Read Bleeding Heart Square Online
Authors: Andrew Taylor
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #General
Bleeding Heart Square (7 page)
W
AS SERRIDGE
really married? Perhaps there are dozens of Mrs. Serridges scattered around the globe, some living, some dead, some with marriage certificates, some without. He must always have had a way with women.
Saturday, 15 February 1930
Today I had tea with Major Serridge. He insisted on taking me to a very pleasant establishment in Kensington Church Street. It looked frightfully expensive. He said he wanted to repay me for tea at the Rushmere the other week. I think I got by far the better part of the bargain!!
He looked very serious, rather sad in fact, this afternoon. He talked less too. He was very friendly, though, without saying much, and once or twice I caught him looking at me in what I can only call a meaningful way. Outwardly he's such a big, masterful man, but he can be as sensitive and gentle as a child, at least with me. In the end I asked him if there was anything wrong.
He smiled at me and in that simple way of his said that we all have to shoulder our burdens, and on some days they seem to weigh more heavily than others. I don't know how it was but somehow this led to an extraordinarily intimate conversation--truly, I can never remember speaking to anyone so frankly in my entire life. I even found myself telling him about Vernon, and how I so nearly married him when I was eighteen. Of course Aunt wouldn't let me, and I had no money in those days, and so it was out of the question, and Vernon went back to sea. Sometimes, even now, I find myself wondering what would have happened if I'd flung caution to the winds and agreed to marry him. All that was nearly forty years ago, though I must admit I did not mention the precise number of years to Major Serridge. A lady must have her secrets.
Afterward he honored me with an even greater confidence. Today was his wedding anniversary. At this, I was considerably surprised, even shocked, because I had no idea that he was married.
He was reluctant to tell me more. He said it was too shocking for a lady's ears. In the end, though, I coaxed it out of him. In a moment of madness, when he was a very young man on the verge of leaving with his Regiment on active service, he had married a woman who later proved unworthy of him--indeed, unworthy of any man. It was hard, he said, for a fellow to come home to a cold and unloving hearth. But that had been his lot.
And there had been much worse to come. His wife turned out to be a moral degenerate of the worst sort. She had left him and was now living in New Zealand with another woman in circumstances so shameful that I cannot bear to sully the page of my diary with them. To make matters worse, she had once been a Catholic, so she refused to countenance the very idea of divorce. The hypocrisy makes my blood boil.
He said, very simply, "It's my cross, my dear Miss Penhow, and I must somehow learn to carry it on my lonely journey through life."
After lunch, if it could be called that, Lydia Langstone went to her first job interview, leaving Captain Ingleby-Lewis snoring in his armchair, his legs covered with a blanket. He looked old, frail and ill.
In her gloved hand was a page torn from Mr. Serridge's looseleaf memorandum book. On it he had written in pencil:
Mr. Shires, 3rd floor, 48 Rosington Place, Tuesday, 2.30 p.m.
Lydia found the house with no difficulty. It was almost immediately opposite the chapel. Like most of the houses in the cul-desac, it had a cluster of brass plates beside its front door. A notice invited her to walk inside without ringing the bell. She found herself in a drab hall with a high plastered ceiling whose discolored moldings were draped with dusty cobwebs. There was brown linoleum on the floor and the air was filled with the clacking of typewriters. She scanned the noticeboard on the wall. It listed the offices of at least ten firms, including two sets of lawyers as well as Shires and Trimble, a jewelry importer, a surveyor, a company manufacturing kitchen stoves and a furrier's.
She climbed the stairs. The house was much larger than it seemed from the street. On the second floor there was a door marked
SHIRES AND TRIMBLE
set in a partition made of wood and frosted glass. She knocked. After a moment she turned the handle and went in. Immediately in front of her was a narrow counter, beyond which was a general office containing four people. Two men were sitting at high desks, one talking on the telephone; a typist with very red fingernails was attacking the keyboard of her machine with noisily vicious efficiency; and a red-haired boy was licking stamps and putting them on envelopes. No one took any notice of her.
Lydia tapped the bell on the counter. The younger of the two men looked up, sighed theatrically, climbed down from his stool and sauntered over to her.
"Good afternoon," Lydia said. "My name is Langstone, and I've an appointment with Mr. Shires."
He conveyed her across the general office to the door of a private room, as if without his guidance she might be expected to lose her way. Mr. Shires' office was small, and most of it was filled with a large partners' desk. The gas fire was burning at full blast and the air smelled of peppermints.
Mr. Shires himself, a plump little man in a shiny black suit, was writing at the desk. He capped his fountain pen and rose to a crouching position, not quite standing. He extended a hand across the desk and said, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Langstone. Pleased to meet you. Do sit down," in a continuous rush of words that suggested he was in a terrible hurry. He sank back in his chair and popped a peppermint from a white paper bag into his mouth. His eyes drifted back to the pile of papers in front of him.
