Seven

AGATHA and Paul worked all night and into the next morning, dusting and wiping and vacuuming. When they left in daylight, they were too exhausted to care whether anyone saw them. The main thing was that they had removed all traces of their visit.

They agreed to go to bed and sleep and meet up in the evening to decide how they could tell the police about the passage.

Agatha’s last dismal thought before she plunged down into sleep was that they were indeed a pair of amateurs, blundering around, without really knowing what they were doing.

They met in Agatha’s kitchen at seven in the evening to plan what to do.

“An anonymous letter?” suggested Agatha.

“Maybe. There must be another way. I wonder whether Peter Frampton knew about the secret passage.”

“Perhaps. The person who did know was whoever put that chest over the trapdoor and put those curtains on top. It was a very old chest.”

“But it must have been moved at some time. The cellar can’t have been full of junk from day one.”

“We could, you know,” said Agatha cautiously, “throw ourselves on Bill’s mercy.”

“Won’t do. Breaking and entering. Destroying valuable evidence. There’s no way he could cover up for us.”

“So what about an anonymous letter?”

“Risky. They can get your DNA off the envelope flap.”

“There are self-seal envelopes,” Agatha pointed out. “I know, Moreton-in-Marsh police station is closed at certain times. Certainly, I think, during the night. We could just post a sheet of paper through the letter-box. Not typed. They used to be able to trace typewriters. Maybe they’re able to trace computers. I’ve got a new packet of computer printing paper. It’s a common brand.”

Paul sighed. “Okay, let’s try it. But we’d better wear gloves.”

Agatha went upstairs and extracted a pair of thin plastic gloves from a hair-dye kit she hadn’t used and went back to join Paul.

They went through to her desk and Agatha put on the gloves and opened the packet of printing paper and gingerly extracted one sheet.

Holding it by the tips of two fingers, she carried it through to the kitchen. With her other hand, she tore off a sheet of kitchen paper and spread it on the kitchen table and then laid the sheet of paper down on it.

“What should I write?” she asked.

“Keep it simple,” said Paul. “Block letters. Say: ‘There is a secret passage in Ivy Cottage. The entrance is at the bottom of an old chest in the cellar.’”

Agatha tried to hold her breath as she wrote, terrified that even a drop of saliva would betray her to the forensics lab in Birmingham.

“There!” she said. “Now how do we get it through the letter-box at the police station without being seen? There are flats for retired people bang opposite and some old person might be watching.”

“Fold it into a square,” said Paul. “We’ll need to think of some disguise.”

“Mrs. Bloxby’s got a box of costumes she keeps for the amateur dramatic company. Funny thing. They’ve just finished a production of The Mikado. She’ll wonder why we want something. I don’t even want to tell Mrs. Bloxby about this.”

Paul said, “I’ll tell her we’re going to a fancy dress party at a friend’s in London.”

“If we wore The Mikado costumes, that would turn the police’s attention back to Harry-that is, if they ever turned their attention off him.”

“Maybe there’s something else. I don’t think we should both dress up. All we need is one of us in disguise. Nothing dramatic.”


At two in the morning Agatha, wearing a bright red wig and a long droopy tea-dress-from a production of The Importance of Being Earnest-nervously walked round from the back road by the cricket ground where Paul had parked the car. A lorry rumbled past her on the Fosseway, but the driver was staring straight ahead. Moreton-in-Marsh seemed deserted. She scurried up to the police station and popped the note through the door.

She heaved a sigh of relief and started to hurry back. A hand caught her arm. “Evenin,’ gorgeous.”

She swung round. A drunk man, small in stature, and far gone in drink, leered up at her. “How’s about a kiss?”

“Let go of me,” hissed Agatha.

The street lights shone on his glasses. They looked two small orange moons in the light from the sodium lamps.

He was amazingly strong. He twisted her arm behind her back. “Come ’ere,” he said thickly, his breath stinking of what smelt to the terrified Agatha like methylated spirits. She swung away from him and kneed him hard, right in his crotch. He let out an animal cry of pain and released her and then he started to scream. A light went on in the building opposite and Agatha picked up her skirts and ran.

