Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

Five

"That's an odd couple," said Jeffrey Benson a week later. It was the day after the weekly meeting of the Dembley Walkers. He was referring to a certain Mr and Mrs James Lacey, who had turned up and said they were eager to join the walkers. Jeffrey and the others were in the Grapes at lunchtime, a somewhat more relaxed group than they had been in previous days. All were getting used to frequent interrogations and diggings into their past by the police. Kelvin was feeling quite euphoric because the police had not discovered Jessica's visit to him or the subsequent row, and Jeffrey was beginning to feel at ease because he had not heard a word about entertaining any Irishmen.

"Bourgeois," said Alice, heaving her great bottom on the imitation medieval chair in the lounge bar. "They've got money. That was a Gucci handbag she was carrying."

"There's something a bit common about her, really," said Deborah, who secretly, thanks to several warm telephone calls from Sir Charles, felt she was becoming an authority on the upper classes. "He's all right, though." She giggled. "Quite attractive, I think."

"But dae we want them with us?" demanded Kelvin. "We can hardly fight the good fight wi' a couple o' Tories tagging along."

Gemma said uneasily, "Do you mean we're still going to have to face up to angry landowners, even though Jessica's dead?"

"Why not?" demanded Alice. "Jessica was a bit of a bully, but when you look at it, she had the right idea."

Deborah stared into her glass of orange juice. She suddenly did not want to be part of a group that went in for confrontations. And yet, the walkers had meant friendship and a cause. What if Sir Charles did not call her any more or want to see her? Then everything would have been for nothing, she thought sadly, and she would be alone again. She found it hard to make friends, considering the quieter, milder teachers, the ones who might be considered her own sort, not glamorous enough.

Peter Hatfield and Terry Brice unexpectedly came to Gemma's defence. "I think it's Gemma who has the right idea," said Terry. "We could have lovely walks..."

"Lovely walks," echoed Peter plaintively.

"...if only we just settled down to enjoy the countryside."

Jeffrey stretched and yawned. "Oh, this Saturday should be mild enough. There's a pretty walk listed in one of the books. Most of it goes through farmland and the book says that it's well signposted."

"What year was the book published?" demanded Alice suspiciously.

"Nineteen thirties. But they update these publications, for God's sake, or it wouldn't still be on sale. It's quite a long walk. Do we take the cars out to the beginning of it?"

But the rest decided they were proper ramblers and should walk the whole distance. They agreed to meet outside the Grapes at nine in the morning on Saturday.

"We'd better tell the Laceys," suggested Deborah.

"Where do they live?" asked Peter Hatfield.

"Got a flat in Sheep Street," said Terry. "Here" - he fished out a notebook - "I wrote it down with their phone number. That James Lacey was ever so nice to me. I'll phone him."

"Oh, suit yourself," said Peter sulkily.

It was Agatha who took the phone call later that day. She wrote down the meeting-place and the time and then went happily back to preparing a special dinner for James.

To her initial disappointment, the flat had proved to be much larger than she had anticipated, having three bedrooms. She had fantasized about there being only one bedroom. James would sleep on a cot-bed on the floor. "God, this thing's uncomfortable," he would moan. "I wish I had that nice double bed to sleep on." And Agatha would say huskily, "Why not join me?" And he would, and then, and then...

But all that had happened was that he took one bedroom, she had another, and there was the third bedroom in between. Also, for the first few days, she had seen little of James, for he kept remembering things he should have brought and running back to Carsely to get them. But tonight they would have dinner together.

Agatha had bought ready-made food from Marks & Spencer, removing it from the foil dishes and putting the contents into pretty oven dishes to make it look as if she had cooked everything herself. She had candles on the table. Candlelight might be corny, but it hid the signs of ageing. How maddening that middle-aged men did not need to bother about wrinkles, or did not seem to. She had good breasts and had invested in a silk blouse with a plunging neckline and a black silk skirt which was very flattering to her still somewhat thickened figure.

As she busied herself polishing the wineglasses until they shone, she realized with a guilty little jolt that so far she had not really been doing her job properly, and that was finding out all she could about the walkers. James had gone to the local library to look through the national press files for articles on Greenham Common and see if Jessica's name had been mentioned. She, Agatha, should have been with Deborah or some of the other walkers instead of polishing wineglasses and losing herself in fantasy. Well, just this one evening. Tomorrow she would get down to work.

