Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Beadle chap in Rosington Place. He’s a bit of an ally of mine.’

  ‘I think I met him the day after I arrived.’

  ‘He ought to know you’re my daughter. Have you got half a crown, by any chance?’

  ‘Why?’ she said, thinking of the five-pound note.

  ‘I haven’t any change on me. I like to give Howlett something now and again. It’s an investment, in a way.’

  They set off towards Holborn Circus. Smoke drifted up from the chimney of the lodge at the foot of Rosington Place. He rapped on the shuttered window facing the roadway with the head of his stick.

  Instantly the dog began to bark. The shutter flew up with a crash, revealing Howlett’s head and shoulders. ‘Shut up,’ he said and the barking stopped abruptly, as if the dog had been kicked. ‘Morning, Captain.’

  ‘Morning, Howlett. This is my daughter, Mrs Langstone. Mind you keep an eye out for her.’

  Howlett touched the brim of his hat. ‘Yes, sir. We met the other day, didn’t we, ma’am?’

  Lydia nodded. The dog began to bark again.

  ‘I suppose Mrs Langstone might find it convenient to use the back gate occasionally,’ Ingleby-Lewis went on.

  Howlett grunted. The dog began to yap again.

  Her father turned to Lydia. ‘There’s a gate up there in the corner by the chapel – you can get directly into Bleeding Heart Square from there.’

  ‘We don’t like all and sundry using it,’ Howlett said firmly.

  ‘No, indeed. Only the favoured few, eh?’

  ‘The little tyke,’ Howlett observed. ‘I’m going to have to let him out.’

  His face vanished from the window. The door opened. The dog ran round the lodge and sniffed Lydia’s shoes.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am.’ Howlett edged the dog away from her with the toe of his boot. ‘Get out of it, Nipper.’

  ‘Plucky little brute,’ Ingleby-Lewis said.

  ‘He’s got a terrible way with rats.’

  ‘Well. Mustn’t stand here chatting all day. Work to be done, eh, Howlett? Here, something to keep out the cold.’

  The half-crown changed hands. Howlett touched his hat again. Lydia and her father walked up Rosington Place towards the chapel at the far end. The two terraces on either side were drab but primly respectable. Judging by the nameplates on the doors, they consisted almost entirely of offices.

  ‘Must be a living death, working in one of these places,’ Ingleby-Lewis observed, quickening his pace because the Crozier would now be open. ‘Just imagine it, eh?’

  Lydia stared up at the chapel. Now they were closer, she saw it was much larger than she had first thought. From the other end of Rosington Place, it was dwarfed by the perspective: the height of the terraces created the impression that you were looking at it from the wrong end of a telescope.

  ‘Belongs to the Romans now,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘That chap Fimberry is always in and out – knows all about it. Odd place, really. Still, that’s London for you, I suppose: full of queer nooks and crannies. And queer people, come to that.’

  The chapel was set back into the terrace on the left-hand side. A door on the left gave access to the house that abutted on the chapel; there was no other sign of an entrance. Immediately in front of them was a gate, painted murky brown, that sealed the northern end of Rosington Place. It was wide enough for a carriage, and it had a wicket inset in one leaf. Ingleby-Lewis raised the latch.

  ‘Old Howlett’s got the only key,’ he said. ‘Sometimes he keeps the door locked just to show who’s top dog.’

  ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ Lydia said.

  Her father held open the wicket for her. ‘It’s not a question of liking or not liking. Howlett’s a fact of life. You want to keep on his right side. Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square count as a private jurisdiction, you see. It’s a sort of legal oddity – Fimberry knows all about it. In theory even the police can’t come in unless they’re invited.’

  The door beside the chapel opened. They glanced towards the sound. A tall young man came out. Lydia caught her breath. He smiled and touched his hat to her before walking rapidly down Rosington Place towards the lodge.

  ‘Who’s that fellow?’

  ‘I think his name’s Wentwood, Father. He’s interested in the attic flat. Mrs Renton told him to come back today when Mr Serridge is here.’

