AGATHA’S first thought on waking later in the day was that they should try to see Carol and then go on to Wormstone. When she got up, it was to find Charles was still asleep. She defrosted a package which turned out to be lasagne, microwaved it and ate it. Then she phoned Paul but didn’t get a reply.
Impatient for action, she woke Charles and then had a shower and dressed. Charles was in the kitchen when she went downstairs, playing with the cats by tossing a crumpled ball of alumium foil in the air and watching them leap for it.
She surveyed the scene from the kitchen door, wondering, as she had wondered so many times in the past, what Charles really thought about her. He came and went at will, always as self-contained and enigmatic as her cats.
“I thought we should try to see Carol and find out how Harry’s getting on and then go to Wormstone,” she said.
“Righto,” said Charles lazily. He opened the kitchen bin to drop the foil into it and looked down at the discarded package of lasagne. “Aggie, you’re supposed to eat a certain amount of fresh fruit and vegetables each day. All you do is smoke, drink black coffee, and eat trash. You’ll get spots.”
“I’m too old to get spots.”
“One is never too old to get spots. Or cancer.”
“I haven’t had cancer. You’ve had cancer.”
“But I swear it’s my healthy life-style that fought it off. Okay, let’s go.”
Carol was at home. Her eyes were blotchy with recently shed tears. “Poor Harry,” she said. “Isn’t it awful?”
“He has been actually charged, has he?” asked Charles.
“They’ve charged him with the murder of Mother. Oh, dear, what can I do?”
“We’re working on it,” said Agatha. “Did he say why he went over to see your mother that particular night?”
“He said he couldn’t stop worrying about the financial mess he was in. He said it was just an impulse. He wanted to try again to see if she would lend him some money. He said he got no reply. He assumed she had seen him from the window and had decided not to open the door. She had done that before. So he just drove back and joined the party.”
“It’s a wonder the stage-door man didn’t see him coming and going.”
“Freddy was at the party himself. They decided there was no need for him to man the stage door after the party began.”
“Are you sure neither of you knew about that secret passage?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then why were you both so reluctant to let us search the house?”
“Harry had been down in the cellar and he said there was a lot of stuff there, old toys, things like that. He said we might be able to get a good price for some of it.” She turned pink. “He was worried you might pinch some of it.”
Agatha experienced a flash of dislike for Harry. He probably did the murders, she thought.
“Had he paid Barry any money?” asked Charles.
“No. But he promised to. He said he would pay him when he got his inheritance.”
“How much was Barry asking for?”
“Fifty thousand pounds.”
“I wonder when Barry was murdered,” said Agatha. “You see, if it turns out he was murdered while Harry was in jail, then surely the police will have to let him go. Because that would prove that Barry was probably blackmailing someone else.”
A gleam of hope lit up Carol’s watery eyes. “Can you find out?”
“I’ll try,” said Agatha, thinking of Bill Wong.
“Now, why Wormstone?” asked Charles as they got back into the car.
“I don’t like Peter Frampton.”
“So why don’t we go and spit in his face? He’s in Towdey, not Wormstone.”
“Because it’s a long shot. What if Robin Barley asked him for advice on the Civil War?”
“The rector couldn’t remember.”
“But someone in the village might. We won’t take long.”
Paul Chatterton was at that moment in Towdey, looking for Zena Saxton’s address. He had typed notes into his computer of all he and Agatha had found out. He had more or less made up his mind that Harry had actually committed the murders, but he felt that Peter Frampton was a loose end to be tied up. He had wanted Ivy Cottage. Why that particular cottage? He was cross with Agatha because she was neglecting him in favour of Charles.
He knocked at the door of the first house in the village he came to and was told that Zena lived in a cottage near the church, Dove Cottage.
Paul was relieved to see lights were on in the cottage. He hoped Peter Frampton wasn’t with Zena.
Zena opened the door to him. Paul introduced himself and said he had seen her briefly at the historical society. She looked at him with stony eyes. “You’re another of those snoops. What do you want?”
Paul smiled. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to take you out for dinner.”
Vanity warred with suspicion in Zena’s beautiful face. She was only wearing light make-up and a simple black sheath and Paul reflected that she was incredibly attractive-and knew it.
Vanity obviously won. “I’d like to,” she said cautiously, “but my boy-friend said he might call round.”
“Keep him guessing,” said Paul. He was wearing his best suit and shirt and a silk tie.
“Where did you think of taking me for dinner?” asked Zena.
“Le Beau Gentilhomme.”
“Oh, I’ll get my bag,” said Zena. “I’ve always wanted to go there but my boy-friend says it’s too expensive.”
