Bleeding Heart Square (25 page)
Read Bleeding Heart Square Online
Authors: Andrew Taylor
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #General
N
OW YOU KNOW
what it was like for Philippa Penhow. Now you know the real price that had to be paid.
Wednesday, 23 April 1930
Shakespeare's birthday. I was quite sure that today would be the day. Yet here I am, sitting on a fallen tree trunk on the footpath at the bottom of the meadow.
Scribbling & crying & it's raining.
This morning I gave Joseph a skirt for alteration to take to Mrs. Renton when he was next in Town, so he'd think everything was normal. But then a telegram came for him & he went out, saying he wasn't sure when he'd be back & leaving the skirt behind. Lunch was late, & Amy brought bread & cheese in though I had ordered lamb cutlets & I'm sure I smelled them grilling. Amy said the master had eaten them last night. I KNOW that's a lie.
After lunch she carried the mirror from the spare bedroom up the attic stairs. When I asked her what she thought she was doing, she said the master told her that she could take it. I know what she's up to. She wants to try on the finery he's given her & prance up & down in front of the mirror & admire herself.
I felt so angry I didn't need to be brave. I put on my hat & coat, put my purse into my pocket & set off without giving myself time to think. I marched down to the barn & collected this diary. I walked across the meadow (not caring about the mud) & set off on the footpath to Mavering. I know the path gets there eventually--I remember Rebecca talking about it.
But it has begun to rain, one of those violent April showers. I've a nasty blister on my left foot. I am sheltering under a tree. I took out my purse to count my money. I know I had thirty shillings in notes, as well as some change.
But the notes & the silver have gone. All that is left is a handful of coppers--certainly not enough for the rail fare. That wicked, wicked girl has pilfered my money. I shall have to...
You close the book. You don't want to turn the page.
The lavatory was not entirely dark because there was a light shining in the yard between number forty-eight and the house that backed on to it. Rory had found a stub of pencil in his jacket pocket and a couple of creased envelopes in his wallet. He tore an envelope apart and laid it on the windowsill. A faint, diffused light penetrated the frosted glass. He could hardly read the words he wrote.
Not that it mattered. He scribbled faster and faster. He forgot about writing for
Berkeley's
. He forgot about editors and readers and his hope of future commissions. The only thing that counted was the need to get the words on the paper.
I have been working in India for five years, and found myself on my return in an unfamiliar political landscape. When I went to a small British Union of Fascists meeting on Saturday afternoon, I had few preconceptions and no political axe to grind. When I left the meeting less than an hour later, dragged out by a pair of Blackshirts, the arguments against Fascism were beginning to impress me. After the Blackshirts had imprisoned me, after they had beaten me and threatened to frame me as an armed troublemaker, the force of those arguments had become overwhelming. I suppose I should be grateful to the British Union of Fascists. I may not know much else about modern British politics but I am now able to say, with utter and absolute certainty, that I am anti-Fascist.
Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union's Deputy Director of Economic Policy, was the principal speaker. His purpose was to--
A key turned in the front door. There were voices in the hall. Rory pushed the envelopes into his pocket and stood up, his weight on one foot like a stork. When the hall lights snapped on, his first thought was that it must be the Biff Boys or the caretaker. But he heard Lydia calling his name and relaxed.
She had brought with her both Julian Dawlish and a taxi driver. The latter, an undersized man with an elderly bowler hat squashed on his head, ran an experienced eye over Rory and said, "Been in the wars, have we?"
"Hurry," Lydia said. "Howlett may see the lights."
The driver and Dawlish helped Rory along the hall and into the back of the taxi waiting in Rosington Place. Lydia and Dawlish squeezed in beside him. The sky had filled with the dim, un-earthly radiance of a London dusk. The rain was falling steadily.
Dawlish looked out of the window toward the chapel. "There's someone over there."
"It's all right--it's Mr. Fimberry." Lydia wriggled in her seat.
Dawlish rapped on the partition with his knuckles. "Drive on," he mouthed to the cabby.
"He's picking something up," Lydia said, puzzled.
As the taxi drew away from the curb, Rory glanced out of the window at the forlorn figure of Malcolm Fimberry on the chapel forecourt. "At least he's rescued something from the wreckage."
"What is it?" Dawlish asked.
