Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘I don’t think right had anything to do with it. Anyway, I hope I—’ He broke off and glanced up at the blank windows of the house. ‘I’ll let you get on. We’ll talk about it later.’ He raised a hand in farewell and walked away.

  Lydia watched him for a moment. ‘Rory?’ He turned. ‘If I don’t see you beforehand, good luck at the meeting.’

  ‘Thanks.’ A smile spread over his long, sad face. ‘Thanks, Lydia.’

  There was the usual Saturday atmosphere of subdued merriment at Shires and Trimble. Mr Reynolds confided in Mr Smethwick that he was greatly looking forward to a concert on the wireless in the evening. Mr Smethwick reciprocated with the information that he had tickets for that new show at the Palladium. Miss Tuffley was going to the pictures as usual and then going to stay overnight with her married sister in Croydon. Everybody, it seemed, had plans except Lydia.

  At a quarter to ten, Mr Shires came in, shaking drops of water from his umbrella and complaining about the weather. ‘Reynolds,’ he said as he hung up his hat and his dripping raincoat, ‘I shall leave at midday today. I don’t want to get caught up in the fuss over the road.’

  ‘The Fascists, sir?’ Reynolds enquired.

  ‘Yes – I dare say there’ll be a lot of people milling around beforehand.’

  ‘Would you object if I go to the meeting, sir?’

  ‘Not at all. You must tell me what that chap Fisher says.’ Shires fumbled in his trousers for his keys. ‘All I know is that whoever is in power there’ll always be a need for lawyers. Good news for us, eh, Reynolds?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I thought I might pop along too, sir,’ Smethwick said. ‘There’s free tea and sandwiches.’

  ‘Good, good. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?’ Shires bustled over to his door. ‘When Mr Reynolds can spare you, Mrs Langstone, I’d like a word please.’

  Five minutes later, Lydia went into the private office. She found Mr Shires reading The Times. He nodded to her to close the door.

  ‘Well? Have you got Mr Langstone’s address for me?’

  She gave him an envelope containing the note she had written last night. ‘He’s staying at his club, I gather. I put that address first. Then there’s the London house underneath and also Longhope, though I doubt he’ll be going down to the country for a few weeks. Lord Cassington’s solicitors are Rowsell, Kew and Whiston of Lincoln’s Inn. I can’t remember the name of the firm the Langstones use but I’ll find out.’

  ‘They’re in London?’

  Lydia nodded. ‘By the way, he’ll probably be at the meeting over the road.’

  ‘Mixed up with the Fascists, is he?’ Shires leant back in his chair and tapped his teeth with his propelling pencil. ‘Then I assume you’re not going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I shouldn’t advise it. The less contact you have with your husband the better. All in all, it might be wise if you were to leave with me. I’ll find an errand for you.’ He paused for a moment and in that instant transferred her from one category of human being to another, from client to employee. ‘That will be all, Mrs Langstone.’

  Shortly after ten o’clock, a black van with a loudspeaker mounted on the roof drove slowly up Rosington Place. ‘Come and meet Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union’s Deputy Director of Economic Policy, at one o’clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Find out what British Fascism offers the British businessman. Join us for a cup of tea or coffee and a sandwich. God save the King!’

  At the end of Rosington Place, the van made a three-point turn at the gates and drove slowly back down to the lodge, repeating its message. It spent the morning driving around the vicinity, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, the announcer’s voice growing hoarser and hoarser. Mr Reynolds went down to the bank on the corner of Rosington Place and returned with the news that the van’s route included Clerkenwell, Farringdon Road, Holborn and beyond. He rubbed his hands together in a rare show of excitement. ‘They must be expecting quite a turnout.’

  Sitting by the window, Lydia and Miss Tuffley could hardly avoid noticing the activity outside the chapel. There was a disconcertingly domestic air about the proceedings. A plain van arrived. Lydia watched two young women, younger than Miss Tuffley, carrying plates of sandwiches into the cloister at the side of the chapel and flirting with the driver. Two men wheeled out a trolley laden with cups and saucers, but this had to be abandoned because of all the steps. The van with the loudspeaker drove up and down again with a slightly modified message. ‘The British economy should be for the British people. Your work deserves its reward. Let the British Union show the way at one o’clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Free coffee, tea and sandwiches.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Miss Tuffley. ‘There they are again. You know, the gents that came to see Father Bertram. You must come and watch. The younger one’s in uniform now.’