Paul was standing by the car, looking anxiously down the road as Agatha ran towards him.

“Drive,” she panted. “Get us out of here!”

They scrambled into the car and Paul shot off.

“What the hell…?” he began.

“A drunk,” said Agatha bitterly. “I thought he was going to rape me. I hit him where it hurts most. That was what the screaming was about. Paul, we’re blundering worse and worse. I think we should keep a low profile.”

“Suits me,” said Paul. “I’m exhausted.”

Agatha spent a miserable time the following day. She knew she was a successful public relations officer. She had thought she was a successful detective. Now, she felt like a failure. With the help of Paul, she had probably destroyed valuable evidence. They had in their possession a valuable historical document. She suddenly groaned aloud. Why, oh, why had they not put the diary back where they had found it and left it for the police to find?

In the cottage next door, Paul’s thoughts were pretty much the same-with one difference. He blamed Agatha. It was her fault she had got him embroiled in all this madness. He totally forgot that it had been his idea in the first place. What if they had left even half a fingerprint? He forgot that he had recently found Agatha attractive. Now he thought of her as a pushy middle-aged woman who might be mad. He had a longing to talk to his tempestuous wife, but when he phoned Madrid, her mother said she was out and she didn’t know when Juanita would be back.

He had just replaced the receiver when the phone rang. “Yes?” he said tentatively.

“Look, Paul, it’s Agatha here. I was thinking…”

“I haven’t time to talk to you at the moment,” he said harshly. “Goodbye.”

Agatha slowly replaced the receiver and a fat tear rolled down one cheek. She felt old, stupid and very much alone. She decided to call on Mrs. Bloxby. Not that she would tell her anything, but the vicar’s wife was soothing company and her friendship unwavering.

Mrs. Bloxby opened the door of the vicarage to her. “Agatha?” she said. “My dear, do come in and tell me what has upset you so much.”

Agatha burst into floods of tears. Mrs. Bloxby piloted her into the living-room, pressed her down on the comfortable feather cushions of the old sofa, handed her a large box of Kleenex and then took her hand. Agatha dried her eyes and blew her nose. “I feel such a fool,” she gulped. “I shouldn’t really be telling you anything.”

“You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” said Mrs. Bloxby in her kind voice. “But do remember that I never repeat anything you say without your permission.”

In a halting voice, Agatha told her about the finding of the tunnel, the diary, and of how they had gone back and wiped everything so clean that any evidence had been destroyed. Then she told her about putting the anonymous note through the door of the police station and being attacked by the drunk man. “I’ll give you back the costume,” ended Agatha mournfully. “I was disguised, you see. I was wearing a red wig and that tea-dress from The Importance of Being Earnest.”

Mrs. Bloxby sat with her head bowed and her shoulders shaking. She let out a snort of laughter and then gave up and leaned back against the cushions and laughed and laughed.

“Mrs. Bloxby!” Agatha half-rose to her feet, her face red with mortification.

“No, no.” Mrs. Bloxby pulled Agatha back down. “Don’t you see how funny it is?”

Agatha gave a reluctant grin. “Not funny, just stupid.”

Mrs. Bloxby composed herself. “I’ll make some tea. We’ll have tea and toasted teacakes in the garden because the sun has come out. Go into the garden and have a cigarette.”

Agatha, feeling calmer, went into the garden. A purple clematis tumbled down the mellow walls of the old vicarage behind her and in front of her the garden was a blaze of old-fashioned flowers: marigolds and stocks, delphiniums, and lupins, gladioli and lilies.

She took out a packet of cigarettes and glared at it. How irritating to have one’s life ruled by the compulsion to smoke. She put the packet away again.

Mrs. Bloxby came out carrying a laden tray. “Here we are. I made the teacakes myself. I always think the shop ones don’t have enough substance. Help yourself to milk and sugar.”

