A bunch of daffodils and a snatch of baby talk-and she comes running back into his arms again. But not long now. You are counting the days.
“Now look here, Byrne. What’s it to you?”
Mr. Byrne, who had been sweeping sawdust, propped his broom against the wall of the Crozier and put his hands on his hips. He scowled at Serridge. “It’s next to my pub. That’s what it’s got to do with me.”
“It’s not there now.”
“But it was. And having that bloody disgusting thing hardly a yard from the door is hardly going to encourage trade, is it?”
Rory waited on the doorstep of number seven.
“I shouldn’t think it would have much effect one way or the other,” Serridge said coldly. “It’s not your pump. It belongs to the freeholders.”
“I’m a ratepayer, aren’t I?” Mr. Byrne had leaned forward, unmistakably hostile. His bald head was like a blunt instrument. “My old woman nearly had a fit when she saw what them birds were pecking at.”
“Don’t see why. She hangs out bacon rind for the bloody blue tits.”
“That’s not the same-anyone can see that. Look, someone round here is off his head. And the label had your name on it, Mr. Serridge-you remember that.”
Serridge stood there, not giving an inch either literally or metaphorically. His overcoat was open and his hands were deep in his trouser pockets; he had a cigar in the corner of his mouth and his hat on the back of his head. He looked like a farmer confronting an irritable porker.
“None of your bloody business,” he said with an air of finality. “You’re just the brewery’s tenant.”
At the sound of Rory’s footsteps, the other men glanced toward him.
But the porker wasn’t so easily put off. “You’ve been having quite a little problem with these hearts, I’m told,” Byrne said to Serridge, and as he spoke he came half a pace closer. “Parcels in the post from what I hear.”
“Who told you that?” Serridge snapped.
“The Captain.”
“And you believed him? I thought you had more sense.”
“I believed him because he was telling the truth, Mr. Serridge. And what interests me is why haven’t you been to the police about it? I mean, somebody’s making a nuisance of themselves. And maybe somebody’s trying to tell you something.”
“Nonsense.”
Rory had reached the corner now and was skirting the two men by the pump. He was on his way to the Central Library, where they had a back file of Berkeley’s. Later, in the afternoon, he wanted to practice his shorthand skills. He wouldn’t have much time in the evening because he was meeting Dawlish for a drink.
“Hey, there-Mr. Wentwood. You know about these hearts, don’t you?”
“Which hearts?”
“The ones that Mr. Serridge here has been getting in the post.”
Serridge turned toward Rory, towering over him, his face impassive. He didn’t need to say anything.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Byrne,” Rory said. “I don’t look at Mr. Serridge’s post. Only my own.”
“Because he knows it’s none of his business,” Serridge said, turning back to Byrne. “He’s not a fool, unlike some I could mention.”
There was a crack as the latch rose on the gate from Rosington Place. The wicket opened and Nipper scampered into Bleeding Heart Square, followed by Howlett.
“Morning, gents. I thought I heard your voices.”
“Mr. Howlett,” Byrne began. “It’s got to stop.”
“What has?”
“We’ve got someone with a nasty mind playing pranks around here. It’s not nice. If my little girl had seen what was left on the pump this morning, it would have given her nightmares.”
“Good morning, Mr. Howlett,” Serridge said. “How do?”
Howlett touched his hat. “All right, sir.”
“Suppose Byrne here tells you what’s on his mind. Once he’s got it off his chest, maybe he’ll feel better.”
“Bloody disgusting,” Byrne said. “That’s what it is. Jesus Mother of God, someone needs their head examined.”
Howlett listened gravely while the landlord explained what had been left on the pump and what Captain Ingleby-Lewis had told him about Serridge’s parcels. Nipper cocked his leg against the corner of the pump and squirted urine over the side of the stone basin. Rory tried to slip away but Serridge wrapped a hand around his arm. He squeezed it so firmly that Rory winced.
“Mr. Wentwood lives in my house, Howlett-if you want to ask him, he’ll soon tell you this business about parcels is nonsense.”
“You let me know if it happens again, Mr. Byrne,” Howlett said at last when Byrne had finished. “And I’ll keep my eyes open, don’t you worry about that. If you ask me it’s some boy’s prank. If I catch him at it, I’ll take a strap to him and then I’ll hang him up there to rot instead.”
Sitting at her desk by the window, Lydia Langstone glanced down into Rosington Place and saw Rory Wentwood standing outside the chapel and looking up at the great east window. In the background, Miss Tuffley’s voice rose and fell, swooped and dived, just as it had done all afternoon and did every afternoon unless Mr. Reynolds stopped her. She was talking about films at present, comparing Robert Donat in The Count of Monte Cristo with Leslie Howard in The Scarlet Pimpernel. Miss Tuffley wasn’t stupid. She concentrated her romantic urges on men who could be trusted to remain safely two-dimensional.
Lydia wished she wasn’t mooning over Rory Wentwood. She wasn’t in love with him, of course. She simply liked looking at him and talking to him and being with him. There was nothing wrong in that. The other silly symptoms were the accidental side effects of her leaving Marcus and turning her life upside down. All these emotions were flying around inside her like a swarm of bees and they had simply settled for the time being on Rory Wentwood, who was entirely unsuitable and in any case in love with someone else. Perhaps that was part of his charm. Still, he did look sweet in that cap of his, like an outsized little boy. She hoped he would be in that evening. They needed to talk. Also, it would be nice to see him again.
Rory glanced up at the windows opposite the chapel. Automatically Lydia pulled back a little. She wasn’t that far gone. It was one thing to watch him but quite another for him to know about it. He set off in the direction of Bleeding Heart Square.
“I mean, if you were marking their smiles out of ten,” Miss Tuffley was saying, “I think I would have to give Robert an eight and Leslie only a five, or perhaps a six. Leslie always makes me feel a bit sad, if you know what I mean. He’s much more spiritual. I think you could have a really, really deep conversation with him, don’t you?”
The door of the private office opened. “Mrs. Langstone?” said Mr. Shires. “Will you bring in the letter file? I shall be leaving early this afternoon.”
Lydia gathered up the folder containing the day’s letters waiting for signature.
“You can wait while I sign them,” he said. “Shut the door, will you-there’s a draught.”