Free The Rhyme of the Magpie by Marty Wingate Page B

mind. Not everything was all right. I swallowed hard. “Dad’s fine.”
    “Did you talk with him?” she asked, showing again an uncanny ability to find my weak spot.
    “He’s quite busy—all wrapped up in a project. And he has his new assistant. Everything, really, is…under control.” Which meant, of course, there was something that needed controlling. “By the way”—I glanced back into the shop and lowered my voice—“do you like opera?”
    —
    I walked up from the rail station in Cambridge alongside the large green commons called Parker’s Piece amid a sea of students, mothers with pushchairs, and clusters of tourists who paused occasionally and bent heads over their maps. I stopped dead when I noticed several magpies strutting about on the well-manicured grass.
    “One, two, three, four, five,” I counted under my breath. “Five for silver.” Two more came in. “Six, seven—seven for a secret…” Three flew off. I started again. “One for sorrow, two for joy…” Five landed nearby and I hurried my counting, but one left and two more arrived before I could finish.
“Hold still, you stupid birds!”
I shouted to them. The birds rose as one while the crowd around me parted. I put my head down and continued on my way.
    My destination was the Guildhall, a depressingly characterless 1930s structure set amid a city of far older and more elegant buildings. I walked up one set of stairs and approached the half-open door at the end of the hall.
    It was a modest office—desk, table, and chairs that were neither new nor old enough to be antiques. A small, worn leather sofa occupied one corner. Seated at his desk was Giles Fenwith—Fenny, as Bee and I always called him. He was once a teaching fellow—along with Dad—at Clare College at Cambridge, but now made do as a private tutor for students hoping to make it into a decent university. He was also once Beryl’s husband.
    Another man towered over the desk, saying, “You didn’t admit to it, Giles? Tell me you have more fortitude than that.” My movement must’ve caught his eye, because he looked up and said, “Yes?” A reserved smile appeared. “Julia, how lovely to see you again.”
    Dr. Peter Drabwell—still a fellow at Clare College. He had that hunched-over look that many tall men have. His brow overhung his eyes, his head was squarish, and his arms seemed too long for his frame. I’d seen him occasionally over the years, and reacted the same way each time: with a nervous giggle. I couldn’t help it—Bianca and I had watched far too many Boris Karloff films when we were growing up. “Hello, Dr. Drabwell, how are you?”
    “Overwhelmed with the responsibility of molding tender young minds into useful adults, as always.” He walked to the door in two strides, saying over his shoulder, “We’re not finished yet, Giles. You need to remember that. We’ll settle on the details later.” He took my hand briefly. “My best to your father and his new bride.”
    He turned and left before I could reply. But never mind. Across the room, Giles Fenwith rose from his desk chair as if released from a spell. “Julia, my dear.”
    “Hello, Fenny.” I gave him a big hug and he returned it, and then we admired each other. He wasn’t tall, and he’d grown a bit thick around the middle over the years, but he was still a fine-looking man with curly, silver-and-brown hair and a trimmed, wiry beard to match. His smile was still infectious. He’d been like an uncle to us, and he and Dad had stayed friends through all the ups and downs of life. The downs were mostly on Fenny’s side, sad to say.
    “This is a wonderful surprise,” Fenny said, pulling me around the worktable to the sofa. “What brings you to me?”
    “I know it’s been ages. I just thought that I’d stop by.” I glanced back at the door. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
    Fenny shook his head. “Peter was asking about a former student. It’s nothing. You’re looking