more countrified, as if she had abandoned the smooth, respectful tones of her profession along with its uniform. ‘Anyhow, I wanted you to see this place. It’s where it happened, you see.’
‘Where what happened?’ Rory said with a touch of irritation because he disliked the idea that the woman had thought him frightened of Serridge.
‘Where that poor girl died. That’s why nobody comes here. They’re a superstitious lot. They think her ghost walks. Anyhow they’re scared of Serridge. Not that he wants to come here either. You wouldn’t think it to look at him but I reckon he’s scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Ghosts. Like the rest of them.’
Robbie tugged at his aunt’s arm and pointed up into the shadows.
‘Do give over,’ she said. ‘You can show the gentleman later if there’s time.’
‘What does he want?’ Rory asked.
‘To show you his bones. Nasty dirty things.’
‘Who died here?’
‘Why, Amy Narton, of course. In those last months, when she was living at home, she used to spend most of her time just walking around. She didn’t like being in the house. Her parents were angry because of the baby on the way. She wouldn’t say who’d got her into trouble. That made it worse. And nobody else wanted to give her the time of day.’ She glanced down at Robbie. ‘They can be like that round here. Anyhow, Amy was like a dog with a litter of puppies inside her. She wanted to find somewhere quiet and private and dark when her time came. So she came here. But she didn’t tell no one. So nobody missed her at first, not for hours, because she was always going off, like I told you. And when they found her at last, it was too late, for her and the baby. They were over there.’ Rebecca nodded towards the straw. ‘It was Serridge, of course.’
‘Who found her?’
‘No.’ Rebecca stared at him, silently reproving his stupidity. ‘Who put her in the family way.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Amy’s not the first maid he’s got into trouble and she won’t be the last.’ Rebecca opened her handbag and took out a small, creased photograph, which she gave to Rory. ‘Robbie found it in the straw. Afterwards. After they took her away. Look at it in the light.’
Rory took the photograph to the doorway and studied it in the daylight. It was a small sepia-toned snapshot of a girl astride a bicycle. Behind her, a field sloped up to some trees and the chimneys of a house. A scrappy little dog was sitting on the grass beside her and scratching its ear. The girl was smiling broadly and proudly at the camera. She looked very young, fifteen or sixteen perhaps. There was nothing strange about the photograph except that it was a man’s bicycle and the girl was wearing no clothes.
‘That’s Amy,’ Rebecca said.
‘She’s in the meadow between the footpath and Morthams Farm, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. The way you came this morning. He’s taught two or three girls how to ride a bicycle there.’
‘Without any clothes on?’
‘Serridge could make them think black was white if he set his mind to it. He tells them it’s how all the smart ladies up in London are taught to ride. He tells them it’s healthier. More hygienic.’
Rory gave her the photograph. ‘And Miss Penhow?’
‘She was a nice lady.’
‘Not a young one, though.’
‘Serridge just wanted her money, and that was clear enough to anyone except her, poor thing. And she wanted a husband so badly that she’d do anything for him. I used to work for them, you see. Not for long, just a few weeks. When they moved into Morthams Farm, they took me on as a maid of all work, living in and all found. They hired Amy to help me. The idea was I’d train her up. That was a laugh. The only person who gave her any training was Joe Serridge.’
‘So he was actually carrying on with her while Miss Penhow was living at the farm?’
Rebecca hesitated. ‘Yes and no. I saw him touching her, accidentally on purpose. And I think he kissed her in the larder once because she came out all pink and giggling and then he came out with a smirk a mile wide on his face. But it didn’t get serious till after I went.’
‘When was that?’
‘A few days before Miss Penhow left. Couldn’t stand it any longer. He was a surly brute most of the time, and he made Miss Penhow’s life a misery. It was worse when he was at the brandy, and after she’d gone he drank even more.’
‘And that was when he and Amy …?’
‘Yes. He had someone else before that, I think — not a local girl. Used to go off to see her and come back the next day looking like the cat who’d got the cream. Amy said she came to the farm once, when Miss Penhow was here — the girl, I mean. Just a girl, Amy said, no better than she should be. Reckon Amy was jealous.’
Robbie tugged Rebecca’s arm like a bell pull and said, quite distinctly, ‘Golgotha.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ his aunt said, shaking him off.
‘Golgotha?’ Rory asked.
‘It’s in the Bible. Place of the skull, where Our Lord was crucified. Robbie got it at Sunday school. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I left the farm. Didn’t even work out my notice. But poor Amy stayed. Not live-in, but who cares? Serridge didn’t. She was fifteen. He always liked them young, mind, the younger the better. He tried to get his hand up my skirt once, and me not a day over thirteen.’
‘Now one moment. You knew Serridge when you were thirteen?’ He tried to guess Rebecca’s age. At least forty, if not more. ‘Where was this?’
‘Here in Rawling.’
‘So are you telling me that Serridge used to come here before the war?’
Rebecca snorted. ‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? He came to the Hall once or twice when the Alfordes were there. They had lots of big parties with people down from London. I’d just gone to work there, that’s how I met him. And when Serridge didn’t get anywhere with me, he tried it on with someone else.’
‘Ah — Mrs Langstone,’ Serridge said, smiling at her and bobbing his big head in what was almost a bow. ‘I thought I heard you come in.’
‘Hello, Mr Serridge.’ Lydia slipped Mrs Alforde’s letter into her handbag. She forced a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I wanted to see how you’re settling in. Must all be a bit strange for you, eh? Not what you’re used to.’ He was no longer smiling. ‘Job all right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘If you need any advice, you’ll have a word with me, I hope? I know the Captain’s not always the most practical of men.’
‘Thank you, Mr Serridge.’ Lydia forced another smile. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now would you excuse me? I’ve just got back from the office, and I really must-’
‘Of course, my dear, of course.’
He bobbed his head again, sketched a vague salute and crossed the landing to his own rooms. Lydia closed the sitting-room door, put down her handbag and peeled off her gloves. The brief interview had unsettled her. She felt uncomfortable as the object of Serridge’s concern.
There was a faint tapping, almost a scratching, at the door. Not Serridge, probably — there had been nothing faint about his knock. Lydia was tempted to pretend she was not here. But whoever it was must be able to see the light under the door.
She took a deep breath and turned the handle. Mr Fimberry was waiting on the landing, smoothing back his hair with his fingers.
‘And how are
‘All right, thanks. Is there something you want?’
Mr Fimberry ignored the question. ‘I’ve had a most interesting day,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d like to know that I’ve found fragments of medieval encaustic tiles embedded in the wall of the Ossuary.’
‘The what?’
He settled the pince-nez more firmly on his nose. ‘It’s a small chamber beside the main crypt in the
