Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

Seven

Deborah drove out to Barfield House wearing the black velvet dinner gown. She had consulted the buyer in Dembley's most expensive dress shop and the buyer had said a dinner gown was de rigueur. The stultifying gentility of the buyer had impressed Deborah no end.

She was also clutching a silver sequinned evening bag.

Deborah was unlucky. It could easily have been formal dress and then her dinner gown, although a bit over the top for a young woman and more suitable for a dowager, would have fitted in with the scenery, but as the guests were simply some old friends Sir Charles had staying for the weekend, the dress was informal. She found that out as soon as she entered the drawing-room. Certainly the men were wearing collar and tie, but the women were in summer dresses. Deborah stood awkwardly in the doorway, feeling like a child widow.

Sir Charles sailed up and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. "You're looking very slinky," he said, and just when Deborah was beginning to feel better, he added, "Like that woman in The Addams Family."

Although his aunt should have introduced Deborah all round, as she acted as hostess for Sir Charles, Mrs Tassy had not even looked up when Deborah entered, so Sir Charles did the honours. There were a Colonel and Mrs Devereaux and their daughter, Sarah. Then a thin young man called Peter Hailey and his friend, small, chubby and noisy, a Henry Barr-Derrington; and a heavy-set, brooding type of girl, Arabella Tierney. They all stared at Deborah when she was introduced. She said to each, "Pleased to meet you." Deborah would normally have said, "Pleased ter meet you," but she had been refining her accent.

It was not that anyone was precisely rude to her but more slightly surprised and then dismissive. That was it. She felt she had been summed up and dismissed. She thought she heard Henry murmur, "That must be Charles's latest aberration," but decided, as she had done in the past, that nervousness was making her hear insults that had never existed.

Mrs Tassy then bore down on Deborah with the weary air of one recollecting her duties. "My dear child," she said, "such a warm frock. Aren't you too hot in that?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine," said Deborah, catching a malicious smile on the face of Gustav.

Gustav announced dinner, and Deborah was relieved to learn she was sitting next to Sir Charles.

The table looked pretty with candles and flowers, and as the meal progressed, Deborah could not help noticing that it was a much simpler affair than the heavy lunch that had been inflicted on her when she came with Agatha. But, oh, she wished she had not come. They were all such dreadful snobs...

And then conversation turned to the murder and Sir Charles said that Deborah was one of the Dembley Walkers and Deborah immediately found herself the focus of attention. She was asked to tell them all about it. She did so, at first shyly, but then gaining confidence from their rapt attention, and when she finished up with a description of that day's walk and the confrontation with Farmer Ratcliffe, she had the table's sympathy.

"That man is a boor," said the colonel roundly. "It's a pity your friend Jeffrey didn't manage to punch him." And so the conversation went on about the iniquities of Ratcliffe until Mrs Tassy rose to indicate the ladies should follow her to the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mrs Devereaux sat down next to Deborah and asked her what subject she taught, and having learned it was physics asked her advice about helping a young nephew who was deficient in the subject, and that took up the time until the men joined them.

Deborah found that, by ignoring the very presence of Gustav, she was able to relax. Everyone was nice, after all. She became elated and quite pretty and when Peter and Henry began to tease her and flirt with her, she positively glowed.

When the evening finished and Sir Charles kissed her warmly on the cheek, she drove off feeling that no drug in the world could possibly give her the high she was on.

Later, Gustav stacked the glasses in the dishwasher. Mrs Pretty, hired from the village to cook for the evening, was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of port. "So who's this girl Sir Charles has got?" she asked.

"How did you hear about her?" asked Gustav.

"People talk. They were seen together in Burger King. Is he serious about her? Will he marry her?"

"Over her dead body," said Gustav, and the cook laughed.

At one in the morning, Jeffrey heard a knock at his door. He had been watching a late movie and so had not gone to bed. At first he wondered whether it might be the police again and if he could pretend to be asleep, but as the knocking increased in force, he decided he had better answer it.

