Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

When he had finished his inspection, he had lifted her down and they had walked on, hand in hand, as far as the lake. He said in a casual voice on the way back that what she had shown him in the shed was of course a secret. She had to promise that she would tell no one. Otherwise he would not be able to stop the slugs tracking her down and eating her. She had sucked the first two fingers of her right hand and nodded vigorously.

During the war, Lydia had had a recurring nightmare that Marcus had become a soldier and been killed. She never told anybody about this, even Marcus when the war was over, but she prayed every night that the fighting would end before he was old enough to join up. Her prayers were answered but, as is so often the case, there was a catch. Marcus lied about his age and tried to join up in 1916 but he was rejected as unfit because of flat feet. Marcus’s elder brother was not so lucky.

The Cassingtons were staying in Upper Mount Street when they heard the news. Her stepfather saw it in The Times , in the list of fallen officers near the Court Circular.

‘Poor Wilfred Langstone,’ he said heavily, setting down his coffee cup.

‘Oh dear,’ Lady Cassington said.

Lydia’s stepsister Pamela, who was spoilt by everyone including Lydia and allowed to get away with murder, continued banging the top of her boiled egg with a spoon.

‘Died of wounds, poor chap. I didn’t know he’d transferred to the Royal Flying Corps.’

‘I must write to his mother. Poor Maud.’

Lydia stared at her plate. Pamela continued to hit her egg. The saucer around her egg cup was now a mass of shell fragments.

‘This frightful slaughter.’ Lord Cassington put his elbows on the table, leant forwards and turned down the corners of his mouth; he looked like a gnome with indigestion. ‘We can’t carry on like this. There will be a revolution. You mark my words.’

Lady Cassington was pursuing a different line of thought. ‘At least she has another son. That must be some consolation. Thank heavens they wouldn’t take him.’

Pamela dug the tip of the spoon violently into the top of her egg. Yolk spurted out and a few drops fell on the tablecloth.

‘Marcus?’ Lord Cassington said. ‘Yes. What’s he doing now?’

‘According to Maud, he’s running errands for Charlie Verschoyle at the War Office. Pammy darling, don’t do that. Either eat it or leave it. Fin, could you cut off Pammy’s crusts?’

Lord Cassington obeyed. He was called Fin within the family because of a long-standing joke so old that its origins were lost in the mists of time: it was believed to have had something to do with the shape of his hands. He removed the crusts from his daughter’s toast and cut what was left into soldiers.

But his mind was still running on the Langstones. ‘It’s a shame Jack died in the spring,’ he said, wiping his fingers on his napkin.

‘Isn’t it better for them? It must be awful if your son dies before you.’

‘The point is, it means two lots of death duties within a year. One has to be practical.’

‘Perhaps we should ask Marcus to dinner. Or even down to Monkshill for a weekend. It might help him take his mind off things.’

‘If you like.’

Lord Cassington’s eyes returned to the casualties. The egg cup toppled over and fragments of ruined egg sprayed across the tablecloth.

Lady Cassington smiled. ‘He’s much better-looking than Wilfred,’ she said. ‘And really quite grown-up.’

On Friday evening, Captain Ingleby-Lewis returned from the Crozier humming the opening bars of Offenbach’s Barcarolle over and over again. He let himself into the house and, still humming, zigzagged from side to side of the hall in the general direction of the stairs. At this moment, Mrs Renton came out of her room carrying a pair of sheets. He collided with her, and the sheets fell to the floor.

‘Madam,’ said Captain Ingleby-Lewis, wrapping an affectionate arm around the newel post. ‘I can only apologize. The fault is entirely mine.’

Alerted by the noise, Lydia appeared at the head of the stairs. ‘Is everything all right?’

Mrs Renton stared up at her, and said nothing. The Captain began to hum again and hauled himself steadily up the stairs. Mrs Renton picked up the sheets.

Lydia came down to help her fold them. ‘Mr Fimberry’s?’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Renton said shortly. ‘No, no, Mrs Langstone — you take the corners, all right, and then bring them towards my corners.’

Above their heads, the Captain and his Barcarolle moved across the landing and finally came to harbour in the sitting room.

Lydia said, ‘Does the name Penhow mean anything to you?’

‘Why?’

‘The sheets reminded me. I found a laundry mark on my sheet that said Penhow.’

The folding of the sheet had brought the faces of Mrs Renton and Lydia only a few inches apart. The dark little eyes examined her.

‘Now we fold it this way,’ Mrs Renton said. ‘This house used to belong to Miss Penhow.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She went away.’ Mrs Renton stepped back and put the folded sheet outside Mr Fimberry’s door. ‘Shall we do the other one?’

Thursday, 13 February 1930

Yesterday evening I met Major Serridge at the Tube station at Oxford Circus. We had an early dinner at a very nice Italian restaurant in Soho whose name I forget. I had a glass and a half of wine and my head began to swim! Afterwards he was all for getting a taxi, but I said I should prefer to walk .

We reached the Wigmore Hall at a quarter past eight. Major Serridge had bought the expensive seats, at 12 shillings each. He refused to allow me to pay for mine. The recital began at half-past. Moiseiwitsch played divinely. I have never heard Chopin played with such feeling. The Prelude in A-flat major was particularly moving. I distinctly saw Major Serridge touch his eyes with his handkerchief .

When it was over we stood for a moment outside the hall. It was a dank, foggy evening but I felt as if I was floating on air. He said, ‘After music like that, we should by rights have moonlight and roses.’ The more I get to know him, the more I realize how sensitive he is. I was quite happy to catch a bus home but this time he positively insisted on hailing a taxi. At the Rushmere, he took me up to the door and thanked me for a wonderful evening. As we said goodnight, I fancy he gave my hand a little extra pressure .

This morning, imagine my surprise when I found an envelope waiting at my breakfast table. A Valentine!! A day early, but never mind! Of course I don’t know who it was from, but I can’t help wondering .

Who else could it be?

On Saturday afternoon, Mr Howlett came to Bleeding Heart Square with a young assistant, a hungry-looking man who stared at Lydia as though he would have liked to devour her. Mr Serridge had arranged for them to move the furniture from the cellar into Mr Wentwood’s flat.

Mr Howlett was out of uniform. His brown canvas coat deflated him and made him ordinary. Nipper followed the men into the house. He sniffed Lydia’s ankles and would only leave her alone when Mr Howlett kicked him aside. Afterwards, he tried to make friends with Mrs Renton but she pushed him away.

‘I don’t like dogs,’ she said. ‘Stupid animals. Watch he doesn’t bring mud in the house or scratch the paint.’

Howlett and his assistant tramped up and down the stairs between the cellar and the attic flat. Nipper followed them from floor to floor, his claws scratching and rattling on the linoleum and the bare boards.