Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

Suddenly the Major said, rather gruffly, that he had ‘a plan that would remove every obstacle’. I stood up and said I couldn’t understand what he meant. The doggy wound his lead round my legs .

To my astonishment, Major Serridge went down on one knee, there and then on the summit of Parliament Hill! I remember almost exactly what he said next, his words are burned indelibly on my memory. ‘My dear — I may call you Philippa, may I not? — I know there are many obstacles between us. You are so far above me in every way. Even if you will consent to it, I know we cannot at present be married in the eyes of man. But would you at least consider whether we might be married in the eyes of God?’

Of course you can’t know how reliable Philippa Penhow’s account is. Her rosy spectacles were so thick that she was the next best thing to blind. Perhaps she saw and heard what she wanted to see and hear, just like everyone else does.

The Lamb was less crowded than it had been the previous evening, perhaps because it was later. Apart from a knot of noisy undergraduates from University College in the corner, there was little conversation. Most people nursed their drinks and read the evening paper.

Sergeant Narton was late so Rory took his beer over to the table they had used before. He stared morosely into the heart of the fire. On the way from Bleeding Heart Square, he had telephoned Fenella from a call box to ask whether he might drop in later in the evening. She had pleaded tiredness and said she was going to bed early.

‘You can come tomorrow evening if you like,’ she had said, and it had seemed to him that she didn’t much care one way or the other.

He glanced up as the door to the street opened. Narton came in, his eyes sweeping the room. He went to the bar, where he ordered half a pint of mild-and-bitter. He brought it across to Rory’s table.

‘You look as if you’ve lost a pound and found a farthing,’ he observed.

Rory shrugged, not caring how Narton thought he looked.

‘Well?’ Narton stared at Rory over the rim of his glass. ‘Did you get anywhere?’

‘With the Vicar? Yes and no.’

‘What do you mean? Did he let you see the letter?’

‘Oh yes. I compared it with the sample I found in the chest of drawers. I’m no expert but it looks as if the same person could have written both.’

‘Any address on it?’

‘Grand Central Station.’

‘Fat lot of use,’ Narton said. ‘What about the envelope and the stamp?’

‘They looked perfectly genuine to me.’

‘These things can be forged.’

‘I’m sure they can,’ Rory said wearily. ‘But it’s not just me, is it? As the Vicar was at pains to tell me, the police found an expert to examine it and he couldn’t find anything amiss either.’

‘The point is the so-called expert didn’t necessarily want to,’ Narton said.

‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

The policeman scratched his wrist. ‘I don’t think our investigation into the disappearance of Miss Penhow was as thorough as it might have been. This is between ourselves, you understand. I’m not saying there was anything going on that shouldn’t have been, mind. All I’m saying is that some officers thought that looking for Miss Penhow was a waste of time and money. No body, you see. Nothing suspicious at all, not really, apart from the fact that she suddenly wasn’t there. But that’s not a crime. It’s true that she sold a lot of shares in the month or so before she went. Some of it must have gone to buy the farm for Serridge. But not all of it. And realizing capital makes sense if you’re planning to start a new life.’

‘Then why are you so convinced that something has happened to her?’

Narton planted his elbows on the table and leant towards Rory. ‘Partly because there’s evidence that suggests she had no intention of going away from Morthams Farm. It came to light after the investigation was finished. That’s the reason we reopened the case.’

‘What evidence?’

‘I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.’

Rory sat back in his chair. ‘Just as you didn’t tell me you live in Rawling? Was that confidential too?’

‘Don’t take it the wrong way, Mr Wentwood. It just wasn’t relevant. No point in muddying the waters, eh? Did anything else come up?’

‘There was one thing.’

‘Yes?’ A spasm like pain passed over Narton’s face. ‘What?’

‘Something the Vicar said as I was leaving. He mentioned that Serridge and Miss Penhow had bought Morthams Farm from Captain Ingleby-Lewis. It must be the chap at Bleeding Heart Square.’

‘It is.’

‘You knew that too? Why didn’t you say?’

Narton stared coldly at him. ‘Police officers try not to tell members of the public everything they know in the professional way, Mr Wentwood. It wouldn’t be very sensible, would it? It’s perfectly true, though. The Rawling Hall estate used to belong to a family called Alforde. When the old man died a few years back, they had to sell up. The widow had a heart attack while they were sorting out the sale. They reckon the shock killed her. Most of what was left of the money went to Mr Alforde’s heir, his brother’s son. But there was one farm, Morthams, that was outside the entail, because Mr Alforde had bought it in the nineties to round off the estate. Mrs Alforde had added a codicil to her will. She left Morthams to her own nephew.’

‘Ingleby-Lewis.’

Narton nodded. ‘The place was heavily mortgaged, they say. He had a devil of a job trying to sell it. Then Serridge came along and suddenly the thing was done.’ Narton tapped the side of his nose. ‘I can guess whose money went to buy it. Ten to one Miss Penhow paid over the odds and Serridge and Ingleby-Lewis split the proceeds.’ He held up his hand like a traffic policeman. ‘Maybe. Who knows?’

‘And now Ingleby-Lewis is living in Serridge’s London house?’

‘Which used to belong to Miss Penhow. Something fishy, eh? Serridge has got a tame lawyer, a man called Shires, and he handled the purchase of the farm and probably a lot of other business for Miss Penhow and Serridge. You can bet most of it was on a cash basis.’ Narton rubbed his eyes as though trying to erase his tiredness. ‘But proving it? That’s another thing. And that’s the trouble with this case. Nothing to get your teeth into. You can’t point at anything and say, there’s the body, there’s the robbery, there’s the crime.’

‘Can’t you question Ingleby-Lewis?’

‘Of course I bloody can’t,’ Narton said.

‘Why not?’

‘It would give the game away. Besides, he may be on his uppers but he’s not the sort of man whose arm you can easily twist. He’s got friends.’

‘Serridge?’ Rory thought that behind Serridge was Shires and the might and trickery of the law.

‘Not just him. Do you know who Ingleby-Lewis’s ex-wife is? That young lady’s mother? She’s Lady Cassington now. She’s got a house in Mayfair and an estate somewhere in the West Country. Don’t let anyone tell you we are all equal before the law, young man. Because we are not. And the gentry are the worst of all. Say the wrong thing to one of them, and you find the whole world comes down on you like a ton of bricks. They’re all bloody related. They’re all looking out for each other.’ He swallowed the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What this country needed was the guillotine. That’s where we went wrong. Those Frenchies knew what was what.’

Rory was conscious of a twinge of disappointment. Lydia Langstone wasn’t just married — she was one of those upper-class women whose lives his sisters read about in magazines. She would have been presented at Court and had her wedding pictures in the Tatler . But what the devil was she doing in Bleeding Heart Square? Not that it mattered tuppence to him, of course. He was merely curious.