He opened the door. "Oh, it's you," he said, his voice light with relief. "Come in. I thought it was the police."

Agatha awoke to the sound of police sirens. She ran out of her bedroom and looked down from the kitchen window, which overlooked Sheep Street. Another police car raced past underneath.

James awoke with a start and stared at the white, mask-like face of Agatha Raisin looking down at him. She had forgotten all about the face pack she had put on before going to bed.

"What is it?"

"Police cars, lots of them, tearing out of Dembley," said Agatha. "Something's happened."

"May have nothing to do with our ramblers," said James sleepily.

Agatha tugged impatiently at his pyjama jacket. "Oh, come on, James. I feel it's something to do with our lot. Hurry!"

James grumbled but nonetheless got ready with such speed that he was down in the car and waiting for Agatha when she ran down to the street. "You've got little bits of face mask still about your ears," he said, and that miserable thought preoccupied Agatha as they drove out of Dembley, with her squinting into a compact mirror and scrubbing at the white clay with a handkerchief.

They were automatically heading for the Barfield estate when, across the fields in the light of the rising sun, they saw in the distance a little cluster of flashing blue lights.

"Ratcliffe's land," said James. They drove on in silence.

James stopped near the stile they had climbed over the day before, parking behind the police cars. A group of uniformed and plainclothes men were over by the gate where Jeffrey had had his fight with Ratcliffe.

As they walked up to the group, a policeman detached himself and ran towards them, holding up his hand and shouting, "Stay back!"

But then Bill Wong appeared and waved them forward. "What are you two doing here?" he demanded sharply.

"We heard the police cars and followed. What's happened?" asked Agatha, all the time praying: Don't let it be Deborah. If it's Deborah, I've failed.

"It's Jeffrey Benson," said Bill. "He's dead."

"Shot?" asked James. "Did Ratcliffe shoot him?"

"Ratcliffe's over there. What's this about Ratcliffe?"

James told him about the fight the day before. "We'll be questioning Ratcliffe," said Bill grimly. "He's the one who found the body. But at the moment it looks like an accident. Jeffrey was cutting the padlock on the gate, or that's what it looks like, when he fell and struck his head on a rock. But we'll know more after the pathologist gets a look at the body. We'll need a full statement from both of you and the other walkers."

"Do you think if he was murdered that it might be the IRA?" asked James.

"Hardly think so. A bullet in the back of the head is more their style. Or such an insignificant cog as Jeffrey was would get knee-capped at the most."

"Can we have a look?" asked Agatha. "We may be able to notice something that's different to yesterday."

"Wait there," commanded Bill. He went over and talked to his superiors. Several heads swivelled in their direction and then they were called forward. The crowd of men parted to let them through.

Jeffrey Benson lay sprawled on the ground below the gate. Beside him lay a huge pair of wire-cutters. On the other side of him lay a sharp rock.

"That rock wasn't there before," said Agatha.

"Are you sure?" demanded Bill.

"I think she's right," said James slowly. "It was such a violent scene that everything in the immediate vicinity became etched on our minds."

One of the forensic men in white overalls was called forward. He put a long steel implement under the rock and raised it gently. "Dry underneath," he said. "It certainly hasn't been here long."

"So," said Wilkes, speaking for the first time, "although at first sight it looks as if he was climbing over the gate, fell off, and broke his neck, it seems as if actually someone could have struck him a blow on the head with that rock. You two had better get home and leave things to us. We'll see you later for a statement."

Agatha was led off by James. When they reached the stile, her teeth began to chatter and she stumbled as she was getting over. He had climbed over first. He reached up strong arms and lifted her down. It was one of the scenes Agatha had played out in her mind when she had dreamt of them rambling together, but now all she could do was wish she had never seen that dead body. She knew that it would haunt her dreams.

James fussed over her when they got home, making her drink a cup of hot sweet tea, take a couple of aspirin, and go back to bed.

