Bleeding Heart Square Part 2

"No. There's n.o.body, Lydia, it's as simple as that. Sometimes Serridge's charwoman takes pity on an old buffer and tidies me up a bit but that's out of the kindness of her heart." He leaned toward her. "All right," he said in a gentler voice. "You can stay for a week or two. But I'm telling you now, you won't enjoy it. You're not used to this sort of life."

"Thank you."

"Mind you, I'll have to square it with Serridge."

"Who's he?"

"My landlord, among other things. That parcel downstairs was for him." Ingleby-Lewis smiled at her, exposing brown jagged teeth. "You had better let me have a few pounds for him. He won't let you have the room for nothing."

Lydia opened her handbag and found her purse. "Would five pounds do for a start?"

Her father nodded. He took the money and put it in his wallet. He stood up slowly. "I have to go out for a while. I'll leave you to it, shall I?"

"I wonder...what about food?"

"What about it? If you want to buy some, you'll find shops in Charleston Street. Or go across to Fetter Pa.s.sage." He nodded to her and said, with a ghostly geniality that seemed to belong to a much younger, happier man, "Must dash. Au revoir, my dear."

Lydia listened to him on the stairs. The door banged. She went to stand by the window. Captain Ingleby-Lewis walked slowly and carefully across the square and into the doorway of the Crozier. She waited a moment. From the windows of her father's room you could see the length of Bleeding Heart Square and, on the corner by the old pump, the alley leading past the pub to Charleston Street. On the right was the bulk of the chapel with its pinnacles dark against a sky the color of dirty cotton wool. If she craned her neck she had a glimpse of Rosington Place beyond, where the long, shabby terraces faced each other, cut off from the rest of London by the railings at the end and the lodge where the Beadle stood guard with his little dog. She shivered with a mixture of cold, fear and excitement.

As she was about to turn back into the room she caught sight of the figure of a man standing in the alley near the Crozier. She expected him to go into the pub. But instead he stood looking from one end of Bleeding Heart Square to the other with leisurely attention, as though he were a sightseer. Automatically she stepped back so he would not be able to glimpse her face against the gla.s.s.

She wondered idly who he was. Just a young man in a brown raincoat with a flat cap and a m.u.f.fler round his neck. Perhaps a clerk of some sort or somebody who worked in a shop. One of the army of little people, as Marcus used to say, one of those who needed other people like Marcus to tell them what to do.

The young man hurried out of the square and into Charleston Street, where he glanced up and down as if wary of pursuit. Half a dozen schoolgirls from St. Tumwulf's threaded their way around him. He began to walk rapidly east. Narton, who had been sheltering from the wind on the steps of the public library, crossed the road and followed. He calculated that he had nothing to lose and perhaps everything to gain.

He caught up with his quarry in Farringdon Road. Maybe he was heading for the Tube station. Narton touched his shoulder, and the man swung round, alarm flaring in his eyes. He had a long bony face and the tip of his nose was red with cold.

"Excuse me, sir. Can I have a word?"

"What about? Who are you?"

"My name's Narton, sir. Detective Sergeant Narton." He took out his warrant card and allowed the man a glimpse of it. "And you are?"

"Me-oh, my name's..." He paused, and Narton wondered whether he was nerving himself to come up with a false name. "Wentwood. Roderick Wentwood."

"You've got proof of that, have you, sir?"

"Of course I have. Look, what is this about?"

"Perhaps you could show me."

Wentwood muttered something under his breath. He unb.u.t.toned his overcoat and produced a worn brown wallet. Inside was a letter, addressed by hand to R. Wentwood, Esq., c/o Mrs. V. Rutter, 43 Plessey Street, Kentish Town, with a Hereford postmark.

"All right?" Wentwood said. "Satisfied?"

"No call for sarcasm," Narton said mildly. "Why don't we get out of this wind? I could do with a cup of something, and I dare say you could too."

Wentwood's eyes darted to and fro. Maybe he wanted to make a break for it. Surely he wouldn't be so stupid?

"I've done nothing wrong, you know."

"I'm glad to hear it. Let's go and have that cup of tea, shall we?"

