His ears had caught the rattle of the tea things in the hall. Rebecca shouldered open the door and wheeled in a trolley. It was a generous tea, with hot-buttered crumpets, two sorts of cake and two sorts of sandwiches, as well as bread and butter. Mrs Alforde poured and Mr Gladwyn handed round the cups, the sandwiches and a little later the cake. At first there was not a great deal of conversation. Mrs Alforde concentrated on eating, and so did Mr Gladwyn. Lydia picked at a sandwich and drank two cups of tea.
By the time he had reached his third cup of tea, Mr Gladwyn had time for his conversational duties as a host. ‘Yes, Golgotha,’ he said. ‘A foolish mistake of mine – though I suppose it’s natural that a clergyman should hear Golgotha rather than taffeta. Curiously enough –’ here he leant back in his chair and stretched out his legs ‘– it reminds me of rather a good story that went the rounds when I was up at Cambridge. There was a gallery in the university church, you know, which was where the heads of houses sat. And we undergraduates always called it Golgotha because it was the place of the skulls or heads.’ He paused and beamed at them, preparing them for the climax. ‘And of course we young wags used to say that Golgotha was the place of empty skulls.’
He glanced from one face to another, clearly expecting a suitable response. Lydia managed a smile, and hoped that her expression implied that she was suppressing with difficulty an almost overwhelming desire to laugh immoderately.
Mrs Alforde merely set down her cup on the table and reached for her cigarettes again. Lydia realized that she had not been listening to a word that Mr Gladwyn was saying.
Neither of them spoke much on the drive back to London. Lydia was glad of this for several reasons, not least because it was dark and both Mrs Alforde’s driving and her temper had become even more erratic. They reached Bleeding Heart Square a little after seven o’clock. Mrs Alforde stopped the car outside the house.
‘Would you like to come in for a drink?’ Lydia asked, glancing up at the facade of the house, at the lighted windows on the first floor; the top-floor windows were dark. ‘It looks as if Father’s in.’
‘No, no, thank you,’ Mrs Alforde said, too baldly for politeness. ‘I must get back to Gerry.’
Lydia was relieved, partly because she wasn’t sure what state either her father or the flat would be in, and of course finding something to drink might be difficult. She thanked Mrs Alforde, who in turn thanked Lydia for keeping her company and hoped that she had not found Rawling too dreary. She murmured something about getting in touch soon and drove off rather quickly.
That night Lydia slept badly, skimming on the surface of unconsciousness, moving in and out of dreams which never made sense enough to be frightening but which left her profoundly uneasy. There was too much to think about. Sometimes she thought she heard dance music, and at other times a woman crying and the sound of Mr Gladwyn’s measured voice as the mourners clustered around Narton’s open grave. And what had happened to Mrs Alforde? She had seemed almost hostile on the way home. She badly needed to talk to Rory. If only he had been at home. And that in itself was a thought that made her restless because it took very little to imagine him with Fenella Kensley instead.
By half past five, she had given up trying to sleep. She lay in a huddle, to conserve warmth, while her mind roved among the events of yesterday. Everything has an explanation, she told herself, and somewhere in the world is the one that fits all this.
At half past six, cold and thirst drove her out of bed. It was still dark. She washed sketchily in cold water from the jug, dressed, put on the kettle and went into the sitting room. The curtains were still drawn from the previous evening. She pulled them aside because the room caught the best of the morning light when at last it came. She lit the gas fire and went back to make the tea.
When she returned, the room was warmer. The sky was very slightly lighter towards the east now. She lingered at the window, warming her fingers on the cup. A heavy bird fluttered past and glided towards the old pump on the corner by the Crozier. There were other birds there already, perching awkwardly on the pump handle and pecking at something. When the new arrival joined them, there was a great flurry of wings as though the newcomer were not a welcome guest.
Lydia huddled over the fire, drank her tea and smoked the first cigarette of the day. What on earth were the birds doing? She had never seen them there before. When she had finished the tea, she went back to the window. The birds were still outside by the pump.