She lay for a long time shivering, twisting and turning before she finally fell asleep.

The Dembley Walkers met in the Grapes on Sunday evening at six because Peter and Terry were on duty at the restaurant at seven. Agatha and James were there, having been telephoned by a frantic Deborah, screaming that they were all going to be murdered, and what was Agatha doing about it?

James looked around the quiet and subdued group and said, "Where's Mary Trapp?"

"Helping the police with their inquiries," said Kelvin gloomily.

"Why?"

"Her neighbours said they heard her going out during the night. She's got a dotty dog lover living next door," said Peter. "Dog decides it wants walkies at two in the morning. Neighbour sees Mary all kitted out in her boots and shorts turning the corner of the street."

"Mary couldn't have done it, could she?" asked Agatha, thinking uneasily that they had not yet checked up on her.

"We were just talking about that before you came in," said Deborah. "None of us really knows anything about Mary. She and Jessica were close. But then Jessica was close to all of us." She began to cry. "I can't stand this."

"I suppose we all had alibis for last night?" said James.

He looked round the group. There was a gloomy shaking of heads. The murder had taken place during the night and all of them claimed to have been in their beds.

"I think they're still questioning Ratcliffe. He was once in prison for beating up a man in a pub," said Kelvin. "Mark ma words, this one had naethin' to dae with Jessica's murder. Jeffrey went out during the night wi' thae wire-cutters, Ratcliffe saw him, picked up thon rock and shied it at him and Jeffrey fell down dead."

"So it wasn't an accident?" asked Agatha.

"No," said Kelvin. "They're treating it as murder."

The door opened and Bill Wong came in, followed by a policeman and policewoman. He came up to their table. "Alice Dewhurst," he said, "we want you to accompany us to the station."

"Why?" demanded Alice, turning a muddy colour.

"Just a few questions. Come along."

"What's that all about?" they asked Gemma.

She shrugged. "I don't know, I'm sure."

"Was Alice with you all night?" asked Peter.

Again that shrug. "Don't ask me. I took one of them barbiturates and was dead to the world until she brought my tea in the morning."

"Don't worry, sweetie," said Terry. "You know Alice could never have done it."

"I dunno," said Gemma to their surprise. "Got ever such a nasty temper."

"But why on earth would she want to biff Jeffrey?" asked Agatha.

"Maybe because she thought he killed Jessica," said Gemma, scooping up a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the table.

"Not very loyal, are we, darling?" commented Terry.

"Actually I'm a bit tired of Alice," said Gemma, looking earnestly round at them. "She gets on my tits."

"Oh, we all knew that, sweetie," said Peter and nudged Terry and sniggered.

Peter turned his attention to James and Agatha. "And just what were our loving couple doing last night?"

"What do you think?" asked James.

"Oh, don't pull that one. I should have thought romance went down the plug hole for you two a million years ago." Peter sounded suddenly waspish.

"You'd better watch out, you dismal little twit, or I'll biff you," said Agatha. "Shouldn't you and your fairy friend here be off to that slum of a restaurant to serve up another dose of salmonella to your customers?"

"Nasty, nasty," chided Peter, quite unfazed. "Come on, Terry. Duty calls."

The party broke up with their going. James and Agatha went back to their flat.

"Well," said James gloomily, "I haven't a clue. What about you?"

Agatha shook her head. "As far as I'm concerned, any of them could have done it. I can't look at them objectively any more. I'm beginning to dislike the lot of them."

"Let's have a drink and think about dinner. What do you want?"

"Gin and tonic, please. Oh, there's someone at the door."

James put down the gin bottle and went to answer it. He hoped it wasn't one of the walkers. He felt he had had enough of them for one day.

But it was Bill Wong, who said, "May I come in? I have some news that might interest you."

He refused a drink. "Is it about Alice?" asked Agatha.

