Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘They’re doing quite well, thank you, ma’am. And how’s the Colonel keeping?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, thank you, Rebecca. I know he would have liked to have come today, but he’s not in the best of health.’

  In the lull between courses, Lydia excused herself and left the room. She went to the lavatory that opened off the hall. She wanted time to think. There were too many apparent coincidences. There had to be an underlying pattern. Her father had inherited Morthams Farm from old Mrs Alforde. He had sold it to Serridge, who had used Miss Penhow’s money to buy it and had moved in with her. Miss Penhow had gone. Her father had gone away too, but now he was living at Bleeding Heart Square, in the house apparently owned by Mr Serridge but which had formerly belonged to Miss Penhow.

  But there was another layer of connections that added further complications. Her own parents had met at Rawling Hall, and she herself had presumably been conceived there. And now here she was, nearly thirty years later, brought here by the current Mrs Alforde, who had originally approached her at the instigation of Lydia’s mother.

  She flushed the lavatory, washed her hands and went back to the hall, where she met Rebecca bringing in the pudding. In the dining room the Vicar was mourning the good old days.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Alforde said, breaking into a lament for Christmas Past. ‘The Hall was impossible in the winter. There is a great deal to be said for central heating.’

  Mr Gladwyn shook his head slowly. ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new.’

  ‘Dear Lord Tennyson,’ said Mrs Alforde tartly. ‘Not a man with much sense of humour and not an optimist either. By the way, talking of people without much sense of humour, what are we going to do about Margaret Narton?’

  There was a low rumbling from Mr Gladwyn which Lydia at first took for flatulence but a moment later realized was laughter. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘From what you say, her only source of income must be her wages from those dreadful people up at the Hall – all high thinking and low living, I understand, and not very good at paying their bills.’

  Gladwyn grunted. ‘She’s not in the best state of health, either.’

  ‘She’s not old. She can’t be much more than forty-five. Such a shame: she was rather attractive when she was younger.’

  ‘She’s very devout.’ Mr Gladwyn frowned. ‘Almost worryingly so.’

  ‘Dear me,’ Mrs Alforde said. ‘Anyway, I shall make enquiries. Gerry feels very strongly about not abandoning former servants in their hour of need. What I should really like is to find a more suitable position for her, and possibly lighter work too. Tell me, is Mr Gregory still the caretaker of the village school?’

  ‘Yes, yes he is.’

  ‘He must be nearing eighty by now. Perhaps retirement is indicated. Gerry is chairman of the trustees, as you know, and with your support it should be quite straightforward.’

  ‘We’ve never had a woman as the caretaker of the village school.’

  ‘The old order changes, Vicar. No reason why we shouldn’t. Old Gregory does nothing more arduous than lock up and occasionally sweep the leaves. And Mrs Narton would be able to help with the indoor cleaning too, which is something Gregory would never dream of doing.’

  ‘It’s certainly an idea,’ conceded Mr Gladwyn. ‘If you think she’d be up to it.’

  Mrs Alforde turned to Lydia. ‘If you don’t mind, I shall go and see Mrs Narton after coffee. What would you like to do?’

  ‘I might go for a walk,’ Lydia said. ‘Look, the sun’s come out. It’s an omen.’

  ‘I’m not sure Mr Gladwyn approves of omens,’ Mrs Alforde said.

  The sun was still shining when Lydia and Mrs Alforde left the Vicarage. They parted at the gate, Mrs Alforde turning right towards the Nartons’ cottage, and Lydia turning left, which took her past the pub and the church.

  Walking on, she caught sight of the Hall on the low ridge that raised it above the farmland and village. The park looked unkempt and one of the lodge gates had parted company with its hinges and was lying on its side in the ditch. She turned and retraced her steps through the village. She had felt a certain delicacy about mentioning to Mrs Alforde where she really wanted to go.

  The roof of a small barn appeared in the distance, on the far side of a field. She glanced up and down the lane. No one was in sight. She went through the field gate and followed the line of the boundary hedge.

