Cathedral. The final taxi deposited them at Piccadilly Circus where they stood like two children, looking round. Fell bought a street map and suggested they walk to Covent Garden. “I once read a book where it mentioned an old restaurant called Rules. It’s supposed to be the oldest restaurant in London.”
Maggie had forgotten about the robbery, about Melissa. All she was aware of was the glory of walking through the summer London streets with Fell.
In Covent Garden, they walked through the chattering crowds and turned in to Maiden Lane. “There it is,” said Fell.
“I wish I had dressed up,” said Maggie, suddenly nervous. She was wearing a blue cotton dress and Fell was in an open-necked shirt and jeans. “It’s the tourist season,” said Fell. “They’ll be used to people dressing casually.”
The woman at the desk smiled at them, and said they were lucky. A cancellation had just come in. She led them to a table, smiled at them again and handed them large menus. Maggie looked around at the gleaming brass and mahogany and at all the oil paintings on the walls.
“I read that King Edward the Seventh used to bring his mistresses here,” said Fell. “He had a special staircase built to the rooms above so he could sneak them in.”
The food turned out to be of the stick-to-your-ribs variety and beautifully cooked. They talked and talked, swapping reminiscences about their working days at the Palace Hotel, drinking wine and chattering away.
Finally Fell called for the bill. The waiter smiled down at them as he took Fell’s payment and generous tip. “On your honeymoon, sir?” he asked.
“No,” said Fell. “Let’s go, Maggie.”
They walked down to the Strand and caught a cab to Pad-dington Station. As they swung round Trafalgar Square, Maggie looked out at the lions at the base of Nelson’s Column and wished with all her heart that they really were on their honeymoon. But it had been a day to remember, and the Maggies of this world took such days as they came and photographed them in their minds and pasted them in the mental photo album to take out and look at when the days were dark.
The last train to Buss had gone, so they took a train to Worcester and a taxi from there to Buss.
“Must remember we’re going to Melissa’s tomorrow,” said Fell as he unlocked the door.
How could I ever forget, thought Maggie. Damn the woman!
¦
Fell said the following day that he wanted to go out on his own to do some shopping. Maggie guessed that he would be nervously looking to see if he could find anything better to wear than he had got for the all-important evening ahead.
To soothe her feelings, she decided to bake a tray of small sponge cakes. She had not baked anything since her teens. She opened a cookery book she had bought recently and set to work.
Fell arrived back after an hour, empty-handed. He had cruised the shops but had decided at last to wear his new suit. To buy yet another suit seemed indecent. Habits of thrift die hard.
“Nice smell,” he said, walking into the kitchen.
“I’m trying my hand at some sponge cakes,” said Maggie. “They’re nearly ready. Isn’t that someone at the door?”
Fell went to answer it. Two young men stood on the doorstep, one lugging a camera bag. “
“What’s happened?” asked Fell nervously.
“Nothing drastic. Our editor said you were looking into the old train robbery and were hoping to write a book about it.” Peter eyed Fell shrewdly. He felt sure if he told Fell the truth, that it was a quiet time for news and that the editor had asked him to see if there was a story in Fell’s investigations, this nervous man might back off, so he said, “Our editor took a fancy to you and thought you might like some help in your research.”
“Come in,” said Fell.
They both walked into the living room. The cameraman put his bag on the floor, opened it and began to take out camera and lenses. “What’s all that for?” asked Fell.
“Just a photograph for our files,” said Peter soothingly.
Maggie came in from the kitchen. Fell introduced the newspapermen and explained the reason for their visit.
“I’ve just made some sponge cakes,” said Maggie. “Would you like some?”
“Love some,” said Peter, smiling at Maggie. She smiled back, liking his round, pleasant face and mop of curly hair.
“Now,” said Peter, turning to Fell, “you’d better tell me how far you’ve got.”
Fell gave him a carefully edited story, omitting the visit of Andy Briggs and the mysterious money in the cash box. Maggie came in with a tray and passed round sponge cakes and tea.
“I say,” said Peter enthusiastically, “these are as light as a feather.” He beamed at Maggie, liking what he saw. Peter’s dream was of finding a nice girl to look after him. He loved the fact that Maggie’s newly slim figure was wrapped in a flowery apron. He hadn’t thought women wore aprons any more. He liked her shiny hair in its feathery cut and the wide-eyed friendly look of her large green eyes behind the thick glasses.
“You two are engaged, right?” he asked.
“Er, um, yes,” said Fell reluctantly and a shadow crossed Maggie’s expressive eyes.
Oho, what’s this? thought Peter. And at least they’re not married. Wonder if Maggie might meet me sometime for a drink?
He ate three of the sponge cakes and then said, “Now, if you two would like to pose for pictures.”
“Why?” asked Maggie sharply.
“Just for the file. Like I told Fell here, it’s a quiet day and our editor’s taken a fancy to you and thinks I might be able to help you with your research.”
“Oh, in that case…Is it all right if I take off my glasses?”
“Go ahead,” said Peter. Maggie removed her glasses. She blinked a little, looking feminine and vulnerable.
Fell and Maggie stood side by side while the photographer, Derek, banged off several pictures.
“I think that wraps it up,” said Peter cheerfully. “I’ll start off by going through the old newspaper files and I’ll copy anything I think you might have missed and bring it round.”
“That’s very good of you,” said Fell.
“Here’s my card.” But Peter handed it to Maggie.
Fell ushered them outside into the sunlight. “Forgot something,” said Peter and dived back into the house, leaving Fell standing outside with the photographer.
Maggie was clearing away the teacups. “Any chance of meeting me one evening for a drink?” asked Peter.
“Maybe,” said Maggie.
“Well, you’ve got my card. Phone me if you’re free.”
When he had gone, Maggie stood, blinking in surprise. How odd. He knew she was engaged and yet he had asked her out. She should have reminded him sharply that she
¦
That evening, after having tried on about everything in her wardrobe, Maggie dismally decided to settle for comfort rather than style. She felt she could not possibly compete with Melissa, no matter what she wore. She settled on a green silk blouse and a long black velvet skirt. The velvet was worn in places at the back of the skirt, so she steamed it with the iron and convinced herself that the worn places no longer showed.
There was a dark pit inside her as they both got into her little car. Fell seemed to be lit up from within. “What a beautiful evening,” he sighed.
“It hasn’t started yet,” said Maggie sourly, letting in the clutch.
Fell was silent on the short drive to Melissa’s house, but out of the corner of her eye Maggie saw the nervous clasping and unclasping of his long fingers.
They parked in front of Melissa’s house. “What a beautiful place!” exclaimed Fell.
“It’s just a villa like the one Rudfern lives in,” said Maggie. “Come along, Fell, and don’t stand there
