19.

SHE'S ACTING like a prisoner now, isn't she? It's not just Serridge who's keeping her there, it's herself, her sense of shame-she's terrified that people will find out not just what a fool she's been but that she, Miss Philippa Penhow, has fornicated with a man who is not her husband.

Sunday, 13 April 1930 I am walking about the farm much more. I am trying to become hardier, and more used to walking on mud, etc. The country is such a very uncomfortable place. There are sometimes cows in the fields, and a horse tried to attack me the other day. Joseph said it was just being friendly. I wonder if I could walk as far as Mavering. I'm sure Joseph has been looking at Amy more than he should. I have heard them giggling together once. It is so DEMEAN IN G. I actually said something to him about it but he told me not to be a fool, and was really quite rude. Worst of all, Rebecca has handed in her notice. She said the farm is too lonely for her and she needs to be nearer her family. I think she senses that something is wrong here. I have found a safe place to keep my diary. I daren't leave it in the house. I'm sure Joseph is going through my things. Two of my rings have vanished. It might have been one of the maids but I think it's him.

And there's another reason why she stays: mad though it is, in some part of herself she's still hoping, against all the evidence, that there will be a happy ending.

Hunger is one of the most powerful arguments in the world. That was the main reason why Rory found himself walking up Doughty Street to Mecklenburgh Square at five to one. He had already spent his allowance for the week. Any sort of lunch would be better than none, and pride was a luxury reserved for those with full stomachs.

Number fifty-three was on the north side of the square, one of a terrace of tall, stately Georgian houses which had seen better days. Rory opened the gate in the railings, went down the area steps and knocked on the bas.e.m.e.nt door. It was opened by Julian Dawlish, who was holding a cigarette in one hand and a gla.s.s of whisky in the other.

"Glad you could come, Wentwood." He stood back to allow Rory into the house. "Fenella is hacking things up in the kitchen, and I'm in charge of liquid refreshment. It's going to be a sort of indoor picnic in the primitive style. Can't manage c.o.c.ktails yet but do you fancy a spot of whisky? There's gin if you prefer, and I think there's some beer somewhere."

"Thanks. Whisky, please."

Fenella appeared in a doorway at the end of the hallway. She was wearing a long ap.r.o.n stained with what looked like blood. "Rory, how lovely." She held up her cheek to be kissed. "I opened a tin of soup and it sort of exploded. Give him a drink, Julian, while I lay the table."

They were acting just like a b.l.o.o.d.y married couple already, Rory thought savagely, as he followed Julian Dawlish into a spa.r.s.ely furnished sitting room at the front of the house. Dawlish splashed whisky into another gla.s.s and handed it to Rory.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "What a hole. Help yourself to soda."

"Not at all," Rory said stiffly. He squirted soda into his gla.s.s. "Cheers."

"Cheerio." After they had drunk, Dawlish went on, "It will look very different once it's properly decorated and the curtains are up. Fenella is going to move some of her own stuff in. It will be very snug, I think." He snapped open his cigarette case and held it out. "Smoke?"

They lit cigarettes and sat down opposite each other on hard chairs. They both drank more whisky. Rory was nervous and he drank faster than usual. Before he knew what was happening, Dawlish had topped up his gla.s.s again.

"How's the job-hunting going?" Dawlish asked.

"So-so," he said, feeling a warm glow suffusing itself through his stomach.

"Do you do any freelancing?"

"I've not had much time to look into that. One needs the contacts, you see. And having been in India..."

"Yes, of course. And it's d.a.m.ned hard these days, I imagine, finding the openings. But would you be interested, in principle?"

The second whisky was rapidly joining the first. "I'd go for it like a shot."

"Because I might be able to put you on to something. If you're interested, that is." Dawlish smiled apologetically-he had to a fine art that knack of making it seem that you were doing him a favor by allowing him to do you a favor. "Pal of mine edits a magazine. A weekly. I know he's always looking for good stuff. Every time I see him he goes on about how hard it is to find reliable contributors."

"What's it called?"

"Berkeley's."