  The barn was exactly as Rory had described, with the boarded windows, the heavily guarded double doors at the front, and the single door standing ajar at the back. Once she was inside, her enthusiasm for what she was doing abruptly dwindled. A girl and her baby had died in this place, alone and probably in pain. She told herself not to be foolish and lit a cigarette to drive away the ghosts. Then she stripped off her gloves, stood on tiptoe and felt along the top of the wall until her hand touched something smooth and hard. She wrapped her fingers around it and lifted it down. It was the skull of a lamb, an exhibit in Robbie Proctor’s private Golgotha, his personal ossuary. She put the skull back and continued to run her hand along the wall, palpating with her fingertips, feeling the outlines of skulls small and large.

  At the end of the ledge, tucked in the corner where it ran into the gable wall, she came to another shape and a different texture – something which had rectangular corners, and which felt both warmer and smoother to the touch than the skulls had done. She ran her fingers over and around it. A small box. She lifted it down and discovered that it was very light and that something shifted inside when she moved it. The box was grey with dust and old cobwebs. She brushed away the worst of the dirt with a handful of straw. It had once held cigars and there was still a label attached to it.

  Lydia took the box to the window opening in the nearest gable wall and held it in the light that streamed between two of the planks. She turned it upside down, and something rattled inside. She read the label and the stamp on the bottom. The box had once contained Jamaican cigars from Temple Hall, which proudly proclaimed itself ‘the original Cuban settlement’. According to another label on the side, the cigars had been bought at the Army and Navy Stores. She flicked up the lid and parted the leaves of the paper lining inside. The interior was empty apart from a broken pencil about three inches long.

  She frowned at it, a sense of anticlimax washing over her. For an instant she had thought there would be something inside that would miraculously resolve the whole messy business: something she could show to Rory with the words, ‘There – I’ve done it.’

  A broken pencil?

  Lifting the box, its lid still open, she sniffed it. Faint but unmistakable, the aroma of ghostly cigars touched her sense of smell, unlocking a tangled mass of memories: of Fin after dinner in the library at Monkshill; of Marcus at their wedding breakfast, swooping down to kiss her, his moustache as bristly as a toothbrush; and of other cigars in other places at other times, down the long and misty perspectives of childhood.

  At that moment the small door behind her slammed into its frame and she heard a scraping and thumping on the other side of it. She dropped the cigar box, ran to the door and tried to push it open. It didn’t move.

  19

  She’s acting like a prisoner now, isn’t she? It’s not just Serridge who’s keeping her there, it’s herself, her sense of shame – she’s terrified that people will find out not just what a fool she’s been but that she, Miss Philippa Penhow, has fornicated with a man who is not her husband.

  Sunday, 13 April 1930

  I am walking about the farm much more. I am trying to become hardier, and more used to walking on mud, etc. The country is such a very uncomfortable place. There are sometimes cows in the fields, and a horse tried to attack me the other day. Joseph said it was just being friendly.

  I wonder if I could walk as far as Mavering.

  I’m sure Joseph has been looking at Amy more than he should. I have heard them giggling together once. It is so DEMEANING. I a
ctually said something to him about it but he told me not to be a fool, and was really quite rude.

  Worst of all, Rebecca has handed in her notice. She said the farm is too lonely for her and she needs to be nearer her family. I think she senses that something is wrong here.

  I have found a safe place to keep my diary. I daren’t leave it in the house. I’m sure Joseph is going through my things. Two of my rings have vanished. It might have been one of the maids but I think it’s him.

  And there’s another reason why she stays: mad though it is, in some part of herself she’s still hoping, against all the evidence, that there will be a happy ending.

  Hunger is one of the most powerful arguments in the world. That was the main reason why Rory found himself walking up Doughty Street to Mecklenburgh Square at five to one. He had already spent his allowance for the week. Any sort of lunch would be better than none, and pride was a luxury reserved for those with full stomachs.

