Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  The office boy, who was usually entrusted with the envelopes and stamps, was ill. The work was tedious and oddly tiring. Lydia tried to avoid looking at the clock on the wall above Mr Reynolds’ high desk. She would not have believed it possible that time could move so slowly. At a little after eleven o’clock there was a variation in the monotony in the form of a stout woman in a pinafore who brought round a tray of tea, after which Mr Smethwick taught Lydia how to answer the telephone. It was important to master the correct salutation: ‘Shires and Trimble. Good morning,’ with the emphasis firmly on the adjective, to create a mood of optimism and hope. According to Mr Smethwick, one’s intonation should create the impression that one was mentally in a state of high alert and also smiling in a welcoming way.

  At one o’clock Lydia went to the cloakroom to fetch her hat and coat. There was a pause in the rattle of the typewriter keys in the general office. She heard Miss Tuffley’s voice raised in argument with Mr Smethwick: ‘… herself as Lady Muck. If you ask me she’s …’ Typing drowned the rest of the sentence and reduced Mr Smethwick’s reply to a low rumble. Lydia settled her hat on her head and went back to the general office. Mr Smethwick asked her to post the letters she had so carefully stamped. ‘Think you can manage that, Mrs Langstone?’

  She went downstairs and opened the street door. She was so tired and angry she wanted to cry. Outside lay freedom, albeit for only an hour. She paused in the doorway to savour the grey pavement, a taxi, the east wall of the chapel and a grey sky. So that’s what paradise looked like. An absence of Shires and Trimble.

  As she stepped onto the pavement, the taxi’s rear window slid down. A thin and very elegant woman stared at Lydia, who came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Hello, Lydia,’ said the woman, and the dream of freedom died a premature death.

  ‘Hello, Mother,’ said Lydia.

  Rawling’s solitary pub was called the Alforde Arms. Rory ate bread and cheese by the fire in the saloon bar, and washed down his lunch with half a pint of bitter. In India, he would often daydream about this sort of day – a simple lunch in a village pub, logs smouldering on a hearth, a muddy walk under a grey, wintry sky swirling with rooks.

  While he ate, he summarized to himself what he would report to Sergeant Narton when they met this evening. It wasn’t a great deal: the Vicar had received a letter from New York which purported to be from Philippa Penhow; she could indeed have written it; and if it was genuine it offered a plausible explanation for her disappearance and her silence, particularly if one allowed for the shame she must have felt in allowing Serridge to seduce her in the first place. There was also the fact that Mr Gladwyn seemed to like Mr Serridge. Finally – and this was the only really disturbing piece of information he had acquired – Captain Ingleby-Lewis had sold Morthams Farm to Serridge. Lydia Langstone’s father was somehow involved in this. He had a disturbing sense that the boundaries of the whole affair had shifted, and that even his own role in it might not be what he had assumed it was.

  After lunch, he ordered a second half-pint. The landlord was ready to chat, though some of his attention remained with the farm labourers talking in the other bar.

  ‘You on holiday or something?’ the man enquired.

  ‘Yes – just a day trip. I fancied stretching my legs and getting a bit of country air.’

  ‘I thought you were a townee. You can always tell. From London, maybe?’

  Rory agreed that he was.

  ‘Strange that,’ the landlord said, resting his elbows on the counter between them. ‘Your idea of a day out is coming down here. Our idea of a day out is going up to town.’

  ‘The grass is greener, eh?’ Rory picked up his glass and began to turn away.

  The landlord was not going to be deflected so easily. ‘What I say is, human beings are born dissatisfied. They always want something else, something they haven’t got.’

  ‘That’s very true.’ Rory glanced out of the window: the light was already fading and there were spots of rain on the glass. ‘Though at present I must admit I don’t feel much enthusiasm for walking back to Mavering.’

  ‘You’re making for the station?’

  Rory nodded.

  ‘That won’t take you long,’ the landlord said. ‘Twenty minutes’ brisk walk, if that.’

