Bleeding Heart Square Part 23

Mrs. Renton?

Something blue protruded from the waistband of the skirt, an un-sealed envelope also with Mrs. Renton's name on it in the same handwriting. Rory removed the single sheet of notepaper it contained.

Morthams Farm Rawling Saffron Walden Ess.e.x April 22nd 1930 Dear Mrs. Renton, As we arranged, I enclose my winter skirt for alteration. I think it has at least another year in it, perhaps two. Please take in the waist by three quarters of an inch. Would you redo the hem as well-as you will see, it is coming down. If the blouses are ready, please put them in with the skirt and give them to my husband when you see him. Yours sincerely, P. M. Serridge (Mrs.) Rory took out his writing case and compared the letter with the sample of Miss Penhow's handwriting that he had found in the chest of drawers. There was no reason to doubt that they had been written by the same person.

He sat down at the table and lit a fourth and unlicensed cigarette. Mrs. Renton-what on earth had she to do with this? Leaving that aside, nothing in the letter suggested that Miss Penhow was planning to leave Morthams Farm and Serridge. Nothing suggested that there was any strain between the two of them, either. On the other hand, if Miss Penhow had been devious, the letter might have been designed to throw Serridge off the scent. Rory's mind followed the tortuous logic of this: but perhaps that implied that Miss Penhow expected Serridge to read the letter, and the further implication of that was that she had reason to believe that Serridge no longer trusted her. And then there was the question of how Narton had come to have the parcel. Rory could only a.s.sume that it had been taken as evidence when the police were investigating the disappearance of Miss Penhow, and that Narton had removed it for his own purposes after he had lost his job.

He smoked the rest of the cigarette. He folded the skirt and its accompanying letter in the brown paper and carried it downstairs to the first floor, where he knocked on the door of Ingleby-Lewis's sitting room. Lydia opened the door.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if you could advise me about this parcel." He s.h.i.+fted his position in order to get a better view, trying to establish whether or not Ingleby-Lewis was inside. "That is, if you've got a moment."

"Yes, of course." She stood back, holding the door open.

To Rory's relief, there was no one else in the room. It looked as if Lydia had been writing a letter. "Are you busy?"

"Nothing that can't wait." She moved swiftly past him, slipped her letter under the blotter and capped her fountain pen.

"What is it?" she said, looking at the parcel.

"It's a skirt. It's all rather odd." At that moment it occurred to him that he and Lydia had not talked properly for days and even then, at their lunch at the Blue Dahlia, he had said nothing about Narton. Lydia was looking at him with close attention, as if she found what she saw very interesting. He went on in a rush, "When we had lunch the other week, I told you something about Miss Penhow."

"I remember."

Still standing, they faced each other across the table.

"I didn't tell you everything." He paused, and wished that she would say something. "In particular, I didn't mention that I had been approached by a man called Narton, who's been watching this house for some time. He said he was a plain-clothes police officer and he wanted my help. Like me, he was interested in the Penhow case. He said the police hadn't been able to find any evidence that Serridge had done away with her, but they weren't satisfied."

"A little man, middle-aged, in an old tweed coat and a hard collar?"

"How did you know that?"

"I saw you together once in the Blue Dahlia."

"You're observant. You think there's any chance that Serridge might have seen us too?"

Lydia shrugged. "Not that I know of. Anyway, what happened?"

"He persuaded me to go to Rawling and talk to the Vicar. He said he couldn't go himself, or one of his colleagues, because the Vicar was a chum of Serridge's, and he didn't want to run the risk of Serridge finding out that the police were still interested. But then I happened to discover that Narton himself lived in Rawling, which was something he hadn't seen fit to tell me. The next thing was that I found a copy of the local newspaper in the dustbin downstairs when I was throwing out my rubbish." He wondered whether to mention the goat's skull but decided to leave that until later. "It must have been Serridge's. There was a stop-press item about a man who had died at a cottage in Rawling at the beginning of the week. It was Narton."

The silence in the big, cold room lay heavily over everything. He watched Lydia swallow. He wished he hadn't been such a fool as to mention this. She would blurt it all out to her father, who would tell Serridge. Or she would even tell Serridge herself, Serridge who might well be sweet on her.

"I think we'd better sit down," Lydia said. "Don't you?"

She sat down and waved him to the seat opposite hers. He laid the parcel on the table, dislodging the blotter in the process. Rory felt the muscles in his shoulders relax. He had been tense for a long time, he realized, though he had not been aware of it. The reason for the slackening of tension arrived in his mind a split second afterward: it was a relief to have told someone about Narton at last, even Lydia Langstone, a woman whom he didn't really know.

s.h.i.+fting the blotter had exposed part of the letter that Lydia had been writing. Rory had just time to read the address, the date and the salutation of the letter: Dear Mrs. Alforde. Lydia pushed the blotter to the other side of the table, covering the letter as she did so.