When she went indoors to collect her handbag, Paul thanked his stars that Peter Frampton should prove to be a cheap-skate. Le Beau Gentilhomme was a new French restaurant in Mircester.
“Well, here’s Wormstone,” said Charles. “Where do we start?”
“There’s the Black Bear pub over there. We’ll try there first.”
The pub was crowded. Agatha brought them both drinks at the bar. Charles, obviously regretting his earlier generosity in buying her a meal, said he couldn’t find his wallet.
Agatha was suddenly reluctant to waylay some local and start asking questions. I am getting soft, she thought.
“Let’s start with that old codger over in the corner,” suggested Charles.
A gnarled gnome of a man sat nursing a pint of cider. “Evening,” said Charles. “Mind if we join you?”
The gnome raised his pint and drank it down to the dregs. “I’d like another,” he said.
“Aggie, could you? I’ve…”
“Forgotten my wallet. I know.” Agatha went over to the bar and ordered another pint of cider for the old man.
When she rejoined him at the table, Charles said, “This is Bert Smallbone. He was just telling me about the Battle of Worcester.”
“When was that?” asked Agatha.
“That’d be 1651.”
“No, I mean the re-enactment in the village.”
“The re what?”
“I mean the one you put on in the village.”
“ Ur. I thought him”-he jerked a thumb at Charles-“were asking ’bout the real one.”
“What we want to know is whether Mrs. Robin Barley hired an expert-a historical expert-to advise her.”
“I dunno. Silly woman, she were. Allus prancing about shouting orders. I were a Cavalier.”
Charles reflected that no one had surely ever looked less like a Cavalier than Bert.
“But you don’t know whether anyone was advising her or not?” asked Agatha impatiently.
He shook his head.
Agatha had had enough. She half-rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Smallbone.”
“Reckon her didn’t need no expert,” said Bert. “Mrs. Know-all. Her had battle plans, fair like blueprints o’ house.”
Charles reached up a hand and pressed Agatha back into her seat. “I don’t suppose any of these plans are still around?”
Bert tilted back a greasy cap and scratched his head. “Reckon not,” he said. “Mrs. Barley had ’em.”
“Oh, well,” said Charles, giving up. “Thank you for your time.”
“We’d better try someone else,” said Agatha as they walked towards the bar.
“I don’t think so. They are all men in here. We want a woman. A gossip.”
Charles leaned across the bar and said to the barman, “Is there a woman in this village who knows everything that goes on in the village?”
He laughed. “That ’ud be Jenny Feathers.”
“And where do we find her?”
“Five doors down to your left.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you after, Charles? About these battle maps?” asked Agatha when they were outside.
“I thought if someone else had drawn them up, then there might be a name on them. Let’s try this gossip.”
Jenny Feathers was a thin, energetic woman with greying hair and thick glasses. Agatha let Charles do the talking.
“Do come in,” she said. They followed her into a cluttered parlour. There were various arrangements of dried flowers and lots of little occasional tables covered with china ornaments and framed photographs.
“Do make yourselves comfortable.” Agatha and Charles sat side by side on a small chintz-covered sofa, so small that Agatha could feel Charles’s hip pressing against her own.
Jenny sat on a tapestry-covered Victorian chair facing them. “You were asking about our village performance of the Battle of Worcester? Such a shambles. My dears, I actually felt sorry for Robin when she fell onto that cow-pat. The day was so hot, you see, and she was apt to bully people. Not me, of course. I could put her in her place. But then it is always a matter of breeding, don’t you think, Sir Charles? The locals are simple people.”
“We wondered if Robin Barley had consulted any sort of historical expert,” said Charles.
“Now, then, that I doubt, or if she did, she would never let on. She liked to pretend she knew everything.”
“But she had some sort of battle plans drawn up, did she not? We wondered if anyone would still have some of those.”
She shook her head. “She had a couple, but she probably took them home. Poor woman. Such a sad death. But she was so annoying, you see.”
“Did she have any gentlemen friends?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, people came and went. We got so used to seeing strangers visiting her. That man the police are saying murdered her, he visited her once.”
Harry, thought Agatha. Another nail in his coffin.
“You didn’t ever see her with a tall, handsome man-grey wavy hair?”
“I can’t remember.” Jenny looked at Agatha with dislike. She prided herself on her knowledge of what went on in the village and did not like having to say that she knew so little of Robin Barley’s private life.
“When was this mock battle?” asked Charles.
“That would be four summers ago.”
They thanked her and left.
“I think we’re wasting time chasing after Peter Frampton,” said Charles. “I mean, why murder three people and all over a house and a mythical treasure?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. What time is it?”
“Just after nine. Why?”
“How long to Oxford?”
“I could make it in three quarters of an hour. Why?”
“There’s someone I want to see.”
