Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

Gladwyn grunted. ‘She’s not in the best state of health, either.’

‘She’s not old. She can’t be much more than forty-five. Such a shame: she was rather attractive when she was younger.’

‘She’s very devout.’ Mr Gladwyn frowned. ‘Almost worryingly so.’

‘Dear me,’ Mrs Alforde said. ‘Anyway, I shall make enquiries. Gerry feels very strongly about not abandoning former servants in their hour of need. What I should really like is to find a more suitable position for her, and possibly lighter work too. Tell me, is Mr Gregory still the caretaker of the village school?’

‘Yes, yes he is.’

‘He must be nearing eighty by now. Perhaps retirement is indicated. Gerry is chairman of the trustees, as you know, and with your support it should be quite straightforward.’

‘We’ve never had a woman as the caretaker of the village school.’

‘The old order changes, Vicar. No reason why we shouldn’t. Old Gregory does nothing more arduous than lock up and occasionally sweep the leaves. And Mrs Narton would be able to help with the indoor cleaning too, which is something Gregory would never dream of doing.’

‘It’s certainly an idea,’ conceded Mr Gladwyn. ‘If you think she’d be up to it.’

Mrs Alforde turned to Lydia. ‘If you don’t mind, I shall go and see Mrs Narton after coffee. What would you like to do?’

‘I might go for a walk,’ Lydia said. ‘Look, the sun’s come out. It’s an omen.’

‘I’m not sure Mr Gladwyn approves of omens,’ Mrs Alforde said.

The sun was still shining when Lydia and Mrs Alforde left the Vicarage. They parted at the gate, Mrs Alforde turning right towards the Nartons’ cottage, and Lydia turning left, which took her past the pub and the church.

Walking on, she caught sight of the Hall on the low ridge that raised it above the farmland and village. The park looked unkempt and one of the lodge gates had parted company with its hinges and was lying on its side in the ditch. She turned and retraced her steps through the village. She had felt a certain delicacy about mentioning to Mrs Alforde where she really wanted to go.

The roof of a small barn appeared in the distance, on the far side of a field. She glanced up and down the lane. No one was in sight. She went through the field gate and followed the line of the boundary hedge.

The barn was exactly as Rory had described, with the boarded windows, the heavily guarded double doors at the front, and the single door standing ajar at the back. Once she was inside, her enthusiasm for what she was doing abruptly dwindled. A girl and her baby had died in this place, alone and probably in pain. She told herself not to be foolish and lit a cigarette to drive away the ghosts. Then she stripped off her gloves, stood on tiptoe and felt along the top of the wall until her hand touched something smooth and hard. She wrapped her fingers around it and lifted it down. It was the skull of a lamb, an exhibit in Robbie Proctor’s private Golgotha, his personal ossuary. She put the skull back and continued to run her hand along the wall, palpating with her fingertips, feeling the outlines of skulls small and large.

At the end of the ledge, tucked in the corner where it ran into the gable wall, she came to another shape and a different texture — something which had rectangular corners, and which felt both warmer and smoother to the touch than the skulls had done. She ran her fingers over and around it. A small box. She lifted it down and discovered that it was very light and that something shifted inside when she moved it. The box was grey with dust and old cobwebs. She brushed away the worst of the dirt with a handful of straw. It had once held cigars and there was still a label attached to it.

Lydia took the box to the window opening in the nearest gable wall and held it in the light that streamed between two of the planks. She turned it upside down, and something rattled inside. She read the label and the stamp on the bottom. The box had once contained Jamaican cigars from Temple Hall, which proudly proclaimed itself ‘the original Cuban settlement’. According to another label on the side, the cigars had been bought at the Army and Navy Stores. She flicked up the lid and parted the leaves of the paper lining inside. The interior was empty apart from a broken pencil about three inches long.

She frowned at it, a sense of anticlimax washing over her. For an instant she had thought there would be something inside that would miraculously resolve the whole messy business: something she could show to Rory with the words, ‘There — I’ve done it.’

A broken pencil?

Lifting the box, its lid still open, she sniffed it. Faint but unmistakable, the aroma of ghostly cigars touched her sense of smell, unlocking a tangled mass of memories: of Fin after dinner in the library at Monkshill; of Marcus at their wedding breakfast, swooping down to kiss her, his moustache as bristly as a toothbrush; and of other cigars in other places at other times, down the long and misty perspectives of childhood.

At that moment the small door behind her slammed into its frame and she heard a scraping and thumping on the other side of it. She dropped the cigar box, ran to the door and tried to push it open. It didn’t move.

Sunday, 13 April 1930

I am walking about the farm much more. I am trying to become hardier, and more used to walking on mud, etc. The country is such a very uncomfortable place. There are sometimes cows in the fields, and a horse tried to attack me the other day. Joseph said it was just being friendly .

I wonder if I could walk as far as Mavering .

I’m sure Joseph has been looking at Amy more than he should. I have heard them giggling together once. It is so DEMEANING. I actually said something to him about it but he told me not to be a fool, and was really quite rude .

Worst of all, Rebecca has handed in her notice. She said the farm is too lonely for her and she needs to be nearer her family. I think she senses that something is wrong here .

I have found a safe place to keep my diary. I daren’t leave it in the house. I’m sure Joseph is going through my things. Two of my rings have vanished. It might have been one of the maids but I think it’s him .

And there’s another reason why she stays: mad though it is, in some part of herself she’s still hoping, against all the evidence, that there will be a happy ending.

Hunger is one of the most powerful arguments in the world. That was the main reason why Rory found himself walking up Doughty Street to Mecklenburgh Square at five to one. He had already spent his allowance for the week. Any sort of lunch would be better than none, and pride was a luxury reserved for those with full stomachs.

Number fifty-three was on the north side of the square, one of a terrace of tall, stately Georgian houses which had seen better days. Rory opened the gate in the railings, went down the area steps and knocked on the basement door. It was opened by Julian Dawlish, who was holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other.

‘Glad you could come, Wentwood.’ He stood back to allow Rory into the house. ‘Fenella is hacking things up in the kitchen, and I’m in charge of liquid refreshment. It’s going to be a sort of indoor picnic in the primitive style. Can’t manage cocktails yet but do you fancy a spot of whisky? There’s gin if you prefer, and I think there’s some beer somewhere.’