Bleeding Heart Square

11

PHILIPPA PENHOW decides she is married to Joseph Serridge in the eyes of God. Joseph Serridge decides to buy them a home in the country (with Philippa Penhow’s money). Then, hey presto, he produces the perfect place like a rabbit out of a conjurer’s hat. It would have made anyone suspicious, you’d think, anyone but a fool in love.

Friday, 28 February 1930 Joseph and I went down to the country today to visit the farm he thinks might suit us. It’s near a village called Rawling on the Essex-Hertfordshire border and surprisingly close to London (though we had to change twice between Liverpool Street and Mavering, the nearest station to the village). We took a taxi from Mavering to the farm. It’s called Morthams. Joseph said that if we do decide to purchase the property we might consider buying a little motor car. It would be so much more convenient for running up to town and might even save money in the long run. This started me thinking! I should so like to give him a present he would really enjoy and I think a motor car might be just the ticket. The property consists of a farmhouse (most picturesque!), with a farmyard to one side and about 120 acres of good land. We drove up to the house by a muddy lane and parked between the farmyard (rather smelly!) and the house. It’s a nice old place with some good-sized rooms and plenty of space for all the furniture I have in store. It would need some work on it, Joseph says, but nothing that should be too expensive. I must confess it seemed rather cold and damp to me but Joseph explained that that was because no one had been living there over the winter, since the last tenant had moved away. On the side away from the farmyard is the sweetest little cottage garden, though sadly overgrown. As we walked in the garden, Joseph pressed my arm and murmured that it was such a romantic spot, and at last we could be alone together. I asked whether Morthams was perhaps rather lonely, a little far from the shops. But he pointed out that we should soon get used to that, and in any case we could make regular trips into Saffron Walden and even London for shopping. The owner’s solicitors had sent a clerk to open up the house for us and answer any questions we might have. Joseph had quite a chat with the man, who said he thought the owner was in a hurry to sell and might accept an offer substantially below the asking price, which is £2,100. I was still in the garden when Joseph came to tell me this. The clouds had parted, and the sun was streaming down. Out of the wind, it was almost warm. I imagined the garden coming to life around us in a few weeks’ time with crocuses, cowslips and daffodils. He asked me what I thought and I replied that perhaps we should go back to London and consider what best to do. Joseph said in that case we might lose the property because several other people were coming to see it today and tomorrow. He thinks it would be perfect for us and suggested we make an offer of £1,700. It will mean selling about a quarter of my investments, but as Joseph pointed out, the farm itself would be a far better investment than any stocks and shares and besides it would give us a home of our own, so we should save money on rent. Even if we were to sell it right away, we should make a profit. The clerk showed us over the rest of the place. Joseph made much of the neglected state of it, but murmured privately to me that in fact the land was in very good shape underneath. Then we made our offer! I dare say we shall have to wait a day or two before we hear the owner’s reply. I’m on tenterhooks! On the train home, Joseph said that he thought it might be best to ask his own solicitor to handle the purchase. I wondered whether we should ask Mr. Orburn but Joseph said it would only add unnecessary cost and besides his man specializes in conveyancing and will do a better, faster job. I agreed. (I don’t want to give Joseph the impression I distrust his judgment and of course men know more about this sort of thing than women!) I nearly forgot to mention: Joseph asked me to wear a gold band on my ring finger, just for the look of the thing, in case I needed to remove my gloves. He introduced me to the clerk as “Mrs. Serridge.” It gave me quite a thrill!!

How cleverly Serridge arranged it all. Morthams Farm was conveniently near London yet unusually remote from everywhere. Philippa Penhow had lived almost all her life in cities. She had no idea what the country is like. The muddy paths, the absence of neighbors, the great brooding skies and the silence. The darkness at night. The fact that there may be no one to hear you.

The office boy was still confined to bed with what his mother now claimed was German measles. Mr. Reynolds remarked that it was most inconvenient. Mr. Smethwick said the young shaver was a little beast and Miss Tuffley, as befitted a member of the gentler sex, said he was a poor lamb. One consequence of the boy’s absence was that Lydia was obliged to work on Saturday morning.

