Bleeding Heart Square (15 page)
Read Bleeding Heart Square Online
Authors: Andrew Taylor
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #General
Tuesday, 11 March 1930
Men are such BRUTES. My hand trembles so badly I can hardly hold the pen. I am writing this by candlelight in our room at the Alforde Arms. Yes, OUR room. Joseph is in the bar downstairs talking to some men of the village.
He didn't mean us to spend the night here. The plan was that we would come down to Morthams Farm for the day and make a list of what we needed to buy, and discuss what would have to be done to make the house ready for us to move in. The trouble began on the train from Liverpool Street. There was a young woman in the compartment--I really cannot call her a lady--wearing a great deal of lipstick, black satin high-heeled shoes, a vulgar little cloche hat and a very short skirt. She pretended to have trouble lifting her case onto the rack, and Joseph sprang to his feet and helped her. It was the way he did it. And the way she responded. I doubt if the horrid girl was more than eighteen--a mere child, which made it worse.
During the journey he kept ogling her, and once or twice I noticed her looking at him in a very sly way. Then he asked if she would like to borrow his newspaper. Of course she did. Soon they were chatting away like old friends and completely ignoring me. I felt so mortified. We weren't alone in the carriage, either--there was a very nice elderly couple as well. I couldn't say anything in front of everyone so the only thing I could do was stay calm and stare out of the window and hope my agitation wasn't obvious to everyone.
Fortunately, when we changed on to the branch line to Mavering, we were by ourselves again. Joseph was suddenly all courtesy and consideration. I said I'd noticed him making eyes at that girl and he denied it all and grew quite angry. I decided to let it go. Like all men, Joseph has something of the brute in him. He has his animal instincts. One can hardly blame him for that. So he was easy prey for a designing girl. It occurred to me that there was a simple solution to the problem. All I needed was a little courage.
I waited until we had nearly finished at the farm--where Joseph could hardly have been more attentive to my little wants and needs. I said, as we were standing in what will be my drawing room, that I hadn't forgotten what I had said the other day after our visit to my brother John's. We were already married in spirit, I reminded him, and it was high time we were married
in the other way.
He seized me in a great bear hug and covered my face in kisses. I could hardly breathe.He pointed out that everyone in Rawling already knew us as Mr. and Mrs. Serridge, so here would be the perfect place, and of course it would signify the beginning of our new life together, etc., etc. Obviously we couldn't stay at the farm, because nothing was ready, but he had noticed the village inn was a most respectable-looking establishment and a sign in the window there said that there were rooms to let. I was beginning to have second thoughts so I said there were things I needed to purchase, which was true. He swept away my objections, and later that afternoon we took a taxi into Saffron Walden so we could buy what we needed for the night.
And then--and then--it all went horribly wrong. We dined at the inn--on dreadful, fatty mutton--and Joseph ordered a bottle of Burgundy, most of which he drank himself. We retired to bed early. It was not even nine o'clock. I'm sure the landlady suspected something.
I cannot bear even to think of what happened next, let alone describe it. It was horrible. Dirty. Painful. Disgusting. We didn't even change into our nightclothes. He pushed me on the bed and ATTACKED me.
The whole business can't have taken much more than a minute though it seemed to me that every second lasted an hour. I felt I was being smothered, though that was the least of my troubles. I had not expected him to be so rough. I had not expected it to hurt so much. Is this what it all means, what it all comes down to?
At least, I thought while he was doing it to me, he will never leave me now. He will be mine for ever. When he had finished, however, there were no signs of tenderness. He just patted my shoulder and said I was a good girl. Then he got out of bed, pulled on his trousers and walked up and down smoking a cigarette. I turned away and pretended to sleep. After a while, I actually heard him relieve himself in the pot. Then he whispered loudly to me that he was going down for a nightcap. I didn't reply.
