"He looks worse than you do. He's got an eyepatch like a pirate. You won't have any more problems with him, by the way."

"What will you do afterwards?"

"After the divorce? Look for somewhere of my own, I suppose, and a job."

"Dawlish mentioned this morning that he plans to let out part of the rest of the house. I-I happened to say you might be interested in a flat." He hesitated, aware he was moving into unfamiliar territory. "I hope that's all right."

Her expression was unreadable. "And Miss Kensley?"

He shook his head. "It seems that she's changed her mind."

"About the flat?"

"And the job."

She said very quietly, "You might not want me there."

"Why ever not?"

One of the Blue Dahlia's browbeaten minions arrived to collect their plates.

"Anyway, it's nothing to do with me what Dawlish decides." Rory studied Lydia's face. "I think, between ourselves, he was rather keen on Fenella."

"That had occurred to me too."

"It's strange," he said. "I thought she liked him. She-she seems to be very volatile these days. One never knows quite how she'll react. She used not to be like that, you know."

Lydia smiled. "You make it sound as if the problem is Fenella. It may just be that she doesn't like Mr. Dawlish, or not in that way. After all, there's no reason why she should."

He had an unsettling sensation that she saw the outline of a possibility he did not see. "Lydia-" he began, and put his hand on the table.

"One plum crumble with custard," said the minion, lowering a bowl with a clatter onto the table. "One apple tart, no custard."

When they were alone again, Lydia said, "I need to tell you something. You may not want to be under the same roof as me."

The possibilities chased through his mind: an old flame of Lydia's, emerging like Miss Penhow's fabled sailor from the past; or a desire to tell him that he, Rory, had served his purpose and was now surplus to requirements; or perhaps she was dying of an incurable disease or about to leave for several years on a cruise around the world; or- "Last night," she said, "the reason that I was so upset was that I went to see Mrs. Narton. She told me something that I didn't want to hear, and my mother confirmed it this morning." She stared at her hands, palms down on either side of the apple tart, no custard; just like Mrs. Narton's, palms down on either side of her Bible. "William Ingleby-Lewis isn't my father: Serridge is."

He stared across the table at her bowed head. "Oh d.a.m.n."

She didn't move. "I'm sure," she muttered doggedly. "There's no possible doubt."

He reached out and laid his right hand over her left hand, and his forefinger touched the wedding band that Marcus had given her. "It really doesn't matter," he said. "Now, would you like me to have a word with Dawlish about this flat?"

"But of course it matters. Especially if Serridge is a murderer as well as everything else."

"I don't agree. We're not our parents. If Serridge really is your father, he's nothing more than a biological accident. You can choose your own father. You can choose whoever you want. Or you can do without a father altogether."

"Something wrong with that tart?" asked the manageress, looming menacingly behind Rory.

"Not at all." Lydia obediently took up her spoon and fork. "It looks lovely."

The manageress watched her chew and swallow a mouthful. She shuffled away.

"See?" Rory said. "You're practically a daughter to her now. Next time we come here, she'll probably take the food off my plate and insist on feeding it to you."

He watched the smile breaking slowly over her face. While they ate their pudding, he told her about his hopes that the Berkeley's article would lead to others. Afterward she insisted on paying the bill.

Outside, he took her arm and slipped it through his. They walked back to Bleeding Heart Square together for the last time. In Charleston Street Serridge drove past in his car but he appeared not to notice them.

As they turned into the square, they saw Captain Ingleby-Lewis in front of them. He had just left the Crozier. There was a roll to his gait, as though the cobbles, puddles and cracked paving slabs were swaying this way and that on the swell of a mighty ocean. He paused by the pump, holding on to the handle to restore his balance. He heard their footsteps behind him and turned his head.

"Ah-h.e.l.lo, my dear." He looked first pleased to see Lydia, and then guilty; his memory was slower to respond than his emotions.

"h.e.l.lo, Father," Lydia said, leaving her arm in Rory's. "I've come to say goodbye."

26.

YOU MUST COME to a decision about the diary. It's a dangerous thing to keep. Besides, you have read it so many times that you know what it says: you can recite pa.s.sages from memory. You are disposing of so much else, so why not this as well?

But something stops you. The diary will stay the same. You can't rely on memory to do that. Memory is a process, not something finished, complete in itself.