James was getting weary of searching the files. He had found a mention of Jessica's being arrested after cutting the wire of the perimeter fence at Greenham Common, but among the names of the other women he could not find one of any of the other walkers. He had hoped that if someone had been part of Jessica's past, there might be something there to tie her in with the murder. He sighed. It was all very far-fetched.

"We'll soon be closing up," said a voice at his elbow.

He looked up and saw a pretty young librarian standing there. She had long straight blonde hair and a doll-like face. She was wearing a very short, very tight skirt and high heels. Must cause chaos when she goes up on the ladders, he thought.

"I'll leave it," said James. "I could do with a drink."

"So could I," said the librarian.

The invitation came automatically. "Like to join me?" asked James.

She held out a hand. "My name's Mary Sprott."

"James Lacey. Where would you like to go?"

"There's a pub next door. I'll get my coat."

To do James justice, had Agatha said anything about a special dinner and that she expected him home at a certain time, he would have been there. But the last exchange with Agatha had been of the 'See you this evening' variety. So, wondering in an amused way whether he looked like a dirty old man, he escorted Mary Sprott to the pub.

"I haven't seen you around Dembley before," she said. "Are you new to the town?"

"Recently arrived."

"In business?"

"No, I'm retired."

She batted her eyelashes at him. "You look ever so young to be a retired gentleman."

"Why, thank you," said James. "What would you like to drink?"

"Rum and Coke, please."

"Right, back in a moment."

As James stood at the bar waiting for his order of drinks, he saw the walkers seated at a round table in the far corner. He waved to them. Peter and Terry raised limp hands. The rest just stared. Oh, dear, thought James. We're not going to get very far with that lot if they've taken a dislike to us. He wondered whether to buy them all a drink to ingratiate himself, but decided against it. He was beginning to get a feeling that he and Agatha were floundering about in an investigation which the police could do so much better with all their records and files. If Jessica had known any of them before her arrival in Dembley, then the police would soon trace it.

As he returned to Mary carrying the drinks, he saw looks of cynical amusement on the faces of the walkers and realized with a jolt that he was supposed to be a married man.

"Thanks ever so," said Mary. She leaned towards him and whispered, "You see that bunch over at that table?"

"Yes."

"That's them ramblers. It was in the papers. One of their lot was killed."

"Do you know any of them?" asked James.

"I know some of them by sight. They use the library. Weird lot. I doubt if one of them ever takes a bath."

"So what about you?" asked James. "It must be a lovely job, working in a library, all those books."

She shrugged. "It's a job. Gets a bit boring."

"I suppose it does," said James, thinking she must be only in her early twenties. "Who are your favourite authors?"

"I don't read much. I prefer the telly."

James tried to hide his shock. "But my dear girl, what's the point of becoming a librarian if you have no interest in books?"

"Mum said it was a good job," said Mary. "It's like this: I've got ever such a good memory, so I did well at school. Mum said being a librarian was nicer than working in a shop. With a memory like mine, I'm good at it. I can remember where everything is."

"But don't some of the people who come in ask your advice on what books to read?"

"I turn them over to old Miss Briggs. She reads everything, but she can't remember where the books are, so we make a good team."

"So what would you like to do?" asked James, becoming bored.

"I'd like to be an air hostess. See a bit of the world."

"Another drink?" asked James.

"Yes, please. I'm ever so hungry."

For the first time, James thought uneasily of Agatha. "Do they do food here?"

"They do a good steak-and-kidney pie."

"All right. I'll make a phone call first." James went and dialled the flat but there was no reply. Agatha was probably out investigating. He returned to the table. He might as well have something to eat. Then he might get rid of her and go and join the walkers. That's what Agatha would do.

"I still say there's something odd about the Laceys," said Alice. "That's the girl from the library he's with, and I'll tell you something else. He doesn't look married. Do you think they could be police infiltrating our group in order to spy on us?"

"Oh, that's ridiculous," said Deborah. She suddenly wanted to go home. Charles might be calling her. In her mind, it was no longer Sir Charles. She was unnerved by the conversation about the 'Laceys'. What if they were challenged by the group and confessed that it was she who had brought the vipers into their midst? A thin film of sweat formed on her upper lip. Kelvin thumped another drink down in front of her and she groaned inwardly. As soon as she had finished it, she would make her escape.