Paul was beginning to think that the prices in this pretentious restaurant were a waste of money, much as Zena appeared to be enjoying herself.
He was dismayed to find out that the boy-friend she had been talking about was not Peter Frampton, but some local youth who worked in a garage.
“I thought you and Peter Frampton were an item,” he said.
“My boss? Keep him sweet. He gives me presents. He thinks he’s going to marry me.”
“And are you?”
“No, he’s ever so old.” Paul reflected that Peter Frampton was probably at least a couple of years younger than himself.
“You see,” said Zena earnestly, “I’m a bit of a women’s libber.”
“No, I don’t see. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table, “it’s like this, see? Men have been exploiting women for centuries, so it’s fair game to take them for what you can get.”
“Oh, really? And what do you get out of Peter?”
“Meals like this. Presents. He gave me a diamond necklace for Christmas.” She giggled. “I told my boy-friend it was fake.”
“And what does Peter get in return?”
“Bit of slap and tickle. I tell him I’ll go the whole way when we’re married. Keep him guessing.”
“Peter Frampton seemed very keen to get his hands on Ivy Cottage.”
Was it a trick of the light or were her large eyes suddenly veiled?
“Oh, him, he’s dotty about history. He hates all those history professors and so-called experts. He says he knows more about the seventeenth century and the Civil War than the lot of them. Tell you what, I’m bored stiff with history. When he’s rabbitting on, I just think of something else.”
“Did he believe Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s treasure was still hidden somewhere in Ivy Cottage?”
“Can I have a sweet?”
“Yes, of course.” Paul signalled for the menu.
He waited impatiently until she had made her choice and then asked again about the treasure.
“Look,” said Zena impatiently, “if you want to know anything, ask Peter. You’re beginning to bore me.”
“So who is this bod we’re going to see?” asked Charles.
“Do you remember William Dalrymple?”
“No. Wait a bit. Wasn’t he that history don?”
“That’s the one. We met him when we were investigating Melissa’s murder.”
“Ah, Melissa. The one James had a fling with before he disappeared.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“So why William Dalrymple?”
“I’m curious,” said Agatha. “I want to know how passionate history buffs can get about their subject.”
“You’re wondering if Frampton could get passionate enough to kill?”
“Yes.”
“Very far-fetched. Although I must admit I still cannot believe it was Harry who murdered Robin Barley. Of course, we may be dealing with two murderers.”
“Let’s see what William has to say.”
William Dalrymple was at home. “I hope we are not disturbing you too late in the evening,” said Agatha. “Remember us?”
“Yes, indeed. Please come in.”
He led them up to his sitting-room on the first floor. It smelt pleasantly of leather from the old leather-bound books which lined the shelves.
“Sherry?” asked William.
“Please,” said Agatha.
He disappeared and came back with a crystal sherry decanter and three glasses. “Now,” he said, pouring sherry and handing them a glass each, “how can I help you?”
Agatha quickly outlined the murders of Mrs. Witherspoon, Barry Briar and Robin Barley and explained why they were interested in Peter Frampton.
“Now where have I heard that name before? Seventeenth century, you say?”
“Yes, a good-looking man, wavy grey hair, well-tailored, runs a building business.”
“Ah, I think I know whom you mean. Academics can be quite cruel to amateurs. It was, let me see, a few years ago, a colleague at the college invited him to dinner at high table. Unfortunately, Professor Andrew Catsworth-we nickname him Catty-was present.
“Now he considers himself the ultimate authority on the seventeenth century in general and the period of the Civil War in particular. Americans often get confused when we talk about the Civil War, thinking we mean their Civil War in the nineteenth century. Where was I? Ah, yes. Mr. Frampton was burning with enthusiasm and seemed to have a good local knowledge. I mean, he had unearthed a lot of local facts from studying old history books of the villages about Worcester. He said he was considering writing a book, a sort of little-known facts of the Commonwealth.”
“Commonwealth?” asked Agatha, wondering if the gentle don had moved on to the twentieth century.
“Cromwell’s reign was called the Commonwealth,” explained Charles.
“I knew that,” lied Agatha.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Just showing an intelligent interest,” said Agatha, glaring at Charles.
William cleared his throat apologetically. “Frampton became quite fired up, saying that the story of a Roundhead officer, John Towdey, had never been published. Evidently the village of Towdey is named after his family who owned the manor-house, long since demolished. This John Towdey fell in love with Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s daughter who was staying with friends. Trusting him, she had confided in him that her father had taken refuge with Simon Lovesey. He reported her father’s whereabouts to the Cromwellian army. Lamont was taken prisoner and hanged. His daughter, Priscilla, never spoke to Towdey again and it is rumoured she died of a broken heart.
