The Skeleton in the Closet

∨ The Skeleton in the Closet ∧

Eight

IN the morning, before they could set out, they were visited by two men from the Special Branch. The questions began again. Had either of them ever been in Northern Ireland? Had they any Irish relatives? Neither had, which was unusual; a great proportion of the populace of the British Isles having Irish ancestry somewhere in their family tree.

“I really don’t think the IRA would bother with a little market town like Buss,” said Fell.

“They hide out all over the place on the mainland,” said one of the men. “Ten years ago, a lodging house over on the other side of Buss was raided, and bomb-making equipment, guns, and a quantity of Semtex were seized. That’s all for now. But if you plan on changing your address, let the police know.”

Then Dunwiddy phoned. He said that they should let him know when they planned to return and a police guard would be put on Fell’s house. “In that case,” Fell said, “we might go back tomorrow.”

He and Maggie drove off to Bramley-on-the-Hedges. “Instead of parking outside the house,” said Fell, “we’ll park right outside the village stores and see if we can spot him in the village.”

“And what good will that do?” asked Maggie nervously.

“I want him worried,” said Fell. “I’m getting very angry at the attempt on our lives.”

After an hour, a little group of villagers began to gather outside the shop, staring angrily at Fell and Maggie, who were parked on the opposite side of the road.

“I don’t get it,” said Fell. “Why are they so hostile?”

“I don’t know.” Maggie looked nervously at them. “You know, Fell, I wish we had told Dunwiddy about someone trying to push you in the river. I wish we had confided in him more.”

“I know,” said Fell. “But I was so worried about that Andy Briggs business. I still am. They’ll have been questioning and questioning the neighbours, and I’m scared that one of them might remember seeing someone like Andy. Oh, God, what if old Mrs. Moule chatters on about us doing the garden in the middle of the night and they start searching the garden and find the cash box? Think of the questions. Then old Mrs. Wakeham will need to tell them about the money, and everyone will know I’m a bastard and the tax people will be after me. You know, there’s been quite a few stories in the newspapers about some householder or another surprising a burglar and hitting him over the head and ending up in court themselves, charged with assault.”

“One of them’s coming over,” hissed Maggie.

A powerful-looking woman with a chiffon scarf tied over a head full of rollers was bearing down on them.

“People like you are a disgrace,” she hissed. “Why can’t you leave poor Mr. Tremp alone? You lot are like jackals. If you want money, then go out and work for it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Maggie.

“Just because he’s won the lottery doesn’t mean he should pay out to every layabout.”

“The lottery!” exclaimed Fell.

“Don’t act the innocents with me. The poor man was hounded by people looking for a handout. He thought he was free of them. We don’t want your sort in this village.”

“Actually,” lied Fell, “we don’t know what you are talking about. We’re looking for a place to stay and we thought this village would be a nice place. We’ve changed our minds. Drive on, Maggie.”

With relief, Maggie shot off. They drove in silence and then Maggie stopped at the side of the road. “The lottery!” she said. “Do you believe it?”

“They believe it, anyway,” said Fell. “Wait a bit. If he was so plagued by people wanting money from him, his win must have been in the papers. What about phoning Peter?”

“Oh, he’ll want a story from us.”

“So we’ll give him a story, Maggie. We’ve been interviewed by the police so many times that one more interview won’t matter.”

♦

Peter, in answer to Maggie’s phone call, arrived at the hotel accompanied by a photographer.

♦

Maggie talked to the manager, who said they could use the little residents’ lounge on the ground floor. Peter cast a longing glance in the direction of the bar across the hall, but got down to the interview. Fell and Maggie were sitting together on the sofa. At one point during the questioning, Fell took Maggie’s hand in his. Maggie held his hand tightly. Peter looked at their joined hands and scowled, but the story was too important to let personal feelings interfere with it and so he pressed on.

When he had finished and photographs had been taken, Maggie asked him if he had found out anything about Johnny Tremp’s lottery win.

“Yes, it was in the Courier two years ago,” said Peter. “Eight people won, each getting a little over a million pounds. Johnny was one of them. Why ask? Did you think he had decided to blossom out all those years after the robbery and spend some of his ill-gotten gains?”

