A light drizzle was smearing the window-panes when Agatha woke up the next morning. She struggled out of bed and began to rummage through her wardrobe to find something suitable to wear for the funeral. Church of England meant all black was not necessary, but bright colours might be regarded as offensive. Then she had to wear suitable gear for any nimble action, such as stealing the key and rushing off to get it copied. She opted finally for a dark brown silk trouser suit and a white blouse. She could wear heels with it but carry flat shoes with her in a bag.
She peered anxiously at her hair. A line of grey was showing at the roots. Agatha let out a squawk of dismay. A picture of Juanita with her long black hair rose unbidden in her mind.
She went into the bathroom and rummaged along a shelf of hair conditioners, shampoos and dyes. Forgetting that she had found in the past that to colour her own hair instead of going to the hairdresser was often a mistake, she found a packet of brunette colour shampoo rinse and began to apply it.
Agatha was just reaching for the hairdrier when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch and found the time was ten-thirty. Must be Paul. Rats! She wrapped a towel around her head and put a dressing-gown on over her underwear and ran down and opened the door.
“Won’t be a minute,” she said to Paul.
“You look like more than a minute. Hurry up.”
Agatha ran back upstairs and dried her hair and brushed it into a smooth bob, scrambled into the trouser suit and blouse and surveyed herself in the mirror. The rain had stopped and a watery shaft of sunlight shone in and lit up her hair. She now had red roots.
“Agatha!” shouted Paul impatiently from the bottom of the stairs. Agatha seized a brown suede hat with a floppy brim, jammed it on her head and ran downstairs.
“You look like an agitated mushroom,” commented Paul. “I assume you’re somewhere under that hat. Let’s go.”
As he drove them towards Towdey, he glanced sideways at her. “The sun’s out and it’s quite warm. Women don’t really need to wear hats to funerals any more.”
“I like this hat,” said Agatha truculently. “It’s the height of fashion.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Are you always this rude?”
“No, but you’re a good teacher.”
They both relapsed into silence until they reached the church.
Paul parked beside the church wall and they got out and walked through the graveyard. “Don’t suppose she’ll be buried here,” said Paul, looking around.
“Why?”
“No room left. Have you noticed when anyone’s buried on television it’s usually in some old English churchyard? Doesn’t happen these days. The places are fairly walled up with the English dead.”
A mischievous breeze danced across the churchyard and whipped Agatha’s hat from her head and sent it flying. “I’ll get it,” said Paul and set off in pursuit. He returned with a sodden hat. “You can’t wear it. It ended up in a puddle.” He looked at her hair. “Quite fetching, you know. Brown hair with red roots.”
Agatha angrily took the wet hat from him and placed it on top of a gravestone.
“There’s Runcorn just going into the church,” hissed Paul.
“And Carol,” said Agatha in surprise. “She looks quite smart and cheerful. Let’s see who else has turned up.”
They entered the gloom of the church. It was quite full. Agatha saw Greta Handy and Percy Fleming sitting side by side. She assumed the rest were curious villagers.
“Peter Frampton has just come in with that peculiar girl, Zena,” whispered Paul.
Agatha and Paul had selected a pew at the back of the small church so that they would have a good view of everyone present. Peter walked up the aisle with Zena on his arm. She was wearing a dull red dress of Indian cotton and long wooden beads with clumpy boots. Her hair was worn down and brushed straight and nearly reached to her bottom. She turned her head and looked back down the church. Her make-up was brown with purple eye-shadow and purple lips.
“Odd couple,” murmured Agatha. “Could be his daughter.”
“Doubt it,” said Paul. “Hey, what if there isn’t any reception?”
“Drive to Ivy Cottage afterwards and hope there is.”
“I wonder whether they still begin with ‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together…’ and so on. Probably not. I hate these modern translations of the Bible. They lack the beauty of language in the King James’s Version and the absolute faith that underlies the words.”
Solemn music from the organ sounded out in the church. The coffin was carried in. Harry was one of the pallbearers. The others looked as if they had been supplied by the undertaker.
