Bleeding Heart Square

‘Surely the police can call on handwriting experts?’

‘Oh we have, Mr Wentwood. Our man says there’s a better than fair chance that the letter was really written by Miss Penhow. But I’d like another opinion. Now I bet that young lady of yours has got letters from her aunt, maybe other pieces of writing.’

‘Perhaps she has. Why don’t you ask her?’

‘Come to that, you’ve got your own sample, that piece of paper you found. The point is, the letter from New York is no longer in our hands. When the investigation was closed, it was returned to the recipient. If we go and ask for it back, it’s as good as saying that we’re still suspicious, that we’re reopening the investigation.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Ever heard of softly softly, catchy monkey?’

Rory said, ‘Who did she write to?’

‘The Vicar of Rawling. Man called Gladwyn.’

‘Rawling?’

Narton stubbed out the cigarette half-smoked and put the rest away for later. ‘It’s a village in Essex on the Hertfordshire border, not far from Saffron Walden. It’s where Serridge bought a farm with Miss Penhow’s money, and it’s the place where Miss Penhow was last seen alive, more than four years ago. I can’t afford to upset Mr Gladwyn. For one thing, he’s rather a chum of Serridge’s. For another, he’s the godfather of my chief constable’s daughter. Tricky business all round, see? If we make an official approach, it’s going to get back to Serridge, and that could put the kibosh on everything. But if someone representing Miss Penhow’s relatives comes along, that’s another matter. You see that, don’t you?’

Wentwood sat back. He had hardly touched his beer. ‘This is rather a lot to ask, isn’t it?’

Narton screwed up his face and let out a sigh. ‘I’m not doing this for fun, sir, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. Our job depends on members of the public being willing to cooperate with us.’

‘This would be rather more than cooperation, wouldn’t it?’

‘Look at it from our point of view. You’re the fiance of Miss Penhow’s niece. You’re back from India, and you weren’t on the scene when the old girl vanished. Of course Miss Kensley wants to find out what happened to her aunt. Of course you want to help her. So it’s perfectly natural you might turn up on Mr Gladwyn’s doorstep and ask to see that letter. Don’t write beforehand — don’t give him a chance to say no. Just turn up. Even better, turn up with the girl in tow.’

Wentwood opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then he said, ‘I can’t see one good reason why I should do what you ask. I’m sorry, Sergeant, but there it is.’

‘You want a reason?’ Narton said. ‘How about this? If Serridge gets away with this murder, then ten to one he’ll commit another sooner or later. For a man like him, killing a woman is an easy way to make money. So that’s the question, Mr Wentwood: do you want to stop another murder?’

7

Was Serridge really married? Perhaps there are dozens of Mrs Serridges scattered around the globe, some living, some dead, some with marriage certificates, some without. He must always have had a way with women.

Saturday, 15 February 1930

Today I had tea with Major Serridge. He insisted on taking me to a very pleasant establishment in Kensington Church Street. It looked frightfully expensive. He said he wanted to repay me for tea at the Rushmere the other week. I think I got by far the better part of the bargain!!

He looked very serious, rather sad in fact, this afternoon. He talked less too. He was very friendly, though, without saying much, and once or twice I caught him looking at me in what I can only call a meaningful way. Outwardly he’s such a big, masterful man, but he can be as sensitive and gentle as a child, at least with me. In the end I asked him if there was anything wrong.

He smiled at me and in that simple way of his said that we all have to shoulder our burdens, and on some days they seem to weigh more heavily than others. I don’t know how it was but somehow this led to an extraordinarily intimate conversation — truly, I can never remember speaking to anyone so frankly in my entire life. I even found myself telling him about Vernon, and how I so nearly married him when I was eighteen. Of course Aunt wouldn’t let me, and I had no money in those days, and so it was out of the question, and Vernon went back to sea. Sometimes, even now, I find myself wondering what would have happened if I’d flung caution to the winds and agreed to marry him. All that was nearly forty years ago, though I must admit I did not mention the precise number of years to Major Serridge. A lady must have her secrets.

Afterwards he honoured me with an even greater confidence. Today was his wedding anniversary. At this, I was considerably surprised, even shocked, because I had no idea that he was married.

He was reluctant to tell me more. He said it was too shocking for a lady’s ears. In the end, though, I coaxed it out of him. In a moment of madness, when he was a very young man on the verge of leaving with his Regiment on active service, he had married a woman who later proved unworthy of him — indeed, unworthy of any man. It was hard, he said, for a fellow to come home to a cold and unloving hearth. But that had been his lot.

And there had been much worse to come. His wife turned out to be a moral degenerate of the worst sort. She had left him and was now living in New Zealand with another woman in circumstances so shameful that I cannot bear to sully the page of my diary with them. To make matters worse, she had once been a Catholic, so she refused to countenance the very idea of divorce. The hypocrisy makes my blood boil.

He said, very simply, ‘It’s my cross, my dear Miss Penhow, and I must somehow learn to carry it on my lonely journey through life.’

After lunch, if it could be called that, Lydia Langstone went to her first job interview, leaving Captain Ingleby-Lewis snoring in his armchair, his legs covered with a blanket. He looked old, frail and ill.

In her gloved hand was a page torn from Mr Serridge’s loose-leaf memorandum book. On it he had written in pencil: Mr Shires, 3rd floor, 48 Rosington Place, Tuesday, 2.30 pm.

Lydia found the house with no difficulty. It was almost immediately opposite the chapel. Like most of the houses in the cul-de-sac, it had a cluster of brass plates beside its front door. A notice invited her to walk inside without ringing the bell. She found herself in a drab hall with a high plastered ceiling whose discoloured mouldings were draped with dusty cobwebs. There was brown linoleum on the floor and the air was filled with the clacking of typewriters. She scanned the noticeboard on the wall. It listed the offices of at least ten firms, including two sets of lawyers as well as Shires and Trimble, a jewellery importer, a surveyor, a company manufacturing kitchen stoves and a furrier’s.

She climbed the stairs. The house was much larger than it seemed from the street. On the second floor there was a door marked SHIRES AND TRIMBLE set in a partition made of wood and frosted glass. She knocked. After a moment she turned the handle and went in. Immediately in front of her was a narrow counter, beyond which was a general office containing four people. Two men were sitting at high desks, one talking on the telephone; a typist with very red fingernails was attacking the keyboard of her machine with noisily vicious efficiency; and a red-haired boy was licking stamps and putting them on envelopes. No one took any notice of her.

Lydia tapped the bell on the counter. The younger of the two men looked up, sighed theatrically, climbed down from his stool and sauntered over to her.

‘Good afternoon,’ Lydia said. ‘My name is Langstone, and I’ve an appointment with Mr Shires.’

He conveyed her across the general office to the door of a private room, as if without his guidance she might be expected to lose her way. Mr Shires’ office was small, and most of it was filled with a large partners’ desk. The gas fire was burning at full blast and the air smelled of peppermints.