“Professor Catsworth asked in a sneering voice if he had proof of this story. Frampton said it had been handed down through word of mouth. Catsworth proceeded to take Frampton to pieces in front of everyone at the high table. ‘You amateur historians, always looking for romance, are dangerous,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on facts.’ He began to reel off a list of academic sources proving that it was Lovesey who’d betrayed Lamont. Then he ended up by saying that with Frampton’s imagination, he ought to be writing historical bodice rippers. Frampton simply rose from the table and walked out. I have never seen a man so furious.
“We ticked the professor off after he’d left and the professor laughed and said he’d made all those facts up and Frampton was too stupid and amateur to realize it. It was a prime piece of academic spite.”
“What was your impression of Frampton?” asked Agatha.
“I was so sorry for him that I didn’t form much of an impression except that I did think at first that he was an extremely vain man. But he did not deserve such treatment.”
“It’s hardly enough to kill three people over and I can’t see the connection anyway,” said Charles.
They talked some more about the case and then left. “Another dead end,” said Charles as they drove home.
Agatha grumbled agreement, but as they were heading down the hill into Chipping Norton, she said, “The diary. I forgot the diary.”
“The one Paul’s got on his bookshelves? What about it?”
“Just suppose,” said Agatha slowly, “that Frampton got hold of some records, or some word-of-mouth evidence that Sir Geoffrey Lamont had written that diary. Suppose he thought it was somewhere in Ivy Cottage and might contain evidence of his daughter’s love for a Roundhead, he might be desperate to get his hands on it and publish his findings and send the result to Professor Carsworth.”
“That’s mad. I mean, I agree he may have wanted to get his hands on the diary, but to kill to get it! Anyway, let’s call on Paul. I mean, didn’t you read the diary?”
“Only skipped to the bit about the treasure.”
“We’ll look in the diary when we get back and see if there’s anything about his daughter. And then what? Go to the police? Can you imagine what Runcorn would make of it?”
“But Bill would listen,” said Agatha. “I mean, they’ve never really thought of anyone else but Harry.”
“Okay, let’s see if your friend, Paul, is at home.”
Paul had just arrived home before them. He had taken Zena back to her cottage and had been kissing her good night, more warmly than a married man should, when Peter Frampton had driven up and got out of his car, his face a mask of rage.
Paul had extracted himself and made his escape.
He listened to what Agatha and Charles had to say. They told him about visiting Frampton at his building works, about the visit to the history don and Agatha wondering if Frampton could be crazy enough to kill to get his hands on that diary.
Paul took it down from the bookshelves. “It’ll take some time to read through it,” he warned. “It’s very closely written.”
“I’ll make coffee,” said Agatha. “You read.”
She went off into the kitchen, once so familiar to her. Paul, like the previous owner, John, had not made any great changes to it. She sighed as she located a jug of instant coffee and began to make three mugs of it.
When she returned to the living-room, Charles was slumped on the sofa, half asleep, and Paul was still reading intently. The soft glow of the reading lamp over his head turned his white hair to gold. He was really very attractive, thought Agatha with a pang. I wish Charles would take himself off.
At last Paul gave an exclamation. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Listen to this. ‘My dearest and only child Priscilla is causing me Distress. She is Enamoured of one John Towdey, a Cromwellian. I have sent word to her forbidding her to see him, but she is a Stubborn child and with me gone, may Disobey me.’”
“I really wonder if that’s what he was after,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll go and have a talk with Bill tomorrow.”
“You can’t say anything about the diary,” warned Paul. “We’d need to say how we found it.”
“I won’t, but I must say something to turn Bill’s mind in Frampton’s direction.”
“Why don’t we just confront Frampton? Bluff. Tell him we know it’s him.”
“This is one time I think the police should handle it. Do you want to come with us tomorrow?”
Charles rose from the sofa and stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aggie. Let’s go to bed.”
Paul’s face tightened. “No,” he said curtly. “I’ve got work to do.”
After they had gone, Paul was about to put the diary back on the shelves, but decided to find a hiding place for it. He went through to the kitchen and took down an empty metal canister marked “Pasta,” put the diary in and firmly replaced the lid.
He thought that Agatha’s idea of telling Bill was useless. They had no hard evidence. He himself thought that the idea that anyone would commit three murders over an old diary was just too far-fetched. But Frampton might know something. He felt Agatha had cut him out of things, forgetting that it was he himself who had cut himself off. Yes, he would go and see Frampton and have a man-to-man chat. Frampton might be a bit mad with him over kissing Zena, but he could explain that away as well.
Bill interviewed Agatha and Charles at police headquarters the next day. Charles thought gloomily that the more Agatha outlined the reason for her suspicions, the weaker it sounded.