She put on her coat and hat, went downstairs and opened the front door. As she approached the pump, the birds scrambled into the air. They were big, black crows and not in a hurry to leave. She glanced over her shoulder at the house behind her. All the windows except her own were still in darkness. But she thought she caught a movement at Mrs Renton’s window on the right of the front door, the merest glimpse of grey smudge behind the glass, a possible face.
She drew nearer the pump. A rusty nail protruded from one of the supports of its dilapidated wooden canopy. Hanging from it was a long and slightly twisted metal meat skewer with a ring at one end. The skewer had been driven through a lump of matter the size of a misshapen tennis ball. Or an overripe orange from Covent Garden with Hitler’s picture on the label, or a russet from one of the old trees in the Monkshill orchard, or a very large egg from a bird or reptile.
The ring had been looped over the head of the nail, and tied to it was a brown luggage label. Lydia touched the label gently with her finger. There was only one word on it and, as the nausea rose in her throat, she knew what it would be before she made out the letters: Serridge.
20
You notice that the entries near the end look different from those near the beginning. All the London ones are written in ink, as are the first few entries at Morthams Farm. And the very first ones are much more neatly written than those that come later. At the start, Philippa May Penhow is writing to impress an invisible posterity. Then she writes for herself, because she wants to. These last entries are in pencil and the handwriting wobbles all over the place. Those were the ones she wrote after she moved the diary from the house.
Finally, at the end, where in places the words are almost impossible to make out, she writes in a rapid, almost illegible scrawl because she has no one else to talk to, and she’s desperate.
Monday, 14 April 1930
Last night was a full moon & it kept me awake. Joseph didn’t come up. As the sun rose, I slept & did not wake till after nine o’clock. When I came downstairs Joseph had left the house. Rebecca said that he had told them to wait until I was down before clearing away the breakfast things. On the table was a bunch of daffodils in a vase, and on my plate a little envelope with my name on it in my darling’s hand. ‘My sweet love, forgive your little boysie for upsetting you. I tiptoed out of the house this morning so as not to wake you. Your loving Joey.’
Oh how could I have doubted him?
He came back for lunch with little Jacko at his heels & two dead rabbits. He had shot them himself this morning. Jacko was smelly and dirty after his morning’s fun, and I told him he could not come into the house until Amy had washed him under the tap in the scullery!
A bunch of daffodils and a snatch of baby talk – and she comes running back into his arms again. But not long now. You are counting the days.
‘Now look here, Byrne. What’s it to you?’
Mr Byrne, who had been sweeping sawdust, propped his broom against the wall of the Crozier and put his hands on his hips. He scowled at Serridge. ‘It’s next to my pub. That’s what it’s got to do with me.’
‘It’s not there now.’
‘But it was. And having that bloody disgusting thing hardly a yard from the door is hardly going to encourage trade, is it?’
Rory waited on the doorstep of number seven.
‘I shouldn’t think it would have much effect one way or the other,’ Serridge said coldly. ‘It’s not your pump. It belongs to the freeholders.’
‘I’m a ratepayer, aren’t I
?’ Mr Byrne had leant forward, unmistakably hostile. His bald head was like a blunt instrument. ‘My old woman nearly had a fit when she saw what them birds were pecking at.’
‘Don’t see why. She hangs out bacon rind for the bloody blue tits.’
‘That’s not the same – anyone can see that. Look, someone round here is off his head. And the label had your name on it, Mr Serridge – you remember that.’
Serridge stood there, not giving an inch either literally or metaphorically. His overcoat was open and his hands were deep in his trouser pockets; he had a cigar in the corner of his mouth and his hat on the back of his head. He looked like a farmer confronting an irritable porker.
‘None of your bloody business,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘You’re just the brewery’s tenant.’
At the sound of Rory’s footsteps, the other men glanced towards him.
But the porker wasn’t so easily put off. ‘You’ve been having quite a little problem with these hearts, I’m told,’ Byrne said to Serridge, and as he spoke he came half a pace closer. ‘Parcels in the post from what I hear.’
