Bleeding Heart Square Part 21

Close to, the building proved to be not so much a barn as a tumbledown shed of brick and timber. Its roof had lost its tiles at one end and been patched with corrugated iron. The big double doors were held in place by a heavy bar secured to the wall with a padlock. The boy darted through a gap in the hedge beside the building and beckoned. Rory hung back. The boy vanished round the corner of the barn.

Rory scrambled reluctantly through the hedge and followed. Set in the wall opposite the double doors was another, much smaller door, and it was ajar. Beside it stood a woman wearing a headscarf and a long brown raincoat. She was smoking a cigarette with quick, impatient movements. She stared without smiling at Rory. The boy ran up to her and nuzzled against her. She patted his head as though he were a dog.

For a moment Rory didn't recognize her. She threw away the cigarette.

"Rebecca, sir," she said. "Rebecca Proctor. Mr. Gladwyn's parlourmaid at the Vicarage."

"Of course. h.e.l.lo."

Without her uniform, she looked completely different-tough and competent, entirely at home with herself.

"Thank you for coming. I had to send our Robbie. He's my sister's boy. Not quite, you know." One hand was still resting on the boy's head. With the other she tapped the side of her own head. "He's a good lad, aren't you, Robbie?"

He gave her a gap-toothed smile, responding as much to the tone as to the words.

Rory said, "What's all this about? Why couldn't you have said something at the Vicarage if you wanted to see me?"

"Mr. Gladwyn said we weren't to talk to you. More than my place is worth if he sees me with you. He's a good master too, not like some, but he's that strict, you wouldn't believe. I can't afford to lose my job because if I do, this one and his ma won't be able to live. Won't be able to eat, won't have a roof over their heads. And if that happens they won't be together anymore because they'll put the boy in a home and my sister in a loony bin." The woman stared at Rory. "I'm sorry to go on, sir, but it's better you know where I stand. I don't want it coming out that you've talked to me."

"All right."

"We'll go inside," she said. "Otherwise somebody pa.s.sing might see us or hear us, and if that happens it will be all over the village before you can say knife."

Robbie pushed the door fully open and led his aunt inside. Rory followed. There was more light than he expected, some from the doorway, some from holes in the roof and some from two window openings, one in each gable wall, which had been roughly boarded over. There was an earth floor under their feet, quite dry, and a pile of straw in the corner. The place smelled of must and stale tobacco.

"This is on Mr. Serridge's farm," Rebecca Proctor said. "Morthams. Did you know that?"

Rory shook his head.

"Don't worry. Serridge won't come here. No one comes here any more. That's why Robbie comes, see-it's safe. They bully him something terrible in the village. Bleeding kids." As she spoke, her voice was becoming rougher, more countrified, as if she had abandoned the smooth, respectful tones of her profession along with its uniform. "Anyhow, I wanted you to see this place. It's where it happened, you see."

"Where what happened?" Rory said with a touch of irritation because he disliked the idea that the woman had thought him frightened of Serridge.

"Where that poor girl died. That's why n.o.body comes here. They're a superst.i.tious lot. They think her ghost walks. Anyhow they're scared of Serridge. Not that he wants to come here either. You wouldn't think it to look at him but I reckon he's scared."

"Of what?"

"Ghosts. Like the rest of them."

Robbie tugged at his aunt's arm and pointed up into the shadows.

"Do give over," she said. "You can show the gentleman later if there's time."

"What does he want?" Rory asked.

"To show you his bones. Nasty dirty things."

"Who died here?"

"Why, Amy Narton, of course. In those last months, when she was living at home, she used to spend most of her time just walking around. She didn't like being in the house. Her parents were angry because of the baby on the way. She wouldn't say who'd got her into trouble. That made it worse. And n.o.body else wanted to give her the time of day." She glanced down at Robbie. "They can be like that round here. Anyhow, Amy was like a dog with a litter of puppies inside her. She wanted to find somewhere quiet and private and dark when her time came. So she came here. But she didn't tell no one. So n.o.body missed her at first, not for hours, because she was always going off, like I told you. And when they found her at last, it was too late, for her and the baby. They were over there." Rebecca nodded toward the straw. "It was Serridge, of course."

"Who found her?"

"No." Rebecca stared at him, silently reproving his stupidity. "Who put her in the family way."

"Are you sure?"

"Amy's not the first maid he's got into trouble and she won't be the last." Rebecca opened her handbag and took out a small, creased photograph, which she gave to Rory. "Robbie found it in the straw. Afterwards. After they took her away. Look at it in the light."

Rory took the photograph to the doorway and studied it in the daylight. It was a small sepia-toned snapshot of a girl astride a bicycle. Behind her, a field sloped up to some trees and the chimneys of a house. A sc.r.a.ppy little dog was sitting on the gra.s.s beside her and scratching its ear. The girl was smiling broadly and proudly at the camera. She looked very young, fifteen or sixteen perhaps. There was nothing strange about the photograph except that it was a man's bicycle and the girl was wearing no clothes.

"That's Amy," Rebecca said.

"She's in the meadow between the footpath and Morthams Farm, isn't she?"

