Maggie Bright (5 page)

“Treat me like that. Think I haven’t outgrown
A
,
B
, and
C
? Here’s an
A
for you: I shoulda married your wife. Eh? Whaddya think of that? Here’s your
B
: That kid should be mine. That ain’t enough?
How ’bout a
C
? That kid should be mine. How ’bout a
D
? That kid should be mine.
E
: that kid should be mine.
F
: that kid
 
—”

“Should be yours?”

Startled, he looked down at Clare. It seemed to take a moment for him to register that she had said anything at all. In fact, it took a very long moment, and oh dear, what was meant to be a cute little sympathetic yet introductory quip threatened to prove an insult. Then he noticed all eyes on him. A flush came, and he looked away.

“You’re from America, the sergeant said?” Clare said brightly. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to visit.” She wanted nothing of the sort. Couldn’t stand America because of its isolationist policies. “Heard so much about the Grand Canyon. Have you been?”

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes, though his discomfort seemed eased. At least it seemed he’d come away from a very intense place. “Too far away,” he murmured. “I’d like to go. Ain’t been outside New York much. This is only my second time. Don’t know how I’d get there, ain’t learned to drive yet, probably never will
 
—probably go by rail, then.” He shrugged, and brightened a bit. “Might be fun. Ma’s wanted to go. We could pick up my uncle Bill and aunt Fran in Philly. That’s the kind of
 
—”

“You’re from New York, did you say? Oh
 
—I’ve
always
wanted to visit New York City!” She hated big cities. “What’s it like?”

“It’s swell.” Then he shook his head, as if catching up with his words. “No, no, it’s not swell. Not all of it. I can only take so much, then I want to get back to Bartlett. I only work there, see, I don’t live there. When you say you’re from New York they all think you mean the City. New York’s a big state. From Bartlett it’s forty-three minutes by train, 57 percent of . . .” He shook his head again, as if to clear it, and didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, he spoke with more reserve. “No offense, miss, I got a lot on my mind. I don’t feel like talkin’, unless you can talk bail.”

“Bail?”

“I gotta post bail for my friend. You got bail bondsmen here, right? They do that in England?”

“Your . . . friend?” she dared to ask.

“Father Fitz. Came all the way here to get him, and now . . . Well, it’s not lookin’ too good. They won’t let him out ’cause he won’t talk. Maybe
I
can talk for him.
I
can straighten it out, like he always done for me. Who do I gotta talk to? The bobby behind the desk?” He looked around the room. “Someone else high up?”

“Talk about what?” she asked innocently, hoping to catch him off balance for a few more details. Oh, she was shameless!

“Well, see
 
—” But he closed his mouth. “Well done, the padre said. He saves it for when he’s
really
impressed, and he’d be impressed to know that for once, I shut my mouth.” He grasped his lapels, now looking very pleased with himself. “I don’t gotta lay
all
my cards on the table. It’s been a pleasure, miss. You’re a real inspiration. I hope you get to the Grand Canyon someday. If you do, give it my regards.” He lifted and replaced his fedora, and turned his attention to the front.

She couldn’t contrive a single reason to keep standing there, so she murmured, “Likewise,” and walked out the door.

“Daft?” she asked herself outside the police station, thinking furiously, pacing three steps to, three steps back. “Don’t think so. There is something odd and peculiar about him, but not in a
criminal
way. He’s certainly gabby. Reminds me of Giles Wentworth.”

I hope you get to the Grand Canyon someday? Give it my regards?

“Well, that was certainly sweet. And he meant it.” Something about him was very much like the dear BV.

What did G. K. Chesterton say about the talkative man? He doesn’t have anything to hide. Or maybe it was that the talkative
man has no pride. He is not so
careful
, he doesn’t
watch
himself, not like someone with pride. Or someone with a guilty conscience. Something like that.

The chatty American was
not
a criminal. She had a feeling for criminals. Well
 
—she had a feeling for malice, and neither of these men had malice within.

Not like her uncle, the Privately Amused.

They were quite different from him.

Clare stopped pacing. The dark American reminded her of the BV in the same way that
he
reminded her of
 
—but, really
 
—two, at the same time?

“Oh, you are being foolish,” she told herself fiercely, and wondered if she had indeed developed a dreaded
fixation
.

She realized her hand was pressed upon her heart. She felt for the locket.

“I miss you,” she whispered, tears suddenly stinging. “More than ever. I haven’t had anyone to remind me of you. And now there are two.”

The American emerged from the police station, carrying a suitcase. He looked very unhappy. The
intense
look had come back, very dark and inward.

