Bleeding Heart Square Part 39

"When she was a girl, Serridge seduced her. She was very young-she had just gone into service at Rawling Hall." Lydia paused, watching her mother. "Serridge told Mr. Narton about it just before he killed himself. He didn't know, you see. Serridge told Narton that he had seduced his wife as well as his daughter. That's what the note said."

"It seems very strange Mrs. Narton should tell you. She's never even met you."

"She knew who I was, even so. She said she'd known who I was as soon as she saw me at the funeral. She said it was something about the eyes and the shape of the mouth. And then she asked Mrs. Alforde, just to make sure."

"Good Lord," her mother said. "I've always said you and I are quite alike from some angles. Something to do with the cheekbones, perhaps. But it's funny to think of a servant remembering me after all those years."

"Almost exactly thirty years. It was the Christmas of 1904. Serridge had been hired as a beater for the shooting. You can guess who recommended him for the job. And he was enjoying himself with Mrs. Narton, not that she was married then, of course. But then he got more interested in one of the guests at the Hall, a schoolgirl. Mrs. Narton said she was a sc.r.a.p of a thing but very pretty and very keen on Serridge. That was it as far as Mrs. Narton was concerned. He just dropped her. Naturally she was jealous, and used to watch him like a hawk when she could. And the girl. So she wasn't surprised when she heard the girl was pregnant. Serve her right, she said. But of course the family covered it up. They married the girl off to Mrs. Alforde's nephew, the Captain. So that's why something about my face reminded Margaret Narton of Joseph Serridge when he was a young man."

There was silence in the big, warm bedroom with its smells of perfume, coffee and Virginia tobacco. Lydia heard Margaret Narton's voice: That's how they do it, folk like that-they take their pleasures and they make other people pay for them. And you keep on paying, don't you? That's what I felt when Serridge came sniffing around our Amy. He broke my heart, and then he broke hers, and that broke mine all over again but far worse than the first time. Then Amy died, and the baby too.

Lady Ca.s.sington stood up and went over to the bedside table. She took another cigarette, lit it and sat on the edge of the bed. As she blew out smoke, she asked, "Have you finished, darling?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Do be sensible. It wouldn't have made it better if I had. Not for me. And certainly not for you. It was just one of those silly things that happen when one's young. And marrying w.i.l.l.y Ingleby-Lewis was the best way to deal with it. If you ask me, people talk too much."

"So Serridge really is my father? You admit it?"

Her mother shrugged bony shoulders. "That Narton woman's right. There is a likeness if you look for it." She ground out the cigarette in the ashtray. "He was very good-looking then, you know, and very charming when he wanted to be."

"What would you do if I told Fin?"

"Darling, now don't be so absurd. It would be too Lady Chatterley for words. Have you read the book? It's quite dreadful, of course, and really rather dull, but it would so upset Fin to have something like that in his own family. Anyway, he's never done you any harm. Quite the reverse. He's very fond of you."

Lydia stared out of the window, wondering whether she would ever again sit in this house she had known for most of her life and look down on Upper Mount Street. One shouldn't be frightened of change, she told herself, because it was going to happen anyway, whatever one felt about it.

Lady Ca.s.sington was pursuing a line of thought of her own. "Did you say the Narton woman is only forty-five? She must have been even younger than I was when-when-"

"Serridge likes them young," Lydia said coldly. She stopped, remembering Rebecca Proctor's words: He likes the younger ones, madam. It was a moment of illumination, as though someone had come into a dark room and flicked the switch on the wall by the door, allowing Lydia to glimpse a possibility out of the corner of her eye.

Her mother looked curiously at her. "What is it, darling?"

"Nothing," Lydia lied. "Nothing at all."

On her way out of the house, Lydia went into the library to say goodbye to Fin. He was sitting at his desk, an enormous Second Empire piece which he claimed had once been owned by a French duke. He liked to sit there in the mornings, basking in its garish splendor, writing letters, reading the newspaper and pretending to be a man of affairs.

"I've come to say goodbye," Lydia said.

"Are you going already? I hoped you'd be staying to lunch."

"Not today, I'm afraid. Will you give my love to Pammy?"