“There’s something else,” said Agatha. “There’s Paul. I tried to phone him and he said he was busy and hung up on me.”

“He’s probably feeling as frightened and silly as you are. But of course you must remember he’s a man.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Men when they feel stupid and silly always look around for someone to blame.”

“That’s very unfair!”

“Oh, he’ll get over it. Let’s look at the problem. The damage is done. But whoever frightened and murdered Mrs. Witherspoon, assuming that one person did both, would be very careful to wear gloves. The police had no idea there was a secret passage and never would have done if you hadn’t found it. So you have added to the investigation, rather than taken away from it.”

“I suppose,” mumbled Agatha, her mouth full of teacake.

“So tell me what else you have found out?”

Agatha described how Harry and Carol had asked them to investigate but had seemed reluctant to let them search the house and how Harry was going to share his inheritance with Carol.

“Why the change of heart?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“Harry said that he and Carol had got together and found out how their mother had set one against the other. Seems believable.”

“Or it could be the action of a man guilty of murder and desperate to put a good face on things.”

“If Paul hadn’t gone off me, I was going to suggest going over to Mircester this evening to see if that amateur theatrical company are rehearsing anything and ask a few questions. There might have been an opportunity for Harry to disappear for a bit of the evening.”

“But in that case, wouldn’t Harry himself be at the rehearsals?”

“You’re right.”

“Wait a minute. I think I can find something out for you. I have a friend over in Mircester. I am sure she is part of the company.”

Mrs. Bloxby went indoors. Agatha drank more tea and waited.

The vicar’s wife came back and handed Agatha a slip of paper. “Her name is Mrs. Barley. That’s her address. She’s at home. If you go over now, you can have a chat with her.”

“Thanks a lot. Should I tell Paul?”

“No, leave him for a bit. He’ll come round.”

Agatha went back to her cottage. Paul was working in his front garden. She hesitated as she passed, but although he was well aware of her, he didn’t look up from his weeding. She shrugged and walked on.

Mrs. Davenport avidly watched from the end of the lane. So it was over! She felt disappointed. She had still been trying to find out Juanita’s address and had been looking forward to witnessing Agatha Raisin getting her come-uppance.

Agatha felt a burden had been lifted from her as she drove towards Mircester. She was on her own again and it felt good. Sex had impaired her usually brilliant detective abilities, she told herself.

She stopped in a lay-by outside Mircester and pulled a map of the town out of the glove compartment and worked out where Mrs. Barley lived.

Barley was a nice name, reflected Agatha as she drove on into town. She would be a round, comfortable sort of countrywoman with apple cheeks and a generous bosom under a flowered apron.

The reality came as a shock. Mrs. Barley-“Do call me Robin”-was a thin woman in her sixties with expensively tinted golden hair wearing a Versace trouser suit and jangling with gold bangles.

“Come into my little sanctum,” she cooed. “Do excuse the smell of paint.”

Agatha found herself in an artist’s studio. A small white poodle with evil eyes ran barking at her ankles and Agatha resisted an urge to kick the beast away. There were canvases stacked against the walls and a half-finished painting on an easel. It showed a woman with a green-and-yellow face.

“A self-portrait,” murmured Robin Barley, spreading her long fingers in a deprecating gesture. “A poor thing but mine own.”

“Looks great to me,” lied Agatha. Agatha was always puzzled by people who sneered at the phrase: “I don’t know much about painting but I know what I like.” What on earth was up with that? Surely if one was buying a painting, one should choose what one liked. She had been told it was necessary to study art to appreciate it. Why? She wasn’t an art student. James used to laugh at her and say she was comfortable in her philistinism, but she still couldn’t see what it was all about. He had taken her to a Matisse exhibition and she had remarked loudly that she thought the painter’s choice of colours ghastly and James had actually blushed and rushed her out of the gallery.

“The sun’s over the yard-arm so we may as well have a drinkie,” said Robin. “What’s your poison?”

“Gin and tonic, please.”

