Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body

Chapter Six

Agatha learned that the American police were currently hunting for both Tom Courtney and his sister. Tom had left the United Kingdom the day after Agatha had taken her flight to the States. Harriet Temple had cracked and said that Amy had initially told her she needed an excuse because she was having an affair. After the murder, when Harriet read about it and phoned her, Amy had threatened to kill her if she ever breathed a word. Dr. Bairns was crying and bewildered, saying he did not know where his wife was. The Courtneys had cleared out their bank accounts and disappeared.

Agatha thought they must have moved very fast indeed. It seemed likely that Tom had fled just after Amy had telephoned him to report Agatha's visit.

"So when we get them and have them extradited, Courtney will be charged with the murder of his mother and also of John Sunday."

"But why on earth would he kill John Sunday?"

"He knew where his mother lived. The killing of Sunday was just setting the scene."

"But is there any record of him entering the country at that time?"

"No, but we're working on it. He may have played the same trick on someone that his sister played on Harriet and got another passport. He was setting the stage. It turns out that both he and his sister have at various times been hospitalised for drugs and depression. There are psychiatric reports claiming they both suffered from a form of narcissistic psychopathy. They were the children of Mrs. Courtney's first marriage. He thought with one murder already in that village, we wouldn't look at him."

"Why employ me?"

"Because he felt perfectly sure you wouldn't find anything. He told Bill Wong that perhaps he had made a mistake employing what he called 'a mere village sleuth' but that he was willing to try anything."

"I don't think the murder of John Sunday had anything to do with it," said Agatha. "It's just one elaborate step too far."

"So you say. But as far as we're concerned, that murder is solved. The American police will get a confession out of him."

"If they ever catch him," said Agatha cynically. "At the moment, I'm going all out to get the bastard who killed Sharon."

"You needn't bother. It was Jazz Belter. Real name Fred Belter. We've got him in the cells."

"How did you get him so quickly?"

"Detective Wong interviewed an old lady who lived in the flats overlooking where the dead girl was found. She doesn't sleep much. She saw Belter drag Sharon out of the boot of a car, stuff her mouth with grass, sling a rope over the lamp post--it's one of those old-fashioned kind--and string her up. He was so high on drugs when we picked him up, it took four officers to hold him down and handcuff him."

Agatha left police headquarters feeling very low. Somehow, if finding out the murderer of poor Sharon had turned out to be a complicated affair, it might have made the girl's death seem less useless, less of such a complete waste of a young life.

She had a sudden vivid memory of looking down from the office window and watching Sharon and Toni going off for the evening, laughing and with their arms around each other.

She went round to the office. Patrick and Toni were out on jobs. Mrs. Freedman had gone off to do some shopping and Phil Marshall was manning the phones. Phil was in his seventies, a quiet man with a shock of white hair. He had retained a good figure. He was an expert cameraman.

"Bad business about Sharon," said Phil. "Mrs. Freedman won't be long. Do you want me to give you a run-down on what we are all doing?"

"Not at the moment. I need to get back to thinking about the murder of John Sunday to take my mind off Sharon's death."

"So you don't think the Courtneys did it?"

"No. It's nagging at the back of my mind that it was someone in that village. You see the trouble with being a town person and not a village person and meeting so many other incomers these days," said Agatha. "I can't help feeling that people like me don't really know village life, what really goes on in the minds of the genuine villagers. It's not even like some of those television series you see based on supposed village life. All so politically correct. If the local retired major was in the army, then he's either a fascist or a closet gay. Gypsies are always good people and not understood. I saw one with eight murders and not a pressman in sight."

"No. I suspect there are undercurrents in an off-the-tourist-map sort of place like Odley Cruesis. Unless it was someone at John's work . . . Oh, Mrs. Freedman, you're back. Would you please look me up the files on John Sunday?"

"No need for that," said Phil. "I've got it all on the computer."

Agatha fetched herself a strong cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. Mrs. Freedman stifled a sigh and opened a window. Agatha sat down in front of the computer and began to read all the reports along with Phil's photographs. Then she said, "Something's missing."

"What?" asked Phil.

"Where did John Sunday live?"