So here I am, writing by the dying fire. I don't want to see anybody so I won't ring for more coals. They are still talking downstairs, and I think he's laughing at something. Laughing. I know it's a sin, dear Jesus, but sometimes I wish I were dead.
When you finish reading this entry, you want to forget it at once and forever. But instead you read it again. And again. That's what hell means, perhaps, being compelled not just to live but to relive.
Rory might have ignored the smell for another day if it hadn't been for the letter, which was from the editor of a small-circulation trade magazine specializing in hosiery. Through the medium of his secretary, the editor regretted to inform Rory that the post of junior feature writer had just been filled by another candidate so his, Rory's, presence at an interview that afternoon would not after all be required. The editor regretted any inconvenience caused and wished Rory every success in his career.
Rory flung the letter in the waste-paper basket. Thursday now stretched in front of him, unattractively empty. He hadn't had much hope of being offered the job, but at least going for an interview for it would have given him something to do other than combing the Situations Vacant in the library.
Since he had nothing better to do, he decided to investigate the smell. This had been puzzling him for the last thirty-six hours, during which time it had been growing steadily stronger and more unpleasant. It did not take him long to trace it to a tin of Argentinian corned beef, opened at the weekend, half-eaten and subsequently forgotten in the cupboard of the chiffonier under the window. He wrapped the tin in yesterday's newspaper and stuffed it in the enamelled bucket used for kitchen rubbish. Leaving his windows wide open, he carried the bucket downstairs and into the little yard at the back of the house.
The sun never shone on this small rectangle of cracked and blackened flagstones, and probably never would. The yard smelled, and so did the contents of the dustbins that lined the walls. Tall buildings reared up on every side, and the inhabitants of all of them left their rubbish here. A narrow passageway running between number seven and the house next door provided shared access to the square.
Rory opened the nearest of the bins. It was three-quarters full--plenty of room for the contents of the bucket. He was about to upend the pail into the dustbin when a name caught his eye.
He looked into the bin.
Narton
. The name was on a newspaper wrapped around some rubbish. At least a third of the bundle was saturated with moisture, and the paper was dark and disintegrating, revealing wet tea leaves, fragments of tobacco, a cigar butt. When he tried to pick up the newspaper, the bundle fell apart completely. Fragments of newspaper came away in his hand. Rubbish spilled out. He glimpsed something underneath that made him cry out, something white and nightmarish.
Sanity took hold again. Yes, it was a skull, with the rakish horns of a goat. Rory lifted it gingerly from the bin. The horns were bleached and fissured like driftwood. Between them was a V-shaped ridge of bone, bisected vertically with an indentation like a frown. Much of the nose had collapsed, leaving a prow of sharp white spikes sheltering rolls of finer bone, perforated like lace. The eye sockets were vacant, seeing nothing, wanting nothing. He let the skull drop from his hand and back onto its bed of rubbish.
He pulled the remains of the newspaper from the dustbin. Narton's name had caught his eye in a stop-press item at the bottom of a page.
RAWLING MAN DIES
On Monday evening, police were called to a house in Rawling following an unexpected fatality. The dead man is believed to be Herbert Narton, the house's owner.
Rory unfolded what was left of the newspaper on the flagstones. The masthead was still intact:
The Mavering Advertiser & Weekly Herald
. Serridge must have brought it back after his last visit to Rawling.
He sat back on his heels and whistled. Narton dead? It didn't seem possible. The poor devil had seemed well enough on Saturday in that tea shop near the British Museum. He tore out the stop-press item and dumped the rest of the newspaper in the bin.
The poor bloody chap. He was sorry that Narton was dead, even though he hadn't much liked the man. It must have been very sudden. A heart attack, perhaps. What would happen now? Would one of Narton's colleagues get in touch?
It was then that the idea came into Rory's mind. He emptied the contents of his own pail into the bin and went back up to his flat. He smoked a cigarette and thought about the idea and its implications.
Why not? What else had he got to do?
