Fripp, his face impassive, held up her coat. She pushed her arms into the sleeves.
“Where are you going?” Marcus demanded.
“I’m going to enjoy myself,” Lydia said.
It did not take Rory long to assemble his belongings. He took them downstairs and stacked them in the hall, then knocked on Mrs. Renton’s door and paid what he owed for the sewing she had done.
“I’m sorry you’re going, Mr. Wentwood,” she said. “But if you’re not happy somewhere, I always say it’s wise to move on, and sooner rather than later. Mr. Fimberry’s leaving too. Father Bertram has found him somewhere else to live.” She looked up at him with a sudden, searching glance. “I wonder how long Mrs. Langstone will stay.”
He nodded without committing himself to an opinion. “I’ll leave my things out here and go and have a bite of lunch. Would you mind keeping an eye on them? I’m being collected at about half past two.”
A door slammed above their heads and heavy footsteps crossed the first-floor landing. “Willy,” they heard Serridge say, “I thought you’d be in the Crozier by this time. What’s up with you? You’ve got a face like a funeral.”
Rory nodded to Mrs. Renton and let himself quietly out of the house. He turned left into Charleston Street. In Hatton Garden, as he was waiting on the pavement for a break in the traffic, he glanced to his left and saw Lydia coming out of one of the shops. He walked toward her and raised his hat.
“Hello-I didn’t expect to see you here.” He grinned. “Idiotic thing to say, I know. You could have been anywhere.”
She smiled back. “I’ve been to see Mr. Goldman.”
“Is he all right?”
“Gloomier than ever but quite happy. I’ve just sold him a ring that used to belong to my great-aunt.”
“I hope he gave you a good price. In the circumstances.”
“He gave me what seemed to him a fair price, which is probably not the same thing. Anyway, I feel rich and I want to celebrate. Let me take you to lunch.”
“I can’t let you-”
“Yes, you can. Don’t be gentlemanly about it. You gave me supper last night after all. How’s the ankle? Can you walk as far as Fetter Passage?”
She pushed her arm through his and they crossed the road together. The Blue Dahlia was already busy. The manageress nodded when she saw them and pointed to a vacant table in the corner.
“It’s liver on the menu again,” Rory said.
“I’m having the hotpot.”
They sat down, chose what they would have for pudding and ordered. As they waited for their lunch, the excitement drained away from Lydia, leaving her listless and silent. When he poured water into her glass, a few drops fell on the table. She made liquid circles from them on the marble top, moving her finger round and round.
“What is it?” Rory said gently.
She looked up. “I want to tell you something,” she said. “Only I’m not sure I’m brave enough to do it.”
“Try me.”
“And it’s not fair to you.”
“Let me judge that.”
She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “Do you think Serridge killed Miss Penhow?”
He nodded. “It’s hard to see what else can have happened.”
“And what about the others? Did they help?”
Rory ticked them off on his fingers. “Howlett will do whatever Serridge tells him, as long as he’s paid. He provided the dog, and took the beastly thing back too. I’m sure there have been other things as well. He’s a useful ally to have in Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square.” He moved on to the next finger. “And then there’s Shires: do you think he was in on it too?”
Lydia nodded. “I don’t know how far he was implicated. But they must have had a lawyer to handle the purchase of the farm, and that was with Miss Penhow’s money and in Serridge’s name. And then there’s the house in Bleeding Heart Square. It’s hard to believe that the title deeds aren’t in Serridge’s name by now as well. He’d need Shires for something like that. And finally…”
She ran out of words and returned to making her circles on the marble.
Rory held up the third finger. “And finally there’s your father. But I rather doubt he’s involved, or not in an active way. I think he’s just somebody who happens to be a tenant, who knows Serridge from a previous life.”
Lydia shook her head. “He wrote that letter from New York. The one to Mr. Gladwyn.”
He stared at her, his eyes widening. “So it wasn’t from Miss Penhow? But you can’t be sure of that.”
“I can. I found the evidence. And he confirmed it when I asked.”
“And Miss Penhow? Did he know…?”
“I doubt it. I think he just looked the other way. I think that’s what Howlett and Shires did too. They didn’t want to see anything too unpleasant so they didn’t.”
“Like all those people in the audience on Saturday. The ones who just stood and watched when the Blackshirts went to work.”
She rubbed the circles away with her napkin.
“Lydia,” he said, “then what happened to Miss Penhow?”
“He probably buried her at the farm.” She glanced up. “There must be something left of her. Something still to find.”
“Not necessarily. It depends how clever he was. There was a case near Hereford when I was a boy. A chap killed his wife. He was a farmer too. There was a great heap of manure in the farmyard, and he put the body there. The police found what was left of her about six months later. I remember people saying that if it had been left in the midden for longer-three or four years, say-there would have been practically nothing left to find, except maybe a thigh bone that they couldn’t identify. It’s the acid, you see. It eats everything in time.”
The manageress herself brought their food. She set down the hotpot in front of Rory and the liver in front of Lydia. Lydia opened her mouth and then closed it again.
“You get that inside you, ducky,” the woman said sternly to Lydia. “Lot of iron in liver. And you need building up.”
“Yes,” said Lydia meekly.
The woman waddled away. Lydia picked up her knife and fork.
“Do you want to swap?” Rory said.
Lydia looked at him. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“It means you’ve passed some sort of test,” he told her. “She’s never called me ducky.”
Lydia gave him a small and unconvincing smile. They ate in silence. She forced herself to try the liver and to her surprise rather enjoyed it. That was one thing she had learned in the last few weeks: food mattered.
“But who sent the hearts and the skull?” he said suddenly.
She glanced at him and said with her mouth full, “Narton, of course.”
“How do you work that out?”
“Who else could it have been? Anyway I’ve got proof. Mrs. Narton sent you Miss Penhow’s skirt. She wrapped it in brown paper. I kept the paper the skull was wrapped in. It’s the same.”
“The same sort?”
“Two halves of the same sheet. The join matches, Rory. And Robbie thought it was Narton who stole his skull. But of course Narton doesn’t really matter here. It’s Serridge that counts.”
Rory laid down his knife and fork. “We can’t prove anything,” he murmured. “Not unless there’s a miracle. He’s covered his tracks too well.”
Lydia did not reply. It occurred to him suddenly that she might not want a miracle: if Serridge were charged with murder, then Captain Ingleby-Lewis would almost certainly be charged as an accessory.
After another mouthful, he said, “What will you do now?”
“The Alfordes have asked me to stay. I went to see them this morning, and it’s all fixed.”
He concealed the disappointment he felt. “How long for? Do you know?”
She shifted listlessly on her chair. “Just for a few weeks, I hope. I saw my mother and Marcus this morning too. I don’t think there will be any trouble with the divorce.”
“Good. Is he all right? Mr. Langstone, I mean.”