The service began. It was simple and dignified. The vicar gave a short sermon. Old-fashioned hymns were sung. No one read a eulogy. There was no one evidently hypocritical enough to praise the dear departed.
Everyone stood while the coffin was carried out and loaded into a hearse.
Agatha and Paul followed the congregation out to the church door, where Harry and Carol stood side by side.
Agatha nervously expected an outburst but Harry said, “Thank you for coming. Carol and I would appreciate it if you would join us at Ivy Cottage for some refreshments. We would like a word in private with you.”
“Do we go to the graveside first?” asked Agatha.
“No, Mother is being cremated. The funeral people see to that.”
“This sounds hopeful,” said Agatha as they walked back to the car.
“Could be. Or maybe they just wanted to warn us off. Don’t you want your hat?”
“Leave it,” said Agatha. “Did you notice how friendly Carol and Harry seemed?”
“Could be an act,” said Paul.
“But Carol was looking almost happy. And smartly dressed.”
“Well, we’ll find out what it is they want to talk to us about.”
“If they’re friendly,” said Agatha, “we can just ask for permission to search the house.”
“Better not leave it to chance.”
They waited in the car until all the guests and finally Carol and Harry had left and then drove to Ivy Cottage.
The refreshments consisted of sherry and sandwiches. Agatha eyed them hungrily. But Paul whispered, “Get the key.”
“Then give me your car keys. I’ll need to find a key-cutting place. There’s one in Moreton.”
“Or there’s the cobbler in Blockley,” said Paul. “That would be quicker.”
Why they had imagined the key would simply be there, dangling in the lock, was beyond Agatha. Furthermore, there were four locks on the front door. She went through to the kitchen in the back premises but found two women cutting sandwiches and arranging them on plates and retreated.
Paul looked at her in surprise when she rejoined him. “That was quick.”
“I haven’t been anywhere,” said Agatha crossly. “We should have realized they wouldn’t just leave the keys in the door and the front door has four locks.”
“We’ll need to rely on their goodwill. Have a sandwich and I’ll see if there’s a simpler way in from the back.”
“I tried that. There’s women in the kitchen.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll look around.”
Paul left and Agatha was joined by Percy Fleming. “I’m surprised to see you here,” said Agatha.
“I like attending funerals,” he fluted. “I bring the sombre note and ritual into my books.”
“I don’t see Peter Frampton here,” said Agatha, looking around.
“Oh, the historical-society man. He goes to events in Towdey Church because he’s from Towdey.”
“Who’s that girl with him, Zena something?”
“Zena Saxon. She just appeared, so to speak. Wonderful wardrobe, don’t you think? Today’s outfit was pure sixties commune.”
“But where’s she from?”
“She’s got a cottage in Towdey, left to her last year by an aunt. Where she was before, I don’t know. She and Peter are an item. Quite shocking, considering the age difference.”
“He’s a handsome fellow.”
“But Stagey-looking, don’t you think?” Percy often seemed to put capital letters on some of his words. “Quite obsessed with the seventeenth century. Oh, here’s that dreary copper.” He moved away and his place was taken by Detective Inspector Runcorn.
“I hope you’re not doing anything to interfere with our investigations,” he said.
“Simply paying our respects.”
“A word of warning to you, Mrs. Raisin. It’s only in books that old biddies from villages can help the police. In real life, they’re a pain in the arse.”
“Just like you,” said Agatha savagely. “Bog off.”
“I’m warning you.”
Agatha turned and walked away. She went up to Carol, who had just said goodbye to Greta Handy, and whispered, “You wanted to see us?”
“Could you wait a moment? The others will be leaving soon.”
But it was an hour before everyone left and Agatha was just thinking she would have to deal with Harry and Carol on her own when Paul reappeared.
“Right,” said Harry after he had said goodbye to the last guest. “Please sit down.”
Agatha, tired of standing, sank gratefully into an armchair.
“It’s like this,” said Harry. “Although I have an alibi, the police still suspect me. Neither Carol nor I can get any money until we’re totally cleared.”