‘Who told you that?’ Serridge snapped.
‘The Captain.’
‘And you believed him? I thought you had more sense.’
‘I believed him because he was telling the truth, Mr Serridge. And what interests me is why haven’t you been to the police about it? I mean, somebody’s making a nuisance of themselves. And maybe somebody’s trying to tell you something.’
‘Nonsense.’
Rory had reached the corner now and was skirting the two men by the pump. He was on his way to the Central Library, where they had a back file of Berkeley’s. Later, in the afternoon, he wanted to practise his shorthand skills. He wouldn’t have much time in the evening because he was meeting Dawlish for a drink.
‘Hey, there – Mr Wentwood. You know about these hearts, don’t you?’
‘Which hearts?’
‘The ones that Mr Serridge here has been getting in the post.’
Serridge turned towards Rory, towering over him, his face impassive. He didn’t need to say anything.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Byrne,’ Rory said. ‘I don’t look at Mr Serridge’s post. Only my own.’
‘Because he knows it’s none of his business,’ Serridge said, turning back to Byrne. ‘He’s not a fool, unlike some I could mention.’
There was a crack as the latch rose on the gate from Rosington Place. The wicket opened and Nipper scampered into Bleeding Heart Square, followed by Howlett.
‘Morning, gents. I thought I heard your voices.’
‘Mr Howlett,’ Byrne began. ‘It’s got to stop.’
‘What has?’
‘We’ve got someone with a nasty mind playing pranks around here. It’s not nice. If my little girl had seen what was left on the pump this morning, it would have given her nightmares.’
‘Good morning, Mr Howlett,’ Serridge said. ‘How do?’
Howlett touched his hat. ‘All right, sir.’
‘Suppose Byrne here tells you what’s on his mind. Once he’s got it off his chest, maybe he’ll feel better.’
‘Bloody disgusting,’ Byrne said. ‘That’s what it is. Jesus Mother of God, someone needs their head examined.’
Howlett listened gravely while the landlord explained what had been left on the pump and what Captain Ingleby-Lewis had told him about Serridge’s parcels. Nipper cocked his leg against the corner of the pump and squirted urine over the side of the stone basin. Rory tried to slip away but Serridge wrapped a hand around his arm. He squeezed it so firmly that Rory winced.
‘Mr Wentwood lives in my house, Howlett – if you want to ask him, he’ll soon tell you this business about parcels is nonsense.’
‘You let me know if it happens again, Mr Byrne,’ Howlett said at last when Byrne had finished. ‘And I’ll keep my eyes open, don’t you worry about that. If you ask me it’s some boy’s prank. If I catch him at it, I’ll take a strap to him and then I’ll hang him up there to rot instead.’
Sitting at her desk by the window, Lydia Langstone glanced down into Rosington Place and saw Rory Wentwood standing outside the chapel and looking up at the great east window. In the background, Miss Tuffley’s voice rose and fell, swooped and dived, just as it had done all afternoon and did every afternoon unless Mr Reynolds stopped her. She was talking about films at present, comparing Robert Donat in The Count of Monte Cristo with Leslie Howard in The Scarlet Pimpernel. Miss Tuffley wasn’t stupid. She concentrated her romantic urges on men who could be trusted to remain safely two-dimensional.
Lydia wished she wasn’t mooning over Rory Wentwood. She wasn’t in love with him, of course. She simply liked looking at him and talking to him and being with him. There was nothing wrong in that. The other silly symptoms were the accidental side effects of her leaving Marcus and turning her life upside down. All these emotions were flying around inside her like a swarm of bees and they had simply settled for the time being on Rory Wentwood, who was entirely unsuitable and in any case in love with someone else. Perhaps that was part of his charm. Still, he did look sweet in that cap of his, like an outsized little boy. She hoped he would be in that evening. They needed to talk. Also, it would be nice to see him again.
Rory glanced up at the windows opposite the chapel. Automatically Lydia pulled back a little. She wasn’t that far gone. It was one thing to watch him but quite another for him to know about it. He set off in the direction of Bleeding Heart Square.
