Bleeding Heart Square Part 11

"I know what's in your mind. The Fishers are n.o.bodies despite the t.i.tle. One used to see old Fisher about occasionally but no one ever met the mother. But Rex himself is all right. Did you know he was at school with Wilfred Langstone? Apparently they were quite friendly. Anyway, Fin thinks he and Pammy would do very well together, and so do I. I mean, he's fearfully rich, you know. One can't argue with that."

Lydia stared at the back of the driver's head on the other side of the part.i.tion. The taxi chugged round another pigeon-streaked square of grimy London brick. She took a deep breath.

"The thing is, I don't want to go back to Marcus. I made a mistake in marrying him."

"Nonsense, dear. Many people feel that, especially if they've had a bad quarrel. It's enough to give anyone the hump. But you have to put all that behind you. You know, if Marcus goes in for politics, he's going to need a hostess. If he gets into the House eventually, and there's no reason why he shouldn't, he'll need you even more."

"Marcus in Parliament? I can't quite imagine it."

"Fin says that now it's only a matter of time before the Fascists acquire some seats. And if Marcus were to stand for Lydmouth, say, Fin could give him quite a lot of help."

Lydia looked at her wrist.w.a.tch. "I'd better go back to the office. You could drop me off at Holborn Circus."

"You'll think about all this? You promise?"

"I promise."

"Marcus is being very patient. But he's a man, you know, and men have needs."

"So do women."

"Very true, dear. Though in my experience it's rather different for us. Which is rather my point. To be perfectly frank I doubt many women are able to satisfy their needs in Bleeding Heart Square."

9.

YOU READ this entry over and over again. Was this just a way of making money? Or did Serridge actually enjoy it as well? Did he always enjoy it?

Wednesday, 19 February 1930 A red-letter day! I am so excited I can hardly hold my pen. We went to Hampstead Heath this afternoon for a stroll up Parliament Hill and afterward a cup of tea at the cafe at the bottom of Pond Street. Heaven knows, I was expecting nothing but a pleasant afternoon. But I have never been so surprised in my life-not just once, but twice!! We walked up the hill, chatting of this and that. It was overcast with quite a chilly wind. I thought Major Serridge seemed rather distrait. At the top of the hill we paused to look down over the great smoky city below. Suddenly, as if by magic, the sun came out. He pointed out the Monument, the dome of St. Paul's, the river and even what he said were the North Downs far beyond, though I cannot be absolutely sure I saw them myself. Then he said, rather abruptly and apropos of nothing in particular, that he thought I was the sort of person who had a particular affinity with animals. I said I'd thought just the same about him. He went on in a very gruff voice that he hoped I wouldn't mind but he had a little present for me. He looked away from me, toward a man standing farther down the hill so only his shoulders and his head were visible. The Major waved to him and the man gave a sort of salute and began to walk toward us. As he came nearer I saw that he was holding a lead, and at the end of the lead was the sweetest little dog in the world. As soon as he saw me, the dog began to tug at the lead and bark. A moment later, it was sniffing my boots. Major Serridge took the lead from the man, who walked away from us at once. The dog was wagging its tail like anything. Its eyes sparkled with intelligence and mischief. Major Serridge asked me if I liked it. I said, of course I did. Who wouldn't? I asked what its name was. He said that was up to me. I said I didn't understand. And he said it was MY dog! I said he mustn't make fun of me, that he knew they don't allow animals at the Rushmere Hotel, even a little darling like this one. He told me not to worry about that. He said he'd make sure the dog was looked after "until you've got a place of your own." He pressed the lead into my hands. I could not help bending down and stroking the dear little dog, who turned out to be a little boy. He wanted to lick me, the darling. Suddenly the Major said, rather gruffly, that he had "a plan that would remove every obstacle." I stood up and said I couldn't understand what he meant. The doggy wound his lead round my legs. To my astonishment, Major Serridge went down on one knee, there and then on the summit of Parliament Hill! I remember almost exactly what he said next, his words are burned indelibly on my memory. "My dear-I may call you Philippa, may I not?-I know there are many obstacles between us. You are so far above me in every way. Even if you will consent to it, I know we cannot at present be married in the eyes of man. But would you at least consider whether we might be married in the eyes of G.o.d?"

