Ten minutes later, Lydia was alone with her father. He lay on his back, snoring loudly. She hung up his overcoat and jacket, removed his shoes and covered him with two blankets.

When she had finished, she stared down at him on the single bed beneath the unshaded bulb dangling from the ceiling. He looked very peaceful. If he had been awake and reasonably sober, she would have had to sit down with him and demand an explanation for what she had found in the box. She would have had to argue with him, cajole him, upbraid him and condemn him. Instead she inserted the wooden trees into his shoes-he was particular about maintaining their shape-and slipped them under the bed. Her father's snoring stopped. She looked down at him and saw that his eyes were open. He smiled sweetly at her, and she knew she was smiling back.

"Thank you, my dear," he said.

The eyelids slipped over the eyes like blinds over a window. He began to snore again.

His watch had stopped. But Rory knew it must be later than he had thought. The windows of the house were in darkness. There were still lights downstairs at the Crozier, although the outer door that led to the bars was closed for the night. He paused on the corner by the pump, turning his head to and fro, looking for movement in the shadows and listening for sounds. He was always cautious now when coming back to the square after dark.

Dawlish had taken him to the American Bar at the Savoy, where they had shared a bottle of champagne with a third man who had turned out to be a regular columnist on Berkeley's. A decent chap, Dawlish-the better he knew him, the more obvious that was. It made everything more complicated.

Rory walked slowly across the cobbles and let himself into the house. From somewhere above his head came the rhythmic drone of Captain Ingleby-Lewis's snores. He followed the stairs to his own flat. He ought to be feeling tired but he was still wide awake, buoyed up by the excitement of the day and the fact that he now had at least the possibility of a future. Before he went to bed, he would have another go at the shorthand. He pushed the Yale into his door and let himself into the flat. Just as his hand touched the sitting-room switch, he registered the fact that there was an unexpected smell in the air.

The tang of spirits.

He brushed his hand down the switch and the room filled with the harsh glare of electric light. The first thing he saw was Joseph Serridge sitting in his armchair.

"Look here," he said, stumbling over the words, "what are you doing in my flat?"

"That's a question I want to ask you, young man."

Rory glanced around the room. His books were askew. One of the drawers in the chest was half open. His writing case was on the table. Even the cover was off the typewriter.

Serridge felt in his jacket pocket and produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the cap and drank. All the while his eyes remained on Rory's face. He capped the flask and stowed it away.

"What's your dirty little game, Wentwood?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Of course you do. You're a reporter."

"Yes. I'm not working, though-as you know I'm looking for a job."

"b.a.l.l.s. Absolute b.a.l.l.s."

"But it's not," Rory said feebly.

"Listen, Wentwood-if that's your real name-you wormed yourself into this house. You-"

"I needed somewhere to live," Rory put in. "I'm paying you rent. It's as simple as that. And I wish you'd leave now."

Serridge glared up at him. "And you've been to Rawling. Not once but twice."

"Who told you that?"

"I'm asking the questions. Who are you working for?"

"No one."

"That's not what I've heard. A little bird told me that you went down to Rawling on behalf of a third party."

It couldn't have been Narton, Rory thought feverishly, because he was dead. Mrs. Narton? Rebecca? No, it must have been Gladwyn. According to Lydia, Serridge had been in Rawling yesterday. If the Vicar had come across him, he might well have mentioned Rory's visits.

"So are you doing it for love or money?" Serridge went on. "Or both?"

Rory did not reply.

"Not Fenella Kensley, by any chance?"

Rory sighed. "You know it is. You've been through my papers. May we stop playing games?"

"Me?" Serridge pantomimed surprise. "I don't think I'm playing games. I'm not the one who's been going around under false pretenses and telling lies and making nasty accusations and insinuations."

"All I was trying to establish on behalf of Miss Kensley was where Miss Penhow is. Nothing more, nothing less."

"So you're not a journalist? Instead you're a spy?"

"It's a private matter. It's perfectly reasonable for Miss Kensley to want to know where her aunt is."

Serridge stood up. "I don't know anything about that. All you need to know is I want you out of this flat and out of this house. And I don't want you trying to talk to any of the other lodgers. For instance I don't want to see you pestering Mrs. Langstone any more. Got it? Just leave her alone or you really will regret it."

"You can't really expect me to-"

"Let's say first thing Monday morning, shall we?"

Serridge stretched out his arm and touched the top of a large gold-rimmed vase standing on the mantelpiece. He moved his finger an inch. The vase toppled over, falling to the tiled hearth. It shattered into a dozen fragments.

"Dear me, Mr. Wentwood," Serridge went on in the same level, almost monotonous tone. "Look what you've done. That was one of my mother's favorites too. Rather valuable. I'm afraid I shan't be able to return your deposit. And of course, as you're leaving without notice, that means you forfeit your month's rent in advance. Oh dear, dear."

