Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘Try me.’

‘And it’s not fair to you.’

‘Let me judge that.’

She leant closer to him and lowered her voice. ‘Do you think Serridge killed Miss Penhow?’

He nodded. ‘It’s hard to see what else can have happened.’

‘And what about the others? Did they help?’

Rory ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Howlett will do whatever Serridge tells him, as long as he’s paid. He provided the dog, and took the beastly thing back too. I’m sure there have been other things as well. He’s a useful ally to have in Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square.’ He moved on to the next finger. ‘And then there’s Shires: do you think he was in on it too?’

Lydia nodded. ‘I don’t know how far he was implicated. But they must have had a lawyer to handle the purchase of the farm, and that was with Miss Penhow’s money and in Serridge’s name. And then there’s the house in Bleeding Heart Square. It’s hard to believe that the title deeds aren’t in Serridge’s name by now as well. He’d need Shires for something like that. And finally …’

She ran out of words and returned to making her circles on the marble.

Rory held up the third finger. ‘And finally there’s your father. But I rather doubt he’s involved, or not in an active way. I think he’s just somebody who happens to be a tenant, who knows Serridge from a previous life.’

Lydia shook her head. ‘He wrote that letter from New York. The one to Mr Gladwyn.’

He stared at her, his eyes widening. ‘So it wasn’t from Miss Penhow? But you can’t be sure of that.’

‘I can. I found the evidence. And he confirmed it when I asked.’

‘And Miss Penhow? Did he know …?’

‘I doubt it. I think he just looked the other way. I think that’s what Howlett and Shires did too. They didn’t want to see anything too unpleasant so they didn’t.’

‘Like all those people in the audience on Saturday. The ones who just stood and watched when the Blackshirts went to work.’

She rubbed the circles away with her napkin.

‘Lydia,’ he said, ‘then what happened to Miss Penhow?’

‘He probably buried her at the farm.’ She glanced up. ‘There must be something left of her. Something still to find.’

‘Not necessarily. It depends how clever he was. There was a case near Hereford when I was a boy. A chap killed his wife. He was a farmer too. There was a great heap of manure in the farmyard, and he put the body there. The police found what was left of her about six months later. I remember people saying that if it had been left in the midden for longer — three or four years, say — there would have been practically nothing left to find, except maybe a thigh bone that they couldn’t identify. It’s the acid, you see. It eats everything in time.’

The manageress herself brought their food. She set down the hotpot in front of Rory and the liver in front of Lydia. Lydia opened her mouth and then closed it again.

‘You get that inside you, ducky,’ the woman said sternly to Lydia. ‘Lot of iron in liver. And you need building up.’

‘Yes,’ said Lydia meekly.

The woman waddled away. Lydia picked up her knife and fork.

‘Do you want to swap?’ Rory said.

Lydia looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

‘It means you’ve passed some sort of test,’ he told her. ‘She’s never called me ducky.’

Lydia gave him a small and unconvincing smile. They ate in silence. She forced herself to try the liver and to her surprise rather enjoyed it. That was one thing she had learned in the last few weeks: food mattered.

‘But who sent the hearts and the skull?’ he said suddenly.

She glanced at him and said with her mouth full, ‘Narton, of course.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Who else could it have been? Anyway I’ve got proof. Mrs Narton sent you Miss Penhow’s skirt. She wrapped it in brown paper. I kept the paper the skull was wrapped in. It’s the same.’

‘The same sort?’

‘Two halves of the same sheet. The join matches, Rory. And Robbie thought it was Narton who stole his skull. But of course Narton doesn’t really matter here. It’s Serridge that counts.’

Rory laid down his knife and fork. ‘We can’t prove anything,’ he murmured. ‘Not unless there’s a miracle. He’s covered his tracks too well.’

Lydia did not reply. It occurred to him suddenly that she might not want a miracle: if Serridge were charged with murder, then Captain Ingleby-Lewis would almost certainly be charged as an accessory.

After another mouthful, he said, ‘What will you do now?’

‘The Alfordes have asked me to stay. I went to see them this morning, and it’s all fixed.’

He concealed the disappointment he felt. ‘How long for? Do you know?’

She shifted listlessly on her chair. ‘Just for a few weeks, I hope. I saw my mother and Marcus this morning too. I don’t think there will be any trouble with the divorce.’

‘Good. Is he all right? Mr Langstone, I mean.’

‘He looks worse than you do. He’s got an eyepatch like a pirate. You won’t have any more problems with him, by the way.’

‘What will you do afterwards?’

‘After the divorce? Look for somewhere of my own, I suppose, and a job.’

‘Dawlish mentioned this morning that he plans to let out part of the rest of the house. I–I happened to say you might be interested in a flat.’ He hesitated, aware he was moving into unfamiliar territory. ‘I hope that’s all right.’

Her expression was unreadable. ‘And Miss Kensley?’

He shook his head. ‘It seems that she’s changed her mind.’

‘About the flat?’

‘And the job.’

She said very quietly, ‘You might not want me there.’

‘Why ever not?’

One of the Blue Dahlia’s browbeaten minions arrived to collect their plates.

‘Anyway, it’s nothing to do with me what Dawlish decides.’ Rory studied Lydia’s face. ‘I think, between ourselves, he was rather keen on Fenella.’

‘That had occurred to me too.’

‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘I thought she liked him. She — she seems to be very volatile these days. One never knows quite how she’ll react. She used not to be like that, you know.’

Lydia smiled. ‘You make it sound as if the problem is Fenella. It may just be that she doesn’t like Mr Dawlish, or not in that way. After all, there’s no reason why she should.’

He had an unsettling sensation that she saw the outline of a possibility he did not see. ‘Lydia-’ he began, and put his hand on the table.

‘One plum crumble with custard,’ said the minion, lowering a bowl with a clatter onto the table. ‘One apple tart, no custard.’

When they were alone again, Lydia said, ‘I need to tell you something. You may not want to be under the same roof as me.’

The possibilities chased through his mind: an old flame of Lydia’s, emerging like Miss Penhow’s fabled sailor from the past; or a desire to tell him that he, Rory, had served his purpose and was now surplus to requirements; or perhaps she was dying of an incurable disease or about to leave for several years on a cruise around the world; or-

‘Last night,’ she said, ‘the reason that I was so upset was that I went to see Mrs Narton. She told me something that I didn’t want to hear, and my mother confirmed it this morning.’ She stared at her hands, palms down on either side of the apple tart, no custard; just like Mrs Narton’s, palms down on either side of her Bible. ‘William Ingleby-Lewis isn’t my father: Serridge is.’

He stared across the table at her bowed head. ‘Oh damn.’

She didn’t move. ‘I’m sure,’ she muttered doggedly. ‘There’s no possible doubt.’