Bleeding Heart Square Part 28

"Now look here, Byrne. What's it to you?"

Mr. Byrne, who had been sweeping sawdust, propped his broom against the wall of the Crozier and put his hands on his hips. He scowled at Serridge. "It's next to my pub. That's what it's got to do with me."

"It's not there now."

"But it was. And having that b.l.o.o.d.y disgusting thing hardly a yard from the door is hardly going to encourage trade, is it?"

Rory waited on the doorstep of number seven.

"I shouldn't think it would have much effect one way or the other," Serridge said coldly. "It's not your pump. It belongs to the freeholders."

"I'm a ratepayer, aren't I?" Mr. Byrne had leaned forward, unmistakably hostile. His bald head was like a blunt instrument. "My old woman nearly had a fit when she saw what them birds were pecking at."

"Don't see why. She hangs out bacon rind for the b.l.o.o.d.y blue t.i.ts."

"That's not the same-anyone can see that. Look, someone round here is off his head. And the label had your name on it, Mr. Serridge-you remember that."

Serridge stood there, not giving an inch either literally or metaphorically. His overcoat was open and his hands were deep in his trouser pockets; he had a cigar in the corner of his mouth and his hat on the back of his head. He looked like a farmer confronting an irritable porker.

"None of your b.l.o.o.d.y business," he said with an air of finality. "You're just the brewery's tenant."

At the sound of Rory's footsteps, the other men glanced toward him.

But the porker wasn't so easily put off. "You've been having quite a little problem with these hearts, I'm told," Byrne said to Serridge, and as he spoke he came half a pace closer. "Parcels in the post from what I hear."

"Who told you that?" Serridge snapped.

"The Captain."

"And you believed him? I thought you had more sense."

"I believed him because he was telling the truth, Mr. Serridge. And what interests me is why haven't you been to the police about it? I mean, somebody's making a nuisance of themselves. And maybe somebody's trying to tell you something."

"Nonsense."

Rory had reached the corner now and was skirting the two men by the pump. He was on his way to the Central Library, where they had a back file of Berkeley's. Later, in the afternoon, he wanted to practice his shorthand skills. He wouldn't have much time in the evening because he was meeting Dawlish for a drink.

"Hey, there-Mr. Wentwood. You know about these hearts, don't you?"

"Which hearts?"

"The ones that Mr. Serridge here has been getting in the post."

Serridge turned toward Rory, towering over him, his face impa.s.sive. He didn't need to say anything.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Mr. Byrne," Rory said. "I don't look at Mr. Serridge's post. Only my own."

"Because he knows it's none of his business," Serridge said, turning back to Byrne. "He's not a fool, unlike some I could mention."

There was a crack as the latch rose on the gate from Rosington Place. The wicket opened and Nipper scampered into Bleeding Heart Square, followed by Howlett.

"Morning, gents. I thought I heard your voices."

"Mr. Howlett," Byrne began. "It's got to stop."

"What has?"

"We've got someone with a nasty mind playing pranks around here. It's not nice. If my little girl had seen what was left on the pump this morning, it would have given her nightmares."

"Good morning, Mr. Howlett," Serridge said. "How do?"

Howlett touched his hat. "All right, sir."

"Suppose Byrne here tells you what's on his mind. Once he's got it off his chest, maybe he'll feel better."

"b.l.o.o.d.y disgusting," Byrne said. "That's what it is. Jesus Mother of G.o.d, someone needs their head examined."

Howlett listened gravely while the landlord explained what had been left on the pump and what Captain Ingleby-Lewis had told him about Serridge's parcels. Nipper c.o.c.ked his leg against the corner of the pump and squirted urine over the side of the stone basin. Rory tried to slip away but Serridge wrapped a hand around his arm. He squeezed it so firmly that Rory winced.

"Mr. Wentwood lives in my house, Howlett-if you want to ask him, he'll soon tell you this business about parcels is nonsense."

"You let me know if it happens again, Mr. Byrne," Howlett said at last when Byrne had finished. "And I'll keep my eyes open, don't you worry about that. If you ask me it's some boy's prank. If I catch him at it, I'll take a strap to him and then I'll hang him up there to rot instead."

Sitting at her desk by the window, Lydia Langstone glanced down into Rosington Place and saw Rory Wentwood standing outside the chapel and looking up at the great east window. In the background, Miss Tuffley's voice rose and fell, swooped and dived, just as it had done all afternoon and did every afternoon unless Mr. Reynolds stopped her. She was talking about films at present, comparing Robert Donat in The Count of Monte Cristo with Leslie Howard in The Scarlet Pimpernel. Miss Tuffley wasn't stupid. She concentrated her romantic urges on men who could be trusted to remain safely two-dimensional.