Agatha stood outside the library. But it was firmly closed for the night. Where could James be? She turned and looked about her. There was a pub across the road called the Grapes. She registered in her mind that that was where they were to gather on the Saturday for their ramble and then wondered if James had gone there for a drink.

She walked across the road to the pub and pushed open the door of the lounge bar. The first sight that met her eyes was that of James sitting with a pretty blonde. Both were eating steak-and-kidney pie. The blonde threw back her head and laughed at something James was saying. Her short skirt had ridden right up. Black rage boiled up in Agatha. She was to reflect ruefully afterwards that she must have gone insane. For in that moment, she became Mrs Lacey.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here, James?" she demanded in a loud voice. There was a silence in the pub.

"Oh, hello, dear," said James, his face flaming. "This is Miss Sprott, the librarian. Miss Sprott, my wife."

Determined to get revenge on James and hating every inch of Mary Sprott, from her long legs to her blonde hair, Agatha departed into the realms of fantasy.

"Have you forgotten our anniversary?" she demanded. "I prepared a special dinner. I slaved all day over it, and what do I find? You sitting here having ghastly pub grub with some tart."

"How dare you, you old bat?" screeched Mary.

Agatha's bearlike eyes bored into Mary's. "Just get this straight, sweetie," she said. "This is my husband, so you keep your grubby little hands off him."

Mary burst into tears, scrabbled for her handbag on the floor beside her chair, seized it, and fled the pub.

"Let's get out of here," said James, his face grim. "No, not another word, Agatha. You're a disgrace."

The walkers, open-mouthed, watched them go.

"Well," marvelled Kelvin, "if they're no' married, then I'm a Dutchman's uncle."

"Poor bugger," said Jeffrey. "Let's be nice to him on Saturday."

Deborah heaved a tiny sigh of relief, excused herself, and slipped quietly out of the pub and went to phone Sir Charles.

Agatha had never seen James so angry. In vain she did try to say that she had simply been putting on an act. "And," raged James, "I am packing up and leaving. I will not tolerate such behaviour." Agatha, now completely at a loss for words, followed him upstairs to the flat. As they entered, the phone was ringing. James answered it. It was Sir Charles Fraith.

"Congratulations to Agatha Raisin on a great performance," chuckled Sir Charles. "She's turning out to be as good as you said she was."

"What do you mean?" demanded James sharply.

"Deborah's just called me. Those ramblers were talking in the pub about how you two didn't look married and that they thought you were both police spies, and then our Agatha turns up and puts on the best angry marital scene Deborah says she's ever witnessed. Went down like a charm."

"Oh," said James, looking round in amazement at Agatha. "I didn't realize...I mean, yes, she's very good at it."

"Call me when you learn anything," said Sir Charles cheerfully. "I am still suspect numero uno."

When James had said goodbye, he turned to Agatha and said in a mild voice, "I am so sorry, Agatha. I should have let you explain. I didn't know you were acting. That was Sir Charles. Deborah told him that the walkers didn't think we were man and wife and were beginning to think we were police spies, but after your scene, they were convinced we were what we claimed to be. You knew this, of course. I should have let you explain."

"Of course," said Agatha weakly. She waved her hand at the table. "I don't suppose you want any dinner."

"On the contrary," he said cheerfully, "you didn't give me time to get more than a few mouthfuls in the pub."

"Be back in a minute," said Agatha and scurried off to the bathroom, where she indulged in a hearty bout of tears caused by a mixture of shame and relief.

When she had served dinner, she was so sensible and composed that James was once more intrigued by the investigation. They both decided to try to find out from the walkers' neighbours anything they could about Jessica - had she been seen with any of them - or rowed with any of them - before the murder?

James said he would try Kelvin, and Agatha said she would check on Deborah.

"Why Deborah?" asked James.

"I've been thinking," said Agatha, "she might have called us in to divert suspicion from herself."

"Seems a bit far-fetched, but I suppose we have to try everything."

Later that night, Deborah sat in Burger King in the main street of Dembley with Sir Charles Fraith. He had suggested a late supper. Deborah looked around her and thought of all the posh restaurants people ate in, hoping to dine alongside people like Charles.

But he listened with such interest when she talked of her work in the school and of the pupils. "That's an odd bunch you've got in with," remarked Sir Charles.