Of course you can't know how reliable Philippa Penhow's account is. Her rosy spectacles were so thick that she was the next best thing to blind. Perhaps she saw and heard what she wanted to see and hear, just like everyone else does.

The Lamb was less crowded than it had been the previous evening, perhaps because it was later. Apart from a knot of noisy undergraduates from University College in the corner, there was little conversation. Most people nursed their drinks and read the evening paper.

Sergeant Narton was late so Rory took his beer over to the table they had used before. He stared morosely into the heart of the fire. On the way from Bleeding Heart Square, he had telephoned Fenella from a call box to ask whether he might drop in later in the evening. She had pleaded tiredness and said she was going to bed early.

"You can come tomorrow evening if you like," she had said, and it had seemed to him that she didn't much care one way or the other.

He glanced up as the door to the street opened. Narton came in, his eyes sweeping the room. He went to the bar, where he ordered half a pint of mild-and-bitter. He brought it across to Rory's table.

"You look as if you've lost a pound and found a farthing," he observed.

Rory shrugged, not caring how Narton thought he looked.

"Well?" Narton stared at Rory over the rim of his gla.s.s. "Did you get anywhere?"

"With the Vicar? Yes and no."

"What do you mean? Did he let you see the letter?"

"Oh yes. I compared it with the sample I found in the chest of drawers. I'm no expert but it looks as if the same person could have written both."

"Any address on it?"

"Grand Central Station."

"Fat lot of use," Narton said. "What about the envelope and the stamp?"

"They looked perfectly genuine to me."

"These things can be forged."

"I'm sure they can," Rory said wearily. "But it's not just me, is it? As the Vicar was at pains to tell me, the police found an expert to examine it and he couldn't find anything amiss either."

"The point is the so-called expert didn't necessarily want to," Narton said.

"I'm not sure I follow you."

The policeman scratched his wrist. "I don't think our investigation into the disappearance of Miss Penhow was as thorough as it might have been. This is between ourselves, you understand. I'm not saying there was anything going on that shouldn't have been, mind. All I'm saying is that some officers thought that looking for Miss Penhow was a waste of time and money. No body, you see. Nothing suspicious at all, not really, apart from the fact that she suddenly wasn't there. But that's not a crime. It's true that she sold a lot of shares in the month or so before she went. Some of it must have gone to buy the farm for Serridge. But not all of it. And realizing capital makes sense if you're planning to start a new life."

"Then why are you so convinced that something has happened to her?"

Narton planted his elbows on the table and leaned toward Rory. "Partly because there's evidence that suggests she had no intention of going away from Morthams Farm. It came to light after the investigation was finished. That's the reason we reopened the case."

"What evidence?"

"I can't tell you that. It's confidential."

Rory sat back in his chair. "Just as you didn't tell me you live in Rawling? Was that confidential too?"

"Don't take it the wrong way, Mr. Wentwood. It just wasn't relevant. No point in muddying the waters, eh? Did anything else come up?"

"There was one thing."

"Yes?" A spasm like pain pa.s.sed over Narton's face. "What?"

"Something the Vicar said as I was leaving. He mentioned that Serridge and Miss Penhow had bought Morthams Farm from Captain Ingleby-Lewis. It must be the chap at Bleeding Heart Square."

"It is."

"You knew that too? Why didn't you say?"

Narton stared coldly at him. "Police officers try not to tell members of the public everything they know in the professional way, Mr. Wentwood. It wouldn't be very sensible, would it? It's perfectly true, though. The Rawling Hall estate used to belong to a family called Alforde. When the old man died a few years back, they had to sell up. The widow had a heart attack while they were sorting out the sale. They reckon the shock killed her. Most of what was left of the money went to Mr. Alforde's heir, his brother's son. But there was one farm, Morthams, that was outside the entail, because Mr. Alforde had bought it in the nineties to round off the estate. Mrs. Alforde had added a codicil to her will. She left Morthams to her own nephew."

"Ingleby-Lewis."

Narton nodded. "The place was heavily mortgaged, they say. He had a devil of a job trying to sell it. Then Serridge came along and suddenly the thing was done." Narton tapped the side of his nose. "I can guess whose money went to buy it. Ten to one Miss Penhow paid over the odds and Serridge and Ingleby-Lewis split the proceeds." He held up his hand like a traffic policeman. "Maybe. Who knows?"