At the end of it all, Bill shook his head. “There’s nothing that would justify us pulling him in for questioning. In order to start asking Robin Barley’s neighbours if she had ever been seen with him would require Runcorn’s permission and he’s not going to give it. There was too much press interest after the last killing and now Runcorn’s got a culprit and got the press off his back.”
“Do you know who Robin Barley left her money to in her will?” asked Agatha. “There was something in the papers about a daughter.”
“Her daughter, Elizabeth, inherits.”
“ Elizabeth who?”
“Barley. She never married.”
“And where does she live?”
“Agatha!” cautioned Bill. “She could have nothing to do with her mother’s death.”
“I was thinking of something else.”
Bill studied Agatha for a long moment. She was an infuriating woman. But he, like Agatha, could not think Harry guilty. And Agatha in the past had had a way of unearthing things by simply blundering about.
“She lives in Mircester, in Abbey Lane. I don’t have the number.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“And what was that all about?” asked Charles as they left.
“She might have some of her mother’s photographs.”
“So?”
“Well, Peter Frampton might be in some of them. If there are any photographs of the Wormstone Battle of Worcester, he might be somewhere in the crowd. Or her mother might have told Elizabeth something about him.”
“I’m sure the police studied every bit of paper and photograph that Robin had.”
“But they wouldn’t be looking for Peter Frampton. Let’s go to Abbey Lane. We can walk from here.”
They made their way towards the abbey and then turned into Abbey Lane, which ran down one side of the massive Norman building. There was a newspaper shop on the corner and they found out that Elizabeth Barley lived at number 12.
Abbey Lane consisted of a row of terraced houses dating from the eighteenth century. Agatha rang the bell of number 12. A faded-looking woman wearing an apron answered the door. She had wispy sandy hair, a long, tired white face, and rough red hands.
“Is Miss Barley at home?” asked Agatha.
“I am Miss Barley,” she said. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Agatha explained who they were and what they were doing. She had repeated this introduction so many times that she could hear her own voice echoing in her ears.
“Photographs? What kind of photographs?”
“There was a mock Battle of Worcester in Wormstone. We wondered if there were any photos of that.”
“I don’t know. She had boxes of photos at the studio. I don’t know if the police took them away. I haven’t had the heart to go round there. I’ll give you the key and you can go and look for yourself. Just to be on the safe side, could I see some identification?”
They handed over their cards and driving licenses. She studied them for a moment and then handed them back. “I’ll get you the key. Do you know the address?”
“Yes,” said Agatha.
She left them standing on the doorstep and went indoors. “I wonder what she does, or if she does anything,” said Agatha.
“Don’t even think about asking,” said Charles. “Just let’s get that key.”
Elizabeth came back and handed them the key. “If I’m not here when you return,” she said, “just put it through the letter-box.”
They thanked her and walked off, Agatha setting a brisk pace, frightened Elizabeth would change her mind and call them back.
“If the studio is still sealed by the police, we can’t break in, Aggie.”
“She wasn’t murdered there. Hurry up, Charles.”
There was no police seal or tape outside Robin’s studio. They let themselves in.
There were canvases stacked against the wall and a covered painting on an easel. There was none of the usual messy clutter of the artist. Paints and brushes were ranged in order on a clean bench. They began to search. The studio had a sofa and chairs where Agatha had once sat talking to Robin in one section of the studio with a coffee table. The kitchen had a round table and two chairs. Off the other end of the studio was a small bedroom with a large wardrobe. Agatha opened the wardrobe. There were only a few clothes hanging there. Obviously Robin had kept most of her personal belongings in Wormstone. But at the bottom of the wardrobe were two large cardboard boxes.
Agatha opened one and found it full of photographs. “Bingo!” she said. “I’ll take one and you take the other.”
They carried the boxes into the studio and began to search. At one point Charles got up and examined the canvases against the wall. He sat down again. “She painted from photographs, Aggie. My box is full of photographs of the Cotswolds. I don’t think we’re going to find any personal photographs here. We should have asked for the key to the house in Wormstone.”
“Keep searching,” said Agatha doggedly. “There might be something. Ah, down at the bottom of this box are photographs of people, portrait photographs. She must have painted portraits from the photographs.”
“Recognize anyone?”
“Not yet.”
They worked on until Charles said with a sigh, “No Battle of Worcester. No Peter Frampton. Let’s go back and see if the obliging Elizabeth can let us get into the house in Wormstone. I’ll put the boxes back where we found them.”
Agatha, who had been sitting on the sofa, stood up. She felt flat. Her eyes fell on the canvases. Had Robin been a good painter? She began to turn some around. They were indeed paintings of the Cotswolds, drawn precisely from photographs, competent and lifeless. She turned round some more and came across the portrait of a woman.
