Read Bleeding Heart Square Online
Authors: Andrew Taylor
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #General
Bleeding Heart Square (4 page)
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Serridge was desperate for money. But it was more complicated than that.
Tuesday, 14 January 1930
Major Serridge came to tea this afternoon to show me his engraving. The presence of a bluff military man caused quite a stir among the old tabbies in the dining room, especially the six of them at the table in the bay window, which they treat as their personal property. I thought Miss Beale stared in really quite a rude manner. I know for a fact that she has been here for nearly 20 years. She celebrated her 75th birthday in September. So she must have been about my age when she came to live at the Rushmere. It quite chills the blood to think about it.
But to return to Major Serridge. We had a most interesting conversation. He has served all over the Empire. He was even in China--he spoke very feelingly about the famine they are having at present, and said it was the children he felt most sorry for. He left the Army for a few years but he was soon back in uniform for the Great War. But when I asked him if he had been on the Western Front, he winked at me and said that he wasn't allowed to talk about it, even now. I suspect he was in military intelligence.
After tea the Major showed me the engraving. It's not his, in fact, but belongs to a man who also lives in my house--some sort of scholar, I understand. It had the date 1778 at the bottom. It showed the splendid palace of the bishops of Rosington which once covered all the land now occupied by Bleeding Heart Square, Rosington Place and several of the surrounding streets. It was a great Gothic building with cloisters, a great hall and a private chapel. Only the chapel now remains, and it's just beside my house!
There was a grand gatehouse, too, which Major Serridge believes must have stood roughly where the Beadle's Lodge now stands at the bottom of Rosington Place. The whole area is still part of the See of Rosington and is known (rather quaintly) as the Rosington Liberty.
Something else happened today. I don't want to make too much of it, but it brightened my day. The Major paid me a compliment, which meant all the more because it was so obviously unforced and unplanned. He asked me why "a young lady like yourself" was living among all the old pussies at the Rushmere--and then he looked quite embarrassed and apologized, saying that he hadn't meant to seem impertinent. I said I wasn't offended at all (!), and indeed I wasn't, though not for the reason he thought!! Several residents are rather younger than I am (in chronological terms, at any rate!!), including Mrs. Pargeter, who claims she's not yet forty (!!!). I find that very hard to believe, and I'm sure she dyes her hair--no one can convince me that that brassy color is natural. I happened to mention her to Major Serridge, in fact, and he said, "Who? The one sitting by herself? I don't want to seem rude, but she reminded me of something my dear old mother used to say, mutton dressed up as lamb."
Isn't it strange? Exactly the same words had passed through my mind, just before he spoke them!
The Major also complimented me on my dress--I wore my new afternoon frock, the one with the charming floral pattern. He said what a pleasure it was to meet a lady who dressed as a lady! Then he apologized again! Partly to ease his embarrassment, I said how hard it was to find a good seamstress for repairs, etc., since the war--someone who had an eye for things, too, who knew how things should be done, and who didn't charge the earth--and he said that, as it happened, one of my tenants, a Mrs. Renton, was reckoned a very superior needlewoman and had worked in Bond Street in her time....
Now you realize it was more complicated than you had thought. It wasn't just that Philippa Penhow wanted Joe Serridge. It wasn't just that she wanted a man, any man. It was also that she was terrified of staying where she was with all the aging women, of growing older and dying at the Rushmere Hotel.
The first time Lydia encountered Marcus Langstone, he had been with his family, but she had only the vaguest recollection of his parents and his older brother. Marcus she remembered very clearly because of what he had done.
She had been five years old, which meant he had been eleven, almost twelve, and his brother practically grown-up. It must have been quite soon after Lord Cassington had taken the lease on Monkshill Park. Lydia remembered how big everything had seemed that first summer, not just the house but the gardens and the park. To a five-year-old, it was a place without limits, more like an entire country than a home.
The Langstones arrived in the afternoon. Lydia did not meet them until teatime. Nurse scrubbed her face and hands and brushed her hair so hard it hurt. She was introduced to the visitors and sat by her mother. Adult conversation crashed and roared above her head. She drank her milk, ate her bread and butter and wanted to escape. She avoided looking at anyone so there was less chance of their noticing her. Once or twice, though, she glanced up and caught Marcus looking at her. He was a tall, handsome boy, with blond hair and regular features. He reminded her of a picture of the young Hereward the Wake which Lydia had seen in the
Book of Epic Heroes
in the nursery bookcase. She thought him very handsome.
