Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘How does your mouth feel?’ she asked.

  The eyes flickered open. ‘Like a battlefield.’

  ‘Have you lost any teeth?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘One’s chipped.’

  ‘You’re going to have some bruising on your face. I’m not sure what to do about the ankle. Assuming it’s a sprain, we take off the shoe, bandage it up and raise it on a stool or something. The trouble is—’

  ‘No bandage, no stool,’ he said. ‘Also, if I take the shoe off I’m not sure I’m going to get it on again. Where are we? Is this where you work?’

  ‘Shires and Trimble are two floors up. I think I’m going to have to get help. You can’t walk out of here. You’ll need a taxi. The problem is we don’t want to get you out while Marcus might still be around.’

  He nodded. ‘And I’d better not go back to the flat.’

  ‘The others were going to Mecklenburgh Square.’

  ‘I know,’ he said absently. Then he looked sharply at her. ‘But you were with them, weren’t you – Fenella and Dawlish? And that old chap who stood up and started shouting.’

  ‘Mr Goldman. He’s a jeweller in Hatton Garden.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We hid in here. The Biff Boys thought we’d had time to get away.’ She didn’t mention Serridge, and how he and Howlett had lied to save them. It was an odd circumstance; it needed more thought.

  ‘I think they planned to get me from the start,’ Rory said. ‘As soon as the row started at the back of the hall, a couple of them near the front made a beeline.’

  ‘I was afraid of that.’

  He glanced up at her, and his eyes were bright with intelligence. ‘Is that why you came? To warn me?’

  ‘My sister told me Marcus was after you.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to avoid your husband.’

  She tried to ignore the embarrassment she felt. Rory was fiddling with a patch of grazed skin on his knuckles; perhaps he was embarrassed too. For a moment neither of them spoke.

  At last he lifted his head. ‘Thank you. He arranged the attack outside the house the other night too.’ He hesitated. ‘A case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I gathered from something your husband let slip that he thought I’d been – pestering you. He thought I was Fimberry.’

  ‘Poor Mr Fimberry,’ Lydia said automatically. ‘But why?’

  ‘He must have seen me in Fimberry’s room when I was helping Mrs Renton with the curtains. Has he always been like that? So – so possessive?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia thought of the shocked and bloody face of the amorous subaltern at the hunt ball and Marcus’s smirk when he threw the boy out of the house in front of Lydia and the servants. Desperate to change the subject, she said, ‘The other reason I wanted to see you was because of the typewriter.’ She was talking too quickly, and he was looking puzzled. ‘That’s why I’ve got the key to this house. There’s a cupboard on the landing upstairs outside our office, with an old typewriter inside. If you needed to use one over the weekend for your article, I thought you could use that. I know where they keep the key.’

  Rory stared at her as though seeing her for the first time. ‘You’re very kind,’ he said slowly. ‘Thank you. But listen – there’s something I need to tell you. I’m worried about your husband. He attacked me with a cosh.’

  ‘You’re safe here.’

  ‘No – I’m worried about him. I had to fight back however I could. I used the goat’s skull as a weapon. What happened to it?’

  ‘It’s still outside the chapel as far as I know. You dropped it. So you actually attacked him with it?’

  ‘I jabbed it in his face. I may have poked it in his eye. Possibly both eyes.’

  ‘He didn’t seem too badly damaged,’ Lydia said. ‘Judging by the way he was coming after you.’

  ‘I’ve never gone for anyone like that. Do you understand? It was like sinking down to their level.I – I didn’t feel quite human any more.’

  Lydia bit back the retort that Marcus had often had that effect on her too. ‘If it’s any consolation, I doubt Marcus is worrying about the damage he did to you. What Marcus does has to be right. That’s article one of his personal code.’

  He was staring at her. ‘You’re a strange mixture.’

  ‘What you’re thinking is that I’m bitter,’ she said. ‘I know it’s not a very endearing trait but believe me that’s what living with Marcus does to you.’