  Lydia stood to one side of the window so she could see but not be seen. Fisher’s big car had pulled up behind the van. Marcus was on the pavement; his black tunic and peaked cap made him look like a Ruritanian policeman. He was talking to Rex Fisher, who was dressed in a dark suit. A larger van, this one painted black, drew up behind the car. More Blackshirts emerged in an orderly file from the back.

  ‘Why are only some in uniform?’ Miss Tuffley asked. ‘They look much smarter than the chaps in civvies.’

  ‘The ones from the van are the Blackshirt Defence Corps,’ Lydia said.

  ‘So that nice one who was here the other day, the one talking with the other gent, he’s their sort of captain, is he?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  Miss Tuffley looked down at the group on the pavement. Slowly the enjoyment ebbed from her face. ‘You know, it doesn’t seem quite right, really. All those uniforms. Makes them look more official than they really are.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the point. Are you tempted to go?’

  Miss Tuffley shook her head. ‘I went to one of their meetings once. Some of the chaps look all right but they’re awfully boring once they start talking.’

  ‘Like so many men.’

  Miss Tuffley squealed with laughter. Mr Smethwick looked up, clearly wondering whether he was being mocked. Mr Reynolds clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth but said nothing.

  Lydia lowered her voice. ‘You don’t happen to know if there’s a typewriter I could use over the weekend?’

  ‘Here? They wouldn’t let you into the office. Mr Shires is ever so strict because of the files.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But there’s my old machine in the walk-in cupboard on the landing. It’s just sitting there gathering dust.’

  ‘Would they mind if I borrowed it?’

  ‘You couldn’t take it home, dear. Not by yourself. The nasty thing weighs a ton. You’d need about five of them Blackshirts to lift it.’

  ‘Could I get into the house?’

  Miss Tuffley glanced at Mr Reynolds, who was hunched over his ledger. She pulled out the drawer underneath the telephone switchboard. Among the scraps of paper and stubs of pencil was a Yale key with a pink ribbon tied to it. She looked at Lydia, making sure she had seen it.

  ‘Perhaps you happened to be looking for a rubber or something and you saw that,’ she said softly. ‘Perhaps it happened to fit the street door.’ She closed the drawer. ‘But don’t come when it’s dark if you can help it because Howlett or the caretaker might see the lights, and remember the cleaners get here at seven thirty on Monday. The other offices are the same – there’s usually no one here at the weekend.’

  ‘What about the cupboard?’

  ‘There’s a spare key on the ledge over the door – just run your hand along and you’ll feel it. You’ll either have to lift the typewriter down to the floor if you can, or stand up and use it on the shelf. Are you really sure you want to be bothered?’

  ‘Yes, quite possibly,’ Lydia said. ‘And thank you.’

  Miss Tuffley put her head on one side. ‘Well! I must
say you’re full of surprises.’

  Mr Shires was as good as his word. Shortly after midday, he emerged from his room with a large brown envelope in his hand. ‘Mrs Langstone, would you take this to the Inner Temple for me? I want you to deliver it by hand and right away. Mr Reynolds has given you your wages, I take it? Good. In that case you might as well leave now. I don’t think there’s any point in your coming back to the office afterwards.’

  The errand was genuine, and it was nearly one o’clock by the time Lydia reached Bleeding Heart Square. She avoided Rosington Place and walked round to the Charleston Street entrance by the Crozier. The van with the loudspeaker was still doing its work. ‘Find out what British Fascism can do for the British businessman. God save the King!’

  She let herself into the house. No one was in the hall. She looked through the little pile of letters on the table. There was one for her father. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, though it looked faintly familiar, as did the envelope itself. She took it upstairs.