"I know it." Of course he knew of Berkeley's, a magazine that specialized in political a.n.a.lysis and cultural reviews. Lord Byron had probably read it. So had Gladstone. So did everyone who was anyone except for dyed-in-the-wool Tories, whose reading was confined to the Morning Post.

"Interested?" Dawlish said.

"Very much so. But I'm not sure what I can offer."

"Ah," Dawlish said. "I think you underestimate yourself. Look, it's easier if I put my cards on the table. This could do you a good turn, but it could do me a good turn too."

"I don't follow."

"I know the editor is interested in how the Fascists work in this country. Their recruiting, their propaganda and so on. As you know the magazine, you'll appreciate they're-well, let's say skeptical about Fascism and all its works. There's the meeting coming up in Rosington Place at the end of the week. Now that's interesting, because it shows that Mosley is trying to target the business community in particular. He's not a fool-he realizes he's not going to get anywhere without financial backers, without substantial support from the City-not just the big guns but the little fellows too. And a lot of his sponsors were put off by the violence in Earls Court in June. The iron fist was a little too obvious, if you follow me. So if you were to write a piece of say a thousand or fifteen hundred words about the meeting, showing how they're trying to recruit support, I think that could be interesting. And if there's anything I can do to help, just ask."

He leaned forward with the whisky bottle. Rory held out his gla.s.s.

"You're a.s.suming I would take a critical slant?"

Dawlish smiled. "I'm a.s.suming you'd report what you saw and heard in an accurate and interesting way. Fenella showed me some of your cuttings. She's got a sc.r.a.pbook, you know."

Rory tried to remember what he had sent her. There must have been the usual drivel he wrote for the South Madras Times-pieces on receptions and cricket matches, court cases and anecdotes. Samples of the jobbing work of a provincial journalist.

"What particularly interested me were the ones on the Congress Party. There was one on the consequences of the Gandhi-Irwin Pact, I remember, and another on Gandhi's work with the untouchables. It's a shame there weren't more like that."

"They didn't go down well with all our readers," Rory said. "Nor with the editor. I only got some of the pieces through because he was on leave. But they weren't political in stance. I was only reporting what was actually happening."

"I don't think Berkeley's would mind that sort of reporting. In fact I think they'd rather like it. It's a fresh eye, the outsider's perspective. Have you got a typewriter, by the way?"

"Yes, of course."

There were footsteps outside. "Lunch is served," Fenella said. "Bring your gla.s.ses."

Fear smothered her like black treacle, making it hard to breathe and impossible to think. She tried the door again. It wouldn't move. She ran to the window and peered through a gap between the planks. All she could see were dying nettles and a stretch of ragged hedgerow. She opened her mouth to call for help and then closed it.

There were two possibilities: either a sudden gust of wind had improbably blown the door shut and somehow wedged it, or somebody had closed it deliberately with the intention of making her a prisoner. If she called out, the only person likely to hear would be her captor-a.s.suming there was a captor.

Lydia had been standing with her back to the doorway looking at the cigar box. n.o.body could have closed the door without seeing her inside. Why shut her in? She tried to think it through but there was not an obvious answer.

Sooner or later, she told herself firmly, she would be missed. She had been seen in the village. She had little doubt that Mrs. Alforde would organize a search party, and little doubt that Mrs. Alforde would find her. It was tiresome-not least because it was growing colder-but surely nothing to worry about.

In the depths of her mind, however, more malign possibilities were stirring. A mother and baby had died in this nasty little barn. It was a place that aroused strong emotions. As the minutes pa.s.sed, she found it harder and harder to be entirely rational. The light was fading, and she thought she heard rustlings in the straw and saw minute movements on the very edge of her range of vision.

And were there rats too?

"Help! Is there anyone there? Help!" She waited by the window, and then tried again, crying out the same words that were flat and useless because there was n.o.body to hear them.

Lydia's throat was growing sore. There were half a dozen smoke-blackened bricks in one corner of the barn, perhaps a makeshift hearth for a tramp or even Amy Narton. She lifted one of them. Holding it in both hands, she banged it against the planks of the door. And again, and again, and again. The door didn't budge and showed only the smallest indentations under the rain of blows.

