Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘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 abutted 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.

‘Old Howlett’s got the only key,’ he said. ‘Sometimes he keeps the door locked just to show who’s top dog.’

‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ Lydia said.

Her father held open the wicket for her. ‘It’s not a question of liking or not liking. Howlett’s a fact of life. You want to keep on his right side. Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square count as a private jurisdiction, you see. It’s a sort of legal oddity — Fimberry knows all about it. In theory even the police can’t come in unless they’re invited.’

The door beside the chapel opened. They glanced towards the sound. A tall young man came out. Lydia caught her breath. He smiled and touched his hat to her before walking rapidly down Rosington Place towards the lodge.

‘Who’s that fellow?’

‘I think his name’s Wentwood, Father. He’s interested in the attic flat. Mrs Renton told him to come back today when Mr Serridge is here.’

She stepped through the wicket. In Bleeding Heart Square, a man was standing at the entrance to the public bar of the Crozier and shouting at somebody inside. A mechanic working at the garage at the far end whistled at Lydia. There was a little pile of excrement, possibly human, in the angle between the gate and the pillar supporting it.

Ingleby-Lewis followed her through the wicket and closed it carefully behind him, shutting out the seedy respectability of Rosington Place. ‘Serridge,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, he’ll have to talk to him. And you haven’t met Serridge, either, have you?’

Later that morning, while she was tidying the shelves on the left of the fireplace in the sitting room, Lydia came across an old writing box. It was a portable writing desk, a solid mahogany affair, its corners reinforced with brass. When she lifted it onto the table to dust it, however, she discovered that it was less robust than it looked. The lid slid off and fell to the floor with a crash. At some point in the box’s history, the hinges had been broken. The fittings inside had vanished as well.

But the box wasn’t empty. It held a jumble of pens, paper, pencils, envelopes and inks. The paper was no longer white but turning yellow and brittle with age. Some of the nibs were spotted with rust. Lydia’s eyes rested on a small sheet of paper, blank apart from seven words at the top: I expect you are surprised to hear -

She pushed aside the sheet. Underneath it was a sheet of foolscap with more writing on it, a long column of names — all of them the same: P. M. Penhow .

There was a knock on the door. Lydia dropped the lid clumsily on top of the box. When she opened the door, she found Malcolm Fimberry standing very close to it on the other side. He stared at her through his pince-nez and smiled. His lips were moist and very brightly coloured, almost red. He was trembling slightly.

‘Mrs Langstone. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.’

‘What is it?’ Lydia said, knowing that she must sound rude. Mr Fimberry was the sort of person to whom you found yourself being rude without meaning to be.

‘I heard the noise upstairs — I’m just beneath, you see — so I knew somebody was in. I thought perhaps Captain Ingleby-Lewis was here.’

‘He’s not, I’m afraid.’ Lydia realized that she was still carrying the cloth she had been using for dusting. ‘May I take a message?’

‘Yes — no — you see, it’s rather delicate. I lent him ten shillings some time ago, and I wondered whether it was convenient for him to pay me back now. He … he said he would pay me at the end of the week — that was last month — but he must have forgotten, and after that when I happened to mention it, it wasn’t convenient, but perhaps if you were to have a word with him …’

He broke off and lowered his eyes. He seemed to be staring at her chest. She registered the fact that he hadn’t shaved and that the stubble on his chin was more ginger than the hair on his head. She also saw that the breast pocket of his tweed jacket was in need of repair and that he hadn’t changed his collar for some time.

‘It must have slipped my father’s mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you the money now.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Langstone, you are very kind. I think I saw you and your father near the chapel this morning, didn’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a very interesting building, of course. Did you know that I work there, by the way? In an honorary capacity, that is.’

She found her purse and counted out ten shillings in silver. His fingers touched hers as the money changed hands.

‘Father Bertram calls me his assistant sexton.’ He gave a little laugh that was unexpectedly high and girlish. ‘Perhaps you would allow me to give you a guided tour. There are so many interesting stories associated with the old place.’

‘That’s very kind. Actually at present I’m rather busy and-’

‘It needn’t take up much of your time, Mrs Langstone. You see, because it’s on the doorstep, one can pop in for ten minutes here and ten minutes there. Oh, you would enjoy it, I promise you. Such a lot of history, so many strange yarns.’

There were footsteps on the stairs, and the small, shapeless figure of Mrs Renton appeared.

‘You left your kettle boiling, Mr Fimberry,’ she announced. ‘Must be almost dry by now.’

‘Oh — yes, thank you. Goodbye, Mrs Langstone.’ At the head of the stairs, he turned back. ‘Thank you, Mrs Langstone,’ he murmured.

‘Has the Captain heard when Mr Serridge will be back?’ Mrs Renton asked Lydia.

‘Today at some point. That’s all I know. By the way, I saw that young man this morning, Mr Wentwood — the one who came about the flat. He seemed to have been looking round the chapel.’

‘Then him and Mr Fimberry should have something to talk about,’ Mrs Renton said. ‘I’d best be getting on. At least it’s not smelling yet.’

Lydia blinked. ‘What isn’t?’

‘The parcel in the hall,’ Mrs Renton said. ‘Mr Serridge’s new heart.’

Wednesday, 29 January 1930

Major Serridge called again this morning — he wanted my advice about the choice of wallpaper for his room. ‘It needs a lady’s eye,’ he told me. He added that of course it had to be an artistic lady! I offered to pay for it, but he was quite obstinate — he didn’t want to put me out, it was for his benefit, etc., and he insists on bearing the whole cost himself .

He wasn’t able to stay long. When I went with him to the door, there was a beggar outside with a poor, half-starved mongrel, and the Major said he would go after the man and make sure he gave the dog something to eat. How typical of his warm heart! I told him about Aunt’s dog Susie, and he told me about a dog he had when he was a little lad .

Then he said, ‘Long before you were born, I’ll be bound!’

That afternoon there were Fascists on the streets. In twos and threes, they patrolled Holborn and Clerkenwell, handing out leaflets and selling copies of the Blackshirt . They were very smart, like athletic chauffeurs, and attracted a good deal of interest from young women and even from St Tumwulf’s schoolgirls. Some were young, little more than boys, but others looked as if they might have fought in the war. All of them were very polite. Lydia found it hard to distinguish one from the other. One noticed the uniforms, not the faces, just as one did with members of the Salvation Army.