“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.”

He flipped open the folder, uncapped his fountain pen and began to sign the letters, his eyes running swiftly over the contents of each. Lydia waited, standing by the door.

“Do sit down, Mrs. Langstone. I wanted a word with you.” He scrawled his signature, blotted it and moved on to the next letter. “With reference to our earlier conversation, I intend to write to Mr. Langstone over the weekend, according to your instructions.” He looked up, peering at her with watery eyes. “After due consideration, I think it would be better for all concerned if it were not generally known that I am acting for you, particularly in this office. One wouldn’t want to encourage tittle-tattle during office hours, or to bring undesirable attention to the firm. But I have a small private practice which I run from home. Of course, some publicity will be inevitable in the long run, if the affair proceeds to its conclusion. But we need not anticipate it unnecessarily.”

“I’m still rather concerned about the cost, sir.”

He nodded. “I’m glad to hear of it. Money matters, Mrs. Langstone, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. We shall move cautiously. As we were saying earlier, since you’re the injured party, I see no reason why Mr. Langstone shouldn’t pay any costs incurred. On top of that, we shall ask him to settle an annuity on you. We shall also need to take into account anything of material value that you’ve brought into the marriage.”

“He spent all that long ago,” Lydia said, and was surprised to hear the bitterness in her voice.

“It would be very helpful if you would let me have a note of the details as far as you are able. Let me have it tomorrow morning. If there was any formal arrangement, I imagine a solicitor was involved-perhaps Lord Cassington’s family solicitor? It would be helpful to know. Copies of any documents relating to the settlement would be invaluable. In the meantime, I shall write to Mr. Langstone. You must give me his address tomorrow as well. He should receive the letter on Monday.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Shires sighed. “Don’t get your hopes too high, Mrs. Langstone. We have a long way to go.”

Lydia spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze. At last it seemed possible that there might one day be an end to all this uncertainty-and to the poverty too. It was reassuring that she had an ally in the shape of Mr. Shires. She didn’t much like the man but she had no reason to doubt his professional competence. His personal probity was another matter-she remembered that odd snatch of telephone conversation she had overheard between him and Serridge. There was nothing to show that either Serridge or Miss Penhow had ever been a client of Shires and Trimble. But they might be Mr. Shires’ private clients, and in that case their names would not feature in Mr. Reynolds’ files.

At the end of the day Lydia and Miss Tuffley went downstairs together. Miss Tuffley paused in the hall to light a cigarette before venturing outside. Lydia asked if she had any plans for the weekend.

“Not really. I’ll probably go to the pictures on Saturday afternoon. Do you ever go to the pictures?”

“Occasionally.”

“You can tag along sometimes if you want.” Miss Tuffley lowered her head over the match. “It’s not much fun going by yourself, is it? Just let me know.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Miss Tuffley opened the front door and led the way down the steps. It had started to rain. Rory Wentwood was waiting outside under an umbrella. He raised his cap when he saw them.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Langstone,” he said.

Miss Tuffley nudged Lydia. “You lucky thing. They’re all after you, aren’t they? It’s not fair. Can’t you spare one for me?”

She squealed with laughter and waved to them both. She set off along the pavement toward Holborn, swaying on her high heels and leaving behind her a sweetly entangled smell of Wood-bines and cheap scent.

“There’s so much we need to talk about,” Lydia said quietly to Rory as they were walking toward the gate to Bleeding Heart Square.

“I know. And I’ve got a favor to ask. Are you busy this evening?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

“Because I wondered if you’d be kind enough to-” He broke off as the wicket gate opened, revealing Malcolm Fimberry framed in the doorway between Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square.

“Mrs. Langstone! Good evening.” Fimberry beamed at her and then added with less enthusiasm, “Hello, Wentwood.”

Rory nodded to him.

Fimberry stayed where he was, blocking their way. “I promised to show you something of the chapel, Mrs. Langstone. If you’ve got five minutes to spare, I can promise you won’t regret it.”