Bleeding Heart Square Part 14

A silence grew between them, awkward and unwanted.

"Thank you," Rory said.

Simultaneously Lydia said, "Shouldn't I try to find a doctor? Or you could go to the Outpatients at Barts. Surely someone should have a look at you?"

"I'm all right, thanks." He felt as though he were temporarily disconnected from the world around him. He wanted desperately to be alone. "I really must go."

There were footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Captain Ingleby-Lewis came in with a bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag. He set it carefully on the table with an air of triumph.

"There," he said. "That'll set you right. Lydia, my dear, would you bring us some gla.s.ses?"

"Not for me, thank you." Supporting himself on the table, Rory struggled to his feet. "I-I won't take up any more of your time. I'm sure I can get upstairs under my own steam."

Ingleby-Lewis protested, though not very hard, and Lydia said nothing at all. Rory thanked them both again and slowly walked out of the room, trying to hold himself very straight. The stairs stretched up from the first-floor landing, flight after flight, their summit as unattainable as Mount Everest's. But he wanted the silence of his own flat, the privacy, and the security of a locked door.

His mind was moving slowly and seemed to be full of fog. But he remembered there was something odd about Ingleby-Lewis, and as he struggled up the first flight, he remembered what it was. Ingleby-Lewis had sold Morthams Farm to Miss Penhow and Serridge. Yet here he was, living in Serridge's house, living as Serridge's tenant. Except it wasn't Serridge's house, or it used not to be. It used to belong to Miss Penhow.

After the second-floor landing, he abandoned dignity, dropped to his knees and crawled.

If only I didn't feel anything. Not a bad old stick, Ingleby-Lewis. And the girl, of course. Where did I put the b.l.o.o.d.y gin?

Finally, swearing continuously under his breath, he ascended the narrow stairs to the attic. As he searched for his key, he glanced over his shoulder, down the stairs. Serridge was standing on the second-floor landing watching him. He was in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, and his face was as unreadable as the face of the Red Indian outside the tobacconist's in Charleston Street. Rory tried to say something but at that moment pain shafted through him, making him double up and screw his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again, Serridge had gone. Perhaps the man had been a hallucination.

His sitting room was very cold. Rory locked the door behind him, lit the gas fire at the fourth attempt, and tracked down the gin to the bottom of the chest of drawers. He slumped into the armchair in front of the fire with the bottle at his elbow. He un-corked the gin and swallowed a mouthful of neat spirit. His mouth and throat burned. He coughed so hard he almost dropped the bottle. He swallowed some more. He was still wearing his raincoat and he stuffed his hands into the pockets to keep warm. The fingers of his left hand touched a small metallic object. He took it out and let it rest in the palm of his hand. A cufflink. He frowned at it.

The cufflink had an enamel design-a red circle on a blue background; and superimposed on the circle was a golden symbol he didn't recognize.

Cinderella's slipper? Find the other one, and perhaps I find who attacked me.

The words churned through his mind as the gin worked its way down to his stomach, tumbling from side to side, numbing some of the pain in his body. The words twisted and turned like dead leaves dancing in the heat haze above his father's bonfire in the garden of the house in Hereford. More gin, less pain. Mrs. Langstone had been jolly decent this evening. He must remember to thank her properly.

11.

PHILIPPA PENHOW decides she is married to Joseph Serridge in the eyes of G.o.d. Joseph Serridge decides to buy them a home in the country (with Philippa Penhow's money). Then, hey presto, he produces the perfect place like a rabbit out of a conjurer's hat. It would have made anyone suspicious, you'd think, anyone but a fool in love.