Once again his muscles tensed. He hadn't been open with her, so why should he expect her to be open with him?

She was looking at him, her lips slightly parted. "How did he die?"

"While cleaning a shotgun."

"Which means it was probably suicide?"

"Yes. And there was something else," Rory went on. "Mrs. Narton said that her husband had been forced to leave the police force three years ago."

"Then why was he still so interested in Serridge?"

"I'm coming to that. I thought I'd go and see the Vicar again, see if he could help. It was lunchtime so I had to kick my heels for a time. I was in the churchyard and I saw a gravestone for Amy Narton, who died in 1931. She was the daughter. Then I talked to the Vicar, who more or less came out and said that Narton had been unbalanced by his daughter's death. She died in childbirth and n.o.body knew who the baby's father was. She had worked at Morthams Farm, but the Vicar saw no reason to believe that it was Serridge. But later I talked to the maid, and she told a rather different story. She had no doubt Serridge was responsible." He hesitated and then plunged on. "She'd found a photograph of Amy in the nude on a bicycle. Apparently that was part of his courting technique."

Lydia snorted with laughter. "Surely that's a joke? Please tell me it is."

"I don't think so. Serridge persuaded the village maidens that it was how smart ladies up in London learned to ride their bikes."

"Imagine it. Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon."

He smiled at her. "Rebecca thought he was keeping Miss Penhow a virtual prisoner at the farm, and that he had another mistress in London as well. A strange girl was seen at the farm just before Miss Penhow disappeared. And there were two other things which were even stranger. The first was that Serridge used to come to Rawling Hall-that's the big house near the village-before the war. So he knew the place already. And the second thing was even stranger, and I don't pretend to understand it. There were-some skulls, the skulls of animals, in the place where the maid was talking to me. Her nephew was with us, and they were his pride and joy. And it seemed one of them had gone missing. The skull of a billy goat."

Lydia stiffened. "With very long horns? Sort of swept back?"

"So you saw it too?"

"Yes. Or something very like it. It came in the post for Mr. Serridge. He opened it in here." She caught up with the implication of the word too. "But when did you see it? And where?"

"Last week. It was in one of the dustbins downstairs. Along with the Mavering newspaper that mentioned Narton's death."

"None of it makes sense, does it? Not if you try to put it all together. What will you do?"

Rory ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know."

"And now Mrs. Renton? How does she come into it?"

"No idea. Have a look at the parcel. I suppose I should give it to Miss Kensley."

He watched Lydia reading the letters and examining the skirt. She looked at him.

"Why don't you show this to Mrs. Renton first? After all, it's addressed to her. See what she says-it can't do any harm. So when you give it to Miss Kensley, you can say you've done everything that you possibly could."

"All right. I'll ask her now. Thanks awfully. You've been very helpful."

She glanced sideways at him. "Not at all."

He picked up the skirt and the letters and went downstairs, leaving her folding the wrapping paper at the table. He knocked on the door of Mrs. Renton's room. There was no answer. He knocked again with the same result. He went back upstairs. As he reached the first-floor landing, Lydia came out from the little kitchen.

"No luck?" she said.

"She's not in." Rory's mind ran ahead to the rest of the day: he himself would have to go out, back to combing through the Situations Vacant boards in the public library. "It will have to wait. I need to go out."

"Would you like me to ask her about it?" Lydia said. "As it happens, I'll be in for most of the day."

"Would you? That's very decent. If you're sure it's no trouble?"

"Not at all. I want to see Mrs. Renton about some mending."

Rory handed over the parcel and Miss Penhow's letter. He continued upstairs, with Mrs. Narton's note in his hand. Lydia Langstone was really quite a good sort, he thought, despite the airs and graces and the cut-gla.s.s accent. Almost pretty too. She had, he thought, a trustworthy face. But perhaps that was wishful thinking, and what the devil was her connection with Mrs. Alforde?

17.

READING THIS NOW, it's obvious to you that even then Serridge was desperate to get away from Philippa May Penhow. Be honest. She probably revolted him.

