by M C Beaton
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.