“I thought Carol didn’t inherit anything.”
Carol threw her brother a radiant smile. “Dear Harry’s arranged with the lawyers that I get half of everything. We got talking, you see, and found out how Mother had deliberately turned us against each other.”
“If you do get the money,” said Agatha, looking at Harry, “will you keep on your business?”
“No, I’ll sell it. I was pretty successful until the last two years. Rising business rates and falling sales have crippled me. I spent too much money at auctions buying antiques that no one seems to want.”
“So what did you want to see us about?” asked Paul.
“The police aren’t trying hard enough because they think it’s me or Carol. I remember reading about you, Mrs. Raisin. So we want you to find out who killed Mother. When we get the money, we’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Agatha with the airy unconcern of the new rich, “we’ve been investigating anyway. What we did wonder is if you could let us explore the house. You see, whoever was trying to frighten your mother must have found a way of getting in here. Might be a secret passage or something like that.”
“Perhaps later,” said Harry, after a glance at his sister. “We need to finish up here.”
“Then if we borrowed the keys from you, we could come back when no one’s around,” said Paul.
“I don’t think you need to do that,” said Carol. “I mean, the question is, who murdered her?”
“But don’t you see,” said Agatha, exasperated, “if it wasn’t you or Harry, then someone else must have had a way of getting inside the house.”
Harry rose to his feet. “Carol and I are feeling a bit shaky after the funeral. Can we leave things for the moment?” And without waiting for a reply, we walked across the room and held the door open for them.
“Well!” exclaimed Agatha as they got in the car. “What did you make of that?”
“Very odd,” said Paul. “I mean, they want us to find the murderer and then they both stick their heels in at the very idea we might want to search the house. Never mind, I’ve got a key.”
“You have! How? Where from?”
“There are two doors out to the back. One from the kitchen, which has several locks and bolts, but there is one from a scullery. It’s a dusty old door and I don’t think it’s been used for years. But it had a key in the lock. I slid it out. I told the women working in the kitchen that I’d dropped my notebook when we were ghost-hunting, which gave me an excuse to search around. Once I’d got the key, I broke the speed limit to Moreton and got it copied. So let’s try tonight.”
“Pity we’ll need to crawl around with pencil torches.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Neither Carol nor Harry lives near here. Unless you were actually walking past the house, you wouldn’t be able to see any lights. We’ll switch them on and start our search. If anyone does happen to be, say, walking their dog in the middle of the night and gets suspicious, they’ll ring the bell at the front and we can beat a retreat from the back.”
Agatha was suddenly mesmerized by his arm nearest her on the wheel. He had slung his jacket in the back of the car before driving off. It was a tanned and muscular arm. She felt a strong sexual frisson and then she remembered Juanita. Forget him. Maybe somewhere out there was an unmarried man, charming and kind and intelligent, who would be prepared to throw in his lot with Agatha Raisin for life.
Agatha had not considered black de rigueur for a funeral but decided it was necessary for housebreaking. The evening was warm and humid but she did not have a black blouse and settled for a thin black sweater worn with black trousers and flat black shoes. Paul was to call for her at two o’clock. Just before he came, she decided that she might as well play the part properly, and putting her hand up the living-room chimney, she collected a handful of soot and blacked her face.
Paul, calling for her at exactly two o’clock, reeled back when he saw her and said faintly, “Trick or treat.”
“It’s no use us wearing black with our faces shining white,” said Agatha defiantly.
“Oh, go and wash it off. If anyone should be up and sees you in the car looking like that, they’ll be gossiping about it in the morning all over Carsely.”
But after Agatha had scrubbed off the soot and put on make-up and they were driving through Carsely, Mrs. Davenport looked down from her bedroom window and saw them. Her lips tightened in disapproval. Mr. Chatterton’s wife should know what he was up to with that harpy. They probably thought they were avoiding gossip by driving off to some hotel for their assignation. But the wife was in Madrid. I wonder if Mrs. Bloxby has Mrs. Chatterton’s home address, mused Mrs. Davenport.