"Yes. The way you came this morning. He's taught two or three girls how to ride a bicycle there."

"Without any clothes on?"

"Serridge could make them think black was white if he set his mind to it. He tells them it's how all the smart ladies up in London are taught to ride. He tells them it's healthier. More hygienic."

Rory gave her the photograph. "And Miss Penhow?"

"She was a nice lady."

"Not a young one, though."

"Serridge just wanted her money, and that was clear enough to anyone except her, poor thing. And she wanted a husband so badly that she'd do anything for him. I used to work for them, you see. Not for long, just a few weeks. When they moved into Morthams Farm, they took me on as a maid of all work, living in and all found. They hired Amy to help me. The idea was I'd train her up. That was a laugh. The only person who gave her any training was Joe Serridge."

"So he was actually carrying on with her while Miss Penhow was living at the farm?"

Rebecca hesitated. "Yes and no. I saw him touching her, accidentally on purpose. And I think he kissed her in the larder once because she came out all pink and giggling and then he came out with a smirk a mile wide on his face. But it didn't get serious till after I went."

"When was that?"

"A few days before Miss Penhow left. Couldn't stand it any longer. He was a surly brute most of the time, and he made Miss Penhow's life a misery. It was worse when he was at the brandy, and after she'd gone he drank even more."

"And that was when he and Amy...?"

"Yes. He had someone else before that, I think-not a local girl. Used to go off to see her and come back the next day looking like the cat who'd got the cream. Amy said she came to the farm once, when Miss Penhow was here-the girl, I mean. Just a girl, Amy said, no better than she should be. Reckon Amy was jealous."

Robbie tugged Rebecca's arm like a bell pull and said, quite distinctly, "Golgotha."

"For heaven's sake," his aunt said, shaking him off.

"Golgotha?" Rory asked.

"It's in the Bible. Place of the skull, where Our Lord was crucified. Robbie got it at Sunday school. It doesn't matter. Anyway, I left the farm. Didn't even work out my notice. But poor Amy stayed. Not live-in, but who cares? Serridge didn't. She was fifteen. He always liked them young, mind, the younger the better. He tried to get his hand up my skirt once, and me not a day over thirteen."

"Now one moment. You knew Serridge when you were thirteen?" He tried to guess Rebecca's age. At least forty, if not more. "Where was this?"

"Here in Rawling."

"So are you telling me that Serridge used to come here before the war?"

Rebecca snorted. "That's what I said, didn't I? He came to the Hall once or twice when the Alfordes were there. They had lots of big parties with people down from London. I'd just gone to work there, that's how I met him. And when Serridge didn't get anywhere with me, he tried it on with someone else."

"Ah-Mrs. Langstone," Serridge said, smiling at her and bobbing his big head in what was almost a bow. "I thought I heard you come in."

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Serridge." Lydia slipped Mrs. Alforde's letter into her handbag. She forced a smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to see how you're settling in. Must all be a bit strange for you, eh? Not what you're used to." He was no longer smiling. "Job all right?"

"Yes, thanks."

"If you need any advice, you'll have a word with me, I hope? I know the Captain's not always the most practical of men."

"Thank you, Mr. Serridge." Lydia forced another smile. "I'll bear that in mind. Now would you excuse me? I've just got back from the office, and I really must-"

"Of course, my dear, of course."

He bobbed his head again, sketched a vague salute and crossed the landing to his own rooms. Lydia closed the sitting-room door, put down her handbag and peeled off her gloves. The brief interview had unsettled her. She felt uncomfortable as the object of Serridge's concern.

There was a faint tapping, almost a scratching, at the door. Not Serridge, probably-there had been nothing faint about his knock. Lydia was tempted to pretend she was not here. But whoever it was must be able to see the light under the door.

She took a deep breath and turned the handle. Mr. Fimberry was waiting on the landing, smoothing back his hair with his fingers.

"And how are you, Mrs. Langstone?"

"All right, thanks. Is there something you want?"

Mr. Fimberry ignored the question. "I've had a most interesting day," he said. "I thought you'd like to know that I've found fragments of medieval encaustic tiles embedded in the wall of the Ossuary."

"The what?"

He settled the pince-nez more firmly on his nose. "It's a small chamber beside the main crypt in the undercroft. Didn't I mention it the other evening? The theory is that in the Middle Ages it was used for holy relics, for bones. That's one explanation. But it's also been suggested that the bodies of Catholics who died in the seventeenth century lay there before they were secretly buried beneath the chapel, all piled together in their shrouds. Or that their bones were put there before they were reinterred." He came a step closer as though trying to insinuate himself into the room, but Lydia did not give ground. "Of course the theories aren't necessarily incompatible. There's a good deal of discussion about the subject but very little hard evidence, I'm afraid. On the other hand, the wall is hard enough." He laughed. Then, recollecting himself, he went on, "But you must let me show you the Ossuary some time. It's generally kept locked. Of course, if you come to the meeting, you'll probably be able to see it then."

"What meeting?"

