Narton rubbed his eyes. He felt very weary. ‘It’s surprising what people will do where politics is concerned. Did you hear about the big British Union rally at Earls Court in June? Things got very nasty.’
They fell silent as Rory’s eggs arrived.
When they were alone again, Narton lowered his voice. ‘Have you reported this to the local boys?’
‘No. I thought I’d better have a word with you first.’
Under the table, Narton wiped damp palms on his trousers. ‘Quite right. The last thing we want is for Serridge to get the wind up.’
‘If it was Serridge.’
‘The point is, he’s not going to feel comfortable with coppers around. We wouldn’t want that.’ Narton sipped his tea. ‘Trust me.’ He watched the other man over the rim of his cup.
‘I don’t know what would have happened if Ingleby-Lewis and Mrs Langstone hadn’t turned up.’ Wentwood jabbed an egg with his fork. ‘I might not have been in a fit state to talk to you.’
Narton thought it very likely. ‘No real harm done, that’s the main thing, eh?’
‘I’m having second thoughts. Miss Kensley thinks I’m wasting my time. I’m beginning to think she’s right.’
‘You’re not wasting your time, I promise you that,’ Narton said sharply. ‘Not while Serridge is around. If he asks you about the attack, tell him you think you fell foul of a couple of drunks.’
Wentwood pushed aside his plate, wasting perfectly good food. You could tell he’d never been poor, Narton thought, not really poor.
‘Have a word with Miss Kensley at least.’ Narton touched the cufflink. ‘Ask if she has had any problems with these chaps. No harm in that, is there?’
‘All right.’
‘Good man.’
‘But there is something queer going on in that house,’ Wentwood burst out. ‘Have you heard about the heart?’
Narton looked blankly at him and waited.
‘Or rather the hearts. Mrs Langstone told me about them today. It seems that somebody’s been sending Mr Serridge a parcel every now and then. Each one contains a heart, a lamb’s, or a ewe’s.’ Wentwood licked his lips. ‘An uncooked heart. No letter. No nothing. Just the heart.’
‘I know,’ Narton said.
‘How?’
‘Because I went through the dustbins.’
When Rory reached Cornwallis Grove, Julian Dawlish answered the door.
‘Ah, Wentwood,’ he said. ‘Splendid. We need a strong pair of arms. I say, you look a bit the worse for wear, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘I had a bit of an argument with a couple of drunks last night.’
‘My dear chap, are you-’
Rory cut in, ‘It looks worse than it is. I’m fine.’
Dawlish shot him a swift, intelligent glance. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll call Miss Kensley.’ He shouted upstairs, ‘It’s Mr Wentwood.’
Rory followed Dawlish into the drawing room. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Miss Kensley wanted to clear out her father’s room, and I promised to give her a hand.’
For the first time Rory could remember since his return from India, the drawing room felt warm. The curtains were drawn and a substantial fire was burning in the grate.
‘Is she all right?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely.’
Dawlish attacked the fire with a poker and the flames licked up the chimney. The door opened and Fenella came in. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright. Her hair was covered with a scarf, and she was wearing slacks.
‘Hello, Rory.’ She stopped. ‘What have you been doing to yourself.’
He repeated what he had told Dawlish.
‘I was just saying to Julian we could do with your help,’ she went on, once she had established that he wasn’t seriously hurt.
‘We’re clearing out Daddy’s room — his workshop upstairs. There’s an awful lot of rubbish, and some of it’s quite heavy.’
‘Unfinished oil paintings?’ Rory said. ‘Broken armchairs? Disembowelled clocks?’
‘And a half-built wardrobe,’ Fenella replied. ‘A case of so-called geological specimens. Lots of stuffed birds. Three crystal receivers — wireless was the big thing just before his last illness. He used to listen to the Savoy Orpheans on his headphones, tapping his feet and whistling along. It drove Mother mad. Before that it was going to be reupholstering antique armchairs and selling them to any American millionaires who happened to be passing.’ She smiled at Dawlish. ‘Daddy changed his hobby about once every three months. They were all going to make him rich. He spent a fortune on them. Some of it must be worth a few bob still.’
She sat down on the sofa and the men followed suit in the chairs on either side of her. She held out her hands to the blaze.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Dawlish said. ‘I put a bit more coal on. It felt a bit chilly.’
‘Of course I don’t mind.’
Rory looked at the fire, which had probably consumed an evening’s supply of fuel in the last half-hour. ‘Why are you clearing the room now? Will you use it for another lodger? Or can you sell some of the stuff?’
‘We should find buyers for some of it, and the rag-and-bone man will take what’s left. But no more lodgers, I hope. Julian’s had an idea.’
‘Some friends and I are setting up a small organization,’ Dawlish explained. ‘Fenella has very kindly agreed to act as our secretary.’
‘What sort of organization?’
Dawlish gave no sign that he had heard the rudeness in Rory’s voice. ‘The Alliance of Socialists Against Fascism. That’s our provisional title. ASAF for short.’
‘Sounds a worthy cause,’ Rory said bitterly.
‘We think there’s room for it,’ Dawlish said. ‘A need, even. We want to provide a place where left-wingers of various persuasions can meet and discuss things. Joint action is the key, you see. United we stand and divided we fall. I know someone who’s just inherited a house in Mecklenburgh Square, and we can have it for a peppercorn rent as the headquarters. The members will help with the running expenses. And one of those, of course, will be the salary of the secretary.’
‘You must be very pleased,’ Rory said to Fenella.
‘I am.’
‘I thought of Fenella right away,’ Dawlish went on. ‘She has shorthand and typing. And running a little organization like ours will be peanuts compared with running this place and dealing with lodgers.’
Rory said nothing.
‘It’s early days yet of course.’ Apparently oblivious of any awkwardness, Dawlish beamed like Father bloody Christmas. ‘We’ll have to see how things work out.’
Rory turned to Fenella. ‘But what will you do when the lease runs out here? You’ll have to find somewhere to live.’
Dawlish cleared his throat. ‘It might be useful to have the secretary living on the premises. There’s an old house-keeper’s flat. All it needs is a lick of paint and a few sticks of furniture. So there’s no reason why Fenella shouldn’t let this place and move in whenever she wants.’
How ripping, Rory thought, how absolutely bloody topping with knobs on.
12
