Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

They looked at one another for a moment, neither giving way. But the anger drained from both of them.

‘I don’t want to go,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’d rather stay here.’

He nodded. ‘I’d rather you stayed here too. Hermione Alforde is right, though. It isn’t suitable. You’ll be better off with them.’

Swaying slightly, with stooping shoulders, he made his way towards the door. Lydia stayed in her chair, staring at the glowing tracery of the gas fire. This had started with Mrs Alforde, she thought: something had happened to make her change her mind, something in Rawling on Thursday, 29 November.

But that made no sense at all.

The Captain’s footsteps stopped behind her, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move. His familiar aroma of dust, tobacco and stale beer enveloped her. He kissed the top of her head. She said nothing. He moved away. The door opened and closed.

It was the first time her father had kissed her.

The only bed at present in the house filled most of a small room off the kitchen in the basement — a damp cell with little natural light and a strip of wallpaper curling away from the wall like a striking snake. The large iron bedstead must have been assembled in the room because it was too large to get through the doorway. A stained mattress lay slightly askew on top of it.

Dawlish foraged on the upper floors and came back with an armful of blankets and cushions. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘Of course I will,’ Rory said.

Fenella and Dawlish departed a little after nine o’clock. Rory helped himself to a nightcap from the whisky bottle. But the alcohol wasn’t helping now. Quite the reverse. His body had reduced itself to a shifting, twitching network of aches and pains. Much worse than that was the fact that he was frightened, his thoughts rampaging beyond control. The violence in the Ossuary — his own as well as Marcus’s — had unleashed terrors he had not known existed. What would happen if he never learned how to tidy them away into his memory, let alone how to forget them?

Without removing his clothes or bothering to wash, he collapsed on the bed and burrowed into the musty blankets. Almost instantly, sleep glided over him. He remembered nothing more until he awoke with a start, hours later. For a moment he thought he was in his old bedroom at his parents’ house. He had a slight headache and his mouth tasted and felt like a used dishcloth. He lay there feeling oddly happy and full of hope, letting the memories of yesterday seep into his consciousness. He fumbled for matches and struck a light. It was only half past six but he had no desire to stay in bed.

During the morning he worked on the article, drafting and redrafting it in pencil at the kitchen table. Towards midday Dawlish turned up with a flask of coffee and a portable typewriter. Shortly afterwards Fenella arrived with a basket containing their lunch, most of which came out of tins. When they had eaten, the others left him to finish the typing. He was aware of the murmur of their voices in the sitting room.

Rory finished the article and read it through. Was it finished? Was it as good as he could make it? He had read it so many times and in so many versions that he was no longer capable of judging. He went down the hallway towards the half-open door of the sitting room, intending to ask for a second opinion. His ankle was still painful but he could move quite comfortably if he leant against the wall. But he had taken only a few steps when Fenella’s voice suddenly rose in volume.

‘Stop it! Just get off me. Stop mauling me, will you? You’re just the same as all of them. Filthy beasts.’

Careless of the pain from his ankle, Rory scuttled back into the kitchen and pushed the door to, so it was almost closed. He heard footsteps in the hall, and Dawlish saying something, his voice low and urgent. The area door slammed. The flat was silent.

Rory looked through his article again but this time his eyes would not even focus on the words. She doesn’t want him, he thought, she doesn’t want him. Not like that .He felt the beginnings of an unpleasant sense of triumph, instantly cut short by the realization that Fenella had made it quite clear that she didn’t want him either. You’re just the same as all of them. Filthy beasts . She didn’t want anyone, not like that .

Heavy footsteps were coming slowly down the hall. Dawlish came into the kitchen.

‘How’s it going?’

‘I think I’ve finished,’ Rory said. Instinct told him to act as if he had heard nothing of what had happened in the sitting room. He pushed the typed sheets across the table. ‘I’d be glad of an opinion.’

Dawlish pulled out a chair. ‘Oh — by the way — Fenella had to go.’

‘I thought I heard the door,’ Rory said carefully.

‘She was in a bit of a hurry. No time to say goodbye.’

‘It must be a busy time for her.’

Dawlish stared vaguely at him. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been overdoing it a bit lately.’

Rory agreed. Dawlish picked up the typed sheets. Rory waited, forcing himself to stay still. Dawlish skimmed through the entire article and then turned back and read it again, this time more slowly. At last he looked up.

‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

‘Do you think the editor will agree?’

‘I’m quite sure he will.’ He swallowed and then went on in a rush, ‘I say, old man, would you mind if I asked you something?’

‘Fire away.’

Dawlish hesitated. ‘Do you think that …’ He lost his nerve and broke off, running his fingers through his hair. He swiftly recovered. ‘What I mean to say is, I ought to show you over the rest of the house soon — especially the attic. See how you feel about living there for a bit. Do you think you’ll be able to manage the stairs later today?’

‘I hope so. I can certainly try.’

‘Good,’ said Dawlish absently. He stared at the kitchen sink, and Rory knew he was really looking at the emptiness of a world without Fenella. ‘Absolutely splendid.’

Lydia Langstone had never travelled in a third-class railway compartment before. She discovered that, like crowded buses or bone-shaking trams, they were where you met British humanity in all its smelly, noisy variety. On that Sunday it was a slow journey punctuated with changes and delays and populated with tiresome fellow passengers. She had plenty of time to regret her decision.

Eventually and reluctantly, she reached Mavering. As she walked along the rainswept platform, she was tempted to wait for the next train that might take her in warm, safe discomfort back to London.

A porter approached her, scenting a tip. ‘Taxi, miss?’

Lydia shook her head and asked where the footpath to Rawling was. He looked surprised but gave her meticulous directions. She rewarded him with a sixpence and set out.

She had dressed for the weather in a waterproof coat and hat so the rain did not worry her. It was cold, however, and she forced herself to walk as quickly as possible. When the path forked, she took the left-hand turn, the one that would take her along the bottom of the meadow behind Morthams Farm. Twenty minutes later she came out on to the lane to Rawling.

The stumpy tower of Mr Gladwyn’s church was about half a mile away. No one was in sight. Less than a hundred yards from where she stood, the chimneys of a small cottage poked into a muddy grey sky. She hurried down the lane and stopped outside.

The garden gate had fallen backwards from its hinges. The disintegrating corpse of a blackbird lay on the path up to the front door, and the weeds were waist high on what had once been a lawn. A wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys. Ignoring the front door, Lydia followed the cinder path round the side of the house. As she passed one of the windows, she glimpsed movement inside.