Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“Oh? I’ve never done bar work, but I’ve worked in hotels, so I know what’s involved and I’m pretty sure I could get the hang of it. What’s the catch?”

“It’s just lunchtime. Eleven to three. That doesn’t suit most people. Oh, and there’d be a bit of cellar work in addition.”

“I might be able to supplement it with Income Support. Keep on the lookout for other things.” Other sources of income flashed through his mind, but he resolved to use those skills only very sparingly, if he used them at all.

“Anyway,” said Peggy, getting up to clear away the cups, “I’ll just leave the thought with you. We can go and have a look at the cottage tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

“And maybe go on to The Cornishman for a pub lunch. They do food at lunchtime?”

“Of course. That would be a big part of your work. Could well be a help with feeding the two of you. A lot of food goes to waste in a place like that.”

As she washed up the cups and the dinner things in the kitchen Peggy felt a glow of satisfaction. She had gambled, and she felt pretty sure she had won. If she had not told Colin about the cottage, she might have had him and Malcolm in the house for a few days, maybe for a week. But by mentioning it, she might not have them with her, but she would have them near her for much longer than that. She’d had no doubt since clapping eyes on the pair of them that that was what she wanted.

That night, as he went up to bed, Dick said, “Better go. Malcolm may be needing me. First night in a strange place.”

Unspoken because it did not need to be voiced was the thought that there would be other nights.

Selena Randall pulled a piece of paper towards her. For days she had felt she was going mad, so completely without event had her life become. No news from the police, nothing except attempts at reassurance. No sightings, no media interest, total absence even of those terrible, tantalising phone calls, which did at least tell her where they were at the moment they were made. She had to do something. It had been nagging at her mind for some days that perhaps she should appeal to him though the press, send an open letter to him through the Daily Mail, the paper that they had always taken.

“Dear Dick,” she began. “I’m writing to tell you how much I miss you both, and how I long to have you back. It’s now nearly four months since I saw Malcolm—” Longer than Carol Parker had been without her boy, she thought resentfully, but everyone knows about her loss, and nobody knows about mine. “—and I can’t bear the thought that when I see him again he will hardly know me. I will see him again, won’t I? Please, Dick, you couldn’t be so cruel as to keep him from me forever, could you? I know you love him and will look after him. Please remember that I love him, too. There is not a day goes past, not a minute of the day, when I don’t think of him. Remember how happy we were when he was born, you and me and him. I think you loved me then — loved me too much to want me to be so unhappy now. I know I loved you.”

She paused. She wanted to add: “I love you still.” Was that wise? The policeman would say no. Was it true? She wanted to write nothing but the truth. Did she still love him, after what he had done to her? Could she?

Seized by a sense of muddle and futility, not in her situation but in herself, her own mind, her own emotions, she laid her head down on the paper and sobbed her heart out.

They went to look at the cottage next morning, after the sort of breakfast dieticians throw up their hands at.

“I never put on weight,” said Dick, munching away at his fried bread. “I expect Malcolm will be the same, after he’s got over his chubbiness.”

They looked at the boy, already tucking in messily to the toast and marmalade.

“Nothing wrong with chubbiness in a child,” said Peggy.

When they’d washed up, Peggy only allowing Dick to help under protest, they set off down the back garden, then across the lane and to the tiny cottage. The tenants were just driving off when they got there, and they shouted that they were going to have a last look at Penzance.

“I wondered whether to go on to Penzance,” said Dick, “when I was driving around looking for somewhere to stay. Somehow it seemed like the end of the road.”

“You’ve got to give up thoughts like that, Colin,” said Peggy urgently. “There’s a great wide road ahead of you.”

She didn’t notice Malcolm looking up at her. He had never heard his father called Colin before.

The cottage was tiny — “bijou,” the estate agents would probably have called it — and there was an ever-present danger of tumbling over the furniture. But it was bright and cheerful, with everything done in the same sort of taste as Peggy’s own cottage. Malcolm thought it was wonderful, particularly the strip of lawn at the back, with the apple tree. It was warm enough for him to play in just his shorts, and they watched him as he tried to make friends with a very spry gray squirrel.