He nodded. "We've been digging into the past life of all the suspects. We got some old newsreel film of the Greenham Common women. One report, trying to prove they were all noisy slags, had interesting footage of Alice and Jessica, a younger Alice and Jessica, having a stand-up fight. Now Alice said in her statement that she did not know Jessica before Jessica came to Dembley, so why did she lie?"

"And what does she say?" asked James.

"She says she had forgotten all about it, that she always thought there was something familiar about Jessica. She's still lying, but we can't get her to say anything else. Now if Jeffrey knew anything about her and Alice, Alice might have decided to shut him up. She could have called on him and suggested it would be a great idea to get even with Ratcliffe by cutting the padlock on that gate."

"Were the wire-cutters hers?" asked Agatha.

"No luck there. Jeffrey had bought them himself six weeks ago to get even with another landowner who had padlocked and chained a gate over a right of way. You've been with these people. You were on that walk. There must be one of them who struck you as being capable of murder."

James looked at Agatha, and Agatha looked at James. Both shook their heads.

"These murders have twisted up my mind so much that I look at them and think any of them could have done it," said James.

Bill sighed. "Normally I would be telling you both to go home and forget about all this, but I keep hoping that in your amateur way you might hit on something."

"What about forensic evidence?" asked Agatha. "Footprints, fingerprints?"

"Can't get anything off that rock, and the ground was bone-dry and hard. Jeffrey's car was found nearby. They're going over that inch by inch. It'll take some time for all the fibres, if there are any, to be analysed and traced. I'm tired. Pray for just one break before anyone else gets murdered!"

When Bill had left, James said, "What about going back to Carsely and putting everything we've got on the computer and then see if we can hit on something."

"I may as well see my cats," said Agatha. "Should I bring them back with me?"

"If you like," he said moodily. "But I don't think there's any point in us staying here much longer."

Agatha glanced round the flat which had become their home for such a brief period. All her dreams of romance with James had faded away. They somehow seemed to have settled down to living together like two old bachelors.

Once back at Carsely, she fed and petted her cats, although deciding not to take them to Dembley with her, before going next door and joining James at the computer. But before he had started typing out the first list of names, his doorbell went and he soon returned, followed by Mrs Mason.

"I saw your car outside," she said to Agatha. "How are things going?"

"Very slowly," said Agatha.

"I'm worried about poor little Deborah," said Mrs Mason, heaving her corseted bulk into a chair. "This other murder - I saw it on the six o'clock news - must be frightening her to death." She preened lightly. "Thank goodness she has Sir Charles to look after her. Do you know she went to Barfield House for dinner last night?"

"She said something about that," remarked Agatha. "She was asking what to wear. How did that go? I forgot to ask her."

"Oh, she said it was wonderful and his friends were ever so nice to her." Mrs Mason patted her grey permed hair. "I think we might have a Lady in the family soon."

"I shouldn't think so," said James idly, staring at the screen. He wondered what Mrs Mason would say if she ever knew her beloved niece had been having a lesbian affair with Jessica.

Mrs Mason bristled. "Don't you think my Deborah good enough?"

"What?" James swung round. "No, no, I was just thinking one invitation to a dinner party does not make a marriage."

"But Deborah says he's ever so keen on her. She's a bright girl. She was the first in our family ever to go to university. My poor sister, Janice, had ever such a bad time with that husband of hers. Bad lot, he was. Poor little thing. So clever and pretty. Do see if you can find out who's doing these dreadful killings."

She refused an offer of tea and left. James returned to typing out lists of names, one on each page. Then he and Agatha began to put down what they knew of each one.

"Do you know," said Agatha, stifling a yawn, "I still think any of them could have done it. They're not a very nice crowd."

"You'd better get some sleep."

"And something to eat," said Agatha.