By the time he reached the fork in the path, it was nearly lunchtime and Rory was growing hungry. Instead of turning right, as he had before, he turned left onto the path that would bring him more quickly to the village and the Alforde Arms. The fields on either side were three or four feet above the level of the path and bordered with lank hedgerows. After a few hundred yards, he glimpsed roofs through a gap in the right-hand hedge. He stopped to look. A field sloped gently up to a huddle of trees. On their right was a group of farm buildings. The chimneys of a house were visible above the trees.
Morthams Farm?
Movement caught his eyes. He was just in time to see a boy running along the hedge bordering the field. How long had the boy been there? Was someone watching the watcher?
Unsettled, Rory continued along the path and came eventually to a narrow road with large, muddy fields on either side. He turned right, in the direction of the village. Almost immediately he saw the cottage, which stood by itself in an overgrown garden; the gate from the road had fallen from its hinges and was lying on the verge, and the roof of a small lean-to building at the end had lost many of its slates. But a trickle of smoke rose from somewhere behind the house.
He paused by the gateway. Behind the strip of garden was a neglected orchard. A tall, gaunt woman was standing with her back to him among the trees, tending a bonfire. Despite the cold, she was wearing only a long, thin cotton dress with a faded floral print, covered with a stained apron.
"Good morning," he called.
For a moment he thought the woman hadn't heard him. He was about to repeat the greeting when she turned away from the fire. In her hand was a stick she had been using as a poker. She stared at Rory, who raised his hat.
"Good morning. I'm looking for Mrs. Narton."
"That's me." The voice was harsh and low like a man's.
"I knew Sergeant Narton. Am I right in thinking he was your husband?"
She nodded.
"I was so sorry to hear of your loss."
"He wasn't a sergeant, though."
"I beg your pardon?"
"He wasn't a sergeant," the woman repeated. "Not when he died."
"I don't understand."
"They took that away from him," Mrs. Narton said. "Three and a half years ago. That and everything else. Cheated him out of his pension too." Stick in hand, she advanced through the ruined garden toward Rory, the skirts of her dress trailing through the long, wet grass. "Them devils at headquarters as good as killed him. I'd like to see them hang, every man jack of them. I know it's a sin, but I would."
"But I thought he was in the police. Now, I mean. He said he was. That's why I've come. I was going to--"
"More fool you for believing him."
"Look, I'm terribly sorry about his death. How did it happen?"
She pointed the stick at the lean-to beside the cottage. "He was cleaning the shotgun." Her eyes focused on Rory's face.
"So it was an accident?"
The muscles around her mouth twitched. "What were you up to with him, mister?"
"Have you heard of a lady called Miss Penhow?"
"Of course I have. Mrs. Serridge. So-called."
"Like your husband, I wanted to find out what had happened to her."
"Why?"
"Her niece is a friend of mine. It was on her behalf."
"After the money, are you?" It was not really a question.
"No. I--" Rory broke off and started again. "We want to be sure she's all right."
"I can't help you."
For a moment they stood there separated by a couple of yards of nettles and long grass. Mrs. Narton was so pale that she looked like a ghost, not a person of flesh and blood.
"I'm so sorry," Rory said again. "If there's anything I can do to help, will you let me know?"
She stared at him, saying nothing, and he realized the futility of what he had said. Nevertheless he opened his coat and took out a propelling pencil and his notebook. He wrote
R. Wentwood, 7 Bleeding Heart Square, London EC1
. He tore out the page and held it to her. She didn't move. He took a step closer to her. She stared at something behind him. He dropped the piece of paper in the pocket of her apron.
A thought occurred to him. "What happened to his notebook?"
"I don't know."
"It wasn't found?"
"Go away," she said. "Just go away."
He nodded. As he was leaving, he glanced at the bonfire. There was a child's book on it, he noticed, the remains of a pink eiderdown and what looked like a doll. There was also a fragment of charred cardboard that might have come from the cover of a small, black notebook.
