Wentwood muttered something under his breath. He unbuttoned his overcoat and produced a worn brown wallet. Inside was a letter, addressed by hand to R. Wentwood, Esq., c/o Mrs. V. Rutter, 43 Plessey Street, Kentish Town, with a Hereford postmark.
“All right?” Wentwood said. “Satisfied?”
“No call for sarcasm,” Narton said mildly. “Why don’t we get out of this wind? I could do with a cup of something, and I dare say you could too.”
Wentwood’s eyes darted to and fro. Maybe he wanted to make a break for it. Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid?
“I’ve done nothing wrong, you know.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s go and have that cup of tea, shall we?”
The café was opposite the Dead Meat Market at Smithfield. Most of the other customers were men with bloodstained overalls. Narton ordered two teas, trying not to begrudge the expense. They stood side by side, leaning on a shelf sticky with spilled sugar and speckled with ash. Wentwood rubbed a circle in the steamy haze on the plate-glass window and looked out at the lorries and vans in Charterhouse Street. The rank smell of raw meat hung in the smoky air.
“You’ve been hanging around Bleeding Heart Square,” Narton said.
“Not really. I’ve strolled past once or twice, I suppose. Is there a law against it?”
“Depends why you’re doing it. Not somewhere you stroll past by accident. It’s a cul-de-sac, Mr. Wentwood. You have to make up your mind to go there.”
“I told you: there’s nothing suspicious about it.”
“But you do have a reason.”
“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 toward 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 neighborhood 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 This morning there was a letter from Mr. Orburn waiting beside my place at breakfast. He enclosed a memorandum itemizing the works he considers necessary at 7 Bleeding Heart Square. It comes in all to a little over £105, and he recommends rounding it up to £110 in order to allow for contingencies. It seems a great deal of money but I suppose I should go ahead. No doubt Mr. Orburn has a better idea of what is necessary than I do. He also enclosed a letter from Major Serridge, the gentleman I met on Monday. It struck me as very much like the man himself: gruff and to the point, written in a clear, plain hand; but there was no mistaking the kindly intention behind it. I think it worth copying out here in fulclass="underline"
My dear Miss Penhow, When I had the pleasure of meeting you on Monday, you asked whether I knew where the name of Bleeding Heart Square came from. I wasn’t able to satisfy your curiosity then, but this morning I came across a piece of information I thought might be of interest to you. According to a man who lodges in the house and has made something of a study of these matters, there is an old legend relating to Bleeding Heart Square and Rosington Place next door. It seems that it was once the site of a palace, of which the only remaining sign is the chapel. Many years ago, there was a ball at which a devil appeared, dressed as a gentleman. He danced a great deal with the lady of the house, who was much taken with him. They danced out of the palace together, and vanished. In the morning, the only sign of her was a human heart, still warm-left in the middle of what is now Bleeding Heart Square! I’m afraid this is rather a sinister story for a lady’s ears, but I thought you would be interested in such a quaint old legend. Yours very sincerely,
J. S. Serridge The Major is quite right-it is a sinister tale. It was most sensitive of him to take account of my feelings, though. Of course it is only one of those funny old stories that abound in these old places. Still, it’s not without interest so I record it here. Memo: write and thank him for his kindness.
On her second morning at Bleeding Heart Square, Lydia went out for breakfast again. She bought a copy of The Times from a news-agent’s in Charleston Street, partly to give her something to do while she was at the café and partly because reading The Times was an activity that seemed to connect her to the person she had been before she left Frogmore Place.