Bleeding Heart Square Part 20

"Like your husband, I wanted to find out what had happened to her."

"Why?"

"Her niece is a friend of mine. It was on her behalf."

"After the money, are you?" It was not really a question.

"No. I-" Rory broke off and started again. "We want to be sure she's all right."

"I can't help you."

For a moment they stood there separated by a couple of yards of nettles and long gra.s.s. Mrs. Narton was so pale that she looked like a ghost, not a person of flesh and blood.

"I'm so sorry," Rory said again. "If there's anything I can do to help, will you let me know?"

She stared at him, saying nothing, and he realized the futility of what he had said. Nevertheless he opened his coat and took out a propelling pencil and his notebook. He wrote R. Wentwood, 7 Bleeding Heart Square, London EC1. He tore out the page and held it to her. She didn't move. He took a step closer to her. She stared at something behind him. He dropped the piece of paper in the pocket of her ap.r.o.n.

A thought occurred to him. "What happened to his notebook?"

"I don't know."

"It wasn't found?"

"Go away," she said. "Just go away."

He nodded. As he was leaving, he glanced at the bonfire. There was a child's book on it, he noticed, the remains of a pink eiderdown and what looked like a doll. There was also a fragment of charred cardboard that might have come from the cover of a small, black notebook.

It was after one o'clock by the time Rory reached the gates of the Vicarage. Mr. Gladwyn's Ford 8 was standing outside the front door. He would be at lunch now. Narton had said you could set your watch by Mr. Gladwyn.

Rory didn't mind the delay. He wanted time to think. If Narton had no longer been a police officer, then what the h.e.l.l had he been doing? The only answer that seemed to make sense was that he had been pursuing a vendetta against Serridge.

He went into the saloon bar of the Alforde Arms and ordered beer, ham and eggs. Narton had not mentioned that he lived so near Morthams Farm, claiming that he had not considered it relevant. But if some sort of private feud, not an official investigation, was the reason behind his interest in Serridge, that might have been another reason to keep quiet about where he lived, in case it suggested to Rory the possibility of a personal connection between the two men.

It was almost two o'clock by the time he finished his meal and paid the bill. Outside, a small, untidy boy with a flabby mouth was sitting on the edge of the horse trough in the yard. He glanced at Rory and then away, continuing to whittle a stick with a penknife. He seemed faintly familiar. Was it the boy he had glimpsed near Morthams Farm? But the world was full of small boys.

It still seemed a little early to call on the Vicar. Rory spent ten minutes in the church, which was small and dark. It had been carefully restored by yet another Alforde in 1876-8 and made even gloomier than it need have been with pitch-pine panelling and pews. He worked his way round the walls, reading the memorial tablets. The Alfordes went back to the middle of the eighteenth century. The most recent in the sequence was Constance Mary Alforde, widow of Henry Locksley Alforde. She had died a few months after her husband, in 1929. "The Lord is my shepherd."

He walked slowly through the churchyard, glancing at the graves on either side, in the direction of the Vicarage. This brought him to the section where the newer graves were. For the second time that day the name Narton caught his eye. It was on a neat new stone marker beside a yew tree. For an instant his mind grappled with the impossible: surely Narton wasn't dead and buried already? Then his mind caught up with what he was seeing, with the smooth green mound and the rest of the inscription on the marker: Amy Constance Beloved daughter of Margaret and Herbert Narton 1915-1931.

"Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth."

Thanks to Pammy's warning the other day, it did not come as a complete shock to see Marcus in Rosington Place. That did not make him any the more welcome. It was just after lunch, and Lydia had returned to work at Shires and Trimble. She was alone with Miss Tuffley-Mr. Reynolds was in conference with Mr. Shires, and Mr. Smethwick had gone to see a client.

Lydia was watering the dusty plants that wilted quietly on the windowsills of the general office. The windows overlooked the chapel on the other side of the road. A large car drew up outside. A chauffeur emerged and opened the nearside rear door. Two men got out. One of them was Marcus and the other was Sir Rex Fisher.

Automatically she drew back from the window. Miss Tuffley, whose typewriter stood on a table by the other window, was less bashful.

"Oh-now that's what I call a proper car. They was here the other day. That chauffeur is a big chap, isn't he? And look at the two gents. You can tell they had silk-lined cradles. First cla.s.s all the way, eh? I wouldn't mind being whisked off my feet by one of them, the tall one, especially."