"Oh, you mean the Dembley Walkers. It's something to do."

"Are you going out this Saturday?"

"Yes, I have to keep an eye on our detectives."

"Pity. I've got people at the weekend and wanted to ask you over."

Deborah spilled some coffee from her polystyrene cup. Damn the walkers. Should she say she would drop going with them? Would that look too eager? Would...?

"Of course, if you're all through by the evening, you can come for dinner," she realized he was saying.

"What time?"

"Oh, eight or eight thirty."

"Thanks awfully"

"My pleasure. Only hope you don't find it a bore. Gosh, I'm tired. Have you got your car?"

"No, I live quite close by"

"Then I'll walk you home."

Dembley was an old market town which no longer boasted a market but sometimes on calm evenings still held a flavour of the old days. The market hall with its splendid arches and clock tower now housed an Italian restaurant and an auction room. The beautiful seventeenth-century house opposite had a garish neon sign in one window flashing out Chinese take-away. Concrete blocks of shops nearly obscured the view of the thirteenth-century church. White-faced youths leaned against lamp-posts at street corners and jeered at the world in a tired way, their speech liberally sprinkled with obscenities.

As they passed one group, a thin teenager shouted out, "Getting your leg over tonight, guv?" and the rest sniggered.

To Deborah's horror, Sir Charles stopped dead in his tracks. "Why did you say that?" he demanded, addressing the teenager.

The boy looked at his shoes and muttered, "Sod off."

Sir Charles stared at him curiously. Then he turned to Deborah and took her arm. "It's not that they suffer from material poverty," he said. "It's a poverty of the mind, wouldn't you say?"

Deborah, head down, murmured, "Oh, ignore them. They might have knives."

Sir Charles turned back. "Have you got knives?" he asked.

For some reason, his simple, almost childlike curiosity appeared to embarrass the youths more than a stream of insults would have done.

Muttering, they slid off, still in a group, used to being in a gang since they were toddlers, frightened to break away from each other and become vulnerable individuals.

"Here's where I live," said Deborah, stopping in front of a dark doorway between a dress shop and an off-licence. "Would you...would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?"

Unnoticed by Deborah, who was studying her shoes, a predatory gleam entered Sir Charles's eyes. He fancied her a lot, he thought. She was different from the girls he usually escorted. There was something so pliant and appealing about her thinness and whiteness. He was not used to shy women and found Deborah a novelty. "Not tonight," he said. He took her face between his hands and kissed her on the lips. "See you Saturday. Would you like me to send Gustav for you?"

"No!" said Deborah. "I mean, I know the way."

"And so you do. Bye."

Deborah scurried up the stairs, her heart beating hard. She was going to be a dinner guest at Barfield House. She telephoned her mother in Stratford-upon-Avon. Mrs Camden, a tired, faded woman, worn out with years of work in looking after Deborah and her two brothers because Mr Camden had shot off for parts unknown shortly after Deborah, the youngest, had been born, listened to Deborah's excited voice bragging about how she was going to be a dinner guest at Barfield House.

"Make sure your underwear's clean," cautioned Mrs Camden. "You never know what might happen."

And Deborah knew her mother did not mean that her daughter should be prepared for a night of lust but was simply expressing an old fear that one of her children might meet with an accident and arrive at the hospital in dirty underwear.

The next morning Agatha did not rush to get to the kitchen first to make a wifely breakfast. She was appalled at her behaviour of the night before. She was determined to back off and play it cool. So she mentally shelved all her earlier plans of cooking up breakfast in a hurriedly bought satin nightgown and negligee, and bathed and dressed in a plain skirt and blouse and sensible shoes.

When she arrived in the kitchen, James was cooking eggs and bacon. "I put some on for you," he said over his shoulder. "Sit down and I'll serve you. There's coffee in the jug."

Agatha saw the morning newspapers lying at the side of the table and looked hurriedly through them all. But there was no news of the rambler murder.

James served her and himself, ate hurriedly and then settled down to read a newspaper, allowing Agatha to reflect that this was probably more like real married life than any of her wild imaginings.

She finished eating and cleared away the dirty plates into the dishwasher. The flat, although expensively furnished, depressed her. It was the sort of place that reminded her of her London days, when she had allowed decorators to do the job for her and never revealed any of her own personality in the furnishings. She wished suddenly she had brought her cats with her. They were back in the care of Doris Simpson. Perhaps she would take a run home and collect them. She was sure James would not mind.