“Absolutely. I’ll have the same.” Robin went over to a small kitchen off the studio and fixed two drinks and carried them back. “Bottoms up,” she said.

Agatha wondered whether Robin was capable of saying anything that wasn’t hackneyed and clichéd.

“So you’re the great detective,” said Robin. “Sit down, please. I actually don’t live here. This is my studio. I have a little pied-à-terre in Wormstone village. I am actually very busy at the moment but I never could refuse dear Margaret anything.”

“Margaret?”

“Mrs. Bloxby, of course. So I thought, why not grant you some of my precious time. It never rains but it pours,” she added obscurely.

“And every cloud has a silver lining,” said Agatha.

“And every road leads to the sea,” said Robin.

I wonder if she’s mad, thought Agatha. Aloud she said, “It’s about Harry Witherspoon and The Mikado.”

Robin swept back her golden hair with one beringed hand. “Ah, yes. I played Katisha.”

“The Daughter-in-Law Elect,” said Agatha, who knew her Gilbert and Sullivan.

“Exactly.”

“‘There’s a fascination frantic

In a ruin that’s romantic;

Do you think you are sufficiently decayed?’” quoted Agatha.

Robin gave a deprecating laugh. “Actually, I brought glamour to the role. I always think it’s a mistake to portray Katisha as ugly. But to your little problem. Harry was only a member of the chorus. I don’t see how he could have found time to absent himself.”

“Would you notice?”

“There’s a thing. Such an insignificant little man. No, I wouldn’t. But the show ran from eight o’clock to nine-thirty. Then we all went to our dressing-rooms to take off make-up and get ready for the party. The party was on stage at the theatre. It went on until a little after midnight. Harry could easily have slipped out.”

“The police seem pretty sure he didn’t, or rather, that’s the impression I got.”

“You poor thing. It must be awful for you, just dithering about the way you do without the resources of the police.”

“Yes, it can be infuriating trying to get information out of people like you.”

“Now, now,” chided Robin. “Claws in. Little birds in their nests agree.”

Agatha picked up her handbag. “Thanks for the drink. Better get going.”

“Please sit down. I could be of help to you.”

“How?” said Agatha, heading for the door.

“I can ask discreetly around. Harry was in the chorus and the chorus lot stick together. They all share the one dressing-room, the men, that is. One of them might have noticed if he’d gone AWOL.”

Agatha fished in her handbag and took out a card.

“Phone me if you discover anything,” she said.

“And if you do,” muttered Agatha as she got in her car, “it’ll be a bloody miracle.”

She treated herself to lunch in Mircester and then went round the shops before driving home.

Her heart sank as she turned into Lilac Lane and recognized Bill Wong’s car. She parked and got out, only slightly relieved to see that Bill was on his own.

“We need to talk,” he said. “And get your friend along here.”

Agatha did not want to say Paul wasn’t speaking to her. “Come inside,” she said. “I’ll phone him.”

She led the way into the kitchen. “Switch on the percolator, Bill. I’ll only be a moment.”

“Can’t you use the extension in the kitchen?”

“Oh, yes,” said Agatha, flustered. “Of course.” She picked up the receiver and then put it down again. “I know why I was going to phone from the other room. My address book’s in there. I’ve forgotten his phone number.”

“I’ve got it,” said Bill. He gave it to her and with a heavy heart Agatha picked up the phone. She hoped Paul would be out. What if he cracked and confessed to their breaking into Ivy Cottage? She was sure Bill now knew all about the anonymous note and suspected them.

But Paul answered on the first ring. “It’s Agatha,” she said brightly. “Bill Wong is here and wants to talk to both of us.”

“What about?” demanded Paul sharply.

“Don’t know. Hurry up.”

“But-”

Agatha replaced the receiver with a bang.

“I thought it was only people in movies who hung up without saying goodbye,” commented Bill.

“Didn’t I say goodbye?” said Agatha and followed it with a stage laugh worthy of Robin Barley. “So what’s this all about?”