  She stepped through the wicket. In Bleeding Heart Square, a man was standing at the entrance to the public bar of the Crozier and shouting at somebody inside. A mechanic working at the garage at the far end whistled at Lydia. There was a little pile of excrement, possibly human, in the angle between the gate and the pillar supporting it.

  Ingleby-Lewis followed her through the wicket and closed it carefully behind him, shutting out the seedy respectability of Rosington Place. ‘Serridge,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, he’ll have to talk to him. And you haven’t met Serridge, either, have you?’

  Later that morning, while she was tidying the shelves on the left of the fireplace in the sitting room, Lydia came across an old writing box. It was a portable writing desk, a solid mahogany affair, its corners reinforced with brass. When she lifted it onto the table to dust it, however, she discovered that it was less robust than it looked. The lid slid off and fell to the floor with a crash. At some point in the box’s history, the hinges had been broken. The fittings inside had vanished as well.

  But the box wasn’t empty. It held a jumble of pens, paper, pencils, envelopes and inks. The paper was no longer white but turning yellow and brittle with age. Some of the nibs were spotted with rust. Lydia’s eyes rested on a small sheet of paper, blank apart from seven words at the top: I expect you are surprised to hear—

  She pushed aside the sheet. Underneath it was a sheet of foolscap with more writing on it, a long column of names – all of them the same: P. M. Penhow.

  There was a knock on the door. Lydia dropped the lid clumsily on top of the box. When she opened the door, she found Malcolm Fimberry standing very close to it on the other side. He stared at her through his pince-nez and smiled. His lips were moist and very brightly coloured, almost red. He was trembling slightly.

  ‘Mrs Langstone. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Lydia said, knowing that she must sound rude. Mr Fimberry was the sort of person to whom you found yourself being rude without meaning to be.

  ‘I heard the noise upstairs – I’m just beneath, you see – so I knew somebody was in. I thought perhaps Captain Ingleby-Lewis was here.’

  ‘He’s not, I’m afraid.’ Lydia realized that she was still carrying the cloth she had been using for dusting. ‘May I take a message?’

  ‘Yes – no – you see, it’s rather delicate. I lent him ten shillings some time ago, and I wondered whether it was convenient for him to pay me back now. He … he said he would pay me at the end of the week – that was last month – but he must have forgotten, and after that when I happened to mention it, it wasn’t convenient, but perhaps if you were to have a word with him …’

  He broke off and lowered his eyes. He seemed to be staring at her chest. She registered the fact that he hadn’t shaved and that the stubble on his chin was more ginger than the hair on his head. She also saw that the breast pocket of his tweed jacket was in need of repair and that he hadn’t changed his collar for some time.

  ‘It must have slipped my father’s mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you the money now.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Langstone, you are very kind. I think I saw you and your father near the chapel this morning, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a very interesting building, of course. Did you know that I work there, by the way? In an honorary capacity, that is.’

  She found her purse and counted out ten shillings in silver. His fingers touched hers as the money changed hands.

  ‘Father Bertram calls me his assistant sexton.’ He gave a little laugh tha
t was unexpectedly high and girlish. ‘Perhaps you would allow me to give you a guided tour. There are so many interesting stories associated with the old place.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Actually at present I’m rather busy and—’

  ‘It needn’t take up much of your time, Mrs Langstone. You see, because it’s on the doorstep, one can pop in for ten minutes here and ten minutes there. Oh, you would enjoy it, I promise you. Such a lot of history, so many strange yarns.’

  There were footsteps on the stairs, and the small, shapeless figure of Mrs Renton appeared.

  ‘You left your kettle boiling, Mr Fimberry,’ she announced. ‘Must be almost dry by now.’

  ‘Oh – yes, thank you. Goodbye, Mrs Langstone.’ At the head of the stairs, he turned back. ‘Thank you, Mrs Langstone,’ he murmured.

  ‘Has the Captain heard when Mr Serridge will be back?’ Mrs Renton asked Lydia.