"So what are you going to do today?" asked James finally.

"I'm going to where Deborah lives," said Agatha. "I'll take a clipboard and say I'm a market researcher."

"That's a good idea. But don't you think it might be easier just to question Mrs Mason?"

"I want to find out Deborah's movements before the murder. Mrs Mason won't know that."

"But won't people think it odd that a market researcher would want to know about Deborah Camden?"

"Not the way I go about it. Look, you represent some product and suggest there's going to be a prize. They invite you in for a cup of tea. Once in, you start talking about the murder."

James looked thoughtfully at Agatha, as if debating whether she was the type of woman that people asked in for a cup of tea, but he said, "I'll see what I can find out about Kelvin. We'll meet up back here early evening, swap notes, and then go to that restaurant where Peter and Terry work." He retreated back into his newspaper while Agatha's feverish mind planned what to wear to dinner.

Seeing she was going to get no more conversation out of James, Agatha found a clipboard among her belongings, attached several sheets of paper to it, and set out.

When she arrived at the doorway between the shops which led to the flats above, one of which was Deborah's, Agatha longed for the pre-security days when one just opened the street door and walked in. She studied the names on the bells: D. Camden, Wotherspoon, Sprott - her eyes narrowed - and Comfrey.

After a little hesitation, she rang the bell marked 'Wotherspoon'. No intercom. The buzzer went and Agatha quickly pushed open the street door and walked in and up a shabby flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs. An elderly man leaning on a stick was standing on the landing peering down at her as she made her ascent.

"I don't know you," he said. "If you're selling something, I'm not interested."

Agatha pinned a bright smile on her face and went resolutely on up. "I am doing some market research about the tea-drinking habits of the English. It will only take a moment of your time."

He had a grey, very open-pored face, loose dentures, and thin hair greased in streaks across a narrow head. He was wearing a grey shirt and grey trousers and carpet slippers of a furry plum-coloured fabric, very new, probably a present from some grandchild, thought Agatha.

"Questions, questions," he grumbled. "I don't want to answer damn-fool questions."

"We are paying ten pounds to each person who helps us," said Agatha, all bright efficiency.

"Oh!" His truculence melted. "Come in. As a matter of fact, I was just about to have a cup of tea."

Agatha followed him into a sparsely furnished living-room. There was a photograph of him in an army uniform taken during World War II, when he was a young man. He had been very handsome. Age, it comes to all of us, thought Agatha, repressing a shudder. There was another photograph, a wedding one.

"That your wife?" asked Agatha, pointing to it.

"Yes, she passed on fifteen years ago. Cancer. Odd, that," remarked Mr Wotherspoon, peering blearily at the photograph. "I always thought Madge would see me out."

"You must miss her."

"What's that? Oh, no, she was an old bitch."

Agatha blinked but tactfully said nothing. He poured two dark cups of tea into chipped mugs. He added tinned sweetened condensed milk to his own and held the tin over Agatha's cup. "No, no," she said hurriedly. "Now just a few questions."

"Where's the money?" he asked.

Agatha fished out a ten-pound note and gave it to him. She was sitting down at a scarred living-room table as he bent over her to take it. It was then she smelt him. He smelt very strongly of rum.

He sat down next to her and put a gnarled hand on her knee. Agatha picked it up and said roguishly, "Naughty, naughty." He leered at her and put his hand back again.

"I'll take that money back if you don't behave yourself," said Agatha sharply. The hand was removed.

Agatha asked a few questions - age, job, taste in tea, how many cups, where did he buy it, and so on. At last she felt she had put on a good-enough act and said, "I would love another cup of tea, if you can spare the time. I don't get to meet very many interesting people."

"No, there's not many good uns left," he said. He poured her another cup of tea and then sank into an old man's reminiscences, his voice droning on in the stuffy room like a fly trapped against the glass of a window.

When he said, "Ah, young people these days..." Agatha interrupted with, "That rambling murder, talking about young people these days. You've got one of them living next door."

"That skinny little thing! At least she didn't murder anyone. Couldn't say boo to a goose, that one couldn't."

"Many boyfriends?"

He leaned forward and winked. "Not her. She's one of them homosapens."

Agatha digested this and translated it quickly in her brain.