"I remember that. A terraced house. Oxford Lane in Mircester. Patrick said the police could not find anything that related to the murder."

"And who got the house?"

"Wait and I'll get my notebook."

"Phil, it should be in here with the rest."

Agatha bit her lip in vexation. What with the murder of Miriam and then her own hip replacement operation, she felt she had often too easily assumed that both murders were connected.

"Let me see." Phil came back with a notebook and flicked the pages. "Ah, here we are. I went with Patrick. Number seven, Oxford Lane. Two up, two down terraced house. Small front garden. Neighbourhood slightly run-down. He was never married. His sister inherited. A Mrs. Parker. Probably sold the house."

"Maybe not. I'd love a look inside, just in case there's anything left. Let's drive round there."

The house had a small, weedy front garden. As Agatha pushed open the front gate, a neighbour opened her door and called out, "Are you the house clearance people?"

"Yes," said Agatha on the spur of the moment.

"Wait and I'll get the key," said the neighbour. "Mrs. Parker's still up north but she'll be here tomorrow. She's been right poorly and hasn't been able to get round to doing anything about her brother's house before this. She got in touch with you lot to sell off everything. She and her brother had a quarrel a long time ago and she didn't want to have anything to do with his stuff. She came down after his murder--poor man--and took away a few things, but she didn't want the rest."

"We shouldn't be doing this," muttered Phil.

"Shh! This is a great opportunity."

When the neighbour came back with the key, Agatha said, "I'm surprised Mrs. Parker took so long to call us in and put the house up for sale."

"Well, like I said, she's poorly and she couldn't find the time before. Let me have the key when you've finished."

Once inside, Phil said angrily, "And what do we do if the real people turn up?"

"We'll leave the front door open," said Agatha. "If we hear them arriving, we'll just nip out the back way."

The downstairs consisted of a living room and kitchen on one side of the dark passage and a study on the other. Upstairs were two bedrooms and one bathroom.

"I suppose the study's the place to start," said Agatha, "although the police are sure to be still hanging on to all his paperwork until his sister claims it."

"I'll try the other rooms," said Phil. "Have you considered, Agatha, that when the real clearance people turn up, that neighbour is going to report us to the police and give our descriptions?"

"She seemed to be very shortsighted," said Agatha hopefully.

Phil went off and Agatha began to search diligently, but it all too soon appeared that the police had taken away every bit of paper they could get their hands on. She took out the desk drawers in case anything was taped to the undersides, but there was nothing, except on the bottom of one drawer was "A119X" written in felt-tipped pen. Agatha wrote it down.

They spent more than an hour searching for secret hiding places but finding none. It was bleakly furnished with the bare essentials. It seemed as if John Sunday had liked puzzles and jigsaws. One of the few human touches in the living room was a bookshelf containing boxes of jigsaw puzzles and crossword books. There were no photographs. A mirror hung over the fireplace reflecting the gloomy room. Phil thought that maybe the house had been built for workers at one time because the terrace faced north and didn't get much sunlight and he had noticed the building bricks were of poor quality.

They even searched under the cushions of the shabby brown corduroy sofa and down the sides of two armchairs. Phil reported that only one of the upstairs bedrooms had been used and that the other was completely empty.

When they left and locked up, Agatha had an idea. She took the key back to the neighbour and, reverting to the Birmingham accent of her youth, she said, "Made an awful mistake, love. Should've been round the corner in Oxford Terrace. Please don't tell Mrs. Parker or we'll get in awful trouble."

The neighbour peered at her. "Don't you be worrying yourself, m'dear. We all get like that when we get older. Didn't I put the kettle on yesterday and clean forgot till it nearly burned dry?"

"That woman can hardly see a thing," muttered Agatha crossly to Phil. "I'm hungry. I need something to eat."

They decided on a pub lunch at The George in Mircester. "I wish I knew what A119X stood for," said Agatha, "and why it was written on the underside of the drawer. He liked puzzles. Nasty, devious mind, he probably had. He was probably the sort who would go to endless lengths to hide something somewhere difficult instead of just renting a safe deposit box."

