"Not now. He came back."

"I see." Pamela smiled. "Anyway, I'm glad I'm here at last. It's been horrible without you."

Lydia turned aside to pick up yesterday's evening paper from the sofa. "Won't you sit down?"

Her sister fluttered onto the sofa, where she perched like an expensive bird. She opened her handbag and took out a cigarette case with a diamante clasp, rather dressy for a morning call.

"I'm afraid I can't offer you coffee," Lydia said. "Would you like tea instead?"

"Not for me, darling." She held out the cigarette case.

Lydia shook her head. "How did you get the address?"

"I asked Mother." Pamela lit a cigarette. "I do think you're a beast not to write."

"Sorry," Lydia said.

"Did you get my note with the invitation?"

Lydia nodded.

"I wish you'd sent me a postcard or something. Or rung me up. I've been worried about you. Why did you do a bunk?"

"Marcus and I haven't been getting on very well."

Pamela pursed her lips. "Are you sure it's not just one of those things that marriages go through? You know, one of those things they warn you about in the instruction manuals: for better or worse, richer or poorer, all that sort of thing."

Lydia shook her head.

"He's always been as nice as pie to me."

"You're not married to him, Pammy."

Her sister exhaled slowly, squinting at her through the smoke. "You've changed. I don't know, you're...You seem harder. I know it must be nice to see your father after all these years"-her tone suggested the opposite-"but it can't be much fun living like this. I mean, how do you manage with things like cooking and washing?"

"With difficulty," Lydia said. "Like most people, I suppose."

"Mother says you've got a job."

"I work in a solicitor's office."

"How amusing."

"I'm one down from the office boy. Part-time. Ten bob a day."

"But that's frightful. Do you actually need some money? It never occurred to me. But I've got-" She broke off and reached for her handbag.

"No," Lydia said. "Thank you, but no. It's very kind of you, but I'm managing very well."

Pamela subsided. She stubbed out her cigarette and leaned forward. "Actually, it was Mother who suggested I come and see you."

Lydia said warily, "What does she want you to do?"

"Just to see if you're all right. She is awfully upset, you know."

Lydia nodded. There had never been much wrong with Lady Ca.s.sington's intelligence. Their mother had calculated not only that Lydia might refuse to see her but that she would want to see Pammy; and also that, for Pammy's sake, Lydia would keep quiet about what she had seen on Sunday morning. That, of course, a.s.sumed that Lady Ca.s.sington had realized that Lydia had seen her in flagrante with Lydia's husband.

Marcus is being very patient. But he's a man, you know, and men have needs.

"Anyway," Pamela went on, "I must tell you my news. Rex Fisher has asked me to marry him."

"Mother thought he might. Are you pleased?"

"Of course I am. I mean, it's always nice to be asked."

"And what did you say?"

"I said I needed to think about it. And talk it over with Fin and Mother, of course. It doesn't do to seem too eager, you know."

Lydia thought that her sister had a point. She herself had worn her devotion to Marcus on her sleeve. When he had asked her to marry him, he hadn't even waited for her answer. He had taken it for granted she would say yes, and so had she and everyone else.

"But I will say yes, of course. I know he's dreadfully old. I looked him up-he'll be forty-one next birthday. On the other hand, he's very well preserved, apart from the slightly gammy leg, but that's just a war wound. All his own teeth, and he doesn't look silly in a bathing suit. And on the practical side there's the money and the t.i.tle. I know some people say the Fishers are trade, but that's all nonsense nowadays. It's only sn.o.bs who say that. n.o.body else cares." She took out another cigarette. "He gave me this case, actually. Isn't it pretty?"

"Charming. Is it silver and enamel?"

"Platinum, darling. Did you know that Rex's almost certainly going to stand for Parliament? I do like a man who does something, don't you? Fin says he'll probably end up in the Cabinet. I say, wouldn't it be fun if he and Marcus were in the House together? It's perfectly possible if Mosley decides to field a few candidates in the next election. They're just the sort of men he'd want. They won't frighten the left-wingers or spit in the Lobby. And above all they're not decrepit." She flashed a smile at Lydia. "Anyway, it's all the more reason for you to go back to Marcus, darling. Then we can be political wives together. We can start a salon and invite lions every Tuesday evening. Think what fun we can have."