"I believe Mr. Serridge has talked to you about me," Lydia said.
"Yes." He sucked the peppermint and the tip of his nose twitched. "I understand you're looking for a position." He uncapped the pen, initialled the foot of one page and turned it over. "And that you have no experience of office work."
"That's correct."
"Married or widowed?"
"Separated," Lydia said firmly.
Shires stared at her with weak, watery eyes. "Are you living by yourself?"
"No. I'm staying with my father in his flat."
"Of course." There was a tinge of amusement in Mr. Shires' voice. "In Bleeding Heart Square. Yes, I see. Very convenient."
Lydia felt her temper slipping away from her. "I don't want to waste your time, Mr. Shires..."
"I don't want you to waste it either, young lady."
Lydia gave way to her feelings and glared at him. "I'm glad we understand one another. Though I've no experience of office work, I've run two large houses for several years. I'm a quick learner, I'm methodical, and I'm willing to learn."
"Splendid, Mrs. Langstone." Mr. Shires took off his glasses and sat back in his chair. "I'm looking for a girl to do some of the donkey work for Mr. Smethwick and Miss Tuffley. Mr. Smethwick is our junior clerk. Miss Tuffley is our typist. They spend far too much of their valuable time filing or answering the telephone or making cups of tea for our clients. I can make more use of them than that. So if you are willing to do that sort of thing, I can give you a month's trial on a part-time basis, and we'll see how we go. Are you interested?"
"What do you mean by part-time, Mr. Shires?"
"If you come to work for me, Mrs. Langstone, you will have to get used to addressing me as sir. Let's say three days a week. Our hours are eight thirty to five thirty. The precise days and hours may vary from week to week; you would have to fit in with us. Shall we say thirty shillings?"
"Thirty shillings a day?"
"No, no." Mr. Shires belched unhurriedly. "Thirty shillings a week."
"That's ten shillings a day."
"So it is. Will that suit, eh? Yes or no."
"Yes," Lydia said.
"Yes, what?" Mr. Shires said.
Lydia stared at him. "Yes, sir."
Finding a job was proving harder than Rory had anticipated. On Tuesday he had lunch with a friend from university who now worked at an advertising agency in the Strand. When Rory had been in India, the friend had written enthusiastically about the opportunities awaiting him back in London. But now Rory was actually here, those opportunities seemed to have vanished. "Everyone's tightening their belts, old chap," the friend said as they drank their coffee after lunch. "And people want chaps with the right experience. There's no getting round it, I'm afraid."
By the time Rory got back to Bleeding Heart Square, the Crozier had opened for the evening. It was a cold night, and he went into the paneled saloon bar and ordered whisky. The place was crowded with people having a drink on their way home. Lucky people, he thought, people with jobs.
Rory found a seat in an alcove almost entirely filled with a large table, around which sat four law clerks engaged in a slanderous conversation about their employer. He slumped behind his newspaper in a chair at the end of the table and turned to the Situations Vacant. He was aware of the ebb and flow of voices around him. His attention wandered from the newsprint. He tuned in and out of conversations in the alcove and the bar beyond, as though he were twirling the dial on a wireless set.
"No change then?" said an educated man's voice.
"Found herself a job, I understand. Extraordinary."
"Good God. I'd have thought she was unemployable. Where?"
"Some lawyers at Rosington Place. Perfectly respectable billet, you needn't worry about that."
Rory recognized the voice of the second speaker: Captain Ingleby-Lewis, his neighbor on the first floor. He knew he ought to make his presence known or at least stop listening but his curiosity was stronger than his sense of propriety.
"She's settled in much better than I thought she would," Ingleby-Lewis said. "I mean, she's not enjoying it, slumming it with her old father. But she's putting a brave face on it. Plucky girl."
"It can't go on."
"Of course not. But I can't just throw her out."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't," Ingleby-Lewis said, his voice suddenly sharp. "After all she is my daughter. Flesh and blood and all that. She is causing quite a stir in my place."
"What do you mean?"
"Serridge--my landlord--he's taken quite a shine to her. It's he who found her the job. Even Mrs. Renton downstairs, who disapproves of most of the human race--I wouldn't say she likes Lydia exactly, but she is being quite kind to her. As for that fellow Fimberry, he goes around with his tongue hanging out at the very thought of her."
"Who's this?" There was no mistaking the anger in the other man's voice.
"Fimberry. Nervy chap. He's got the room on the left of the front door, opposite Mrs. Renton's. He's meant to be writing a book. He's always hanging round the chapel in Rosington Place."
"He's dangling after Lydia? Making a nuisance of himself?"
"Let's say he's getting rather fresh. Don't worry, I'll give the fellow his marching orders."
"I must go. Would you give Lydia this for me?"
"Of course. You're sure you haven't time for another drink?"