“What are you doing?” asked Charles.
“Looking for a portrait of Peter Frampton.”
“Oh, Aggie, I’m getting a bad feeling about this. The man’s probably innocent.”
Agatha ignored him and continued to search the paintings. “Well, well,” she said. “Come and look at this.”
She heaved a large canvas out and turned it around so that Charles could see it. It was a portrait of Peter Frampton wearing nothing but a hard hat. It was not very well executed but nonetheless the subject was clearly Peter Frampton.
“Got him!” said Agatha triumphantly.
“So what do we do now? Go and confront him?”
“Not on your life. I decided to never confront murderers again. Too dangerous. We’ll tell Bill about it and let the police take it from there.”
Paul was puzzled. He had confronted Peter Frampton at the building works about the diary. Peter had simply laughed and said he must be mad if he thought anyone would murder three people over a diary. Paul had tried to get him to betray himself by saying that he had the diary. But Frampton showed no reaction. He was so much at ease and so friendly that Paul began to feel ridiculous.
“Anyway, now you’re here.” said Peter, “come and I’ll give you the royal tour.”
“I really should be getting back.”
“Oh, come on. I’m proud of the place. Where is this mysterious diary, by the way?”
“At my cottage in Carsely.”
“How did you get it?”
“Bit of detective work,” said Paul vaguely.
“Ah, you amateur detectives.” He led Peter through metal sheds piled high with bricks, sheds full of sacks of concrete, and other-what Paul privately termed-dreadfully boring machinery.
“I really should be going,” said Paul. “Thank you for your time.”
“There’s just one other place you should see. It’s where I keep all the history books in storage that I haven’t room for at home. You’ll be amazed at the amount I’ve got.”
Might as well see it, thought Paul. Might just be something there.
Frampton strode ahead. They were reaching the end of the development and Paul could not see any building in sight. The main buildings seemed a long way behind them.
Frampton came to a stop. “Down here.”
“Down where?” asked Paul.
Frampton laughed. “Can’t see anything yet, can you? It’s an old Anderson shelter left over from World War Two.”
He pointed, and now stepping forward, Paul could see steps leading down underground. The shelter on the surface was totally covered in grass and weeds.
“Damn, I’ve something in my shoe. Go on down and I’ll join you.”
Paul went down the steps and pushed open the door. It was pitch-black inside. He groped forward, feeling for a light switch. The door behind him slammed shut. He whipped round and flung himself at the door just as he heard a bar being lowered on the outside.
“Stay here until you come to your senses.” Frampton’s voice came faintly through the door. “I’ll come every day. If you tell me where that diary is, I’ll let you out. Twenty-four hours in here and you’ll feel like talking.”
Paul hammered on the door and shouted until he was exhausted. Then he groped his way around his “prison” until his hands felt the outline of a candle. He remembered he had picked up a book of matches in the French restaurant. He was wearing his best suit, the one he had worn the night before. He fished out the matches and struck one and lit the candle. There was a bench running along the earthen walls. He was too young to remember Anderson shelters, but he suddenly remembered hearing about them in a documentary about the war. There must have been houses here at one time. They were usually built at the bottom of gardens, the idea of the underground shelters being that they could not be seen from the air. He slumped down on the bench. He would have to tell Frampton where the diary was. He would go mad if he was locked in here for days.
Bill and two policemen called at the building works in the late afternoon, to be told that Mr. Frampton had gone home. But when they called at his house, there was no answer.
“Paul still isn’t home,” fretted Agatha. “Do you think we should go along to his cottage and get the diary?”
“We can’t break in.”
“I’ve still got a key. The lock hasn’t been changed since James lived there.”
“Okay,” said Charles. “It’s better than sitting here doing nothing.”
They walked along and went into Paul’s cottage.
“His MG isn’t outside,” said Agatha.
Inside the cottage, Charles went straight to the bookshelves. “It’s not here!” he said. “Maybe the silly bugger took it somewhere.”
“I don’t think he would. Look around.”
They searched carefully through the books and behind the books. Then they went through the drawers in his desk. “I’ll try upstairs,” said Charles. “You look in the kitchen.”
“Why the kitchen?”
“People always seem to think the kitchen’s a safe hiding place. I had a great-aunt who kept a diamond necklace inside a bag of frozen peas.”
Agatha discounted the freezer and the fridge. Surely Paul would not be stupid enough to hide a valuable diary there. She checked behind the cans and boxes of groceries, in the rubbish bin, and behind the plates on the dresser. She remembered taking plates off this very dresser and smashing them on the floor in a rage in one of her fights with James. She sat down at the table, suddenly torn with memories. Would she ever see James again? Her eyes blurred with tears and she wiped them angrily away. She found herself looking at a neat row of canisters on the counter of the dresser-sugar, coffee, flour and pasta.