She began to giggle, and Lydia found herself first smiling and then laughing.

"That's better," Pamela said. "You've been looking ever so solemn. And hardly any make-up, either."

"Do you love him?"

"Rex? I suppose so. I like him, and he makes me laugh. He makes me feel safe too. I'm sure everything else will come naturally after we're married."

"Wouldn't it be better if you were in love with him now?"

"As you were with Marcus?"

"That wasn't love. That was idolatry. And it's all over now."

Pamela stretched out her hand and took Lydia's. "Look, Lydia. I'm twenty-one. I've been out for years. The only people who've wanted to marry me have been quite unsuitable. Either they hadn't got a bean or they were perfectly loathsome. And now here's Rex. He may not be absolutely perfect but he's streets ahead of the compet.i.tion. The odds are, I'm not going to get a better offer. One has to face facts."

Lydia said nothing but she returned the pressure of her sister's hand.

"Incidentally, if you'd rather not b.u.mp into Marcus, I shouldn't go out this morning."

"Why? Is he outside?"

"No. Not exactly-and he's not coming here as far as I know. But he and Rex are visiting a BUF branch in Clerkenwell this morning. And Rex said they were going to call at Rosington Place because he needs to see someone who lives opposite where you work."

"Not many people live in Rosington Place. It's mainly offices now. Including mine."

"Well, that's what Rex said. They were calling on someone who lives there."

"Anyway, there isn't a house opposite our office. It's an old chapel."

"There we are then," Pamela said with another giggle. "I expect Rex and Marcus are calling on G.o.d."

14.

Tuesday, 11 March 1930 Men are such BRUTES. My hand trembles so badly I can hardly hold the pen. I am writing this by candlelight in our room at the Alforde Arms. Yes, OUR room. Joseph is in the bar downstairs talking to some men of the village. He didn't mean us to spend the night here. The plan was that we would come down to Morthams Farm for the day and make a list of what we needed to buy, and discuss what would have to be done to make the house ready for us to move in. The trouble began on the train from Liverpool Street. There was a young woman in the compartment-I really cannot call her a lady-wearing a great deal of lipstick, black satin high-heeled shoes, a vulgar little cloche hat and a very short skirt. She pretended to have trouble lifting her case onto the rack, and Joseph sprang to his feet and helped her. It was the way he did it. And the way she responded. I doubt if the horrid girl was more than eighteen-a mere child, which made it worse. During the journey he kept ogling her, and once or twice I noticed her looking at him in a very sly way. Then he asked if she would like to borrow his newspaper. Of course she did. Soon they were chatting away like old friends and completely ignoring me. I felt so mortified. We weren't alone in the carriage, either-there was a very nice elderly couple as well. I couldn't say anything in front of everyone so the only thing I could do was stay calm and stare out of the window and hope my agitation wasn't obvious to everyone. Fortunately, when we changed on to the branch line to Mavering, we were by ourselves again. Joseph was suddenly all courtesy and consideration. I said I'd noticed him making eyes at that girl and he denied it all and grew quite angry. I decided to let it go. Like all men, Joseph has something of the brute in him. He has his animal instincts. One can hardly blame him for that. So he was easy prey for a designing girl. It occurred to me that there was a simple solution to the problem. All I needed was a little courage. I waited until we had nearly finished at the farm-where Joseph could hardly have been more attentive to my little wants and needs. I said, as we were standing in what will be my drawing room, that I hadn't forgotten what I had said the other day after our visit to my brother John's. We were already married in spirit, I reminded him, and it was high time we were married He seized me in a great bear hug and covered my face in kisses. I could hardly breathe. He pointed out that everyone in Rawling already knew us as Mr. and Mrs. Serridge, so here would be the perfect place, and of course it would signify the beginning of our new life together, etc., etc. Obviously we couldn't stay at the farm, because nothing was ready, but he had noticed the village inn was a most respectable-looking establishment and a sign in the window there said that there were rooms to let. I was beginning to have second thoughts so I said there were things I needed to purchase, which was true. He swept away my objections, and later that afternoon we took a taxi into Saffron Walden so we could buy what we needed for the night. And then-and then-it all went horribly wrong. We dined at the inn-on dreadful, fatty mutton-and Joseph ordered a bottle of Burgundy, most of which he drank himself. We retired to bed early. It was not even nine o'clock. I'm sure the landlady suspected something. I cannot bear even to think of what happened next, let alone describe it. It was horrible. Dirty. Painful. Disgusting. We didn't even change into our nightclothes. He pushed me on the bed and ATTACKED me. The whole business can't have taken much more than a minute though it seemed to me that every second lasted an hour. I felt I was being smothered, though that was the least of my troubles. I had not expected him to be so rough. I had not expected it to hurt so much. Is this what it all means, what it all comes down to? At least, I thought while he was doing it to me, he will never leave me now. He will be mine for ever. When he had finished, however, there were no signs of tenderness. He just patted my shoulder and said I was a good girl. Then he got out of bed, pulled on his trousers and walked up and down smoking a cigarette. I turned away and pretended to sleep. After a while, I actually heard him relieve himself in the pot. Then he whispered loudly to me that he was going down for a nightcap. I didn't reply. So here I am, writing by the dying fire. I don't want to see anybody so I won't ring for more coals. They are still talking downstairs, and I think he's laughing at something. Laughing. I know it's a sin, dear Jesus, but sometimes I wish I were dead.

