Bleeding Heart Square by Andrew Taylor Page A

example. Privilege conferred its responsibilities.
    But this Sunday was not like other Sundays. It was the eleventh day of the eleventh month--Armistice Day. It was an occasion that Marcus took seriously because the death of his brother Wilfred gave him a personal interest in commemorating the glorious dead. The houses where Marcus lived, the farms and investments that paid for the servants who looked after them, the club subscriptions, the bills from the tailor, the wine merchant and the butcher--all these should have been Wilfred's. A quirk of fate had given Marcus flat feet, and had allowed Wilfred to be killed. Marcus felt obscurely that he owed his brother something. The observance of Armistice Day was the tribute that Marcus paid to the glorious dead, and in particular to Wilfred.
    After breakfast, which Lydia ate alone because her father was still asleep, she went out for a walk. It was a gray morning, but in places sunshine filtered through the mist. She went through the wicket gate into Rosington Place, where she found Mr. Fimberry, dressed in black and wearing his poppy, loitering near the noticeboard by the entrance to the chapel. A steady trickle of churchgoers flowed up the cul-de-sac toward them.
    "Good morning, Mrs. Langstone." Fimberry raised his hat. "Are you joining us today?"
    "No, thank you," she said politely.
    Lydia walked down to the lodge. Mr. Serridge was standing by the railings, smoking a pipe and idly watching a small crocodile of St. Tumwulf's girls, the school's Roman Catholic contingent, filing up to the chapel. He nodded to Lydia but did not speak.
    She drifted south and west across London. The closer she came to Whitehall, the more crowded the pavements became, with the current of people flowing more and more strongly toward the white stone Cenotaph. She arrived shortly before eleven.
    She could not even see the Cenotaph, let alone the King and the politicians and the generals. A gun boomed on Horse Guards Parade. The sound bounced to and fro among the buildings like an India rubber ball. Then came the tolling of Big Ben. After that, the silence ruled, heavy and stifling. Lydia listened to what noises there still were--the rustle of leaves, a crying baby, several coughs, one defiant sneeze. She thought it probable that Marcus was somewhere in the crowd. Her stepfather, too.
    The two-minute silence ended with a shocking crash of gunfire and the roll of drums. The crowd stirred and shifted like trees in strong winds. Trumpeters sounded the Last Post. Suddenly everyone was singing "Oh God, our help in ages past."
    Lydia turned and pushed her way through the singing figures and made her way to Trafalgar Square. All those hearts beating as one, she thought--Marcus loved this sort of thing. He liked it when crowds acted together like an enormous animal, united by a single purpose.
    She noticed a couple about thirty yards away walking along the north side of the square in front of the National Gallery. The man was Mr. Wentwood and he was accompanying a young woman with a slight, elegant figure. Mr. Wentwood glanced back and caught Lydia's eye. He ducked his head in a sort of bow and half raised his arm, as though trying to acknowledge her, but wanting to do so as discreetly as he could.
    But the girl had noticed. She too looked back. She had a pretty face and fair hair beneath the black hat. Then people flowed between them and the meeting, if it could be called that, was over almost as soon as it had begun. But it gave Lydia a glimpse of Mr. Wentwood's private life, of a hinterland that extended beyond Bleeding Heart Square and the Blue Dahlia cafe. The young woman had been very good-looking. A sister, Lydia wondered with an uncomfortable pang, or even a girlfriend?

    "Here," Rory said. "Have my handkerchief."
    Fenella took it without a word. Turning to face St. Martin-in-the-Fields, she blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Rory turned away from her and lit a cigarette. Lydia Langstone was no longer in