Maggie Bright by Tracy Groot Read Free Book Online Page B

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 ifcatching 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