Rory was still watching Fimberry, bareheaded in the rain. He was cradling something. "It's his skull," Rory said. "What's left of it."
Fenella was waiting for them at Mecklenburgh Square. The four of them sat in the front room of the basement and drank strong, sweet tea flavored with whisky.
"I'm so sorry, Wentwood," Dawlish said. "I had no idea this would happen. I assumed they wouldn't have the slightest idea who you were."
"Somebody made a mistake," Rory said. "Nobody's fault."
"On the contrary," Lydia said. "It was my husband's mistake and his fault too. With the full support of that ghastly organization he belongs to. What on earth do they think they're playing at?"
Nobody answered.
Rory lit a cigarette. It was painful to smoke because his lips were swollen and split. "Is there a typewriter I can use?"
"I can lend you one," Dawlish said.
"Serridge wrecked mine," Rory explained. "Incidentally, he wants me out of the flat by Monday."
"Why?" Fenella asked.
"He thinks I'm a spy." He glanced at her, uncertain how she would react. "He thinks I've been ferreting around after Miss Penhow."
Dawlish frowned. "Who are these people?"
"It's a long story." Rory patted his jacket pocket. "I made a start on the article while Lydia was fetching you." He had used her Christian name without thinking, and he registered the fact that Fenella had noticed it. He didn't care. The whisky was beginning to work on him, its effect accelerated by tiredness and shock. He felt light-headed and rashly omnipotent. "I'm afraid it's going to be rather personal in tone. In fact it's one long scream of outrage."
"Where will you go when you leave your flat?" Dawlish asked.
"I don't know."
"I expect you could stay here for a week or two. While you find your feet."
Fenella sucked in her breath and said nothing.
Rory glanced at her. "That would be very kind but really I couldn't--"
"Why ever not? We've got all this space here. I don't think the attics have been used for generations."
"Won't the owner mind?" Fenella said. "Shouldn't we ask him first?"
Dawlish rubbed a coil of ash into his corduroy trousers. He had lost his glasses during the fight in the undercroft, which made him look naked and unprotected. "As a matter of fact I'm the owner."
Rory had a beguiling vision of a world where wealth made everything possible: where you had houses at your disposal, and obliging taxi drivers, and full bottles of whisky when you wanted to entertain your friends. In his half-tipsy condition, he was ready to feel jealous of Dawlish. He glanced across the room at the man and saw that he was looking at Fenella; and for a moment there was something so vulnerable and woebegone about his face that Rory stopped feeling jealous.
He said, as much to change the subject as to receive an answer, "I say, I wonder if I could ask you to read my draft when I've finished it--just to make sure I'm not wildly off the mark."
"Of course," Dawlish said. "But I shouldn't worry too much. You were there. It will work because of that." He waved the hand holding his mug of whisky and tea; Rory realized that Dawlish too was well on the way to being tipsy. "An eyewitness account. The ring of authenticity. It's not something you can fake."
There was a moment's silence. Fenella stirred, as if about to say something. But it was Lydia who spoke first.
"Yes, of course," she said slowly.
"Of course what?" Fenella asked in a rather unfriendly voice.
Lydia smiled at her. "The ring of authenticity. As Mr. Dawlish said, you can't fake it. You know, if you don't mind, I think I should go home now."
Dawlish said he would fetch a taxi. Lydia said she preferred to walk. Dawlish pointed out that it was still raining and repeated the offer; then, working out that Lydia was trying to save money, he recalled that his brother's Lagonda was parked at the back and that he had promised his brother he would turn the engine over at least once a day; so, truly, it would be doing him a favor if Lydia allowed him to run her back to Bleeding Heart Square. While he was there, he could pick up anything Rory needed for the night.
While Dawlish was bringing the Lagonda round to the front of the house, Fenella and Lydia went into the little hall where the coats hung on a row of hooks. Rory watched the two women through the open door. His tea had been replaced with a glass of whisky. He felt at peace with the world, and the sensation was all the more enjoyable because he knew it would be short-lived.
A car horn sounded outside. Lydia belted up her coat and waved to Rory. Fenella returned to the sitting room and helped herself to a cigarette from Dawlish's case, which was on the mantelpiece. She knelt in front of the electric fire which stood on the hearth. Her mood had changed again, he thought--her eyes were gleaming with excitement.