When you finish reading this entry, you want to forget it at once and forever. But instead you read it again. And again. That's what h.e.l.l means, perhaps, being compelled not just to live but to relive.

Rory might have ignored the smell for another day if it hadn't been for the letter, which was from the editor of a small-circulation trade magazine specializing in hosiery. Through the medium of his secretary, the editor regretted to inform Rory that the post of junior feature writer had just been filled by another candidate so his, Rory's, presence at an interview that afternoon would not after all be required. The editor regretted any inconvenience caused and wished Rory every success in his career.

Rory flung the letter in the waste-paper basket. Thursday now stretched in front of him, unattractively empty. He hadn't had much hope of being offered the job, but at least going for an interview for it would have given him something to do other than combing the Situations Vacant in the library.

Since he had nothing better to do, he decided to investigate the smell. This had been puzzling him for the last thirty-six hours, during which time it had been growing steadily stronger and more unpleasant. It did not take him long to trace it to a tin of Argentinian corned beef, opened at the weekend, half-eaten and subsequently forgotten in the cupboard of the chiffonier under the window. He wrapped the tin in yesterday's newspaper and stuffed it in the enamelled bucket used for kitchen rubbish. Leaving his windows wide open, he carried the bucket downstairs and into the little yard at the back of the house.

The sun never shone on this small rectangle of cracked and blackened flagstones, and probably never would. The yard smelled, and so did the contents of the dustbins that lined the walls. Tall buildings reared up on every side, and the inhabitants of all of them left their rubbish here. A narrow pa.s.sageway running between number seven and the house next door provided shared access to the square.

Rory opened the nearest of the bins. It was three-quarters full-plenty of room for the contents of the bucket. He was about to upend the pail into the dustbin when a name caught his eye.

He looked into the bin. Narton. The name was on a newspaper wrapped around some rubbish. At least a third of the bundle was saturated with moisture, and the paper was dark and disintegrating, revealing wet tea leaves, fragments of tobacco, a cigar b.u.t.t. When he tried to pick up the newspaper, the bundle fell apart completely. Fragments of newspaper came away in his hand. Rubbish spilled out. He glimpsed something underneath that made him cry out, something white and nightmarish.

Sanity took hold again. Yes, it was a skull, with the rakish horns of a goat. Rory lifted it gingerly from the bin. The horns were bleached and fissured like driftwood. Between them was a V-shaped ridge of bone, bisected vertically with an indentation like a frown. Much of the nose had collapsed, leaving a prow of sharp white spikes sheltering rolls of finer bone, perforated like lace. The eye sockets were vacant, seeing nothing, wanting nothing. He let the skull drop from his hand and back onto its bed of rubbish.