"Of course." He screwed up his eyes and looked at her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes and no."

"Anything I can do?"

She shook her head. "I want to tell you myself: I'm divorcing Marcus."

"Your mother won't like that. I suppose there's no chance-"

"No, darling," Lydia said. "Not the slightest. It's all right, though-you needn't worry." She bent down and kissed him. "I'll be in touch."

At the door, she turned back. "By the way, I went to a Fascist meeting on Sat.u.r.day."

"Really?" His face brightened at the change of subject toward the comfort of the impersonal. "Was it interesting?"

"Absolutely fascinating. What I hadn't realized is what unpleasant people the Fascists are. They're bullies, Fin. Perhaps that's why they appeal to Marcus and Rex."

He frowned. The doorbell rang. She smiled at him again and went into the hall, where Fripp was already at the door, holding it open for Marcus. He was wearing a patch over one eye and there was a dressing underneath the other. One side of his face was badly bruised. When he saw Lydia, the skin around the bruises lost its color, giving his face a mottled appearance.

"h.e.l.lo," Lydia said. "I'm just going. Fripp, will you bring me my things?"

"Lydia," Marcus blurted out, careless of the fact that he was within earshot of Fripp. "I had a letter from some d.a.m.n-fool solicitor this morning. He claims he's-"

"You're to leave Mr. Wentwood alone, Marcus. Do you understand?"

"You can't expect me to-"

"I don't want to talk to you, Marcus. Go and see my mother. She'll tell you what to do. And she'll also tell you what I shall do if you don't cooperate."

Fripp, his face impa.s.sive, held up her coat. She pushed her arms into the sleeves.

"Where are you going?" Marcus demanded.

"I'm going to enjoy myself," Lydia said.

It did not take Rory long to a.s.semble his belongings. He took them downstairs and stacked them in the hall, then knocked on Mrs. Renton's door and paid what he owed for the sewing she had done.

"I'm sorry you're going, Mr. Wentwood," she said. "But if you're not happy somewhere, I always say it's wise to move on, and sooner rather than later. Mr. Fimberry's leaving too. Father Bertram has found him somewhere else to live." She looked up at him with a sudden, searching glance. "I wonder how long Mrs. Langstone will stay."

He nodded without committing himself to an opinion. "I'll leave my things out here and go and have a bite of lunch. Would you mind keeping an eye on them? I'm being collected at about half past two."

A door slammed above their heads and heavy footsteps crossed the first-floor landing. "w.i.l.l.y," they heard Serridge say, "I thought you'd be in the Crozier by this time. What's up with you? You've got a face like a funeral."

Rory nodded to Mrs. Renton and let himself quietly out of the house. He turned left into Charleston Street. In Hatton Garden, as he was waiting on the pavement for a break in the traffic, he glanced to his left and saw Lydia coming out of one of the shops. He walked toward her and raised his hat.

"h.e.l.lo-I didn't expect to see you here." He grinned. "Idiotic thing to say, I know. You could have been anywhere."

She smiled back. "I've been to see Mr. Goldman."

"Is he all right?"

"Gloomier than ever but quite happy. I've just sold him a ring that used to belong to my great-aunt."

"I hope he gave you a good price. In the circ.u.mstances."

"He gave me what seemed to him a fair price, which is probably not the same thing. Anyway, I feel rich and I want to celebrate. Let me take you to lunch."

"I can't let you-"

"Yes, you can. Don't be gentlemanly about it. You gave me supper last night after all. How's the ankle? Can you walk as far as Fetter Pa.s.sage?"

She pushed her arm through his and they crossed the road together. The Blue Dahlia was already busy. The manageress nodded when she saw them and pointed to a vacant table in the corner.

"It's liver on the menu again," Rory said.

"I'm having the hotpot."

They sat down, chose what they would have for pudding and ordered. As they waited for their lunch, the excitement drained away from Lydia, leaving her listless and silent. When he poured water into her gla.s.s, a few drops fell on the table. She made liquid circles from them on the marble top, moving her finger round and round.

"What is it?" Rory said gently.

She looked up. "I want to tell you something," she said. "Only I'm not sure I'm brave enough to do it."