The doorbell rang. Agatha stood with her eyes fixed on Bill.

“That’ll be Paul,” said Bill.

Agatha went to the door to let Paul in. To her dismay, Bill followed her. She had been hoping for a few hurried words of caution in private.

They all sat round the kitchen table, Agatha and Paul at one end and Bill facing them from the other. They had automatically taken up the same positions as they would have done during a police interrogation.

“There’s something very puzzling has just emerged,” began Bill.

“Wouldn’t anyone like coffee?” asked Agatha brightly.

“Later,” said Bill. Paul had his hands clasped and was studying the surface of the kitchen table.

“The thing is,” Bill went on, “that the police received an anonymous note. It had been pushed through the door of Moreton police station. It said there was a secret passage leading from a chest in Ivy Cottage.”

“Goodness! So there is a secret passage!” exclaimed Agatha.

“Just like you suggested,” said Bill.

“Well, that must have been the way the murderer got in,” said Agatha. “Ready for that coffee?”

“You don’t seem curious as to why I am here,” remarked Bill.

“Obviously because it was our idea about the secret passage,” said Agatha, wishing Paul would raise his head and say something, anything-except the truth.

“I must ask you pair if you had anything to do with this.”

“What are you talking about, Bill? Are you accusing us of having built a secret passage?”

“I think you know very well why I’m here. Harry Witherspoon has already been interviewed. He claims that as children they were never allowed down in the cellar. He says that you pair had asked his permission to search the house, but that he had refused. You didn’t break in, by any chance?”

“No,” said Agatha firmly. “Was the house broken into?”

“Whoever did it had a key. No sign of a break-in.”

“Well, there you are,” said Agatha. “It must have been Carol or Harry.”

“Furthermore,” pursued Bill, “a woman in the flats next to Budgens supermarket heard screaming during the night. She looked out of her window and saw a woman struggling with a man. The woman kicked the man, who appeared to be drunk, and ran off. Our witness, when asked to describe the woman, said something most odd. She said that the woman struggling with the man was wearing what looked like an old-fashioned tea-gown. She says she has a photograph of her grandmother wearing one just like it. She could not tell us the colour of the woman’s hair because those sodium lights change the colour of everything. Still, it sounds as if perhaps someone like you, Agatha, had got hold of some sort of theatrical costume as a disguise and gone to post that note.”

“Bill, really! If we’d found a secret passage, we would have told you.”

“Not if you had found it by entering the house without permission.”

Paul raised his head and spoke for the first time. “Is this an official inquiry?”

“No, it’s a friendly call. If by any chance you did find that passage and destroyed any evidence, then you would be in deep trouble.”

Paul said quietly, “Then it’s just as well we didn’t. No coffee for me, Agatha.” He suddenly smiled at her. “Tea, please.”

Agatha felt herself go limp with relief. She rose to her feet and went to make tea and coffee.

“So tell us about the passage,” said Paul. “Is it long? Is it very old? Where does it come out?”

“I’m not officially on this investigation,” said Bill. “But I heard that it does lead from the bottom of a big old chest in the cellar, down some steps which had been repaired, and then along under the house and the garden and comes up through a trapdoor into the middle of shrubbery. The witness who saw the struggle near the police station phoned the police immediately. The local man turned out and found the note. A team of forensic experts have been working for hours. The passage and everything in the cellar had been dusted clean. A vacuum had been used. They have searched Carol’s and Harry’s homes and taken away their vacuums.”

Paul thought of the car vacuum he had used and which was now in a cupboard in his cottage. He hadn’t even emptied it. Agatha thought of the tea-gown and wig upstairs.

Agatha placed a mug of coffee in front of Bill, glad to see her hand was steady. She then handed Paul a cup of tea.

“I suppose that dreadful Runcorn will be the next to call.”

“It’s possible. As I say, I am not on the case. So whoever was frightening Mrs. Witherspoon and then murdered her must have got into the house by way of the secret passage,” said Bill.

“If they’re both one and the same person,” said Agatha.