He pulled the remains of the newspaper from the dustbin. Narton's name had caught his eye in a stop-press item at the bottom of a page.

RAWLING MAN DIES On Monday evening, police were called to a house in Rawling following an unexpected fatality. The dead man is believed to be Herbert Narton, the house's owner.

Rory unfolded what was left of the newspaper on the flagstones. The masthead was still intact: The Mavering Advertiser & Weekly Herald. Serridge must have brought it back after his last visit to Rawling.

He sat back on his heels and whistled. Narton dead? It didn't seem possible. The poor devil had seemed well enough on Sat.u.r.day in that tea shop near the British Museum. He tore out the stop-press item and dumped the rest of the newspaper in the bin.

The poor b.l.o.o.d.y chap. He was sorry that Narton was dead, even though he hadn't much liked the man. It must have been very sudden. A heart attack, perhaps. What would happen now? Would one of Narton's colleagues get in touch?

It was then that the idea came into Rory's mind. He emptied the contents of his own pail into the bin and went back up to his flat. He smoked a cigarette and thought about the idea and its implications.

Why not? What else had he got to do?

By the time he reached the fork in the path, it was nearly lunchtime and Rory was growing hungry. Instead of turning right, as he had before, he turned left onto the path that would bring him more quickly to the village and the Alforde Arms. The fields on either side were three or four feet above the level of the path and bordered with lank hedgerows. After a few hundred yards, he glimpsed roofs through a gap in the right-hand hedge. He stopped to look. A field sloped gently up to a huddle of trees. On their right was a group of farm buildings. The chimneys of a house were visible above the trees.

Morthams Farm?

Movement caught his eyes. He was just in time to see a boy running along the hedge bordering the field. How long had the boy been there? Was someone watching the watcher?

Unsettled, Rory continued along the path and came eventually to a narrow road with large, muddy fields on either side. He turned right, in the direction of the village. Almost immediately he saw the cottage, which stood by itself in an overgrown garden; the gate from the road had fallen from its hinges and was lying on the verge, and the roof of a small lean-to building at the end had lost many of its slates. But a trickle of smoke rose from somewhere behind the house.

He paused by the gateway. Behind the strip of garden was a neglected orchard. A tall, gaunt woman was standing with her back to him among the trees, tending a bonfire. Despite the cold, she was wearing only a long, thin cotton dress with a faded floral print, covered with a stained ap.r.o.n.

"Good morning," he called.

For a moment he thought the woman hadn't heard him. He was about to repeat the greeting when she turned away from the fire. In her hand was a stick she had been using as a poker. She stared at Rory, who raised his hat.

"Good morning. I'm looking for Mrs. Narton."

"That's me." The voice was harsh and low like a man's.

"I knew Sergeant Narton. Am I right in thinking he was your husband?"

She nodded.

"I was so sorry to hear of your loss."

"He wasn't a sergeant, though."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He wasn't a sergeant," the woman repeated. "Not when he died."

"I don't understand."

"They took that away from him," Mrs. Narton said. "Three and a half years ago. That and everything else. Cheated him out of his pension too." Stick in hand, she advanced through the ruined garden toward Rory, the skirts of her dress trailing through the long, wet gra.s.s. "Them devils at headquarters as good as killed him. I'd like to see them hang, every man jack of them. I know it's a sin, but I would."

"But I thought he was in the police. Now, I mean. He said he was. That's why I've come. I was going to-"

"More fool you for believing him."

"Look, I'm terribly sorry about his death. How did it happen?"

She pointed the stick at the lean-to beside the cottage. "He was cleaning the shotgun." Her eyes focused on Rory's face.

"So it was an accident?"

The muscles around her mouth twitched. "What were you up to with him, mister?"

"Have you heard of a lady called Miss Penhow?"

"Of course I have. Mrs. Serridge. So-called."