Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

Robbie tugged Rebecca’s arm like a bell pull and said, quite distinctly, ‘Golgotha.’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ his aunt said, shaking him off.

‘Golgotha?’ Rory asked.

‘It’s in the Bible. Place of the skull, where Our Lord was crucified. Robbie got it at Sunday school. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I left the farm. Didn’t even work out my notice. But poor Amy stayed. Not live-in, but who cares? Serridge didn’t. She was fifteen. He always liked them young, mind, the younger the better. He tried to get his hand up my skirt once, and me not a day over thirteen.’

‘Now one moment. You knew Serridge when you were thirteen?’ He tried to guess Rebecca’s age. At least forty, if not more. ‘Where was this?’

‘Here in Rawling.’

‘So are you telling me that Serridge used to come here before the war?’

Rebecca snorted. ‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? He came to the Hall once or twice when the Alfordes were there. They had lots of big parties with people down from London. I’d just gone to work there, that’s how I met him. And when Serridge didn’t get anywhere with me, he tried it on with someone else.’

‘Ah — Mrs Langstone,’ Serridge said, smiling at her and bobbing his big head in what was almost a bow. ‘I thought I heard you come in.’

‘Hello, Mr Serridge.’ Lydia slipped Mrs Alforde’s letter into her handbag. She forced a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I wanted to see how you’re settling in. Must all be a bit strange for you, eh? Not what you’re used to.’ He was no longer smiling. ‘Job all right?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘If you need any advice, you’ll have a word with me, I hope? I know the Captain’s not always the most practical of men.’

‘Thank you, Mr Serridge.’ Lydia forced another smile. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now would you excuse me? I’ve just got back from the office, and I really must-’

‘Of course, my dear, of course.’

He bobbed his head again, sketched a vague salute and crossed the landing to his own rooms. Lydia closed the sitting-room door, put down her handbag and peeled off her gloves. The brief interview had unsettled her. She felt uncomfortable as the object of Serridge’s concern.

There was a faint tapping, almost a scratching, at the door. Not Serridge, probably — there had been nothing faint about his knock. Lydia was tempted to pretend she was not here. But whoever it was must be able to see the light under the door.

She took a deep breath and turned the handle. Mr Fimberry was waiting on the landing, smoothing back his hair with his fingers.

‘And how are you , Mrs Langstone?’

‘All right, thanks. Is there something you want?’

Mr Fimberry ignored the question. ‘I’ve had a most interesting day,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d like to know that I’ve found fragments of medieval encaustic tiles embedded in the wall of the Ossuary.’

‘The what?’

He settled the pince-nez more firmly on his nose. ‘It’s a small chamber beside the main crypt in the undercroft. Didn’t I mention it the other evening? The theory is that in the Middle Ages it was used for holy relics, for bones. That’s one explanation. But it’s also been suggested that the bodies of Catholics who died in the seventeenth century lay there before they were secretly buried beneath the chapel, all piled together in their shrouds. Or that their bones were put there before they were reinterred.’ He came a step closer as though trying to insinuate himself into the room, but Lydia did not give ground. ‘Of course the theories aren’t necessarily incompatible. There’s a good deal of discussion about the subject but very little hard evidence, I’m afraid. On the other hand, the wall is hard enough.’ He laughed. Then, recollecting himself, he went on, ‘But you must let me show you the Ossuary some time. It’s generally kept locked. Of course, if you come to the meeting, you’ll probably be able to see it then.’

‘What meeting?’

‘Father Bertram tells me that the British Union have hired the undercroft for a meeting on Saturday week. It’s at lunchtime, and they are laying on bread and cheese. It’s for the business people in Rosington Place. They want to explain how their economic ideas will work in practice. I gather Howlett will be putting up notices. I’m sure they’ll soon know all about it at Shires and Trimble.’

‘Excuse me,’ Lydia said bluntly, unable to bear it any longer. ‘I have to go.’

She shut the door in his face, lit a cigarette and went to stand by the window. She felt both furious and unsettled. This was all she needed. It was as if Marcus were pursuing her, even here. The problem was, she could see no way out of Bleeding Heart Square. She couldn’t go back to Frogmore Place. But if she left this flat and her father, where else could she go? She had too little money to rent a room of her own. It had already been made painfully clear to her that she had no marketable qualifications. And her job at Shires and Trimble, such as it was, depended on her being here.

Unless, of course, Colonel Alforde would help her. She took Mrs Alforde’s letter from her handbag and reread it. The Colonel was her godfather, and perhaps that might count for something. She was uncomfortably aware of how cynical she was becoming. But cynicism went hand in hand with poverty.

She had never heard of the Alfordes having any children. Lydia couldn’t recall meeting them when she was a child. Lady Cassington had added their names to the list of wedding invitations. Why had he been chosen as her godfather?

She heard familiar footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and collided with a chair. Her father walked slowly and carefully into the room. He waved at Lydia and, without saying anything or removing his overcoat, sat down very carefully and slowly.

‘Father? I had a letter from Mrs Alforde today.’

Ingleby-Lewis frowned. ‘Who?’ Then his face cleared. ‘You mean old Gerry Alforde’s wife? Is he dead yet?’

‘Apparently not. He is living in Lower Sloane Street. He’s my godfather, you know.’

‘Oh yes. I used to see a lot of him at one time.’

‘Was he related to the lady who left you Morthams Farm?’

‘Aunt Connie? Yes, indeed. As a matter of fact, she was his aunt too — by marriage, though. Gerry’s father was the second son, you see.’ A gleam of interest came into his eye. ‘I suppose if there was anything left after they sold up it would have come to Gerry. Harry and Connie didn’t have any kids so he must have been the next in line.’

‘Mrs Alforde asked me to tea. I wonder why.’

Ingleby-Lewis stretched out his long legs and patted his pockets in search of cigarettes. ‘It’s up to you, of course, but I shouldn’t go if I were you. Gerry was always a bit eccentric, and he had a bad war, poor chap. Last time I saw him — must have been ten or twelve years ago at least — he was babbling utter nonsense. You couldn’t believe a word he said.’

Lydia nodded, without committing herself either way. Her father was looking at her with an intent expression on his face. She glimpsed the ghost of a younger, harder man behind the bloodshot eyes and the blotched and wrinkled skin. She shivered.

‘Growing chilly, isn’t it?’ her father said. ‘You’d better light the fire.’

Robbie was growing restless. He ran his fingers along the wall of the barn, muttering ‘Golgotha, Golgotha’ over and over again in a squeaky little sing-song voice that might have belonged to a much younger child.

‘What was Serridge doing down in Rawling?’ Rory said, picking his way through the possibilities. ‘Was he someone’s servant?’

Rebecca shook her head. ‘Not exactly. The Alfordes used to have shooting parties before the war — they did all sorts of entertaining. Had royalty once, the Duke of Connaught. They’d sometimes take on extra staff.’