Her mother said to her, "I'm sure Marcus would like to see the gardens and the park. Why don't you show him round, darling?"
The prospect of being alone with a strange boy filled her with fear. There was nothing to be done about it, however, and a few minutes later the two of them were walking along the path that led from the house toward the monument and the lake. On their right was the high, sun-warmed wall of the kitchen gardens, pierced at intervals by doors. They walked in silence, with Marcus in the lead. At the far end, where the wall ended, there was a belt of trees. Marcus stopped, so suddenly that Lydia almost cannoned into him. Hands on hips, he stared down at her.
"What's that?"
He nodded at a small shed that leaned against the outer wall of the kitchen garden at right angles to the main path. It was almost completely shrouded in trees.
"I don't know," Lydia said.
Marcus thrust his hands into his pockets. "I'm going to find out."
He swaggered into the trees without looking back to see if she was following. She padded after him, feeling that, as his hostess, she had a duty to look after him. There were nettles here and they reached her bare legs. She ran into a spider's web hanging from a branch of a tree and screamed. Marcus glanced back.
"Don't be such a baby," he said, and carried on.
At the end of the path, the tiled roof of the shed sagged and rippled. It was muddy underfoot, and the air felt damp, which was strange because it was a sunny afternoon. In memory, at least, it seemed to Lydia that the little spinney tucked against the north wall of the kitchen gardens had its own climate, its own atmosphere.
Marcus kicked over a fragment of rotten plank lying across the path. Woodlice scurried frantically. There were gray, slimy things, too. Lydia assumed they were leaves, or roots, or even a special sort of stone. Marcus picked up a twig and prodded one of them. To Lydia's horror, the shiny object slowly curled itself around the tip of the stick. The thing was alive. Lydia opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.
"Slugs," Marcus said, and trod on it. "Do you know what they like to eat?"
She stared wide-eyed at him and shook her head.
"Human flesh," he whispered. "Children for choice. The younger the better, because they taste nicer."
Lydia screamed. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't move. Her mind had no room for anything except a terrifying image of her own naked body covered with those gray, shiny things, browsing on her, nibbling at her, just as the sheep and the Highland cattle browsed and nibbled at the grass of the park. One of the slugs was moving toward her, and another, and soon they would be climbing up her legs and--
Marcus snatched her up, lifting her under the armpits. In an instant she was high in the air and her face was level with his. He held her for a moment at arm's length.
"They'll eat me," she whispered. "The slugs will eat me."
He stared at her, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Then he hefted her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes and walked toward the shed. He kicked open the door. Lydia could see down the back of his Norfolk jacket and the line of his long legs to his boots. It was such a long way to the ground. She was safe up here. The slugs couldn't get her.
Marcus lifted her from his shoulders. She shrieked with joy and fear as her head turned through 180 degrees. He set her down on a broad and dusty shelf fixed to the brick wall at the back of the shed. There was a sieve on one side of her and a pile of flowerpots on the other. In the gloom below, Lydia made out the outlines of the machines the gardeners used for mowing the grass. There were wheelbarrows, too, and rusting machinery whose purpose she did not know.
"Don't move," Marcus told her. His face was level with her chest now. "I won't be a moment."
She couldn't have moved even if she had wanted to. She was far too high above the floor. If she jumped off, she knew she'd break every bone in her body, and probably kill herself, and get her dress filthy as well so that Nurse would smack her too.
Marcus returned, his body almost filling the low doorway. He held out his hands to her, the fingers curled into fists.
"Look," he said gently.
Lydia stared at his big handsome face. He was smiling at her. He turned his hands over and uncurled the fingers. On each palm was a glistening slug. They looked even larger than the others, and they were moving.
"I can feel their mouths," he said. "I think they're hungry."
She began to cry.
"It's all right. Don't worry." One by one, he flicked the slugs onto the caked mud floor of the shed. He wiped his palms on his trousers and showed them, pink and empty, to her. "I'm going to make sure you're all right," he said as gently as before. "I'll look after you."
His kindness made her cry even harder.
"We have to make sure that none of them climbed up you while we weren't looking."
At the time, the logic of this had seemed impeccable. She screwed her eyes shut. She felt his hands on her legs. He gripped her knees and held them apart. She whimpered as he pushed up her skirt.
"We have to look very carefully," he said in a voice that was suddenly hoarse, and almost a whisper. "They like it especially here, you see, that's where they really like to eat. So we'd better see if they've got underneath."