"What are they doing here?"

"Not coming to see me. No such luck. Yes, I thought so-they're ringing the bell of the Presbytery House. They want Father Bertram. A lot of the toffs are Romans, you know. Funny, that." A thought struck her. "You're not one of them, are you?"

"What?"

"A Roman. You know-a papist."

"No." Lydia pulled out a drawer of the filing cabinet with such force that it collided painfully with her knee and laddered her stocking.

Miss Tuffley continued her commentary. "What's that chauffeur doing? Golly! Look at those flowers! Roses in November! Must have cost a fortune!" She gasped. "He's crossing the road."

Lydia could bear it no longer. She muttered something about powdering her nose and locked herself in the lavatory for five minutes. When she came back, she found two dozen red roses on her desk. Miss Tuffley was staring at them with covetousness and curiosity.

"There's no card with them-I've looked," she hissed. "The chauffeur just gave them to the caretaker's boy downstairs, along with sixpence for his trouble. Sixpence for running up and down the stairs! But the boy said they were for you. Mrs. Langstone, care of Shires and Trimble. There can't be any mistake."

Lydia looked out of the window. The car was still there. She had never had much time for roses. They needed too much attention and they had too many thorns. Even when somebody else did the work and removed the thorns, as now, they looked lifeless and artificial and smelled overpowering.

"You know those men down there, don't you?" Miss Tuffley said, chewing on the problem like a dog with a bone. "And you never let on. Which one sent the roses?"

Lydia ignored her. Marcus thought women were like children: you could woo them with toys. But he didn't even trouble to find out what toys they liked.

"You can have the blasted things," she said abruptly.

"What?" Miss Tuffley said in an unladylike squawk.

"You can have the roses. I don't want them."

"But why ever not? They're lovely."

"I'd like you to have them," Lydia said doggedly. "Otherwise I'll throw them away."

"All right. If you're sure. Thanks ever so."

"But there's one condition." Lydia lowered her voice. "If either of those men ever comes to the office asking for me, or if that chauffeur does, say I'm not here."

Miss Tuffley's eyes were large and round. "But why?"

"Because I don't want to talk to them," Lydia said. "That's why."

At the Vicarage he recognized the maid who opened the door, and she recognized him. When he asked if he might see Mr. Gladwyn, she led him into the house and left him staring at the engraving of Rawling Hall. A few minutes later, she ushered him into the study.

"I'm not sure I can be of any further use to you, Mr. Wentwood," Mr. Gladwyn said after they had shaken hands.

"I imagine you knew Herbert Narton, sir?"

The Vicar stared at him. "So that's the way the land lies. What's this about? Have you been pulling the wool over my eyes, young man? Are you one of these reporters?"

"I promise I've nothing to do with any newspaper," Rory said carefully. "And it's perfectly true what I told you about Miss Kensley. I saw her only a few days ago and...and she's much easier in her mind about her aunt now. But I owe you an apology-I wasn't entirely frank with you when I last called."

Gladwyn frowned. He had not asked Rory to sit down. "Then you'd better explain yourself."

"A week or two ago, I was approached in town by someone who knew of my friendship with Miss Kensley." It was a slight perversion of the truth, but it would serve. "Herbert Narton."

"Bless my soul. What was the man up to?"

"He led me to believe he was a police officer, a plain-clothes man engaged in an undercover investigation."

"Into Miss Penhow's disappearance?"

Rory nodded. "And into Serridge. I'm renting rooms in Serridge's house in Bleeding Heart Square. The house that used to belong to Miss Penhow."

"So you actually know Mr. Serridge? You really have pulled the wool over my eyes."

"I'm sorry, sir. But you must remember that I believed that Narton was a police officer and that I was helping him in his investigation. I only found out the truth this morning. I saw Mrs. Narton."

"Poor woman. She's taken this very hard. It is not to be wondered at."

"She was acting very strangely, sir. She was having a bonfire."

"Yes. The contents of that cupboard, no doubt."

"What?"

"It was a bone of contention between them, Mr. Wentwood." Gladwyn opened his tobacco pouch. "You'd better sit down. Perhaps you deserve some sort of explanation."

