Someone punched the inside of his thigh. Christ, they’re going for my balls. He lost his grip on the wrist. His hands curled into fists. He lashed out and was rewarded with a grunt. Then a blow-a kick?-landed in his crotch and he screamed, a high, inhuman sound.

“Listen to me, you bastard,” a voice snarled very close to his ear, penetrating the white curtain of pain. “I’ll say this only once. And if you don’t take notice I’m going to cut your prick off and shove it down your mouth.”

A door opened somewhere. The music was suddenly louder as if the teddy bears were pouring into Bleeding Heart Square itself. Rory’s shoulders and legs were free. He rolled onto his side, curling into a protective huddle. He heard voices and running footsteps.

“Hey, I say!” a slurred male voice said. “Mind where you’re going, old man. What’s the rush?”

The footsteps receded. Now there were other footsteps, much slower and less regular.

“I say,” the voice said again. “You all right, old chap? Bit squiffy, eh?”

Another door opened, and another wedge of light spilled into the square. Rory forced open his eyes but the pain made it hard to focus. He recognized the voice rather than the dark shape looming over him. He tried to speak but there was blood on his face and some of it had got inside his mouth and made him cough.

“I don’t think those fellows liked the cut of your jib,” Captain Ingleby-Lewis continued.

There were more footsteps, lighter and faster than the others.

“Father, what’s happening?”

“Hello, my dear. I think someone’s had a bit of an accident.”

Rory struggled into a sitting position. Lydia Langstone was on one side of him and her father was on the other.

“Mr. Wentwood-what on earth is going on?”

“Someone…” He stopped trying to get up as a twinge of pain made him groan. “Someone attacked me.”

“Can you stand?” Lydia asked.

“It’s a damned disgrace,” Captain Ingleby-Lewis said. “This wouldn’t have happened before the war, you know.”

“What-what wouldn’t?” Rory asked.

“This sort of barefaced robbery. What can you expect with these Bolsheviks everywhere? It makes Jack think he’s as good as his master. I’d hang the lot of them if I had my way. It’s the only answer.”

Rory groggily maneuvered himself onto his hands and knees.

“Father,” Lydia said, “help Mr. Wentwood up.”

“Eh? Oh yes. Of course.”

Ingleby-Lewis hooked an arm under Rory’s, the one that had taken the blow, and pulled. Rory squealed with pain. Ingleby-Lewis started back and nearly sat down.

“Let me help,” Lydia said.

Together they pulled Rory to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, supported by Lydia and Ingleby-Lewis on either side. “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic” tinkled and thumped across the square. He had not realized before how damned sinister the tune was.

“Damn,” he said. “I hope I’m not bleeding on you.”

“Don’t worry,” Lydia said. “We’d better get you back to the house. Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“We need to find a policeman. What did they steal?”

“I don’t think they stole anything.”

“I arrived just in time,” said Ingleby-Lewis with a note of congratulation in his voice. “They’re yellow at heart, you know, scum like that.”

“How many were there?”

“Two,” Ingleby-Lewis said. “Or was it three? Great big chaps, in any case. Cowardly devils. As soon as they saw me, they-”

“Let’s take Mr. Wentwood back to the house. Then perhaps you could find a police officer.”

“Not much point, my dear.”

“But Mr. Wentwood has been attacked.”

“It does happen, I’m afraid. Especially around here. Friday night and all that. Nothing was stolen. I’m not sure the police would be very sympathetic and frankly it’s a waste of time. They’re not going to catch the blackguards, after all. Much better to get Mr. Wentwood cleaned up.”

Lydia stooped and picked up something that glinted in the light. “Is this yours?”

Rory blinked at her.

“This cufflink,” she said with a touch of impatience.

“I don’t know.” It was hard enough to stand, let alone talk. “Probably.”

She held it out to him. Rory swayed, wondering if he would be sick. She pushed the cufflink into the pocket of his raincoat and took his arm. “Hold up,” she said. “We’ll get you inside.”

The first step made him howl with agony, but as the three of them moved slowly toward the door of the house, the pain receded a little. Captain Ingleby-Lewis was less than steady on his feet. Rory wasn’t sure who was supporting whom. Once they reached the hallway, Rory let go of Lydia’s arm and took firm hold of the newel post.

“Can you manage the stairs?” she asked.

“I think so. I’m sorry to be such a bore.”

“It’s not your fault. Come up to our flat and I’ll get some hot water.”

“Brandy,” Ingleby-Lewis said behind them with the air of a man who says Eureka! “That’s what one needs in a situation like this. I’ll see if the Crozier can provide some, shall I?”

Lydia took Rory into the sitting room she shared with her father, and made him sit down at the table. Ingleby-Lewis set off to the Crozier on his errand of mercy. Lydia went away for a moment.

Rory thought that the room seemed tidier and cleaner than before. Indeed, it looked almost cheerful. There was a book lying open with its spine upward, as though Lydia had put it down in a hurry on the table when she heard the commotion outside. He craned to see the title, and the movement made him wince. Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. How odd. He would have expected an Agatha Christie novel or even a well-thumbed copy of Horse & Hound. A snapshot protruded from the pages, a marker no doubt. He made out the top half of a rather pretty girl in a bathing costume, surrounded by several grinning young men with little moustaches. He heard footsteps and turned away.

Lydia came into the room with a basin of hot water, a towel and a cloth. She soaked the cloth in the water, wrung it out and advised him to wipe his face. He obeyed her. Afterward he looked up at her.

“How do I look?”

“Not too bad. The nosebleed’s stopped. Are your teeth all right?”

He ran his tongue over them. “I think they’re all there. One of them’s chipped.”

“What about the rest of you?”

“A few aches and pains.” He tried to ignore the agony below, to pretend it belonged to someone else. “I don’t think anything’s actually broken.”

A silence grew between them, awkward and unwanted.

“Thank you,” Rory said.

Simultaneously Lydia said, “Shouldn’t I try to find a doctor? Or you could go to the Outpatients at Barts. Surely someone should have a look at you?”

“I’m all right, thanks.” He felt as though he were temporarily disconnected from the world around him. He wanted desperately to be alone. “I really must go.”

There were footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Captain Ingleby-Lewis came in with a bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag. He set it carefully on the table with an air of triumph.

“There,” he said. “That’ll set you right. Lydia, my dear, would you bring us some glasses?”

“Not for me, thank you.” Supporting himself on the table, Rory struggled to his feet. “I-I won’t take up any more of your time. I’m sure I can get upstairs under my own steam.”

Ingleby-Lewis protested, though not very hard, and Lydia said nothing at all. Rory thanked them both again and slowly walked out of the room, trying to hold himself very straight. The stairs stretched up from the first-floor landing, flight after flight, their summit as unattainable as Mount Everest’s. But he wanted the silence of his own flat, the privacy, and the security of a locked door.

His mind was moving slowly and seemed to be full of fog. But he remembered there was something odd about Ingleby-Lewis, and as he struggled up the first flight, he remembered what it was. Ingleby-Lewis had sold Morthams Farm to Miss Penhow and Serridge. Yet here he was, living in Serridge’s house, living as Serridge’s tenant. Except it wasn’t Serridge’s house, or it used not to be. It used to belong to Miss Penhow.