It was sheer bad luck that Malcolm Fimberry chose that moment to open the door. Lydia was standing on the doorstep, a latchkey in her hand, and in another moment she might have escaped from Marcus. Her husband was standing there, bareheaded in the rain, and he looked all wrong in Bleeding Heart Square, like an elephant at the North Pole or a racehorse pulling a plough. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this situation and he didn't know what to do.
Fimberry didn't see Marcus at first. "Mrs. Langstone!" he cried. "Been shopping, I see. Let me help you with that basket."
Marcus lost his paralysis. Here at last was something he understood. "No need for that, thank you." His arm shot out and he scooped up the shopping basket. "After you, my dear."
Lydia allowed herself to be herded into the house. Fimberry flattened himself against the wall to allow them to pass. He was wearing a raincoat and carrying his hat and umbrella so he had obviously been on the verge of going out. Nevertheless he shut the door and pretended to be examining the circulars on the hall table. Marcus towered over him--indeed he towered over everything--and the hall shrank because he was inside it. He sniffed, and Lydia wondered whether there was still a trace of Mr. Serridge's rotten heart in the air.
She climbed the stairs, conscious that Fimberry was watching and listening and that Marcus's heavy footsteps were ascending behind her. She led the way into the sitting room. He put the basket on the table and pushed the door shut with his foot.
"You can't live here," he said in a voice that sounded more surprised than anything else. "It's no better than a slum."
"There's nothing wrong with it," Lydia said. "This is where my father lives. How did you find me?"
He dropped his hat on the table and peeled off his gloves. "You've no idea how worried we've been. How could you, Lydia?"
"We?"
"Your mother and I. No one else knows about this...this escapade of yours. We've told the servants you were suddenly called away. That a friend was very ill and had summoned you."
Lydia burst out laughing. "It sounds like something out of a penny novelette. Anyway, the servants won't believe you. Servants always know. I don't know how, but they do."
Marcus took out his cigarette case. "I don't find this very amusing."
"Nor do I."
"And then there's Pamela--she tried to phone you and was quite put out when I said you were away."
"You should tell her the truth." She paused but Marcus said nothing. "You still haven't said how you knew."
"About your news, or about where you were?" He held out the cigarette case to her, and she shook her head. "There was a letter from that chap in Harley Street. Enclosing his bill, of course."
"You opened my letters?"
"What else could I do? I was worried. Your quack wanted to recommend some diet or other that is good for pregnant women, so it was damned obvious what was in the wind. I just wish you'd told me."
"I tried. But you wouldn't let me. You remember?"
Marcus turned away to light a cigarette. "All right--I'm sorry. It's just that you came in at an awkward time, and I didn't want to queer my pitch with Rex Fisher." His face reddened. "But let's forget that now. The important thing is the baby. It changes everything."
"Everything?" she said quietly.
He waved his cigarette. "Of course. The main thing is, of course, it will mean an heir. Even these days, that's important."
"An heir to what?" she snapped. "Nine hundred acres in darkest Gloucestershire? A house you can't afford to live in that leaks like a sieve when there is the slightest drop of rain? And the lease on Frogmore Place only has another twenty years to run, and you'll probably have to let it in any case because you've already spent all my money trying to hang on to everything. What's it all
for
, Marcus? I wish you'd tell me."
For a moment she thought he was going to hit her again. "I happen to believe that some things are worth hanging on to," he said. "People like us, we've a duty to maintain standards. If we don't, nobody else will. The landed classes are the backbone of this country, any fool can see that. This socialist rot is all very well--I know some of those chaps are well-meaning enough--but it's leading this country down the road to ruin. Ramsay MacDonald couldn't run a butcher's shop. He's completely out of his depth."
"And my having a baby would somehow drag the country back from the brink?"
"Don't be stupid," he said coldly. "The point is, families like ours stand for continuity. You should listen to Sir Oswald on the subject."
"I don't want to, thank you. Anyway, I'm not having a baby."
"What? But your quack said--"
"You've added two and two and made five. The gynecologist said he could see no reason why I shouldn't conceive. He promised he'd send me details of a diet that's meant to be good for women's fertility and when you're pregnant. That was my good news. I was happy, Marcus, because it means I'm probably not infertile after all. Except I no longer want to get pregnant. But I do want to know how you found out where I am."
Marcus sighed. "I went through your bureau."
"It was locked."
"I had to force it."
"First you open my letters, then you break into my bureau."
He ignored this. "I found a letter from your father, written from this address. I thought he was in America."