“Something like that,” said Fell ruefully. “But don’t put it in your story.”

“It’s all right. I’ve got enough without using it. Anyway, Johnny has the reputation of being a nasty character. He’d probably sue you for defamation of character. Maggie, can I have a word?”

Maggie and Peter walked outside the hotel. “I didn’t realize you pair were so close,” said Peter huffily.

Maggie could still feel the warm clasp of Fell’s hand. “We were going through a bad patch, but we’re all right now,” she said.

“So no hope for me?”

“I’m afraid not, Peter.”

“Oh, well, that’s life.” He put his arms around her and kissed her full on the mouth. “Remember me if it comes unstuck.”

Fell saw the embrace and felt a pain deep inside him. It struck him just how much he had come to rely on Maggie’s company, on her warmth and strength and sympathy. It was only fair to urge Maggie to tell Peter that their engagement was a sham.

When she came back into the hotel, he really meant to tell her, but she said, “What will we do now?”

He replied, “I think we should phone Dunwiddy and tell him we’re going home.” And instead of saying she should now tell Peter that the engagement was off, he found himself saying, “We need some relaxation. And you haven’t worn your new dress. After I’ve phoned Dunwiddy, I’ll phone the French restaurant and make a reservation for this evening.”

♦

When they got back home, a policeman was already on duty outside the house. Maggie made him coffee and took it out to him. Fell could see her chatting and laughing with the policeman. It seemed incredible that such a short time ago he would have been delighted to be rid of Maggie.

He would not admit to himself when she came back indoors that his next suggestion was prompted by a desire to keep her with him as long as possible. “I think we should take a break from all our worries and get a builder in to see if we can make a new kitchen,” he said.

“Good idea,” said Maggie. “Will you need permission from the council for the alteration?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Instead of knocking down a wall, we could keep the old kitchen and just use it as a scullery. That way we could avoid planning permission.”

“You’ve got letters there? Aren’t you going to read them?”

Fell picked up the letters and sat down and flipped through them. They were from his relatives. One, from his Aunt Agnes, blamed Maggie for the whole thing, saying she had thought that Maggie looked like “one of them terrorists.”

The others, from Tom and Barbara and Fred, said pretty much all the same thing, and that his sainted parents would be turning in their graves.

“Not one word of sympathy!” said Fell, throwing them down in disgust. “You would think nearly getting blown up was my fault.” He looked bleakly at the letters scattered on the floor.

“Better phone them up and tell them you’re all right,” said Maggie.

“Why? I bet all I’d get is a load of recriminations.”

“I’m weary. I think I’ll have a bath and an hour’s sleep.” Maggie got to her feet. “I just want to switch off. We’ve got the evening to look forward to.”

“The box!” exclaimed Fell. “I’d better have a look in the garden and make sure the police haven’t dug it up.”

He headed for the garden. “If they had,” Maggie called after him, “they would have told us right away.”

Fell looked uneasily at the patch where the box was buried. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

“Coo-ee! Mr. Dolphin!”

Fell jumped nervously.

“I’m up here.”

Fell turned round and located the source of the voice. He could see a little of old Mrs. Moule’s face peering through the branches of a tree. So that was how she had seen him the night when they thought they had been digging a grave for Andy Briggs.

“I just want to thank you for my windows,” she called.

“Least I could do.”

“Thanks anyway. Bring your young lady in for tea sometime.”

“Will do.”

The face retreated. Fell looked thoughtfully at where the cash box was buried. At least, with his inheritance safely in the bank, he would not need to use the cash box. Still, he wished he could dig it up and put it somewhere he could get at it without being observed.

He went back into the house He could hear Maggie running a bath upstairs. He thought he would follow her example by catching some sleep.

He went up to his room and looked around. Before he decided on a new kitchen, he should really redecorate this room. It reminded him of Mr. and Mrs. Dolphin and of his unhappy childhood. Perhaps he and Maggie could forget about this wretched train robbery and concentrate on getting the whole house liveable. Maggie would know what to do. But Maggie might not be around for much longer, judging by the way Peter had kissed her.