As she made herself ready, she heard her father snoring in his room. In the sitting room the empty brandy bottle lay on its side in the hearth. Pulling on her gloves, she went down to the hall.

Among the small pile of post on the table was a letter addressed to her in her sister’s handwriting. There was also a parcel, slightly larger than a tennis ball, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, for J. SERRIDGE, ESQ.

Footsteps came slowly down the stairs. Letter in hand, she moved away from the table, reluctant to be caught spying. It was Rory Wentwood, walking slowly and a little stiffly.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m so glad it’s you. I wanted to say thank you.”

“It was nothing. How are you feeling?”

“Rather better than I thought I would.” His dark eyebrows wrinkled into a frown and he winced, giving the lie to his words. “Most of the time, at any rate. I know I’d be feeling a lot worse if you hadn’t turned up when you did.”

“It was just luck. I still think you should see a doctor.”

He shook his head. “I’m all right.”

“Who do you think attacked you?”

He shrugged. “Friday-night toughs, I suppose. Had a few drinks and decided to go on the rampage. I imagine they were after my wallet.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s no worse.” Lydia moved toward the front door.

“I say-Mrs. Langstone? I’d like to thank you properly for being so sporting about this. Would you let me buy you lunch?”

She turned back. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Wentwood, but-”

“You’d be doing me a favor. Otherwise I’ll feel guilty for ruining your evening.” His long face grew longer and even more melancholy than before. “You could think of it as an act of charity.”

She found herself smiling at him. “Very well. When?”

“What about today?”

“All right.”

“Thanks awfully.”

He arranged to meet her outside the office. On her way to work, Lydia opened her sister’s letter. It enclosed an invitation to a private view at a gallery in Cork Street on Tuesday evening. Pammy had scribbled a few lines in violet ink.

Do come if you can, darling-everyone will be there. Or if you don’t feel like doing the polite to all & sundry, would you like to meet for lunch at Café des Voyageurs on Wednesday? They say the new chef is divine. Let me know. With best love, Pammy.

Lydia stuffed the envelope into her handbag and pushed open the street door of 48 Rosington Place. She missed her sister but she wouldn’t go to the opening or to the Café des Voyageurs. She had finished with that sort of thing. A working woman, she marched up to the second floor.

The prospect of being taken out to lunch buoyed her up during the morning. In any case Saturday was not like other days at Shires and Trimble. It was only a half-day, and most of the time was spent on dealing with the post and tidying up loose ends from the previous week. Everyone was in a mood which if not exactly festive was at least cheerful, as though the temporary liberation of the weekend offered a glimpse of the happier world outside Rosington Place.

At half past twelve Lydia went downstairs with Miss Tuffley, who was going up west to have lunch with a friend and then on to the pictures. Mr. Wentwood was waiting for her outside the door. Miss Tuffley looked at him with interest and, Lydia suspected, would have been happy to be introduced if Lydia had given her the slightest encouragement. As it was, she said goodbye and clattered down the pavement toward the Tube station.

“Where would you like to go?” Rory asked. “I don’t know anywhere around here except the Blue Dahlia.”

“Let’s go there then,” Lydia said, thinking that at least it was cheap but wishing in a dark and shameful corner of her mind that it was the Café des Voyageurs. “Better the devil you know.”

The café was less crowded than it usually was at lunchtimes, since most of the clientele had gone home for the weekend. The fat lady behind the counter greeted them with a nod. They sat down at a corner table and studied the menu.

Rory glanced at the blackboard behind the counter. “I’ll have the special. Liver and onions.”

Lydia thought of the parcel on the hall table at Bleeding Heart Square. Liver was offal and so was heart. “I think I’ll have the shepherd’s pie.”

They ordered their lunch and sat smoking while they waited.

“How are you feeling now?”

Rory touched the faintly discolored skin on his cheekbone, and winced. “Still in one piece.” He went on in the same tone, “I’ve not been altogether honest with you, I’m afraid.”

It took a moment for his words to seep in. Was he married or something? “What do you mean?”