It was after one o'clock by the time Rory reached the gates of the Vicarage. Mr. Gladwyn's Ford 8 was standing outside the front door. He would be at lunch now. Narton had said you could set your watch by Mr. Gladwyn.
Rory didn't mind the delay. He wanted time to think. If Narton had no longer been a police officer, then what the hell had he been doing? The only answer that seemed to make sense was that he had been pursuing a vendetta against Serridge.
He went into the saloon bar of the Alforde Arms and ordered beer, ham and eggs. Narton had not mentioned that he lived so near Morthams Farm, claiming that he had not considered it relevant. But if some sort of private feud, not an official investigation, was the reason behind his interest in Serridge, that might have been another reason to keep quiet about where he lived, in case it suggested to Rory the possibility of a personal connection between the two men.
It was almost two o'clock by the time he finished his meal and paid the bill. Outside, a small, untidy boy with a flabby mouth was sitting on the edge of the horse trough in the yard. He glanced at Rory and then away, continuing to whittle a stick with a penknife. He seemed faintly familiar. Was it the boy he had glimpsed near Morthams Farm? But the world was full of small boys.
It still seemed a little early to call on the Vicar. Rory spent ten minutes in the church, which was small and dark. It had been carefully restored by yet another Alforde in 1876-8 and made even gloomier than it need have been with pitch-pine panelling and pews. He worked his way round the walls, reading the memorial tablets. The Alfordes went back to the middle of the eighteenth century. The most recent in the sequence was Constance Mary Alforde, widow of Henry Locksley Alforde. She had died a few months after her husband, in 1929. "The Lord is my shepherd."
He walked slowly through the churchyard, glancing at the graves on either side, in the direction of the Vicarage. This brought him to the section where the newer graves were. For the second time that day the name Narton caught his eye. It was on a neat new stone marker beside a yew tree. For an instant his mind grappled with the impossible: surely Narton wasn't dead and buried already? Then his mind caught up with what he was seeing, with the smooth green mound and the rest of the inscription on the marker:
Amy Constance
Beloved daughter of Margaret and
Herbert Narton
1915-1931
"Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth."
Thanks to Pammy's warning the other day, it did not come as a complete shock to see Marcus in Rosington Place. That did not make him any the more welcome. It was just after lunch, and Lydia had returned to work at Shires and Trimble. She was alone with Miss Tuffley--Mr. Reynolds was in conference with Mr. Shires, and Mr. Smethwick had gone to see a client.
Lydia was watering the dusty plants that wilted quietly on the windowsills of the general office. The windows overlooked the chapel on the other side of the road. A large car drew up outside. A chauffeur emerged and opened the nearside rear door. Two men got out. One of them was Marcus and the other was Sir Rex Fisher.
Automatically she drew back from the window. Miss Tuffley, whose typewriter stood on a table by the other window, was less bashful.
"Oh--now that's what I call a proper car. They was here the other day. That chauffeur is a big chap, isn't he? And look at the two gents. You can tell they had silk-lined cradles. First class all the way, eh? I wouldn't mind being whisked off my feet by one of them, the tall one, especially."
"What are they doing here?"
"Not coming to see me. No such luck. Yes, I thought so--they're ringing the bell of the Presbytery House. They want Father Bertram. A lot of the toffs are Romans, you know. Funny, that." A thought struck her. "You're not one of them, are you?"
"What?"
"A Roman. You know--a papist."
"No." Lydia pulled out a drawer of the filing cabinet with such force that it collided painfully with her knee and laddered her stocking.
Miss Tuffley continued her commentary. "What's that chauffeur doing? Golly! Look at those flowers! Roses in November! Must have cost a fortune!" She gasped. "He's crossing the road."
Lydia could bear it no longer. She muttered something about powdering her nose and locked herself in the lavatory for five minutes. When she came back, she found two dozen red roses on her desk. Miss Tuffley was staring at them with covetousness and curiosity.