Tuesday, 8 April 1930 I tried to keep myself busy while Joseph was in London. He drove to Bishop's Stortford all by himself, and took the train from there. Of the two maids, Rebecca will, I think, prove a tower of strength. She is a little slow and sullen, as these country folk are apt to be, but she is a sensible woman and knows what she is about. I am less certain about young Amy, who seems rather sly and surly. She broke one of the Royal Doulton teacups as she was unpacking-how furious Aunt would have been!-and then tried to pretend it wasn't her fault. Rebecca tells me that Amy's mother used to work at the Hall too, but unfortunately she seems not to have pa.s.sed on what she learned to her daughter! All the while today I was listening out for the sound of the car on the drive. But Joseph didn't come back until after teatime. He swept in, in a very jolly mood, apologizing for his lateness, saying the train had been delayed. When he embraced me, I thought I smelled an unfamiliar perfume on his collar. And there was a long, fine hair on his jacket. I pointed this out to him and he became quite heated. He said there had been two little girls in the compartment of his train and the hair must have been one of theirs, and probably the perfume was on one of the cus.h.i.+ons. I am afraid I allowed my wretched jealousy to run away with me and burst into angry tears. After a while, Joseph pulled me onto his knee and soothed me as if I were a child. That made me weep all the more at first but soon all was smiles again! While this was going on, poor Jacko had no idea what was happening and was running to and fro and getting underneath our feet and barking and whining. He was much happier when he saw that his master and mistress were the best of friends again. Later, as we were waiting for Rebecca to bring in our supper-I hesitate to call it dinner-Joseph produced two little packages, one for me and one for Jacko. Mine was a beautiful silk scarf from Liberty's with a j.a.panese design on it. As for Jacko, he is now the proud owner of a smart new green leather collar with a bra.s.s buckle and seven s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s stars on it. Joseph said the collar made him look like a ferocious guard dog. How we laughed!

How you laugh too. He fooled everyone. Even Jacko.

Finding Mrs. Renton was harder than Lydia had expected. She wasn't in her room all day. That in itself was not unusual because she often visited her clients, who were scattered across London, and sometimes would work in their homes. Mrs. Renton returned to Bleeding Heart Square at some point in the evening but it was too late to call on her.

The following day, Wednesday, Lydia was at s.h.i.+res and Trimble. The job was becoming less of an ordeal than it had been. Mr. Reynolds had decided that Lydia was quite useful for a woman. She had what he called a refined telephone manner and was also capable of understanding his filing system.

As for the others, Marcus's roses had effected a decisive s.h.i.+ft in the balance of power in the general office. Miss Tuffley confided to Lydia that Smethwick could be "an awfully vulgar little tyke" and that he had had too much cider and been a bit fresh with her on the firm's summer outing in July, which frankly was a bit thick. She also volunteered the opinion that "Us girls should stick together." It wasn't just the roses that had done it. It was also the realization that Lydia had some sort of a connection with G.o.dlike males who were ferried around in silver Bentleys driven by uniformed chauffeurs.

Mr. s.h.i.+res came in at nine thirty. He greeted everyone and walked rapidly into the private office. Lydia gave him ten minutes and then picked up her notepad and tapped on his door. He was standing at the big desk with the waste-paper basket beside him, working his way through the morning's post.

"May I have a word, sir?"

He glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. "Very well. I can only spare you a moment, though."

Lydia closed the door behind her. "I wanted to ask your advice on a personal matter."

He frowned. "That's a little unusual." He walked round the desk to his chair. "You'd better sit down." He pulled a small white paper bag toward him and helped himself to a peppermint.

"I want a divorce," Lydia said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A divorce."

"Bless my soul. Mrs. Langstone, have you any idea what that would entail?"

"That's one reason I've come to see you, sir. So I can find out." She paused but s.h.i.+res said nothing. "I'm living with my father because I have left my husband. I left him because he hit me."

"Dear me. I'm sorry to hear that. Were there any witnesses?"

Lydia shook her head. "However, he has also committed adultery."

s.h.i.+res leaned back. "Oh dear. On the surface that would certainly be grounds for divorce. But you would have to prove it." He sucked on his mint, and Lydia heard a faint squelching sound. "Are you able to do that, Mrs. Langstone? And, if you are, are you prepared for your private life, as well as that of your husband, to be discussed in court? There's no such thing as a quiet divorce, you know, even if you could persuade your husband to-ah-cooperate. There tends to be an unhealthy interest in these matters, particularly if the princ.i.p.als have any connection with the peerage. The publicity would be distressing."

Lydia noted the fact that somebody had told s.h.i.+res about her family. Serridge or her father? She said, "And the cost?"

"It would not be cheap. Going to the law is always an expensive business." He smiled complacently at her. "Fortunately for us lawyers."

"If I could raise the money, however, and if I could get the evidence, there's no reason why I shouldn't go ahead with the divorce?"