Lydia wished she wasn't mooning over Rory Wentwood. She wasn't in love with him, of course. She simply liked looking at him and talking to him and being with him. There was nothing wrong in that. The other silly symptoms were the accidental side effects of her leaving Marcus and turning her life upside down. All these emotions were flying around inside her like a swarm of bees and they had simply settled for the time being on Rory Wentwood, who was entirely unsuitable and in any case in love with someone else. Perhaps that was part of his charm. Still, he did look sweet in that cap of his, like an outsized little boy. She hoped he would be in that evening. They needed to talk. Also, it would be nice to see him again.

Rory glanced up at the windows opposite the chapel. Automatically Lydia pulled back a little. She wasn't that far gone. It was one thing to watch him but quite another for him to know about it. He set off in the direction of Bleeding Heart Square.

"I mean, if you were marking their smiles out of ten," Miss Tuffley was saying, "I think I would have to give Robert an eight and Leslie only a five, or perhaps a six. Leslie always makes me feel a bit sad, if you know what I mean. He's much more spiritual. I think you could have a really, really deep conversation with him, don't you?"

The door of the private office opened. "Mrs. Langstone?" said Mr. s.h.i.+res. "Will you bring in the letter file? I shall be leaving early this afternoon."

Lydia gathered up the folder containing the day's letters waiting for signature.

"You can wait while I sign them," he said. "Shut the door, will you-there's a draught."

He flipped open the folder, uncapped his fountain pen and began to sign the letters, his eyes running swiftly over the contents of each. Lydia waited, standing by the door.

"Do sit down, Mrs. Langstone. I wanted a word with you." He scrawled his signature, blotted it and moved on to the next letter. "With reference to our earlier conversation, I intend to write to Mr. Langstone over the weekend, according to your instructions." He looked up, peering at her with watery eyes. "After due consideration, I think it would be better for all concerned if it were not generally known that I am acting for you, particularly in this office. One wouldn't want to encourage t.i.ttle-tattle during office hours, or to bring undesirable attention to the firm. But I have a small private practice which I run from home. Of course, some publicity will be inevitable in the long run, if the affair proceeds to its conclusion. But we need not antic.i.p.ate it unnecessarily."

"I'm still rather concerned about the cost, sir."

He nodded. "I'm glad to hear of it. Money matters, Mrs. Langstone, as I'm sure you've noticed. We shall move cautiously. As we were saying earlier, since you're the injured party, I see no reason why Mr. Langstone shouldn't pay any costs incurred. On top of that, we shall ask him to settle an annuity on you. We shall also need to take into account anything of material value that you've brought into the marriage."

"He spent all that long ago," Lydia said, and was surprised to hear the bitterness in her voice.

"It would be very helpful if you would let me have a note of the details as far as you are able. Let me have it tomorrow morning. If there was any formal arrangement, I imagine a solicitor was involved-perhaps Lord Ca.s.sington's family solicitor? It would be helpful to know. Copies of any doc.u.ments relating to the settlement would be invaluable. In the meantime, I shall write to Mr. Langstone. You must give me his address tomorrow as well. He should receive the letter on Monday."

"Thank you."

Mr. s.h.i.+res sighed. "Don't get your hopes too high, Mrs. Langstone. We have a long way to go."

Lydia spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze. At last it seemed possible that there might one day be an end to all this uncertainty-and to the poverty too. It was rea.s.suring that she had an ally in the shape of Mr. s.h.i.+res. She didn't much like the man but she had no reason to doubt his professional competence. His personal probity was another matter-she remembered that odd s.n.a.t.c.h of telephone conversation she had overheard between him and Serridge. There was nothing to show that either Serridge or Miss Penhow had ever been a client of s.h.i.+res and Trimble. But they might be Mr. s.h.i.+res' private clients, and in that case their names would not feature in Mr. Reynolds' files.

At the end of the day Lydia and Miss Tuffley went downstairs together. Miss Tuffley paused in the hall to light a cigarette before venturing outside. Lydia asked if she had any plans for the weekend.

"Not really. I'll probably go to the pictures on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Do you ever go to the pictures?"

"Occasionally."

"You can tag along sometimes if you want." Miss Tuffley lowered her head over the match. "It's not much fun going by yourself, is it? Just let me know."

"Yes, thank you."

Miss Tuffley opened the front door and led the way down the steps. It had started to rain. Rory Wentwood was waiting outside under an umbrella. He raised his cap when he saw them.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Langstone," he said.

Miss Tuffley nudged Lydia. "You lucky thing. They're all after you, aren't they? It's not fair. Can't you spare one for me?"

She squealed with laughter and waved to them both. She set off along the pavement toward Holborn, swaying on her high heels and leaving behind her a sweetly entangled smell of Wood-bines and cheap scent.

"There's so much we need to talk about," Lydia said quietly to Rory as they were walking toward the gate to Bleeding Heart Square.

