Read Bleeding Heart Square Online
Authors: Andrew Taylor
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #General
Bleeding Heart Square (12 page)
"I take your point," he said as they were passing Mr. Goldman's shop where Lydia had sold her great-aunt's brooch. "On the other hand, these chaps knew exactly what they were doing. What's the word? They were
disciplined
. They didn't smell of drink. I should have thought of that before. I'm not even sure they wanted to rob me. I think they just wanted to give me a thrashing. Or worse. I'm pretty sure if you hadn't come along when you did, the police would have had to scrape me off the cobbles with a shovel."
She winced. "Don't."
"Sorry. But it really doesn't make sense. There's no reason why the British Union of Fascists should know of my existence. I haven't the slightest interest in politics. Whichever way you look at it, it's damned odd." He glanced at her. "Has anything else odd happened? Or was this just an isolated incident?"
There were several answers to that question, Lydia thought, and some of them involved her father and some of them involved Marcus. There was no avoiding the fact that the only people she knew with Fascist connections were Marcus, her own family and their friends. In the end she mentioned the one thing that could have nothing to do with them, partly because it was also the one thing that worried her most of all.
"Someone's been sending Mr. Serridge parcels," she said.
"Oh yes?"
"There was one on the day I arrived. It had been hanging around for a few days and it filled the house with a horrible smell." She stopped beside the Crozier, reluctant to turn into Bleeding Heart Square. "In the end we had to open it. There was a piece of rotting meat inside. Nothing else. No letter or anything. Mrs. Renton said it was a heart, a lamb's, perhaps, or a ewe's. It--it had dried blood on it. I've never smelled anything quite as foul."
"But what was the point?"
"I don't know. Some sort of message?"
"Saying what?" Rory asked.
Lydia looked into his long, ugly face and wondered whether he knew more about this than he was letting on. "Perhaps it was a way of reminding everyone of the name. Reminding us all that we live in Bleeding Heart Square. And then there was another one on the doorstep a few days ago. Mrs. Renton cooked it. It smelled rather nice, actually." She tried to smile at him to show that she was ironically amused by the whole business, that it didn't make her skin crawl, especially when she was alone at night. "There was another parcel for Mr. Serridge this morning, as a matter of fact. That's why I didn't have the liver and onions."
It was a raw, cold afternoon and Lydia spent most of it huddled in front of the fire with
A Room of One's Own
, waiting for her father to come back. A little after five o'clock, she heard his slow, dragging footsteps on the stairs. He came into the sitting room and grunted when he saw her. He wasn't drunk, she thought, but he looked pale and ill. Still in his overcoat, he sat down at the table and patted his pockets for cigarettes.
"What are you giving us for supper?" he asked.
"I hadn't thought. I ate quite well at lunchtime. There's bread and margarine if you're hungry."
"Damn it," he muttered. "A chap can't live on bread and margarine."
"I expect they'll do you a sandwich at the Crozier."
He looked up, alerted by her tone. "What's biting you?"
"I heard something today. That you sold a farm a few years ago to Mr. Serridge and the lady who used to own this house."
"What do you know about her?" he barked. "Sorry--didn't mean to shout--you rather took me by surprise, that's all. Who told you that?"
She ignored the question. "Is it true?"
He stared at her, frowning, and said, "Anyway, I sold it to Serridge."
"Not Miss Penhow?"
He found his cigarettes and lit one. "I told you--I sold Morthams Farm to Serridge just before I went to America. My aunt left it me in her will. Nice old girl, Aunt Connie. She was my godmother too. But I didn't make a great deal of money out of the sale, because the farm was mortgaged up to the hilt and the damned tenant had let it go to pot. Still, it was a nice thought."
"But you knew Miss Penhow?"
"I met her. Must have been years ago. Serridge introduced us. Shy little thing." Ingleby-Lewis opened his bloodshot eyes very wide, the picture of slightly debauched innocence. "Someone said she moved out and married some fellow she used to know." He consulted his watch. "Good God, I hadn't realized it was so late. There's a chap I've got to see."
He struggled out of the chair. Lydia followed him onto the landing.
"Did you ever go to Morthams?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." He was halfway down the stairs now. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Not much of a place."
"What was it like?"
"There was a house. And a bit of land."
The front door slammed behind him. Lydia was about to go back to the flat when she heard footsteps in the part of the hall below that was out of sight. Mrs. Renton appeared at the foot of the stairs.
"Hello," Lydia said.
"You were asking about Morthams Farm?"
"Yes." Lydia stared at the wrinkled face upturned to hers. "Why?"