  Number fifty-three was on the north side of the square, one of a terrace of tall, stately Georgian houses which had seen better days. Rory opened the gate in the railings, went down the area steps and knocked on the basement door. It was opened by Julian Dawlish, who was holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other.

  ‘Glad you could come, Wentwood.’ He stood back to allow Rory into the house. ‘Fenella is hacking things up in the kitchen, and I’m in charge of liquid refreshment. It’s going to be a sort of indoor picnic in the primitive style. Can’t manage cocktails yet but do you fancy a spot of whisky? There’s gin if you prefer, and I think there’s some beer somewhere.’

  ‘Thanks. Whisky, please.’

  Fenella appeared in a doorway at the end of the hallway. She was wearing a long apron stained with what looked like blood. ‘Rory, how lovely.’ She held up her cheek to be kissed. ‘I opened a tin of soup and it sort of exploded. Give him a drink, Julian, while I lay the table.’

  They were acting just like a bloody married couple already, Rory thought savagely, as he followed Julian Dawlish into a sparsely furnished sitting room at the front of the house. Dawlish splashed whisky into another glass and handed it to Rory.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘What a hole. Help yourself to soda.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Rory said stiffly. He squirted soda into his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheerio.’ After they had drunk, Dawlish went on, ‘It will look very different once it’s properly decorated and the curtains are up. Fenella is going to move some of her own stuff in. It will be very snug, I think.’ He snapped open his cigarette case and held it out. ‘Smoke?’

  They lit cigarettes and sat down opposite each other on hard chairs. They both drank more whisky. Rory was nervous and he drank faster than usual. Before he knew what was happening, Dawlish had topped up his glass again.

  ‘How’s the job-hunting going?’ Dawlish asked.

  ‘So-so,’ he said, feeling a warm glow suffusing itself through his stomach.

  ‘Do you do any freelancing?’

  ‘I’ve not had much time to look into that. One needs the contacts, you see. And having been in India …’

  ‘Yes, of course. And it’s damned hard these days, I imagine, finding the openings. But would you be interested, in principle?’

  The second whisky was rapidly joining the first. ‘I’d go for it like a shot.’

  ‘Because I might be able to put you on to something. If you’re interested, that is.’ Dawlish smiled apologetically – he had to a fine art that knack of making it seem that you were doing him a favour by allowing him to do you a favour. ‘Pal of mine edits a magazine. A weekly. I know he’s always looking for good stuff. Every time I see him he goes on about how hard it is to find reliable contributors.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Berkeley’s.’

  ‘I know.’ Of course he knew of Berkeley’s, a magazine that specialized in political analysis and cultural reviews. Lord Byron had probably read it. So had Gladstone. So did everyone who was anyone except for dyed-in-the-wool Tories, whose reading was confined to the Morning Post.

  ‘Interested?’ Dawlish said.

  ‘Very much so. But I’m not sure what I can offer.’

  ‘Ah,’ Dawlish said. ‘I think you underestimate yourself. Look, it’s easier if I put my cards on the table. This could do you a good turn, but it could do me a good turn too.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I know the editor is interested in how the Fascists work in this country. Their recruiting, their propaganda and so on. As you know the magazine, you’ll appreciate they’re – well, let’s say sceptical about Fascism and all its works. There’s the meeting coming up in Rosington Place at the end of the week. Now that’s interesting, because it shows that Mosley is trying to target the business community in particular. He’s not a fool – he realizes he’s not going to get anywhere without financial backers, without substantial support from the City – not just the big guns but the little fellows too. And a lot of his sponsors were put off by the violence in Earls Court in June. The iron fist was a little too obvious, if you follow me. So if you were to write a piece of say a thousand or fifteen hundred words about the meeting, showing how they’re trying to recruit support, I think that could be interesting. And if there’s anything I can do to help, just ask.’

  He leant forward with the whisky bottle. Rory held out his glass.