"There's no card with them--I've looked," she hissed. "The chauffeur just gave them to the caretaker's boy downstairs, along with sixpence for his trouble. Sixpence for running up and down the stairs! But the boy said they were for you. Mrs. Langstone, care of Shires and Trimble. There can't be any mistake."
Lydia looked out of the window. The car was still there. She had never had much time for roses. They needed too much attention and they had too many thorns. Even when somebody else did the work and removed the thorns, as now, they looked lifeless and artificial and smelled overpowering.
"You know those men down there, don't you?" Miss Tuffley said, chewing on the problem like a dog with a bone. "And you never let on. Which one sent the roses?"
Lydia ignored her. Marcus thought women were like children: you could woo them with toys. But he didn't even trouble to find out what toys they liked.
"You can have the blasted things," she said abruptly.
"What?" Miss Tuffley said in an unladylike squawk.
"You can have the roses. I don't want them."
"But why ever not? They're lovely."
"I'd like you to have them," Lydia said doggedly. "Otherwise I'll throw them away."
"All right. If you're sure. Thanks ever so."
"But there's one condition." Lydia lowered her voice. "If either of those men ever comes to the office asking for me, or if that chauffeur does, say I'm not here."
Miss Tuffley's eyes were large and round. "But why?"
"Because I don't want to talk to them," Lydia said. "That's why."
At the Vicarage he recognized the maid who opened the door, and she recognized him. When he asked if he might see Mr. Gladwyn, she led him into the house and left him staring at the engraving of Rawling Hall. A few minutes later, she ushered him into the study.
"I'm not sure I can be of any further use to you, Mr. Wentwood," Mr. Gladwyn said after they had shaken hands.
"I imagine you knew Herbert Narton, sir?"
The Vicar stared at him. "So that's the way the land lies. What's this about? Have you been pulling the wool over my eyes, young man? Are you one of these reporters?"
"I promise I've nothing to do with any newspaper," Rory said carefully. "And it's perfectly true what I told you about Miss Kensley. I saw her only a few days ago and...and she's much easier in her mind about her aunt now. But I owe you an apology--I wasn't entirely frank with you when I last called."
Gladwyn frowned. He had not asked Rory to sit down. "Then you'd better explain yourself."
"A week or two ago, I was approached in town by someone who knew of my friendship with Miss Kensley." It was a slight perversion of the truth, but it would serve. "Herbert Narton."
"Bless my soul. What was the man up to?"
"He led me to believe he was a police officer, a plain-clothes man engaged in an undercover investigation."
"Into Miss Penhow's disappearance?"
Rory nodded. "And into Serridge. I'm renting rooms in Serridge's house in Bleeding Heart Square. The house that used to belong to Miss Penhow."
"So you actually know Mr. Serridge? You really have pulled the wool over my eyes."
"I'm sorry, sir. But you must remember that I believed that Narton was a police officer and that I was helping him in his investigation. I only found out the truth this morning. I saw Mrs. Narton."
"Poor woman. She's taken this very hard. It is not to be wondered at."
"She was acting very strangely, sir. She was having a bonfire."
"Yes. The contents of that cupboard, no doubt."
"What?"
"It was a bone of contention between them, Mr. Wentwood." Gladwyn opened his tobacco pouch. "You'd better sit down. Perhaps you deserve some sort of explanation."
He waved Rory to an armchair and began to fill his pipe. "It's perfectly true that Herbert Narton was a police officer. He was a detective too, in the latter part of his career. He married a local girl, Margaret--he was a Saffron Walden man himself--and came to live in Rawling. It must be said they weren't particularly well liked--they were a self-contained couple, kept themselves to themselves, and he never let anyone forget he was a police officer. They had one child, Amy."
"I saw her gravestone on my way here."