Bill eyed her narrowly. He knew that in the past, just when Agatha seemed to be bumbling about in an infuriating way, she had been capable, nonetheless, of sudden flashes of intuition.

“I don’t know,” said Agatha slowly. She took a mug of coffee for herself, lit a cigarette and sat down again. “I think the murder was quite clever. If Mrs. Witherspoon hadn’t been so hale and hearty, it might well have been assumed it was an accident. When someone’s very old, people don’t inquire too closely into the reason for the death. If the doctor had signed the death certificate, the murderer would have been safe. Somehow, the haunting strikes me as a bit, well…childish. By the way, surely the police went over the house very carefully. Why didn’t they look for a secret passage?”

“Because it didn’t cross their minds. Runcorn is still sure Harry did it, so he hasn’t even been looking in any other direction.”

Bill finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Be careful, you two. I do hope you had nothing to do with this.”

“As if we would,” said Agatha and saw him out

She hurried back to the kitchen. “That tea-gown and wig. I’d better get them back to Mrs. Bloxby.”

“And the vacuum. I’ll throw it away. We’d better wash all the clothes we had on last night. Look, Agatha, I’m sorry I was so rude to you, but I couldn’t believe we had been so stupid.”

“You can take me for dinner later. Let’s get rid of the evidence…now.”


By early evening, Agatha was just comforting herself with the thought that the wig and tea-gown were back in the vicarage and that the clothes she had worn while they were cleaning the cellar and passage were all clean and dry and the shoes she had worn had been thoroughly washed and cleaned when the phone rang. It was Paul. “Runcorn’s here,” he said in a low voice. “He wants you to step along.”

Agatha, with feet like lead, made her way along to Paul’s cottage. Detective Inspector Runcorn and Sergeant Evans were waiting for her in Paul’s living-room. Paul was sitting quietly at his desk.

“Right, Mrs. Raisin. Sit down,” ordered Runcorn. Agatha seized a hard chair and placed it next to Paul and sat down.

“Where were both of you last night between the hours of two A.M. and three A.M.?”

“In bed,” said Agatha and Paul at the same time.

“Any witnesses?”

“No,” said Agatha coldly.

“I am particularly interested in your movements, Mrs. Raisin.” Runcorn fixed her with a hard stare. “Someone put a note through the door of the Moreton police station. The note stated that there was a secret passage in Ivy Cottage.”

“And is there?” asked Paul. Again Agatha felt relief.

“Yes, there is, and everything has been wiped clean. A vacuum was used as well. We can get a search warrant but I would like the vacuums from both your houses.”

“Okay,” said Agatha quickly, not wanting them to come back with a warrant and search her whole cottage in case they found something incriminating, like a strand of wig hair.

“Mr. Chatterton?”

Paul shrugged. “All right with me.”

He rose and went to a cupboard under the stairs and pulled out an upright vacuum cleaner. Sergeant Evans wrote out a receipt.

“I’ll go and get mine,” said Agatha.

“If you have a vacuum for the car, bring that as well,” ordered Runcorn.

“I don’t have one of those,” said Agatha over her shoulder.

She was back in a very short time, still uneasy about leaving Paul alone with them. She sensed Runcorn was disappointed by their apparent eagerness to help.

But curiosity prompted her to ask, “What makes you think we could have anything to do with it? Why on earth would we want to murder Mrs. Witherspoon?”

“There’s a legend that a fortune was hidden in that old house. With Mrs. Witherspoon dead and the house empty, some crazy people might have decided to go on a treasure hunt.”

“Whereas the intelligent interpretation would be that the killer went back to make sure he had left no traces,” said Paul.

“And left a note at the police station?”

“Could be someone else. Could be someone who knows the murderer.”

“Ah, that reminds me. A witness said that the woman who left the note, or rather, some woman who was having a fight with a drunk, was wearing an old-fashioned tea-gown. Do you possess such an item, Mrs. Raisin?”

“I’m not old enough.”