He waved Rory to an armchair and began to fill his pipe. "It's perfectly true that Herbert Narton was a police officer. He was a detective too, in the latter part of his career. He married a local girl, Margaret-he was a Saffron Walden man himself-and came to live in Rawling. It must be said they weren't particularly well liked-they were a self-contained couple, kept themselves to themselves, and he never let anyone forget he was a police officer. They had one child, Amy."

"I saw her gravestone on my way here."

Mr. Gladwyn picked up his matches. "A silly girl, I'm afraid. Head full of fancies. Not very bright, either. Still, there was no real harm in her. Miss Penhow hired her to work at Morthams Farm soon after they moved here. They were doing the girl a favor, really. She was barely literate, and she hadn't any training in domestic service. And morally-well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I suspect she was sadly free with her favors. Some of our village girls are little better than animals in that respect. Well, in due course the inevitable happened and she found herself pregnant. She refused to say who the father was. Her parents were very upset, and it didn't do much for Narton's career, either. But they didn't throw her out. I think they were going to make the best of it. Put the child up for adoption, perhaps, or bring it up as their own. Unfortunately it never came to that. There were complications in childbirth. The baby was stillborn and the girl herself died. It shook the parents very badly. Narton was never the same."

"I suppose his death was suicide?"

"Eh? It's not for me to say. There will have to be an inquest of course, but I understand that the verdict will probably be accidental death. After all, there's nothing to show it wasn't an accident. The shotgun had belonged to his late father-in-law, I'm told-it hadn't been used for years. No one will want to make this harder for Mrs. Narton than it need be. Our thoughts and prayers must go out to her at this sad time."

"But why did he do it?" Rory asked.

"As I said, let us a.s.sume it was an accident."

"Not his death. I mean why did he pretend he was still in the police?"

"The short answer is that his mind was unhinged, Mr. Wentwood. He was a fantasist. I believe the doctors call it persecution mania nowadays. He was convinced that Mr. Serridge was responsible for all his woes just because Amy had once worked at Morthams Farm. She was there for a few months. She wasn't even a live-in servant, either. But none of this mattered to Herbert Narton. The baby's father could have been any one of our many local scoundrels. But he decided it must have been Mr. Serridge. That's why he wanted to reopen the Penhow investigation. He wanted to embarra.s.s Mr. Serridge as much as possible. I've no doubt that what he would really have liked was to see Mr. Serridge in the dock for the murder of Miss Penhow." Mr. Gladwyn at last struck a match. He stared fixedly at Rory. "In his strange, twisted mind Narton no doubt thought that was the only way he could avenge what he thought of as the murder of his own daughter."

For the rest of the afternoon, Miss Tuffley glanced regularly out of the window. She kept up a running commentary when Father Bertram ushered Marcus and Sir Rex out of the Presbytery House and into their car.

The worrying thing about it all, Lydia thought, was that Marcus might be back, particularly if he and Rex Fisher had been arranging with Father Bertram to hire the undercroft for another British Union meeting. She knew that the undercroft had been used for the purpose before but she wouldn't put it past Marcus to have suggested it again simply because it was close to her refuge in Bleeding Heart Square.

She left the office a little after six o'clock. Miss Tuffley walked downstairs with her, sniffing the roses as she went.

"You know what I need?" she said cheerfully. "A nice gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady."

Lydia smiled at her. "We could all do with one of those."

Miss Tuffley turned left toward Holborn, and Lydia turned right toward Bleeding Heart Square. There was a letter waiting for her on the hall table. She took it upstairs to the sitting room. She didn't recognize the writing, though the white envelope was good quality. She tore it open.

10 Alvanley Mansions Lower Sloane Street London SW1 Telephone: Sloane 1410 November 21st My dear Lydia Your G.o.dfather reminded me that I have been most remiss in not writing for so long. I don't think we have seen you since your wedding. Your G.o.dfather's health has not improved, sadly, and we are unable to get about as much as we should like. But I wonder if I might prevail on you to have tea with us? The weekend would suit us best-Sat.u.r.day or Sunday. Do let me know-this weekend if you like. Your G.o.dfather sends his affectionate good wishes, as of course do I. Yours very sincerely, Hermione Alforde My G.o.dfather, Lydia thought, just what Miss Tuffley ordered? A gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady?