"Father Bertram tells me that the British Union have hired the undercroft for a meeting on Sat.u.r.day week. It's at lunchtime, and they are laying on bread and cheese. It's for the business people in Rosington Place. They want to explain how their economic ideas will work in practice. I gather Howlett will be putting up notices. I'm sure they'll soon know all about it at s.h.i.+res and Trimble."

"Excuse me," Lydia said bluntly, unable to bear it any longer. "I have to go."

She shut the door in his face, lit a cigarette and went to stand by the window. She felt both furious and unsettled. This was all she needed. It was as if Marcus were pursuing her, even here. The problem was, she could see no way out of Bleeding Heart Square. She couldn't go back to Frogmore Place. But if she left this flat and her father, where else could she go? She had too little money to rent a room of her own. It had already been made painfully clear to her that she had no marketable qualifications. And her job at s.h.i.+res and Trimble, such as it was, depended on her being here.

Unless, of course, Colonel Alforde would help her. She took Mrs. Alforde's letter from her handbag and reread it. The Colonel was her G.o.dfather, and perhaps that might count for something. She was uncomfortably aware of how cynical she was becoming. But cynicism went hand in hand with poverty.

She had never heard of the Alfordes having any children. Lydia couldn't recall meeting them when she was a child. Lady Ca.s.sington had added their names to the list of wedding invitations. Why had he been chosen as her G.o.dfather?

She heard familiar footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and collided with a chair. Her father walked slowly and carefully into the room. He waved at Lydia and, without saying anything or removing his overcoat, sat down very carefully and slowly.

"Father? I had a letter from Mrs. Alforde today."

Ingleby-Lewis frowned. "Who?" Then his face cleared. "You mean old Gerry Alforde's wife? Is he dead yet?"

"Apparently not. He is living in Lower Sloane Street. He's my G.o.dfather, you know."

"Oh yes. I used to see a lot of him at one time."

"Was he related to the lady who left you Morthams Farm?"

"Aunt Connie? Yes, indeed. As a matter of fact, she was his aunt too-by marriage, though. Gerry's father was the second son, you see." A gleam of interest came into his eye. "I suppose if there was anything left after they sold up it would have come to Gerry. Harry and Connie didn't have any kids so he must have been the next in line."

"Mrs. Alforde asked me to tea. I wonder why."

Ingleby-Lewis stretched out his long legs and patted his pockets in search of cigarettes. "It's up to you, of course, but I shouldn't go if I were you. Gerry was always a bit eccentric, and he had a bad war, poor chap. Last time I saw him-must have been ten or twelve years ago at least-he was babbling utter nonsense. You couldn't believe a word he said."

Lydia nodded, without committing herself either way. Her father was looking at her with an intent expression on his face. She glimpsed the ghost of a younger, harder man behind the bloodshot eyes and the blotched and wrinkled skin. She s.h.i.+vered.

"Growing chilly, isn't it?" her father said. "You'd better light the fire."

Robbie was growing restless. He ran his fingers along the wall of the barn, muttering "Golgotha, Golgotha" over and over again in a squeaky little sing-song voice that might have belonged to a much younger child.

"What was Serridge doing down in Rawling?" Rory said, picking his way through the possibilities. "Was he someone's servant?"

Rebecca shook her head. "Not exactly. The Alfordes used to have shooting parties before the war-they did all sorts of entertaining. Had royalty once, the Duke of Connaught. They'd sometimes take on extra staff."

"So he worked as a servant?"

Robbie snuffled moistly and tried to pull her by the arm.

"Stop it, dear. No, not as such. He was something outdoors like a loader or a beater. They put him up with one of the gamekeepers. He didn't stay at the house. I think the first time he came, Captain Ingleby-Lewis had something to do with arranging it. Maybe he'd been the Captain's batman in the army. I know he used to be a soldier." She glanced at the boy, who was now looking for something on the shelf where the top of the wall met the slope of the rafters. "Of course Serridge looked very different. Thin as a rake. Big moustache. But he always fancied himself."

Rory said, "Did he recognize you when he came back to Rawling?"

She laughed. "I looked very different then too. Anyway, I doubt he really looked at me. Not properly."

"But you didn't mind going to work for him at Morthams Farm?"

"Didn't have much choice, did I? A job's a job. I hadn't had a steady position since the Alfordes sold up. I could have found something in London easy enough, but I didn't want to move, because of Robbie and my sister. Besides, Miss Penhow was there. She was meant to be the mistress. I thought I'd be working for her, not him."

"What was she like?"

"She was kind. A bit soft, maybe. He wore her down, you know, even in the time that I knew her. Got so bad that she'd jump at her own shadow. He didn't let her talk to anyone except when he was around. I think he kept her letters from her too. He used to collect the post every morning, you see, from the mailbox on the lane. I remember her saying to me once how strange it was that no one had written to her since she moved here."

"She wrote letters herself?"

"Oh yes, and she gave them to Mr. Serridge to post." Rebecca paused, allowing time for the implication to sink in. "She didn't walk much because it was so mucky underfoot. Town-bred, you see, wasn't used to mud. So if she wanted to go anywhere she had to go in the car, and that meant Serridge drove her. She never really got away from him."