"He came back last year."
Marcus raised his eyebrows. "And you didn't see fit to mention it?"
"I didn't think it would interest you. You hadn't shown any signs of interest in him before. Or I thought you'd get angry. Just as you are now."
"Have you been seeing him all this time behind my back?"
Suddenly she felt weary. "Until two days ago I hadn't seen him since I was a toddler."
"But you wrote to him?"
"Yes. I sent him a little money." She hesitated. "That was what he wanted. If you've read the letter, you'll know that. Does my mother know?"
"I told her everything. It was she who advised me to come here. She is as shocked as I am. You must understand--you must come home. Lydia, I--"
Marcus broke off. There were footsteps on the stairs and on the landing. The door opened, and Captain Ingleby-Lewis came in.
He stared at Marcus. "Who's this?" he demanded.
"My husband," Lydia said. "Marcus Langstone. Marcus, this is my father."
Marcus held out his hand. "How do you do, sir."
Ingleby-Lewis shook his son-in-law's hand vigorously. "Delighted to meet you, dear boy." His bloodshot eyes slid from Marcus to Lydia and then back again. "Not quite sure why we haven't managed it before. Still, better late than never, eh?"
"Marcus was just leaving," Lydia said.
"The thing is, sir, there's been a bit of a misunderstanding," Marcus said. "I came here to smooth things over and take Lydia back home."
"Splendid," Ingleby-Lewis said.
"I've a taxi waiting outside."
"I don't want to go back with you," Lydia said. "I'm staying here."
"Darling, be reasonable. You can't stay here. It's not fair to anyone."
"I want to stay here."
Marcus took a step toward her. "Now look here, Lydia--you must see sense."
Ingleby-Lewis cleared his throat.
Marcus turned to him. "I'm sure you agree, sir. A woman's place is with her husband, and all that."
"I must admit, it's not something I've noticed from personal experience."
"Father, please. I'd prefer to stay here. Anyway, I'm not going with Marcus."
For a moment, no one spoke. Ingleby-Lewis shuffled over to the sofa, sat down heavily and closed his eyes. He sighed and said slowly, "If Lydia wants to stay here for a few days, it's up to her."
Marcus glared at her. "This is ridiculous."
"Go away," she said. "Just go away. Please."
"We'll discuss this later. You're making a great mistake."
Her temper flared. "Has it occurred to you that if it's not me who's infertile, then perhaps it's you who should see a doctor?"
His lips were bloodless. He turned on his heel and left the room, leaving the door open. She listened to his footsteps on the stairs. The front door banged. Her father's eyes were still closed and he was breathing heavily. The air smelled of whisky and tobacco.
She went to the window and looked down on Bleeding Heart Square. It was quite absurd, so Victorian. Her fate had apparently been in the hands of two men, her husband and her father, a young bully and an old drunk. Marcus was walking across the cobbles to the taxi. From this angle he looked like a dwarf.
The following day, Friday, Lydia sold the first piece of jewelry. Captain Ingleby-Lewis said that it made sense to sell outright rather than to pawn: you received more money, and of course you didn't have the bother of redeeming it. She chose a small brooch, a ruby set round with diamonds which had once belonged to a great-aunt. The setting was too ornate for modern taste but she thought the stones were good.
Her father took her to a poky little shop in Hatton Garden and negotiated on her behalf with a tall, hunched man who would not offer them more than twenty-three pounds.
Ingleby-Lewis lit a cigarette. "Dash it all, Goldman, you strike a hard bargain. Still, I don't choose to haggle over it. But you'll do the business at once, eh? I don't want to be kept hanging around."
Mr. Goldman inclined his head. "Is that agreeable to you, madam?"
Lydia nodded. She had not expected to feel so humiliated.
"One moment, sir." Goldman opened a door behind the counter and retired into a room beyond.
"We'll not get a better price elsewhere," Ingleby-Lewis confided in a hoarse whisper. "Goldman knows he can't pull the wool over my eyes. And he's not going to keep us waiting either. That's what some of these sheenies do--they give you a price and then take their time paying it. But Goldman's all right as these people go. Serridge uses him a good deal."
"Mr. Serridge sells jewelry for a living?"
Her father glanced sharply at her. "No, no. But he occasionally has pieces he wants to dispose of."
Lydia wondered whether she had imagined a furtive expression on his face. "What does Mr. Serridge do? Is there a Mrs. Serridge?"