"Library!" said Phil suddenly.

"What library?" asked Agatha.

"I mean A119X looks like a number on the back of one of the Mircester Public Library books. They send a mobile library van round the villages and I borrow books from them. The library still uses the old card system."

At the library, by asking at the desk, they discovered that A119X was a book entitled Go to the Ant by Percival Bright-Simmel. "I'm afraid it hasn't been returned," said the librarian. "We meant to send out the usual letter reminding the borrower that the book was overdue, but when we found out it was that John Sunday who was murdered, well, we just needed to give it up for lost. We would have got rid of it pretty soon as we're due for an overhaul. No one else had taken that book out for a long time."

"What kind of book was it?" asked Phil.

"It was in the nonfiction religious section."

_______

Outside the library, Agatha said, "We've got to get back into Sunday's house and search the bookshelves. What was so important about that book?"

But when they arrived back at Sunday's house, it was to find a van outside the door bearing the legend Pyrson's House Clearance. The door was standing open. Agatha looked cautiously towards the house next door but there was no sign of the neighbour who had given them the key.

"What are you doing?" hissed Phil as Agatha strode up towards the open door.

"I know what I'm doing," said Agatha. She walked inside. Two men were crating up furniture.

"I'm from Mircester Library," said Agatha. "The previous owner failed to return one of our books. Do you mind if I take a quick look for it?"

"Go ahead," said one of the men. "We ain't got around to them yet."

Phil had tentatively followed Agatha in. They both began to search the bookshelves. "Puzzles and more puzzles," muttered Agatha. "Maybe there's something behind the books." She began to pull them out. Phil was standing on a chair searching the top shelves when he said, "Got something here. Yes, this is it. It was down behind the others along with this."

"This" was a full bottle of whisky. "Hey!" shouted one of the removal men. "That there bottle's part o' the house contents."

"You're welcome to it," said Agatha. "All we want is the book."

They handed over the bottle of whisky and, clutching the book, made their way out of the house.

"What if that neighbour sees us?" fretted Phil. "You told her we should have been round the corner at another house."

"Oh, she'll just think we're part of the same business," said Agatha airily. "Let's get back to the office and have a good look, although it's not much of a book." Go to the Ant was a thin, shabby book with an illustration on the front of a blond and blue-eyed Jesus Christ pointing accusingly, rather in the manner of the First World War posters, saying, "Your Country Needs You."

Toni was sitting at her computer typing up notes when they went into the office. Agatha noticed that the girl looked pale and listless. Must hire another young person, she thought. Maybe that will cheer her up. Agatha knew that the murder of Sharon had hit Toni hard.

"Stop typing, Toni," she said, "and help us with this." She told Toni about how and why they had found the book.

The book turned out to be a sort of extended religious tract, written in 1926. It was a series of moral tales about unfortunate people who had behaved like the grasshopper and ended up starving to death or living in the workhouse.

"You wouldn't think he was a religious sort of person," said Phil. "I mean, he made trouble for two churches that we know of. There are no clues here. No words underlined."

"Let me see." Toni took the thin book and began to riffle through the pages. "I think I've got something." She ran her hand lightly over one of the pages. "There are some pinpricks under some letters."

"Good girl!" Agatha seized a pen. "Read them out."

"This page has a u and then an n. Nothing next page. Wait a bit. Other page a d and an e." She steadily worked her way through the book until she had one whole message. It read, "Under the garden shed."

"I'd better get back there tonight," said Agatha. "But why a secret message to himself? If he buried something under the garden shed, then why bother to go through this elaborate business? Are you game for another visit, Phil?"

Toni saw the reluctant look on Phil's face and said to Agatha, "I'll come with you."

"Go and get some rest," said Agatha. "I'll call for you around midnight."

When she got back to her cottage, there was no sign of Charles. She felt suddenly bereft. Surely she should be used to him dropping in and out of her life? She petted her faithless cats, who wriggled away from her and stood by the garden door waiting to be let out.