That is why you keep the diary. That is also why you must destroy it.

You hear the doorbell and it pulls you from a remote corner of your mind where you float between past and future. Only the standard lamp is alight, and the fire has died. The drawing room is insubstantial, full of shadows. It no longer feels like a room you have known all your life. The shabby furniture has lost its meaning, and so have the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls. The room might just as well be a shop selling second-hand household effects.

You go into the hall and pick your way through the rubbish, your father's, your mother's and your own. You know who it will be and you do not want to have to deal with the questions. You have had enough of all this. You open the door and the shock of what you see hits you like a gust of wind. It's not Rory after all. It's not even poor Julian.

"Fenella," Joseph Serridge says. "Aren't you going to ask me in?"

"No," you say, and your voice is cold and perfectly steady.

His body almost fills the doorway, blocking out the night. He is the shadow who buys what you are and pays you with a dream that rots into nightmare.

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?" he asks, with a ghost of a chuckle in his voice. "Looks like you're running a junk shop."

You hold the door to steady yourself, to keep the shadow out.

"Suit yourself," Serridge says. "We can talk on the doorstep if you want your neighbors to hear. It was you, wasn't it? Go on-admit it."

Oh it was you, all right; you never hid that from yourself. Philippa Penhow came into the barn and saw Joseph Serridge lying back on the straw and you riding on top of him with your skirt up around your armpits. His arms were clamped on your shoulders, holding you down.

Philippa Penhow couldn't have seen your face, not then, not from the doorway, but she said, "It's you, Fenella, isn't it? Oh, how could you?"

"It's you sending me all that rubbish," Joseph Serridge says. "Why now? Christ, it was years ago. What's the point?"

You tell him the truth. "Because Mother died."

"You told her?"

You shake your head. Because you loved Mother. Because she loved you.

Serridge stares down at you and forms his fleshy, hair-fringed lips into a silent whistle. "You're cracked, my girl. You know that?"

"I'm what you made me."

"You knew what you were doing. You wanted it-go on, admit it. You were all over me, remember? Begging me. That's why you wired that day, that's why you came."

Oh, you remember. What you remember most of all is the absence of choice. The devil made you want him.

"All those hearts-it's like something out of a b.l.o.o.d.y fairy tale. What are you trying to do? Feed me up or something?"

You do not reply. You want to remind him what he's done, what he's made you do.

"And then that skull-you should get your head examined, my girl."

This jolts an answer out of you: "I didn't send you a skull."

"Someone did." He lunges toward you as if about to envelop you in a bear hug. You force yourself not to step back into the house. He looks down into your face and you stare back at him. The hall light shows the reddening nose and the broken veins.

"I saved your life," he says. "Remember what would have happened if I'd told them the truth. Even if they hadn't hanged you, they'd have locked you up and thrown away the key."

The truth is that you didn't mean to do it. The truth is that you were trying to save Joseph Serridge. The truth is never enough.

Philippa Penhow no longer looks like herself. Eyes and mouth gaping, arms outstretched, she drops her handbag and rushes into the barn. You scream and topple away from Joseph Serridge. He swears at Philippa Penhow, but the strangest thing of all is that he's smiling. He is enjoying this: the two women fighting over him.

Philippa Penhow has picked up a brick from the corner of the barn. She isn't fighting you: she's trying to hit Joseph Serridge with it. You didn't think she could be so strong. He's not smiling anymore. He's writhing, this way and that, enc.u.mbered by the trousers round his knees and the folds of his overcoat. She swings the brick at his face, misses, and hits his shoulder instead. He yelps with pain. She raises the brick again, in both hands. She is standing on a fold of the overcoat and her weight pins down one of his arms and prevents him from rolling away. He tries to raise the other arm to shield himself but he will be too late.

One small woman, one big man.

You throw yourself forward, knocking Philippa Penhow off balance. Her hat falls off. You struggle with her for the brick. She is stronger than she looks, stronger than she should be. You bite down on her hand and she cries out. You wrest the brick from her and raise it in your hands. She is reaching for another brick. You smash your own against the side of her head, into the wispy hair just above the ear. A corner of the brick bites into her, flinging her down onto the pile, onto another brick. You hit her again. The bricks squeeze her head like a pair of nutcrackers squeezes a walnut.