  ‘Today at some point. That’s all I know. By the way, I saw that young man this morning, Mr Wentwood – the one who came about the flat. He seemed to have been looking round the chapel.’

  ‘Then him and Mr Fimberry should have something to talk about,’ Mrs Renton said. ‘I’d best be getting on. At least it’s not smelling yet.’

  Lydia blinked. ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘The parcel in the hall,’ Mrs Renton said. ‘Mr Serridge’s new heart.’

  5

  Joe Serridge plays Philippa Penhow like a fish. He knows just what to say, and how, and when. But the fish makes it easy for him. The fish wants to be caught.

  Wednesday, 29 January 1930

  Major Serridge called again this morning – he wanted my advice about the choice of wallpaper for his room. ‘It needs a lady’s eye,’ he told me. He added that of course it had to be an artistic lady! I offered to pay for it, but he was quite obstinate – he didn’t want to put me out, it was for his benefit, etc., and he insists on bearing the whole cost himself.

  He wasn’t able to stay long. When I went with him to the door, there was a beggar outside with a poor, half-starved mongrel, and the Major said he would go after the man and make sure he gave the dog something to eat. How typical of his warm heart! I told him about Aunt’s dog Susie, and he told me about a dog he had when he was a little lad.

  Then he said, ‘Long before you were born, I’ll be bound!’

  That afternoon there were Fascists on the streets. In twos and threes, they patrolled Holborn and Clerkenwell, handing out leaflets and selling copies of the Blackshirt. They were very smart, like athletic chauffeurs, and attracted a good deal of interest from young women and even from St Tumwulf’s schoolgirls. Some were young, little more than boys, but others looked as if they might have fought in the war. All of them were very polite. Lydia found it hard to distinguish one from the other. One noticed the uniforms, not the faces, just as one did with members of the Salvation Army.

  Marcus had been interested in the movement since Mosley had founded the New Party, the predecessor of the British Union of Fascists, in 1931. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Sir Rex Fisher to recruit him. Fisher wasn’t just a party member – he was said to be one of the Leader’s closest advisers, and a personal friend. He was also a war hero, with a Military Cross or something, which must give him additional glamour in Marcus’s eyes. Marcus was almost grovellingly keen to impress people who had had a good war because he himself had done nothing much except step into the shoes of his dead brother.

  A hint of fog hung in the air and it caught the back of the throat, the promise of worse to come. But even the weather failed to dent the enthusiasm of the Blackshirts, though some of them were pink-nosed and peaky in the cold. On her way back to the flat, Lydia accepted a pamphlet advertising a meeting to discuss ‘Fascism and Empire’ to stop them pestering her.

  She loitered outside the window of a Lyon’s Corner House. Two shopgirls came out, and with them came a waft of warm, sweet and smoky air. A cup of tea would be a penny. Two buns would cost another penny. She could afford it easily at present, but she forced herself to turn away and walk back to the flat. A cup of tea and a slice of toast at the flat would cost even less. She must learn to be economical. She no longer had money for luxuries. She had nothing more than she had received from Mr Goldman that morning, together with two more pieces of jewellery and a Post Office savings book containing seventeen pounds and a few odd pence.

  In Bleeding Heart Square, Lydia found her father in front of the sitting-room gas fire with an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. ‘That husband of yours. I happened to be in the Crozier at lunchtime, and he looked in to have a word.’

  Lydia felt weary, cold and footsore. She sat down opposite her father.

  ‘He says there was a misunderstanding and you rushed off. Bit impulsive, wasn’t it? Throw away a whole marriage for that?’

  ‘Marcus had just knocked me over, which may have had something to do with it.’

  Ingleby-Lewis looked away from her. ‘He didn’t mention that. I – ah – I’m sure he regrets it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Her father peered into the bowl of his pipe as though hoping against hope to find a marriage counsellor inside. ‘Ah. Still. Hmm. All the same, you must keep it in proportion, my dear. We men are rough brutes occasionally, you know, and we can lose our tempers. Regrettable, of course, but there it is.’