She microwaved herself a dish of lasagne and moodily ate it at the kitchen table. Agatha decided to put an advertisement in the papers for a trainee detective. If Toni had a young person to train, it might take her mind off Sharon. What if, she wondered guiltily, I hadn't told Sharon to leave Toni's flat? Would she still be alive? No, she decided, she might even have started to bring the bikers to Toni's place and there might have been two dead bodies instead of one.

Agatha changed into dark clothes, set the alarm for eleven thirty and lay down on the sofa. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered why she had never put a cat flap on the garden door.

Agatha parked her car round the corner from where John Sunday's house lay and she and Toni made their way quietly along the deserted street. A thin drizzle was falling, and water was beginning to drip down from the trees that lined the street.

They opened the gate quietly and made their way along a brick path at the side of the house which led to the back garden. Agatha risked flicking the thin beam of light from a pencil torch round the small area of garden. There was an unkempt lawn, several laurel bushes and the black silhouette of a small shed in the far right-hand corner.

Agatha flicked her torch on again and shone it on the door. "There's a padlock," whispered Toni.

"I thought there might be," said Agatha, opening up a carrier bag and hauling out a pair of wire cutters. "Soon get this open."

"But what if the sister finds the broken padlock and reports the shed has been broken into?"

"I brought another padlock," said Agatha cheerfully. "No one will know the difference."

She cut through the padlock and opened the door. The shed had a wooden floor. Agatha handed Toni the torch and said, "Your eyes are better than mine. Crouch down there and see if you can find any marks where something might have been hidden. We don't want to smash up the whole floor."

Toni crawled around and then shook her head. "Nothing."

"I was afraid of that," said Agatha gloomily. "We're going to have to try and lift all the planks up."

"Wait a bit." Toni sat back on her knees. "This shed is raised up a bit from the ground. What if all we have to do is go outside and have a look underneath?"

"Great! Let's try it. I'll put this new padlock on just in case anyone comes after us and we have to make a quick getaway."

Toni lay down on the wet grass and shone the torch under the shed. "There's something here," she said.

A voice sounded from next door. "I assure you, Officer, I heard voices coming from Mr. Sunday's garden."

"Snakes and bastards," muttered Agatha. "Grab whatever it is and we'll run."

Toni pulled out a small metal box. They ran to the end of the small garden, Toni vaulted over the gate clutching the box, and Agatha threw her carrier bag over and heaved herself over the wooden gate and fell in a heap in the lane outside.

"Quietly," hissed Toni, feeling that Agatha charging off down the lane was making as much noise as a stampeding elephant.

With relief, they reached the safety of Agatha's car and drove off.

Once back at the cottage, Toni put the metal box on the kitchen table. "It's locked," she said. "Now, what do we do?"

Agatha opened a kitchen drawer by the sink and took out a chisel. She also handed Toni a thin pair of latex gloves and put a pair on herself. She wedged the end in the slit by the lock and prised down hard. There was a loud snap and the lid flew back.

There was a package wrapped in tough white plastic. Agatha took the kitchen scissors and cut it open. There were photographs and letters. "Look at this!" exclaimed Agatha. "That's a naked Tilly Glossop on top of some man, but who's the man?"

"It's hard to see his face, all contorted like it is. But it looks suspiciously like the mayor of Cirencester. I'll look him up on your computer and get a photograph."

"You go ahead. I'll look at these others. Oh, my!"

Toni paused in the doorway. "Oh, what?"

"It's a photo of Penelope Timson necking passionately with some fellow who isn't the vicar. The dirty little man must have been blackmailing people." As Toni went through to the computer, Agatha studied the few letters. They were passionate love letters from people she did not know and written to people she did not know, either.

She lit a cigarette and wondered what to do. Toni came back in. "Yes, it's the mayor all right. Shall we go and confront him tomorrow?"

"No," said Agatha. "He'll call his lawyer. The police will be called in. Where did we get this? Why were we withholding evidence? Penelope Timson is a friend of Mrs. Bloxby. I'll keep that photo back. We'll wipe everything we've touched carefully and send the package to the police. No, that won't do. They've got to find it themselves. Damn, we've got to put it back."

"What about the broken lock?"

"I've got a metal box just like it. I used to keep jewellery in it until I got a proper jewel case. I'll get it, we'll pop the stuff in and back under the shed it goes."

