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The Magistrate's Verdict
The rain beat against the bay windows of Margaret's stone cottage on the Welsh headland, blurring the grey line where the Atlantic met the cliffs. On the scarred oak table lay the final chapter of her twelfth novel, neatly stacked beside an uncapped fountain pen. Margaret had not touched the concluding page in four days. When the brass door knocker sounded, she did not immediately stand; she knew it would be Thomas, who had caught the early train from Paddington to prise the pages from her hands.
Thomas shook his dripping overcoat into the hall umbrella stand and entered the study, his eyes darting immediately to the manuscript. "Margaret, the compositors in London are idling. The publisher intends to announce the title on Friday. We ought to settle this ending today."
"The magistrate refuses to cooperate," Margaret said, pouring two cups of black tea from a cast-iron kettle.