"Do you mind?" Rory asked.
"Mind what?"
"My staying here for a while."
She turned the full force of her smile on him. "Of course not, silly. Anyway, it's not my house. Even if I move in while you're here, you'll be in the attic and I'll be down here. We'll probably hardly see each other." She turned away and tapped ash from the cigarette. She confused him by adding quietly, "Though of course I hope we do."
From the doorway of number seven Lydia watched the tail-lights of the Lagonda disappearing into the narrow passage between Bleeding Heart Square and Charleston Street. The Crozier was packed because it was a Saturday night. Captain Ingleby-Lewis would be in the saloon bar.
She shut the front door. In the hall she hesitated, then she tapped on Mr. Fimberry's door.
"Who is it?"
"Mrs. Langstone."
There were no words and no movements on the other side of the door but she sensed he was standing there, very close to her, listening.
"Mr. Fimberry, I've come to apologize." She raised her voice a little. "Won't you open the door and let me do it face to face?"
"No," he said.
"I'm sorry about the keys," Lydia said, feeling foolish about talking to a door. "It was urgent or else I wouldn't have done it. One of the Fascists was trying to hurt Mr. Wentwood."
Fimberry grunted. "Looked more like the other way round to me. I saw the poor chap he attacked. Wentwood's a maniac."
"Were you able to get your keys back?"
"Yes."
"And the skull?"
"Yes. One of the horns was broken, and most of the teeth have gone."
"I'm sorry about that. Is--is everything all right now?"
"Of course it's not." Fimberry's voice grew louder as his sense of outrage swelled. "How can it be? It's a terrible world. All that blood. All that nastiness." His voice was even louder now, almost a scream. "Go away, please, Mrs. Langstone."
"Perhaps we can talk in the morning," Lydia suggested. She waited a moment but there was no reply. She wished the door goodnight.
As she turned to go upstairs, she realized that she was not alone in the hall. Mrs. Renton was standing in the doorway of her room. She could have heard the whole conversation.
"Mr. Serridge says that Mr. Wentwood is moving out," Mrs. Renton said, mumbling because her teeth were out.
"On Monday, I believe."
The little eyes considered her. "He didn't last long."
"No," Lydia agreed. "By the way, have there been any more parcels lately for Mr. Serridge?"
"Not that I know of."
"I was wondering, you see," Lydia went on. "Do you think the hearts and the skull came from the same person?"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Lydia said. "You would. But should you?"
"What will you do with Miss Penhow's skirt?"
"I'll wrap it up and send it to Miss Kensley. Her niece."
She smiled at Mrs. Renton and went upstairs. She turned on the fire in the sitting room and drew the curtains. She had been very stupid, she thought.
She went into the bedroom and took out the skirt and the two sheets of brown paper, its inner and outer wrapping. She picked up the lighter-colored sheet of the two, the outer wrapping, and went into the kitchen. There was another piece of brown paper in the drawer. The color of the two sheets matched. In the sitting room she unfolded both of these sheets and placed them side by side on the sitting-room table. Each had three straight edges. Each had an irregular fourth edge that looked as if it had been cut by someone in a hurry with a pair of blunt scissors. She lined up the two irregular edges. They fit perfectly together.
An eyewitness account. The ring of authenticity. It's not something you can fake.
Somewhere here was the key to the whole mystery. The problem was, she didn't want to be the one to unlock it. She had enough troubles of her own already.
It was nearly midnight before she heard Captain Ingleby-Lewis's footsteps on the stairs. While she waited, she had returned to Virginia Woolf and
A Room of One's Own
. Mrs. Woolf improved on acquaintance.
Her father ambled into the room and tossed his hat onto the table. It skidded to the edge and fell to the floor.
"Hello, old girl," he said, yawning. "Thought you'd have turned in by now."
"I waited up for you."
"You shouldn't have bothered." He beamed at her. "Well, goodnight. I'm off to Bedfordshire."
"I'd like to talk to you."
Her father, who had clearly remembered the awkwardness of their last meeting, was already edging toward the door. "Better leave it until the morning. We'll be fresher then."
"This won't take a moment," Lydia said. "Have a cigarette."
