“I remember.”
Still standing, they faced each other across the table.
“I didn’t tell you everything.” He paused, and wished that she would say something. “In particular, I didn’t mention that I had been approached by a man called Narton, who’s been watching this house for some time. He said he was a plain-clothes police officer and he wanted my help. Like me, he was interested in the Penhow case. He said the police hadn’t been able to find any evidence that Serridge had done away with her, but they weren’t satisfied.”
“A little man, middle-aged, in an old tweed coat and a hard collar?”
“How did you know that?”
“I saw you together once in the Blue Dahlia.”
“You’re observant. You think there’s any chance that Serridge might have seen us too?”
Lydia shrugged. “Not that I know of. Anyway, what happened?”
“He persuaded me to go to Rawling and talk to the Vicar. He said he couldn’t go himself, or one of his colleagues, because the Vicar was a chum of Serridge’s, and he didn’t want to run the risk of Serridge finding out that the police were still interested. But then I happened to discover that Narton himself lived in Rawling, which was something he hadn’t seen fit to tell me. The next thing was that I found a copy of the local newspaper in the dustbin downstairs when I was throwing out my rubbish.” He wondered whether to mention the goat’s skull but decided to leave that until later. “It must have been Serridge’s. There was a stop-press item about a man who had died at a cottage in Rawling at the beginning of the week. It was Narton.”
The silence in the big, cold room lay heavily over everything. He watched Lydia swallow. He wished he hadn’t been such a fool as to mention this. She would blurt it all out to her father, who would tell Serridge. Or she would even tell Serridge herself, Serridge who might well be sweet on her.
“I think we’d better sit down,” Lydia said. “Don’t you?”
She sat down and waved him to the seat opposite hers. He laid the parcel on the table, dislodging the blotter in the process. Rory felt the muscles in his shoulders relax. He had been tense for a long time, he realized, though he had not been aware of it. The reason for the slackening of tension arrived in his mind a split second afterward: it was a relief to have told someone about Narton at last, even Lydia Langstone, a woman whom he didn’t really know.
Shifting the blotter had exposed part of the letter that Lydia had been writing. Rory had just time to read the address, the date and the salutation of the letter: Dear Mrs. Alforde. Lydia pushed the blotter to the other side of the table, covering the letter as she did so.
Once again his muscles tensed. He hadn’t been open with her, so why should he expect her to be open with him?
She was looking at him, her lips slightly parted. “How did he die?”
“While cleaning a shotgun.”
“Which means it was probably suicide?”
“Yes. And there was something else,” Rory went on. “Mrs. Narton said that her husband had been forced to leave the police force three years ago.”
“Then why was he still so interested in Serridge?”
“I’m coming to that. I thought I’d go and see the Vicar again, see if he could help. It was lunchtime so I had to kick my heels for a time. I was in the churchyard and I saw a gravestone for Amy Narton, who died in 1931. She was the daughter. Then I talked to the Vicar, who more or less came out and said that Narton had been unbalanced by his daughter’s death. She died in childbirth and nobody knew who the baby’s father was. She had worked at Morthams Farm, but the Vicar saw no reason to believe that it was Serridge. But later I talked to the maid, and she told a rather different story. She had no doubt Serridge was responsible.” He hesitated and then plunged on. “She’d found a photograph of Amy in the nude on a bicycle. Apparently that was part of his courting technique.”
Lydia snorted with laughter. “Surely that’s a joke? Please tell me it is.”
“I don’t think so. Serridge persuaded the village maidens that it was how smart ladies up in London learned to ride their bikes.”
“Imagine it. Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon.”
He smiled at her. “Rebecca thought he was keeping Miss Penhow a virtual prisoner at the farm, and that he had another mistress in London as well. A strange girl was seen at the farm just before Miss Penhow disappeared. And there were two other things which were even stranger. The first was that Serridge used to come to Rawling Hall-that’s the big house near the village-before the war. So he knew the place already. And the second thing was even stranger, and I don’t pretend to understand it. There were-some skulls, the skulls of animals, in the place where the maid was talking to me. Her nephew was with us, and they were his pride and joy. And it seemed one of them had gone missing. The skull of a billy goat.”