"These are big conditions. Yes, though. All things being equal. Since the most recent Matrimonial Causes Act, a woman is ent.i.tled to pet.i.tion for divorce on the grounds of the husband's adultery. Until then a woman could only sue for divorce on those grounds if it were aggravated by the man's desertion or his cruelty to her. But in your case there might be another complication. If I understand matters aright, it is not he who has deserted you, but you who have deserted him."

"Because he attacked me."

"So you say. We come back to the question of proof. Or of your husband's willingness to admit guilt."

Lydia drew a little gallows on the notepad and adorned it with a stick figure of a man. "But if I were able to find the money and the evidence, would you be able to help me deal with this?"

s.h.i.+res stared coldly across the desk. "It is not the sort of work we usually undertake, Mrs. Langstone. Nor do I feel happy about the prospect of one of my employees appearing in a divorce court. I have this firm's reputation to consider. And there's still the matter of the money and the evidence you would need. These are not matters to be taken lightly."

Lydia stood up. "Then I take it you are not willing to help?"

Mr. s.h.i.+res sighed. "I wish you young people wouldn't leap to conclusions. I haven't said I will help you, and I haven't said I won't. All I have done is point out some of the problems that you will need to resolve if you decide to go ahead with the matter, including the fact that it may affect your position with this firm. What I will say is this: I will consider what you have said and let you know my decision in due course. Now would you be so good as to ask Mr. Reynolds to spare me a moment?"

At Cornwallis Grove events began to move fast, as if an invisible brake had been removed. Almost overnight Fenella became full of energy and decision. Rory was afraid that the reason for this was the arrival in her life of Julian Dawlish.

If you had to design an elegant single solution to all of Fenella's problems, you could hardly have done better than copy the man, inch by inch, atom by atom. He was rich, politically congenial and a gentleman. Like a fairy G.o.dfather, he produced flats and jobs at the click of his manicured fingers. To add insult to injury, Rory found himself rather liking the man.

It had been Dawlish who had pointed out that, now the lodger was no more than an unhappy memory and some curious stains on the carpet in her room, there was no longer any need for Fenella to remain at Cornwallis Grove, unless of course she wanted to, which she did not. The Alliance of Socialists Against Fascism was anxious to get itself up and running as soon as possible. The house in Mecklenburgh Square was standing empty. The flat in the bas.e.m.e.nt could be made ready whenever she wanted it. Dawlish had visited an estate agent in Hampstead Village who was convinced that he would have no trouble in letting the Kensleys' maisonette in Belsize Park for the remainder of the lease; in fact he already had a prospective tenant in mind.

Suddenly, it seemed, there was no reason for Fenella to stay and every reason for her to go. On Tuesday evening, Rory received a postcard from her, asking if he could spare the time to help with the clearing out; the Kensleys had been storing some of his belongings while he was in India, and she would be grateful if he could remove them.

Early on Wednesday afternoon, he took a tram in the Hampstead direction and was at Cornwallis Grove a little after two o'clock. Fenella was alone in the house. She was wearing overalls and her hair was bound up in a headscarf. The hall was still cluttered with the mortal remains of Mr. Kensley's ill-fated hobbies.

"Work first," she said. "Tea later."

As he followed her toward the stairs he stumbled again over the bag of tools and narrowly avoided treading on a crystal receiver.

"Careful," she said over her shoulder. "I'm sorry to hurry you, but I've got the estate agent coming round next week and I want the place to look as clear as possible."

She took him up to the box room, a former dressing room on the first floor where the Kensleys had deposited anything they didn't want but could not bear to throw away. Rory found himself looking at two suitcases, much scuffed and dented, adorned with faded labels recording long-forgotten railway journeys. He had left them with the Kensleys just before going to India in what seemed another lifetime, and one that had belonged to someone else. He carried the cases out to the landing and rummaged half-heartedly through their contents. As well as clothes and bed linen, he found a tobacco jar, books he could not remember reading, chipped crockery, a stack of lecture notes and an embarra.s.sing attempt at an extended poetic a.n.a.lysis of the discontents of civilization written in the style of The Waste Land.

"I'm not going to want much of this," he said.

Fenella wiped a grimy hand across her forehead and grinned at him. "Nor am I. Why don't you sort through it and chuck out what you can?"

He spent the next fifteen minutes picking through the contents of the cases. Moths had got into one of them. In the other, however, he found a heavy suit which still had some wear in it. The jacket fit and the trousers would probably do if he asked Mrs. Renton to alter them. By the time he closed the lid of the second suitcase, his hands were filthy and he had had more than enough of the detritus of his own past.

He poked his head back into the box room. "I've gone as far as I can go. One suitcase can go on the rag-and-bone pile. I'll keep the other. I can give you a hand in here, if you like."