"Ah--no. I believe not." He turned aside to blow his nose. Then he rapped the counter with his knuckles and called out, "Come along, Goldman. We haven't got all day."
Afterwards, outside in the chilly bustle of Hatton Garden, Ingleby-Lewis laid his hand on Lydia's arm.
"Ah...perhaps you would like me to look after the money for you. It's a lot for a girl to carry around in her handbag."
"I think I'll keep it, Father. There are things I need to buy." She glimpsed the gloom descending on his face like mist. "But I ought to give you something. I ought to pay my way."
He beamed at her. "I won't pretend that money isn't a little tight at present. A temporary embarrassment, as they say." He watched her open her handbag and find her purse. She took out a five-pound note, which he almost snatched from her gloved fingers. "I have a business appointment a little later this morning," he went on. "First, though, I'll introduce you to Howlett."
"Who?"
"The Beadle chap in Rosington Place. He's a bit of an ally of mine."
"I think I met him the day after I arrived."
"He ought to know you're my daughter. Have you got half a crown, by any chance?"
"Why?" she said, thinking of the five-pound note.
"I haven't any change on me. I like to give Howlett something now and again. It's an investment, in a way."
They set off toward Holborn Circus. Smoke drifted up from the chimney of the lodge at the foot of Rosington Place. He rapped on the shuttered window facing the roadway with the head of his stick.
Instantly the dog began to bark. The shutter flew up with a crash, revealing Howlett's head and shoulders. "Shut up," he said and the barking stopped abruptly, as if the dog had been kicked. "Morning, Captain."
"Morning, Howlett. This is my daughter, Mrs. Langstone. Mind you keep an eye out for her."
Howlett touched the brim of his hat. "Yes, sir. We met the other day, didn't we, ma'am?"
Lydia nodded. The dog began to bark again.
"I suppose Mrs. Langstone might find it convenient to use the back gate occasionally," Ingleby-Lewis went on.
Howlett grunted. The dog began to yap again.
Her father turned to Lydia. "There's a gate up there in the corner by the chapel--you can get directly into Bleeding Heart Square from there."
"We don't like all and sundry using it," Howlett said firmly.
"No, indeed. Only the favored few, eh?"
"The little tyke," Howlett observed. "I'm going to have to let him out."
His face vanished from the window. The door opened. The dog ran round the lodge and sniffed Lydia's shoes.
"Beg pardon, ma'am." Howlett edged the dog away from her with the toe of his boot. "Get out of it, Nipper."
"Plucky little brute," Ingleby-Lewis said.
"He's got a terrible way with rats."
"Well. Mustn't stand here chatting all day. Work to be done, eh, Howlett? Here, something to keep out the cold."
The half-crown changed hands. Howlett touched his hat again. Lydia and her father walked up Rosington Place toward the chapel at the far end. The two terraces on either side were drab but primly respectable. Judging by the nameplates on the doors, they consisted almost entirely of offices.
"Must be a living death, working in one of these places," Ingleby-Lewis observed, quickening his pace because the Crozier would now be open. "Just imagine it, eh?"
Lydia stared up at the chapel. Now they were closer, she saw it was much larger than she had first thought. From the other end of Rosington Place, it was dwarfed by the perspective: the height of the terraces created the impression that you were looking at it from the wrong end of a telescope.
"Belongs to the Romans now," Ingleby-Lewis said. "That chap Fimberry is always in and out--knows all about it. Odd place, really. Still, that's London for you, I suppose: full of queer nooks and crannies. And queer people, come to that."
The chapel was set back into the terrace on the left-hand side. A door on the left gave access to the house that abutted on the chapel; there was no other sign of an entrance. Immediately in front of them was a gate, painted murky brown, that sealed the northern end of Rosington Place. It was wide enough for a carriage, and it had a wicket inset in one leaf. Ingleby-Lewis raised the latch.
"Old Howlett's got the only key," he said. "Sometimes he keeps the door locked just to show who's top dog."
"You don't like him much, do you?" Lydia said.
Her father held open the wicket for her. "It's not a question of liking or not liking. Howlett's a fact of life. You want to keep on his right side. Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square count as a private jurisdiction, you see. It's a sort of legal oddity--Fimberry knows all about it. In theory even the police can't come in unless they're invited."
The door beside the chapel opened. They glanced toward the sound. A tall young man came out. Lydia caught her breath. He smiled and touched his hat to her before walking rapidly down Rosington Place toward the lodge.
"Who's that fellow?"