Friday, 28 February 1930 Joseph and I went down to the country today to visit the farm he thinks might suit us. It's near a village called Rawling on the Ess.e.x-Hertfords.h.i.+re border and surprisingly close to London (though we had to change twice between Liverpool Street and Mavering, the nearest station to the village). We took a taxi from Mavering to the farm. It's called Morthams. Joseph said that if we do decide to purchase the property we might consider buying a little motor car. It would be so much more convenient for running up to town and might even save money in the long run. This started me thinking! I should so like to give him a present he would really enjoy and I think a motor car might be just the ticket. The property consists of a farmhouse (most picturesque!), with a farmyard to one side and about 120 acres of good land. We drove up to the house by a muddy lane and parked between the farmyard (rather smelly!) and the house. It's a nice old place with some good-sized rooms and plenty of s.p.a.ce for all the furniture I have in store. It would need some work on it, Joseph says, but nothing that should be too expensive. I must confess it seemed rather cold and damp to me but Joseph explained that that was because no one had been living there over the winter, since the last tenant had moved away. On the side away from the farmyard is the sweetest little cottage garden, though sadly overgrown. As we walked in the garden, Joseph pressed my arm and murmured that it was such a romantic spot, and at last we could be alone together. I asked whether Morthams was perhaps rather lonely, a little far from the shops. But he pointed out that we should soon get used to that, and in any case we could make regular trips into Saffron Walden and even London for shopping. The owner's solicitors had sent a clerk to open up the house for us and answer any questions we might have. Joseph had quite a chat with the man, who said he thought the owner was in a hurry to sell and might accept an offer substantially below the asking price, which is 2,100. I was still in the garden when Joseph came to tell me this. The clouds had parted, and the sun was streaming down. Out of the wind, it was almost warm. I imagined the garden coming to life around us in a few weeks' time with crocuses, cowslips and daffodils. He asked me what I thought and I replied that perhaps we should go back to London and consider what best to do. Joseph said in that case we might lose the property because several other people were coming to see it today and tomorrow. He thinks it would be perfect for us and suggested we make an offer of 1,700. It will mean selling about a quarter of my investments, but as Joseph pointed out, the farm itself would be a far better investment than any stocks and shares and besides it would give us a home of our own, so we should save money on rent. Even if we were to sell it right away, we should make a profit. The clerk showed us over the rest of the place. Joseph made much of the neglected state of it, but murmured privately to me that in fact the land was in very good shape underneath. Then we made our offer! I dare say we shall have to wait a day or two before we hear the owner's reply. I'm on tenterhooks! On the train home, Joseph said that he thought it might be best to ask his own solicitor to handle the purchase. I wondered whether we should ask Mr. Orburn but Joseph said it would only add unnecessary cost and besides his man specializes in conveyancing and will do a better, faster job. I agreed. (I don't want to give Joseph the impression I distrust his judgment and of course men know more about this sort of thing than women!) I nearly forgot to mention: Joseph asked me to wear a gold band on my ring finger, just for the look of the thing, in case I needed to remove my gloves. He introduced me to the clerk as "Mrs. Serridge." It gave me quite a thrill!!

How cleverly Serridge arranged it all. Morthams Farm was conveniently near London yet unusually remote from everywhere. Philippa Penhow had lived almost all her life in cities. She had no idea what the country is like. The muddy paths, the absence of neighbors, the great brooding skies and the silence. The darkness at night. The fact that there may be no one to hear you.

The office boy was still confined to bed with what his mother now claimed was German measles. Mr. Reynolds remarked that it was most inconvenient. Mr. Smethwick said the young shaver was a little beast and Miss Tuffley, as befitted a member of the gentler s.e.x, said he was a poor lamb. One consequence of the boy's absence was that Lydia was obliged to work on Sat.u.r.day morning.

As she made herself ready, she heard her father snoring in his room. In the sitting room the empty brandy bottle lay on its side in the hearth. Pulling on her gloves, she went down to the hall.

Among the small pile of post on the table was a letter addressed to her in her sister's handwriting. There was also a parcel, slightly larger than a tennis ball, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, for J. SERRIDGE, ESQ.

Footsteps came slowly down the stairs. Letter in hand, she moved away from the table, reluctant to be caught spying. It was Rory Wentwood, walking slowly and a little stiffly.

"Good morning," he said. "I'm so glad it's you. I wanted to say thank you."

"It was nothing. How are you feeling?"

"Rather better than I thought I would." His dark eyebrows wrinkled into a frown and he winced, giving the lie to his words. "Most of the time, at any rate. I know I'd be feeling a lot worse if you hadn't turned up when you did."

"It was just luck. I still think you should see a doctor."

He shook his head. "I'm all right."