"I know. And I've got a favor to ask. Are you busy this evening?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"Because I wondered if you'd be kind enough to-" He broke off as the wicket gate opened, revealing Malcolm Fimberry framed in the doorway between Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square.

"Mrs. Langstone! Good evening." Fimberry beamed at her and then added with less enthusiasm, "h.e.l.lo, Wentwood."

Rory nodded to him.

Fimberry stayed where he was, blocking their way. "I promised to show you something of the chapel, Mrs. Langstone. If you've got five minutes to spare, I can promise you won't regret it."

"Some other time, perhaps-I have one or two things to do."

"Just for a couple of minutes? You see, because of the meeting tomorrow, Father Bertram has entrusted me with the key of the Ossuary. He can't be there tomorrow himself, you see-there's a diocesan committee at Westminster, so he's asked me to liaise with Sir Rex in his place." He took off his rain-flecked pince-nez and polished them on his tie. "It's a very good opportunity to see the encaustic tiles. I probably won't have a chance to show you tomorrow-these meetings can be a little hectic, and I shall have to be on hand to help."

"It's very kind of you, Mr. Fimberry, but I'm-"

"We'd love to," Rory interrupted. "Thank you so much."

"Oh," said Fimberry, disconcerted. He added gloomily, "Well, yes, I suppose the more the merrier."

Lydia glanced at Rory's face. She felt his touch on her arm and wondered why this was important to him. "All right. If it really won't take long."

"Follow me."

He set off toward the chapel. Rory mouthed "Thank you" to Lydia. Fimberry held open the door in the little forecourt in front of the east wall of the chapel. It led into a flagged corridor running the length of the building and spa.r.s.ely lit with electric wall lights.

"This way," Fimberry said. "This is all that remains of the cloister, by the way. Sadly altered, of course."

On the left was a row of windows looking out into darkness; on the right was the south wall of the chapel, a patchwork of masonry studded with blocked openings. The place smelled damp. Lydia watched Fimberry's shadow flickering first in front and then behind him, along the wall and along the floor, but never in one place for long and never quite where you expected it to be. In the gloom at the end of the corridor a flight of stone steps rose up to the entrance of St. Tumwulf's Chapel.

Fimberry glanced back at them. "We'll save the chapel itself for another day, Mrs. Langstone. There is so much to see, and so little time!"

"Sorry about this," Rory murmured behind her. "I'll explain."

"This is the undercroft," Fimberry said, waving to a door set three steps down from the floor level of the cloister.

"May we see in there too?" Rory said, darting down the steps and trying the latch. The latch lifted and the door opened.

"Very well. But mind the steps, Mrs. Langstone, they can be treacherous. Just a moment-I'll turn on the lights."

A line of bare light bulbs came to life, revealing the stark outlines of a long, low whitewashed room bisected on its east-west axis by a row of wooden posts.

"Victorian," Fimberry said dismissively. "The interior had to be almost entirely refurbished when the Church bought St. Tumwulf's in the eighteen seventies."

Lydia looked around. Rows of chairs and benches had been set out. Near the door were tables holding crockery and urns. At the east end, five high-backed chairs stood behind a table on a low platform.

"It looks as if the Inquisition will soon be in session," Rory said.

"Sir Rex and his people made the arrangements. Well, there's not much to see here. Shall we move on to the Ossuary?"

"Does Father Bertram let the undercroft to anyone who asks?"

"Oh no." Fimberry looked shocked. "That wouldn't be appropriate. One couldn't have atheists here, for example, or communists or people of that sort."

"But Fascists are all right?"

"Father Bertram was actually presented to Signor Mussolini when he last visited Rome. He was most impressed. One can't deny Il Duce gets results."

"I thought the Pope didn't like him much," Rory said. "Mussolini, I mean, not Father Bertram." Lydia punched him lightly on the arm in an attempt to shut him up.

"Father Bertram says that the Holy Father and the Italian government have had one or two differences but they will soon be sorted out. After all, Mussolini's a son of the Church."

Fimberry shooed them back to the cloister and led them to another, much smaller sunken doorway set in the wall just before the flight of steps leading up to the chapel itself. He took out a bunch of keys from his raincoat pocket, unlocked the door and pulled it open. He switched on another light.

"Here we are. Come and stand by me, Mrs. Langstone, and you'll be able to see properly. This is a good time to come because the chairs are usually stored in here. We're directly under the ante-chapel."

The high, windowless room was long and thin. It smelled mysteriously of cats. In the far corner was a heavy table with bulbous legs.

"They say that this is where the bodies of the faithful lay before they were secretly interred beneath the undercroft. Do look at the ceiling: the rib vaulting is original."

"How nice," Lydia said, feeling she should contribute something to the conversation. "Is it very old?"