♦

Fell was waiting in the sitting room that evening when Maggie came in. She was wearing the new black dress. The low-cut neckline showed off the tops of a pair of full and firm white breasts. Maggie was wearing her contact lenses and her hair shone in the lamplight.

“What do you think?” she asked, pirouetting in front of him.

“Fine, but the neckline’s a bit low.”

“Oh.” Maggie’s face fell with disappointment. “Should I wear something else?”

“No, no, you look great. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just…funny…I don’t know. I haven’t been in the way of thinking of you as a woman. I mean…”

“I know what you mean,” said Maggie stiffly. “Shall we go?”

♦

Maggie’s hand hovered over the ignition in the car and then dropped. “I’m frightened to switch it on.”

The policeman on guard came over. “Anything wrong, miss?” he asked, leaning in the open window. He was looking right down Maggie’s cleavage, thought Fell crossly.

“Silly,” said Maggie. “I’m frightened of another bomb.”

“No one’s touched that car while you’ve been inside, miss, but release the hood and I’ll check inside. Then you’ll feel all right.”

He inspected the engine, then he crawled underneath the car, emerging finally to give Maggie a beaming smile. “All clear.”

“Oh, thank you. You are kind,” said Maggie. She and the policeman smiled warmly at each other.

“Can we go?” demanded Fell testily. As Maggie let in the clutch and moved off, Fell added, “There’s no need to go overboard, Maggie. He’s only doing his job.”

“He’s nice.”

“If you say so,” said Fell grumpily. Maggie should stay plain Maggie and not go around flaunting her bosoms in a slinky black dress.

Maggie parked in the car park and they walked around to the front of the restaurant, which faced the river.

“Look,” said Maggie, clutching Fell’s arm and pointing to the sky.

“What?”

“A cloud. Quite a big one. Do you think the heat is going to be over at last?”

“It’s bound to end soon and then we’ll all be terribly British and complain about the rain.”

They went into the restaurant and were given the table at the window they had had on the day that Fell had ‘proposed’. How grateful I was then for so little, thought Maggie, and now it’s not enough.

Fell stiffened and raised the menu to hide his face. Maggie twisted around. Melissa Harley was at a table over by the far wall. She was talking animatedly to a middle-aged businessman.

And then, as Maggie turned back, she thought she saw a face she recognized. Fell, cautiously lowering the menu, saw her frown.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I thought I recognized someone, but I haven’t a good memory for faces.”

“It’s Melissa.”

“I know. I saw her. It’s not her, it’s a blonde woman at a table along from her.”

Fell looked across the restaurant. “I think that’s Inspector Rudfern’s daughter, but I’m not sure. Let’s choose something to eat.”

They ordered salad and Dover sole and a bottle of white wine. “I’m surprised your mother hasn’t phoned or been round,” said Fell.

“She’s like that. I mean, I’m not usually the target of attempted murder, but I don’t think she cares much.”

“Did your father die a long time ago?”

A painful blush crept up Maggie’s face. “I don’t know who my father was,” she said, “and I don’t think Mum knows either.”

“Oh, Maggie,” said Fell sadly. “What a pair we are. It’s a good thing we’ve got each other.”

She brightened. “Yes, isn’t it?”

“What about Peter? Do you think you’ll marry him?”

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing Peter again. But you’ve got Melissa.”

“I may as well tell you, Maggie, you were right all along. She was only interested in my money. Now it looks as if she’s getting to work on another sucker. Dreams are funny things. I saw a beautiful woman and she wasn’t really beautiful at all.”

“It must have been a terrible shock,” said Maggie. “Were you dreadfully hurt?”

“I felt silly and ashamed of myself.”

“How did you find out?”

“The lawyer warned me against her. I didn’t want to believe him, but after I met her and talked to her, it became all too obvious what she was after. There was nothing there but greed. What happened with Peter? I thought you looked very affectionate today.”

“Peter was being affectionate. I wasn’t. He was kissing me farewell. I had just told him I wouldn’t be seeing him again.”

“Why?”

“He’s nice. But he does drink rather a lot.” Maggie told him what had really happened at the disco.

They discussed the weird ways of coincidence while they both grew more relaxed and happier.