"I think his name's Wentwood, Father. He's interested in the attic flat. Mrs. Renton told him to come back today when Mr. Serridge is here."
She stepped through the wicket. In Bleeding Heart Square, a man was standing at the entrance to the public bar of the Crozier and shouting at somebody inside. A mechanic working at the garage at the far end whistled at Lydia. There was a little pile of excrement, possibly human, in the angle between the gate and the pillar supporting it.
Ingleby-Lewis followed her through the wicket and closed it carefully behind him, shutting out the seedy respectability of Rosington Place. "Serridge," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, he'll have to talk to him. And you haven't met Serridge, either, have you?"
Later that morning, while she was tidying the shelves on the left of the fireplace in the sitting room, Lydia came across an old writing box. It was a portable writing desk, a solid mahogany affair, its corners reinforced with brass. When she lifted it onto the table to dust it, however, she discovered that it was less robust than it looked. The lid slid off and fell to the floor with a crash. At some point in the box's history, the hinges had been broken. The fittings inside had vanished as well.
But the box wasn't empty. It held a jumble of pens, paper, pencils, envelopes and inks. The paper was no longer white but turning yellow and brittle with age. Some of the nibs were spotted with rust. Lydia's eyes rested on a small sheet of paper, blank apart from seven words at the top:
I expect you are surprised to hear
--
She pushed aside the sheet. Underneath it was a sheet of foolscap with more writing on it, a long column of names--all of them the same:
P. M. Penhow
.
There was a knock on the door. Lydia dropped the lid clumsily on top of the box. When she opened the door, she found Malcolm Fimberry standing very close to it on the other side. He stared at her through his pince-nez and smiled. His lips were moist and very brightly colored, almost red. He was trembling slightly.
"Mrs. Langstone. I do hope I'm not disturbing you."
"What is it?" Lydia said, knowing that she must sound rude. Mr. Fimberry was the sort of person to whom you found yourself being rude without meaning to be.
"I heard the noise upstairs--I'm just beneath, you see--so I knew somebody was in. I thought perhaps Captain Ingleby-Lewis was here."
"He's not, I'm afraid." Lydia realized that she was still carrying the cloth she had been using for dusting. "May I take a message?"
"Yes--no--you see, it's rather delicate. I lent him ten shillings some time ago, and I wondered whether it was convenient for him to pay me back now. He...he said he would pay me at the end of the week--that was last month--but he must have forgotten, and after that when I happened to mention it, it wasn't convenient, but perhaps if you were to have a word with him..."
He broke off and lowered his eyes. He seemed to be staring at her chest. She registered the fact that he hadn't shaved and that the stubble on his chin was more ginger than the hair on his head. She also saw that the breast pocket of his tweed jacket was in need of repair and that he hadn't changed his collar for some time.
"It must have slipped my father's mind," she said. "I'll give you the money now."
"Thank you, Mrs. Langstone, you are very kind. I think I saw you and your father near the chapel this morning, didn't I?"
"Yes."
"It's a very interesting building, of course. Did you know that I work there, by the way? In an honorary capacity, that is."
She found her purse and counted out ten shillings in silver. His fingers touched hers as the money changed hands.
"Father Bertram calls me his assistant sexton." He gave a little laugh that was unexpectedly high and girlish. "Perhaps you would allow me to give you a guided tour. There are so many interesting stories associated with the old place."
"That's very kind. Actually at present I'm rather busy and--"
"It needn't take up much of your time, Mrs. Langstone. You see, because it's on the doorstep, one can pop in for ten minutes here and ten minutes there. Oh, you would enjoy it, I promise you. Such a lot of history, so many strange yarns."
There were footsteps on the stairs, and the small, shapeless figure of Mrs. Renton appeared.
"You left your kettle boiling, Mr. Fimberry," she announced. "Must be almost dry by now."
"Oh--yes, thank you. Goodbye, Mrs. Langstone." At the head of the stairs, he turned back. "Thank you, Mrs. Langstone," he murmured.
"Has the Captain heard when Mr. Serridge will be back?" Mrs. Renton asked Lydia.
"Today at some point. That's all I know. By the way, I saw that young man this morning, Mr. Wentwood--the one who came about the flat. He seemed to have been looking round the chapel."
"Then him and Mr. Fimberry should have something to talk about," Mrs. Renton said. "I'd best be getting on. At least it's not smelling yet."
Lydia blinked. "What isn't?"
"The parcel in the hall," Mrs. Renton said. "Mr. Serridge's new heart."