Lydia stiffened. “With very long horns? Sort of swept back?”
“So you saw it too?”
“Yes. Or something very like it. It came in the post for Mr. Serridge. He opened it in here.” She caught up with the implication of the word too. “But when did you see it? And where?”
“Last week. It was in one of the dustbins downstairs. Along with the Mavering newspaper that mentioned Narton’s death.”
“None of it makes sense, does it? Not if you try to put it all together. What will you do?”
Rory ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know.”
“And now Mrs. Renton? How does she come into it?”
“No idea. Have a look at the parcel. I suppose I should give it to Miss Kensley.”
He watched Lydia reading the letters and examining the skirt. She looked at him.
“Why don’t you show this to Mrs. Renton first? After all, it’s addressed to her. See what she says-it can’t do any harm. So when you give it to Miss Kensley, you can say you’ve done everything that you possibly could.”
“All right. I’ll ask her now. Thanks awfully. You’ve been very helpful.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Not at all.”
He picked up the skirt and the letters and went downstairs, leaving her folding the wrapping paper at the table. He knocked on the door of Mrs. Renton’s room. There was no answer. He knocked again with the same result. He went back upstairs. As he reached the first-floor landing, Lydia came out from the little kitchen.
“No luck?” she said.
“She’s not in.” Rory’s mind ran ahead to the rest of the day: he himself would have to go out, back to combing through the Situations Vacant boards in the public library. “It will have to wait. I need to go out.”
“Would you like me to ask her about it?” Lydia said. “As it happens, I’ll be in for most of the day.”
“Would you? That’s very decent. If you’re sure it’s no trouble?”
“Not at all. I want to see Mrs. Renton about some mending.”
Rory handed over the parcel and Miss Penhow’s letter. He continued upstairs, with Mrs. Narton’s note in his hand. Lydia Langstone was really quite a good sort, he thought, despite the airs and graces and the cut-glass accent. Almost pretty too. She had, he thought, a trustworthy face. But perhaps that was wishful thinking, and what the devil was her connection with Mrs. Alforde?
17
READING THIS NOW, it’s obvious to you that even then Serridge was desperate to get away from Philippa May Penhow. Be honest. She probably revolted him.
Tuesday, 8 April 1930 I tried to keep myself busy while Joseph was in London. He drove to Bishop’s Stortford all by himself, and took the train from there. Of the two maids, Rebecca will, I think, prove a tower of strength. She is a little slow and sullen, as these country folk are apt to be, but she is a sensible woman and knows what she is about. I am less certain about young Amy, who seems rather sly and surly. She broke one of the Royal Doulton teacups as she was unpacking-how furious Aunt would have been!-and then tried to pretend it wasn’t her fault. Rebecca tells me that Amy’s mother used to work at the Hall too, but unfortunately she seems not to have passed on what she learned to her daughter! All the while today I was listening out for the sound of the car on the drive. But Joseph didn’t come back until after teatime. He swept in, in a very jolly mood, apologizing for his lateness, saying the train had been delayed. When he embraced me, I thought I smelled an unfamiliar perfume on his collar. And there was a long, fine hair on his jacket. I pointed this out to him and he became quite heated. He said there had been two little girls in the compartment of his train and the hair must have been one of theirs, and probably the perfume was on one of the cushions. I am afraid I allowed my wretched jealousy to run away with me and burst into angry tears. After a while, Joseph pulled me onto his knee and soothed me as if I were a child. That made me weep all the more at first but soon all was smiles again! While this was going on, poor Jacko had no idea what was happening and was running to and fro and getting underneath our feet and barking and whining. He was much happier when he saw that his master and mistress were the best of friends again. Later, as we were waiting for Rebecca to bring in our supper-I hesitate to call it dinner-Joseph produced two little packages, one for me and one for Jacko. Mine was a beautiful silk scarf from Liberty’s with a Japanese design on it. As for Jacko, he is now the proud owner of a smart new green leather collar with a brass buckle and seven shiny brass stars on it. Joseph said the collar made him look like a ferocious guard dog. How we laughed!