The rough surface of the brick was chafing her hands. She put on her gloves again and kept hammering as rapidly as she could. The brick grew heavier, her arms more tired and her hands more painful. Each time she hit the wood, she gasped; and she had the strange, uncomfortable thought that Amy Narton must have made similar rhythmic sounds in the last desperate hours of her short life.

Finally, her strength gave out. She took a step back and dropped the brick, which fell with a dull thud to the earth floor. Her arms were trembling. The blood pounded in her veins and her throat was dry. She was slightly deaf. The brick had ruined the gloves, in places cutting through the kid leather and digging into her skin beneath. She held up her hands to the light from the window. There were smears of grime and blood on the pale leather. At least she was warmer. She would rest her arms for five minutes, she decided, and then try again.

It was then that she heard somebody rattling the door. The emotion that surged through her was panic, not relief-suppose it was her captor coming back? She bent down and seized the brick. Light flooded into the barn, making her blink. It must be earlier in the afternoon than she had thought. The doorway was almost filled by a large, bear-like silhouette.

She raised the brick. "You? It was you?"

There was a deep chuckle. "Mrs. Langstone," Joseph Serridge said. "I don't think you'll be needing that."

She lowered the brick. For the first time she sensed the nature of the man's charm, a blind force like magnetism or a seismic tremor. Except it wasn't really charm but a sort of hypnotic spell, an impression of overwhelming power. For the first time she also understood what had happened to Miss Penhow and Amy Narton.

"Thank you. I wasn't quite sure-"

"What happened?" Serridge said, his voice hardening. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Lydia dropped the brick on the pile in the corner. "I am now, at any rate."

"What's been going on?" Serridge advanced into the barn, forcing her to step back. He glanced around quickly. "You're the last person I expected to see." He swung round and towered over her. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for a walk," Lydia said sharply, feeling rattled. "I knew the farm my father used to own was over this way, and I thought I'd have a look at it. He told me he sold Morthams Farm to you."

"But what are you doing in Rawling? You didn't come all this way just to look at Morthams."

"No, of course not," Lydia snapped. "I came with Mrs. Alforde."

"I didn't realize you knew her."

"Colonel Alforde is my G.o.dfather," Lydia said.

"The devil he is. Well, I'm d.a.m.ned." Serridge began to smile, but then his face changed again. "So why is Mrs. Alforde here today, and why has she brought you?"

"Look here, Mr. Serridge, I know I'm probably trespa.s.sing, and I apologize for that. But I don't see why you should interrogate me like this. I'm having a day out of London with Mrs. Alforde. We've just had lunch with the Vicar."

"Oh, I see. Narton's funeral, I suppose. Mrs. Narton's an old servant, isn't she, and her dad worked on the estate."

"And now I'd better be getting back to the Vicarage," Lydia said, moving toward the door. "Mrs. Alforde and Mr. Gladwyn will be wondering where I am."

"Of course. But somebody shut you in. Who?"

Lydia was outside now. On the ground was a length of iron piping about five feet long.

"I don't like people going in here," Serridge said. "The structure's unsafe. I'm going to have it pulled down. It's not used for anything now."

Lydia pointed at the pipe. "Is that what was keeping the door shut?"

He nodded. "It had been wedged against it. Used to be the down-pipe from the guttering on the corner."

A long, rounded indentation marked where the pipe had lain, imprinting its outline on the smooth, clay-streaked mud beneath. Lydia noticed a small footprint at one end.

"You didn't see anyone?" Serridge asked. "Hear anyone?"

Lydia turned back to him, smudging the footprint with the heel of her own shoe as she did so. "No, I had my back to the door. There was an almighty bang. Somebody's idea of a practical joke, I suppose."

Serridge scowled, his face a dark red. "If I catch whoever did it, they'll be sorry. I promise you that, Mrs. Langstone. Now, do you want to come up to the farm? I've got the car up there-I can run you back to the Vicarage."

"Thank you, but no. They'll probably be worrying about me. It won't take me ten minutes to get back."