  At that moment it struck her that this was the strangest conversation to be having at this time and place, and with a man like Rory Wentwood. But she didn’t care any more, not about that sort of thing. She felt that she had earned the right to speak her mind. She thanked Marcus for that at least.

  She turned away from Rory and examined her face in the mirror over the basin. After the events of the last few hours, she was surprised how respectable she looked. A trifle pale and a trifle shabby, she thought, but you could take me almost anywhere. Aloud she said, ‘I’d better go and tell Mr Dawlish and Miss Kensley where you are. What’s the house number in Mecklenburgh Square?’

  ‘Fifty-three. You’ll probably have to go down to the area door.’

  It was a relief to be dealing with practicalities again. Lydia warned Rory about the danger of showing a light. She gave him a cigarette and left him smoking it forlornly on the lavatory.

  At the front door, she knelt to look through the letter box. The street lamp on the other side of the road was already alight. The muddy golden aura around the bulb holder was streaked with rain, and the roadway glistened with moisture. No one was about.

  She let herself out of the house and ran over to the wicket gate in Bleeding Heart Square. On the way, a puddle caught her unawares, soaking her shoes and ankles. In the square there were lights in the windows of her father’s sitting room and of the two ground-floor rooms – Mrs Renton’s and Mr Fimberry’s. As she approached the door of number seven, Mrs Renton’s curtain twitched.

  Upstairs, the sitting-room door was ajar, and she heard her father’s voice. He had a visitor. Marcus? She slipped across the landing and into her bedroom, where she opened the wardrobe as quietly as possible. She changed her stockings and shoes, found her umbrella and tiptoed back towards the stairs.

  The sitting-room door opened.

  ‘Lydia, my dear,’ Captain Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘There’s someone else to see you. We’re having quite a day, aren’t we?’

  The heartiness in his voice made her instantly suspicious. Marcus? Please God, not now, not ever. Her father’s articulation was clearer than it usually was at this time of day, which suggested that he hadn’t had as much to drink as usual.

  ‘Mrs Alforde dropped in. Come along.’

  Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be drawn into the room. Mrs Alforde was sitting in the armchair near the fire, bolt upright, prim and respectable, still wearing her hat.

  ‘There you are.’ She held up her cheek, inviting a respectful kiss. ‘And how are you?’

  Lydia said she was very well but unfortunately she had to go out on an urgent errand. While she was speaking, she remembered the letter for her father this morning. So that was why the envelope and the handwriting had seemed familiar: the letter had been from Mrs Alforde. In other words, there had been nothing accidental about this visit; it was by appointment. But what reason had Mrs Alforde to get in touch with her father?

  ‘Now, sit down, dear,’ Mrs Alforde said firmly, as though addressing a recalcitrant retriever. ‘I know you’re in a hurry but this won’t take a moment.’

  ‘I really can’t stay long.’ The oddities were adding up in her mind: the letter to her father, the cheek offered for a kiss, Mrs Alforde’s abstracted, even unfriendly behaviour on the drive back from Rawling the other afternoon.

  ‘Captain Ingleby-Lewis has been very worried,’ Mrs Alforde said serenely. ‘He came to see me this afternoon an
d we put our heads together.’

  ‘The thing is, old girl,’ Ingleby-Lewis began, patting Lydia’s arm, ‘one has to think of what’s right and proper, eh? A woman’s reputation is above rubies. Isn’t that what they say?’

  Mrs Alforde quelled him with a glance. ‘The point is, dear, the Captain’s very worried about your staying here. He feels quite rightly that it’s not a suitable neighbourhood for a lady.’

  ‘I’m not going back to Marcus,’ Lydia said. ‘My solicitor will be contacting him on Monday about a divorce.’

  Mrs Alforde’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t let the grass grow under your feet. Neither Captain Ingleby-Lewis nor I are saying that you should go back to your husband, even though let’s not rule out the possibility that perhaps in the long run you yourself may feel—’

  ‘If I’m sure of one thing,’ Lydia interrupted, ‘it’s that I’m not going back to Marcus. Ever. I thought I’d made that clear. And why.’

