Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘The short answer is that his mind was unhinged, Mr Wentwood. He was a fantasist. I believe the doctors call it persecution mania nowadays. He was convinced that Mr Serridge was responsible for all his woes just because Amy had once worked at Morthams Farm. She was there for a few months. She wasn’t even a live-in servant, either. But none of this mattered to Herbert Narton. The baby’s father could have been any one of our many local scoundrels. But he decided it must have been Mr Serridge. That’s why he wanted to reopen the Penhow investigation. He wanted to embarrass Mr Serridge as much as possible. I’ve no doubt that what he would really have liked was to see Mr Serridge in the dock for the murder of Miss Penhow.’ Mr Gladwyn at last struck a match. He stared fixedly at Rory. ‘In his strange, twisted mind Narton no doubt thought that was the only way he could avenge what he thought of as the murder of his own daughter.’

For the rest of the afternoon, Miss Tuffley glanced regularly out of the window. She kept up a running commentary when Father Bertram ushered Marcus and Sir Rex out of the Presbytery House and into their car.

The worrying thing about it all, Lydia thought, was that Marcus might be back, particularly if he and Rex Fisher had been arranging with Father Bertram to hire the under-croft for another British Union meeting. She knew that the undercroft had been used for the purpose before but she wouldn’t put it past Marcus to have suggested it again simply because it was close to her refuge in Bleeding Heart Square.

She left the office a little after six o’clock. Miss Tuffley walked downstairs with her, sniffing the roses as she went.

‘You know what I need?’ she said cheerfully. ‘A nice gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady.’

Lydia smiled at her. ‘We could all do with one of those.’

Miss Tuffley turned left towards Holborn, and Lydia turned right towards Bleeding Heart Square. There was a letter waiting for her on the hall table. She took it upstairs to the sitting room. She didn’t recognize the writing, though the white envelope was good quality. She tore it open.

10 Alvanley Mansions

Lower Sloane Street

London SW1

Telephone: Sloane 1410

November 21 st

My dear Lydia

Your godfather reminded me that I have been most remiss in not writing for so long. I don’t think we have seen you since your wedding. Your godfather’s health has not improved, sadly, and we are unable to get about as much as we should like. But I wonder if I might prevail on you to have tea with us? The weekend would suit us best — Saturday or Sunday .

Do let me know — this weekend if you like. Your godfather sends his affectionate good wishes, as of course do I .

Yours very sincerely,

Hermione Alforde

My godfather, Lydia thought, just what Miss Tuffley ordered? A gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady?

There was a knock on the door. When she opened it, she found Mr Serridge standing on the landing and looking intently at her.

Saturday, 15 March 1930

Such a busy time. I bought some material yesterday and arranged for the woman Joseph found for me to run up a summer dress suitable for the country. I have given my notice at the Rushmere and made arrangements for Aunt’s furniture to come out of store and be taken to Morthams. Not just furniture, of course — there’s the china, the cutlery, the pictures and heaven knows what. I can hardly remember! We shall be at sixes and sevens for weeks, if not months, while we sort everything out .

I explained the suddenness of my marriage by saying that Major Serridge may have to go abroad at very short notice, and naturally I should want to go with him. Cards, good wishes, etc. from all and sundry. Old Miss Beale said: ‘Good for you, my dear. Get out while you can. Otherwise the shades of the prison house will close in around you.’ But then she cackled in a very unsettling way .

I must be honest and say it’s been an unsettling time altogether. What happened at the Alforde Arms on Tuesday made it worse. I know Joseph was all contrition in the morning, but still it hurt. But I suppose we women have always had that cross to bear. The simple fact is that men are different from us. But at least I know that now. Really know. Just to show that everything is all right between us I have ordered a car for him. We chose it together. He was so pleased, just like a little boy! It is a second-hand Austin 7, a nice shade of blue that goes with his eyes. We shall look very smart as we motor through the countryside in our own car .

I broke down in floods of tears again when he telephoned this evening. There I was in the little booth in the hall, hoping against hope that no one would notice me crying my head off. He was so gentle and loving. Tuesday night has had the strange effect of making me love him even more. How mysterious are the ways of Love! I should tear out my heart and bring it to him if it brought him a moment’s happiness. My heart is yours, my darling, how I wish you could keep it in your pocket, fluttering and beating like a bird beside yours, and my heart would warm itself with your love for ever and ever. I wish I could send you my heart in the post and you could keep it safe beside you for always. How silly I am. Sometimes he makes me feel seventeen again .

Hearts by post. There’s an idea.

A voice at his elbow said, ‘Mister? Mister?’

Startled, Rory looked round and down. His eyes met those of a small boy standing in the angle between the Vicarage gatepost and the garden wall. It was the one who had been whittling a stick outside the Alforde Arms, and perhaps the one in the field near Morthams Farm. He wore a jacket which was too small for him and buttoned up to the chin. His cap was squashed down over his hair, which was ragged and curly. His shorts reached below the knees. There was something slimy on the lower half of his face. As Rory watched, the boy wiped the back of his jacket sleeve under his nose. His eyes were large, brown and long-lashed, as beautiful as a cow’s. It looked as though his tongue was too big for his mouth, despite those big, slack lips.

Rory fumbled for a penny. ‘What is it?’

The boy thrust out his hand. In it was a dirty piece of paper, much folded. Rory took it and gave the penny to the boy, who spat on the coin and frowned. He waited while Rory unfolded the piece of paper. It was a note written in pencil.

MR WENTWOOD, Could I have a word with you before you go. The boy will bring you. Something most particular to say. Sorry to write but its better that Vicar dont see us .

There was a signature underneath but it was illegible. Rory looked up the drive. Mr Gladwyn’s round head was bent over his desk in the window of the study.

‘Who gave you this?’ he asked.

The boy muttered something unintelligible. He pointed a grubby finger down the lane.

‘Mrs Narton?’

The boy shook his head. The finger moved towards the left.

‘Somebody at Morthams Farm? Not Mr Serridge?’

The boy shook his head more violently than before. Rory fancied there was panic in the lad’s face. He muttered a monosyllable twice and finally it made some sort of sense. Barn. Barn . The finger was pointing towards a sagging roof visible perhaps a couple of hundred yards away beyond the boundary hedge along the lane. The boy took Rory’s arm and tugged gently.

Rory set out with him. There seemed no harm in following the lad and trying to find out what this was all about. He pulled at Rory’s arm again, urging him to go faster. He might be mentally or physically deficient in some way but he seemed to have a very clear idea of what he wanted. He led the way over the stile and along the line of the hedgerow. The barn stood at the top of a newly ploughed field on the far side of another hedge.