He stood quite still for a rather awkward amount of time while people passed. He simply stared at the street, didn’t move an inch. Then he looked left and right, as if trying to decide which way to go.

“Oh dear,” she said.

Cards, said he?

Put them all on the table, she told herself.

She walked up the steps, murmuring, “Courage. Vision. Singularity of purpose.” She produced a cheerful smile. “Hello again. I’m
 
—waiting for my bus.”

He nodded. “Hello.”

“Listen
 
—wherever you’re staying in London, I’ve got a better place. It’s quiet, and it’s just outside this poisonous city.”

“Poisonous?”

“I can only take so much of it. Then I want to get back to . . .”

She went all electric, felt lifted to her toes.

“Look,” she said quickly, “I own a boat on the Thames, and I’m raising money to be the first woman to singlehandedly circumnavigate the globe in a ketch-rigged yacht. It’s currently a bed and breakfast. Your friend paid a visit a few weeks ago in the form of a foiled burglary. I came today to find out what he was looking for. I have one cabin available, and you can stay in it if you like. The price is seven pounds a week, and that
includes
breakfast. It isn’t cheap, but it’s . . . unique and idyllic. Who
wouldn’t
want to stay there?”

She was trembling and hoped it didn’t show.

“Captain John Elliott owns the boatyard. He keeps an eye on my boat, and on me. He is very fond of me because of my sailing dream, and has become my . . . sworn protector. If you try anything he will kill you. Mrs. Iris Shrewsbury is a current paying tenant, and is skilled at swinging kettles and shrieking. There. That is all of it.”

“What’s her name?”

She knew instantly what he meant, wondered at it.

“
Maggie Bright
.”

He gave a very strange smile, one of bitter amusement and something else. She couldn’t tell what, and didn’t know if she couldn’t read him because he was an American or because he was a stranger. He certainly looked very uncomfortable.

In fact, he looked miserable.

Just as she was ready to turn and run as fast as she could, he said, “I ain’t stayin’ nowhere.”

“Well
 
—well, what a providential coincidence,” Clare said idiotically, because she could think of nothing else. “You
do
look awfully tired.” He looked very sad, too, as woefully wretched as had the BV.
“Some tea would be just the thing. Shall we find a place to grab a pot, and you can think it over?”

He nodded, and she led him away.

Inside the police station, the sergeant behind the desk suddenly remembered. He held up a hand to the next in the queue, and picked up the telephone. He sorted through the clutter on his desk, and found the card. William Percy. Youngish to be a Scotland Yard detective.

“Yes, this is Blake. Westminster Station. William Percy, please. Thank you. Yes, Blake here
 
—you wanted to me to ring up if anyone visited the American priest? Yes, he just left. His name is Murray Vance. Yes, I’m quite sure. Yes, Vance, that’s the name. Well, I’m looking right at his signature. No, I haven’t a clue. Hang on
 
—there’s no call for that! Well, it wasn’t a
long
visit, you wouldn’t have had time to
get
here, would you? No, I don’t have that kind of manpower, that’s
your
job, as you frequently tell us. Good
day
.” He replaced the receiver, muttering, “Snotty . . . bloody . . .” Then he said brightly, “Next?”

THE TOPIC, AND HE STARTED IT,
was why on earth did England go to war
 
—Clare nearly spat tea. Oh, I don’t know
 
—has to do with a fellow named Hitler and his roving gang of thugs who thought Europe belonged to them and they blew things up and killed people to get it. Nothing much.

Honestly!

Murray Vance was his name. After the waiter had taken their order for corned beef stew, bread, and tea, Clare had exclaimed in a nervous rush, “Well, isn’t it interesting! The man who owned my boat was a Vance. But he was British, you see. Died in January. Heart attack I’m told. Terrible shame for him. Terrible inadvertent good fortune for me. Wait until you see her. She will absolutely break your heart.”

The subject meandered from Britain’s declaration of war in September of ’39, to the long “phony” war as the papers called it,
to the fall of Denmark just a month ago, and all the devastation since
 
—Norway fell, and Holland only last week, and now Belgium and France were under siege. Not so phony after all.

Cursed decorum! She wanted to push past all this opening nonsense and get to the Burglar Vicar and whatever business brought him to England.

Clare sipped her tea and tried to think of things to say while he ate. She did harbor a particular fury over what happened to Norway.

“I saw a picture, once. A collection of peaceful Norwegian sheep farmers in a lovely mountains-and-lakes setting. It’s absolutely awful, what’s happened. The Norwegians were neutral. It somehow made them more
innocent
than the Poles. It was the suddenness, I suppose, this ransacking ambush of Hitler’s. The suddenness seemed particularly evil. So pouncing. On peaceful people.”