As before, they parked outside the village and then walked towards Bag End and so to Ivy Cottage.
It stood, dark and sinister, in the moonlight. A light breeze sent the ivy rustling and whispering. Agatha looked at the house uneasily. “You don’t think it really is haunted?” she asked.
“Nonsense. Let’s go round the back.”
He unlatched a gate at the side of the house. The hinges sent out a creaking noise which sounded eerily loud in the silence of the night.
Agatha suddenly wished she were home in bed with her cats for company. She felt small and lonely and isolated. She wondered what Paul thought of her.
“Right,” said Paul, switching on a pencil torch. “Here’s the back, and the scullery door should be along here next to the kitchen one.” Agatha followed the dancing beam of the torch until it lighted on the scullery door.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Shhh!” He took a key out of his pocket and inserted it in the lock. “Very hard to turn,” he muttered. “I should have brought some oil.” He gave a wrench and the key turned with a rasping sound.
Paul moved quietly into the scullery followed by Agatha, who closed the door behind them.
“I think the first thing we do is look for a cellar,” he said. “Good place to start.”
They walked through the kitchen and into a stone-flagged passage which led to the front of the house. “This might be it,” said Paul, stopping before a low door. “Thank goodness the key’s in the lock.”
He opened the door and shone the torch around inside until he located a light switch. The dim light of a forty-watt bulb lit up a flight of steep stone steps.
“Down we go,” said Paul cheerfully.
Agatha followed him slowly, always listening for the wail of an approaching police siren.
Paul found another light switch at the bottom of the steps. Agatha joined him and they stood shoulder to shoulder surveying the cellar. It was crammed with old trunks and boxes. “It’ll take us years to get through this lot,” mourned Agatha.
“We’re looking for a hidden passage, remember?”
Agatha sighed. “I’ll search along two walls and you take the other two.”
“I wonder…”
“What?” demanded Agatha impatiently, anxious for the search to be over.
“If someone got in from outside, it might have been by way of a tunnel from the garden.”
“But there’s a huge acreage out there!”
“I mean, there might be some sort of trapdoor on the floor.”
“If there was, Mrs. Witherspoon would have found it.”
“Not necessarily,” said Paul. “A lot of this junk must have come with the house. Look at the name on this trunk, ‘Joseph Henderson.’” He bent down and rummaged in a box. “There are schoolbooks here dated 1902! I think she just left all this stuff untouched.”
“But you would think Harry and Carol would have come down here when they were children.”
“Might have forbidden them to do so.” Paul moved over to another section of the cellar, searching in boxes. “No, here we have Harry’s schoolbooks and some dolls which must have belonged to Carol.”
“The floor’s dusty,” said Agatha, suddenly interested. “Look around and see if any of the boxes have been moved.” She backed into an old rocking horse and let out a squeak of alarm as the horse dipped backwards and forwards as if it still had a child on its back.
An hour passed as they searched and searched. “Hopeless,” said Agatha, sitting down on a trunk. Her arms ached from moving piles of stuff around. Paul came and sat down next to her. “We’ve moved everything and looked underneath,” he sighed.
“Except that wooden chest over there,” said Agatha. “Too heavy. I couldn’t budge it.”
“What’s in it?”
“I didn’t look.”
“Agatha!”
“Well, I’m tired and I’m frightened we’ll get caught.”
“Wait till I look in the chest. Where is it?”
“Under that pile of old curtains. I put everything back the way it was.”
Agatha fumbled in her pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Paul, who was heading in the direction of the chest, turned round. “No cigarettes, Agatha. The smell of smoke will linger.”
Agatha sulkily put her cigarettes back in her pocket and stifled a yawn.
Paul heaved aside the curtains, which sent up a cloud of dust, making him sneeze. He opened the lid of the large chest. “More curtains,” he said, lifting them out.
“Anything underneath?” asked Agatha.
“Nothing. Wait a bit. There are scratch marks on the edge of the wood at the bottom.”
“So what?” demanded Agatha, craving a cigarette.
