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Bernard to be an admirer of Max’s, and a relief not to be dealing with a fawning fan.
    And yet this was, somehow, a disappointment… that Sir Bernard knew so little of her, and what she did, and who she was.
    She touched the side of her head, fingers in the curls. “I must say Max’s work resembles mine, as well. Stories of crime and murder can be uncovered in the ancient sands.”
    “I must apologize for not being acquainted with your work,” Sir Bernard said. Perhaps he had sensed her bruised pride. “I understand your reputation is considerable… and many of my colleagues read mystery and detective stories. For my part, I have no interest in fictional crime…. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
    “Not at all,” she said, and her hurt had vanished. “It would be a busman’s holiday for you, wouldn’t it?”
    “As I’m afraid I’ve revealed, I’m secretly a romantic—Tennyson, Wordsworth, Kipling, those are my literary heroes.”
    “You display impeccable taste, Sir Bernard.”
    “Please, Mrs. Mallowan. I’d be honored if you’d call me Bernard.”
    “Only if you’ll call me Agatha.”
    He shifted in his seat. “If you want me to… Agatha… I’ll read one of your books….”
    She laughed, a rather raucous laugh that gave her a twinge of chagrin. “That’s not necessary… Bernard. Have you had lunch? Would you care to join me?”
    “That’s very kind of you.”
    And he did, ordering up his own plate of bangers and mash.
    Thereafter they had lunch together almost every weekday, as her schedule and his work allowed. His wife Edith was living out of London, and Sir Bernard saw her only on occasional weekends. Agatha—lonely herself, without Max—could sense the man’s need for companionship.
    This was no love affair—far from it. This was simply two older people whose spouses were away, two professionals pursuing their careers during wartime, as best they could, who found pleasure in each other’s company. Now and then they ate at the stall in Euston Station, but more often at the Holborn.
    Sir Bernard asked endless questions about Max’s archaeological digs, and seemed far more impressed with Agatha’s role as expedition photographer, complete with darkroom tent, than her status as an author of best-selling mystery novels.
    “It’s wonderful to be married to an archaeologist,” she told Sir Bernard. “The older you get, the more interested he is in you.”
    People who knew them both as painfully shy individuals probably wondered if the pair of them had lost their minds,these two reticent types sitting chattering like magpies. But they had much in common, including a love of music; she revealed to Sir Bernard her failed ambition to be an opera singer (her voice had proved too thin, and incipient stage fright had been no help, either) and he told her almost misty-eyed of his days as a medical student attending Henry Wood’s promenade concerts.
    They had become good enough friends to allow the other silence—there were days when she was troubled by difficulties with her writing (she had plenty of time for that in the evenings—one didn’t want to go out in the Blitz!). And she would sit and quietly think and their conversation would be politely minimal.
    When he was preoccupied with a case, Sir Bernard could lapse into intense silence, often checking a small black spiral notebook filled with file-size note cards, as if life were an exam for which he was studying.
    As she (and James on his leash) entered the little lab down the hall at the hospital, Sir Bernard sat at a counter in his white lab coat, his brow furrowed as he went over those ubiquitous file cards in his little black notebook.
    “Good afternoon, Bernard,” she said, as was her habit.
    He looked up, his smile a barely noticeable crease under the intense gray eyes and finely carved nose. “Is it afternoon already?” he replied, as was his wont.
    And soon they had walked, quietly, to nearby Holborn Empire, once known