Maggie looked at the clock. Only nine and the library did not open until ten. She decided to go out somewhere and have breakfast. She did not want to risk another quarrel with Fell.
As she walked off down the street in the direction of the centre of the town, the close heat of the day surrounded her, an exhausted heat redolent of car fumes. The sky above was covered in a milky haze. A few dried leaves, loosened by the hot summer, fell down from the plane trees on the street and dropped wearily onto the ground at her feet as if the very leaves, like the people of Buss, had become exhausted by this odd, seemingly never-ending dandelion summer.
She went into a cafe for coffee and a croissant and watched the population of Buss walk slowly by. No one wanted to hurry in this heat.
When she had finished her light breakfast, she walked to the library. She found a section with books on country houses in Worcestershire, took several out and sat down to look though them. No Fellworth. And yet, if there was some connection between the railway station and the couple on the photograph, it figured that one of them might have used the station. Then she thought, the Gloucestershire border is close. She returned the books and took out three on houses in Gloucestershire. In a small battered volume, in the index, the name ‘Fellworth’ seemed to leap up at her out of the page. She turned to the item in the book. It was only a small paragraph. No photo. “Fellworth Manor,” it said, “is an undistinguished Victorian manor house, rebuilt on the site of the original Elizabethan manor house in 1895. Even at that time, the destruction of the old manor roused public feeling, but the Fellworth family claimed they wanted a more convenient modern building. Situated near the village of Ablington outside Cirencester.”
Maggie felt triumphant. Here indeed was news to take Fell’s mind off Melissa. She had the relevant page photocopied and hurried home.
Fell was watering the garden, the spray from the hose setting rainbows to dance over the flowers. The ‘grave’ meant for Andy Briggs had been filled in.
She ignored the hostile look in his eyes and waved the photocopy at him. “Look what I’ve found.”
Fell took the paper from her. His hostility fled and his eyes lit up. “How on earth did you get this, Maggie?”
Maggie told him of her brainwave. “Let’s go now,” she urged.
Soon they had locked up and were in the car heading towards Gloucestershire.
“Isn’t there any air-conditioning in this thing?” asked Fell.
“Too old, too cheap and too British,” said Maggie. “What happened to your driving lessons, Fell? I thought you had booked up for a crash course.”
“I put the lessons off for a bit,” said Fell. “With all this business about the robbery, I didn’t feel I could cope with driving lessons.”
“I could teach you,” said Maggie.
“No,” said Fell hurriedly. “I paid for the lessons in advance, so I may as well take them.”
He had been dreaming all night of disengaging himself from Maggie so that he could tell Melissa he was free.
Maggie sensed his withdrawal from her. She cursed herself for having been so clumsy as to attack Melissa. Then she remembered that reporter, Peter South. She would phone him and ask him if he was free on Friday. Then she would tell Fell she had a date. If Fell realized she wasn’t holding on to him, they would be at ease with each other again, and surely she could find some way of exposing Melissa.
They had to stop several times to ask for directions to Fell-worth Manor, which seemed to be buried somewhere along a network of country lanes. At last they reached the gates of the manor house. Fell got out and swung them open, and Maggie drove through. When he got back in the car, he found his heart was beating hard.
Maggie drove slowly up the long drive under a long arch of wilting trees. Everything drooped in the heat. And then the house came into view.
“It’s the right house,” said Maggie. “The one in your photo.” It was a Victorian mansion built of an ugly combination of red brick and yellowish Bath stone. It had mullioned windows reflecting the Victorian love affair with things medieval. But it was very large and imposing for all that, and as Maggie parked and Fell got out of the car, he could feel his knees trembling. “Well, here goes, Maggie,” he said, and squaring his shoulders, he walked up to the door.
? The Skeleton in the Closet ?
Five
FELL waited patiently, with Maggie behind him. The whole countryside was wrapped in a hot, sleepy hush. A vision of his parents’ modest home rose before his eyes. They could not possibly have any connection with such a place as this.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a blue uniform with a white collar and cuffs.
“Are you the owner?” asked Fell.
“No, I am Mrs. Wakeham’s nurse.”
“May I see her?”
“Does she know you? Do you have an appointment?”
“No. My name is Fellworth Dolphin. I think Mrs. Wakeham might have known my parents.”
“Wait here.”
She shut the door, and he could hear the heels of her sensible black lace-up shoes clacking off into the distance.
Fell was wearing his best suit. He wished he could remove his jacket. He could feel stains of sweat spreading under his armpits. He suddenly wished Melissa were with him, not Maggie, Melissa with her sophistication and elegance. He glanced at Maggie. Her hair had gone limp in the heat and her face was shiny.
The door opened again. “Mrs. Wakeham will see you for a few moments,” said the nurse. “Follow me.”
They followed her through a house which seemed to contain too much furniture, too many oil paintings, too many objets d’art. It was cooler than outside, but the rooms through which she led them had a musty smell, as if no one had lived in them for a long while.
They followed the nurse out into the garden at the back. An elderly lady sat at a table under a cedar tree.
“Mr. Dolphin,” announced the nurse, “and…?”
“Miss Partlett, Maggie Partlett, Fell’s fiancee.”
Oh, I must stop this charade, thought Fell miserably. I don’t want to be engaged to this girl with the shiny face and limp hair.
“Sit down,” commanded Mrs. Wakeham. She had a surprisingly deep voice.
They both sat on wrought-iron chairs facing her.
“I regret to say I have never heard of you,” said Mrs. Wakeham. “That will be all, Martha.”
“Shall I bring some tea or lemonade?” asked the nurse.
“No, they will not be staying long.”
The nurse went back into the house. Fell studied Mrs. Wakeham, and Mrs. Wakeham studied Fell. She had a heavy, patrician-nosed face under the shade of a straw hat. Her eyes were of a washed-out blue. She had a dowager’s hump and despite the heat of the day was wearing a woollen cardigan over a tailored blouse and skirt.
“I believe you have some mistaken belief that I knew your parents,” she said.
“It’s because of my name,” said Fell, who was beginning to feel ridiculous under that pale gaze. “I’ve always wondered why I was called Fellworth. I saw the name of the house and that made me wonder.”
“But your parents may have seen the name of the house in a book or when they were passing by the gates,” said Mrs. Wakeham. “Did you not think of that?”
“I am sorry for wasting your time.” Fell just wanted to get away. “You see, I had this crazy idea I might have been adopted. So…if you will excuse us…” He half-rose to his feet.
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Wakeham, “and take your jacket off. Old women like me do not feel the heat. I am
