shook his head in despair.
    ‘Brave men, indeed. They make me feel very humble,’ Edward responded.
    ‘You never married, Colonel Heron?’ Verity inquired.
    ‘No, Lady Edward. Never had the time. Never met the right woman, I suppose. So I retired here – bought this house and I suppose I’ll die here.’
    ‘But why here?’
    ‘I met Mr Woolf in Ceylon many years ago when we were both young men. Then I bumped into him again when I was back in England – at the Travellers’ Club. He was kind enough to suggest coming down here. I had no links with anywhere in particular so I thought, why not?’
    ‘Mr Woolf seems to be responsible for a lot of people coming to live round here,’ Verity remarked. ‘We are in Rodmell because our friends, the Hassels, suggested it and they came because Charlotte Hassel is a friend of Mrs Woolf’s. Do you know the Hassels, Colonel?’
    ‘Met them, of course. The husband is that painter fellow, isn’t he?’
    ‘Yes, Adrian’s a painter – a rather good one I believe, but I’m no judge myself.’
    Heron looked unconvinced. ‘Those orange and yellow things and the stick men . . .? Modern art – can’t make head or tail of it. To my mind, Munnings is our only great painter. To look at one of his horse paintings, you just know you are looking at the work of a master. In fact, I managed to buy one myself. Come into the dining-room and I’ll show it to you.’
    After they had admired the Munnings, which Edward thought very dull, they were able to make their excuses and depart, promising – when they had their house in order – to ask Heron over to dinner.
    ‘God bless my soul,’ he said suddenly. ‘What with the vicar making his speech, I forgot to pick up my sword. I think I’ll just walk back to the green and see if I can find it. I wouldn’t like to lose it. Bit of an heirloom, if you understand me.’
    ‘Of course, but I’m sure someone will have put it somewhere safe. “Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them”.’ Edward could not prevent himself quoting Othello. Verity rebuked him with a look but Heron did not seem to have heard.
    ‘He must have made a bit of money to have been able to buy that house,’ Edward observed as they walked home.
    ‘But wasn’t it cold, and I thought it smelt horrid.’
    ‘Yes, I noticed that too – as though his char had spilt the cleaning liquid.’
    Verity shivered. ‘If it’s cold in midsummer, I shudder to think what it must be like in winter.’
    They were just sitting down to eat Mrs Brendel’s Austrian ragout when there was a loud knocking on the door. Mrs Brendel went to open it and they heard a panicky-sounding Colonel Heron ask for Edward. As they rose from the table, Heron broke into the dining-room and, without apology and almost incoherent, urged them to come with him to look at something he had found.
    ‘For goodness sake, calm down and tell us what’s the matter,’ Edward ordered.
    With a visible effort, Heron moderated his voice from an unintelligible gabble to something they could understand.
    ‘On the green . . . It’s Byron Gates – he’s dead.’
    ‘Dead!’ Verity exclaimed. ‘Has he had a heart attack? Have you telephoned the doctor?’
    ‘He doesn’t need a doctor, I tell you. He’s dead! PC Watt has just telephoned Lewes police station.’
    ‘The police?’ Edward’s