  ‘Took me rather longer on the way here.’

  ‘Which way did you come?’

  Rory described it as best as he could.

  ‘That’s the long way round.’

  ‘Somebody gave me the directions.’

  ‘If you carry on down the road and take the field gate on the left, there’s a much shorter route. Unless it’s closed for some reason.’ The landlord turned his head and bellowed at the labourers in the public bar: ‘Jim? Nothing wrong with the footpath to Mavering, is there?’

  ‘Which one?’ came an answering bellow, and another roar of laughter.

  ‘The one by Nartons’, you daft fool.’

  ‘There weren’t this morning. That’s the way I came.’

  ‘Nartons’?’ Rory said abruptly. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Narton’s place,’ the landlord said. ‘The path’s on the left, just beyond it. Follow that, and you come out by Mavering church, same way you came but much sooner. That’ll make life a bit easier for you, eh?’

  ‘You’re looking fearfully pale, dear,’ Lady Cassington said. ‘Are you sure you’re eating properly?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mother,’ Lydia said. ‘I haven’t got long – I want to find something to eat and I need to post these letters.’

  Lady Cassington glanced down at the pile of neatly stamped envelopes that lay between them on the rear seat of the taxi. ‘You’ve actually got a job?’ She made it sound like an unsightly skin condition.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How odd. Marcus hasn’t stopped your allowance, I know that for a fact – he told me himself. Think yourself lucky, my dear. Some men would have had no hesitation whatsoever.’

  ‘I don’t want his money.’

  ‘Nonsense. Anyway, you should be at home. I simply don’t know where you’ve found all these silly ideas. A woman’s place is by her husband’s side.’

  ‘You didn’t stay by yours,’ Lydia pointed out.

  Lady Cassington stared at her.

  ‘My father’s, I mean,’ Lydia said.

  ‘That was quite different. Circumstances alter cases. You’ve seen what sort of man your father is.’

  Lydia stared out of the window at students carrying piles of library books and wearing brightly coloured scarves. The taxi was driving north through the quiet squares of Blooms-bury. Lady Cassington screwed another cigarette into her tortoiseshell holder. When she next spoke, her voice was gentler.

  ‘Marcus says he told you he’s joining the Fascists.’

  Lydia nodded.

  ‘They’re obviously rather impressed with him – he’s just the sort of recruit they’re looking for. I saw Tom Mosley the other night, you know, and he told me that if they had more young men like Marcus they could be forming a government in eighteen months. Fin thinks Mosley’s quite the coming man and it’ll do us no harm as a family to have someone on the inside. Marcus will be working with Rex Fisher at first, I understand, so he’s in safe hands.’

  ‘How is Fin?’ Lydia asked, trying to deflect the conversation from Marcus to her stepfather.

  ‘Very well, thank you. He sends his love, by the way. He’s frightfully pleased about Marcus, of course.’

  Lydia listened to her mother’s voice running on and watched the students. She wondered what it would have been like if she had been able to go to university. She could have had a proper job afterwards. She could have earned £500 a year and had a room of her own. Her life would be full of people who led interesting and uncluttered lives, unencumbered with the routines, obligations and possessions that filled the existence of families like the Langs-tones and the Cassingtons.

  ‘Talking of Rex Fisher, by the way,’ her mother w
ent on, ‘I think he’s rather interested in Pammy.’

  Lydia blinked. ‘But he’s old enough to be her father.’

  ‘Nothing wrong in that. Fin’s older than me, after all. I think it can make a marriage more stable if the man’s older.’

  Lydia thought that stability was the last thing that her sister wanted from life. She said, ‘Do you think Pammy likes him?’

  ‘I know what’s in your mind. The Fishers are nobodies despite the title. 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 Lang-stone? 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 partition. 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 wristwatch. ‘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 afterwards a cup of tea at the café 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, towards a man standing further 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 towards 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 God?’

  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 glass. ‘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 leant towards 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 passed 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.’