"Tell you what, as we're leaving for Dembley in the morning, fetch your case along here. I'll fix us an omelette or something and you can sleep in my spare room." His eyes were kind, and Agatha knew that he was concerned for her because of her shock over the murder.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

She went back and collected a suitcaseful of clean clothes, not really bothering much what she put in this time. The idea of having supper with James and sleeping under his roof in Carsely would have sent her into Seventh Heaven only a short time ago. But the last murder had brought her face to face with the brutal realities of life. She was a middle-aged woman with a wrinkled upper lip who should accept that fact and stop being silly.

It was just as well she did not know that James was beginning to enjoy her company as never before. While she was in her own cottage, packing, he put clean sheets on the spare-room bed and went to rummage through the kitchen cupboards to find something for supper. He reflected that having someone around gave structure to his days, and when a weary Agatha returned on his doorstep, he took her suitcase from her and carried it upstairs without feeling in the slightest bit wary of her.

Over a supper of ham omelette and a bottle of chilled white wine, he talked idly about his army days and then, when she had finished eating, went upstairs to the bathroom and ran a bath for her and told her gently to get ready for bed.

"Maybe we'll have a bit of luck if we try again, Agatha," he said. "Have a bath and a good night's sleep and if you have any bad dreams, just wake me up."

"Thank you, James," said Agatha humbly. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek and went upstairs.

James whistled to himself as he did the dishes.

"Will that be all?" Gustav asked Sir Charles.

"Yes, thank you," said Sir Charles vaguely from behind his newspaper. Then, as Gustav was leaving the room, he lowered it and said, "Wait a bit. There is something. Did Aunt get off to London all right?"

"Yes, I took her to the station. The train was on time for once."

"Good, good. I want you to take the day off tomorrow, Gustav."

"Why?"

"Do you have to know? Well, I have invited Miss Camden round for lunch and I don't want you glooming about the place."

"Meaning you're going to screw her."

"Who I screw or don't screw is entirely my business, Gustav. Just leave out something for a simple lunch and bugger off. And don't try to intimidate her this time with forty courses and twenty canteens of cutlery. Cold pie, potato salad, something like that. Decent bottle of wine. We'll eat in the kitchen. Now go away."

Gustav stood his ground. "You should stick to your own type."

"You're a dreadful snob."

"Not me. Some farmer's daughter would be suitable, even some farm labourer's daughter. And talking of farm labourers, did you sack Noakes yet?"

"Can't see any reason to. He told the police what he saw. Help's hard to come by these days. Can't do it all by machine."

"Wish you could do Deborah Camden by machine, sir. You might catch something."

"Oh, get out, you dirty-minded bugger."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," was Gustav's parting shot. "That one's creepy."

James and Agatha decided next day, after unpacking their bags, to go to the Copper Kettle for lunch, for, as James pointed out, that gossipy pair, Peter and Terry, might let another few gems of information fall.

They both ordered fish and chips, thinking that the chef at the Copper Kettle might be able to cook something so undemanding, but the fish proved to be of the breaded kind, frozen in bulk and sold to such restaurants. It was amazingly tasteless, as were the chips; even the tartar sauce had no taste at all.

"Thought the others might be in," said Peter, stopping by their table. "Founder's day at the school, so they're on holiday."

"I didn't think comprehensive schools had founders," commented Agatha. "I thought they were founded by the local council."

"Well, this one has. So what are the leisured classes doing today?"

James thought quickly. He could hardly say, "Investigating this case to find out if one of you did it."

Instead he said, "We might run over to Stratford and see if we can get tickets for this evening. Ages since I've seen a Shakespeare play."

"Oh, you could run a little errand for me, then," said Peter. "Deborah's over at her mother's. I borrowed a kettle from her, she had a spare, and she keeps nagging me and I always forget to give it back. I've got it here."

"Can't you just give it to her next time you see her?" asked James.

"I could, sweetie, but then I'd forget again. Now, if you took it, it would be your responsibility."

"All right," said James. "Give us the mother's address."

Peter went off and returned with an electric kettle and a slip of paper with Mrs Camden's address. "It's a council estate," said Peter. "Far side of Stratford from here." James made a neat note of the directions.

