made in your name to delay the war, then?’
‘I’m afraid not. We are just happy to be able to go about our normal lives.’
Verity pursed her lips and would have said something had Adrian not pointed to an elderly man walking towards them in the company of a young woman. ‘Look, there’s Professor Schwabe. He’s talking to Vera Gray. I’d like you to meet her. Her uncle was a very good painter, you know – much better than me. When I was a student here just after the war I got to know him quite well. He could have been a great painter but the war did for him. I thank God I missed it by a couple of years. He had one of those breakdowns, like so many who saw and suffered so much carnage.’
Before Verity could protest, Adrian had taken her arm and introduced her as ‘the famous war correspondent’, which made her squirm with embarrassment. Vera Gray was, she guessed, in her mid-twenties. She wasn’t pretty but she had a strong face and a pleasant smile. She wore not a scrap of make-up. Her hair, which was thick and brown, was untidy and spattered with paint, as were her overalls. She recognized the look in Vera’s eyes – the look of someone recently bereaved – vulnerable and naked.
‘I’m so sorry about your uncle, Miss Gray,’ Adrian said. ‘I was proud to know him. We were students together here at the Slade after the war though of course he was five or six years my senior. I feel badly that we rather lost touch. I don’t know when I last saw him. Two years ago, perhaps – yes, at least that,’ he continued, thinking aloud.
‘Thank you,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly. ‘I know who you are, of course, although for some reason I don’t think we have ever met, but my uncle talked of you. He wasn’t very sociable, particularly recently.’ She hurried on. ‘Are you able to come to the memorial meeting on Friday? It’s down near Romsey, where he died. Tarn Hill was a favourite place of his –– do you know it? It’s a well-known beauty spot. He painted it – and the view from it – time after time but never got tired of it. I’m glad that, if he had to die, he died there, not in some London hospital.’
‘I remember it from his pictures. I don’t think I have ever been there. He’s not being buried . . .?’ Adrian inquired.
‘No, no. He was an atheist, I’m afraid. There’s a cremation at Putney on Wednesday, after the inquest, and then we are going to scatter his ashes on Friday where he was happiest.’
‘I see. There has to be an inquest?’
‘Yes. It’s just a formality but the way he died . . .’
‘It was ergot poisoning, wasn’t it?’ Verity chipped in.
‘How did you know?’ Vera Gray looked rather put out.
‘The fact is my friend, Lord Edward Corinth, was there when his body was discovered . . . I’m so sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have . . .’
‘No, please don’t worry. Lord Edward’s a friend of yours, is he? I have heard of him, of course. I gather it was his nephew and a friend who actually stumbled on . . . It must have been a terrible shock for them.’
‘Do you know why your uncle was on the Broadlands estate?’
‘I told you, he liked to paint . . .’
‘He was two or three miles from Tarn Hill, wasn’t he?’
‘He liked to walk . . .’ she said uncertainly.
‘But in his state of health?’
‘That was the odd thing. He had been feeling so much better in the last year or two. He had – at least I thought he had – quite given up taking ergot. His depressions had become so infrequent . . . That was why I thought it safe to move out and get my own flat. I have one of those “cabins” in that new, modern block – you know the one I mean? It’s built like an ocean liner in Lawn Road in Hampstead. It’s only two or three stops on the Under-ground from Mornington Crescent. I used to look in on him almost every day.’
She sounded, Verity thought, as if she were defending herself against unspoken charges of neglect.
‘Painting
‘I’m afraid not. We are just happy to be able to go about our normal lives.’
Verity pursed her lips and would have said something had Adrian not pointed to an elderly man walking towards them in the company of a young woman. ‘Look, there’s Professor Schwabe. He’s talking to Vera Gray. I’d like you to meet her. Her uncle was a very good painter, you know – much better than me. When I was a student here just after the war I got to know him quite well. He could have been a great painter but the war did for him. I thank God I missed it by a couple of years. He had one of those breakdowns, like so many who saw and suffered so much carnage.’
Before Verity could protest, Adrian had taken her arm and introduced her as ‘the famous war correspondent’, which made her squirm with embarrassment. Vera Gray was, she guessed, in her mid-twenties. She wasn’t pretty but she had a strong face and a pleasant smile. She wore not a scrap of make-up. Her hair, which was thick and brown, was untidy and spattered with paint, as were her overalls. She recognized the look in Vera’s eyes – the look of someone recently bereaved – vulnerable and naked.
‘I’m so sorry about your uncle, Miss Gray,’ Adrian said. ‘I was proud to know him. We were students together here at the Slade after the war though of course he was five or six years my senior. I feel badly that we rather lost touch. I don’t know when I last saw him. Two years ago, perhaps – yes, at least that,’ he continued, thinking aloud.
‘Thank you,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly. ‘I know who you are, of course, although for some reason I don’t think we have ever met, but my uncle talked of you. He wasn’t very sociable, particularly recently.’ She hurried on. ‘Are you able to come to the memorial meeting on Friday? It’s down near Romsey, where he died. Tarn Hill was a favourite place of his –– do you know it? It’s a well-known beauty spot. He painted it – and the view from it – time after time but never got tired of it. I’m glad that, if he had to die, he died there, not in some London hospital.’
‘I remember it from his pictures. I don’t think I have ever been there. He’s not being buried . . .?’ Adrian inquired.
‘No, no. He was an atheist, I’m afraid. There’s a cremation at Putney on Wednesday, after the inquest, and then we are going to scatter his ashes on Friday where he was happiest.’
‘I see. There has to be an inquest?’
‘Yes. It’s just a formality but the way he died . . .’
‘It was ergot poisoning, wasn’t it?’ Verity chipped in.
‘How did you know?’ Vera Gray looked rather put out.
‘The fact is my friend, Lord Edward Corinth, was there when his body was discovered . . . I’m so sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have . . .’
‘No, please don’t worry. Lord Edward’s a friend of yours, is he? I have heard of him, of course. I gather it was his nephew and a friend who actually stumbled on . . . It must have been a terrible shock for them.’
‘Do you know why your uncle was on the Broadlands estate?’
‘I told you, he liked to paint . . .’
‘He was two or three miles from Tarn Hill, wasn’t he?’
‘He liked to walk . . .’ she said uncertainly.
‘But in his state of health?’
‘That was the odd thing. He had been feeling so much better in the last year or two. He had – at least I thought he had – quite given up taking ergot. His depressions had become so infrequent . . . That was why I thought it safe to move out and get my own flat. I have one of those “cabins” in that new, modern block – you know the one I mean? It’s built like an ocean liner in Lawn Road in Hampstead. It’s only two or three stops on the Under-ground from Mornington Crescent. I used to look in on him almost every day.’
She sounded, Verity thought, as if she were defending herself against unspoken charges of neglect.
‘Painting
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