He stared at the twisted bars of metal, and suddenly understood what they represented. Serridge was a man without boundaries. What he did to a machine he would do to a person.

22

YOU HOLD the diary up to your face. Is it your imagination or does it still smell faintly of his cigars? The smell clings to everything. It reminds you of Joseph Serridge, that and the smell of brandy.

Saturday, 19 April 1930 If only dear Jacko could talk. Every morning after breakfast, Joseph lights his first cigar of the day and goes out for what he calls his constitutional. Rain or shine, he takes Jacko for a walk down to the road. Usually the postman has been by then so he collects the letters from the box at the end of the drive and walks back. What worries me is that the letters are almost always for him. Once or twice there’s been a circular or something of that nature for me but nothing from the bank manager in reply to my letter last week and nothing from John. Nothing even from Miss Beale, who I know for a fact makes a point of replying to her letters on the very day she receives them. I never thought I would feel nostalgic for the dear old Rushmere but I do. I’m sure he’s got somebody else-he goes up to London so often and when he comes back, he won’t even look at me. He always sleeps downstairs now. Rebecca leaves today. Oh God. Please God, dear God, help me. Help me to know what to do.

That’s why you smell the diary-to remind you of why you hate the smell of cigars, the smell of fear.

Unfortunately Lydia was working at Shires and Trimble on Saturday morning. She would have to be particularly careful not to bump into Marcus or Rex Fisher on her way to and from the office.

As she was crossing the square, she heard the door opening again behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Rory was walking rapidly toward her. He was unshaven and his hair was tousled. He wasn’t even wearing a coat.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he said, breathing hard as though he had been running. “Something happened last night.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. At present, anyway. When I got back yesterday evening, I found Serridge waiting in my flat. Just sitting there with the lights off. He knows why I came here.”

“About Fenella?” Lydia felt the familiar twist of an emotion that couldn’t possibly be jealousy.

“Gladwyn must have told him about my going to Rawling. I’ve got my marching orders. I have to be out by Monday.”

“Where will you go?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Surely he has to give you more notice?”

“He’s keeping my deposit, too.” Rory swallowed. The cold had made the tip of his nose quite pink. “He-he broke a vase too-deliberately, I mean.”

“He’s trying to intimidate you.”

“He’s succeeded. The worst thing is, he wrecked my typewriter-bent the keys-which means I’m not going to be able to type up that piece about the meeting.” Rory ran his fingers through his hair. “Still, that’s my problem.”

“You can’t let him get away with that.”

“I don’t have much choice.” He smiled at her. “I don’t suppose you’ve a spare typewriter tucked away, have you? And there was something else-something that affected you. As a sort of Parthian shot, he said he didn’t want me pestering you any more. Or else I really would regret it.”

“He has absolutely no right to say that sort of thing.”

“I don’t think right had anything to do with it. Anyway, I hope I-” He broke off and glanced up at the blank windows of the house. “I’ll let you get on. We’ll talk about it later.” He raised a hand in farewell and walked away.

Lydia watched him for a moment. “Rory?” He turned. “If I don’t see you beforehand, good luck at the meeting.”

“Thanks.” A smile spread over his long, sad face. “Thanks, Lydia.”

There was the usual Saturday atmosphere of subdued merriment at Shires and Trimble. Mr. Reynolds confided in Mr. Smethwick that he was greatly looking forward to a concert on the wireless in the evening. Mr. Smethwick reciprocated with the information that he had tickets for that new show at the Palladium. Miss Tuffley was going to the pictures as usual and then going to stay overnight with her married sister in Croydon. Everybody, it seemed, had plans except Lydia.

At a quarter to ten, Mr. Shires came in, shaking drops of water from his umbrella and complaining about the weather. “Reynolds,” he said as he hung up his hat and his dripping raincoat, “I shall leave at midday today. I don’t want to get caught up in the fuss over the road.”

“The Fascists, sir?” Reynolds inquired.

“Yes-I dare say there’ll be a lot of people milling around beforehand.”

“Would you object if I go to the meeting, sir?”

“Not at all. You must tell me what that chap Fisher says.” Shires fumbled in his trousers for his keys. “All I know is that whoever is in power there’ll always be a need for lawyers. Good news for us, eh, Reynolds?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought I might pop along too, sir,” Smethwick said. “There’s free tea and sandwiches.”

“Good, good. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?” Shires bustled over to his door. “When Mr. Reynolds can spare you, Mrs. Langstone, I’d like a word, please.”

Five minutes later, Lydia went into the private office. She found Mr. Shires reading The Times. He nodded to her to close the door.

“Well? Have you got Mr. Langstone’s address for me?”

She gave him an envelope containing the note she had written last night. “He’s staying at his club, I gather. I put that address first. Then there’s the London house underneath and also Longhope, though I doubt he’ll be going down to the country for a few weeks. Lord Cassington’s solicitors are Rowsell, Kew and Whiston of Lincoln’s Inn. I can’t remember the name of the firm the Langstones use but I’ll find out.”

“They’re in London?”

Lydia nodded. “By the way, he’ll probably be at the meeting over the road.”

“Mixed up with the Fascists, is he?” Shires leaned back in his chair and tapped his teeth with his propelling pencil. “Then I assume you’re not going?”

“No.”

“Good. I shouldn’t advise it. The less contact you have with your husband the better. All in all, it might be wise if you were to leave with me. I’ll find an errand for you.” He paused for a moment and in that instant transferred her from one category of human being to another, from client to employee. “That will be all, Mrs. Langstone.”

Shortly after ten o’clock, a black van with a loudspeaker mounted on the roof drove slowly up Rosington Place. “Come and meet Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union’s Deputy Director of Economic Policy, at one o’clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Find out what British Fascism offers the British businessman. Join us for a cup of tea or coffee and a sandwich. God save the King!”

At the end of Rosington Place, the van made a three-point turn at the gates and drove slowly back down to the lodge, repeating its message. It spent the morning driving around the vicinity, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, the announcer’s voice growing hoarser and hoarser. Mr. Reynolds went down to the bank on the corner of Rosington Place and returned with the news that the van’s route included Clerkenwell, Farringdon Road, Holborn and beyond. He rubbed his hands together in a rare show of excitement. “They must be expecting quite a turnout.”

Sitting by the window, Lydia and Miss Tuffley could hardly avoid noticing the activity outside the chapel. There was a disconcertingly domestic air about the proceedings. A plain van arrived. Lydia watched two young women, younger than Miss Tuffley, carrying plates of sandwiches into the cloister at the side of the chapel and flirting with the driver. Two men wheeled out a trolley laden with cups and saucers, but this had to be abandoned because of all the steps. The van with the loudspeaker drove up and down again with a slightly modified message. “The British economy should be for the British people. Your work deserves its reward. Let the British Union show the way at one o’clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Free coffee, tea and sandwiches.”