The cafe was opposite the Dead Meat Market at Smithfield. Most of the other customers were men with bloodstained overalls. Narton ordered two teas, trying not to begrudge the expense. They stood side by side, leaning on a shelf sticky with spilled sugar and speckled with ash. Wentwood rubbed a circle in the steamy haze on the plate-gla.s.s window and looked out at the lorries and vans in Charterhouse Street. The rank smell of raw meat hung in the smoky air.

"You've been hanging around Bleeding Heart Square," Narton said.

"Not really. I've strolled past once or twice, I suppose. Is there a law against it?"

"Depends why you're doing it. Not somewhere you stroll past by accident. It's a cul-de-sac, Mr. Wentwood. You have to make up your mind to go there."

"I told you: there's nothing suspicious about it."

"But you do have a reason."

"It's a private matter."

"In my job nothing's private." Narton paused. "On the other hand, I've no interest in things that don't concern me. But sometimes I need to know something that's private. Just so I know it don't matter. So I can rule it out. See?"

Wentwood nodded.

"You're interested in number seven, aren't you?"

He nodded again.

"Why?"

"There's a man there. A friend of a friend."

"Why don't you knock on the door and ask for him?"

"Because he's not there at present. Anyway, he doesn't know me. I'm waiting for him to come back."

"Ah." Narton swallowed a mouthful of tea. "And who might that be?"

"His name's Serridge."

Narton felt a glow that had nothing to do with the warmth of the tea. "Now that's interesting."

"What is?"

Narton didn't reply. He produced a packet of cigarettes and, feeling reckless, offered one to Wentwood. "So," he said, bending toward the match that Wentwood held out to him. "Tell me about you and Serridge."

The other man sighed, which made his long face look even more melancholy than it naturally did. "I-I just want to see him. To get an idea of what he's like. He used to know the aunt of a friend of mine."

"Miss Philippa Penhow," Narton said.

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"And what's your connection with the lady? Do you know her?"

"No. But I know her niece."

Narton fished out his notebook. "Miss Fenella Kensley. Lives with her parents in Belsize Park."

"Her parents have died."

"I'm sorry to hear that, I'm sure," Narton said mechanically, and made a note. "You must be very friendly with her."

Wentwood flushed. "As a matter of fact we're engaged."

"Congratulations."

"It's not official yet. We are waiting until we can afford to marry. That's why I'm here, in a way."

"Looking for Serridge?"

Wentwood shook his head. "In this part of London, I mean. I'm looking for a job, and also for somewhere to live. Somewhere central. And while I was in the neighborhood I thought I'd look at Bleeding Heart Square. Just-just in case."

"In case what, Mr. Wentwood?"

"In case I saw Serridge...or even Miss Penhow. Or perhaps he might tell me where to find her."

"You say Serridge doesn't know what you look like?"

"No-I've been in India since '29." Wentwood grinned, which made him look much younger. "The idea was, I was going to make my fortune and then send for Miss Kensley. But it didn't work out so I came back."

"Money," Narton said. "It always crops up somewhere. So maybe that's why you and Miss Kensley are interested in Miss Penhow. In case a little of hers comes your way."

"No, of course not. Though it still seems odd, her just vanishing like that. Anyway, I thought you chaps had decided there was nothing suspicious about the business. Does this mean you think something's happened to her?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Wentwood? Are you asking if she's dead? Murdered, even? Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not saying anything, Sergeant. Miss Kensley says Miss Penhow's abroad."

"Just suppose she ain't, what then? All we know for certain is that she was last seen in April 1930. So where might she be? And what about her money?"

"I've no idea where she is. And I keep trying to tell you, Sergeant-we're not interested in her money."

"Oh." Narton smiled. "Really?"

"Yes, really. The money comes from the Penhow side of the family, nothing to do with the Kensleys."

"Of course. Though you'd be surprised how many people are concerned about money, wherever it comes from."

3.

WHEN YOU READ these early entries, you can't help feeling it was Miss Penhow's fault too. Why didn't she realize that he was flattering her? That he could want only one thing she had to give?