She got to her feet and began to prise open the lids. In the pasta one, she found the diary.
Agatha went to the foot of the stairs and called, “Found it!”
Charles came pattering lightly down the stairs. “Good, let’s keep it until Paul comes back.”
“If the police ever find we’ve got it, we’ll be in real trouble,” said Agatha.
They walked to Agatha’s cottage. The village was quiet and peaceful. This is the last case, thought Agatha. To throw away peace and quiet for all this business-it’s ridiculous.
“What are you thinking?” asked Charles as they walked through to the kitchen and petted the cats.
“I’ve just been thinking that I could have such a pleasant quiet life in this village if I left it all to the police in future,” said Agatha.
“You’d go mad with boredom. Ever think of moving back to London?”
“I don’t fit in there any more. It doesn’t seem the same.”
“Ever think of opening a detective agency?”
“I’ve been asked that before. It would involve missing cats and messy divorces.”
“Still, it might be better than just sitting here.”
“I wouldn’t just sit here,” protested Agatha. “I’d become like Mrs. Bloxby and involve myself in good works.”
“You’re not Mrs. Bloxby and never could be.”
“Oh, she’s a saint and I could never rise to her heights?”
“Don’t quarrel, Aggie. Let’s go out for dinner. Bill will contact us if he’s got anything.”
They enjoyed a pleasant dinner. I’m glad Charles is back in my life, thought Agatha. I was silly about Paul. But Charles would not stay for long. He never did. She often wondered what he really thought of her.
When they returned to her cottage, she phoned Paul but there was no reply. She locked up for the night and they both went to their respective beds. The night was humid and warm. Agatha tossed and turned, suddenly uneasy about Paul. Where had he gone?
She groaned and got up. She would just look out of her front door and see if his car was outside. The old banger he had bought had been there earlier but the MG had been missing.
Agatha unbolted and unlocked the front door after switching off the burglar alarm. She glanced at her watch. One in the morning. Paul’s MG was outside his cottage. Good. He was safe and sound.
She was about to close the door when she stiffened. Something was not quite right. She opened the door wide and walked out onto the step and looked along. Suddenly she saw a flickering light at one of the downstairs windows. It was like the light from a pencil torch. Paul would hardly be looking around his own cottage with a torch.
Agatha closed the door quietly and ran upstairs and woke Charles. “What is it?” he grumbled. “I’ve only just dropped off. Too hot in this cottage. Why don’t you get air-conditioning?”
“Listen. Paul’s MG is parked outside his cottage but someone’s in there with a torch. It can’t be Paul.”
Charles got up and dressed hurriedly. “You wait here and I’ll creep along and have a look.”
Agatha went to her own room and got dressed. Maybe Paul had had some sort of power cut. She went downstairs to meet Charles, who was coming back. “There’s a full moon,” he said. “I knelt down and peered in the front window. It’s Frampton!”
“Oh, my God. What has he done with Paul?”
“Phone Bill,” said Charles. “If he’s killed three people, he won’t hesitate to kill us.”
Agatha phoned Bill’s home. He answered the phone himself and she was grateful she did not have to explain anything to his mother.
She told him about Frampton being in Paul’s cottage.
“Sit tight,” ordered Bill. “We’ll be along as fast as possible.”
After she had rung off, Charles said, “Let’s have a drink. All we have to do is wait. Even if he’s gone by the time the police arrive, he’ll need to explain why he was driving Paul’s car and what he was doing in the cottage.”
Agatha shuddered. “He may not have been driving Paul’s car. He may have forced Paul to drive it.”
Charles poured drinks and they sat uneasily, waiting. Half an hour passed.
“Did you lock the front door?” asked Charles.
“I was so upset I forgot,” said Agatha. “I’ll do it now.”
She was just getting to her feet when the sitting-room door opened and Peter Frampton walked in, a small pistol in his hand. “The diary,” he snarled. “Where is it?”
“What diary?” asked Charles.
“Don’t waste my time.” Frampton’s pupils were like pinpoints. Agatha was sure he was on some sort of drug.
“You can’t shoot us,” said Agatha. “You’ve already murdered three people. I mean, why go to such elaborate lengths when you could just have shot them?” She thought she heard a movement outside. Bill?