"And now Ingleby-Lewis is living in Serridge's London house?"

"Which used to belong to Miss Penhow. Something fishy, eh? Serridge has got a tame lawyer, a man called s.h.i.+res, and he handled the purchase of the farm and probably a lot of other business for Miss Penhow and Serridge. You can bet most of it was on a cash basis." Narton rubbed his eyes as though trying to erase his tiredness. "But proving it? That's another thing. And that's the trouble with this case. Nothing to get your teeth into. You can't point at anything and say, there's the body, there's the robbery, there's the crime."

"Can't you question Ingleby-Lewis?"

"Of course I b.l.o.o.d.y can't," Narton said.

"Why not?"

"It would give the game away. Besides, he may be on his uppers but he's not the sort of man whose arm you can easily twist. He's got friends."

"Serridge?" Rory thought that behind Serridge was s.h.i.+res and the might and trickery of the law.

"Not just him. Do you know who Ingleby-Lewis's ex-wife is? That young lady's mother? She's Lady Ca.s.sington now. She's got a house in Mayfair and an estate somewhere in the West Country. Don't let anyone tell you we are all equal before the law, young man. Because we are not. And the gentry are the worst of all. Say the wrong thing to one of them, and you find the whole world comes down on you like a ton of bricks. They're all b.l.o.o.d.y related. They're all looking out for each other." He swallowed the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What this country needed was the guillotine. That's where we went wrong. Those Frenchies knew what was what."

Rory was conscious of a twinge of disappointment. Lydia Langstone wasn't just married-she was one of those upper-cla.s.s women whose lives his sisters read about in magazines. She would have been presented at Court and had her wedding pictures in the Tatler. But what the devil was she doing in Bleeding Heart Square? Not that it mattered tuppence to him, of course. He was merely curious.

Narton coughed, hackingly, continuously. He took a cigarette from a packet and tapped it on the table. "If Ingleby-Lewis would talk, he could tell us a thing or two, I'm sure of that. But he won't talk to me, of course. He knows who I am."

"You've met him?"

"In the course of the investigation. He knows I'm a police officer and that I was concerned in the Penhow case. But who knows? Maybe he said something to his daughter. Maybe, if you and her get talking, you could slip in a question here or there, see if she knows anything about Morthams Farm or Miss Penhow."

"I don't know. It seems a bit unsporting."

Narton lit the cigarette and tossed the dead match into the ashtray. "Murder isn't a sport, Mr. Wentwood. It's a matter of life or death. You do understand that, don't you?"

Rory said nothing.

"Anyway, can't stay here chatting." Narton pushed back his chair and stood up. "Thank you for what you're doing, Mr. Wentwood. It's not gone unnoticed by the powers that be."

"There's the small matter of my expenses," Rory said, his uneasiness finding another outlet. "The train fare today, mainly. I don't know whether you'd run to lunch as well."

"Keep a record, Mr. Wentwood, and give me a list with receipts. It will be easier if I put in a single claim for you at the end of all this. But your money is as safe as houses, you can be sure of that. One advantage of dealing with the police."

"I don't want to carry on with this."

Narton wrapped his m.u.f.fler carefully round his neck. "Let's have a chat in a day or two. I need to see one or two people, think about one or two things. Believe me, Mr. Wentwood, if I can find an alternative I will." He lowered his voice. "Now you can oblige me by keeping your eyes open. And don't do anything foolish. Serridge is dangerous. I don't want another death on my conscience."

"What do you mean? Who's died already?"

Narton looked blankly at him. Then his lips turned down at the corners. "Why, Miss Penhow, of course. You surely don't believe the poor lady can still be alive?"

He turned up the collar of his overcoat and pulled his hat down low so all that was visible of his face were his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and slipped out of the pub.

Rory stared at the broken cigarette in the ashtray, along with the other b.u.t.ts. He had watched how Narton smoked. The man either smoked his cigarettes until the ends grew so hot he could no longer hold them or kept what was left unsmoked for later.

So something had rattled him. There had been a false note in what he had been saying. Where, exactly? What if Narton hadn't meant Miss Penhow's death but someone else's? Who else had died?

Herbert Narton knew he had taken a terrible risk in encouraging young Wentwood to go to Rawling. True, the scheme had worked after a fas.h.i.+on, but there was no saying that it would not eventually backfire. Nor had the results been what he had hoped for. Still, Wentwood was living at Bleeding Heart Square and there was always the chance of progress in that direction.