  There were voices in the sitting room and she heard her father’s hoarse, croaking laugh. The old man had extraordinary powers of recuperation. She pushed open the door. He was standing astride the hearthrug, cigarette in hand – Turkish, judging by the smell in the air – shaved, combed, wearing his one good suit and his regimental tie, and looking every inch like an elderly but well-preserved gentleman with four thousand a year to live on and not a stain on his conscience.

  He looked up as Lydia came into the room. ‘My dear. Ah! There you are!’

  ‘There’s a letter for you, Father.’ She put it on the table.

  He dismissed it from his mind with a lordly wave of the cigarette. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had such a charming sister?’

  The back of the sofa had concealed Pamela. She scrambled up and fluttered towards Lydia, arms outstretched. ‘Darling! You look so frightfully businesslike. Your father says you’ve been working all morning.’ She swept Lydia into a soft, perfumed embrace and drew her over to the sofa to sit beside her. ‘Isn’t this nice? Your father and I have been getting along splendidly. We were just saying how strange it is we haven’t met before. After all, there’s no reason not to, not nowadays, when almost everyone one knows has these complicated families. Anyway, how are you? I must say you’re looking wonderfully well. Anyone would think you’d been to a health farm or something.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Lydia asked. ‘Is everything all right? How’s Mother?’

  ‘Oh you know – much the same as ever. Life just seems to bounce off her like water off a duck’s back.’ Pamela seized Lydia’s hand. ‘I expect you are dying to know why I’ve come.’

  Lydia banished the unworthy hope that Pamela had come to ask her out to lunch. ‘I expect you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘I’m engaged! Well and truly. Absolutely sign here on the dotted line and then love, honour and obey. It’s going to be in the papers next week, but I wanted to tell you first.’

  ‘Oh darling,’ Lydia said. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘Of course we shall.’ Pamela smiled at Captain Ingleby-Lewis. ‘And it’s only fair you should know before it’s announced too – after all, aren’t you my stepfather or something?’

  He took both her hands in his and stared down at her, just as a proud and happy stepfather or something should do. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy, my dear. You certainly deserve to be. And who is the lucky chap?’

  ‘Rex Fisher. He’s a friend of Marcus’s, actually.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ Captain Ingleby-Lewis said, ‘this calls for a celebration.’

  Simultaneously Lydia said, ‘Rex’s here today – at the meeting in Rosington Place.’

  Pamela glanced up, bright-eyed and as quick as a bird. ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘What?’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘At that Fascist affair? They’ve had that wretched loudhailer blaring away all morning. Woke me up.’

  ‘He’s the main speaker, actually. Rex is their Deputy Director of Economic thingummy.’

  ‘I remember. Saw the name on the posters. Isn’t he a bart?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pamela stubbed out her cigarette. ‘And it’s just as well he’s not a viscount or something because then I’d take precedence over Mother, which would absolutely infuriate her.’

  ‘Are you going to the meeting?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘No – Tony Ruispidge is home on leave and I promised Sophie I’d have lunch with them. To be honest, it’s not really my thing.’

  Somewhere a clock struck the half-hour.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘Is that the time? I’m afraid I shall have to dash. Got an appointment.’

  ‘It’s been lovely to meet you,’ Pamela said, holding out her hand.

  ‘My dear, the pleasure has been all mine. And I hope I shall be able to renew the pleasure very shortly. Goodbye, Miss Cassington.’

  ‘You must call me Pammy. Everyone else does.’

  ‘Pammy then. I’m not sure what you should call me. Uncle William, perhaps.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Or plain, homely William, even? Until we meet again.’

  He swept his overcoat off its hook, seized his letter from the table, set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and left the room. They listened to his footsteps going downstairs. The front door slammed.

  ‘I am so, so sorry,’ Lydia said.

  Pamela patted her hand. ‘You don’t need to be. He’s a pet.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s an awful man. He sponges off everyone, he’s an old soak, and he’s my father.’

  ‘All I can say is that he was very nice to me.’

  ‘He can put on an act for five minutes but that’s all it is. An act. He’s probably hoping you’ll persuade Mother to ask him to the wedding so he can get sozzled on Fin’s champagne.’ Lydia was suddenly aware that tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘Oh damn and blast it.’