  ‘You’re assuming I would take a critical slant?’

  Dawlish smiled. ‘I’m assuming you’d report what you saw and heard in an accurate and interesting way. Fenella showed me some of your cuttings. She’s got a scrapbook, you know.’

  Rory tried to remember what he had sent her. There must have been the usual drivel he wrote for the South Madras Times – pieces on receptions and cricket matches, court cases and anecdotes. Samples of the jobbing work of a provincial journalist.

  ‘What particularly interested me were the ones on the Congress Party. There was one on the consequences of the Gandhi–Irwin Pact, I remember, and another on Gandhi’s work with the untouchables. It’s a shame there weren’t more like that.’

  ‘They didn’t go down well with all our readers,’ Rory said. ‘Nor with the editor. I only got some of the pieces through because he was on leave. But they weren’t political in stance. I was only reporting what was actually happening.’

  ‘I don’t think Berkeley’s would mind that sort of reporting. In fact I think they’d rather like it. It’s a fresh eye, the outsider’s perspective. Have you got a typewriter, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  There were footsteps outside. ‘Lunch is served,’ Fenella said. ‘Bring your glasses.’

  Fear smothered her like black treacle, making it hard to breathe and impossible to think. She tried the door again. It wouldn’t move. She ran to the window and peered through a gap between the planks. All she could see were dying nettles and a stretch of ragged hedgerow. She opened her mouth to call for help and then closed it.

  There were two possibilities: either a sudden gust of wind had improbably blown the door shut and somehow wedged it, or somebody had closed it deliberately with the intention of making her a prisoner. If she called out, the only person likely to hear would be her captor – assuming there was a captor.

  Lydia had been standing with her back to the doorway looking at the cigar box. Nobody could have closed the door without seeing her inside. Why shut her in? She tried to think it through but there was not an obvious answer.

  Sooner or later, she told herself firmly, she would be missed. She had been seen in the village. She had little doubt that Mrs Alforde would organize a search party, and little doubt that Mrs Alforde would find her. It was tiresome – not least because it was growing colder – but surely nothing to worry about.

  In the depths of her mind, however, more malign possibilities were stirring. A mother and baby had died in this nasty little barn. It was a place that aroused strong emoti
ons. As the minutes passed, she found it harder and harder to be entirely rational. The light was fading, and she thought she heard rustlings in the straw and saw minute movements on the very edge of her range of vision.

  And were there rats too?

  ‘Help! Is there anyone there? Help!’ She waited by the window, and then tried again, crying out the same words that were flat and useless because there was nobody to hear them.

  Lydia’s throat was growing sore. There were half a dozen smoke-blackened bricks in one corner of the barn, perhaps a makeshift hearth for a tramp or even Amy Narton. She lifted one of them. Holding it in both hands, she banged it against the planks of the door. And again, and again, and again. The door didn’t budge and showed only the smallest indentations under the rain of blows.

  The rough surface of the brick was chafing her hands. She put on her gloves again and kept hammering as rapidly as she could. The brick grew heavier, her arms more tired and her hands more painful. Each time she hit the wood, she gasped; and she had the strange, uncomfortable thought that Amy Narton must have made similar rhythmic sounds in the last desperate hours of her short life.

  Finally, her strength gave out. She took a step back and dropped the brick, which fell with a dull thud to the earth floor. Her arms were trembling. The blood pounded in her veins and her throat was dry. She was slightly deaf. The brick had ruined the gloves, in places cutting through the kid leather and digging into her skin beneath. She held up her hands to the light from the window. There were smears of grime and blood on the pale leather. At least she was warmer. She would rest her arms for five minutes, she decided, and then try again.

  It was then that she heard somebody rattling the door. The emotion that surged through her was panic, not relief – suppose it was her captor coming back? She bent down and seized the brick. Light flooded into the barn, making her blink. It must be earlier in the afternoon than she had thought. The doorway was almost filled by a large, bear-like silhouette.