At Liverpool Street he caught the train. He tried to doze during the journey. He knew he should eat but he found the consumption of food more and more of an effort. He seemed to be living on air. Perhaps because of that he felt literally less heavy and less substantial than usual, as though he were fading away. All that was left of substance was the hard, irreducible core of his anger. Anger? Not quite the right word. Sorrow was almost as good. Fear was somewhere in the mixture, and even a form of love. But none of the words fit, and none of them ever would.

n.o.body noticed him leaving the train at Mavering. It was a small station and the evening rush was long since over. Only one man was on duty and he was dealing with Hinks from the sorting office at the mail van. He walked down to the church and took the field path to Rawling. It was a clear night, and the moon was up, though slipping in and out of clouds. He had a torch in his pocket but did not use it. He had walked this way so often he could have followed the path blindfolded. When he came to the fork, he took the left-hand path. This was narrower than the one on the right that led to Rawling Hall before it reached the village. He walked more slowly, more cautiously. The going was muddier underfoot. The world seemed darker too, as though this tiny part of Ess.e.x had less light in it than the rest.

He came at last to where there was a gap in the hedgerow and he could look up the slope of the meadow to the house itself, with the huddle of farm buildings on the right. There was the soft glow of lamplight in two of the first-floor windows. Morthams Farm. He imagined he was an owl flying over Morthams toward Rawling, and his eyes scoured the fields between the farm and the village until they found the tiled roof of the little barn.

Scratch the itch.

Narton wondered why he had bothered to come. He sc.r.a.ped his nails into the soft skin of the underside of his wrist until he broke through to the flesh beneath-until, yet again, he made himself bleed. He scratched harder still and moaned with the pain. As he scratched, he allowed his eyes to sweep from side to side across the meadow. The gra.s.s was the darkest of grays.

Better now. He licked the blood, warm and salty. The moisture cooled on his skin.

It was all still there, he thought, beneath the field dappled with moonlight and shadows. Everything that had happened, layer upon layer, because nothing ever really went away. Bleeding Heart Square was full of layers too, layers of blood, and so was the barn. Especially the barn.

The meadow was full of s.h.i.+fting shapes. One of the shapes resolved itself into a girl wobbling on a bicycle as she followed the slope of the field toward the farmhouse. He heard her laughter, high and excited, and knew that her attention was not on him or the field or even the bicycle but on another shadow beside her.

"I'm a b.l.o.o.d.y fool to stand here," Narton said aloud. All those layers of blood, you can never wash them away.

His ears were unnaturally sharp. He heard the c.h.i.n.k of harness from the farm buildings. A dog began to bark, though whether in the house or the yard he couldn't tell. The barn would be empty, though.

Empty of the living. Crowded with the dead.

At that moment an idea drifted into his mind, settled in the silt at the bottom, sprouted, put out roots and flowered. All that in an instant. Sometimes, he thought, all a man has is his folly. No wonder he clings to it.

Lydia cooked Welsh rarebit for supper, following the detailed instructions Mrs. Renton had provided. She had bought a bottle of pale ale to add to the cheese topping as it melted in the saucepan but Captain Ingleby-Lewis chanced to find it before she could use it. She cleared two thirds of the great scarred dining table and served the meal on matching plates, one slightly chipped.

It was the first time that she and her father had eaten in such a relatively formal way and in the soft light this end of the room looked almost like a normal room in a normal house. Her father complimented her on the rarebit. Though he had been drinking beer steadily since lunchtime, he appeared to have reached an equilibrium that left him, at least for the time being, amiable and reasonably alert.

"Well, this is cozy, eh?" he said, lining up fork and knife exactly at half past six on his plate. "You're full of unexpected talents, my dear."

"Thank you."

"How did you get on at that lawyer fellow's?"

"It's rather boring work."

"I can't imagine how those chaps manage it. Sitting in an office all day and shuffling bits of paper around. It'd drive me mad." He stroked his moustache approvingly. "Fact is, G.o.d didn't create me to be a desk wallah."

"Father, there's something I wanted to ask you." Father still sounded strange in her ears. "About those hearts."

"Eh? What?"

"The ones Mr. Serridge was sent in the post. There have been two since I've been here. Have there been others?"