  She stared at Mrs Alforde until the older woman looked away.

  ‘Seems a nice enough chap to me,’ her father said. ‘Mind you, I’m not married to him, so I suppose I can’t say.’ He smiled approvingly at Lydia. ‘You must do as you please. I like a girl who paddles her own canoe.’

  ‘William,’ Mrs Alforde said quietly but with unmistakable menace. ‘Would you mind if I finished, as we discussed?’

  ‘Of course not. Mustn’t let my tongue run away with me, eh?’

  ‘We are agreed that your living here is simply out of the question,’ Mrs Alforde went on, with a hint of regality attached to her choice of personal pronoun. ‘But we accept that you don’t want to go back to your husband. However, there is a simple solution. You must come and stay with Gerry and me while this tiresome legal business is sorted out. There’s a perfectly good spare bedroom at the flat. It would be so much more – more comfortable for you. It’s not as if we’re strangers. After all, Gerry is your godfather and a sort of cousin too so it’s quite suitable.’

  ‘But I’m living with my father,’ Lydia said. ‘Surely that’s even more suitable?’

  Mrs Alforde stared at Captain Ingleby-Lewis, who sat up sharply, as though she had prodded him with a stick.

  ‘My dear Lydia, Hermione – Mrs Alforde – is quite in the right of it, I’m afraid. Much as I like having you here, it’s not really ideal for either of us.’ He ran his finger around his collar. ‘I’m sorry, my dear – it’s all agreed: you have to go.’

  Lydia stood up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Alforde asked.

  ‘I’m going out,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

  24

  Now you know what it was like for Philippa Penhow. Now you know the real price that had to be paid.

  Wednesday, 23 April 1930

  Shakespeare’s birthday. I was quite sure that today would be the day. Yet here I am, sitting on a fallen tree trunk on the footpath at the bottom of the meadow.

  Scribbling & crying & it’s raining.

  This morning I gave Joseph a skirt for alteration to take to Mrs Renton when he was next in Town, so he’d think everything was normal. But then a telegram came for him & he went out, saying he wasn’t sure when he’d be back& leaving the skirt behind. Lunch was late, & Amy brought bread & cheese in though I had ordered lamb cutlets & I’m sure I smelled them grilling. Amy said the master had eaten them last night. I KNOW that’s a lie.

  After lunch she carried the mirror from the spare bedroom up the attic stairs. When I asked her what she thought she was doing, she said the master told her that she could take it. I know what she’s up to. She wants to try on the finery he’s given her & prance up & down in front of the mirror & admire herself.

  I felt so angry I didn’t need to be brave. I put on my hat & coat, put my purse into my pocket & set off without giving myself time to think. I marched down to the barn & collected this diary. I walked across the meadow (not caring about the mud) & set off on the footpath to Mavering. I know the path gets there eventually – I remember Rebecca talking about it.

  But it has begun to rain, one of those violent April showers. I’ve a nasty blister on my left foot. I am sheltering under a tree. I took out my purse to count my money. I know I had thirty shillings in notes, as well as some change.

  But the notes & the silver have gone. All that is left is a handful of coppers – certainly not enough for the rail fare. That wicked, wicked girl has pilfered my money. I shall have to …

  You close the book. You don’t want to turn the page.

  The lavatory was not entirely dark because there was a light shining in the yard between number forty-eight and the house that backed on to it. Rory had found a stub of pencil in his jacket pocket and a couple of creased envelopes in his wallet. He tore an envelope apart and laid it on the window-sill. A faint, diffused light penetrated the frosted glass. He could hardly read the words he wrote.

  Not that it mattered. He scribbled faster and faster. He forgot about writing for Berkeley’s. He forgot about editors and readers and his hope of future commissions. The only thing that counted was the need to get the words on the paper.