His face was even gloomier than usual. “About my reason for moving into Bleeding Heart Square.”

“I thought you were looking for a job and needed to be near the City.”

“That’s true as far as it goes.” He flicked ash from his cigarette. “But there’s another reason. You remember the girl I was with on Sunday? In Trafalgar Square? She has an aunt, a lady called Philippa Penhow.”

Lydia crumbled her bread and watched Rory. He was smoking very fast.

“They haven’t been in touch for more than four years,” he said, speaking quickly as if trying to get the words out before he changed his mind. “In fact Miss Penhow doesn’t seem to have been in touch with anyone. Fenella-Miss Kensley-is rather worried.”

So that’s who she is, Lydia thought-Fenella Kensley. She supposed that some people would think the name was rather pretty.

“The thing is, just before Miss Penhow disappeared, she met Mr. Serridge. In fact he was one of her tenants at Bleeding Heart Square. She told Fenella that they were going to get married. A whirlwind courtship, I gather. They moved out of London in the spring of 1930 and bought a place in Essex, near a village called Rawling. Morthams Farm.”

Lydia ground out her cigarette. “What happened then?”

He shrugged. “She left. Mr. Serridge said she met an old friend and went off with him.” He paused, sowing doubt with a silence. “Anyway, a few weeks later she simply wasn’t there.”

“Surely people asked questions?”

“There weren’t that many people who noticed she had gone. She and Serridge had only just moved to Rawling. Before that, Miss Penhow lived in a private hotel in South Ken. She hadn’t any friends there, not real ones. And before that, she’d lived with an old aunt in Manchester or somewhere, but the old lady died. The only other relations she had were Fenella and her parents, but they weren’t close.”

Lydia wondered: then why the interest now?

“Anyway, the Kensleys had a lot on their minds,” Rory continued. “Fenella’s father was very ill for a year or two before he died. Afterward her mother had to take in a lodger to make ends meet, and then she herself died last summer.”

“So there’s been no sign of Miss Penhow since 1930, and Mr. Serridge seems to have acquired the house?”

“That’s about the size of it. And don’t forget the farm. That seems to be his as well.”

“Has anyone talked to the police?”

“They were notified of her disappearance. But there was no sign a crime had been committed, and no reason to doubt Serridge’s story about an old boyfriend. Fenella said there really was a man, years and years ago-she remembered her parents talking about it. A sailor, apparently. Miss Penhow wanted to marry him but her family wouldn’t let her. And then there was a letter that seemed to confirm it. Miss Penhow wrote to the Vicar of Rawling from New York asking him to apologize to Serridge on her behalf for going away so suddenly. The police think the letter’s genuine.”

Penhow, Lydia thought, P. M. Penhow. The woman herself wasn’t here but her name was everywhere. Her father came into her mind, bringing with him as he usually did a faint sense of anxiety.

“Liver and onions,” said a loud voice just above her head. “Shepherd’s pie.”

The liver landed in front of Lydia, the shepherd’s pie in front of Rory.

“It’s the other way round,” Lydia said.

“Suit yourself,” said the manageress. “You’ve got hands, haven’t you, love? You give him his, and I’m sure he’ll give you yours.”

Rory grinned up at her. “And that’s the way the world goes round, eh?”

The fat woman roared with laughter and told him he was a caution. She waddled away from their table. Lydia and Rory exchanged plates.

“She likes you,” Lydia said in a low voice. “She barely tolerates me.”

Rory looked uncomfortable. “It’s because I’m a man.”

Lydia shook her head. “It’s more than that.” Talking with a silver spoon in your mouth, she realized, could be more of a curse than a blessing. As far as most of the population was concerned, it made you a social leper and also almost unemployable because ladies weren’t supposed to work. That wouldn’t have mattered perhaps, if you actually owned the silver spoon and everything that went with it. But if you didn’t, you had the worst of both worlds.

She and Rory were both hungry, and at first they ate in silence. Then Rory laid down his fork and looked at her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“May I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“How long have you known Mr. Serridge?”

“I’d never even heard of him until I moved into Bleeding Heart Square.”

“And your father?”

