Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  But she was damned if she was going to wallow in self-pity. She looked around the room, for distraction, for anything that would take her away from her own emotions. Her eyes fell on her father’s old writing box, which was still on the shelf on the left of the fireplace. Fimberry had disturbed her when she was looking at it before.

  She put the box on the dining-room table and removed the lid with its broken hinges. Inside was the jumble of dried-up inks, stubs of sealing wax, rusty nibs and paper clips, broken pencils and scraps of paper. There was the sheet of foolscap with the list of names – the same name: P. M. Penhow, written over and over again – as if someone had been practising it. On the smaller sheet of paper were the words I expect you are surprised to hear. She turned over this second sheet and discovered that there was something else on the back, written faintly in pencil at the top of the page. It was not in the same handwriting but in the clumsy, rather childish version of copperplate that they used to teach in board schools.

  and so tell the padre you’re sorry for all the upset, that you met an old pal, a sailor who you were going to marry, and you went off and married him, and now you’re making a new life in America. We want him to break the news to all and sundry because you’re ashamed. A lot depends on this, old man. You won’t let me down.

  There was no signature. The last page of a letter to America? She had wanted a distraction and now she had found one, she wished she hadn’t. She fetched her handbag from her bedroom and emptied its contents onto the table.

  An astonishing amount of rubbish had accumulated since she had left Frogmore Place. There were more paper clips, an old matchbox with no matches in it, three bus tickets, a silver threepenny piece, a partly used lipstick that she had forgotten she had owned and at least half a cigarette’s worth of tobacco flakes. Finally she found, crumpled into a ball, the note that Serridge had given her with Shires’ address and the time of her first appointment with him. She smoothed it out and laid it side by side with the pencilled notes from the writing box.

  The first was in ink and very short; the second was in pencil and not much longer. The handwriting wasn’t very distinctive, in any case – hundreds of thousands of people, perhaps millions, must have been taught to write like that. All she could say with any certainty was that they might have been written by the same person. And that the person might have been Joseph Serridge.

  A sense of urgency gripped her. She folded the two sheets of paper and tucked them into her handbag. She piled her own belongings on top of them, and felt happier when they were out of sight and the handbag was closed. She shovelled the rest of the items back in the box and returned it to its shelf.

  But closing the handbag and putting the box away didn’t obliterate what she had seen: Miss Penhow’s name, written over and over again, and that fragment of – what? A letter? An instruction? A lot depends on this, old man. You won’t let me down.

  Like falling dominoes, the thoughts led from one to the next, as if they had been queuing ever since she came here, waiting for this moment. Scraps of Mrs Alforde’s conversation rose up from her memory like unwanted ghosts: ‘making pen-and-ink sketches of the chimney pieces that Gerry’s uncle put in the drawing room and the library’; ‘forged several cheques, falsified the accounts and embezzled the mess funds’.

  And then there was her father returning from America where Miss Penhow’s letter had come from. Now he was living without visible means of support in Miss Penhow’s house. Except it was no longer Miss Penhow’s house; it was now apparently owned by Joseph Serridge.

  ‘Damn the man,’ she said aloud. How could her father have been so stupid? If he had forged a letter from Miss Penhow on Serridge’s behalf, that must mean one of two things: either Serridge knew that Miss Penhow was dead and he was trying to cover up the fact, or he had no idea where she was and was trying to avoid being accused of her disappearance. Either way, her father was an accessory to whatever Serridge had done and something was very wrong.

  The front door banged. Lydia’s pulse began to race. There were heavy and uneven footsteps on the stairs, followed by a tap on the door. When she opened it, she was almost relieved to find Malcolm Fimberry on the landing. At least he wasn’t Serridge.

  ‘Mrs Langstone, good evening. I’m glad to catch you in.’ It was a cold night but the sweat was running down his face. ‘I wanted to apologize.’

  ‘There’s nothing to apologize for.’

  ‘Oh but there is.’ He came up to her and laid his hand on her arm. ‘I cannot forgive myself for not warning you about the skull.’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter at all.’ Lydia brushed his hand away from her arm, casually as though it were a fly. ‘After all, I’d seen it before.’

  ‘Yes, but it must have been such a shock.’ He snuffled and swallowed noisily. ‘However, it was such a pleasure to see you there this afternoon. I wonder – would you allow me to show you the chapel itself?’

  ‘Thank you. But I’m—’

  ‘What about tomorrow afternoon? I shall still have the keys after the meeting’s over, you see. That would make everything much more convenient.’

  ‘I don’t think I can manage that.’

  ‘Oh, but Mrs Langstone, it really—’

  He stopped as they both heard the rattle of the front door again, followed by a confused fumbling in the hall and the sound of Serridge saying wearily, ‘God damn it.’ As soon as he heard his landlord’s voice, Fimberry backed rapidly away from Lydia as though he had suddenly realized that she was the bearer of an infectious disease.

  There were dragging footsteps in the hall below. Lydia came out of the room and went to the head of the stairs. Serridge was at the bottom, supporting her father.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Langstone,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘I’m afraid the Captain’s had one over the eight.’ He caught sight of Fimberry behind her. ‘Fimberry, come down and lend a hand, will you? It’ll be easier with two of us.’