"Do you mean she's homosexual...I mean, a lesbian?"

"I caught the pair of them in each other's arms. I'm telling you. I've seen a thing or two. I 'member when we was in Tunis - "

"Never mind Tunis," interrupted Agatha. "What pair?"

"Her, Deborah, and that one wot was killed, arms round each other, they had."

"Where was this?"

"Out on the stairs."

"But a lot of women hug each other."

"But they was kissing and groaning."

"Did you tell the police this?"

"Not me. Hadn't the time to spend with me even though I told them I was an old soldier. No, all they wants to know is if I'd heard her or seen her having a row with that Jessica and I hadn't seen a blind thing. I mostly keeps meself to meself."

"So when did you see them hugging and kissing?"

"Reckon about a month ago. I tell you, what the world is coming to these days, I don't know."

Agatha stood up. "You've been most helpful, Mr Wotherspoon."

"Won't you stay?" Loneliness peered out from old eyes. "We could have a natter."

Much as she thought him horrible, Agatha nonetheless felt guilty as she made her way to the door, said goodbye firmly and went down the stairs and out into the freedom of the sunny street. She wondered how James was getting on.

James privately would have liked to think up some idea for interviewing people that was different from Agatha's. But at last he decided that a market researcher was as good as anything. He had no fear of being seen by Kelvin. Like the others, he would be at work.

Kelvin lived in a tower block near the school, a depressing place surrounded by scrubby grass and litter. What trees there were stood semi-shattered, raising their few remaining branches up to the sky. There were other signs of vandalism everywhere, and he found that the lift was out of order and had probably been out of order for some time, for the sign saying so was covered with old graffiti.

Kelvin lived on the tenth floor. James decided that the police would have interrogated the neighbours on either side of his flat and wondered if he might have better luck questioning the people underneath, as sounds carried down the way.

At the first flat he met with no success at all, perhaps because he never thought of Agatha's idea of offering money. He said he was doing a survey about which kind of washing detergent was most used in Dembley. A sour-faced woman simply slammed the door in his face. He tried the next door after squinting upwards and deciding it must be the one directly under Kelvin's.

The door was opened by a tired-looking woman in her thirties. Her dyed blonde hair was showing an inch of dark roots and her heavy make-up looked like yesterday's.

"It's not the rent arrears again, is it?" she asked nervously.

"No," said James. "I would like to ask you some questions about which soap powder you use."

To his relief, she gave a little jerk of her head. "Come in."

He walked through a minuscule hall and into a living-room full of cheap furniture, all of which seemed to be falling apart. The sofa had been slashed, an arm was off one chair, and the table looked as if someone had recently tried to cleave it with an axe.

"My husband," she said, following his eyes. "He do go on something awful when he has the drink in him."

"Where is he now?" asked James nervously.

"Out on the building site. Come into the kitchen, will you? I'm not much use. I just buy the first packet I see in the supermarket."

He followed her into a small kitchen, averting his eyes from the smashed cupboards, no doubt signs of the absent husband's drunken wrath. She pulled a packet of soap powder from a cupboard under the sink and held it up. "This any good?"

He proceeded to ask questions - number in family, how often clothes were washed, and so on - automatically writing down the answers, wondering how to introduce the subject of the tenant upstairs. "I'm sorry to take up so much of your time," he ventured politely.

She gave him a flirtatious smile. "I don't mind. Don't get to see much people. Like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please," said James, smiling back.

He leaned against the kitchen counter while she plugged in an electric kettle. He looked down from the window. From down below came the harsh cries of little children trying to catch a cat to torture it. The cat escaped. The children hunched together as if plotting further horrors and then they ran off, screaming at nothing.

"Been doing this job long?" he realized she was asking.

"I'm retired. I do bits for the company a few times a year. Freelance. I'm not on the payroll."

The kettle boiled. She filled a small teapot after putting in six tea-bags, arranged a bottle of milk, a bag of sugar, and two mugs on a tin tray with the teapot, and carried them into the living-room.

The tea was very strong indeed. She leaned back on the battered sofa and crossed her legs. She had very good legs. In fact, thought James, she had probably been a pretty girl before marriage knocked the stuffing out of her, much as the stuffing was spilling out of the sofa on which she sat.

"You've had a bit of excitement around here," said James, sipping his tea and trying not to shudder.