Then they began to reminisce about their days in the Palace Hotel, laughing over the antics of some of the more difficult customers. Melissa Harley left, but Fell was barely aware of her.

At last, when they had finished their coffee, Fell said, “Home?”

And Maggie agreed happily. “Home.”

♦

There was a new policeman on duty, a grumpy-looking man. He nodded to them. “I’ll bring you out a cup of tea and some biscuits,” said Maggie.

The policeman smiled. “That’s very kind of you, miss.”

“You do fuss over them, Maggie.”

“I’m grateful he’s standing guard.” But Fell obscurely thought that Maggie should not be fussing around arranging a tray of tea and biscuits for a constable while wearing that low-necked dress.

Then he could hear her chatting to the policeman and the policeman’s laugh. Well, he wasn’t going to wait up for her. He would be glad when she appeared in the morning looking more like her usual self. And Fell would not admit to himself that he wanted the old frumpy Maggie back, and not this one who seemed to be attracting men.

♦

The next day, Fell, pleased to see Maggie in a print cotton dress and with her thick glasses back on, standing over the stove making scrambled eggs, told her he would like to smarten up the bedrooms first.

“The beds are awful and old and lumpy,” he complained.

Maggie deftly served scrambled eggs and toast. “We could be extravagant,” she said. “We could call one of those small cheap removal firms and get the old beds taken away to the dump today. Have you bagged up the stuff in your mother’s bedroom?”

“Yes, but it’s still in garbage bags on the bedroom floor.”

“Then they can take those as well and drop them off at Oxfam. What about the wardrobes?”

“Let’s get rid of them as well. We’ll get new beds today and then strip the walls and paint them.”

“Grand. The minute we’re finished breakfast, we’ll get to work.”

♦

Later that day, with a dust sheet over his new bed, Fell worked away happily, stripping wallpaper from his bedroom. He could hear Maggie whistling tunelessly as she worked in her room. This was the life, he thought. Forget about that damned robbery. All he wanted now was peace and safety.

“Maggie!” he called.

“Mmm?”

“I’ve just had an idea. Why don’t we phone up the Courier and say that we’re leaving any investigations into the train robbery to the police? That way, whoever it is out there will know we’re no longer a threat.”

Maggie appeared in the doorway. “You mean, give up the whole thing?”

“Why not? I’m hopeless, Maggie. I haven’t got a clue who might have done it. Look at the mistake I made with Johnny Tremp.”

“Well, the police do have all the resources and that attempt on our lives has opened up the whole case again. I’ll phone Whittaker, if you like.”

“Tell you what; we’ll have a break and go and see him.”

♦

Tommy Whittaker was in his office. “That was a good story,” he said, handing over a copy of the Courier,

“We want to give you another story,” said Fell, ignoring the newspaper. He told the editor how they had planned to drop all their investigations.

“Pity about that,” said the editor. “It rather caught the local imagination.”

“It’s not like in books,” said Fell earnestly. “Amateurs like us don’t have the expertise of the police and in fact we might just be complicating matters for them.”

“You’re not just saying this to make sure there won’t be any more attempts on your lives?”

“Well, of course,” said Maggie. “That’s a good part of it. What we mean is why should we go on risking our lives when we know now we’re never going to find a solution?”

“I’m grateful to you for today’s exclusive, so we’ll run your story.”

“Thanks,” said Fell. “Now we can get on with our lives.”

Tommy grinned. “I suppose the next story we’ll be covering will be your wedding.”

Maggie blushed and looked down.

“Set the date yet?”

“Not yet,” said Fell.

“Let me know.”

When they left the newspaper office, there was a new constraint between them. “Back to housework,” said Fell at last. “You don’t think I’m weak to drop it?”

“No, Fell, you’re not weak and neither am I. We just want to stay alive.”

♦

The cloud Maggie had seen had not been joined by others. In the following week, while they both shopped and worked and painted, a haze covered the sky but the heat was as stifling as ever.

At the end of the week, he was just finishing painting the bedroom walls when Fell called to Maggie, who was working in her room, “Do we have a spare newspaper? I want to put some sheets on the floor in case the paint drips.”