"Who do you think attacked you?"

He shrugged. "Friday-night toughs, I suppose. Had a few drinks and decided to go on the rampage. I imagine they were after my wallet."

"Well, I'm glad it's no worse." Lydia moved toward the front door.

"I say-Mrs. Langstone? I'd like to thank you properly for being so sporting about this. Would you let me buy you lunch?"

She turned back. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Wentwood, but-"

"You'd be doing me a favor. Otherwise I'll feel guilty for ruining your evening." His long face grew longer and even more melancholy than before. "You could think of it as an act of charity."

She found herself smiling at him. "Very well. When?"

"What about today?"

"All right."

"Thanks awfully."

He arranged to meet her outside the office. On her way to work, Lydia opened her sister's letter. It enclosed an invitation to a private view at a gallery in Cork Street on Tuesday evening. Pammy had scribbled a few lines in violet ink.

Do come if you can, darling-everyone will be there. Or if you don't feel like doing the polite to all & sundry, would you like to meet for lunch at Cafe des Voyageurs on Wednesday? They say the new chef is divine. Let me know. With best love, Pammy.

Lydia stuffed the envelope into her handbag and pushed open the street door of 48 Rosington Place. She missed her sister but she wouldn't go to the opening or to the Cafe des Voyageurs. She had finished with that sort of thing. A working woman, she marched up to the second floor.

The prospect of being taken out to lunch buoyed her up during the morning. In any case Sat.u.r.day was not like other days at s.h.i.+res and Trimble. It was only a half-day, and most of the time was spent on dealing with the post and tidying up loose ends from the previous week. Everyone was in a mood which if not exactly festive was at least cheerful, as though the temporary liberation of the weekend offered a glimpse of the happier world outside Rosington Place.

At half past twelve Lydia went downstairs with Miss Tuffley, who was going up west to have lunch with a friend and then on to the pictures. Mr. Wentwood was waiting for her outside the door. Miss Tuffley looked at him with interest and, Lydia suspected, would have been happy to be introduced if Lydia had given her the slightest encouragement. As it was, she said goodbye and clattered down the pavement toward the Tube station.

"Where would you like to go?" Rory asked. "I don't know anywhere around here except the Blue Dahlia."

"Let's go there then," Lydia said, thinking that at least it was cheap but wis.h.i.+ng in a dark and shameful corner of her mind that it was the Cafe des Voyageurs. "Better the devil you know."

The cafe was less crowded than it usually was at lunchtimes, since most of the clientele had gone home for the weekend. The fat lady behind the counter greeted them with a nod. They sat down at a corner table and studied the menu.

Rory glanced at the blackboard behind the counter. "I'll have the special. Liver and onions."

Lydia thought of the parcel on the hall table at Bleeding Heart Square. Liver was offal and so was heart. "I think I'll have the shepherd's pie."

They ordered their lunch and sat smoking while they waited.

"How are you feeling now?"

Rory touched the faintly discolored skin on his cheekbone, and winced. "Still in one piece." He went on in the same tone, "I've not been altogether honest with you, I'm afraid."

It took a moment for his words to seep in. Was he married or something? "What do you mean?"

His face was even gloomier than usual. "About my reason for moving into Bleeding Heart Square."

"I thought you were looking for a job and needed to be near the City."

"That's true as far as it goes." He flicked ash from his cigarette. "But there's another reason. You remember the girl I was with on Sunday? In Trafalgar Square? She has an aunt, a lady called Philippa Penhow."

Lydia crumbled her bread and watched Rory. He was smoking very fast.

"They haven't been in touch for more than four years," he said, speaking quickly as if trying to get the words out before he changed his mind. "In fact Miss Penhow doesn't seem to have been in touch with anyone. Fenella-Miss Kensley-is rather worried."

So that's who she is, Lydia thought-Fenella Kensley. She supposed that some people would think the name was rather pretty.

"The thing is, just before Miss Penhow disappeared, she met Mr. Serridge. In fact he was one of her tenants at Bleeding Heart Square. She told Fenella that they were going to get married. A whirlwind courts.h.i.+p, I gather. They moved out of London in the spring of 1930 and bought a place in Ess.e.x, near a village called Rawling. Morthams Farm."

