Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said.

The eyelids slipped over the eyes like blinds over a window. He began to snore again.

His watch had stopped. But Rory knew it must be later than he had thought. The windows of the house were in darkness. There were still lights downstairs at the Crozier, although the outer door that led to the bars was closed for the night. He paused on the corner by the pump, turning his head to and fro, looking for movement in the shadows and listening for sounds. He was always cautious now when coming back to the square after dark.

Dawlish had taken him to the American Bar at the Savoy, where they had shared a bottle of champagne with a third man who had turned out to be a regular columnist on Berkeley’s . A decent chap, Dawlish — the better he knew him, the more obvious that was. It made everything more complicated.

Rory walked slowly across the cobbles and let himself into the house. From somewhere above his head came the rhythmic drone of Captain Ingleby-Lewis’s snores. He followed the stairs to his own flat. He ought to be feeling tired but he was still wide awake, buoyed up by the excitement of the day and the fact that he now had at least the possibility of a future. Before he went to bed, he would have another go at the shorthand. He pushed the Yale into his door and let himself into the flat. Just as his hand touched the sitting-room switch, he registered the fact that there was an unexpected smell in the air.

The tang of spirits.

He brushed his hand down the switch and the room filled with the harsh glare of electric light. The first thing he saw was Joseph Serridge sitting in his armchair.

‘Look here,’ he said, stumbling over the words, ‘what are you doing in my flat?’

‘That’s a question I want to ask you, young man.’

Rory glanced around the room. His books were askew. One of the drawers in the chest was half open. His writing case was on the table. Even the cover was off the typewriter.

Serridge felt in his jacket pocket and produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the cap and drank. All the while his eyes remained on Rory’s face. He capped the flask and stowed it away.

‘What’s your dirty little game, Wentwood?’

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Of course you do. You’re a reporter.’

‘Yes. I’m not working, though — as you know I’m looking for a job.’

‘Balls. Absolute balls.’

‘But it’s not,’ Rory said feebly.

‘Listen, Wentwood — if that’s your real name — you wormed yourself into this house. You-’

‘I needed somewhere to live,’ Rory put in. ‘I’m paying you rent. It’s as simple as that. And I wish you’d leave now.’

Serridge glared up at him. ‘And you’ve been to Rawling. Not once but twice.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I’m asking the questions. Who are you working for?’

‘No one.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard. A little bird told me that you went down to Rawling on behalf of a third party.’

It couldn’t have been Narton, Rory thought feverishly, because he was dead. Mrs Narton? Rebecca? No, it must have been Gladwyn. According to Lydia, Serridge had been in Rawling yesterday. If the Vicar had come across him, he might well have mentioned Rory’s visits.

‘So are you doing it for love or money?’ Serridge went on. ‘Or both?’

Rory did not reply.

‘Not Fenella Kensley, by any chance?’

Rory sighed. ‘You know it is. You’ve been through my papers. May we stop playing games?’

‘Me?’ Serridge pantomimed surprise. ‘I don’t think I’m playing games. I’m not the one who’s been going around under false pretences and telling lies and making nasty accusations and insinuations.’

‘All I was trying to establish on behalf of Miss Kensley was where Miss Penhow is. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘So you’re not a journalist? Instead you’re a spy?’

‘It’s a private matter. It’s perfectly reasonable for Miss Kensley to want to know where her aunt is.’

Serridge stood up. ‘I don’t know anything about that. All you need to know is I want you out of this flat and out of this house. And I don’t want you trying to talk to any of the other lodgers. For instance I don’t want to see you pestering Mrs Langstone any more. Got it? Just leave her alone or you really will regret it.’

‘You can’t really expect me to-’

‘Let’s say first thing Monday morning, shall we?’

Serridge stretched out his arm and touched the top of a large gold-rimmed vase standing on the mantelpiece. He moved his finger an inch. The vase toppled over, falling to the tiled hearth. It shattered into a dozen fragments.

‘Dear me, Mr Wentwood,’ Serridge went on in the same level, almost monotonous tone. ‘Look what you’ve done. That was one of my mother’s favourites too. Rather valuable. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to return your deposit. And of course, as you’re leaving without notice, that means you forfeit your month’s rent in advance. Oh dear, dear.’

Rory stared across the table and said nothing. Serridge stared back. He was standing directly under the electric light and the little bald patch on the back of his head gleamed pinkly.

‘And a word of advice, young man: that girl of yours is clearly a bit of a nutter. If I were you I’d steer well clear of Miss Kensley. Because what’s all the fuss about? Her auntie’s in America. Everyone knows that. And remember what I said about Mrs Langstone.’

Serridge left the room. He closed the door gently behind him, which was worse than if he had slammed it. Rory listened to the heavy footsteps descending the stairs. His legs began to tremble. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He rested his head in his hands.

Nothing had happened, he told himself, only a broken vase and a few threats. The bad news was that he would have to find somewhere else to live, but that wasn’t the end of the world. What was worse was the fact that Serridge had made the connection between him and Fenella. But there was no need to panic, he told himself — the thing to do was to concentrate on tomorrow. He mustn’t allow this business with Serridge to distract him from the Berkeley’s article.

He pulled his notebook towards him and flipped through the last few pages until he found the few lines of shorthand he had managed to write this evening. He stared at the dense mass of grey squiggles. For all the sense they made, they might have been written in ancient Sanskrit or they might be a mass of microscopic animals under a biologist’s microscope.

There was another odd thing, Rory thought — the way Serridge warned him away from Lydia. What did that suggest? That he had lined up Lydia as his next victim?

Rory’s eyes travelled from the notebook to the typewriter. Its case was open. He distinctly remembered closing it before he went. He pulled the machine towards him. The light glinted strangely on the bars in the type basket. At least half a dozen of them had been pulled up and bent to one side or the other, so they looked like greasy spikes of hair after a man has scratched his head. He touched a key at random. Nothing happened. The machine was unusable. So how in hell’s name was he going to type his piece for Berkeley’s ?

He stared at the twisted bars of metal, and suddenly understood what they represented. Serridge was a man without boundaries. What he did to a machine he would do to a person.

You hold the diary up to your face. Is it your imagination or does it still smell faintly of his cigars? The smell clings to everything. It reminds you of Joseph Serridge, that and the smell of brandy.

Saturday, 19 April 1930

If only dear Jacko could talk. Every morning after breakfast, Joseph lights his first cigar of the day and goes out for what he calls his constitutional. Rain or shine, he takes Jacko for a walk down to the road. Usually the postman has been by then so he collects the letters from the box at the end of the drive and walks back .