She put down her own fork. “I believe they knew each other in the army. I’ll say this for Mr. Serridge-he’s been very kind to him.”

Rory sat back. “Did you know that Morthams Farm used to belong to your father?”

“What?”

“The farm that Mr. Serridge and Miss Penhow bought. Your father sold it to them. Did you know?”

“Of course I didn’t.” She was surprised to hear her voice was calm and level. “I had no idea. Look here, I-”

“Have you ever heard him mention Rawling?”

Lydia pushed her plate away. “I don’t like this. I don’t see why I should answer questions about my father. And I don’t really understand why you feel you should ask them.”

He spread his hands out, palms up. “I’m so sorry. Unforgivable of me.” He gave her a rueful smile; he was rather good at those. “You know how it is-one gets carried away.”

Despite herself, she smiled back. They continued with their meal. Rory diverted the conversation to neutral subjects. He made her laugh with the story of Hitler’s oranges. There had been an item in today’s paper, he said, about a hundred thousand Spanish oranges which had been withdrawn from auction at Spitalfields yesterday because they had been wrapped in paper with a portrait of Hitler on it.

“All one hundred thousand of them?” Lydia asked.

“So I understand. Individually wrapped. It caused a lot of excitement when they tried to sell them. There were cries of ‘Heil Hitler.’ In the end the auctioneer decided to withdraw them. They say the consignment was meant to go to Germany. Though personally I would have thought that an orange is an orange is an orange.”

“Not if it’s wrapped in a picture of Hitler,” Lydia said. “It’s a political statement.”

“I don’t know.” He sat back in his chair, reaching for his cigarettes. “People make such a lot of fuss about politics. What would you like for pudding? I wouldn’t recommend the trifle but the apple pie is relatively harmless.”

Afterward he asked for the bill. Lydia offered half-heartedly to pay her share and was relieved when he wouldn’t let her. He pulled a handful of change from his trouser pocket. There was a solitary cufflink among the silver and coppers.

“Is that yours?” she asked.

“What? Oh-you mean the cufflink.” He counted out four shillings and sixpence and added a small tip. “No. A souvenir of last night.”

“Cinderella.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.” He helped her into her coat. “Find the other one, and perhaps I find one of the men who attacked me. Perhaps.”

“May I see it a moment?”

He fished it out of his trouser pocket and dropped it into the outstretched palm of her gloved hand. While she looked at it, he put on his own coat and hat.

“Ring any bells?” he said. “Looks like some sort of badge.”

“I’m surprised you don’t recognize it. That gold thing in the middle is a fasces. Or is it fascis? Anyway, it’s the symbol of the British Union of Fascists.”

He frowned. “So it is. That’s the problem with having been in India for five years. I’m not quite at home here anymore. I didn’t feel at home in India either. Odd, isn’t it? The British Union of Fascists didn’t even exist when I was last in London.” He gave a little laugh as if trying to suggest that what he had said was halfway to being a joke, though it clearly wasn’t. “What are you doing now?”

She wondered why he had avoided the obvious implication. “Going back to the flat.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

He held the door open for her. Lydia thought that she didn’t belong anywhere either. Bleeding Heart Square wasn’t home. But neither was Frogmore Place or Upper Mount Street, let alone those tumbledown mausoleums in the country that her stepfather and Marcus were so attached to. But there was no point in worrying about it. At least she knew what she wanted now. Virginia Woolf had been right all along. One needed a room of one’s own and a minimum of £500 a year. And something to do with one’s life.

As they were waiting for a gap in the traffic in Hatton Garden, Rory said casually, “Serridge isn’t involved with those Fascists, is he?”

So he had come to that conclusion after all. Lydia said, equally casually, “Not as far as I know.”

“You see, if the cufflink belonged to one of the toughs last night, it puts rather a different complexion on things.”

“Even if the man was wearing a BUF cufflink, it doesn’t necessarily mean you were attacked by Fascists. Anyway, someone else might have lost the cufflink.”

A baker’s van slowed to allow them to cross the road. Rory took Lydia’s arm and they jogged across to the opposite pavement.

“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.