Mrs. Renton frowned as though trying to work something out. Then she said, "It's Mr. Serridge's other house."
"Yes, I know."
Mrs. Renton stared at Lydia with cloudy brown eyes. She seemed on the verge of saying something but then a car drew up outside and she rubbed her forearms, first one and then the other. The door opened and Serridge came in, his bulk blocking the light from the doorway and making the hall seem crowded. He was carrying a large cardboard suitcase and had a tweed overcoat over his arm.
"Evening," he said, advancing toward them. "That parcel for me?"
"Yes, sir," Mrs. Renton said, and her body twitched in a vestigial curtsy.
This time they met in a tea shop opposite the forecourt of the British Museum. Its window was crowded with aspidistras, a barrier of green spikes separating the interior from the vulgarity of the outside world.
The proprietress swooped on Narton as soon as he pushed open the door, setting a bell jingling above his head. With a wave of a be-ringed hand, she tried to herd him toward a table in the gloom at the back of the tea shop. He was having none of that--you couldn't be a police officer for as long as he had and allow people to push you around willy-nilly--and took up a position at the table by the aspidistras, which gave him a good view of the street outside.
The woman clucked her disapproval but recognized superior force when she encountered it. He suffered a further dose of her disapproval when he insisted he only wanted a cup of tea. Then Rory Wentwood came in, and the proprietress mellowed because he was a nicer class of customer and besides he wanted poached eggs on toast.
"You've been in the wars," Narton said.
Wentwood brushed a crumb from the tablecloth. "A couple of men attacked me yesterday evening."
"Where?"
"Bleeding Heart Square. It was about nine o'clock--I was coming back to the flat."
"After your wallet?"
Wentwood fell silent as the proprietress brought his tea. She fussed over him, making sure his knife and fork were straight, showing him unnecessarily where to find the sugar, which in any case he didn't want. After she had left, he said, "I don't think they were after money. They wanted to hurt me. To frighten me."
"Serridge," Narton said. "Ten to one he heard about you going to Rawling."
"He watched me crawling upstairs afterward. Didn't say anything. Didn't help. Just watched."
"There you are then."
Wentwood hooked a finger into his waistcoat pocket, took out something that glittered and tossed it on the tablecloth beside the cruet. "It's possible one of them left that behind."
Narton picked it up and held it to the light.
"Wearing cufflinks, you see," Wentwood went on in a voice not perfectly steady. "A nice class of footpad, eh?"
"You recognize the design?"
"Mrs. Langstone did."
Narton grunted. "So where do you stand when it comes to politics? Bit of a Bolshevik?"
"I haven't got any politics. All I want's a quiet life."
"That's what we all need, Mr. Wentwood. Maybe not what we all want." Narton tapped the cufflink with his fingernail. "What about the folk you mix with?"
"No, they're--" Wentwood broke off. "Well, actually, Miss Kensley's interested in that sort of thing. She has a--a friend who's some sort of communist, I believe."
"So someone who'd seen you together might just think you thought the same way?"
"It's possible. But it doesn't seem much of a motive for a gang of Fascist thugs to follow me home and beat me up."
Narton rubbed his eyes. He felt very weary. "It's surprising what people will do where politics is concerned. Did you hear about the big British Union rally at Earls Court in June? Things got very nasty."
They fell silent as Rory's eggs arrived.
When they were alone again, Narton lowered his voice. "Have you reported this to the local boys?"
"No. I thought I'd better have a word with you first."
Under the table, Narton wiped damp palms on his trousers. "Quite right. The last thing we want is for Serridge to get the wind up."
"If it was Serridge."
"The point is, he's not going to feel comfortable with coppers around. We wouldn't want that." Narton sipped his tea. "Trust me." He watched the other man over the rim of his cup.
"I don't know what would have happened if Ingleby-Lewis and Mrs. Langstone hadn't turned up." Wentwood jabbed an egg with his fork. "I might not have been in a fit state to talk to you."
Narton thought it very likely. "No real harm done, that's the main thing, eh?"
"I'm having second thoughts. Miss Kensley thinks I'm wasting my time. I'm beginning to think she's right."
"You're not wasting your time, I promise you that," Narton said sharply. "Not while Serridge is around. If he asks you about the attack, tell him you think you fell foul of a couple of drunks."
Wentwood pushed aside his plate, wasting perfectly good food. You could tell he'd never been poor, Narton thought, not really poor.
"Have a word with Miss Kensley at least." Narton touched the cufflink. "Ask if she has had any problems with these chaps. No harm in that, is there?"
"All right."
"Good man."