  ‘Is that what you did to Mother?’ Lydia said, finding comfort in a vicarious anger against the only male available. ‘Hit her? Is that why you had to leave her?’

  Ingleby-Lewis turned the pipe round and round in his hands. ‘No. I’m not proud of my record in that department but not that. No, the long and the short of it was, we weren’t getting along very well. But that’s nothing to do with this. Point is, you’ve got a perfectly decent husband and a very comfortable home of your own. I’m sorry about the – ah – unpleasantness, but these things do happen, you know.’

  Only if you let them, Lydia thought.

  ‘You take my advice: go back to Marcus, and the next thing you know you’ll have a baby on the way.’

  ‘But I’m not sure I want a baby. And certainly not with him.’

  Lydia picked up her hat, turned and left the room. She went into her bedroom. She removed her shoes and climbed into bed fully clothed. She lay there, staring at the ceiling. She shivered.

  Somebody came into the house. There were footsteps on the stairs. Her father had a visitor. She heard men’s voices, rising and falling, one of them much deeper than her father’s.

  She couldn’t stay in bed all day. It was a coward’s way out. In a moment, she would get up and go back to the sitting room.

  Her fingers played with the hem of the sheet, feeling its chilly roughness on her skin. It was made of old linen, she thought at the same time in a remote part of her mind, quite good quality, though much worn. She registered the fact that there were unexpected ridges of stitching underneath her fingertips and automatically glanced down to see what they were.

  Exactly what one would expect: a laundry mark. Crazy capitals in faded red thread. Suddenly the letters assembled themselves into a name. PENHOW.

  Mr Serridge was a big, broad man with sloping shoulders, a tangled beard and a deep voice that was almost a growl. He looked ten years younger than Captain Ingleby-Lewis and was probably about the same age. He was also three inches taller. His hand enveloped Lydia’s.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Langstone.’ He stared down at her. ‘Pleased to meet you. You don’t look much like your dad, do you?’ He smiled. ‘Take after your mother, I suppose. Ha! I bet you’re glad about that.’

  ‘My daughter’s staying here for a few days,’ Ingleby-Lewis said warily. ‘In the little room next to mine. That’s all right, isn’t it?’

  Serridge was still staring at her, making no effort to disguise his curiosity. His manners were offensive, Lydia thought, but it was clearly pointless to take offence. Serridge seemed not to care what anyone thought of him. He was carelessly dressed and his dark hair, strea
ked with grey, needed cutting. He must have been handsome once, but time and hard living had taken their toll.

  ‘Your father tells me you’ve left your husband, Mrs Langstone.’

  She nodded, knowing her colour was rising.

  ‘None of my business, but you’ve never been to see the Captain before, have you?’

  Lydia raised her face. ‘You are perfectly right on both counts, Mr Serridge. He ran away from his family responsibilities when I was two years old.’

  He grinned at her, and sucked his teeth. For the first time she felt the man’s charm sweeping out from him, an invisible fog to cloud the emotions. Beneath the charm was an unsettling hint of calculation.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll only be here for a day or two,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘Not a problem, is it?’

  Serridge frowned and glanced at Lydia. ‘As far as I’m concerned, she can stay for as long as she likes.’

  ‘What?’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard, William.’ He grinned at Lydia again. ‘The place could do with a woman’s touch. Do you think you could make me a cup of tea, Mrs Langstone?’

  Lydia said warily that she would see what she could do. As she was crossing the landing, she heard the doorbell. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring. Mrs Renton was talking below, and a man was replying. Lydia recognized Mr Wentwood’s voice. Through the open door of the kitchen she glimpsed his tall, bony figure coming up the stairs. He gave her a smile and a wave.

  Mr Serridge came out onto the landing. He had a small, pink bald patch on the back of his head, and he was so large that he blocked her view of Mr Wentwood entirely.

  Mr Wentwood. How odd to think that a man who could live anywhere in the world would want to live in Bleeding Heart Square.