But the box wasn’t empty. It held a jumble of pens, paper, pencils, envelopes and inks. The paper was no longer white but turning yellow and brittle with age. Some of the nibs were spotted with rust. Lydia’s eyes rested on a small sheet of paper, blank apart from seven words at the top: I expect you are surprised to hear-

She pushed aside the sheet. Underneath it was a sheet of foolscap with more writing on it, a long column of names-all of them the same: P. M. Penhow.

There was a knock on the door. Lydia dropped the lid clumsily on top of the box. When she opened the door, she found Malcolm Fimberry standing very close to it on the other side. He stared at her through his pince-nez and smiled. His lips were moist and very brightly colored, almost red. He was trembling slightly.

“Mrs. Langstone. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“What is it?” Lydia said, knowing that she must sound rude. Mr. Fimberry was the sort of person to whom you found yourself being rude without meaning to be.

“I heard the noise upstairs-I’m just beneath, you see-so I knew somebody was in. I thought perhaps Captain Ingleby-Lewis was here.”

“He’s not, I’m afraid.” Lydia realized that she was still carrying the cloth she had been using for dusting. “May I take a message?”

“Yes-no-you see, it’s rather delicate. I lent him ten shillings some time ago, and I wondered whether it was convenient for him to pay me back now. He…he said he would pay me at the end of the week-that was last month-but he must have forgotten, and after that when I happened to mention it, it wasn’t convenient, but perhaps if you were to have a word with him…”

He broke off and lowered his eyes. He seemed to be staring at her chest. She registered the fact that he hadn’t shaved and that the stubble on his chin was more ginger than the hair on his head. She also saw that the breast pocket of his tweed jacket was in need of repair and that he hadn’t changed his collar for some time.

“It must have slipped my father’s mind,” she said. “I’ll give you the money now.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Langstone, you are very kind. I think I saw you and your father near the chapel this morning, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a very interesting building, of course. Did you know that I work there, by the way? In an honorary capacity, that is.”

She found her purse and counted out ten shillings in silver. His fingers touched hers as the money changed hands.

“Father Bertram calls me his assistant sexton.” He gave a little laugh that was unexpectedly high and girlish. “Perhaps you would allow me to give you a guided tour. There are so many interesting stories associated with the old place.”

“That’s very kind. Actually at present I’m rather busy and-”

“It needn’t take up much of your time, Mrs. Langstone. You see, because it’s on the doorstep, one can pop in for ten minutes here and ten minutes there. Oh, you would enjoy it, I promise you. Such a lot of history, so many strange yarns.”

There were footsteps on the stairs, and the small, shapeless figure of Mrs. Renton appeared.

“You left your kettle boiling, Mr. Fimberry,” she announced. “Must be almost dry by now.”

“Oh-yes, thank you. Goodbye, Mrs. Langstone.” At the head of the stairs, he turned back. “Thank you, Mrs. Langstone,” he murmured.

“Has the Captain heard when Mr. Serridge will be back?” Mrs. Renton asked Lydia.

“Today at some point. That’s all I know. By the way, I saw that young man this morning, Mr. Wentwood-the one who came about the flat. He seemed to have been looking round the chapel.”

“Then him and Mr. Fimberry should have something to talk about,” Mrs. Renton said. “I’d best be getting on. At least it’s not smelling yet.”

Lydia blinked. “What isn’t?”

“The parcel in the hall,” Mrs. Renton said. “Mr. Serridge’s new heart.”

5

JOE SERRIDGE plays Philippa Penhow like a fish. He knows just what to say, and how, and when. But the fish makes it easy for him. The fish wants to be caught.

Wednesday, 29 January 1930 Major Serridge called again this morning-he wanted my advice about the choice of wallpaper for his room. “It needs a lady’s eye,” he told me. He added that of course it had to be an artistic lady! I offered to pay for it, but he was quite obstinate-he didn’t want to put me out, it was for his benefit, etc., and he insists on bearing the whole cost himself. He wasn’t able to stay long. When I went with him to the door, there was a beggar outside with a poor, half-starved mongrel, and the Major said he would go after the man and make sure he gave the dog something to eat. How typical of his warm heart! I told him about Aunt’s dog Susie, and he told me about a dog he had when he was a little lad. Then he said, “Long before you were born, I’ll be bound!”

That afternoon there were Fascists on the streets. In twos and threes, they patrolled Holborn and Clerkenwell, handing out leaflets and selling copies of the Blackshirt. They were very smart, like athletic chauffeurs, and attracted a good deal of interest from young women and even from St. Tumwulf’s schoolgirls. Some were young, little more than boys, but others looked as if they might have fought in the war. All of them were very polite. Lydia found it hard to distinguish one from the other. One noticed the uniforms, not the faces, just as one did with members of the Salvation Army.

Marcus had been interested in the movement since Mosley had founded the New Party, the predecessor of the British Union of Fascists, in 1931. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Sir Rex Fisher to recruit him. Fisher wasn’t just a party member-he was said to be one of the Leader’s closest advisers, and a personal friend. He was also a war hero, with a Military Cross or something, which must give him additional glamour in Marcus’s eyes. Marcus was almost grovellingly keen to impress people who had had a good war because he himself had done nothing much except step into the shoes of his dead brother.

A hint of fog hung in the air and it caught the back of the throat, the promise of worse to come. But even the weather failed to dent the enthusiasm of the Blackshirts, though some of them were pink-nosed and peaky in the cold. On her way back to the flat, Lydia accepted a pamphlet advertising a meeting to discuss “Fascism and Empire” to stop them pestering her.

She loitered outside the window of a Lyon’s Corner House. Two shopgirls came out, and with them came a waft of warm, sweet and smoky air. A cup of tea would be a penny. Two buns would cost another penny. She could afford it easily at present, but she forced herself to turn away and walk back to the flat. A cup of tea and a slice of toast at the flat would cost even less. She must learn to be economical. She no longer had money for luxuries. She had nothing more than she had received from Mr. Goldman that morning, together with two more pieces of jewelry and a Post Office savings book containing seventeen pounds and a few odd pence.

In Bleeding Heart Square, Lydia found her father in front of the sitting-room gas fire with an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. “That husband of yours. I happened to be in the Crozier at lunchtime, and he looked in to have a word.”

Lydia felt weary, cold and footsore. She sat down opposite her father.

“He says there was a misunderstanding and you rushed off. Bit impulsive, wasn’t it? Throw away a whole marriage for that?”

“Marcus had just knocked me over, which may have had something to do with it.”

Ingleby-Lewis looked away from her. “He didn’t mention that. I-ah-I’m sure he regrets it.”

“So do I.”

Her father peered into the bowl of his pipe as though hoping against hope to find a marriage counselor inside. “Ah. Still. Hmm. All the same, you must keep it in proportion, my dear. We men are rough brutes occasionally, you know, and we can lose our tempers. Regrettable, of course, but there it is.”