Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

Rory had forced himself not to cry out, not because he was brave but because he thought if he did he might attract more violence. Mercifully they seemed to lose interest in him: closed the door gently and turned the key in the lock. Darkness fell like a stone. The light switch was outside the door.

When they left him alone, he had stood up and swept his hands over the walls, exploring the Ossuary by sense of touch. All it contained was the table. The chairs had gone. He hooked his hands under one side and lifted. It rose a couple of inches, and then the weight was too much for him. He considered trying to wedge the door with it, but remembered that the door opened outwards, towards the steps down from the cloister.

Sooner or later, he told himself, someone would come. This will end. Everything ends. He shied away from the thought that whatever replaced this might be worse. Time passed. At one point he thought he heard distant music on the edge of his range of hearing. Perhaps the meeting was over, and they were playing the National Anthem. The theory was confirmed when he heard the rumble of voices and footsteps, a whole tide of them, in the cloister. All those clerks and commercial travellers and office boys were going home to the suburbs for the weekend. He would have given anything to be one of them. He hammered on the door and shouted, trying to attract their attention.

No one came. Had Fenella and Lydia and Dawlish got away safely? It was quite possible that they didn’t realize what had happened to him. It might be hours until he was missed — at the very earliest, not until he failed to turn up at Mecklenburgh Square at half past five.

Everything was now quiet outside. Time trickled slowly away. Rory’s mind wandered. He saw sand dribbling through rows of hourglasses, then the hands sweeping round an infinity of dials, all the clocks and watches of London measuring out his life.

At last, the key turned in the lock, the sound jolting him painfully back into his own chilly and uncomfortable body. The door opened, and blinding light streamed into the Ossuary. In the heart of the light was a shimmering shadow.

‘They’ve gone back inside,’ Lydia said.

‘All of them?’ said the large, untidy stranger.

‘As far as I can see. Serridge and Howlett are still by the gate.’

‘Barbarians,’ Mr Goldman muttered behind her. His face was grey and he was breathing hard.

‘Are you all right?’ Lydia asked.

He nodded. ‘Just out of breath. And angry.’

‘Have you far to go?’

‘I have a flat over the shop.’

‘I say,’ the other man said, blinking at her. ‘We should introduce ourselves. My name’s Dawlish, Julian Dawlish. This is Miss Kensley.’

‘How do you do?’ Lydia said automatically. ‘This is Mr Goldman, who has a shop in Hatton Garden. My name’s Lydia Langstone.’

‘Are you related-’ Dawlish began.

Simultaneously Fenella Kensley spoke for the first time: ‘We’ve met, haven’t we? On Remembrance Sunday in Trafalgar Square.’

‘That’s right. You were with Mr Wentwood.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s in there now, you know,’ Lydia said. ‘Did you see him?’

Fenella nodded.

‘I think they may be after him.’

‘Because he’s a journalist?’

‘Not just that,’ Lydia said. ‘There’s — there’s something else as well.’

‘Mrs Langstone,’ Dawlish said, ‘forgive me for asking, but it’s not a common name …’ His voice trailed away before he had actually asked anything.

‘Marcus Langstone is my husband,’ Lydia said evenly. ‘I’ve left him.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, but in the circumstances …’

‘It really doesn’t matter.’ She bent down and opened the letter box again. ‘I can’t see anyone outside the chapel. And there’s no sign of Serridge and Howlett now. If I were you I’d leave while you can.’

‘Yes,’ Dawlish said. ‘Mrs Langstone, I can’t thank you enough.’ He added, stiffly and absurdly, ‘We mustn’t take up any more of your time.’

To her surprise, Lydia realized, she felt quite calm. ‘We had better leave together but then split up. Perhaps Mr Goldman and I should go through the gates to the square and you and Miss Kensley out by the lodge.’

Dawlish nodded. He was peering at the noticeboard listing the house’s tenants. Fenella tugged at his sleeve like a child trying to attract her parent’s attention.

‘Julian, come on. I don’t like it here. Please.’

Instantly he was all concern, enquiring solicitously about how she was feeling while blaming himself for being insensitive. Lydia looked at her more closely. Fenella was trembling slightly and her face was grey.

‘The thing is,’ Dawlish said, ‘what about Wentwood?’

‘There’s not a lot we can do,’ Fenella said. ‘Let’s face it, they can’t really hurt him. Anyway, they don’t know he’s a journalist, and perhaps they’ll leave him alone. You’d think they’d have chucked him out already if they were going to.’

Dawlish looked from one woman to the other. ‘Perhaps we should-’

‘Can we go? Please , Julian.’

‘The sooner we leave the better,’ Lydia said, turning away so neither Fenella nor Dawlish would see the anger in her face. ‘I’ll tell Mr Wentwood what’s happened, if you like.’

They slipped outside. Rosington Place was deserted. Fenella, clutching at Dawlish’s arm, almost dragged him away. He turned and waved to Lydia. She and Mr Goldman went through the wicket gate into Bleeding Heart Square.

‘I can manage by myself now,’ he said, scowling at her. ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Langstone.’ He stalked off, leaving Lydia staring after him.

‘Mr Goldman?’ she called. ‘Are you all right?’

He paused by the pump and looked at her. ‘No, I’m not, Mrs Langstone. How can I be? I’m frightened.’

He raised his hat in farewell and a moment later was out of sight. It was only as Lydia was letting herself into the house that she realized what he had meant. He was not frightened of the uniformed thugs in the undercroft. He was not even frightened for himself. He was frightened of what the uniformed thugs stood for. He was frightened on behalf of all those people who stood in their way. He was frightened of the future.

Slowly the light faded from the afternoon. Lydia sat at the table in her father’s flat and looked down at Bleeding Heart Square, at the wicket gate to Rosington Place and at the wall of the chapel beyond. Reckless of expense, she had turned up the gas fire as far as it would go and fed the meter with shillings. Her father was still out. Among the butts in the ashtray beside her were a couple from Pamela’s cigarettes. The room felt empty without her.

At last the meeting in the undercroft came to an end. Most of the audience walked down Rosington Place towards Holborn. A trickle came through the wicket into the square, among them Mr Byrne from the Crozier and one of the mechanics from the workshop at the other end of the square. Mr Fimberry hurried after them.

But there was no sign of Rory. Lydia didn’t want to feel solicitous about him but it seemed she had no choice. Bloody Fenella didn’t give a damn about him . Anyway, she needed to tell him about the typewriter.

Ten more minutes passed at a funereal rate. There was still no trace of him. She went downstairs and tapped on Mr Fimberry’s door. There were shuffling footsteps in the room. The door opened a crack.

‘Mrs Langstone!’ The eyes blinked behind the pince-nez. ‘What — what can I do for you?’

‘Do you know where Mr Wentwood is?’

‘No.’ Fimberry was in his shirtsleeves. ‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid.’

‘Was he still at the meeting when you left?’