Bleeding Heart Square Part 5

"We?"

"Your mother and I. No one else knows about this...this escapade of yours. We've told the servants you were suddenly called away. That a friend was very ill and had summoned you."

Lydia burst out laughing. "It sounds like something out of a penny novelette. Anyway, the servants won't believe you. Servants always know. I don't know how, but they do."

Marcus took out his cigarette case. "I don't find this very amusing."

"Nor do I."

"And then there's Pamela-she tried to phone you and was quite put out when I said you were away."

"You should tell her the truth." She paused but Marcus said nothing. "You still haven't said how you knew."

"About your news, or about where you were?" He held out the cigarette case to her, and she shook her head. "There was a letter from that chap in Harley Street. Enclosing his bill, of course."

"You opened my letters?"

"What else could I do? I was worried. Your quack wanted to recommend some diet or other that is good for pregnant women, so it was d.a.m.ned obvious what was in the wind. I just wish you'd told me."

"I tried. But you wouldn't let me. You remember?"

Marcus turned away to light a cigarette. "All right-I'm sorry. It's just that you came in at an awkward time, and I didn't want to queer my pitch with Rex Fisher." His face reddened. "But let's forget that now. The important thing is the baby. It changes everything."

"Everything?" she said quietly.

He waved his cigarette. "Of course. The main thing is, of course, it will mean an heir. Even these days, that's important."

"An heir to what?" she snapped. "Nine hundred acres in darkest Gloucestershire? A house you can't afford to live in that leaks like a sieve when there is the slightest drop of rain? And the lease on Frogmore Place only has another twenty years to run, and you'll probably have to let it in any case because you've already spent all my money trying to hang on to everything. What's it all for, Marcus? I wish you'd tell me."

For a moment she thought he was going to hit her again. "I happen to believe that some things are worth hanging on to," he said. "People like us, we've a duty to maintain standards. If we don't, n.o.body else will. The landed cla.s.ses are the backbone of this country, any fool can see that. This socialist rot is all very well-I know some of those chaps are well-meaning enough-but it's leading this country down the road to ruin. Ramsay MacDonald couldn't run a butcher's shop. He's completely out of his depth."

"And my having a baby would somehow drag the country back from the brink?"

"Don't be stupid," he said coldly. "The point is, families like ours stand for continuity. You should listen to Sir Oswald on the subject."

"I don't want to, thank you. Anyway, I'm not having a baby."

"What? But your quack said-"

"You've added two and two and made five. The gynecologist said he could see no reason why I shouldn't conceive. He promised he'd send me details of a diet that's meant to be good for women's fertility and when you're pregnant. That was my good news. I was happy, Marcus, because it means I'm probably not infertile after all. Except I no longer want to get pregnant. But I do want to know how you found out where I am."

Marcus sighed. "I went through your bureau."

"It was locked."

"I had to force it."

"First you open my letters, then you break into my bureau."

He ignored this. "I found a letter from your father, written from this address. I thought he was in America."

"He came back last year."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "And you didn't see fit to mention it?"

"I didn't think it would interest you. You hadn't shown any signs of interest in him before. Or I thought you'd get angry. Just as you are now."

"Have you been seeing him all this time behind my back?"

Suddenly she felt weary. "Until two days ago I hadn't seen him since I was a toddler."

"But you wrote to him?"

"Yes. I sent him a little money." She hesitated. "That was what he wanted. If you've read the letter, you'll know that. Does my mother know?"

"I told her everything. It was she who advised me to come here. She is as shocked as I am. You must understand-you must come home. Lydia, I-"

Marcus broke off. There were footsteps on the stairs and on the landing. The door opened, and Captain Ingleby-Lewis came in.

He stared at Marcus. "Who's this?" he demanded.

"My husband," Lydia said. "Marcus Langstone. Marcus, this is my father."

Marcus held out his hand. "How do you do, sir."

Ingleby-Lewis shook his son-in-law's hand vigorously. "Delighted to meet you, dear boy." His bloodshot eyes slid from Marcus to Lydia and then back again. "Not quite sure why we haven't managed it before. Still, better late than never, eh?"

"Marcus was just leaving," Lydia said.

"The thing is, sir, there's been a bit of a misunderstanding," Marcus said. "I came here to smooth things over and take Lydia back home."

"Splendid," Ingleby-Lewis said.

"I've a taxi waiting outside."

"I don't want to go back with you," Lydia said. "I'm staying here."

"Darling, be reasonable. You can't stay here. It's not fair to anyone."

"I want to stay here."

Marcus took a step toward her. "Now look here, Lydia-you must see sense."

Ingleby-Lewis cleared his throat.

Marcus turned to him. "I'm sure you agree, sir. A woman's place is with her husband, and all that."

"I must admit, it's not something I've noticed from personal experience."

"Father, please. I'd prefer to stay here. Anyway, I'm not going with Marcus."

For a moment, no one spoke. Ingleby-Lewis shuffled over to the sofa, sat down heavily and closed his eyes. He sighed and said slowly, "If Lydia wants to stay here for a few days, it's up to her."

Marcus glared at her. "This is ridiculous."

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

"We'll discuss this later. You're making a great mistake."

Her temper flared. "Has it occurred to you that if it's not me who's infertile, then perhaps it's you who should see a doctor?"

His lips were bloodless. He turned on his heel and left the room, leaving the door open. She listened to his footsteps on the stairs. The front door banged. Her father's eyes were still closed and he was breathing heavily. The air smelled of whisky and tobacco.

