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!

How you laugh too. He fooled everyone. Even Jacko.

Finding Mrs. Renton was harder than Lydia had expected. She wasn’t in her room all day. That in itself was not unusual because she often visited her clients, who were scattered across London, and sometimes would work in their homes. Mrs. Renton returned to Bleeding Heart Square at some point in the evening but it was too late to call on her.

The following day, Wednesday, Lydia was at Shires and Trimble. The job was becoming less of an ordeal than it had been. Mr. Reynolds had decided that Lydia was quite useful for a woman. She had what he called a refined telephone manner and was also capable of understanding his filing system.

As for the others, Marcus’s roses had effected a decisive shift in the balance of power in the general office. Miss Tuffley confided to Lydia that Smethwick could be “an awfully vulgar little tyke” and that he had had too much cider and been a bit fresh with her on the firm’s summer outing in July, which frankly was a bit thick. She also volunteered the opinion that “Us girls should stick together.” It wasn’t just the roses that had done it. It was also the realization that Lydia had some sort of a connection with godlike males who were ferried around in silver Bentleys driven by uniformed chauffeurs.

Mr. Shires came in at nine thirty. He greeted everyone and walked rapidly into the private office. Lydia gave him ten minutes and then picked up her notepad and tapped on his door. He was standing at the big desk with the waste-paper basket beside him, working his way through the morning’s post.

“May I have a word, sir?”

He glanced at his wristwatch. “Very well. I can only spare you a moment, though.”

Lydia closed the door behind her. “I wanted to ask your advice on a personal matter.”

He frowned. “That’s a little unusual.” He walked round the desk to his chair. “You’d better sit down.” He pulled a small white paper bag toward him and helped himself to a peppermint.

“I want a divorce,” Lydia said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A divorce.”

“Bless my soul. Mrs. Langstone, have you any idea what that would entail?”