‘I mean, if you were marking their smiles out of ten,’ Miss Tuffley was saying, ‘I think I would have to give Robert an eight and Leslie only a five, or perhaps a six. Leslie always makes me feel a bit sad, if you know what I mean. He’s much more spiritual. I think you could have a really, really deep conversation with him, don’t you?’
The door of the private office opened. ‘Mrs Langstone?’ said Mr Shires. ‘Will you bring in the letter file? I shall be leaving early this afternoon.’
Lydia gathered up the folder containing the day’s letters waiting for signature.
‘You can wait while I sign them,’ he said. ‘Shut the door, will you – there’s a draught.’
He flipped open the folder, uncapped his fountain pen and began to sign the letters, his eyes running swiftly over the contents of each. Lydia waited, standing by the door.
‘Do sit down, Mrs Langstone. I wanted a word with you.’ He scrawled his signature, blotted it and moved on to the next letter. ‘With reference to our earlier conversation, I intend to write to Mr Langstone over the weekend, according to your instructions.’ He looked up, peering at her with watery eyes. ‘After due consideration, I think it would be better for all concerned if it were not generally known that I am acting for you, particularly in this office. One wouldn’t want to encourage tittle-tattle during office hours, or to bring undesirable attention to the firm. But I have a small private practice which I run from home. Of course, some publicity will be inevitable in the long run, if the affair proceeds to its conclusion. But we need not anticipate it unnecessarily.’
‘I’m still rather concerned about the cost, sir.’
He nodded. ‘I’m glad to hear of it. Money matters, Mrs Langstone, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. We shall move cautiously. As we were saying earlier, since you’re the injured party, I see no reason why Mr Langstone shouldn’t pay any costs incurred. On top of that, we shall ask him to settle an annuity on you. We shall also need to take into account anything of material value that you’ve brought into the marriage.’
‘He spent all that long ago,’ Lydia said, and was surprised to hear the bitterness in her voice.
‘It would be very helpful if you would let me have a note of the details as far as you are able. Let me have it tomorrow morning. If there was any formal arrangement, I imagine a solicitor was involved – perhaps Lord Cassington’s family solicitor? It would be helpful to know. Copies of any documents relating to the settlement would be invaluable. I
n the meantime, I shall write to Mr Langstone. You must give me his address tomorrow as well. He should receive the letter on Monday.’
‘Thank you.’
Mr Shires sighed. ‘Don’t get your hopes too high, Mrs Langstone. We have a long way to go.’
Lydia spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze. At last it seemed possible that there might one day be an end to all this uncertainty – and to the poverty too. It was reassuring that she had an ally in the shape of Mr Shires. She didn’t much like the man but she had no reason to doubt his professional competence. His personal probity was another matter – she remembered that odd snatch of telephone conversation she had overheard between him and Serridge. There was nothing to show that either Serridge or Miss Penhow had ever been a client of Shires and Trimble. But they might be Mr Shires’ private clients, and in that case their names would not feature in Mr Reynolds’ files.
At the end of the day Lydia and Miss Tuffley went downstairs together. Miss Tuffley paused in the hall to light a cigarette before venturing outside. Lydia asked if she had any plans for the weekend.
‘Not really. I’ll probably go to the pictures on Saturday afternoon. Do you ever go to the pictures?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘You can tag along sometimes if you want.’ Miss Tuffley lowered her head over the match. ‘It’s not much fun going by yourself, is it? Just let me know.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Miss Tuffley opened the front door and led the way down the steps. It had started to rain. Rory Wentwood was waiting outside under an umbrella. He raised his cap when he saw them.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Langstone,’ he said.
Miss Tuffley nudged Lydia. ‘You lucky thing. They’re all after you, aren’t they? It’s not fair. Can’t you spare one for me?’
She squealed with laughter and waved to them both. She set off along the pavement towards Holborn, swaying on her high heels and leaving behind her a sweetly entangled smell of Woodbines and cheap scent.
Bleeding Heart Square Page 30