  Lydia went into her father’s bedroom and straightened the bedclothes. The two men manhandled him upstairs. He was conscious, quite cheerful and rather sleepy.

  ‘On the bed?’ Serridge said.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Lydia edged away from him. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’ll live.’ Serridge nudged the bedroom door fully open. ‘Best thing for him now is sleep. If we hold him up, would you pull his coat off?’

  Ten minutes later, Lydia was alone with her father. He lay on his back, snoring loudly. She hung up his overcoat and jacket, removed his shoes and covered him with two blankets.

  When she had finished, she stared down at him on the single bed beneath the unshaded bulb dangling from the ceiling. He looked very peaceful. If he had been awake and reasonably sober, she would have had to sit down with him and demand an explanation for what she had found in the box. She would have had to argue with him, cajole him, upbraid him and condemn him. Instead she inserted the wooden trees into his shoes – he was particular about maintaining their shape – and slipped them under the bed. Her father’s snoring stopped. She looked down at him and saw that his eyes were open. He smiled sweetly at her, and she knew she was smiling back.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said.

  The eyelids slipped over the eyes like blinds over a window. He began to snore again.

  His watch had stopped. But Rory knew it must be later than he had thought. The windows of the house were in darkness. There were still lights downstairs at the Crozier, although the outer door that led to the bars was closed for the night. He paused on the corner by the pump, turning his head to and fro, looking for movement in the shadows and listening for sounds. He was always cautious now when coming back to the square after dark.

  Dawlish had taken him to the American Bar at the Savoy, where they had shared a bottle of champagne with a third man who had turned out to be a regular columnist on Berkeley’s. A decent chap, Dawlish – the better he knew him, the more obvious that was. It made everything more complicated.

 
; Rory walked slowly across the cobbles and let himself into the house. From somewhere above his head came the rhythmic drone of Captain Ingleby-Lewis’s snores. He followed the stairs to his own flat. He ought to be feeling tired but he was still wide awake, buoyed up by the excitement of the day and the fact that he now had at least the possibility of a future. Before he went to bed, he would have another go at the shorthand. He pushed the Yale into his door and let himself into the flat. Just as his hand touched the sitting-room switch, he registered the fact that there was an unexpected smell in the air.

  The tang of spirits.

  He brushed his hand down the switch and the room filled with the harsh glare of electric light. The first thing he saw was Joseph Serridge sitting in his armchair.

  ‘Look here,’ he said, stumbling over the words, ‘what are you doing in my flat?’

  ‘That’s a question I want to ask you, young man.’

  Rory glanced around the room. His books were askew. One of the drawers in the chest was half open. His writing case was on the table. Even the cover was off the typewriter.

  Serridge felt in his jacket pocket and produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the cap and drank. All the while his eyes remained on Rory’s face. He capped the flask and stowed it away.

  ‘What’s your dirty little game, Wentwood?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘Of course you do. You’re a reporter.’

  ‘Yes. I’m not working, though – as you know I’m looking for a job.’

  ‘Balls. Absolute balls.’

  ‘But it’s not,’ Rory said feebly.

  ‘Listen, Wentwood – if that’s your real name – you wormed yourself into this house. You—’

  ‘I needed somewhere to live,’ Rory put in. ‘I’m paying you rent. It’s as simple as that. And I wish you’d leave now.’

  Serridge glared up at him. ‘And you’ve been to Rawling. Not once but twice.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions. Who are you working for?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. A little bird told me that you went down to Rawling on behalf of a third party.’

  It couldn’t have been Narton, Rory thought feverishly, because he was dead. Mrs Narton? Rebecca? No, it must have been Gladwyn. According to Lydia, Serridge had been in Rawling yesterday. If the Vicar had come across him, he might well have mentioned Rory’s visits.

  ‘So are you doing it for love or money?’ Serridge went on. ‘Or both?’

  Rory did not reply.

  ‘Not Fenella Kensley, by any chance?’

  Rory sighed. ‘You know it is. You’ve been through my papers. May we stop playing games?’

  ‘Me?’ Serridge pantomimed surprise. ‘I don’t think I’m playing games. I’m not the one who’s been going around under false pretences and telling lies and making nasty accusations and insinuations.’

  ‘All I was trying to establish on behalf of Miss Kensley was where Miss Penhow is. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘So you’re not a journalist? Instead you’re a spy?’

  ‘It’s a private matter. It’s perfectly reasonable for Miss Kensley to want to know where her aunt is.’

  Serridge stood up. ‘I don’t know anything about that. All you need to know is I want you out of this flat and out of this house. And I don’t want you trying to talk to any of the other lodgers. For instance I don’t want to see you pestering Mrs Langstone any more. Got it? Just leave her alone or you really will regret it.’

  ‘You can’t really expect me to—’

  ‘Let’s say first thing Monday morning, shall we?’