Automatically he changed direction and advanced toward the packet she was holding out to him, for his responses were Pavlovian in their precision where alcohol and tobacco were concerned. He took the cigarette. She struck a match for him. He grunted with effort as he lowered his head to the flame. When the cigarette was alight, he fell backward onto the sofa.
"Are you really throwing me out, Father?"
He looked reproachfully at her. "You know it's not like that, my dear."
"That's what it seems like. Why can't we carry on as we are? I'm going to divorce Marcus, and then there will be more money coming in. Everything will be much more comfortable."
"Langstone may not make it easy. As far as I can tell, he seems pretty keen on staying married to you." The Captain was drunk but not too drunk. He added courteously, "Of course that's understandable."
"The lawyer seems to think I should be able to get a reasonable settlement. Enough to live on."
"Who have you got?"
"Mr. Shires."
"Did Serridge arrange it for you?"
"No. I arranged it myself." As she stared at her father, however, Lydia wondered whether this was in fact true. She remembered how cautious Shires had been at first when she mentioned the divorce, and how, a few hours later, he had become much more helpful, and the question of who was going to pay his bills no longer seemed to concern him so urgently.
Ingleby-Lewis shrugged. "You know your own business, I suppose. Never had much time for the fellow myself."
"Your friend Mr. Serridge seems to like him well enough," Lydia said carefully.
"Anyway, that's not the point," he went on. "The long and the short of it is that you can't stay here."
"Why are you listening to Mrs. Alforde and not to me? I want to stay here."
"It's for the best. Believe me."
"Is it because there's something going on? Something you don't want me to know about?"
He snorted. "Of course not. It's quite simple. This isn't really a suitable--"
"New York," Lydia said. "Ring any bells? Grand Central Station, New York City."
Captain Ingleby-Lewis dropped the cigarette on his lap. He leaped to his feet, swearing and patting his trousers. The cigarette fell to the carpet. Lydia picked it up and gave it to him.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, sinking back on the sofa and swiftly recovering his poise.
Lydia opened her handbag and took out the papers she had found in the writing box. "Do you know what these are?"
"Of course I don't. Not a mind-reader in a music hall, am I? Can't this wait until the morning?"
"Two pieces of paper," Lydia said, ignoring him. "There's Miss Penhow's signature on one of them, written over and over again. It looks as if someone was practicing it."
Her father stared straight ahead.
She unfolded them. "On the other bit of paper are the words 'I expect you are surprised to hear'. And there's something else on the other side." She looked up at her father but still he did not react. "It's written in pencil, in a different handwriting and rather faintly. Shall I read it to you? 'And so tell the padre you're sorry for all the upset, that you met an old pal, a sailor who you were--'"
"That's enough," Captain Ingleby-Lewis said quietly. He sat in silence while he finished the cigarette. He stubbed it out and said, "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
He sucked in his cheeks. "I thought you might be about to start making threats."
"So did I," Lydia said. "And perhaps I will, I don't know. Does it mean what I think it means?"
Captain Ingleby-Lewis shrugged. "That rather depends what you think it means, doesn't it?"
"I'm told that you've always been good at copying things with a pen."
He looked at her. "You mean they've told you that I forged some checks. They've told you about the mess accounts."
It was not a question so Lydia said nothing.
"I had to leave the army. I wasn't court-martialed but everyone knew the reason. The mess sergeant was involved as well. But he wasn't so lucky."
The significance hit her. "Mr. Serridge?"
Her father nodded. "He was in prison for two years. Still, all that's water under the bridge. But of course it's one reason why you shouldn't be staying with me."
Lydia folded the papers. "And what about these?"
"That silly Penhow woman, I knew she'd cause trouble. All heart, no head--that was her problem." He looked sternly at Lydia. "Running off like that without a word. Most inconsiderate."
"That's not what some people would call it."
"Oh I know. You've heard people saying that he did away with her just for her money. All those damned gossips at Rawling. I'm not saying the money wasn't the attraction as far as Serridge was concerned--but what's wrong with that? It wasn't as if she was getting nothing in return. And then she meets somebody she likes better and off she goes."
For a moment it sounded almost reasonable. Then she remembered that Serridge apparently owned the house they were living in, as well as Morthams Farm and heaven knew what else besides that had once belonged to Miss Penhow.