She tried not to notice as Murray ate stew with disturbing precision. Clearly he was famished. The bites were huge and rather off-putting. He swallowed, and said, “You sayin’ it was less evil of Hitler to wipe out Poland than it was to take over Norway? Ain’t buyin’. Where does that make sense, Clare? Twelve thousand innocent civilians died in Poland. Ain’t that evil?”

How easily he called her Clare, as if they’d known each other all their lives. Though it would be strange, she supposed, if he called her Miss Childs. Still, he was so informal. The familiarity was both refreshing and faintly uncouth.

“Of course it was evil. Maybe I really liked that picture. It was particularly innocent.”

The spoon paused, midair. “Pictures got power, I’ll say that. Guy I know changed his politics ’cause of one.” The spoon resumed.

“Changed his politics? Because of a picture?”

“Yep.”

Goodness, she hoped he didn’t eat like this
all
the time, especially for breakfast. She saw her profits eaten up right before her.

“I
should
mention,” she said delicately, “in case I didn’t make it clear earlier, that only breakfast is included in room and board.”

“Say, can we get more of this bread? Hey
 
—mister! You there, mister . . . waiter guy.” He stifled a belch, and said to Clare, “What do you call ’em here?”

“I’m sorry, but that was a bit rude,” Clare said, eyes slightly wide to make her point. “You
are
an American, but still
 
—you must learn the rules of the road.” She turned to the waiter and said smoothly, “Yes,
very
sorry, but could we trouble you for another plate of bread, please? Thank you
very
much.
Very
sorry.” Behind her hand she whispered apologetically, “He’s American,” and gave a wink. Hoping the exchange educated, she turned to Murray. “Did the photograph change his politics for the good?”

“Nope. The good senator shoulda stayed an isolationist.”

She couldn’t help a smile. “You are talking to a Brit.”

The young man grinned. He was a few years younger than she, and when he smiled, he seemed positively boyish. “
A
, you can’t help that.
B
 
—”

“
B
, did the Burglar Vicar tell you anything interesting?” Clare said in a rush. “Sorry, but I’m quite mad to know his business with the
Maggie Bright
, and can you possibly blame me? It’s my boat. It’s my home. What could he have been looking for? I have no money. Spent my entire estate acquiring the boat. It was bequeathed to me, you see, but I had to pay a dreadful amount of back taxes before I could get it. Spent all I had. My point is, I have nothing of
real
value, except for a necklace which has sentimental value only. So
why
was he there? Why the
Maggie Brigh
t
? I have a right to know. I don’t believe for a moment it was a random burglary. And why am I sure he is a good man, not a bad one?”

Murray’s face hardened, and oh dear, that place of dark intensity returned. “He is a good man. He’s here because of a bad one. He’s here because of lies the bad one told.” Then he shook his head, as if
catching himself. He looked at his spoon, dropped it in the bowl and pushed it away. “All that business is his, not mine. I’ll say it straight
 
—I’m outta this with a ten-foot pole. You wanna know, you heard what the bobby said
 
—be first in line tomorrow. He got himself into this fix, he’ll do the talkin’. Not me. So don’t ask me again.” He adjusted himself, and then muttered with less heat, “Please.”

Clare slipped her hands into her lap so that he wouldn’t see white fists.

All was amiable up until now. Now, Murray Vance sat in a closed, moody silence, and Clare could think of nothing to say.

The American paid the check, leaving a ridiculously huge tip
 
—which Clare did
not
correct
 
—and they hailed a taxi, not a bus. Clare felt somewhat recompensed that someone else wasted money today.

“No references?!” the Shrew staccato-shrieked in Clare’s head. “You
 
—didn’t
 
— get
 
—
references
 
—on
 
—this
 
—man?! Where is that teakettle?”

“Do you mind if we make a stop at my uncle’s bookshop?” Clare asked Murray over Mrs. Shrew.

They shouldn’t. He looked very tired. She was being a very bad hostess.

Murray surfaced from his dull gaze out the cab window to say, “Yeah. Sure.” Even tired, he was an amiable sort. He also seemed to have completely forgotten his rude forthrightness at the café. She wasn’t sure she liked it that he had forgiven himself so entirely.

She gave directions to the cab driver, and settled back, brooding.

Why should she care what Mrs. Shrewsbury or the captain thought?

Clare pondered:

She did indeed care about Mrs. Shrew’s approval. (This surprised her.)

She cared about Captain John’s approval. (This did not surprise her; he was a dear.)