“It’s supposed to be non-drip paint,” Maggie called back. “I’ll have a look.”

She went down to the kitchen. They had not been buying any newspapers. There were only two: the edition of the Courier that Tommy Whittaker had given them and the new issue carrying the story that they had both given up the hunt. She would ask Fell if he wanted to keep them as souvenirs.

Then she remembered the fashion show she had gone to with Peter. Had anything appeared? She had read only the stories about themselves. She opened the copy with the story on the front page, which had appeared after they had been interviewed at the hotel.

Inside was a double spread of photographs. Maggie looked at them. There was one dress, a Versace model. She studied it closely, something tugging at her memory. Then she went slowly up the stairs, holding the newspaper.

“Fell,” she said, going into his room, “there’s something odd here.”

“What?”

Maggie sat down on the bed. She opened the newspaper at the double spread of fashion photographs. “Do you see this dress?”

Fell sat down beside her. “Yes. Versace, it says. What about it?”

“I was looking at this photo and then I remembered I’d seen that dress recently.”

“Of course you had, silly. At the fashion show.”

“No, last night. Inspector Rudfern’s daughter was wearing one just like it. And another thing. I told you I have a bad memory for faces, but just before the lights went down at the fashion show, I saw her. I’m now sure it was her.”

“So, Maggie, what’s this got to do with anything?”

“Don’t you see?” said Maggie slowly. “It’s a bit odd if a retired police inspector’s daughter can afford a Versace dress.”

“Meaning Inspector Rudfern masterminded the robbery himself? Come on, Maggie. Him of all people.”

“But Fell, how could she afford a dress like that? It costs a few thousand. I’m sure.”

“As much as that!”

“For an original, yes.”

“Wait a bit, Maggie. I read somewhere that chain stores sometimes buy the pattern and run up something like it.”

“You’re probably right,” said Maggie with a sigh. “I’d better get back to work. Do you want to use these newspapers or keep them?”

“I’ll use them. I don’t want to be reminded of anything now to do with the robbery.”

“Right. I’ll get back to work as well.”

Fell began to paint again. Imagine if it were old Rudfern, he thought, amused. Imagine an old man like that creeping down the street at night to put Semtex in Maggie’s car. And then he remembered uneasily those men from the Special Branch saying there had been a raid on a house in Buss and among other things a quantity of Semtex had been seized. When had it been? Ten years ago, that was it. Of course it was all mad, but if Rudfern had still been in the police force, then he was ideally situated to get his hands on Semtex.

He smiled and shook his head and began to paint again.

But the thought of Rudfern nagged and nagged at his mind. At last he threw down the brush and called to Maggie, “Feel like taking a break and having a drink?”

Maggie’s voice came back to him. “Great idea. My arms are getting tired.”

When they were relaxing in the sitting room over glasses of gin and tonic, Fell swirled the ice cubes round in his glass and said cautiously, “You know, Maggie, I’ve been thinking.”

“What about?”

“About Rudfern.”

Maggie’s heart sank. She wished she had never mentioned anything. She wanted to forget about robbery and murder and mayhem for the rest of her life.

“I was just being silly. Of course she must have been wearing a cheap copy.”

“I mean, it was just a show for charity, wasn’t it? I mean, they weren’t taking orders, were they?”

“People could order things,” said Maggie reluctantly. “There’s a deadly expensive boutique in the Parade called Femme Fatale. You could order what you wanted from the show through them. I went into Femme Fatale. I took a look at some of their ready-to-wear stuff and was shocked at the prices.”

“There’s something else,” said Fell. “Semtex. Those men from London, they said a house in Buss had been raided ten years ago and the police had found Semtex then. Who better to get his hands on the stuff than someone in the police force?”

“I don’t think that can be the case,” said Maggie. “I mean, just suppose by the wildest flight of the imagination that it was Rudfern. Why would he suddenly decide to pinch some explosive like Semtex, thinking this might come in handy someday?”

Fell bit his lip. Drop it, pleaded Maggie’s mind. Let’s be safe. Let’s go back to playing house.

“We could start tomorrow by going to that boutique in Cheltenham and finding out if a Miss Rudfern…Is she married?”

