Bleeding Heart Square

After the second-floor landing, he abandoned dignity, dropped to his knees and crawled.

If only I didn’t feel anything. Not a bad old stick, Ingleby-Lewis. And the girl, of course. Where did I put the bloody gin?

Finally, swearing continuously under his breath, he ascended the narrow stairs to the attic. As he searched for his key, he glanced over his shoulder, down the stairs. Serridge was standing on the second-floor landing watching him. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his face was as unreadable as the face of the Red Indian outside the tobacconist’s in Charleston Street. Rory tried to say something but at that moment pain shafted through him, making him double up and screw his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again, Serridge had gone. Perhaps the man had been a hallucination.

His sitting room was very cold. Rory locked the door behind him, lit the gas fire at the fourth attempt, and tracked down the gin to the bottom of the chest of drawers. He slumped into the armchair in front of the fire with the bottle at his elbow. He un-corked the gin and swallowed a mouthful of neat spirit. His mouth and throat burned. He coughed so hard he almost dropped the bottle. He swallowed some more. He was still wearing his raincoat and he stuffed his hands into the pockets to keep warm. The fingers of his left hand touched a small metallic object. He took it out and let it rest in the palm of his hand. A cufflink. He frowned at it.

The cufflink had an enamel design-a red circle on a blue background; and superimposed on the circle was a golden symbol he didn’t recognize.

Cinderella’s slipper? Find the other one, and perhaps I find who attacked me.

The words churned through his mind as the gin worked its way down to his stomach, tumbling from side to side, numbing some of the pain in his body. The words twisted and turned like dead leaves dancing in the heat haze above his father’s bonfire in the garden of the house in Hereford. More gin, less pain. Mrs. Langstone had been jolly decent this evening. He must remember to thank her properly.

11

PHILIPPA PENHOW decides she is married to Joseph Serridge in the eyes of God. Joseph Serridge decides to buy them a home in the country (with Philippa Penhow’s money). Then, hey presto, he produces the perfect place like a rabbit out of a conjurer’s hat. It would have made anyone suspicious, you’d think, anyone but a fool in love.

Friday, 28 February 1930 Joseph and I went down to the country today to visit the farm he thinks might suit us. It’s near a village called Rawling on the Essex-Hertfordshire border and surprisingly close to London (though we had to change twice between Liverpool Street and Mavering, the nearest station to the village). We took a taxi from Mavering to the farm. It’s called Morthams. Joseph said that if we do decide to purchase the property we might consider buying a little motor car. It would be so much more convenient for ru

How cleverly Serridge arranged it all. Morthams Farm was conveniently near London yet unusually remote from everywhere. Philippa Penhow had lived almost all her life in cities. She had no idea what the country is like. The muddy paths, the absence of neighbors, the great brooding skies and the silence. The darkness at night. The fact that there may be no one to hear you.

The office boy was still confined to bed with what his mother now claimed was German measles. Mr. Reynolds remarked that it was most inconvenient. Mr. Smethwick said the young shaver was a little beast and Miss Tuffley, as befitted a member of the gentler sex, said he was a poor lamb. One consequence of the boy’s absence was that Lydia was obliged to work on Saturday morning.

As she made herself ready, she heard her father snoring in his room. In the sitting room the empty brandy bottle lay on its side in the hearth. Pulling on her gloves, she went down to the hall.

Among the small pile of post on the table was a letter addressed to her in her sister’s handwriting. There was also a parcel, slightly larger than a te

Footsteps came slowly down the stairs. Letter in hand, she moved away from the table, reluctant to be caught spying. It was Rory Wentwood, walking slowly and a little stiffly.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m so glad it’s you. I wanted to say thank you.”

“It was nothing. How are you feeling?”

“Rather better than I thought I would.” His dark eyebrows wrinkled into a frown and he winced, giving the lie to his words. “Most of the time, at any rate. I know I’d be feeling a lot worse if you hadn’t turned up when you did.”