Murray was a complete stranger with no references. They would never approve his presence on the
Maggie Bright
.

But Murray was the key to Father Fitzpatrick. They must approve!

They would make her life miserable if they didn’t.

She did not care what her uncle, the Privately Amused, thought.

He made her life miserable regardless.

Not anymore! Ha-ha! Remember that, Clare.

Why did she want to parade Murray to him?

The last thought startled her.

The glorious freedom since she’d quit working at the bookshop and started the B and B took on ever-new psychological significances: What was her
motive
to go to the shop right now? Was it to flaunt her independence in a shallow, childish way? Certainly. But she frowned. It wouldn’t change her uncle. That superior, condescending, manipulative, privately amused, and quietly vicious man would still find reason to apply that superior, condescending, manipulative, privately amused, and quietly vicious
smirk
.

No, now that she truly thought on it, her uncle did not factor in. Clare’s heart rose. She wanted less to display her freedom to come and go as she pleased than to buy time to get to know this Murray Vance. Then she could pour heaps of details upon Mrs. Shrew, and so soften the calamity of a reference-less tenant. For surely, Mrs. Shrew would be convinced that yet another American sought to murder her in her sleep (or do far worse) if Clare could not immediately convince her otherwise.

Clare’s motives were correct. She cared what the
right
people thought. It meant Uncle’s hold on her was lessening, soon to have the strength of a cobweb before a crashing bayonet. Her heart rose to a smile.

“Right,” she said crisply. “I need to know more about you. Lots more.”

He roused with a snort, and wiped his mouth. “Was I droolin’?”

“To be frank, Mrs. Shrew
 
—sbury will want to know that you are
not a potential exhibit for Madame Tussauds. I must convince her of your conventionality.”

“My what?”

“Your normalness.”

He gave a short chuckle. “Never accused of bein’ normal.”

“Nor I. Nevertheless . . . do you have a girlfriend?”

“She left me for an older man.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I design posters for the Keep America Out of War committee and other isolationist and noninterventionist groups.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s great work. They’re well funded. I make as much as I used to. Well
 
—almost.”

To the cab driver she called, “No, no
 
—the next left. After Brumby Court.”

“Is that a problem?”

Clare bit her lip. “How do you feel about lying? We could say you design posters for the opera. Or the movies! I have a splendid
Wizard of Oz
paste-up that a friend gave me. Seen it three times. You see, Mrs. Shrewsbury is an ardent politician. Keeps me apprised. And unfortunately, is not a fan of current American foreign policies
 
—she is especially not fond of your ambassador, Mr. Kennedy. Calls him
very
rude things. No offense.”

When he didn’t answer, Clare ventured, “Are you offended?”

“I’m too tired to be offended. In fact, I can’t remember what you just said.” He rubbed his eyes. “Remind me in the morning. Won’t speak to you for a week. See, I ain’t slept in . . .” His hands dropped from his eyes. “Huh. Must be a long time. The only time I don’t talk a lot is when I’m tired.”

“You must not be
very
tired, then,” she suggested. She added soothingly, “We’ll get you sorted soon. Your cabin is the best. It’s my favorite, but
I
need to be in the captain’s cabin.
I
need to be
in the heart of everything. Listening. Aware. Alert to the slightest change, and you will not know what that change is until it comes. Once you know your vessel, the
slightest
alteration to its daily rhythms, anything out of the ordinary, will get your attention. Dreadfully important on a boat
 
—it’s your life, you know.” She added, “Captain John is a dear. Teaches me a great deal about the
feeling
things of being a sailor. It’s how I discovered the Burglar Vicar:
keen alertness
. Right. Your parents. Your siblings. What can I tell the Shrew about them?”

Murray smacked each side of his face, and gave himself a shake. “Ah, let’s see: Tell her my old man was a philanderin’ yutz who left when I was four. Later he died. My ma’s a retired secretary, lives in a cute little bungalow in Bartlett. You kinda remind me of her. She’s chatty, see. And strict. You make me wanna watch my grammar. I got the bungalow for a song. You should see the place. Proudest day of my life, drivin’ her up. Got a nice carport, garden. She always wanted a garden. No siblings.”

His voice had grown hoarse with fatigue. She cracked on mercilessly.

“How were your grades in school? Were you an exemplary student? Did you do anything noteworthy or hopefully heroic in your community? Where did you go to college to design posters, or does it come naturally? And how are you connected to Father David Fitzpatrick?”

“Terrible grades. Nothing heroic. Noteworthy . . .” He chuckled, his expression rather sly in fond remembrance. “Yeah. Lots of noteworthies. Not the kind you want, I think. What were the others?”