Bleeding Heart Square

9

YOU READ this entry over and over again. Was this just a way of making money? Or did Serridge actually enjoy it as well? Did he always enjoy it?

Wednesday, 19 February 1930 A red-letter day! I am so excited I can hardly hold my pen. We went to Hampstead Heath this afternoon for a stroll up Parliament Hill and afterward a cup of tea at the café at the bottom of Pond Street. Heaven knows, I was expecting nothing but a pleasant afternoon. But I have never been so surprised in my life-not just once, but twice!! We walked up the hill, chatting of this and that. It was overcast with quite a chilly wind. I thought Major Serridge seemed rather distrait. At the top of the hill we paused to look down over the great smoky city below. Suddenly, as if by magic, the sun came out. He pointed out the Monument, the dome of St. Paul’s, the river and even what he said were the North Downs far beyond, though I ca

Of course you can’t know how reliable Philippa Penhow’s account is. Her rosy spectacles were so thick that she was the next best thing to blind. Perhaps she saw and heard what she wanted to see and hear, just like everyone else does.

The Lamb was less crowded than it had been the previous evening, perhaps because it was later. Apart from a knot of noisy undergraduates from University College in the corner, there was little conversation. Most people nursed their drinks and read the evening paper.

Sergeant Narton was late so Rory took his beer over to the table they had used before. He stared morosely into the heart of the fire. On the way from Bleeding Heart Square, he had telephoned Fenella from a call box to ask whether he might drop in later in the evening. She had pleaded tiredness and said she was going to bed early.

“You can come tomorrow evening if you like,” she had said, and it had seemed to him that she didn’t much care one way or the other.

He glanced up as the door to the street opened. Narton came in, his eyes sweeping the room. He went to the bar, where he ordered half a pint of mild-and-bitter. He brought it across to Rory’s table.

“You look as if you’ve lost a pound and found a farthing,” he observed.

Rory shrugged, not caring how Narton thought he looked.

“Well?” Narton stared at Rory over the rim of his glass. “Did you get anywhere?”

“With the Vicar? Yes and no.”

“What do you mean? Did he let you see the letter?”

“Oh yes. I compared it with the sample I found in the chest of drawers. I’m no expert but it looks as if the same person could have written both.”

“Any address on it?”

“Grand Central Station.”

“Fat lot of use,” Narton said. “What about the envelope and the stamp?”

“They looked perfectly genuine to me.”

“These things can be forged.”

“I’m sure they can,” Rory said wearily. “But it’s not just me, is it? As the Vicar was at pains to tell me, the police found an expert to examine it and he couldn’t find anything amiss either.”

“The point is the so-called expert didn’t necessarily want to,” Narton said.

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

The policeman scratched his wrist. “I don’t think our investigation into the disappearance of Miss Penhow was as thorough as it might have been. This is between ourselves, you understand. I’m not saying there was anything going on that shouldn’t have been, mind. All I’m saying is that some officers thought that looking for Miss Penhow was a waste of time and money. No body, you see. Nothing suspicious at all, not really, apart from the fact that she suddenly wasn’t there. But that’s not a crime. It’s true that she sold a lot of shares in the month or so before she went. Some of it must have gone to buy the farm for Serridge. But not all of it. And realizing capital makes sense if you’re pla

“Then why are you so convinced that something has happened to her?”

Narton planted his elbows on the table and leaned toward Rory. “Partly because there’s evidence that suggests she had no intention of going away from Morthams Farm. It came to light after the investigation was finished. That’s the reason we reopened the case.”

“What evidence?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.”

Rory sat back in his chair. “Just as you didn’t tell me you live in Rawling? Was that confidential too?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way, Mr. Wentwood. It just wasn’t relevant. No point in muddying the waters, eh? Did anything else come up?”

“There was one thing.”

“Yes?” A spasm like pain passed over Narton’s face. “What?”

“Something the Vicar said as I was leaving. He mentioned that Serridge and Miss Penhow had bought Morthams Farm from Captain Ingleby-Lewis. It must be the chap at Bleeding Heart Square.”

“It is.”

“You knew that too? Why didn’t you say?”

Narton stared coldly at him. “Police officers try not to tell members of the public everything they know in the professional way, Mr. Wentwood. It wouldn’t be very sensible, would it? It’s perfectly true, though. The Rawling Hall estate used to belong to a family called Alforde. When the old man died a few years back, they had to sell up. The widow had a heart attack while they were sorting out the sale. They reckon the shock killed her. Most of what was left of the money went to Mr. Alforde’s heir, his brother’s son. But there was one farm, Morthams, that was outside the entail, because Mr. Alforde had bought it in the nineties to round off the estate. Mrs. Alforde had added a codicil to her will. She left Morthams to her own nephew.”

“Ingleby-Lewis.”

Narton nodded. “The place was heavily mortgaged, they say. He had a devil of a job trying to sell it. Then Serridge came along and suddenly the thing was done.” Narton tapped the side of his nose. “I can guess whose money went to buy it. Ten to one Miss Penhow paid over the odds and Serridge and Ingleby-Lewis split the proceeds.” He held up his hand like a traffic policeman. “Maybe. Who knows?”