"But there is something queer going on in that house," Wentwood burst out. "Have you heard about the heart?"
Narton looked blankly at him and waited.
"Or rather the hearts. Mrs. Langstone told me about them today. It seems that somebody's been sending Mr. Serridge a parcel every now and then. Each one contains a heart, a lamb's, or a ewe's." Wentwood licked his lips. "An uncooked heart. No letter. No nothing. Just the heart."
"I know," Narton said.
"How?"
"Because I went through the dustbins."
When Rory reached Cornwallis Grove, Julian Dawlish answered the door.
"Ah, Wentwood," he said. "Splendid. We need a strong pair of arms. I say, you look a bit the worse for wear, if you don't mind my saying so."
"I had a bit of an argument with a couple of drunks last night."
"My dear chap, are you--"
Rory cut in, "It looks worse than it is. I'm fine."
Dawlish shot him a swift, intelligent glance. "Come and sit down. I'll call Miss Kensley." He shouted upstairs, "It's Mr. Wentwood."
Rory followed Dawlish into the drawing room. "What's happening?"
"Miss Kensley wanted to clear out her father's room, and I promised to give her a hand."
For the first time Rory could remember since his return from India, the drawing room felt warm. The curtains were drawn and a substantial fire was burning in the grate.
"Is she all right?" he asked.
"Absolutely."
Dawlish attacked the fire with a poker and the flames licked up the chimney. The door opened and Fenella came in. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright. Her hair was covered with a scarf, and she was wearing slacks.
"Hello, Rory." She stopped. "What have you been doing to yourself?"
He repeated what he had told Dawlish.
"I was just saying to Julian we could do with your help," she went on, once she had established that he wasn't seriously hurt.
Julian? He was Mr. Dawlish yesterday evening.
"We're clearing out Daddy's room--his workshop upstairs. There's an awful lot of rubbish, and some of it's quite heavy."
"Unfinished oil paintings?" Rory said. "Broken armchairs? Disembowelled clocks?"
"And a half-built wardrobe," Fenella replied. "A case of so-called geological specimens. Lots of stuffed birds. Three crystal receivers--wireless was the big thing just before his last illness. He used to listen to the Savoy Orpheans on his headphones, tapping his feet and whistling along. It drove Mother mad. Before that it was going to be reupholstering antique armchairs and selling them to any American millionaires who happened to be passing." She smiled at Dawlish. "Daddy changed his hobby about once every three months. They were all going to make him rich. He spent a fortune on them. Some of it must be worth a few bob still."
She sat down on the sofa and the men followed suit in the chairs on either side of her. She held out her hands to the blaze.
"I hope you don't mind," Dawlish said. "I put a bit more coal on. It felt a bit chilly."
"Of course I don't mind."
Rory looked at the fire, which had probably consumed an evening's supply of fuel in the last half-hour. "Why are you clearing the room now? Will you use it for another lodger? Or can you sell some of the stuff?"
"We should find buyers for some of it, and the rag-and-bone man will take what's left. But no more lodgers, I hope. Julian's had an idea."
"Some friends and I are setting up a small organization," Dawlish explained. "Fenella has very kindly agreed to act as our secretary."
"What sort of organization?"
Dawlish gave no sign that he had heard the rudeness in Rory's voice. "The Alliance of Socialists Against Fascism. That's our provisional title. ASAF for short."
"Sounds a worthy cause," Rory said bitterly.
"We think there's room for it," Dawlish said. "A need, even. We want to provide a place where left-wingers of various persuasions can meet and discuss things. Joint action is the key, you see. United we stand and divided we fall. I know someone who's just inherited a house in Mecklenburgh Square, and we can have it for a pepper-corn rent as the headquarters. The members will help with the running expenses. And one of those, of course, will be the salary of the secretary."
"You must be very pleased," Rory said to Fenella.
"I am."
"I thought of Fenella right away," Dawlish went on. "She has shorthand and typing. And running a little organization like ours will be peanuts compared with running this place and dealing with lodgers."
Rory said nothing.
"It's early days yet of course." Apparently oblivious of any awkwardness, Dawlish beamed like Father bloody Christmas. "We'll have to see how things work out."
Rory turned to Fenella. "But what will you do when the lease runs out here? You'll have to find somewhere to live."
Dawlish cleared his throat. "It might be useful to have the secretary living on the premises. There's an old housekeeper's flat. All it needs is a lick of paint and a few sticks of furniture. So there's no reason why Fenella shouldn't let this place and move in whenever she wants."
How ripping, Rory thought, how absolutely bloody topping with knobs on.