Mr. Gladwyn picked up his matches. "A silly girl, I'm afraid. Head full of fancies. Not very bright, either. Still, there was no real harm in her. Miss Penhow hired her to work at Morthams Farm soon after they moved here. They were doing the girl a favor, really. She was barely literate, and she hadn't any training in domestic service. And morally--well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I suspect she was sadly free with her favors. Some of our village girls are little better than animals in that respect. Well, in due course the inevitable happened and she found herself pregnant. She refused to say who the father was. Her parents were very upset, and it didn't do much for Narton's career, either. But they didn't throw her out. I think they were going to make the best of it. Put the child up for adoption, perhaps, or bring it up as their own. Unfortunately it never came to that. There were complications in childbirth. The baby was stillborn and the girl herself died. It shook the parents very badly. Narton was never the same."
"I suppose his death was suicide?"
"Eh? It's not for me to say. There will have to be an inquest of course, but I understand that the verdict will probably be accidental death. After all, there's nothing to show it wasn't an accident. The shotgun had belonged to his late father-in-law, I'm told--it hadn't been used for years. No one will want to make this harder for Mrs. Narton than it need be. Our thoughts and prayers must go out to her at this sad time."
"But why did he do it?" Rory asked.
"As I said, let us assume it was an accident."
"Not his death. I mean why did he pretend he was still in the police?"
"The short answer is that his mind was unhinged, Mr. Wentwood. He was a fantasist. I believe the doctors call it persecution mania nowadays. He was convinced that Mr. Serridge was responsible for all his woes just because Amy had once worked at Morthams Farm. She was there for a few months. She wasn't even a live-in servant, either. But none of this mattered to Herbert Narton. The baby's father could have been any one of our many local scoundrels. But he decided it must have been Mr. Serridge. That's why he wanted to reopen the Penhow investigation. He wanted to embarrass Mr. Serridge as much as possible. I've no doubt that what he would really have liked was to see Mr. Serridge in the dock for the murder of Miss Penhow." Mr. Gladwyn at last struck a match. He stared fixedly at Rory. "In his strange, twisted mind Narton no doubt thought that was the only way he could avenge what he thought of as the murder of his own daughter."
For the rest of the afternoon, Miss Tuffley glanced regularly out of the window. She kept up a running commentary when Father Bertram ushered Marcus and Sir Rex out of the Presbytery House and into their car.
The worrying thing about it all, Lydia thought, was that Marcus might be back, particularly if he and Rex Fisher had been arranging with Father Bertram to hire the undercroft for another British Union meeting. She knew that the undercroft had been used for the purpose before but she wouldn't put it past Marcus to have suggested it again simply because it was close to her refuge in Bleeding Heart Square.
She left the office a little after six o'clock. Miss Tuffley walked downstairs with her, sniffing the roses as she went.
"You know what I need?" she said cheerfully. "A nice gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady."
Lydia smiled at her. "We could all do with one of those."
Miss Tuffley turned left toward Holborn, and Lydia turned right toward Bleeding Heart Square. There was a letter waiting for her on the hall table. She took it upstairs to the sitting room. She didn't recognize the writing, though the white envelope was good quality. She tore it open.
10 Alvanley Mansions
Lower Sloane Street
London SW1
Telephone: Sloane 1410November 21st
My dear Lydia
Your godfather reminded me that I have been most remiss in not writing for so long. I don't think we have seen you since your wedding. Your godfather's health has not improved, sadly, and we are unable to get about as much as we should like. But I wonder if I might prevail on you to have tea with us? The weekend would suit us best--Saturday or Sunday.
Do let me know--this weekend if you like. Your godfather sends his affectionate good wishes, as of course do I.
Yours very sincerely,
Hermione Alforde
My godfather, Lydia thought, just what Miss Tuffley ordered? A gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady?
There was a knock on the door. When she opened it, she found Mr. Serridge standing on the landing and looking intently at her.
