undercroft. Didn’t I mention it the other evening? The theory is that in the Middle Ages it was used for holy relics, for bones. That’s one explanation. But it’s also been suggested that the bodies of Catholics who died in the seventeenth century lay there before they were secretly buried beneath the chapel, all piled together in their shrouds. Or that their bones were put there before they were reinterred.’ He came a step closer as though trying to insinuate himself into the room, but Lydia did not give ground. ‘Of course the theories aren’t necessarily incompatible. There’s a good deal of discussion about the subject but very little hard evidence, I’m afraid. On the other hand, the wall is hard enough.’ He laughed. Then, recollecting himself, he went on, ‘But you must let me show you the Ossuary some time. It’s generally kept locked. Of course, if you come to the meeting, you’ll probably be able to see it then.’
‘What meeting?’
‘Father Bertram tells me that the British Union have hired the undercroft for a meeting on Saturday week. It’s at lunchtime, and they are laying on bread and cheese. It’s for the business people in Rosington Place. They want to explain how their economic ideas will work in practice. I gather Howlett will be putting up notices. I’m sure they’ll soon know all about it at Shires and Trimble.’
‘Excuse me,’ Lydia said bluntly, unable to bear it any longer. ‘I have to go.’
She shut the door in his face, lit a cigarette and went to stand by the window. She felt both furious and unsettled. This was all she needed. It was as if Marcus were pursuing her, even here. The problem was, she could see no way out of Bleeding Heart Square. She couldn’t go back to Frogmore Place. But if she left this flat and her father, where else could she go? She had too little money to rent a room of her own. It had already been made painfully clear to her that she had no marketable qualifications. And her job at Shires and Trimble, such as it was, depended on her being here.
Unless, of course, Colonel Alforde would help her. She took Mrs Alforde’s letter from her handbag and reread it. The Colonel was her godfather, and perhaps that might count for something. She was uncomfortably aware of how cynical she was becoming. But cynicism went hand in hand with poverty.
She had never heard of the Alfordes having any children. Lydia couldn’t recall meeting them when she was a child. Lady Cassington had added their names to the list of wedding invitations. Why had he been chosen as her godfather?
She heard familiar footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and collided with a chair. Her father walked slowly and carefully into the room. He waved at Lydia and, without saying anything or removing his overcoat, sat down very carefully and slowly.
‘Father? I had a letter from Mrs Alforde today.’
Ingleby-Lewis frowned. ‘Who?’ Then his face cleared. ‘You mean old Gerry Alforde’s wife? Is he dead yet?’
‘Apparently not. He is living in Lower Sloane Street. He’s my godfather, you know.’
‘Oh yes. I used to see a lot of him at one time.’
‘Was he related to the lady who left you Morthams Farm?’
‘Aunt Connie? Yes, indeed. As a matter of fact, she was his aunt too — by marriage, though. Gerry’s father was the second son, you see.’ A gleam of interest came into his eye. ‘I suppose if there was anything left after they sold up it would have come to Gerry. Harry and Connie didn’t have any kids so he must have been the next in line.’
‘Mrs Alforde asked me to tea. I wonder why.’
Ingleby-Lewis stretched out his long legs and patted his pockets in search of cigarettes. ‘It’s up to you, of course, but I shouldn’t go if I were you. Gerry was always a bit eccentric, and he had a bad war, poor chap. Last time I saw him — must have been ten or twelve years ago at least — he was babbling utter nonsense. You couldn’t believe a word he said.’
Lydia nodded, without committing herself either way. Her father was looking at her with an intent expression on his face. She glimpsed the ghost of a younger, harder man behind the bloodshot eyes and the blotched and wrinkled skin. She shivered.
‘Growing chilly, isn’t it?’ her father said. ‘You’d better light the fire.’
Robbie was growing restless. He ran his fingers along the wall of the barn, muttering ‘Golgotha, Golgotha’ over and over again in a squeaky little sing-song voice that might have belonged to a much younger child.
‘What was Serridge doing down in Rawling?’ Rory said, picking his way through the possibilities. ‘Was he someone’s servant?’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘Not exactly. The Alfordes used to have shooting parties before the war — they did all sorts of entertaining. Had royalty once, the Duke of Connaught. They’d sometimes take on extra staff.’
‘So he worked as a servant?’
Robbie snuffled moistly and tried to pull her by the arm.
‘Stop it, dear. No, not as such. He was something outdoors like a loader or a beater. They put him up with one of the gamekeepers. He didn’t stay at the house. I think the first time he came, Captain Ingleby-Lewis had something to do with arranging it. Maybe he’d been the Captain’s batman in the army. I know he used to be a soldier.’ She glanced at the boy, who was now looking for something on the shelf where the top of the wall met the slope of the rafters. ‘Of course Serridge looked very different. Thin as a rake. Big moustache. But he always fancied himself.’
Rory said, ‘Did he recognize you when he came back to Rawling?’
She laughed. ‘I looked very different then too. Anyway, I doubt he really looked at me. Not properly.’
‘But you didn’t mind going to work for him at Morthams Farm?’
‘Didn’t have much choice, did I? A job’s a job. I hadn’t had a steady position since the Alfordes sold up. I could have found something in London easy enough, but I didn’t want to move, because of Robbie and my sister. Besides, Miss Penhow was there. She was meant to be the mistress. I thought I’d be working for her, not him.’
‘What was she like?’
‘She was kind. A bit soft, maybe. He wore her down, you know, even in the time that I knew her. Got so bad that she’d jump at her own shadow. He didn’t let her talk to anyone except when he was around. I think he kept her letters from her too. He used to collect the post every morning, you see, from the mailbox on the lane. I remember her saying to me once how strange it was that no one had written to her since she moved here.’
‘She wrote letters herself?’
‘Oh yes, and she gave them to Mr Serridge to post.’ Rebecca paused, allowing time for the implication to sink in. ‘She didn’t walk much because it was so mucky underfoot. Town-bred, you see, wasn’t used to mud. So if she wanted to go anywhere she had to go in the car, and that meant Serridge drove her. She never really got away from him.’
‘You make it sound as if he was planning something right from the start.’
‘I don’t make it sound like anything, Mr Wentwood. I’m just telling you what happened.’
‘Did she talk to anyone else much?’
‘Besides me and Serridge and Amy? No. She met one or two tradesmen, I suppose, and Mr Gladwyn, and the farm workers. But she didn’t talk to them. Not really talk, I mean. If you want to know what was in her head, you’d have to find her diary. She was always scribbling in there.’
‘She must have taken it when she went away.’
Rebecca was watching Robbie. ‘What? Maybe she did. I don’t know what happened to it. Mark you, she didn’t take much when she went.’
‘What happened to her clothes? Her furniture. Everything.’
‘Some of it’s still up at the farm. But Mr Serridge packed up a lot of her things. All the clothes and knick- knacks. He went funny after she went away. Turned the place upside down, inside out.’
‘Looking for something?’ Rory suggested. ‘The diary?’
‘God,’ Robbie said. ‘Where’s God?’
‘He’s gone, lovey,’ Rebecca said. ‘You know that.’
‘I want God.’
Rory looked at the boy’s pale, vacant face. He was on the verge of tears.
‘You can’t have him,’ Rebecca said.
‘God?’ Rory asked. ‘He’s looking for