"And how do the police find it?"

"I'll call them from a phone box. I've got this nifty little machine. It's a portable voice distorter."

This time they were able to enter and exit the garden without being heard. Agatha made the phone call to police headquarters and then they drove to an all-night restaurant out on the motorway for an early breakfast.

After a breakfast of sausage, bacon, egg and chips and two cups of black coffee, Agatha said, "First, we should both get some sleep. I think I'll talk to Mrs. Bloxby about Penelope and suggest we both approach her. Now, the big question is Tilly Glossop. She and Sunday may have been blackmailing the mayor together. I mean, someone had to be on hand to take that photograph."

"Do you want me to try Tilly?"

"I think maybe Patrick might be a better idea. He still looks like a cop and he might frighten her into some sort of confession or slip-up."

Agatha snatched a few hours' sleep and turned up in the office at nine in the morning to brief Patrick. Then she told Mrs. Freedman to put in an advertisement for another detective. "A trainee, mind," cautioned Agatha. "Some student in his or her gap year would do. I'm off to see Mrs. Bloxby about something. Seems a quiet morning. Want to come, Toni?"

Toni agreed. She still mourned her lost friend, Sharon, and felt the vicarage and Mrs. Bloxby's quiet presence very soothing.

Despite the loud protests from the study from the vicar, shouting, "This place is getting like Piccadilly Circus," Mrs. Bloxby settled them in the vicarage drawing room. Rain was falling steadily outside. "They said it was going to be a barbecue summer," said Agatha. "Such a shame for all the families who booked their holidays in Britain this year."

"Amazing thing, British tourism," remarked Mrs. Bloxby when she returned from the kitchen with a laden tray. "People flit by air to countries and never really understand other races or cultures, like dragonflies flitting over a pond. Can't see the murky depth underneath. You are looking unusually serious, Mrs. Raisin."

Agatha opened her capacious handbag and drew out a white envelope and handed it to the vicar's wife. "Before you look at that, I'll tell you how we came by it."

She described how they had found the box under Sunday's shed. "I extracted the one photo in that envelope, which is withholding evidence from the police, but I wanted to consult you first."

Mrs. Bloxby took out the photo and slowly sat down. "Oh, dear. What shall we do?"

"I thought as you knew her, we might go over there and have a quiet word. I cannot for a moment think that Mrs. Timson was ever involved with anyone capable of murder. If you think for one moment she might have got involved with some sort of villain, I can post this anonymously to the police."

"Have some tea and scones," urged Mrs. Bloxby. "Tea and scones are very mind settling."

"Have you ever heard any gossip about Mrs. Timson?" asked Toni.

"Nothing at all," said Mrs. Bloxby. "Oh, dear, perhaps it might have been better if you had both left the matter to the police. They would probably send along a policewoman and . . ."

"They would probably send along Detective Sergeant Collins, who would frighten her to death and no doubt lead her off in handcuffs in front of the whole village," said Agatha harshly.

Mrs. Bloxby sighed. "I might as well go with you. Dear me, what sinks of iniquity these little villages can be."

The rain had stopped as they drove in Agatha's car to Odley Cruesis. Sunlight gilded the puddles of water on the road and glittering raindrops plopped from the branches of the overhead trees. As they climbed out of the car in front of the vicarage, the air smelled sweet and fresh.

Penelope answered the door and smiled when she saw them. "Please come in. My husband is over at the church."

"Good," said Agatha. "It's you we want to see."

"Come through. Coffee?"

"No, we've just had some," said Agatha. She opened her handbag, took out the envelope and extracted the photograph, which she handed to Penelope. Penelope sank down onto a corner of the sofa and hunched herself up and wrapped her arms around her thin body. Mrs. Bloxby sat beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Mrs. Timson, Mrs. Raisin has taken a great risk in not showing this photo to the police. Was Mr. Sunday blackmailing you?"

Penelope gulped and burst into tears. Toni fetched a box of tissues from a side table and handed it to her. Agatha waited impatiently, hoping the vicar would not walk in on the scene. At last Penelope gave a shuddering sigh. "Yes, he was."