She went to the window and looked down on Bleeding Heart Square. It was quite absurd, so Victorian. Her fate had apparently been in the hands of two men, her husband and her father, a young bully and an old drunk. Marcus was walking across the cobbles to the taxi. From this angle he looked like a dwarf.

The following day, Friday, Lydia sold the first piece of jewelry. Captain Ingleby-Lewis said that it made sense to sell outright rather than to p.a.w.n: you received more money, and of course you didn't have the bother of redeeming it. She chose a small brooch, a ruby set round with diamonds which had once belonged to a great-aunt. The setting was too ornate for modern taste but she thought the stones were good.

Her father took her to a poky little shop in Hatton Garden and negotiated on her behalf with a tall, hunched man who would not offer them more than twenty-three pounds.

Ingleby-Lewis lit a cigarette. "Dash it all, Goldman, you strike a hard bargain. Still, I don't choose to haggle over it. But you'll do the business at once, eh? I don't want to be kept hanging around."

Mr. Goldman inclined his head. "Is that agreeable to you, madam?"

Lydia nodded. She had not expected to feel so humiliated.

"One moment, sir." Goldman opened a door behind the counter and retired into a room beyond.

"We'll not get a better price elsewhere," Ingleby-Lewis confided in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "Goldman knows he can't pull the wool over my eyes. And he's not going to keep us waiting either. That's what some of these sheenies do-they give you a price and then take their time paying it. But Goldman's all right as these people go. Serridge uses him a good deal."

"Mr. Serridge sells jewelry for a living?"

Her father glanced sharply at her. "No, no. But he occasionally has pieces he wants to dispose of."

Lydia wondered whether she had imagined a furtive expression on his face. "What does Mr. Serridge do? Is there a Mrs. Serridge?"

"Ah-no. I believe not." He turned aside to blow his nose. Then he rapped the counter with his knuckles and called out, "Come along, Goldman. We haven't got all day."

Afterwards, outside in the chilly bustle of Hatton Garden, Ingleby-Lewis laid his hand on Lydia's arm.

"Ah...perhaps you would like me to look after the money for you. It's a lot for a girl to carry around in her handbag."

"I think I'll keep it, Father. There are things I need to buy." She glimpsed the gloom descending on his face like mist. "But I ought to give you something. I ought to pay my way."

He beamed at her. "I won't pretend that money isn't a little tight at present. A temporary embarra.s.sment, as they say." He watched her open her handbag and find her purse. She took out a five-pound note, which he almost s.n.a.t.c.hed from her gloved fingers. "I have a business appointment a little later this morning," he went on. "First, though, I'll introduce you to Howlett."

"Who?"

"The Beadle chap in Rosington Place. He's a bit of an ally of mine."

"I think I met him the day after I arrived."

"He ought to know you're my daughter. Have you got half a crown, by any chance?"

"Why?" she said, thinking of the five-pound note.

"I haven't any change on me. I like to give Howlett something now and again. It's an investment, in a way."

They set off toward Holborn Circus. Smoke drifted up from the chimney of the lodge at the foot of Rosington Place. He rapped on the shuttered window facing the roadway with the head of his stick.

Instantly the dog began to bark. The shutter flew up with a crash, revealing Howlett's head and shoulders. "Shut up," he said and the barking stopped abruptly, as if the dog had been kicked. "Morning, Captain."

"Morning, Howlett. This is my daughter, Mrs. Langstone. Mind you keep an eye out for her."

Howlett touched the brim of his hat. "Yes, sir. We met the other day, didn't we, ma'am?"

Lydia nodded. The dog began to bark again.

"I suppose Mrs. Langstone might find it convenient to use the back gate occasionally," Ingleby-Lewis went on.

Howlett grunted. The dog began to yap again.

Her father turned to Lydia. "There's a gate up there in the corner by the chapel-you can get directly into Bleeding Heart Square from there."

"We don't like all and sundry using it," Howlett said firmly.

"No, indeed. Only the favored few, eh?"

"The little tyke," Howlett observed. "I'm going to have to let him out."

His face vanished from the window. The door opened. The dog ran round the lodge and sniffed Lydia's shoes.

"Beg pardon, ma'am." Howlett edged the dog away from her with the toe of his boot. "Get out of it, Nipper."

"Plucky little brute," Ingleby-Lewis said.

"He's got a terrible way with rats."

"Well. Mustn't stand here chatting all day. Work to be done, eh, Howlett? Here, something to keep out the cold."

The half-crown changed hands. Howlett touched his hat again. Lydia and her father walked up Rosington Place toward the chapel at the far end. The two terraces on either side were drab but primly respectable. Judging by the nameplates on the doors, they consisted almost entirely of offices.

"Must be a living death, working in one of these places," Ingleby-Lewis observed, quickening his pace because the Crozier would now be open. "Just imagine it, eh?"

Lydia stared up at the chapel. Now they were closer, she saw it was much larger than she had first thought. From the other end of Rosington Place, it was dwarfed by the perspective: the height of the terraces created the impression that you were looking at it from the wrong end of a telescope.

"Belongs to the Romans now," Ingleby-Lewis said. "That chap Fimberry is always in and out-knows all about it. Odd place, really. Still, that's London for you, I suppose: full of queer nooks and crannies. And queer people, come to that."

The chapel was set back into the terrace on the left-hand side. A door on the left gave access to the house that ab.u.t.ted on the chapel; there was no other sign of an entrance. Immediately in front of them was a gate, painted murky brown, that sealed the northern end of Rosington Place. It was wide enough for a carriage, and it had a wicket inset in one leaf. Ingleby-Lewis raised the latch.