He hesitated, and she thought he would try to persuade her to come to Morthams Farm with him. She didn't want to go, for reasons she could only half acknowledge.

"All right. I'll walk you back to the road."

Lydia tried to protest that there was no need but he insisted. Serridge made her walk on the tussocky but relatively firm ground beside the hedge while he lumbered through the raw, recently ploughed earth of the field itself. At last they came to the gate. On the other side lay the lane, with the lights of the Vicarage already glimmering a hundred yards away.

Serridge paused, with his hand on the iron latch. "You'll be making plans soon, I reckon."

"What do you mean?"

"About what you do with your life."

Lydia looked coldly at him and said with all the haughtiness she could muster, "I'm afraid Mrs. Alforde will be getting worried, Mr. Serridge. I wonder if you could open the gate?"

He looked down at her, his forehead corrugated with lines, his heavy brows huddled together. He looked so woebegone that for a second she almost felt sorry for him. Then it struck her that it was almost as if he knew about the divorce, or at least that a longer separation was likely. Had her father told him? But even her father didn't yet know about her conversations with Mr. Shires.

Serridge unhooked the gate and pulled it open, standing aside to allow her through. "I'll say good afternoon, Mrs. Langstone." He touched the brim of his hat with a forefinger. "Mind how you go."

Rory was still a little drunk by the time he returned to Bleeding Heart Square. He wasn't so far gone that he was incapacitated, either mentally or physically, but he was saturated with the fuzzy self-confidence that whisky brings, and as yet had little trace of the hangover that might follow. It wasn't just the whisky that was affecting him. It was also the possibility of work, real work. A connection with a magazine like Berkeley's could make all the difference. It might even be possible, using that as a springboard, eventually to make a living as a freelance, which was his real ambition. At this moment even Julian Dawlish seemed not such a bad fellow. After all, the chap could hardly be blamed for falling in love with Fenella, if that was in fact what had happened. They had arranged to meet on Friday evening to confirm the details for Sat.u.r.day.

At the corner, Rory paused. There were people drinking in the Crozier. He heard a loud yapping at knee level and looked down. Nipper had been attached to the old pump with a piece of string. Howlett was visible through the window of the lounge bar, and his top hat was resting on the window ledge.

Rory bent down and scratched Nipper behind the ears, which seemed to please him. He rubbed the dog's neck, pushing his fingers under the collar. It was rather a handsome collar, or at least it had been, with a tarnished bra.s.s buckle and little bra.s.s stars set into the strap. There were footsteps behind him. He gave the dog a last pat and straightened up. Mrs. Renton, laden with a shopping basket, was coming up the alley from Charleston Street.

"Good afternoon," Rory said, cheerfully. "Let me carry that."

"Thank you." She held out the basket and he took it from her.

Nipper strained toward her, his tail wagging and his yapping intensifying.

"Oh stop it, do," Mrs. Renton said and backed away from him. She made a semicircular detour around the pump, keeping her distance. "Nasty thing."

"He's all right," Rory said. "I think he's pretty harmless, really."

Mrs. Renton shook her head. "I can't abide dogs. You can't trust them, not really. They'll go with anyone who feeds them."

She set off toward the house. Nipper backed away, squatted, and scratched vigorously behind his left ear with a hind leg. Fleas, probably, Rory thought. Behind him there was the ring of a bicycle bell and one of the mechanics at the workshop at the end of the square cycled past. It was the conjunction of those two factors, the bicycle and the dog scratching its ear, that collided with a third item that was lying like an unexploded bomb in his memory.

Mrs. Renton was unlocking the door of the house. "Are you coming, Mr. Wentwood?" she called. "I haven't got all day, you know."

"Oh dear. Oh dear me. A fall? How very unfortunate."

Lydia stripped off her ruined gloves. "No bones broken. It was all my fault. Luckily Mr. Serridge came to my rescue."

Cheerfulness broke like sunshine across Mr. Gladwyn's round, red face. "Serridge-yes. One of nature's gentlemen. Rebecca, take Mrs. Langstone upstairs and see what you can do to help."

Lydia held up her arms as Rebecca helped her out of her coat. "Is Mrs. Alforde back?"