Wednesday, 8 January 1930 This morning there was a letter from Mr. Orburn waiting beside my place at breakfast. He enclosed a memorandum itemizing the works he considers necessary at 7 Bleeding Heart Square. It comes in all to a little over 105, and he recommends rounding it up to 110 in order to allow for contingencies. It seems a great deal of money but I suppose I should go ahead. No doubt Mr. Orburn has a better idea of what is necessary than I do. He also enclosed a letter from Major Serridge, the gentleman I met on Monday. It struck me as very much like the man himself: gruff and to the point, written in a clear, plain hand; but there was no mistaking the kindly intention behind it. I think it worth copying out here in full: My dear Miss Penhow, When I had the pleasure of meeting you on Monday, you asked whether I knew where the name of Bleeding Heart Square came from. I wasn't able to satisfy your curiosity then, but this morning I came across a piece of information I thought might be of interest to you. According to a man who lodges in the house and has made something of a study of these matters, there is an old legend relating to Bleeding Heart Square and Rosington Place next door. It seems that it was once the site of a palace, of which the only remaining sign is the chapel. Many years ago, there was a ball at which a devil appeared, dressed as a gentleman. He danced a great deal with the lady of the house, who was much taken with him. They danced out of the palace together, and vanished. In the morning, the only sign of her was a human heart, still warm-left in the middle of what is now Bleeding Heart Square! I'm afraid this is rather a sinister story for a lady's ears, but I thought you would be interested in such a quaint old legend. Yours very sincerely, J. S. Serridge The Major is quite right-it is a sinister tale. It was most sensitive of him to take account of my feelings, though. Of course it is only one of those funny old stories that abound in these old places. Still, it's not without interest so I record it here. Memo: write and thank him for his kindness.

On her second morning at Bleeding Heart Square, Lydia went out for breakfast again. She bought a copy of The Times from a news-agent's in Charleston Street, partly to give her something to do while she was at the cafe and partly because reading The Times was an activity that seemed to connect her to the person she had been before she left Frogmore Place.

The same woman was behind the counter of the Blue Dahlia but she showed no sign of recognition. After ordering tea and a fried egg, Lydia worked her way through the pages of the newspaper with a growing sense of unreality. She scanned the Situations Vacant columns and wished she were a man. A stretch of the Thames in its upper reaches had turned a rusty color and thousands of fish had been found dead. The Women's Appeal Fund for German Jewish Women and Children had held a luncheon at the Savoy Hotel yesterday. The Welsh coalfields were in crisis again, and the Prince of Wales had made a gramophone record in aid of Poppy Day. According to the weather forecast London would have local morning fog and probably occasional rain later, though in Fetter Pa.s.sage there was no later about it.

Her breakfast arrived. Lydia folded the newspaper open at the crossword. "Not shown by game birds (two words) (5, 7)." She ate quickly, alert to her surroundings like a cat in a strange place.

Two men came in and took a table near the door. One was in his fifties, a skinny fellow who threw off his shabby tweed overcoat to reveal a greasy suit. He wore a hard collar but no tie. All his clothes were a little too large for him, as though he had recently shrunk. He hadn't shaved, and his hair needed cutting.

His companion was much younger. His suit was obviously off the peg and his flat cap was frankly awful, the sort of thing a chauffeur might have worn on his day off. But she liked his long face, which seemed crowded with overlarge and irregularly distributed features. It looked unfinished, as though its maker had been tempted away by a more interesting job, which gave it a sort of vulnerability. For an instant he glanced in her direction. His eyes were striking, a vivid blue that was out of place among the muddy browns and shades of gray around him. He looked away.

It was the flat cap that jogged her memory. She was almost sure this was the man she had seen yesterday afternoon, standing outside the Crozier and staring at Bleeding Heart Square.

The door closed behind the elegant young woman who had been sitting by herself with The Times. Rory Wentwood watched her walking along the pavement in the direction of Hatton Garden.

"That girl you've been staring at," Sergeant Narton said. "You'll know her again, eh?"

"What? Oh-that one? The one who just left?"

"You've been looking at her all the time we've been in here."

"Not really," Rory said stiffly. "It's just that she-she stood out. One noticed her in here, somehow. Not like the other customers. I was naturally curious."

"Have you seen her before?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Of course I am. I'd remember."

"She knows someone at number seven. I think she spent the night there."

Rory shrugged. "That's nothing to do with me, Sergeant."

"All right." Narton leaned forward and lowered his voice. "First, I'm grateful you agreed to meet me this morning."

"I don't understand why-"

"Now look here, sir, from what you said yesterday, you've never met Mr. Serridge?"

"That's correct."