Bleeding Heart Square

one side. Rory picked it up. It showed a woman on a park bench with a little dog at her feet.

‘Who’s this?’ he asked casually.

Fenella took the photograph from him. The good humour left her face. ‘It’s Aunt Philippa.’

‘She looks rather pretty,’ Rory said, surprised. ‘And I thought she’d be much older.’

‘It’s not a very good likeness,’ Fenella said, dropping the photograph in the open box.

‘In what way?’

Fenella turned away and opened the wardrobe door. ‘She made herself up as if she was ten or twenty years younger than she was. But if you got close to her, you could see the cracks. Literally. She plastered on the make-up. Father used to say Aunt Philippa made herself look ridiculous, mutton dressed as lamb.’

Late in the morning, Mr Smethwick tripped over the caretaker’s bucket and dropped three box files outside the general office. The contents of the files related to some of the late Mr Trimble’s pre-war clients. Pieces of paper floated over the landing and into the stairwell. Some reached the landing below, and two letters fluttered all the way down to the hall. Mr Reynolds rushed out of the office and gazed in anguish at the cascade of yellowing paper, rusting paper clips and pink ribbons.

‘Smethwick! What were you thinking of? Mrs Langstone! Come here at once!’

Lydia had never seen him so agitated. She and Smethwick gathered up the papers. Then it became her task to restore them to order, and Mr Reynolds would not let her take her lunch break until she had finished.

It was after two o’clock before she was able to escape. On her way to the Blue Dahlia she called into Mr Goldman’s shop in Hatton Garden. He was hunched over a necklace, peering at it through a jeweller’s glass. He looked up when the door bell pinged and uncoiled his long body.

‘Good afternoon, madam.’

‘Hello, Mr Goldman. I don’t want to sell today but I wanted an idea of what you’d give me for something.’

He inclined his head but said nothing. Lydia put her bag on the counter and took out a box containing a diamond and sapphire ring. It was the third and last of Lydia’s pieces of her great-aunt’s jewellery. Goldman opened the box and eased the hoop from its velvet setting. He screwed the glass back into his eye and examined it, breathing heavily through his nose.

‘I know it’s old-fashioned,’ Lydia said, hating the hint of desperation she heard in her voice. ‘But the stones alone must be worth a good deal.’

He ignored her and continued his examination. She turned aside and pretended to look at one of the displays. Beans on toast, she thought, her mind running over the Blue Dahlia’s limited menu, and a cup of tea: I can afford that. Push the boat out and have an egg as well?

‘It’s a handsome ring,’ Mr Goldman said at last. He rubbed it gently. ‘Forty or fifty years old. The sapphires are particularly fine.’

‘What would it be worth?’

‘What were you hoping for?’

‘I’ve no idea. A hundred, perhaps? A hundred and fifty?’

He shook his head. ‘There would be a case for reusing the stones. I might manage forty pounds. Forty-five, even.’ He saw the expression on Lydia’s face. ‘You might be able to get more elsewhere. Or you might decide to pawn it instead, although of course that would not raise as much.’

She thanked him and went to lunch. Food made her feel a little more cheerful. After all, she had a roof over her head, a meal inside her and clothes on her back. She also had a job of sorts to go to. It all depended on one’s perspective: she had more than most people on this crowded planet. And because she had taken a late lunch, at least it would be a short afternoon.

Three hours later, as Lydia was putting on her hat before leaving the office, Miss Tuffley’s bright face loomed behind her in the mirror.

‘Hard luck,’ she whispered, nudging Lydia’s shoulder. ‘His nibs wants you in his room.’ She rubbed some of the condensation from the window next to the mirror. ‘Ugh. The fog’s getting fouler and fouler.’

Lydia went through to the private office where she found Mr Shires standing at his desk and putting files in his briefcase.

‘Ah, Mrs Langstone. Shut the door, please.’ He strapped up the briefcase. ‘I’ve considered your request this morning, and I’m inclined to look favourably on it.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Lydia said, surprised.

‘Mind you, I’m not saying we are prepared to act for you in this. But I shall take it a stage further. See how the land lies with Mr Langstone, hmm?’

‘As to the cost, I-’

Mr Shires held up a small pink hand. ‘We shall leave that to one side for the moment. We like to help our employees where possible, and in the circumstances there’s a chance we may be able to oblige Mr Langstone to meet our costs. But we shall see, eh? Let’s not cross our bridges before we come to them. Leave it with me for the time being. Let me see, you’re not coming in tomorrow, are you, but we’re expecting you on Friday? If I’ve time, we’ll have a word about it then.’

He dismissed her for the evening. The outer office was now empty. Lydia ran down the stairs feeling more lighthearted than she had for some time. She had clearly misjudged Shires. He wasn’t such a bad old stick after all.

Outside the pavements gleamed with rain and the gathering fog reduced the street lamps to fuzzy globes of moisture. She found her way to Bleeding Heart Square as much by touch as by sight. As she let herself into the house, she heard the whirr and clack of Mrs Renton’s sewing machine in the room by the front door.

There was a letter for her on the hall table. She picked it up and went upstairs, ripping open the envelope on the way. It was from Mrs Alforde. She had replied to Lydia’s letter almost by return of post.

Captain Ingleby-Lewis was not in the sitting room. Lydia put down her handbag and scanned the contents of the letter, which was dated that morning.

My dear Lydia,

Thank you for your note. It’s sweet and generous of you to apologize but the more I think about it, the more I think it was foolish of me to take what your mother said entirely at face value — I should have known better. The truth is, I’m a meddlesome old woman with too much time on my hands.

Will you do me the great kindness of letting me make a fresh start? My time is rather taken up with your poor dear godfather — he often becomes agitated if I am not around — but tomorrow is Thursday, and therefore his day for Sergeant Stokes. Stokes was with him for most of the war. For some reason — it seems perverse to me — Gerry finds his company soothing.

As it happens I have to run down to Rawling for a funeral tomorrow morning but I hope to be back by teatime or a little later, and I could pick you up if you are free. (I have a little motor car now, which has transformed my life!) Alternatively, if you would like a day in the country you could come with me, and we could talk on the way. I could drop you in Bishop’s Stortford or Saffron Walden and show you where to find a decent lunch. But of course this may not be convenient, or you may feel enough is enough! Whatever you decide, I shall quite understand.

I hope to hear from you — perhaps telephone me this evening if you would like an excursion tomorrow?

With affectionate good wishes from us both,

Yours sincerely,

Hermione Alforde

Lydia put the letter away and went into her bedroom, where she took off her hat and coat. She picked up Miss Penhow’s skirt and the accompanying letter from the bottom of her chest of drawers and took them downstairs. She knocked on Mrs Renton’s door. The old woman’s wrinkled face brightened when she saw Lydia.

‘Hello, dear. I was just going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?’

Once the kettle was on, Lydia said, ‘I’ve something I want to show you.’

Mrs Renton eyed the skirt. ‘A bit of sewing?’

‘In a way.’