"What could the poor chap do?" Ingleby-Lewis asked, flinging wide his arms. "He was in an awful fix. Everyone was claiming he had done away with the poor woman and he couldn't prove he hadn't. People can be damnably malicious. Anyway, he knew I was off to try my luck in the States, and he asked if I could do something to help."
"So you faked a letter from Miss Penhow to the Vicar of Rawling?"
"Why ever not? No harm in it. I owed Joe Serridge a favor. Besides, I'd be the first to admit that he'll cut a corner or two if he has to, but he wouldn't harm a fly. Certainly not a woman. No, I was in New York and it was simple enough for me to drop a line to get him off the hook. I couldn't see why not. Matter of common decency."
"I don't think the police would agree."
Ingleby-Lewis struggled off the sofa and stood up. "Just helping a pal out of a hole."
"As Serridge helped you? By buying the farm from you?"
"It was exactly what he and Miss Penhow were looking for. And I let him have it for a jolly good price. I could have got at least a couple of hundred more."
"And now he lets you live here. Do you actually pay rent? Or perhaps there's no longer any need to. It seems a very cozy arrangement all round."
"Don't you get on your high horse, my girl," he said, sounding both sober and angry. "It's all very well to be sitting in judgment when you've got money in the bank. You see things very differently when you haven't a couple of shillings to rub together. That's when you find out what really matters. And who your pals really are."
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 toward 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 re-drafting it in pencil at the kitchen table. Toward midday Dawlish turned up with a flask of coffee and a portable typewriter. Shortly afterward 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 toward 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 leaned 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 traveled 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 gray sky. She hurried down the lane and stopped outside.
The garden gate had fallen backward 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.
She tapped on the back door and waited. No one came. She was about to knock again when the door opened suddenly. A tall woman with ragged gray hair stared at Lydia. She wore a rusty black dress draped over a stick-like body. Her skin had a gray pallor, and her eyes were large, a faded blue in color. The hand gripping the side of the door had long and graceful fingers that ended with nails bitten to the quick. Lydia thought the woman had once been beautiful. She had seen her before, of course, at the graveside, but then the widow had been masked by her veil and in any case her individuality had been swamped by the occasion.
"Good afternoon," Lydia said uncertainly. "I'm Mrs. Langstone. We haven't met, Mrs. Narton, but--"
"I know who you are." The voice was low and harsh. "What do you want?"
"First I wanted to say how sorry I was about your husband."
"Why? You didn't know him."
Lydia rushed on: "I was here with Mrs. Alforde--"
"You came to the funeral," Mrs. Narton said. "I don't know why, I'm sure."
There was a long silence, during which Lydia wished more than ever that she had not come. Mrs. Narton's face remained impassive. Finally, she let go of the door and in doing so pushed it wide, revealing a low-ceilinged kitchen. She turned away and sat down at the table. She rested her hands on the table, palms down, on either side of an open Bible.
It was, Lydia decided, a sort of invitation. She went inside, closing the door behind her. She drew out a chair and sat down opposite Mrs. Narton. She waited.
When the tapping on the window started, Rory was sitting as close as he could get to the electric fire with a blanket draped like a cape over his shoulders. He was whiling away the long evening with a plump and undemanding novel by J. B. Priestley that he had found in the kitchen. At first he thought he was imagining it because the tapping was both faint and sporadic, almost as though it wasn't sure it wanted to be heard.
He put down the book, hobbled to the window and pulled aside the curtain. Lydia's face, distorted by the rain on the window, swam on the other side of the glass. He dropped the blanket on the carpet, stumbled into the hall and opened the door.
The first thing he realized was how wet she was. Her coat was streaked with mud. She didn't speak. She stood there on the doorstep and stared blankly at him until he drew her over the threshold. He helped her out of her coat and draped it with her hat on one of the pegs in the hall.
"Come and sit by the fire," he ordered.
He followed her into the sitting room. She stood in the middle of the threadbare carpet, looking around her as though wondering what she was doing here. Her skirt and stockings were filthy.
Rory touched her shoulder. "Sit down."
She sank obediently into the chair in front of the fire. He picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She seemed not to notice. Her teeth were chattering.
"What the hell have you been doing with yourself?"
"I--I walked from the station."
"Which station?"
"Liverpool Street."
"But that's miles away." He glanced at the mud on her shoes and stockings. "And you fell over too, by the look of it."