Paul fished in his pocket and drew out a knife. His head disappeared inside the chest. “The bottom comes up. You can prise it up,” he said.
Agatha, suddenly excited, went to join him.
Paul struggled and strained and lifted out the bottom of the chest. “Look at that,” he said, straightening up.
Revealed was a trapdoor in the floor, and on top of the trapdoor was what looked like a new ring fastened to it.
He heaved on the ring. The trapdoor eased up and then fell against the side of the chest with a crash. Paul swore and they both waited in silence. “It’s all right,” said Paul with a shaky laugh. “I doubt if anything can be heard from this cellar. I’m going down. Look at those wooden steps, some of them look new, as if recently repaired.”
He made his way down, shining his torch, and Agatha followed him. They found themselves in a stone passage. The air was dry and musty and the ceiling so low, they had to half-crouch to walk along it.
“What if the air is so bad that we’ll die?” said Agatha, hanging on to the end of his sweater as she followed him.
“I forgot the canary,” he joked. “The air’s okay. In fact, it’s getting a little bit fresher. Maybe we’re near the end.”
They went along in silence. “Dead end,” said Paul. “But more steps. I’ll go up first. There’s bound to be another trapdoor.”
He mounted the steps. Agatha waited anxiously. She heard him grunt as he strained to lift something. Then there was a thud. “Come on up,” whispered Paul. “We’ve come out somewhere.”
Agatha began to climb and then squawked as twigs and leaves fell down on her. “Sorry,” called Paul. “I’m trying to move stuff away. It was covering the trapdoor.”
Agatha emerged into the gloom of a thicket. “If we crouch down, we can get out of here without tearing our clothes,” said Paul. “There’s a sort of tunnel through the bushes.”
Agatha followed the beam of his torch. Outside the thicket, they found themselves quite a way away from the house in a remote part of the garden which looked as if it had never been tended. Thick grass and bushes grew all around.
“Now we know how someone got in,” said Paul.
“Let’s get out of here.” Agatha looked around uneasily. “I’m beginning to get the creeps.”
“All right. Down the ladder with you and I’ll replace the trapdoor and try to get as much of the camouflage back on the outside of the lid before I do. Don’t want anyone to know we’ve been here.”
Agatha waited at the bottom of the stairs until Paul closed the trapdoor and joined her with the torch.
With Paul leading the way, Agatha followed him at a half-crouch to avoid bumping her head on the roof. But half along the passage, he came to an abrupt stop. “What is it?” hissed Agatha.
“There’s an alcove here, a niche. Sort of thing you get in railway tunnels for the workmen to back into when a train is coming.” He shone the torch in. “Nothing here.” He shone the torch upwards. “I think this is a sort of chimney, like an old ventilator. But it’s now got blocked at the top. If you stand on my clasped hands, Agatha, and I heave you up, you could feel around and see if anything’s been hidden up there.”
“Oh, all right,” muttered Agatha. “But I won’t be safe until I get out of here.”
Paul heaved her up. Agatha thrust up her hands and dislodged dry leaves and rubble. A stone hit Paul on the face and he lost his hold on Agatha just as her hand located a piece of iron sticking out of the inside on the alcove. She hung on desperately, but the iron spike or whatever it was began to give. She tumbled down onto Paul and they both fell onto the floor as more stones and leaves clattered down on them.
“You’re a heavy woman,” grumbled Paul, pushing her off him. “I’ve dropped the torch and the damn thing has gone out. Help me feel around for it.”
On their hands and knees they groped around, until Paul cried, “I’ve got it,” and at the same time, Agatha said, “There’s a packet or something or other here. Must have fallen down. Shine the torch.”
“I’ll see if it’s still working. Good, it is. What have you got there?”
The thin beam of the torch shone on a dusty leather wrapped package. “Must have fallen out of somewhere,” said Agatha. “Let’s take it with us. I don’t want to spend any more time in this house. Not the jewels, anyway. Feels like some sort of book.”
She felt relieved when they were finally up the stairs to the cellar and then up and out of the cellar and out of the house. They hurried to the car.
