Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’

It was then that Lydia noticed the neighbouring grave. Amy Narton’s. She glanced at the veiled woman on the other side of the coffin and wondered what on earth she must be feeling. Her husband and her daughter were lying side by side.

Earth pattered on the coffin. The undertaker’s men looked straight ahead, their faces full of sombre boredom. The last prayers were said, and then the collect, and then at last it was over. Lydia wished she had not come: idle curiosity had made her a tourist in someone else’s grief. There was no excuse for that.

Afterwards, as the knot of people around the grave disintegrated, Mrs Alforde went up to the woman with the veiled face. Lydia watched them talking. Then Mrs Alforde said something to one of the elderly women beside her and rejoined Lydia, who had waited several yards away on the path.

‘Poor woman,’ Mrs Alforde said. ‘I hope you don’t mind; I’ve promised to go and see her after lunch. It shouldn’t delay us too much.’

‘No, of course not.’

She fell into step beside Mrs Alforde and they went through the gate into the grounds of the Vicarage. Lydia glanced back at the women near the grave. Mrs Narton had raised her veil and was staring after them. As soon as she saw Lydia had turned, she let the veil drop.

‘A very poor turnout,’ Mrs Alforde murmured. ‘Narton wasn’t much liked. And even though his death was officially an accident while cleaning a gun, everybody knows it must have been suicide. They don’t like suicides here. It’s felt that they bring shame on everybody.’

‘You’ve no objection to pork, I hope,’ Mr Gladwyn said, shaking out his napkin.

‘I like it very much,’ Lydia said.

‘Good, good.’ He sharpened the carving knife on the steel. ‘And I can particularly recommend the broccoli. I always find that being outside in this raw weather gives one an appetite.’

There were only the three of them at lunch, the Vicar, Mrs Alforde and Lydia. The meal was served by a middle-aged maid who bobbed a curtsy to Mrs Alforde.

‘It was good of you to come down today,’ Mr Gladwyn said after he had taken the fine edge off his hunger. ‘I’m sure it was a comfort to poor Mrs Narton.’

‘I said I’d look in and see her this afternoon,’ Mrs Alforde replied. ‘At least she has the cottage.’

‘Only in a manner of speaking, I’m afraid. I’m told that Narton took out a mortgage on it.’

‘Because he lost his job?’

‘Not just that. No, the problem was that Narton became quite obsessed with one of his neighbours, a man called Serridge. Quite a decent sort of fellow — perhaps you’ve met him?’

‘I don’t think I have.’

‘He bought Morthams Farm a few years ago. He was very helpful when I took the plunge and purchased a motor car. When he moved in, he brought a lady with him whom he introduced as his wife. She left rather suddenly a few weeks afterwards and it transpired that they weren’t married after all. No one knew where she had gone.’ Gladwyn frowned as he concentrated on trimming the fat from his meat. ‘You can imagine the gossip it caused. People are always willing to believe the worst. Indeed they want to, in some cases. In the end it turned out that she was alive and well and living with an old friend in America. But Narton was still convinced that Mr Serridge was responsible for some sort of skulduggery. What really drove him was the death of his daughter. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, poor Amy.’ Mrs Alforde helped herself to another sprout. ‘A dreadful shame.’

‘She’d worked briefly at Morthams, and Narton was convinced that it was Serridge — ’ Gladwyn coughed, glanced at Lydia, deposited the fat on the side of his plate and then continued ‘- that it was Serridge who was responsible for her plight, and therefore indirectly for her death. He became so obsessed with pursuing the poor man, against all reason, that he lost his job. But that didn’t stop him — he’s been harassing the man ever since. Poor Mrs Narton, how she’s suffered. First the shame of what happened to her daughter, then Amy’s death, then her husband’s increasingly bizarre behaviour, and finally his death too. Between ourselves, whatever the coroner decided, I’ve little doubt that Narton finally snapped under the strain and took the easy way out.’ Gladwyn sighed gustily and wiped gravy from his chin with his napkin. ‘Still, who are we to judge?’ He turned to Lydia. ‘I’m so sorry. Here we are, Mrs Alforde and I, chattering on about old acquaintances and quite forgetting how tedious this must be for you.’

‘Not at all. It sounds a sad story.’

‘And Mr Serridge?’ Mrs Alforde put in. ‘Is he completely blameless in this, do you think?’

‘There’s little doubt that his relationship with the woman was unorthodox,’ Gladwyn said weightily, with another glance at Lydia. ‘He has in fact subsequently talked to me about it at some length. He says he was sadly misled by her, and he’s heartily sorry for what happened. He hoped they would marry but she left him in the lurch. There’s no doubt about that, incidentally — she actually wrote to me and explained the circumstances. No, Serridge spent a lot of time in the colonies, and to be frank he’s not the sort of man you would expect to meet in a lady’s drawing room. But he’s very straight, if I’m any judge of character.’

The maid returned to take out the plates. Mrs Alforde smiled up at her and asked how her sister and nephew were.

‘They’re doing quite well, thank you, ma’am. And how’s the Colonel keeping?’

‘As well as can be expected, thank you, Rebecca. I know he would have liked to have come today, but he’s not in the best of health.’

In the lull between courses, Lydia excused herself and left the room. She went to the lavatory that opened off the hall. She wanted time to think. There were too many apparent coincidences. There had to be an underlying pattern. Her father had inherited Morthams Farm from old Mrs Alforde. He had sold it to Serridge, who had used Miss Penhow’s money to buy it and had moved in with her. Miss Penhow had gone. Her father had gone away too, but now he was living at Bleeding Heart Square, in the house apparently owned by Mr Serridge but which had formerly belonged to Miss Penhow.

But there was another layer of connections that added further complications. Her own parents had met at Rawling Hall, and she herself had presumably been conceived there. And now here she was, nearly thirty years later, brought here by the current Mrs Alforde, who had originally approached her at the instigation of Lydia’s mother.

She flushed the lavatory, washed her hands and went back to the hall, where she met Rebecca bringing in the pudding. In the dining room the Vicar was mourning the good old days.

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Alforde said, breaking into a lament for Christmas Past. ‘The Hall was impossible in the winter. There is a great deal to be said for central heating.’

Mr Gladwyn shook his head slowly. ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new.’

‘Dear Lord Tennyson,’ said Mrs Alforde tartly. ‘Not a man with much sense of humour and not an optimist either. By the way, talking of people without much sense of humour, what are we going to do about Margaret Narton?’

There was a low rumbling from Mr Gladwyn which Lydia at first took for flatulence but a moment later realized was laughter. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’

‘From what you say, her only source of income must be her wages from those dreadful people up at the Hall — all high thinking and low living, I understand, and not very good at paying their bills.’