Lydia ground out her cigarette. "What happened then?"

He shrugged. "She left. Mr. Serridge said she met an old friend and went off with him." He paused, sowing doubt with a silence. "Anyway, a few weeks later she simply wasn't there."

"Surely people asked questions?"

"There weren't that many people who noticed she had gone. She and Serridge had only just moved to Rawling. Before that, Miss Penhow lived in a private hotel in South Ken. She hadn't any friends there, not real ones. And before that, she'd lived with an old aunt in Manchester or somewhere, but the old lady died. The only other relations she had were Fenella and her parents, but they weren't close."

Lydia wondered: then why the interest now?

"Anyway, the Kensleys had a lot on their minds," Rory continued. "Fenella's father was very ill for a year or two before he died. Afterward her mother had to take in a lodger to make ends meet, and then she herself died last summer."

"So there's been no sign of Miss Penhow since 1930, and Mr. Serridge seems to have acquired the house?"

"That's about the size of it. And don't forget the farm. That seems to be his as well."

"Has anyone talked to the police?"

"They were notified of her disappearance. But there was no sign a crime had been committed, and no reason to doubt Serridge's story about an old boyfriend. Fenella said there really was a man, years and years ago-she remembered her parents talking about it. A sailor, apparently. Miss Penhow wanted to marry him but her family wouldn't let her. And then there was a letter that seemed to confirm it. Miss Penhow wrote to the Vicar of Rawling from New York asking him to apologize to Serridge on her behalf for going away so suddenly. The police think the letter's genuine."

Penhow, Lydia thought, P. M. Penhow. The woman herself wasn't here but her name was everywhere. Her father came into her mind, bringing with him as he usually did a faint sense of anxiety.

"Liver and onions," said a loud voice just above her head. "Shepherd's pie."

The liver landed in front of Lydia, the shepherd's pie in front of Rory.

"It's the other way round," Lydia said.

"Suit yourself," said the manageress. "You've got hands, haven't you, love? You give him his, and I'm sure he'll give you yours."

Rory grinned up at her. "And that's the way the world goes round, eh?"

The fat woman roared with laughter and told him he was a caution. She waddled away from their table. Lydia and Rory exchanged plates.

"She likes you," Lydia said in a low voice. "She barely tolerates me."

Rory looked uncomfortable. "It's because I'm a man."

Lydia shook her head. "It's more than that." Talking with a silver spoon in your mouth, she realized, could be more of a curse than a blessing. As far as most of the population was concerned, it made you a social leper and also almost unemployable because ladies weren't supposed to work. That wouldn't have mattered perhaps, if you actually owned the silver spoon and everything that went with it. But if you didn't, you had the worst of both worlds.

She and Rory were both hungry, and at first they ate in silence. Then Rory laid down his fork and looked at her.

"What is it?" she asked.

"May I ask you something?"

"Fire away."

"How long have you known Mr. Serridge?"

"I'd never even heard of him until I moved into Bleeding Heart Square."

"And your father?"

She put down her own fork. "I believe they knew each other in the army. I'll say this for Mr. Serridge-he's been very kind to him."

Rory sat back. "Did you know that Morthams Farm used to belong to your father?"

"What?"

"The farm that Mr. Serridge and Miss Penhow bought. Your father sold it to them. Did you know?"

"Of course I didn't." She was surprised to hear her voice was calm and level. "I had no idea. Look here, I-"

"Have you ever heard him mention Rawling?"

Lydia pushed her plate away. "I don't like this. I don't see why I should answer questions about my father. And I don't really understand why you feel you should ask them."

He spread his hands out, palms up. "I'm so sorry. Unforgivable of me." He gave her a rueful smile; he was rather good at those. "You know how it is-one gets carried away."

Despite herself, she smiled back. They continued with their meal. Rory diverted the conversation to neutral subjects. He made her laugh with the story of Hitler's oranges. There had been an item in today's paper, he said, about a hundred thousand Spanish oranges which had been withdrawn from auction at Spitalfields yesterday because they had been wrapped in paper with a portrait of Hitler on it.

"All one hundred thousand of them?" Lydia asked.