“I hope no one saw us,” panted Agatha when she finally sank into the car seat. “Now, what do we do? We should tell the police about that passage. That’s how someone got into the house to frighten her.”
“We can’t tell them,” said Paul. “They’d want to know how we found it. Let’s get back to your place and have a look at what we’ve found.”
Once back in Agatha’s cottage, she placed the leather package reverently on the kitchen table. Paul carefully unwrapped it, revealing a leather-bound book. He opened it. “It’s a diary!” he said. “It’s Lamont’s diary.”
“Does it say anything about his treasure?” asked Agatha.
“Let’s see. It’s a detailed account of the preparations for the Battle of Worcester and an inventory of provisions and arms.” He turned the pages. “Then there’s a description of the battle.”
“Skip to the end,” said Agatha excitedly. “He’d hide the treasure when he knew the battle was lost.”
“Don’t rush me!”
Paul turned the pages to the end of the book with what seemed to Agatha maddening slowness.
“Here we are,” said Paul. “He must have written this last bit when he took refuge with Simon Lovesey. ‘Such Gold and Jewels as I had with me, I buried in Timmin’s Field, north of Worcester, before making my Circuitous Way to Hebberdon to seek Refuge. I have not told Mine Host this although he pressures me for Information in an odd way. I shall hide this record until I am sure that his Sympathy with Our Cause is safe.’”
Paul closed the book, his eyes shining with excitement. “So now we know where the treasure is.”
“Let’s go and look for it tomorrow,” cried Agatha. “If we find anything, we can see if Lamont’s got any remaining descendents alive.”
“Timmin’s Field,” mused Paul. “Timmin was probably a farmer.”
“I’ve got an ordnance survey map of the Worcester area,” said Agatha. She hurried off and came back with the map. But although they searched the names of all the farms to the north of Worcester, they could not find the name Timmin.
“The farm could have been sold to other people ages ago,” said Paul. “We need some seventeenth-century maps.”
“We’ll go to the records’ office in Worcester tomorrow,” said Agatha. “We’d better get some sleep.”
She saw him to the door. “You’re a Trojan, Agatha,” said Paul, smiling down at her. “This is the most exciting thing that ever happened to me!”
He flung his arms round her and bent and kissed her on the lips.
Agatha blinked up at him in a dazed way.
“Good night,” he said gently. “See you at ten in the morning. Get a good sleep.”
Agatha carefully shut the door behind him and then danced up the stairs to bed, her heart racing. He would divorce Juanita and marry her! James Lacey would see the announcement of their wedding and she hoped like hell he suffered!
Murder was forgotten as the excited pair set out for Worcester in the morning. The sun shone down on the Vale of Evesham, stretching all the way to the Malvern Hills. Agatha was driving. She was in control. She had a handsome man beside her who had kissed her last night and she was off on a treasure hunt.
The first cloud appeared on the horizon of her mind when she parked outside the records’ office and Paul said cautiously, “ Worcester ’s a very big place. Must have been relatively small by comparison in the seventeenth century.”
“Don’t be a downer,” said Agatha. “Timmin’s Field, here we come.”
Inside the records’ office, they asked for maps of Worcester for the period covering the mid-seventeenth century.
“Rats!” said Agatha as they both bent over it. “ Worcester is small.”
“Let’s see. North,” said Paul. “Look north.”
His long finger moved to the north of the city. “There it is!” he cried. “Timmin’s Field. Timmin must have been a tenant farmer. It’s part of the Burnhaddomm estate.”
“Let’s go,” said Agatha, beside herself with excitement. “We should buy a metal detector first. We-”
“Agatha,” said Paul, “I think we should look at a present-day map of Worcester. That field might be covered over by now.”
“Oh, I’ve brought the map with me.” Agatha fished it out of her capacious handbag.
They opened it up and compared it with the seventeenth-century one.
“It’s been built over. It’s a shopping mall. And houses for miles around as well.”
“We’ll go and look anyway,” said Agatha, determined. “Timmin’s Field might be a car-park now or something that could be dug up.”