  Serridge stretched out his arm and touched the top of a large gold-rimmed vase standing on the mantelpiece. He moved his finger an inch. The vase toppled over, falling to the tiled hearth. It shattered into a dozen fragments.

  ‘Dear me, Mr Wentwood,’ Serridge went on in the same level, almost monotonous tone. ‘Look what you’ve done. That was one of my mother’s favourites too. Rather valuable. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to return your deposit. And of course, as you’re leaving without notice, that means you forfeit your month’s rent in advance. Oh dear, dear.’

  Rory stared across the table and said nothing. Serridge stared back. He was standing directly under the electric light and the little bald patch on the back of his head gleamed pinkly.

  ‘And a word of advice, young man: that girl of yours is clearly a bit of a nutter. If I were you I’d steer well clear of Miss Kensley. Because what’s all the fuss about? Her auntie’s in America. Everyone knows that. And remember what I said about Mrs Langstone.’

  Serridge left the room. He closed the door gently behind him, which was worse than if he had slammed it. Rory listened to the heavy footsteps descending the stairs. His legs began to tremble. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He rested his head in his hands.

  Nothing had happened, he told himself, only a broken vase and a few threats. The bad news was that he would have to find somewhere else to live, but that wasn’t the end of the world. What was worse was the fact that Serridge had made the connection between him and Fenella. But there was no need to panic, he told himself – the thing to do was to concentrate on tomorrow. He mustn’t allow this business with Serridge to distract him from the Berkeley’s article.

  He pulled his notebook towards him and flipped through the last few pages until he found the few lines of shorthand he had managed to write this evening. He stared at the dense mass of grey squiggles. For all the sense they made, they might have been written in ancient Sanskrit or they might be a mass of microscopic animals under a biologist’s microscope.

  There was another odd thing, Rory thought – the way Serridge warned him away from Lydia. What did that suggest? That he had lined up Lydia as his next victim?

  Rory’s eyes travelled from the notebook to the typewriter. Its case was open. He distinctly remembered closing it before he went. He pulled the machine towards him. The light glinted strangely on the bars in the type basket. At least half a dozen of them had been pulled up and bent to one side or the other, so they looked like greasy spikes of hair after a man has scratched his head. He touched a key at random. Nothing happened. The machine was unusable. So how in hell’s name was he going to type his piece for Berkeley’s?

  He stared at the twisted bars of metal, and suddenly understood what they represented. Serridge was a man without boundaries. What he did to a machine he would do to a person.

  22

  You hold the diary up to your face. Is it your imagination or does it still smell faintly of his cigars? The smell clings to everything. It reminds you of Joseph Serridge, that and the smell of brandy.

  Saturday, 19 April 1930

  If only dear Jacko could talk. Every morning after breakfast, Joseph lights his first cigar of the day and goes out for what he calls his constitutional. Rain or shine, he takes Jacko for a walk down to the road. Usually the postman has been by then so he collects the letters from the box at the end of the drive and walks back.

  What worries me is that the letters are almost always for him. Once or twice there’s been a circular or something of that nature for me but nothing from the bank manager in reply to my letter last week and nothing from John. Nothing even from Miss Beale, who I know for a fact makes a point of replying to her letters on the very day she receives them.

  I never thought I would feel nostalgic for the dear old Rushmere but I do.

  I’m sure he’s got somebody else – he goes up to London so often and when he comes back, he won’t even look at me. He always sleeps downstairs now.

  Rebecca leaves today. Oh God. Please God, dear God, help me. Help me to know what to do.

  That’s why you smell the diary – to remind you of why you hate the smell of cigars, the smell of fear.

  Unfortunately Lydia was working at Shires and Trimble on Saturday morning. She would have to be particularly careful not t
o bump into Marcus or Rex Fisher on her way to and from the office.

  As she was crossing the square, she heard the door opening again behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Rory was walking rapidly towards her. He was unshaven and his hair was tousled. He wasn’t even wearing a coat.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ he said, breathing hard as though he had been running. ‘Something happened last night.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. At present, anyway. When I got back yesterday evening, I found Serridge waiting in my flat. Just sitting there with the lights off. He knows why I came here.’

  ‘About Fenella?’ Lydia felt the familiar twist of an emotion that couldn’t possibly be jealousy.

  ‘Gladwyn must have told him about my going to Rawling. I’ve got my marching orders. I have to be out by Monday.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  ‘Surely he has to give you more notice?’

  ‘He’s keeping my deposit, too.’ Rory swallowed. The cold had made the tip of his nose quite pink. ‘He – he broke a vase too – deliberately, I mean.’

  ‘He’s trying to intimidate you.’

  ‘He’s succeeded. The worst thing is, he wrecked my typewriter – bent the keys – which means I’m not going to be able to type up that piece about the meeting.’ Rory ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Still, that’s my problem.’

  ‘You can’t let him get away with that.’

  ‘I don’t have much choice.’ He smiled at her. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve a spare typewriter tucked away, have you? And there was something else – something that affected you. As a sort of Parthian shot, he said he didn’t want me pestering you any more. Or else I really would regret it.’

  ‘He has absolutely no right to say that sort of thing.’