Bleeding Heart Square

‘Thank you, obliged to you,’ Ingleby-Lewis said, holding out his empty glass.

‘Which ghost is that?’ Lydia said quietly.

‘The ghost of the lady who lost her heart.’ Fimberry swallowed the rest of his wine and gave himself another glass. His face was now pinker than ever and covered with a sheen of perspiration. He took off his pince-nez and rubbed the lenses on his handkerchief. ‘A tragic story. The legend goes that there was a dance, a great ball at the Spanish ambassador’s. Royalty came. There was dancing and drinking and gambling far into the night.’

‘Good as a play, eh?’ Ingleby-Lewis said contentedly, stretching out his legs in shiny, neatly creased trousers.

‘There was one particularly beautiful lady there, Mrs Langstone,’ Fimberry went on. ‘The story goes that she had married an old and wealthy husband, that she had been forced into the match by her parents. She did not love the man. Then, at the ball, which was a masked affair, I should have said, she met a charming stranger — tall and dark and everything a young woman could hope for in a lover. The husband was out of the way, playing cards in another room. The lady and the handsome stranger danced and drank and talked all night. As dawn was approaching, they were dancing so hard that they danced down the staircase, out of the doors and away from the rest of the party. There was so much excitement and so many people that no one realized the lady had gone until much later. Until it was too late.’

He paused and sipped his wine. Lydia waited, drawn despite herself into the story.

‘They found her the following morning in Bleeding Heart Square.’ Fimberry lowered his voice. ‘Lying dead beside the pump, still in all her finery. But her dress was — was disordered, and the body had been cut open. Her bleeding heart lay upon the cobbles.’

‘I say,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘Rather strong meat, what?’

‘Oh — yes. I’m frightfully sorry, Mrs Langstone. I hope I-’

‘What about the man who was with her?’ Lydia asked.

‘He was never seen again.’

‘But who was he?’

Fimberry smiled. ‘They say he was the devil.’

10

Saturday, 22 February 1930

My hand is shaking so much I can hardly hold a pen. Major Serridge — he says I must call him Joseph now — called at two o’clock in a taxi. First he took me to see dear little Jacko, who was so pleased to see his mistress. He put his muddy paws all over my skirt, not that I minded, and tried to jump up into my arms. I truly believe he wanted me to carry him away.

I met Mr Howlett, who is the Chief Beadle at Rosington Place. He is looking after Jacko for the time being. Jacko seems quite at home in Mr Howlett’s little lodge. Joseph says that he has taken care of everything, but I gave Mr Howlett an extra ten shillings just to make sure that Jacko has all he needs. The little darling looked so sorrowful as we were leaving him that I had to keep turning back to pat him.

Afterwards, Joseph asked if I should like to see inside the chapel in Rosington Place. We strolled up the cul-de-sac, and it seemed deliciously natural for me to take his arm. He gave my hand a tiny squeeze.

We went through a door and walked along part of the lovely old cloister. Joseph pointed out the remains of the staircase that must once have led up to other apartments in the Bishop’s Palace. The chapel itself is on the first floor. It is surprisingly large, much bigger than it seems from the outside, with a great deal of interesting stained glass, old statues of saints, etc., etc. We had the place quite to ourselves.

After we had looked around the chapel, Joseph showed me the crypt. This runs the whole length of the building and is very plain and simple. A room to one side is called the Ossuary, but the door was locked. He said that he always thought this to be a particularly holy spot. I told him I felt its aura of sanctity as well.

He smiled sadly. ‘As God is my witness in this sacred place,’ he said, ‘I meant every word I said the other day.’

My eyes filled with tears. He said he didn’t want to offend me but he thought of me as his very own darling. Would I make him the happiest man in the world by agreeing at least to consider his proposal of a private marriage? He went on to say that of course as soon as he was a free man, we could be married in the eyes of the world as well as of God.

‘I’m not as young as I was,’ he said in a voice that shook with emotion. ‘I feel I must take my happiness when I can. It won’t wait for me.’ He looked meaningfully at me and said that of course we had both learned that from experience.

I knew that he was referring to Vernon, my lost love. Isn’t it odd? I hardly think of him now. At the back of my mind was the thought that, as I’m older than Joseph, I have even less time than he does.

There and then, in this sacred and beautiful place, he went down on one knee and took from his pocket a small maroon box. He held it out and opened it. Three diamonds sparkled on a gold hoop. It was the most beautiful ring I had ever seen.

He spoke these very words: ‘Will you — dare I hope that you will consent one day to be my wife?’

I could hardly breathe. I let him take my hand, my left hand, and gently remove the glove. He slipped the ring onto my finger. It fitted perfectly. He bent his great, grizzled head and kissed the hand. I was trembling violently. With my right hand, I stroked his hair, so surprisingly vigorous for a man of his age. I heard him give a sob.

I can write no more this evening. My heart is too full. Joseph, my own dear one.

The ring and the chapel, that beastly little dog and all those sickly sweet nothings — didn’t she understand what was happening? Joseph Serridge was asking a respectable spinster several years his senior to come and live in sin with him. Did she really think he loved her? Did she really think that her money had nothing to do with it?

On Thursday morning Rory went to the library in Charleston Street to fight his way through the crowd and consult the Situations Vacant columns on the noticeboards. Living at Bleeding Heart Square was more expensive than boarding at Mrs Rutter’s, mainly because he had to find all his own meals. I must economize, he thought, perhaps learn to cook. It can’t be that difficult.

Hopelessness threatened to overwhelm him. Employers wanted reliable gardeners and experienced parlourmen, not reporters or copywriters. In any case, you probably needed to buy the newspapers when they reached the streets at six in the morning, rather than wait until the library opened. Even if he found a suitable job advertised, it might well be gone by now.

His eyes strayed towards the shelves of reference books in search of distraction. He caught sight of a familiar red spine: Who’s Who. He fetched the portly red volume and turned to the letter C. Cassington leapt out at him, giving him a jolt of recognition tinged with dismay.

George Rupert Cassington, second Baron Cassington of Flaxern, born 1874, educated Rugby and St John’s College, Oxford. And so on. He had two sons by his first wife, who had died in 1904, and a daughter, Pamela, by his second wife, Elinor, whom he had married in 1908. There were three addresses — 21 Upper Mount Street in Mayfair, Monkshill Park near Lydmouth, and Drumloch Lodge, Inverness-shire.

Rory closed the book. He had learned a little but not enough. The fever was upon him. Not a fever, exactly — more a malign hunger: as a child he had stolen a box of chocolates from his eldest sister, carried it to a hiding place at the bottom of the garden and gobbled the contents in a furtive haste that had little to do with pleasure; even as he ate, he knew he would soon be sick, he knew his theft would lead to punishment.

He took down Debrett’s Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage and Companionage. There