“But Worcester continued to spread out since 1651,” said Paul. “I think we should look at eighteenth-and nineteenth-century maps first.”
“Why?”
“Think, Agatha. Any building on that field means the ground would be dug up. Deep digging to make cellars for houses. The treasure would be found, and believe me, whoever found it would keep quiet about it.”
They got the eighteenth-and nineteenth-century maps and pored over them. “Look here,” said Paul. “The nineteenth-century one. Rows and rows of houses right over where Timmin’s Field was, and even a church.”
“That can’t be right. They wouldn’t bulldoze a church!”
Paul got to his feet and returned with a map of Worcester dated 1945. “There’s your answer,” he said. “That area was bombed during the war. Let’s return all these maps.”
Outside, Agatha said stubbornly, “I still want to see it.”
“As you wish, but it’s hopeless. You drive, I’ll direct you.”
Agatha finally pulled up outside a giant shopping mall. “How big would you say Timmin’s Field was?” she asked.
“Six acres, I guess.”
“Well, that monstrosity is over six acres. You’re right. With all that building and digging, the treasure’s long gone.”
“And we’re left with a valuable record of the Civil War and we can’t tell anyone how we got it,” said Paul. “Let’s have something to eat and decide what to do next.”
“I want comfort food, junk food,” said Agatha.
“Then turn around and go back a bit. I saw one of those all-day breakfast places.”
Agatha, having demolished a plate of egg, sausage, bacon and chips, sat back in her chair with a sigh. “Now, I can think. First of all, we’ll need to figure out what to do with that book of Lamont’s.”
“I only glanced through it. It’s closely written and full of detail, as far as I could judge. We’ll need to find out if there are any descendants of Sir Geoffrey Lamont, and if we find even one, just post the book to them anonymously.”
“There’s something that is really worrying,” said Agatha.
“What’s that?”
“The secret passage. You noticed that the stairs had been repaired. I think Harry and Carol knew about the passage. They certainly didn’t want us to look for it. We can’t tell the police or we’ll need to explain what we were doing in the house. Even if we found a way of tipping Bill off and the forensic team got down there, they’d find our fingerprints all over the place. We didn’t wear gloves.”
“If either Harry or Carol knew about it, why would they want us to find the murderer for them? I mean, if one or both of them murdered their mother?”
Agatha scowled horribly. Then her face cleared. “What if,” she said, “just what if neither of them committed murder at all, but had been using the passage to try to frighten their mother to death?”
Paul shook his head. “Won’t do. They both knew their mother would not be easily frightened.”
“Wait a minute! I’ve just thought of something. Why was Harry offering her house for sale to that hotel chain before she died?”
“I think we’d better go and ask him, don’t you?”
They called at the shop first but it was Saturday afternoon and there was a CLOSED sign on the door.
“Funny, that,” said Agatha. “A lot of tourists come to Mircester. You would think he’d stay open on Saturdays.”
“Better try his home,” said Paul.
At that moment, Mrs. Bloxby was studying Mrs. Davenport. “You say you want Mrs. Chatterton’s address in Madrid? Why don’t you ask Mr. Chatterton?”
“I would do,” said Mrs. Davenport crossly, “if he were ever at home, but he’s always out with that Raisin woman. Disgraceful, I call it, a woman of her years, and with a married man, too.”
In an even voice, the vicar’s wife said, “Mrs. Raisin and Mr. Chatterton are of the same age. They are investigating this murder. That is all. I hope you will keep this in mind and not go around the village spreading malicious gossip.”
Thwarted, Mrs. Davenport left the vicarage. How could she get that address? Who else might have it? Then she thought of Miss Simms, the secretary of the ladies’ society. She had a list of addresses. Juanita had attended one meeting. Perhaps Miss Simms had taken a note of the address. She headed for the council house estate. She could not understand why such a respectable body as the ladies’ society should have a secretary who was an unmarried mother and lived on a council estate. Definitely Not One of Us, thought Mrs. Davenport grimly as she walked up the neat garden path leading to Miss Simms’s home and rang the bell.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Miss Simms. “I’m just going out.”