“But you would not mind if Sergeant Evans here took a look in your wardrobe?”

“He can look now if he likes.”

When Agatha had left, Runcorn leaned forward and said in a man-to-man voice, “Now, Mr. Chatterton, sir, that is a woman who has interfered in police investigations before. It would go badly for you if you were found to be involved. Wouldn’t mind an excuse to put her away for a bit and keep her out of mischief. So you can tell me. What’s she been up to?”

“Mrs. Raisin is a neighbour and a friend of mine,” said Paul. “It was entirely my idea to investigate the haunting of Mrs. Witherspoon. Mr. Harry Witherspoon and his sister, Carol, asked us after the funeral to help to find the murderer.”

Runcorn’s face darkened. “I hope you didn’t agree.”

“We said we would do what we could. Nothing we do can possibly interfere with your investigations. If we do find out anything of significance, we will tell you immediately.” Paul glanced nervously towards the bookshelves where the diary was in plain view, placed among glossy new books on computer science.

“Take my advice and don’t do anything at all.”

They sat in silence until Agatha returned with Evans. “Nothing,” said the sergeant.

Runcorn rose to his feet. “That will be all…for now.”


“Phew!” said Agatha when they had left. “That was hairy.”

“Something’s puzzling me,” said Paul.

“What?”

“It was so dusty in the cellar, as if nothing had been moved for years. I think Runcorn’s in trouble. I think the police just looked around the cellar and didn’t do a proper search.”

“Probably. But you would think the murderer would have left some trace.”

“You know,” said Paul, “I think we should try to have a word with Harry and Carol tomorrow. I cannot believe that two people brought up in that house, however bullied, didn’t explore the cellar.”

“But would two children find that false bottom in the trapdoor?”

“Maybe not. And I’ve just remembered something. That trapdoor leading up to the garden, it was fairly new. It looks as if someone had stumbled across the way in and decided it was a useful way of having secret access to the house.”

“We’re forgetting about Peter Frampton,” said Agatha. “He’s a local historian. He might have found out about it and he might have known where to look. Remember, he wanted to buy the house. I think we should try to find out a bit more about him.”

“Right. But we’ll have that dinner first and then tackle Harry and Carol.”

Robin Barley sat in front of the mirror in her dressing-room that evening after a dress rehearsal of Macbeth, in which she had played Lady Macbeth, feeling her ego had been thoroughly bruised. It had been an exciting day playing detective, making multiple phone calls to ascertain whether Harry could have slipped out. And he could have! Should she tell that Raisin trout creature? No, she would persevere and then go to the police, first making sure that the Mircester Chronicle got a full story first of her detective abilities. Then she remembered the horror of the dress rehearsal and her face darkened. That new producer was a drunken beast. Why on earth had their usual producer, Guy Wilson, taken it upon himself to go off with shingles? And why did they have to end up with a failed Stratford producer who had decided to set the whole of Macbeth in Bosnia, with the clansmen wearing gas masks? He had told her in front of the whole cast that she had made Lady Macbeth sound like some lady of the manor opening a church fête.

The door of her dressing-room opened and a face covered with a gas mask peered round it. Robin turned round and scowled. She did not associate much with the foot soldiers of the cast.

But he eased in, carrying a splendid bunch of red roses. “To match your beauty,” he said, his voice muffled behind the mask.

Robin suddenly beamed. “You are a love. What beautiful flowers!”

“I see you’ve a vase over there. I’ll just pop them in for you.”

“You haven’t told me your name,” said Robin.

“I prefer to remain a secret admirer.” He filled the vase with water from a sink in the corner and arranged the roses in it.

“Goodbye, my sweet.” He made an elaborate bow and turned and left.

Her spirits miraculously restored, Robin stood up and went to the flowers to inhale their scent. She reeled back gasping, feeling her arms and legs heavy. She tried to cry out, but the sense of suffocation increased. Robin collapsed on the floor and vomited. She began to crawl towards the door and then a great blackness descended on her.

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