There was a knock on the door. When she opened it, she found Mr. Serridge standing on the landing and looking intently at her.

15.

HEARTS. This is all about hearts, restless or yearning, broken or bleeding.

Sat.u.r.day, 15 March 1930 Such a busy time. I bought some material yesterday and arranged for the woman Joseph found for me to run up a summer dress suitable for the country. I have given my notice at the Rushmere and made arrangements for Aunt's furniture to come out of store and be taken to Morthams. Not just furniture, of course-there's the china, the cutlery, the pictures and heaven knows what. I can hardly remember! We shall be at sixes and sevens for weeks, if not months, while we sort everything out. I explained the suddenness of my marriage by saying that Major Serridge may have to go abroad at very short notice, and naturally I should want to go with him. Cards, good wishes, etc. from all and sundry. Old Miss Beale said: "Good for you, my dear. Get out while you can. Otherwise the shades of the prison house will close in around you." But then she cackled in a very unsettling way. I must be honest and say it's been an unsettling time altogether. What happened at the Alforde Arms on Tuesday made it worse. I know Joseph was all contrition in the morning, but still it hurt. But I suppose we women have always had that cross to bear. The simple fact is that men are different from us. But at least I know that now. Really know. Just to show that everything is all right between us I have ordered a car for him. We chose it together. He was so pleased, just like a little boy! It is a second-hand Austin 7, a nice shade of blue that goes with his eyes. We shall look very smart as we motor through the countryside in our own car. I broke down in floods of tears again when he telephoned this evening. There I was in the little booth in the hall, hoping against hope that no one would notice me crying my head off. He was so gentle and loving. Tuesday night has had the strange effect of making me love him even more. How mysterious are the ways of Love! I should tear out my heart and bring it to him if it brought him a moment's happiness. My heart is yours, my darling, how I wish you could keep it in your pocket, fluttering and beating like a bird beside yours, and my heart would warm itself with your love for ever and ever. I wish I could send you my heart in the post and you could keep it safe beside you for always. How silly I am. Sometimes he makes me feel seventeen again.

Hearts by post. There's an idea.

A voice at his elbow said, "Mister? Mister?"

Startled, Rory looked round and down. His eyes met those of a small boy standing in the angle between the Vicarage gatepost and the garden wall. It was the one who had been whittling a stick outside the Alforde Arms, and perhaps the one in the field near Morthams Farm. He wore a jacket which was too small for him and b.u.t.toned up to the chin. His cap was squashed down over his hair, which was ragged and curly. His shorts reached below the knees. There was something slimy on the lower half of his face. As Rory watched, the boy wiped the back of his jacket sleeve under his nose. His eyes were large, brown and long-lashed, as beautiful as a cow's. It looked as though his tongue was too big for his mouth, despite those big, slack lips.

Rory fumbled for a penny. "What is it?"

The boy thrust out his hand. In it was a dirty piece of paper, much folded. Rory took it and gave the penny to the boy, who spat on the coin and frowned. He waited while Rory unfolded the piece of paper. It was a note written in pencil.

MR. WENTWOOD, Could I have a word with you before you go. The boy will bring you. Something most particular to say. Sorry to write but its better that Vicar dont see us.

There was a signature underneath but it was illegible. Rory looked up the drive. Mr. Gladwyn's round head was bent over his desk in the window of the study.

"Who gave you this?" he asked.

The boy muttered something unintelligible. He pointed a grubby finger down the lane.

"Mrs. Narton?"

The boy shook his head. The finger moved toward the left.

"Somebody at Morthams Farm? Not Mr. Serridge?"

The boy shook his head more violently than before. Rory fancied there was panic in the lad's face. He muttered a monosyllable twice and finally it made some sort of sense. Barn. Barn. The finger was pointing toward a sagging roof visible perhaps a couple of hundred yards away beyond the boundary hedge along the lane. The boy took Rory's arm and tugged gently.

Rory set out with him. There seemed no harm in following the lad and trying to find out what this was all about. He pulled at Rory's arm again, urging him to go faster. He might be mentally or physically deficient in some way but he seemed to have a very clear idea of what he wanted. He led the way over the stile and along the line of the hedgerow. The barn stood at the top of a newly ploughed field on the far side of another hedge.