“I wondered if you had Mrs. Chatterton’s address in Madrid.”
“I dunno. I’ll have a look. Come in. Hey, wait a bit. Why not ask her husband?”
“He is never at home.”
“Then just shove a note through his door.”
Mrs. Davenport’s bosom swelled. “Be a good little girl and see if you can get me that address. Chop-chop.”
“Shan’t.”
“I beg your pardon?” declared Mrs. Davenport in the tones of Edith Evans saying, “In a handbag?”
“I said I won’t give it to you, so shove off, you old trout. I’ve got a feeling you’re out to make trouble.”
“Well, really!”
Mrs. Davenport stormed off.
She’s out to make life hell for our Mrs. Raisin, thought Miss Simms. Better warn her.
But at that moment the doorbell rang again and it was Miss Simms’s new gentleman friend who travelled in soft furnishings, and somehow the whole scene with Mrs. Davenport was forgotten.
Harry opened the door of his home to Agatha and Paul. “It’s you,” he said. “Find out anything?”
“Not yet, but we want to ask you something.”
“Come in.”
He turned round to face them. “What is it?”
“Why did you try to sell your mother’s house to a hotel chain before she was murdered?”
He had been scowling, but his face cleared. “Oh, that’s easy. My business was failing and I wanted to see if Mother would bail me out. She told me, calm as anything, that she had invested unwisely and she had no spare cash. I pointed out that the house was too big for one person. She could sell it, move into sheltered accommodations and live off the interest on the money she could bank from the sale of the house.”
“Mother said she wouldn’t get enough to make her want to move. I said I would prove to her how much she would get. I approached the hotel company. At first they were interested, but then they found that to make the necessary alterations would need planning permission and they were pretty sure they wouldn’t get it. Mother seemed delighted at my failure. But then, she always loved me to fail,” he added bitterly.
“Have you thought of any enemies she might have had?” asked Paul.
“She must have made scores. She delighted in making people’s lives a misery. There’s Barry Briar, for one.”
“The landlord?”
“Yes, him. Mother was teetotal and disapproved of drinking. She was always trying to find ways to get him closed down. Then she was always rowing with people in the village.”
“And you don’t know of any secret passage into the house?”
“There is no secret passage. I would have known about it.”
“What about Peter Frampton?”
“Who’s he?”
“He runs a historical society in Towdey. He was trying to buy the house.”
“Never heard of him.”
Agatha and Paul couldn’t think of any more questions. They left after promising to let him know if they found out anything about the identity of the murderer.
“I still think of him as prime suspect,” said Agatha. “I think we should contact that amateur theatrical group and find out if there was any way he could have got over to Hebberdon that evening.”
“It’s that passage that’s bothering me,” said Paul. “The police must have gone over the whole house, even before her murder.”
“Before the murder, they probably didn’t take her seriously enough to do any real search.”
“But after the murder?”
“Everything in that cellar was very dusty. Runcorn didn’t impress me as the brain of Britain. Anyway, they’d open up the chest and just see curtains. You know what we should do, Agatha?”
“What?”
“We should go back there tonight with gloves on and go exactly everywhere we’ve been and wipe it clean. Then we can get Bill over and say we’re sure an old house like that would have a secret passage and had they looked.”
“And while we’re wiping it clean, we could be wiping away traces of the murderer as well.”
“Anyone with murder in mind would have got rid of fingerprints.”
“All right. But I hate the idea.”
At midnight that evening, Mrs. Davenport stood screened by bushes at the end of Lilac Lane and peered along at the cottages of Paul and Agatha. She had been watching on and off all evening. Her patience was rewarded just as the church clock tolled out the last stroke of midnight. Paul Chatterton came out and went to Agatha’s cottage. She came out. He kissed her on the cheek. He was carrying a travel bag. They both got into Agatha’s car and drove off.
Juanita Chatterton has got to be told. It is my duty, Mrs. Davenport told herself.