Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

Lydia was watering the dusty plants that wilted quietly on the windowsills of the general office. The windows overlooked the chapel on the other side of the road. A large car drew up outside. A chauffeur emerged and opened the nearside rear door. Two men got out. One of them was Marcus and the other was Sir Rex Fisher.

Automatically she drew back from the window. Miss Tuffley, whose typewriter stood on a table by the other window, was less bashful.

‘Oh — now that’s what I call a proper car. They was here the other day. That chauffeur is a big chap, isn’t he? And look at the two gents. You can tell they had silk-lined cradles. First class all the way, eh? I wouldn’t mind being whisked off my feet by one of them, the tall one, especially.’

‘What are they doing here?’

‘Not coming to see me. No such luck. Yes, I thought so — they’re ringing the bell of the Presbytery House. They want Father Bertram. A lot of the toffs are Romans, you know. Funny, that.’ A thought struck her. ‘You’re not one of them, are you?’

‘What?’

‘A Roman. You know — a papist.’

‘No.’ Lydia pulled out a drawer of the filing cabinet with such force that it collided painfully with her knee and laddered her stocking.

Miss Tuffley continued her commentary. ‘What’s that chauffeur doing? Golly! Look at those flowers! Roses in November! Must have cost a fortune!’ She gasped. ‘He’s crossing the road.’

Lydia could bear it no longer. She muttered something about powdering her nose and locked herself in the lavatory for five minutes. When she came back, she found two dozen red roses on her desk. Miss Tuffley was staring at them with covetousness and curiosity.

‘There’s no card with them — I’ve looked,’ she hissed. ‘The chauffeur just gave them to the caretaker’s boy downstairs, along with sixpence for his trouble. Sixpence for running up and down the stairs! But the boy said they were for you. Mrs Langstone, care of Shires and Trimble. There can’t be any mistake.’

Lydia looked out of the window. The car was still there. She had never had much time for roses. They needed too much attention and they had too many thorns. Even when somebody else did the work and removed the thorns, as now, they looked lifeless and artificial and smelled overpowering.

‘You know those men down there, don’t you?’ Miss Tuffley said, chewing on the problem like a dog with a bone. ‘And you never let on. Which one sent the roses?’

Lydia ignored her. Marcus thought women were like children: you could woo them with toys. But he didn’t even trouble to find out what toys they liked.

‘You can have the blasted things,’ she said abruptly.

‘What?’ Miss Tuffley said in an unladylike squawk.

‘You can have the roses. I don’t want them.’

‘But why ever not? They’re lovely.’

‘I’d like you to have them,’ Lydia said doggedly. ‘Otherwise I’ll throw them away.’

‘All right. If you’re sure. Thanks ever so.’

‘But there’s one condition.’ Lydia lowered her voice. ‘If either of those men ever comes to the office asking for me, or if that chauffeur does, say I’m not here.’

Miss Tuffley’s eyes were large and round. ‘But why?’

‘Because I don’t want to talk to them,’ Lydia said. ‘That’s why.’

At the Vicarage he recognized the maid who opened the door, and she recognized him. When he asked if he might see Mr Gladwyn, she led him into the house and left him staring at the engraving of Rawling Hall. A few minutes later, she ushered him into the study.

‘I’m not sure I can be of any further use to you, Mr Wentwood,’ Mr Gladwyn said after they had shaken hands.

‘I imagine you knew Herbert Narton, sir?’

The Vicar stared at him. ‘So that’s the way the land lies. What’s this about? Have you been pulling the wool over my eyes, young man? Are you one of these reporters?’

‘I promise I’ve nothing to do with any newspaper,’ Rory said carefully. ‘And it’s perfectly true what I told you about Miss Kensley. I saw her only a few days ago and … and she’s much easier in her mind about her aunt now. But I owe you an apology — I wasn’t entirely frank with you when I last called.’

Gladwyn frowned. He had not asked Rory to sit down. ‘Then you’d better explain yourself.’

‘A week or two ago, I was approached in town by someone who knew of my friendship with Miss Kensley.’ It was a slight perversion of the truth, but it would serve. ‘Herbert Narton.’

‘Bless my soul. What was the man up to?’

‘He led me to believe he was a police officer, a plain-clothes man engaged in an undercover investigation.’

‘Into Miss Penhow’s disappearance?’

Rory nodded. ‘And into Serridge. I’m renting rooms in Serridge’s house in Bleeding Heart Square. The house that used to belong to Miss Penhow.’

‘So you actually know Mr Serridge? You really have pulled the wool over my eyes.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. But you must remember that I believed that Narton was a police officer and that I was helping him in his investigation. I only found out the truth this morning. I saw Mrs Narton.’

‘Poor woman. She’s taken this very hard. It is not to be wondered at.’

‘She was acting very strangely, sir. She was having a bonfire.’

‘Yes. The contents of that cupboard, no doubt.’

‘What?’

‘It was a bone of contention between them, Mr Went-wood.’ Gladwyn opened his tobacco pouch. ‘You’d better sit down. Perhaps you deserve some sort of explanation.’

He waved Rory to an armchair and began to fill his pipe. ‘It’s perfectly true that Herbert Narton was a police officer. He was a detective too, in the latter part of his career. He married a local girl, Margaret — he was a Saffron Walden man himself — and came to live in Rawling. It must be said they weren’t particularly well liked — they were a self-contained couple, kept themselves to themselves, and he never let anyone forget he was a police officer. They had one child, Amy.’

‘I saw her gravestone on my way here.’

Mr Gladwyn picked up his matches. ‘A silly girl, I’m afraid. Head full of fancies. Not very bright, either. Still, there was no real harm in her. Miss Penhow hired her to work at Morthams Farm soon after they moved here. They were doing the girl a favour, really. She was barely literate, and she hadn’t any training in domestic service. And morally — well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I suspect she was sadly free with her favours. Some of our village girls are little better than animals in that respect. Well, in due course the inevitable happened and she found herself pregnant. She refused to say who the father was. Her parents were very upset, and it didn’t do much for Narton’s career, either. But they didn’t throw her out. I think they were going to make the best of it. Put the child up for adoption, perhaps, or bring it up as their own. Unfortunately it never came to that. There were complications in childbirth. The baby was stillborn and the girl herself died. It shook the parents very badly. Narton was never the same.’

‘I suppose his death was suicide?’

‘Eh? It’s not for me to say. There will have to be an inquest of course, but I understand that the verdict will probably be accidental death. After all, there’s nothing to show it wasn’t an accident. The shotgun had belonged to his late father-in-law, I’m told — it hadn’t been used for years. No one will want to make this harder for Mrs Narton than it need be. Our thoughts and prayers must go out to her at this sad time.’

‘But why did he do it?’ Rory asked.

‘As I said, let us assume it was an accident.’

‘Not his death. I mean why did he pretend he was still in the police?’