‘It’s a private matter.’
‘In my job nothing’s private.’ Narton paused. ‘On the other hand, I’ve no interest in things that don’t concern me. But sometimes I need to know something that’s private. Just so I know it don’t matter. So I can rule it out. See?’
Wentwood nodded.
‘You’re interested in number seven, aren’t you?’
He nodded again.
‘Why?’
‘There’s a man there. A friend of a friend.’
‘Why don’t you knock on the door and ask for him?’
‘Because he’s not there at present. Anyway, he doesn’t know me. I’m waiting for him to come back.’
‘Ah.’ Narton swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘And who might that be?’
‘His name’s Serridge.’
Narton felt a glow that had nothing to do with the warmth of the tea. ‘Now that’s interesting.’
‘What is?’
Narton didn’t reply. He produced a packet of cigarettes and, feeling reckless, offered one to Wentwood. ‘So,’ he said, bending towards the match that Wentwood held out to him. ‘Tell me about you and Serridge.’
The other man sighed, which made his long face look even more melancholy than it naturally did. ‘I–I just want to see him. To get an idea of what he’s like. He used to know the aunt of a friend of mine.’
‘Miss Philippa Penhow,’ Narton said.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’
‘And what’s your connection with the lady? Do you know her?’
‘No. But I know her niece.’
Narton fished out his notebook. ‘Miss Fenella Kensley. Lives with her parents in Belsize Park.’
‘Her parents have died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, I’m sure,’ Narton said mechanically, and made a note. ‘You must be very friendly with her.’
Wentwood flushed. ‘As a matter of fact we’re engaged.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘It’s not official yet. We are waiting until we can afford to marry. That’s why I’m here, in a way.’
‘Looking for Serridge?’
Wentwood shook his head. ‘In this part of London, I mean. I’m looking for a job, and also for somewhere to live. Somewhere central. And while I was in the neighbourhood I thought I’d look at Bleeding Heart Square. Just — just in case.’
‘In case what, Mr Wentwood?’
‘In case I saw Serridge … or even Miss Penhow. Or perhaps he might tell me where to find her.’
‘You say Serridge doesn’t know what you look like?’
‘No — I’ve been in India since ’29.’ Wentwood grinned, which made him look much younger. ‘The idea was, I was going to make my fortune and then send for Miss Kensley. But it didn’t work out so I came back.’
‘Money,’ Narton said. ‘It always crops up somewhere. So maybe that’s why you and Miss Kensley are interested in Miss Penhow. In case a little of hers comes your way.’
‘No, of course not. Though it still seems odd, her just vanishing like that. Anyway, I thought you chaps had decided there was nothing suspicious about the business. Does this mean you think something’s happened to her?’
‘What do you mean, Mr Wentwood? Are you asking if she’s dead? Murdered, even? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m not saying anything, Sergeant. Miss Kensley says Miss Penhow’s abroad.’
‘Just suppose she ain’t, what then? All we know for certain is that she was last seen in April 1930. So where might she be? And what about her money?’
‘I’ve no idea where she is. And I keep trying to tell you, Sergeant — we’re not interested in her money.’
‘Oh.’ Narton smiled. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. The money comes from the Penhow side of the family, nothing to do with the Kensleys.’
‘Of course. Though you’d be surprised how many people are concerned about money, wherever it comes from.’
3
When you read these early entries, you can’t help feeling it was Miss Penhow’s fault too. Why didn’t she realize that he was flattering her? That he could want only one thing she had to give?
Wednesday, 8 January 1930
On her second morning at Bleeding Heart Square, Lydia went out for breakfast again. She bought a copy of
The same woman was behind the counter of the Blue Dahlia but she showed no sign of recognition. After ordering tea and a fried egg, Lydia worked her way through the pages of the newspaper with a growing sense of