"That was on the footpath from Rawling."
She pulled the blanket more tightly around her. Rory limped into the kitchen and returned with Dawlish's whisky bottle and a clean wineglass. He filled the glass half full and held it out to her. She took it obediently and sipped, making a face at the taste.
"Have some more," Rory said.
"I don't like it."
"Have another sip. It's good for you."
She obeyed, wrinkling her nose like a petulant child.
"Why did you go to Rawling?"
She didn't reply. She took another mouthful of whisky. In her bedraggled state she looked much younger than she usually did.
"All right," he went on when she showed no sign of replying. "You can't sit there in your wet things. I'm going to fetch some more blankets. Then you can take your things off and hang them to dry."
He brought two more blankets from the room where he had slept. As an afterthought he added his pajamas, which Dawlish had brought back from Bleeding Heart Square the previous evening. He went back to Lydia, who was sitting where he had left her.
"You'll need to take off your shoes, your stockings and your skirt," he said firmly, as though she were one of his sisters. He laid the blankets and pajamas on the floor beside her. "The pajamas are clean. You're welcome to borrow them. I'll leave you alone for five minutes."
She looked up at him. "Thank you."
In the kitchen he put the kettle on and smoked a cigarette. When he returned to the sitting room ten minutes later, the wet clothes were drying on the chair. Lydia had changed into the pajamas and was curled up in a nest of blankets by the fire. The whisky glass at her elbow was empty. There was more color in her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I feel an awful fool barging in like this."
"You're not."
"It's just that I didn't know where else to go." She hesitated. "The thing is, I've had a bit of a shock, and I need time to think about what to do. I don't want to go to Bleeding Heart Square."
"Has Mr. Langstone--"
She shook her head. "It's nothing to do with Marcus. If you don't mind, I--I don't want to talk about it."
"When did you last eat?"
She shrugged. "I can't remember."
"I'm going to forage in the kitchen. There is a bit of tinned ham left and some bread and one or two apples."
"I'm not hungry."
"Yes, you are, you just haven't noticed." He smiled at her. "And then we'll have some more whisky."
"I can't stay here."
"Where do you think you're going then?"
"I don't know. A hotel, I suppose."
"Don't be silly. You haven't any luggage. Besides, the weather's foul, and you can't go out dressed like that. You can have the bedroom. I'll sleep in here."
"I can't let you do that. Anyway--"
"I'm sure Dawlish wouldn't mind. You're fagged out, the weather's beastly and you've had a shock. Damn it, I won't let you go. I'll take away your shoes if you try."
She looked at him and he noticed her eyes narrowing, as they sometimes did when she was amused. "Then it looks as if I haven't got much choice."
That evening they ate an unpleasant scratch supper in front of the electric fire. They drank Dawlish's whisky and smoked Lydia's cigarettes. Lydia asked him questions. She wanted to hear about his parents and his sisters. She wanted to hear about what it was like to live in the manager's accommodation over a bank. She wanted to hear about grammar school and university and India. While he talked, she sat there, eyes half closed, glass in hand, with a dreamy expression on her face.
Had someone tried to rape her? Or robbed her?
Gradually they ran out of words. It was very quiet in the basement flat. Mecklenburgh Square had only three sides because to the west lay the children's playground, once the site of the Foundling Hospital, so Dawlish's house was effectively near the end of a cul-de-sac.
Rory felt his eyelids drooping. He wasn't used to whisky. The room was warm and stuffy. He was glad not to be alone in this big house. No, it was more than that: he was glad Lydia was here.
The next thing he knew, he was fully awake. He wasn't sure how long he had been dozing. Lydia was on her feet and folding one of the blankets. For an instant he didn't recognize her, and a shiver of lust flickered through him. She looked down at him and smiled.
"I think I'll turn in."
He yawned. "Sorry--I must have dropped off." He noticed that his article was beside the whisky bottle.
Lydia had followed the direction of his eyes. "I hope you don't mind. I read it. It's very good."
"I wondered whether it was rather personal in tone."
"Don't change a word. They deserve every last one of them."
He stood up. "Thank you. I'll show you where everything is."
She didn't move. "You've been very kind. I think I can cope now."
"What will you do tomorrow?"
She picked up her skirt and felt the hem. "The first thing I have to do is see my mother."