Rory stared across the table and said nothing. Serridge stared back. He was standing directly under the electric light and the little bald patch on the back of his head gleamed pinkly.

"And a word of advice, young man: that girl of yours is clearly a bit of a nutter. If I were you I'd steer well clear of Miss Kensley. Because what's all the fuss about? Her auntie's in America. Everyone knows that. And remember what I said about Mrs. Langstone."

Serridge left the room. He closed the door gently behind him, which was worse than if he had slammed it. Rory listened to the heavy footsteps descending the stairs. His legs began to tremble. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He rested his head in his hands.

Nothing had happened, he told himself, only a broken vase and a few threats. The bad news was that he would have to find somewhere else to live, but that wasn't the end of the world. What was worse was the fact that Serridge had made the connection between him and Fenella. But there was no need to panic, he told himself-the thing to do was to concentrate on tomorrow. He mustn't allow this business with Serridge to distract him from the Berkeley's article.

He pulled his notebook toward him and flipped through the last few pages until he found the few lines of shorthand he had managed to write this evening. He stared at the dense ma.s.s of gray squiggles. For all the sense they made, they might have been written in ancient Sanskrit or they might be a ma.s.s of microscopic animals under a biologist's microscope.

There was another odd thing, Rory thought-the way Serridge warned him away from Lydia. What did that suggest? That he had lined up Lydia as his next victim?

Rory's eyes traveled from the notebook to the typewriter. Its case was open. He distinctly remembered closing it before he went. He pulled the machine toward him. The light glinted strangely on the bars in the type basket. At least half a dozen of them had been pulled up and bent to one side or the other, so they looked like greasy spikes of hair after a man has scratched his head. He touched a key at random. Nothing happened. The machine was unusable. So how in h.e.l.l's name was he going to type his piece for Berkeley's?

He stared at the twisted bars of metal, and suddenly understood what they represented. Serridge was a man without boundaries. What he did to a machine he would do to a person.

22.

YOU HOLD the diary up to your face. Is it your imagination or does it still smell faintly of his cigars? The smell clings to everything. It reminds you of Joseph Serridge, that and the smell of brandy.

Sat.u.r.day, 19 April 1930 If only dear Jacko could talk. Every morning after breakfast, Joseph lights his first cigar of the day and goes out for what he calls his const.i.tutional. Rain or shine, he takes Jacko for a walk down to the road. Usually the postman has been by then so he collects the letters from the box at the end of the drive and walks back. What worries me is that the letters are almost always for him. Once or twice there's been a circular or something of that nature for me but nothing from the bank manager in reply to my letter last week and nothing from John. Nothing even from Miss Beale, who I know for a fact makes a point of replying to her letters on the very day she receives them. I never thought I would feel nostalgic for the dear old Rushmere but I do. I'm sure he's got somebody else-he goes up to London so often and when he comes back, he won't even look at me. He always sleeps downstairs now. Rebecca leaves today. Oh G.o.d. Please G.o.d, dear G.o.d, help me. Help me to know what to do.

That's why you smell the diary-to remind you of why you hate the smell of cigars, the smell of fear.

Unfortunately Lydia was working at Shires and Trimble on Sat.u.r.day morning. She would have to be particularly careful not to b.u.mp into Marcus or Rex Fisher on her way to and from the office.

As she was crossing the square, she heard the door opening again behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Rory was walking rapidly toward her. He was unshaven and his hair was tousled. He wasn't even wearing a coat.

"I'm glad I caught you," he said, breathing hard as though he had been running. "Something happened last night."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. At present, anyway. When I got back yesterday evening, I found Serridge waiting in my flat. Just sitting there with the lights off. He knows why I came here."

"About Fenella?" Lydia felt the familiar twist of an emotion that couldn't possibly be jealousy.

"Gladwyn must have told him about my going to Rawling. I've got my marching orders. I have to be out by Monday."

"Where will you go?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Surely he has to give you more notice?"

"He's keeping my deposit, too." Rory swallowed. The cold had made the tip of his nose quite pink. "He-he broke a vase too-deliberately, I mean."

"He's trying to intimidate you."

"He's succeeded. The worst thing is, he wrecked my typewriter-bent the keys-which means I'm not going to be able to type up that piece about the meeting." Rory ran his fingers through his hair. "Still, that's my problem."

"You can't let him get away with that."

"I don't have much choice." He smiled at her. "I don't suppose you've a spare typewriter tucked away, have you? And there was something else-something that affected you. As a sort of Parthian shot, he said he didn't want me pestering you any more. Or else I really would regret it."

"He has absolutely no right to say that sort of thing."

"I don't think right had anything to do with it. Anyway, I hope I-" He broke off and glanced up at the blank windows of the house. "I'll let you get on. We'll talk about it later." He raised a hand in farewell and walked away.