  I have been working in India for five years, and found myself on my return in an unfamiliar political landscape. When I went to a small British Union of Fascists meeting on Saturday afternoon, I had few preconceptions and no political axe to grind. When I left the meeting less than an hour later, dragged out by a pair of Blackshirts, the arguments against Fascism were beginning to impress me. After the Blackshirts had imprisoned me, after they had beaten me and threatened to frame me as an armed troublemaker, the force of those arguments had become overwhelming. I suppose I should be grateful to the British Union of Fascists. I may not know much else about modern British politics but I am now able to say, with utter and absolute certainty, that I am anti-Fascist.

  Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union’s Deputy Director of Economic Policy, was the principal speaker. His purpose was to—

  A key turned in the front door. There were voices in the hall. Rory pushed the envelopes into his pocket and stood up, his weight on one foot like a stork. When the hall lights snapped on, his first thought was that it must be the Biff Boys or the caretaker. But he heard Lydia calling his name and relaxed.

  She had brought with her both Julian Dawlish and a taxi driver. The latter, an undersized man with an elderly bowler hat squashed on his head, ran an experienced eye over Rory and said, ‘Been in the wars, have we?’

  ‘Hurry,’ Lydia said. ‘Howlett may see the lights.’

  The driver and Dawlish helped Rory along the hall and into the back of the taxi waiting in Rosington Place. Lydia and Dawlish squeezed in beside him. The sky had filled with the dim, unearthly radiance of a London dusk. The rain was falling steadily.

  Dawlish looked out of the window towards the chapel. ‘There’s someone over there.’

  ‘It’s all right – it’s Mr Fimberry.’ Lydia wriggled in her seat.

  Dawlish rapped on the partition with his knuckles. ‘Drive on,’ he mouthed to the cabby.

  ‘He’s picking something up,’ Lydia said, puzzled.

  As the taxi drew away from the kerb, Rory glanced out of the window at the forlorn figure of Malcolm Fimberry on the chapel forecourt. ‘At least he’s rescued something from the wreckage.’

  ‘What is it?’ Dawlish asked.

  Rory was still watching Fimberry, bareheaded in the rain. He was cradling something. ‘It’s his skull,’ Rory said. ‘What’s left of it.’

  Fenella was waiting for them at Mecklenburgh Square. The four of them sat in the front room of the basement and drank strong, sweet tea flavoured with whisky.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Wentwood,’ Dawlish said. ‘I had no idea this would happen. I assumed they wouldn’t have the slightest idea who you were.’

  ‘Somebody made a mistake,’ Rory said. ‘Nobody’s fault.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Lydia said. ‘It was my husband’s mistake and his fault too. With the full
support of that ghastly organization he belongs to. What on earth do they think they’re playing at?’

  Nobody answered.

  Rory lit a cigarette. It was painful to smoke because his lips were swollen and split. ‘Is there a typewriter I can use?’

  ‘I can lend you one,’ Dawlish said.

  ‘Serridge wrecked mine,’ Rory explained. ‘Incidentally, he wants me out of the flat by Monday.’

  ‘Why?’ Fenella asked.

  ‘He thinks I’m a spy.’ He glanced at her, uncertain how she would react. ‘He thinks I’ve been ferreting around after Miss Penhow.’

  Dawlish frowned. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ Rory patted his jacket pocket. ‘I made a start on the article while Lydia was fetching you.’ He had used her Christian name without thinking, and he registered the fact that Fenella had noticed it. He didn’t care. The whisky was beginning to work on him, its effect accelerated by tiredness and shock. He felt light-headed and rashly omnipotent. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be rather personal in tone. In fact it’s one long scream of outrage.’

  ‘Where will you go when you leave your flat?’ Dawlish asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I expect you could stay here for a week or two. While you find your feet.’

  Fenella sucked in her breath and said nothing.

  Rory glanced at her. ‘That would be very kind but really I couldn’t—’

  ‘Why ever not? We’ve got all this space here. I don’t think the attics have been used for generations.’

  ‘Won’t the owner mind?’ Fenella said. ‘Shouldn’t we ask him first?’