"Do we really want to go to Stratford? Dreary dump," said Agatha, as they got in the car.

"We're supposed to be investigating. If Deborah's there, she might be able to tell us something more."

As they drove off in the direction of Stratford, Agatha felt relief that she no longer seemed to be obsessed with James, that in a way she had grown up and was content with friendship.

She remembered a typist called Fran she had once employed at her PR agency. Fran had mooned and talked and mooned and talked about a man she fancied who worked for another PR firm. At last Agatha and the rest had pointed out that it was the twentieth century and there was nothing to stop her phoning the man up and asking him out for a drink. They had all stood over her until she had picked up the phone and done just that. He said he would meet her for a drink on the Friday evening after work.

They told her what to wear right down to the underwear and scent. They told her what to talk about and how to behave and then sent her off on Friday.

On Monday morning Agatha stopped by Fran's desk and asked, "How did it go?"

"I didn't meet him," said Fran.

"What!" exclaimed Agatha. "Didn't he show?"

She remembered Fran's little resigned sigh and how she had said, "I went right up to the door of the pub and looked in and he was there at the bar, waiting. So I turned and walked away. You see, I'd dreamt and dreamt about him for so long that I realized he could not possibly live up to my dreams and expectations. I'm not into reality."

But I am...now, thought Agatha, and it feels good.

After several mistakes, they found Mrs Camden's address. It was a terraced council house. The garden was weedy, scraggly flowerbeds surrounding a balding lawn. The gate sagged on its hinges.

The house had a neglected, deserted air, and they were almost surprised when they heard someone approaching on the other side of the door to answer their knock.

The woman who opened the door was somehow recognizable as Deborah's mother. She had the same skinny bleached look, but her shoulders were stooped and the only colour about her was in her work-reddened hands.

"We are friends of Deborah's," said Agatha. "Is she here? It is Mrs Camden?"

"Yes, come in. Deborah's not here, but I was just about to put the kettle on."

"We've got a kettle of Deborah's here," said James, brandishing it. "Should we leave it with you?"

"I'll take it. She might be over this evening." A smile transformed Mrs Camden's thin white face. "She'll be anxious to tell me the news."

"Oh, about the murder," remarked Agatha.

Mrs Camden led them into a small living-room. It contained a few battered chairs, a sofa and a chipped table. There were no books or pictures, only a television set in the corner flickering away. Mrs Camden switched it off.

"Make yourselves comfortable," she said. "I'll get the tea."

Agatha introduced them both to her as Mr and Mrs Lacey, getting the usual little thrill when she mentioned the names. Then she and James sat down side by side on the sofa.

"It's bleak," muttered James.

"She doesn't seem to be working," whispered Agatha. "I wonder if Deborah gives her any money."

The miserable room silenced them. The wind had risen outside. A piece of newspaper blew against the window panes, staring at them like a face, and then blew away.

Mrs Camden returned with a tray on which were china cups decorated with roses, a teapot, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits.

After tea was poured, Agatha said sympathetically, "You must be very worried about your daughter."

"Oh, because of these dreadful murders? But Deborah has always been the strong one. Thank goodness. And now she's going to be Lady Fraith."

They both stared at her.

"Are you sure?" asked James.

"Yes, she's gone over there today and she knows he's going to pop the question."

"Are you sure she isn't imagining things?" asked James cautiously.

"Oh, no," said Mrs Camden with supreme confidence. "Deborah always knows what's what. Mind you, it was a bit of a blow when she said that me and Mark and Bill - that's her brothers - couldn't come to the wedding."

Agatha looked at her in a dazed way. "Why not?"

"It wouldn't be fitting. I mean, we're not of Sir Charles's class."

"Neither is Deborah," pointed out James.

"But she's made herself that way," said Mrs Camden. "I'm that proud of her. She was always the hope of the family."