Lydia watched him for a moment. "Rory?" He turned. "If I don't see you beforehand, good luck at the meeting."

"Thanks." A smile spread over his long, sad face. "Thanks, Lydia."

There was the usual Sat.u.r.day atmosphere of subdued merriment at Shires and Trimble. Mr. Reynolds confided in Mr. Smethwick that he was greatly looking forward to a concert on the wireless in the evening. Mr. Smethwick reciprocated with the information that he had tickets for that new show at the Palladium. Miss Tuffley was going to the pictures as usual and then going to stay overnight with her married sister in Croydon. Everybody, it seemed, had plans except Lydia.

At a quarter to ten, Mr. Shires came in, shaking drops of water from his umbrella and complaining about the weather. "Reynolds," he said as he hung up his hat and his dripping raincoat, "I shall leave at midday today. I don't want to get caught up in the fuss over the road."

"The Fascists, sir?" Reynolds inquired.

"Yes-I dare say there'll be a lot of people milling around beforehand."

"Would you object if I go to the meeting, sir?"

"Not at all. You must tell me what that chap Fisher says." Shires fumbled in his trousers for his keys. "All I know is that whoever is in power there'll always be a need for lawyers. Good news for us, eh, Reynolds?"

"Yes, sir."

"I thought I might pop along too, sir," Smethwick said. "There's free tea and sandwiches."

"Good, good. Can't look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?" Shires bustled over to his door. "When Mr. Reynolds can spare you, Mrs. Langstone, I'd like a word, please."

Five minutes later, Lydia went into the private office. She found Mr. Shires reading The Times. He nodded to her to close the door.

"Well? Have you got Mr. Langstone's address for me?"

She gave him an envelope containing the note she had written last night. "He's staying at his club, I gather. I put that address first. Then there's the London house underneath and also Longhope, though I doubt he'll be going down to the country for a few weeks. Lord Ca.s.sington's solicitors are Rowsell, Kew and Whiston of Lincoln's Inn. I can't remember the name of the firm the Langstones use but I'll find out."

"They're in London?"

Lydia nodded. "By the way, he'll probably be at the meeting over the road."

"Mixed up with the Fascists, is he?" Shires leaned back in his chair and tapped his teeth with his propelling pencil. "Then I a.s.sume you're not going?"

"No."

"Good. I shouldn't advise it. The less contact you have with your husband the better. All in all, it might be wise if you were to leave with me. I'll find an errand for you." He paused for a moment and in that instant transferred her from one category of human being to another, from client to employee. "That will be all, Mrs. Langstone."

Shortly after ten o'clock, a black van with a loudspeaker mounted on the roof drove slowly up Rosington Place. "Come and meet Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union's Deputy Director of Economic Policy, at one o'clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Find out what British Fascism offers the British businessman. Join us for a cup of tea or coffee and a sandwich. G.o.d save the King!"

At the end of Rosington Place, the van made a three-point turn at the gates and drove slowly back down to the lodge, repeating its message. It spent the morning driving around the vicinity, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, the announcer's voice growing hoa.r.s.er and hoa.r.s.er. Mr. Reynolds went down to the bank on the corner of Rosington Place and returned with the news that the van's route included Clerkenwell, Farringdon Road, Holborn and beyond. He rubbed his hands together in a rare show of excitement. "They must be expecting quite a turnout."

Sitting by the window, Lydia and Miss Tuffley could hardly avoid noticing the activity outside the chapel. There was a disconcertingly domestic air about the proceedings. A plain van arrived. Lydia watched two young women, younger than Miss Tuffley, carrying plates of sandwiches into the cloister at the side of the chapel and flirting with the driver. Two men wheeled out a trolley laden with cups and saucers, but this had to be abandoned because of all the steps. The van with the loudspeaker drove up and down again with a slightly modified message. "The British economy should be for the British people. Your work deserves its reward. Let the British Union show the way at one o'clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Free coffee, tea and sandwiches."

"Ooh," said Miss Tuffley. "There they are again. You know, the gents that came to see Father Bertram. You must come and watch. The younger one's in uniform now."

Lydia stood to one side of the window so she could see but not be seen. Fisher's big car had pulled up behind the van. Marcus was on the pavement; his black tunic and peaked cap made him look like a Ruritanian policeman. He was talking to Rex Fisher, who was dressed in a dark suit. A larger van, this one painted black, drew up behind the car. More Blackshirts emerged in an orderly file from the back.

"Why are only some in uniform?" Miss Tuffley asked. "They look much smarter than the chaps in civvies."

"The ones from the van are the Blackshirt Defense Corps," Lydia said.

"So that nice one who was here the other day, the one talking with the other gent, he's their sort of captain, is he?"

"I shouldn't be at all surprised."