“I don’t know,” said Maggie, “but I shouldn’t think so. She’s obviously living with her father. Of course there may be a husband somewhere in that villa, or there may be an ex.”

“I wish I knew where to start, apart from that boutique,” fretted Fell. “We can hardly watch their house.”

Maggie wanted to shout with frustration, “You said we should give up!” But instead she said, “We’ve got a new second-hand car. If they saw the old one, they won’t recognize the new one. But even if we watch, what are we going to see? The robbery was so long ago and the other people who were involved in it will either be dead or gone off somewhere.”

“True,” agreed Fell. “So we’ll go to Cheltenham in the morning.”

♦

The haze which had covered the sky above for the last week had thickened into a uniform grey as they drove over the Worcestershire border and into neighbouring Gloucestershire. “It might rain at last,” said Maggie.

Everything looked so still and parched. But the trees beside the road had a waiting air about their stillness, as if they somehow knew that an end to the heat of this dandelion summer was near.

Maggie found a parking place outside the town hall and together they walked around the corner and down into the Parade.

“How should we go about this?” asked Fell as they stood outside the shop. “I mean, we can’t just ask bluntly, ‘Did a woman called Miss Rudfern buy a Versace dress from you?’”

“We could say we worked for her. I could say I was her housekeeper,” said Maggie, “and that she had complained about there being a loose thread near the hem.”

“Won’t the assistant or manager or whoever recognize us from our photo in the newspaper?”

“It was just in the Buss Courier and I’m sure no one in Cheltenham bothers looking at that.”

“But we were on television on the night the car blew up.”

Maggie stood and thought hard. She now wanted to find out if Inspector Rudfern’s daughter had bought that expensive dress. With any luck, it would turn out she had not and then they could forget about the whole thing.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that no one is going to connect us with the couple on television, not if we say we’re working for the Rudferns. People don’t often recognize people if they’re not in the setting they expect them to be.”

“All right. We’ll try it.”

They both walked into the shop. A woman in a tailored black dress approached them. Maggie judged her to be French, because she had a hard middle-aged face and yet exuded an air of sexiness. Maggie had served French tourists when she had worked at the Palace and had noticed that even the plainest of the women managed to have an air of femininity, a certain allure.

“Can I help you?”

Yes, she did have a slight French accent.

“We are employed by a Miss Rudfern who lives in Buss,” began Maggie. “After the fashion show at the town hall, she ordered a gold faille Versace gown from you. She says the stitching at the hem is loose and when I said I was going to Cheltenham, she asked me to drop in and talk to you about it.”

“Rudfern? I do not recall the name. I’ll check the books.”

The woman went into the back shop and came out with a leather-bound ledger. She opened it and ran a long finger ending in a scarlet nail, so long it curved like a claw, down the pages. “Ah, I thought so. No Rudfern. I only sold one Versace gown in gold faille to a Mrs. Lewis, a Mrs. Gloria Lewis.”

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” said Maggie. “My employer must have mistaken the shop.”

She closed the book again, looking bored. “Exactly.”

They had just reached the door of the shop when Fell turned back and said, “Where does this Mrs. Lewis live?”

The Frenchwoman clicked her tongue impatiently but opened the ledger again. Strange, thought Maggie. A less expensive shop would almost certainly have a computer, but with prices like these, probably so few were sold that…

“Buss,” said the woman. “She lives in Buss.”

“May we have her address?” asked Fell.

Her hard face hardened even more. “No, of course you may not. Who are you anyway? I do not like thees.” Her accent had become more marked. “Are you the reporters?”

“No, no,” said Fell, taking Maggie’s arm and hustling her out of the shop.

They walked rapidly a little way up the Parade and then Fell stopped and said, “It could be her.”

“So how do we find out?” asked Maggie.

“Tommy Whittaker.”

“But if he thinks we suspect Rudfern,” wailed Maggie, “he’ll maybe poke his nose in and if Rudfern gets to hear of it, he might sue us.”

“We’ll take him for a drink.” Fell’s eyes were shining with excitement. “We’ll get him talking about this and that and slip in a few questions.”

