After the second-floor landing, he abandoned dignity, dropped to his knees and crawled.

If only I didn’t feel anything. Not a bad old stick, Ingleby-Lewis. And the girl, of course. Where did I put the bloody gin?

Finally, swearing continuously under his breath, he ascended the narrow stairs to the attic. As he searched for his key, he glanced over his shoulder, down the stairs. Serridge was standing on the second-floor landing watching him. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his face was as unreadable as the face of the Red Indian outside the tobacconist’s in Charleston Street. Rory tried to say something but at that moment pain shafted through him, making him double up and screw his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again, Serridge had gone. Perhaps the man had been a hallucination.

His sitting room was very cold. Rory locked the door behind him, lit the gas fire at the fourth attempt, and tracked down the gin to the bottom of the chest of drawers. He slumped into the armchair in front of the fire with the bottle at his elbow. He un-corked the gin and swallowed a mouthful of neat spirit. His mouth and throat burned. He coughed so hard he almost dropped the bottle. He swallowed some more. He was still wearing his raincoat and he stuffed his hands into the pockets to keep warm. The fingers of his left hand touched a small metallic object. He took it out and let it rest in the palm of his hand. A cufflink. He frowned at it.

The cufflink had an enamel design-a red circle on a blue background; and superimposed on the circle was a golden symbol he didn’t recognize.

Cinderella’s slipper? Find the other one, and perhaps I find who attacked me.

The words churned through his mind as the gin worked its way down to his stomach, tumbling from side to side, numbing some of the pain in his body. The words twisted and turned like dead leaves dancing in the heat haze above his father’s bonfire in the garden of the house in Hereford. More gin, less pain. Mrs. Langstone had been jolly decent this evening. He must remember to thank her properly.

11

PHILIPPA PENHOW decides she is married to Joseph Serridge in the eyes of God. Joseph Serridge decides to buy them a home in the country (with Philippa Penhow’s money). Then, hey presto, he produces the perfect place like a rabbit out of a conjurer’s hat. It would have made anyone suspicious, you’d think, anyone but a fool in love.

Friday, 28 February 1930 Joseph and I went down to the country today to visit the farm he thinks might suit us. It’s near a village called Rawling on the Essex-Hertfordshire border and surprisingly close to London (though we had to change twice between Liverpool Street and Mavering, the nearest station to the village). We took a taxi from Mavering to the farm. It’s called Morthams. Joseph said that if we do decide to purchase the property we might consider buying a little motor car. It would be so much more convenient for running up to town and might even save money in the long run. This started me thinking! I should so like to give him a present he would really enjoy and I think a motor car might be just the ticket. The property consists of a farmhouse (most picturesque!), with a farmyard to one side and about 120 acres of good land. We drove up to the house by a muddy lane and parked between the farmyard (rather smelly!) and the house. It’s a nice old place with some good-sized rooms and plenty of space for all the furniture I have in store. It would need some work on it, Joseph says, but nothing that should be too expensive. I must confess it seemed rather cold and damp to me but Joseph explained that that was because no one had been living there over the winter, since the last tenant had moved away. On the side away from the farmyard is the sweetest little cottage garden, though sadly overgrown. As we walked in the garden, Joseph pressed my arm and murmured that it was such a romantic spot, and at last we could be alone together. I asked whether Morthams was perhaps rather lonely, a little far from the shops. But he pointed out that we should soon get used to that, and in any case we could make regular trips into Saffron Walden and even London for shopping. The owner’s solicitors had sent a clerk to open up the house for us and answer any questions we might have. Joseph had quite a chat with the man, who said he thought the owner was in a hurry to sell and might accept an offer substantially below the asking price, which is £2,100. I was still in the garden when Joseph came to tell me this. The clouds had parted, and the sun was streaming down. Out of the wind, it was almost warm. I imagined the garden coming to life around us in a few weeks’ time with crocuses, cowslips and daffodils. He asked me what I thought and I replied that perhaps we should go back to London and consider what best to do. Joseph said in that case we might lose the property because several other people were coming to see it today and tomorrow. He thinks it would be perfect for us and suggested we make an offer of £1,700. It will mean selling about a quarter of my investments, but as Joseph pointed out, the farm itself would be a far better investment than any stocks and shares and besides it would give us a home of our own, so we should save money on rent. Even if we were to sell it right away, we should make a profit. The clerk showed us over the rest of the place. Joseph made much of the neglected state of it, but murmured privately to me that in fact the land was in very good shape underneath. Then we made our offer! I dare say we shall have to wait a day or two before we hear the owner’s reply. I’m on tenterhooks! On the train home, Joseph said that he thought it might be best to ask his own solicitor to handle the purchase. I wondered whether we should ask Mr. Orburn but Joseph said it would only add unnecessary cost and besides his man specializes in conveyancing and will do a better, faster job. I agreed. (I don’t want to give Joseph the impression I distrust his judgment and of course men know more about this sort of thing than women!) I nearly forgot to mention: Joseph asked me to wear a gold band on my ring finger, just for the look of the thing, in case I needed to remove my gloves. He introduced me to the clerk as “Mrs. Serridge.” It gave me quite a thrill!!

How cleverly Serridge arranged it all. Morthams Farm was conveniently near London yet unusually remote from everywhere. Philippa Penhow had lived almost all her life in cities. She had no idea what the country is like. The muddy paths, the absence of neighbors, the great brooding skies and the silence. The darkness at night. The fact that there may be no one to hear you.

The office boy was still confined to bed with what his mother now claimed was German measles. Mr. Reynolds remarked that it was most inconvenient. Mr. Smethwick said the young shaver was a little beast and Miss Tuffley, as befitted a member of the gentler sex, said he was a poor lamb. One consequence of the boy’s absence was that Lydia was obliged to work on Saturday morning.

As she made herself ready, she heard her father snoring in his room. In the sitting room the empty brandy bottle lay on its side in the hearth. Pulling on her gloves, she went down to the hall.

Among the small pile of post on the table was a letter addressed to her in her sister’s handwriting. There was also a parcel, slightly larger than a tennis ball, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, for J. SERRIDGE, ESQ.

Footsteps came slowly down the stairs. Letter in hand, she moved away from the table, reluctant to be caught spying. It was Rory Wentwood, walking slowly and a little stiffly.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m so glad it’s you. I wanted to say thank you.”

“It was nothing. How are you feeling?”

“Rather better than I thought I would.” His dark eyebrows wrinkled into a frown and he winced, giving the lie to his words. “Most of the time, at any rate. I know I’d be feeling a lot worse if you hadn’t turned up when you did.”