  Pamela, nothing if not practical, opened her handbag and produced a freshly ironed handkerchief smelling of musk and flowers, Jean Patou’s Sublime. Lydia dabbed her eyes. Pamela kept hold of Lydia with one hand and opened the platinum cigarette case with the other.

  ‘There, that’s better. Try one of these. I’m not sure I like them very much but they’re meant to be frightfully good. Rex has a little man who makes them up for him.’

  Automatically Lydia took a cigarette. ‘To be fair, he’s given me a home.’ She remembered yesterday evening, when she had settled him down for the night. ‘And he can be very sweet sometimes.’

  Pamela clicked her lighter and Lydia bent her head over the flame.

  ‘You know Marcus is at the meeting too?’

  Lydia inhaled and sat back nodding. ‘I saw him this morning.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘No. Thank God.’

  ‘You’re very bitter,’ Pamela said gently.

  ‘There’s a good reason for that. In fact there are several.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me?’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘Another time perhaps. Are you really sure about Rex?’

  ‘I know you don’t like him, but yes, I am. We understand each other, you see. I know what he wants and he knows what I want.’

  ‘If it doesn’t work out, you can always come and share my room here.’

  Pamela giggled. ‘That would be lovely. We could become chorus girls or something. And we’d have rich protectors, awfully vulgar but with hearts of gold, and they’d simply dote on us.’ Without warning, which was characteristic of her, she changed the subject. ‘So you’ll have seen Marcus in his uniform? He looks frightfully dashing. I say, he’s convinced you’ve got a boyfriend. Is it true? Do tell – I won’t breathe a word. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because it’s not true.’

  ‘You’re going pink on your cheekbones, darling. That always means you’re lying. You’re a dark horse, I must say. Anyway, I don’t want to know. Or rather I do but there’s no immediate hurry. The thing is, Marcus thi
nks you have. He got some of his toughs to warn him off. Did you know they call them the Biff Boys because they go around biffing people? It makes them sound like some dreadful music hall act but really it’s not very nice, is it? I heard Marcus telling Rex they were interrupted and he’s going to get them to finish biffing up the boyfriend if there’s another chance. That’s why I thought I’d better pop in. Not that I didn’t want to in any case.’

  ‘So it was Marcus. I thought it probably was.’

  ‘Ah – so there is someone.’

  ‘No, there isn’t. Anyway, what gave him the idea?’

  ‘Apparently your father told him that somebody had been hanging round you in a rather objectionable way.’

  ‘But if anyone fits that description, it’s poor Mr Fimberry. Not – not the one who was attacked.’

  ‘So you’ve got two? How super.’

  ‘I haven’t even got one. Mr Fimberry’s a bit tiresome but there’s no harm in him. He certainly doesn’t deserve to be beaten up. His nerves are all to pieces.’

  ‘That won’t help him if Marcus gets hold of him. So you’re saying Marcus has got the wrong one?’

  ‘I keep telling you, there isn’t one to get,’ Lydia snapped. ‘And yes, he has got the wrong one. If I did have one, I mean. Oh damn. Typical bloody Marcus.’

  ‘All I can say, darling, you’d better tip the wink to your young man who isn’t your young man. If he’s planning to be at the meeting, he should watch out. The Biff Boys are jolly good at keeping order, you know. When they’ve roughed him up to their satisfaction, they’ll probably pop a knuckleduster in his waistcoat pocket and claim he’s a communist agitator. But he’s not going to the meeting, is he?’

  ‘Oh yes, he is,’ Lydia said. ‘He’ll probably be sitting in the front row taking notes.’

  ‘They look like Girl Guides,’ Fenella said. ‘Only bigger and blacker.’

  She and Julian were standing in the cloister by the doorway into the undercroft. Rory was a couple of yards behind them. They had a view of the line of trestle tables running parallel to the west wall of the undercroft. The tables had been covered with white cloths. They were laden with crockery, urns, teapots and food – sandwiches, a great vat of soup and plates of biscuits. Between the tables and the wall were half a dozen women Blackshirts repelling those members of the audience who wanted to start their lunch without delay.