You do it to save Joseph Serridge. You do it for him.

"I saved you," he repeats. "I dealt with everything. Ever since then I've had people whispering about me behind my back." He grins at you, delighted with his own wit. "I did it all for you."

"I hate you," you say.

His smile broadens. "It's over. Live and let live, eh?"

"Where is she?"

"None of your business. By the way, why the devil didn't you leave the handbag at Waterloo? That was the plan. Then people would have thought she'd caught a train somewhere. It would have helped."

"I burned it on the range instead."

"Was her diary in it? I forgot it had a side pocket. There's just a chance it was in there. Did you look?"

"No."

For the first time he looks worried, as well he should. Because anyone who reads the diary will know who was really responsible for Philippa Penhow's death. Joseph Serridge kills without lifting a hand.

"I've looked everywhere at the farm for it." He stares at you and then shrugs. "You're sure you burned the handbag?"

You nod.

"Then there's nothing more to say. It's over, understand? No more little surprises in the post or anywhere else. If I were you I'd marry that young man of yours and go as far from London as you can."

"I don't want to marry anyone," you say. "Ever."

He shrugs again and walks away without saying goodbye. Glancing down, you see that your foot has nudged the brown canvas bag holding your father's upholstery tools. You stoop and take out the long needle, eighteen inches of steel with a champagne cork at either end for safety. Daddy never used it. You remove one of the corks.

You follow Joseph Serridge down the path. He is already climbing into his car. He hears the sound of the latch on the gate behind him and turns, half in and half out of the car.

"What is it?"

You bring the needle up in an underarm blow that catches him under the ribs. It goes in a good four or five inches. But nothing seems to happen. He stands there, frozen, neither in nor out of the car. It is too dark to see his face clearly. You pull out the needle and thrust it in again, this time harder, gripping the end with the cork in both hands. The tip jars against bone, then dives deeper. He sinks back into the car and makes a contented sound, as if he has slumped into an armchair by the fire after a long walk.

You can't leave him there. You look up and down the road. You look up at the windows of the houses on either side. You lift up the leg that is still outside the car. It bends at the knee. You push it in. You open the opposite door and try to pull him over the seats. But he's such a big man, so heavy. You haul his head and shoulders into the pa.s.senger side of the car but his legs remain on the driver's side. You take off one of his shoes and manage to get his left leg past the gear lever and over to the pa.s.senger side. There's nothing you can do about the right leg, which remains obstinately in the well below the steering wheel.

You shut the door and leave him there while you return to the house and change your slippers for rubber-soled shoes. You fetch your coat, hat, handbag and Aunt Philippa's diary. Soon the pair of you are driving down Haverstock Hill. You adjust to the unfamiliar car and its controls very quickly. The spare leg keeps getting in the way of the pedals but somehow you manage. You reach Camden Town and your sense of achievement grows. On and on you go, more or less in a straight line. You know the way because you walked here the other night, mile after mile, when you left Serridge's heart hanging from the pump by the pub.

As you turn into Holborn, a patroling policeman glances incuriously at you. You thread your way through the streets until at last you see the brightly lit windows of the Crozier. The pub is painted purple, like a slab of meat, like a bleeding heart.

You turn into the alley. When you reach the square, you drive around it, sweeping it with the headlights. No one is out, but there are lights in the two ground-floor windows of number seven.

You park by the pump and put on the handbrake. The engine stalls and the car bucks. You look at Joseph Serridge. The light from the pub reflects in one gla.s.sy eye. You get out of the car and reach into the back for your handbag. You open it and take out the diary. You have come to your decision about it. You drop the diary on the driver's seat and close the car door. You walk toward Charleston Street.

The pub door slams behind you. There are footsteps. You glance back, ready to run.

"h.e.l.lo-ello," a man says. "It's my old friend Joe. Shake a leg, old boy. They're calling last orders."

The old man is very drunk. He's looking at the car. He hasn't even seen you standing behind him.

He opens the pa.s.senger door and pats Serridge's head. "Come on, old man, rise and shine. I say-you're a bit squiffy, eh?"

You walk quietly out of Bleeding Heart Square and into the gray sprawl of the city under a sky without any stars.

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