Maggie felt weary. Her cotton dress was sticking to her body and she knew her hair was lank. In her heart she hoped the editor would be too busy to talk to them.

♦

It was with relief that Maggie heard the receptionist at the Buss Courier telling Fell about an hour later that Mr. Whittaker was out for lunch.

“So that’s that,” said Maggie cheerfully. “I’m all hot and sticky. Let’s go home and – ”

“Lunch,” interrupted Fell. “That means a liquid lunch. Let’s try the Red Lion.”

Maggie trailed beside him along the street past the Georgian front of the courthouse to the Red Lion. She noticed with a feeling of resignation Tommy Whittaker sitting at a table by the window. He hailed them cheerfully and asked them to get their drinks and bring him a double Scotch.

When they were seated around the table, Tommy looked at them and asked, “Found out anything?”

“I’m not looking for anything,” replied Fell. “We thought we would find you here. We thought we would drop in and thank you for putting that story in that we’d given up.”

“And have you?”

“Definitely. What on earth can we do that the police can’t?”

“I dunno,” said Tommy, “but they didn’t do much of a good job at the beginning, if you ask me.”

“Did Inspector Rudfern have a bad reputation?” asked Maggie.

“On the contrary. A good copper, rising steadily up the ranks, working hard. Usually cooperated well with the press, but not on this one. Wouldn’t give us a morsel.”

“Maybe he didn’t have anything to give?” suggested Fell.

“It looks that way.”

“He certainly didn’t seem very enthusiastic when we met him,” said Maggie.

“Grumpy old bugger.” Tommy took a gulp of whisky.

“His daughter’s pretty grumpy as well,” said Fell. “What’s her name again?”

“Oh, her, Gloria Lewis.”

Maggie felt a jolt in her stomach.

“She got soured a long time ago,” Tommy was going on. “I’ll tell you about it. Goodness, I’ve got an empty glass.”

“I’ll get you another.” Fell went to the bar, but it took some time, as the barman seemed determined to ignore him. When he got back to the table, it was to find Maggie on her own. “Where is he?”

“Gone to the loo.”

“What did he say about Gloria Lewis?”

“He said he’d tell us both.” Tommy emerged from the loo and then infuriatingly stopped to talk to various locals. Impatiently Fell held up the glass of whisky. Tommy saw it, ended his conversation, and came hurrying up. He raised the glass, took a gulp, and then sat down. “Ah, that’s better. Where was I?”

“Gloria Lewis,” prompted Maggie.

“Her, yes. She got married to James Lewis, a high-flyer.”

“A high-flyer in Buss,” exclaimed Maggie.

Tommy laughed. “No, London man, much older than she was. Must have been about nineteen and he was forty. Owned a chain of restaurants. Was thinking of opening a restaurant in Buss. Checked in at the Palace. Called in at the cop shop to find out if it was a safe area and got to know Rudfern. Rudfern invited him home. He fell for Gloria. She used to be quite a looker, by all accounts. Whirlwind romance, got married, off to London. One month later, he’s got his eye on a blonde model and he’s bored with Gloria. Gloria, furious at his indifference, has an affair with one of his friends to teach him a lesson. Friend tells James. James sues for divorce as injured party. No children. Gloria gets zilch. Rich lifestyle goes down the pan, back to being copper’s daughter in Buss.”

“She must have hated giving up the high life,” said Maggie.

“I s’pose.”

“Didn’t want to marry again?”

“I don’t think she found anyone around here good enough for her. I gather you were asking young Peter about Johnny Tremp.”

“It turned out to be a dead end,” said Fell.

“Still,” said Tommy, “it could have been a good lead. It must have looked to you as if he’d sat on that money all these years and then decided to spend it when everything had cooled down.”

“It did seem that way.” Fell noticed Tommy’s glass was empty again. The pub was very hot and smelly and he now wanted to escape and talk over with Maggie what they had learned. Then it struck him that Gloria might have money of her own, and who better to tell them than Tommy. “Another drink?” he asked.

“Very kind,” beamed Tommy.

“I’ll get it.” Maggie pushed back her chair. “What about you, Fell?”