“The first,” said Frampton calmly, “was supposed to look like an accident. I knew about that secret passage. I thought I could frighten the old bitch out of there, but she wouldn’t move. Then dear Robin came on the phone. I’d had an affair with her. She knew nothing, but she was hinting that she would tell the police about what she called my obsession with finding that diary. So she had to go. And just when I thought I was in the clear, that idiot, Briar, started to blackmail me. He’d been out in the fields with his dog during the night I was at Ivy Cottage and he said he had seen me leaving. Diary, and quick about it.”
“I don’t know what diary you’re talking about,” said Agatha loudly.
“Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s diary. I read in an old manuscript that he had told one of his fellow prisoners before his death that it was hidden in Ivy Cottage. If I had that, I’d publish my findings and make my mark on the historical scene. I need it. Get it. I’ll show that dried-up old stick of a professor. No one humiliates me! I’ll start off by shooting you in the kneecaps and I’ll keep on shooting until one of you cracks.”
The door crashed open. Bill stood there, flanked by two armed policemen. “Drop your weapon and lie on the floor,” he ordered.
Frampton looked down at the gun in his hand. Then, quick as a flash, he raised it and shot himself through the head.
Agatha stood white and shaking as his body slumped to the floor.
Charles put an arm around Agatha and led her from the room and Bill took out his mobile phone and dialled and began to rap out instructions.
They waited in the kitchen. The forensic team arrived, Run-corn and Evans arrived and the police pathologist arrived.
At last Runcorn, flanked by Evans, joined them in the kitchen. They made statements about how they had seen someone shining a torch in Paul’s cottage, how Charles had gone along and recognized Frampton and how they had phoned Bill.
Runcorn eyed them narrowly. “DC Wong heard Frampton confess to the three murders. It seemed he wanted to get his hands on some old diary. He thought you’d got it. Have you got it?”
“No,” lied Agatha. If she admitted they had it, she could be charged with obstructing the police in an investigation and then she would have to tell them where she’d found it.
“Sir Charles?”
“Haven’t a clue what he was babbling on about,” said Charles.
“Then you don’t mind if we search this cottage? I can always get a warrant.”
Charles felt a stab of alarm. He didn’t know where Agatha had hidden it.
“Go ahead,” said Agatha. “But we’ve got to find Paul.”
“You’ll stay right where you are until we search the place.”
Charles and Agatha sat huddled together at the kitchen table. “Where did you hide it?” whispered Charles.
“Where he’ll never find it.”
“Aggie, they’ll even look in the flowerpots.”
“Shh. Here’s Bill.”
Bill sat down next to them. “We’ve got our murderer, thanks to you, Agatha. But what’s all this about a diary? And what put you on to Frampton?”
“Woman’s intuition. I never liked him,” said Agatha. “It was when we searched Robin’s studio and found that portrait we knew he had lied about never having met her.”
“They’ll be in here shortly to search the kitchen for that diary he was talking about.”
“The man was mad,” said Agatha. “Obsessed over some old diary. We went to see a history don in Oxford.” She told him how Frampton had been humiliated by the professor.
“And you’re sure you don’t have that diary?”
“Absolutely not.”
“If you say so. Of course, it wouldn’t surprise me if you and Paul had found that secret passage and somehow found this diary.”
The police entered the kitchen to start their search.
Agatha felt a wave of delayed shock. She said, “I’m going up to bed. You know where I am.”
Charles followed her upstairs. On the landing, he said, “Where did-” but was silenced by Agatha putting a hand over his lips.
“Go to bed, Charles,” she said.
Fully dressed, Agatha huddled under the duvet, shivering despite the warmth of the night. She fell asleep and was wakened two hours later by Bill shaking her shoulder.
“They haven’t found anything,” he said. “You must have hidden it well.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Agatha, struggling up.
“You’re both to report to police headquarters in the morning and we’ll go over your statements.”
“Okay. Just go away,” moaned Agatha.
But after Bill had gone, she lay awake, listening until she heard them all drive off. She went downstairs, her face tightening in anger when she saw the mess in the kitchen. Even a bag of flour had been slit open. The fact that the bag had been lying on the shelves for two years waiting for her to blossom into a baker did nothing to appease her anger.
She swung round as Charles entered the kitchen. “What a wreck!” he exclaimed. “Where’s the diary?”
“Come upstairs and I’ll show you.”
Agatha went into her bedroom and over to an antique travelling case on her dressing-table which she used to keep her bits of jewellery and the few letters she had once received from James. “It’s got a secret drawer,” she said. “I bought this on a whim in that antique market in Oxford, the one that’s now closed down. She fumbled at the back. “See!” She turned the case around. A drawer had sprung open at the back and inside lay the diary.
“What are we going to do with it?”
Agatha closed the drawer. “I don’t know about you, but I need more sleep and then I’ll think of something.” She suddenly put her hands up to her face. “Charles! We’ve forgotten about Paul. What’s happened to him?”