"How come?"

"Isn't one of your neighbours one of those ramblers, a Scotsman?"

"Oh, him." She jerked a thumb at the ceiling. "Lives up above."

"Look like a murderer?"

"Too soft, I'd say. Once tried to come on to me." She recrossed her legs and adjusted her skirt so that a bit of grimy lace showed underneath. "But I wasn't interested. He's that kind, you know. Fancies himself a ladies' man. I don't think he can get it up."

"That's a bit harsh, surely," said James. "You can't tell that by looking at him."

She giggled. "I can tell by listening. Should have heard her going at it."

"Who?"

"Some woman he had with him."

"When was this?" asked James sharply.

"I dunno. Oh, yeah, it was before that murder, a few days before. Round about midnight. My old man was passed out, and I was thinking, what a life, listening to the bed creaking upstairs. I mean, you can hear everything in these flats. Then I heard them shouting. Then I heard someone thumping about. Then going towards the door. Curiosity was killing me, so I went to our front door and opened it a crack. I heard her outside, shouting, 'You can't even make it and you know why? You're probably a closet faggot.'"

"Did you get a look at her?"

"Naw"

"Pity"

"Why?"

"It would be interesting to know if she was that woman that got murdered."

She looked at him round-eyed and then, to his horror, she darted over to where he was sitting and sank down on his lap, "Oh, I'm so frightened," she murmured into his hair.

Oh, Agatha, Agatha, thought James. I wish you were here. And then a key grated in the lock. She was off his lap and back on the sofa with her skirt demurely pulled down about her knees as a huge burly man lurched into the room. "Who's this?" he roared.

"One of those men doing market research," she said.

He jerked his thumb at the door. "Out!" he shouted. And James was up and out the door and down the stairs as fast as he could.

Agatha was beginning to feel a bit sulky. She and James were seated that evening in the Copper Kettle being served by Terry Brice. The initial excitement of sharing their discoveries was over. James kept talking about the case when Terry was out of earshot, and Agatha, who had been writing romantic scripts for him all day, could not understand why he wasn't speaking any of the lines. She wrenched herself into reality with an effort when he said, "We should tell Bill Wong about this."

"Couldn't we wait just a little?" said Agatha. "I mean, he might order us to keep clear."

"I don't know about that. We're private citizens. He can't stop us living in Dembley or going out with the ramblers. I sympathize with you, because we're certainly suffering in the cause, having to pretend to be man and wife" - Agatha winced - "and eating this quite dreadful food. Leave it, Agatha. I'll make us an omelette when we get home. What is that you're poking your fork in?"

"It said on the menu it was old-fashioned Irish stew. How's your steak?"

"Like army boots." He signalled to Terry. "Take this away. We can't eat any more of it."

"Why?" he asked plaintively.

"For a start," said Agatha, "this Irish stew is disgusting. The gravy's lukewarm and there doesn't seem to be much meat and there's too much salt."

"We are fussy, aren't we, sweetie. That's Jeffrey's favourite dish." Terry's eyes glinted maliciously. "But then, he likes all things Irish."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked James.

Terry leaned one slim hip on the edge of the table. "Haven't you heard our Jeffrey on the subject of Free Ireland? Quite fiery, he is."

Peter Hatfield sailed up. "What are you lot gossiping about?"

"They don't like the food," said Terry.

"Fussy, fussy," chided Peter. "You going on this walk on Saturday?"

"Yes," said James. "How can the pair of you get the time off on Saturday? I mean, that must be your busy day."

"We don't work Saturdays. I know it's odd, but they were so keen to have a couple of waiters who would do Sundays that they let us off."

"So how come you were both here on the day of the murder?" asked James and then cursed himself as Terry's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"How did you know that?" he asked.

"Someone said something about it at your meeting," said Agatha quickly. "That fair girl, Deborah what's-her-name."

"Considering she's prime suspect number one, she should watch her mouth," said Terry waspishly.

"Why is she prime suspect?"

"Because," said Terry patiently, as if speaking to an idiot, "she was the last one to see Jessica alive."

"What?" Agatha stared at him. "But she said she was window-shopping."

"Well, one of our customers, a Mrs Hardy, she said as how she saw Deborah's car heading out of Dembley to the Barfield estate on that Saturday, and if she wasn't going to see Jessica, where was she going?"