"Are you working?" asked Agatha. It seemed later an odd thing to ask, but there was something about Mrs Camden's stooped figure which seemed to suggest years of drudgery.

"I have my cleaning jobs," she said. "And then I work in the supermarket at weekends."

"Deborah must be able to help you out a bit," said James.

"She can't."

"Why not?" asked Agatha.

"She needs all her money to keep up the right appearance. She's amazing. Even when she was little, she would say, "Mum, I'm going to the university and I'm going to be a teacher." And so she did. So when she said to me, "I'm going to marry Sir Charles Fraith and live in that big house," I knew she meant it."

"And what of your sons?" asked Agatha.

She sighed. "They take after their father. They're both in a council flat in Stratford, on the dole, but at least they're not under my feet."

"Do you know where your husband is?" asked Agatha.

She shook her head. "Don't want to know, either. He was a violent man. I'm not complaining. Deborah's my whole life. Let me show you something." She stood up and walked from the room and they followed her.

She pushed open a door. "This was Deborah's room." She stood aside to let them pass.

James and Agatha stood shoulder to shoulder and looked in awe at the bedroom. It was a sort of shrine. The bed had a pretty coverlet and was covered with dolls and stuffed animals. The walls were covered with photographs of Deborah. Deborah as a baby, as a toddler, at school, at university. There were long low bookshelves containing books, the shells of Deborah's life, from the brightly coloured children's books right through to the works of Marx.

The wind moaned louder and the branches of a dead tree tapped against the window.

"Very impressive," said Agatha in a weak voice.

They returned to the living-room which, after the bright bedroom, hit them afresh with its sad, shabby dullness.

Mrs Camden sat down again with a sigh. "It was something to work for," she said. "You know, seeing Deborah had the best of everything."

"Surely you don't need to work so hard now?" suggested James.

"Well, girls always need something extra these days. She needed help getting her little car, and things like that. How did you come to meet my girl?"

"We are both retired," said James, "and we joined the Dembley Walkers, just after the murder."

"Good exercise," commented Mrs Camden.

James looked at her in surprise. "You do not seem very frightened for the welfare of your daughter, considering there have now been two murders."

"Sir Charles will look after her," she said comfortably. "She says the first thing she's going to do as soon as they are married is get rid of that servant, Gustav. Is that his name?"

"She seems very sure of herself," was all Agatha could think of saying.

"Mmm." Mrs Camden's face was again illuminated with that smile. "Although I won't be at the wedding, I'll read about it in the society magazines. Just think of that!"

"Deborah must have been upset at Jessica Tartinck's death," said James.

"What?" Mrs Camden came out of her rosy dream. "Oh, that strapping big woman. But Deborah told me she was always getting people's backs up. I mean, it was bound to happen sooner or later."

Agatha stood up. She suddenly wanted to get away. She had never considered herself a particularly sensitive person, but she was now assailed with such a feeling of impending doom that she was desperate to get out of that shabby living-room.

"We must go," she said abruptly.

As if suffering from the same feelings, James leaped to his feet and held open the door for Agatha.

Once they were in the car, Agatha, who was driving, said, "Let's find somewhere quiet. I need to think."

She drove out of Stratford and parked in a lay-by and switched off the engine and looked blankly at the wind whipping through the trees at the side of the road.

"Why is it," she said in a thin voice, "that I feel I've just escaped from a madhouse?"

"Deborah appears to have been selfish from the day she was born, but the thing that frightens me is this wedding business. There's something else," said James. "It just occurred to me. There was something very hush-hush about Sir Charles's father's death. I remember someone telling me he died mad."

"What kind of mad?" asked Agatha. "I mean, no one ever says mad these days."

"Does it matter? For some reason Sir Charles has been leading Deborah into thinking he's going to marry her. I don't believe he means to for a moment."

Agatha stared at him. "And Deborah's there. Now. At Barfield House."

"Fast as you can, Agatha," said James. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all."