“Another gin and tonic.”

When Maggie left for the bar, Fell said as casually as he could, “Does Gloria Lewis have a business of some kind?”

“Her business is looking after the old man.”

Maggie returned with the drinks. “That was quick,” said Fell. “How did you manage it? I thought that barman would never serve me.”

“An attractive lady will always get served first,” said Tommy, leering at Maggie.

Fell thought crossly that no one could call Maggie attractive on that hot day. Her face was shiny and her hair limp. “I believe you gave our Peter the elbow,” Tommy was saying.

“I am engaged,” said Maggie.

“Poor chap thought he was in there with a chance. Quite cut up, he is,” teased Tommy.

“Then he should know better than to try to poach on someone else’s land,” said Fell sharply, and Maggie looked at him in such amazement that Fell actually blushed.

Tommy’s eyes now focused on Fell. “You’ve got an odd engagement. I mean, what was Peter to think? You were wining and dining with Melissa Harley.”

“That was different. That was business.”

“Didn’t get any money out of you, did she?”

“No.”

“Just as well. Terrible woman. Probably thought you were an easy mark, but I’ll bet your young lady here wasn’t as easily fooled.”

“Nor was Fell,” said Maggie loyally.

“Mind you,” said Tommy, “I told Peter I didn’t think he had a chance. You always looked very much like a couple to me.”

“Are you working on any good stories at the moment?” asked Maggie, desperate to change the subject.

Tommy shook his head. “You two have provided the best stories we’ve had in years. It’s back to school-sports days and flower-arrangement classes.”

“We’ve got to go,” said Fell. Tommy looked settled in the pub for the afternoon.

“Okay. Be a pal and send another double over on your way out.”

“What a sponge!” complained Maggie as they stood at the bar. Fell signalled to the barman, who ignored him.

“Service, please!” shouted Maggie. The barman sulkily served them. Fell carried the drink to Tommy, said goodbye, and then joined Maggie, who was waiting by the door. “Let’s get home,” he said.

They walked back to the High Street where Maggie had parked the car and drove home, Fell going over and over what they had just learned. Once home, Maggie headed for the kitchen. “I’ll fix us something to eat.”

“No, you won’t. Go and sit down and relax. You’ve been doing all the cooking lately. What do you feel like eating?”

“Just a sandwich. The heat has taken my appetite away.”

Fell made a plate of ham sandwiches and a pot of tea and carried the lot through to the sitting room.

There was a ring at the doorbell. Fell put down the tray and went to answer it. He was so absorbed in thoughts of Gloria Lewis that he half-expected her to be standing on the doorstep, but it was Maggie’s mother.

“Going to ask me in?”

“Come in,” said Fell reluctantly. “Maggie’s in the sitting room.”

Maggie’s mother was deeply tanned. Fell thought she looked like a piece of bad-tempered old leather.

“So what’s all this about?” began Mrs. Partlett as soon as she saw her daughter. “I go off to Tenerife and when I get back the town’s buzzing with the news that you pair nearly got blown up by the IRA.”

Maggie could not be bothered explaining about the train robbery, so she said, “Someone mistook us for someone else.”

“I thought that might be it. Who’s going to bother about a pair of wimps like you?”

“You are in my house and while you are here, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head,” said Fell quietly.

She looked at him as amazed as if a pet rabbit had bitten her on the ankle. “Oh, well,” she said with a shrug, “when are you going to get married?”

“Next month,” said Fell in that same quiet voice.

“And am I invited?”

“We’ll think about it.”

“What! Don’t you dare stop me from coming to my own daughter’s wedding.”

“I will do what I want. If you are going to go on sneering at Maggie, then I don’t want you around.”

She had been about to sit down. But instead she marched back towards the door. “You just try to stop me,” she shouted. She opened the street door, walked outside and slammed it behind her.

“Oh, Fell,” said Maggie mistily, “I’ve been longing for someone to stand up for me.”

“I don’t like to see you hurt. Now let’s eat, Maggie, and we’ll get out some pens and paper and start working out what we’ve got.”

If only he had meant that about marriage, thought Maggie, and bit into a ham sandwich which tasted as dry as dust.