"Who was the man?" asked Agatha.

"He was a visiting American preacher. Giles asked me to show him around the Cotswolds. We became friendly. He was a widower. He told a lot of very funny jokes. Giles never tells jokes. Jokes can be very seductive," she said plaintively.

"So you had an affair!"

"Oh, no!" Penelope looked shocked. "It was the morning before he left. We were in the churchyard and he thanked me for taking care of him and he swept me into his arms and kissed me. Then he laughed and said, 'I shouldn't have done that.' I said, 'No, you shouldn't,' and he patted me on the shoulder and went in to say goodbye to Giles."

"And did Sunday start to blackmail you?"

"Not exactly. He came round one morning three days later when Giles was over in a neighbouring parish and showed me the photograph. I explained it was just a kiss, but he said my husband would never believe that if he saw the photograph. I asked him what he wanted. He laughed nastily and said he'd get back to me."

"And when was this?" asked Mrs. Bloxby.

"Three days before he was murdered," whispered Penelope. "He phoned me the day before the protest meeting and said I had to get it stopped or he would send the photo to Giles. I couldn't bear it any longer. They always say that blackmailers never go away. So I told Giles."

Mrs. Bloxby said sympathetically, "Giles must have been furious."

"It was worse than that," said Penelope. "He laughed and laughed. 'Forget it,' he said. 'I mean, just look in the mirror. Everyone knows Americans are overaffectionate. I'll go and see Sunday and we'll never hear another word.'

"After the murder, I asked him if he had said anything to the police or if he had gone to see Sunday, and he said he hadn't had the time to see Sunday and he had no intention of mentioning the silly photo to the police."

What have I done now? wondered Agatha miserably. I should have left the photo for the police to find. I believe Penelope. But they would have grilled Giles and checked on his movements. He wasn't with the party when John was stabbed.

"We'll leave it for the moment," said Agatha.

When they left the vicarage, Mrs. Bloxby said, "Let's go somewhere quiet. I'm beginning to remember things."

"My kitchen is the quietest place around here," said Agatha, setting off in the direction of home.

Once seated in Agatha's kitchen, Mrs. Bloxby began. "I remember it was last autumn and I remember the visiting preacher. His name was Silas Cuttler. American from some Episcopal church somewhere. He was a round, jolly man. Around that time, Mrs. Timson smartened her appearance and even wore make-up."

"Is Penelope Timson verbally abused?" asked Agatha.

"Oh, just the usual married stuff. 'What's that muck on your face? You are silly.' Usual things like that. Giles is rather a cold, impatient sort of man."

"I think I ought to ask him some questions," said Agatha.

"My dear Mrs. Raisin, he would coldly accuse you of withholding police evidence, take it to the police himself and then you would really be in trouble. I am sure Mr. Timson can't for one moment think his wife is capable of having an adulterous affair."

"And I can't interview the mayor because the police would wonder how I got on to him. Perhaps I'll just leave it for a few days and then get Patrick to find out from his police contacts what's been happening."

Agatha asked Toni if she would like to go through the applications for the job of trainee detective and pick out a few suitable candidates, but Toni was still mourning the loss of her friend and so Agatha took a bundle of letters home one evening.

The advertisement had said that applicants must include copies of school certificates and a photograph.

Patrick called at her cottage and followed her through to the kitchen, where letters and photographs were spread across the kitchen table. "I'm looking for a trainee," said Agatha. "But they seem to be a hopeless lot. What brings you?"

"Good news. Tom Courtney has been arrested outside Washington and has been charged with the murder of his mother. He was living with a woman in Mount Vernon and she turned him in to the police. She didn't know he was wanted for murder. She became afraid when he started scrubbing out all her closets and shelves and making her take a shower about five times a day. She asked him to leave and when he wouldn't, she called the police. They thought it was just a domestic, but some sharp-eyed trooper recognised Tom from a photo pinned up in the precinct."

"When are they going to extradite him?"

"It'll take ages, if ever."

"At least I don't need to be afraid of him turning up here. What about sister Amy?"