"Try me."

"And it's not fair to you."

"Let me judge that."

She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. "Do you think Serridge killed Miss Penhow?"

He nodded. "It's hard to see what else can have happened."

"And what about the others? Did they help?"

Rory ticked them off on his fingers. "Howlett will do whatever Serridge tells him, as long as he's paid. He provided the dog, and took the beastly thing back too. I'm sure there have been other things as well. He's a useful ally to have in Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square." He moved on to the next finger. "And then there's Shires: do you think he was in on it too?"

Lydia nodded. "I don't know how far he was implicated. But they must have had a lawyer to handle the purchase of the farm, and that was with Miss Penhow's money and in Serridge's name. And then there's the house in Bleeding Heart Square. It's hard to believe that the t.i.tle deeds aren't in Serridge's name by now as well. He'd need Shires for something like that. And finally..."

She ran out of words and returned to making her circles on the marble.

Rory held up the third finger. "And finally there's your father. But I rather doubt he's involved, or not in an active way. I think he's just somebody who happens to be a tenant, who knows Serridge from a previous life."

Lydia shook her head. "He wrote that letter from New York. The one to Mr. Gladwyn."

He stared at her, his eyes widening. "So it wasn't from Miss Penhow? But you can't be sure of that."

"I can. I found the evidence. And he confirmed it when I asked."

"And Miss Penhow? Did he know...?"

"I doubt it. I think he just looked the other way. I think that's what Howlett and Shires did too. They didn't want to see anything too unpleasant so they didn't."

"Like all those people in the audience on Sat.u.r.day. The ones who just stood and watched when the Blackshirts went to work."

She rubbed the circles away with her napkin.

"Lydia," he said, "then what happened to Miss Penhow?"

"He probably buried her at the farm." She glanced up. "There must be something left of her. Something still to find."

"Not necessarily. It depends how clever he was. There was a case near Hereford when I was a boy. A chap killed his wife. He was a farmer too. There was a great heap of manure in the farmyard, and he put the body there. The police found what was left of her about six months later. I remember people saying that if it had been left in the midden for longer-three or four years, say-there would have been practically nothing left to find, except maybe a thigh bone that they couldn't identify. It's the acid, you see. It eats everything in time."

The manageress herself brought their food. She set down the hotpot in front of Rory and the liver in front of Lydia. Lydia opened her mouth and then closed it again.

"You get that inside you, ducky," the woman said sternly to Lydia. "Lot of iron in liver. And you need building up."

"Yes," said Lydia meekly.

The woman waddled away. Lydia picked up her knife and fork.

"Do you want to swap?" Rory said.

Lydia looked at him. "I wouldn't dare."

"It means you've pa.s.sed some sort of test," he told her. "She's never called me ducky."

Lydia gave him a small and unconvincing smile. They ate in silence. She forced herself to try the liver and to her surprise rather enjoyed it. That was one thing she had learned in the last few weeks: food mattered.

"But who sent the hearts and the skull?" he said suddenly.

She glanced at him and said with her mouth full, "Narton, of course."

"How do you work that out?"

"Who else could it have been? Anyway I've got proof. Mrs. Narton sent you Miss Penhow's skirt. She wrapped it in brown paper. I kept the paper the skull was wrapped in. It's the same."

"The same sort?"

"Two halves of the same sheet. The join matches, Rory. And Robbie thought it was Narton who stole his skull. But of course Narton doesn't really matter here. It's Serridge that counts."

Rory laid down his knife and fork. "We can't prove anything," he murmured. "Not unless there's a miracle. He's covered his tracks too well."

Lydia did not reply. It occurred to him suddenly that she might not want a miracle: if Serridge were charged with murder, then Captain Ingleby-Lewis would almost certainly be charged as an accessory.

After another mouthful, he said, "What will you do now?"

"The Alfordes have asked me to stay. I went to see them this morning, and it's all fixed."

He concealed the disappointment he felt. "How long for? Do you know?"

She shifted listlessly on her chair. "Just for a few weeks, I hope. I saw my mother and Marcus this morning too. I don't think there will be any trouble with the divorce."

"Good. Is he all right? Mr. Langstone, I mean."