The conversation continued but less audibly than before. Other voices drowned it out. When Rory left the Crozier ten minutes later, Ingleby-Lewis was no longer in the bar. He walked across the cobbles of Bleeding Heart Square and let himself into the house. Mrs. Renton was standing in the doorway of Fimberry's room.
"Good evening," he said.
"Settling in all right?"
"Yes, thanks."
"Could you do me a favor? I promised Mr. Fimberry I'd do his curtains. But he hasn't taken them down. I need a longer pair of arms."
Rory went into Fimberry's room. The electric light was burning brightly. It was almost as cold in here as it was outside. The room was sparsely furnished and anonymous. The only touch of individuality were the books that filled almost the entire wall opposite the window from floor to ceiling. They were housed in two bookcases around which had grown a precarious network of shelves consisting of unpainted planks resting on bricks. It looked as if the slightest vibration would bring the entire erection crashing down.
Rory stood on a chair and unhooked the curtains from their rail. Afterward, while Mrs Renton was folding them, his eyes drifted over the spines of the books. Most of them were historical or topographical; almost all of them were old. They made the room smell like the seediest sort of second-hand bookshop, full of dead and decaying words that no one in his right mind would ever want to read.
He turned away and looked out of the uncurtained window. There was enough light to see a tall man in a dark overcoat standing on the corner by the Crozier. A cigarette glowed briefly as he inhaled. For an instant the skin of his face was as red as the devil's.
When Lydia let herself into the house, Mr. Wentwood was climbing the stairs. He glanced back.
"Evening, Mrs. Langstone. You all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine, thank you," Lydia said, though in a sense she had seen a ghost: Marcus had been hovering in Bleeding Heart Square and had tried to speak to her. She had turned her face away and walked resolutely past him. She followed Mr. Wentwood up the stairs. "How's the job-hunting?"
"No luck yet." He paused on the landing, as if ready to talk. "Still, I'm having a day off tomorrow. I've got to run down to the country."
"Lucky you." Lydia nodded goodbye, wondering if he would be taking that girl with him tomorrow. She went into the flat's sitting room. Her father was dozing in the armchair in front of the fire.
Without opening his eyes he said, "There's something for you on the table. A parcel."
Lydia's stomach lurched. For a split second she glimpsed the possibility that someone might have sent her an uncooked heart. But this parcel looked very different from Serridge's--it was about the shape and size of a brick and it hadn't come in the post. She examined the superscription--only her name, no address--and recognized the large, square handwriting.
"Marcus," she said. "Has he been in the house again? I saw him outside."
"I happened to bump into him in the Crozier," Captain Ingleby-Lewis said, his eyes still closed. "He asked me to give it to you."
She stripped off her gloves and took off her hat. It was too cold to remove her coat. A car drew up outside the house.
The parcel had been professionally wrapped. Marcus could no more wrap a parcel than he could have performed an appendectomy. She undid the string and peeled back first the brown paper and then a second layer of tissue paper beneath. Finally she found what she was expecting, a box of chocolates from Charbonnel et Walker. Marcus was convinced that the road to a woman's heart was paved with expensive chocolates. There was also an envelope with her name on it. Inside was a sheet of paper with the address of his club at the top.
My dear Lydia,
I don't want to pester you but I do miss you frightfully. I do wish you'd come back. Everyone goes through these sticky patches. I'm awfully sorry about what happened, and swear it won't happen again. We ought to give it another try, don't you think?
I couldn't stand rattling around in Frogmore Place all by myself. So I've shut up the house for the time being and I'm living at the club.
The only other bit of news is that I had a long chat with Rex Fisher, and he arranged a private meeting with Mosley himself. Sir Oswald isn't at all what I'd expected--and, by the way, he says I have to call him Tom now; all his friends do--I've never met anyone like him, in fact. He's a real leader. The sort you feel you could follow to hell and back. Anyway, old thing, the long and the short of it is that I've decided to join the Party. I wanted you to be one of the first to know. I'm going to work directly with Rex. He's got a special role in mind. All rather hush-hush.
Do think about what I said. It's just not the same without you, old girl.
With my best love,
Marcus
A car door slammed in the square below. Lydia crumpled the letter and dropped it in the wastepaper basket. She threw the box of chocolates after it. The noise made her father stir in his chair but he kept his eyes resolutely closed.
Lydia went into her bedroom, where she hung up her coat and put away her hat. She stared at her pale, set face in the damp-stained mirror over the washstand.
"Damn it," she said aloud. "Damn, damn, damn."
She returned to the sitting room. Mr. Serridge was in the hall, shouting for Mrs. Renton. She retrieved the chocolates from the wastepaper basket, ripped off the pink ribbon that fastened the box and removed the lid. The smell of good chocolate rose to meet her. Her mouth watered. She began to eat.