"Nothing, and he swears blind he doesn't know where she is. Husband hasn't heard from her. Complains she emptied their joint bank account before she cleared off. Anyway, Tom Courtney says he had nothing to do with the death of Sunday. Of course, at first the police here wanted that tied up, so they didn't believe him. But when I heard from my contacts that they found letters and a naughty photo of the mayor under the shed in his garden, they wearily decided to open the investigation again. Tilly Glossop and the mayor say it was a one-night fling after a boozy party at the town hall and that they weren't being blackmailed. The e-mails he seems to have stolen out of people's computers at the office. He used them for power, not money. Seems to be why he kept his job when there were so many complaints against him."

"Sit down, Patrick. A cold beer?"

"Great. I'm driving but one wouldn't hurt."

Although retired from the force, Patrick always looked somehow like a policeman, with his neatly cropped brown hair, lugubrious face, well-pressed clothes and shiny black shoes.

"Apart from Tilly Glossop, no one else is connected to Odley Cruesis," said Patrick. "Tilly is still in for questioning and has had to surrender her passport."

Agatha thought guiltily of the evidence she had suppressed.

She handed Patrick a glass of beer and then sat down at the table beside him and lit a cigarette. "Look at these applications," she said, sending a haze of cigarette smoke over the table. "Most of them don't even seem able to write and a lot of them use text messaging language."

"There's one fallen under the table," said Patrick, bending down to retrieve it. "Oh, look at this. Do you think he escaped from a production of Il Pagliacci?"

"Pally who?" demanded Agatha crossly, suspecting a dreaded intellectual reference that would show the gaping gaps in her knowledge of the arts.

"The clown in opera. The one who sings 'On with the Motley.' "

"Let me see."

Patrick handed her a photograph. It was a head and shoulders picture of a teenager. He had a mop of thick curly black hair, large hooded eyes, a prominent curved beak of a nose and a long mobile mouth. "Four A-levels," said Patrick. "Doesn't wanted to be landed with a university loan and would like to find work right away. Says he's intuitive, hardworking and gets on with people. Eighteen years old."

"I'll have him in for an interview," said Agatha. "Toni needs someone young to cheer her up."

"What's his name?"

"Simon Black."

Simon entered Agatha's office at seven o'clock the following evening. He turned out to be quite small, perhaps just about five feet and two inches. He was very slim and slight so that his head looked disproportionately large. His eyes under their hooded lids were very large and black and glittered with a combination of humour and intelligence. Agatha thought that he looked like something that had escaped from Lord of the Rings.

"Tell me about yourself," said Agatha.

"I think you'll find it's all in my CV."

"Look, dear boy, if you want this job, try to sell yourself."

"May I sit down?"

"Do."

Simon pulled forward a chair and sat facing Agatha. He was dressed in black: black T-shirt, black trousers, socks and shoes. "I'm clever about people," said Simon. He had a slight Gloucestershire accent. "I instinctively know when people are lying. I am above average intelligence and--"

"And you've got a very high opinion of yourself," snapped Agatha.

"So you find listening to me selling myself offensive?" asked Simon. He sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know.

Agatha gave a reluctant smile. "I've had a bad day. Do you live with your parents?"

"No, I live by myself. My parents are dead. They died last year in a car crash. I wasn't left much but debts even after the house was sold, so I decided it would be better to go out to work than have the burden of a university loan hanging over me. I've had enough of debts."

The door of the office opened and Toni came in. "I left something in my desk," she said.

Agatha felt a pang as she looked at Toni's sad face. She had a sudden idea. "Toni, this is Simon Black, who will be starting work with us tomorrow. Simon, Toni Gilmour. Are you busy at the moment, Toni?"

"Well . . . no."

"Get some money from the petty cash and take Simon for a drink and introduce him to the world of detecting. You can charge for the overtime."

"All right," said Toni listlessly.

"Simon, report to this office at nine o' clock tomorrow and our secretary will give you a contract to sign."

"Thank you ver--" began Simon, but Agatha waved a dismissive hand. "Off you both go."

Agatha waited until they had gone down the stairs and out into the street. She rose and crossed to the window. They were walking along, several feet apart, not talking.