Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

FOUR

THEY walked together into the hospital and up to the reception desk. “We’ve called to visit John Shawpart,” said Charles.

She checked her records. “He’s in intensive care. Are you relatives?”

“I’m his sister,” said Agatha, and Charles groaned inwardly.

“If you go up to intensive care, someone will help you.”

“What the hell did you say that for?” hissed Charles as they walked away.

“I can’t leave here without knowing what’s up with him.”

A nurse was sitting at a desk outside the intensive care unit.

“We’ve come to ask about Mr. Shawpart,” said Agatha.

“Are you family?”

“His sister.”

“But surely the police told you… I am so sorry. Mr. Shawpart died two hours ago.”

“What of?”

“Some sort of poisoning, but we will know definitely after the autopsy.”

“Thanks,” said Agatha, seizing hold of Charles’s arm and turning to walk away.

“Wait a minute,” said the nurse sharply. “I’ll need your names.”

“In shock,” babbled Agatha and scurried off with Charles.

When they were outside, Charles said severely, “You seem hell-bent on getting yourself into deeper water. The police will be given a description of you.”

“Never mind that. Someone must have poisoned him.”

“It could still be food poisoning. People do die of food poisoning. He might have had a dicky heart. We’ll need to wait and see.”

“Let’s drive past his house and see how much of it is left.”

“This is getting tiresome,” grumbled Charles. “Oh, very well.”

Agatha sat as he drove, her mind racing. She remembered James saying in Cyprus that she solved cases only by blundering about until the murderer betrayed himself, and that had hurt. Now it looked as if it were true. But it could not be murder, must not be murder.

When they reached the Cheltenham Road in Evesham and approached the house, they could see the police tape that cordoned off the blackened shell. They slowed down as they went past. A policeman on duty stared at the car suspiciously and Charles sped off.

“There wasn’t much of that left,” he said. “That noise you heard, that gurgling sound, must have been petrol.”

“Looks like it,” said Agatha wearily.

“Cheer up. There won’t be much trace of anything left.”

“Including who he was blackmailing, if he was blackmailing.”

“All we can do is wait and see.”

Agatha waited all the next day but no policeman came. By the end of the second day, she was beginning to relax, beginning to think it might have been a simple case of food poisoning, when a ring at the doorbell made her jump.

She opened the door. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong stood there, his round face stern. He was flanked by a policewoman. “Mind if we come in, Mrs. Raisin?”

Mrs. Raisin. Not Agatha.

Agatha stepped back and let them in. “How nice to see you, Bill,” she chattered. “I’ll just make us some coffee.”

“No coffee. This is business.”

She led them into the living-room. They sat down on a sofa, side by side. Agatha quickly put a fire-guard in front of the blackened mess in the grate, which she had forgotten to clear out.

She sat down nervously on a chair facing them.

“You knew Mr. John Shawpart?” began Bill.

“Yes, he was my hairdresser.”

“Anything closer?”

“Yes, we were friends. We had a couple of meals.”

His eyes were hard. “Let’s begin at the beginning. I see from the list of customers that you were present when he fell sick.”

“Yes.”

“And a woman answering to your description called at the intensive ward at Mircester Hospital, claiming to be his sister.”

Agatha briefly considered lying and then decided against it.

“Well, yes. I wanted to find out what had happened. Why are you handling this case, Bill? Surely Worcester CID is in charge.”

“They’ve asked for our help, and as you live in Gloucestershire, I have the job of interviewing you. You could be in bad trouble for claiming to be a family member.”

“What is this?” demanded Agatha, her face becoming flushed with anger. “What happened to him? I thought it was food poisoning.”

“Ricin.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a poison made from castor-oil beans. John Shaw-part was murdered. And if we hadn’t got a damned clever pathologist who had made a study of ricin poisoning, we’d still be looking. So settle down and tell us everything you know.”

Agatha decided to tell most of the truth but to omit that she had been in his house when it was set on fire.

“It’s like this,” she said. “I heard a rumour that he was a blackmailer and decided to get to know him better and find out.”

“And what made you think he was a blackmailer?”

“Just a feeling. Women talked a lot to him at the salon about their private lives and I saw him with a couple of women and they both looked distressed and frightened.”

“Names?”

Agatha thought furiously. She could not betray Mrs. Friendly after having gone to such lengths to try to protect her.

“I recognized one of them from the salon. I think her first name is Maggie. It’s all first names there.”

“Description?”

“Well, brown hair, sort of ordinary, rather protuberant eyes. She was there the first time I went. She was complaining that her husband didn’t understand her or something and then I went for a trip on the river with a friend and I saw her sitting in that tea garden before the bridge with John and she looked unhappy.”

“This still does not explain why you thought he was a blackmailer, or, if you thought he was, why then were you prepared to go into business with him?”

Agatha turned red. “How did you hear that?”

“He told his assistant Garry about it.”

“I was stringing him along. I wanted to see if he would betray himself.”

“This still does not explain why you leaped to the conclusion he was a blackmailer.”

“It was just an intuition,” said Agatha desperately. “Look, I was having dinner with him one night in a restaurant, and when we were leaving, this woman was staring at him and her face was a mask of fear.”

“What woman?”

“I didn’t recognize her,” lied Agatha.

“Description.”

“A small sort of weasel woman, black hair, glasses,” said Agatha desperately.

“Hum. And who was this male friend who accompanied you to the hospital?”

“Charles, Sir Charles Fraith.”

Bill took out a mobile phone. “Phone number?”

“I can’t remember off hand.”

“Then go and get me the phone book.”

Agatha wanted to speak to Charles before Bill got to him. She went into the hall and picked up the phone book. The door was standing open. She threw the phone book out over the hedge.

She went back in. “Can’t find it.”

He gave her a cynical look, dialled directory inquiries, got Charles’s number, dialled it while Agatha prayed that Charles would not be at home. But with a sinking heart she heard Bill say, “Sir Charles, we are with Mrs. Raisin. I wonder whether you could join us. There are some questions we would like to ask you. Good. See you soon.”

There was a scrabbling of paws and Mrs. Dairy entered the room. In one hand she clutched a phone book. “Really, Mrs. Raisin,” she said, “if you want rid of your phone book, you should put it in the bin.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Agatha.

“You nearly hit my little poochie with it. You threw it over your hedge.”

Agatha snatched the phone book from her. “Would you mind leaving? I’m busy.”

Mrs. Dairy’s eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Bill rose and said, “Yes, this is private business, so if you don’t mind.

Mrs. Dairy left, her thin shoulders seeming to radiate frustrated curiosity.

“So let’s go back to the day John Shawpart was murdered,” said Bill. “Tell us about it.”

Relieved for the moment to get away from the blackmailing question, Agatha described how he had looked ill, had gone to the toilet, how she and everyone else in the salon had heard the terrible retching, how she had got the tool-box and broken the lock of the toilet door and had found the hairdresser collapsed on the floor.

“I thought it was food poisoning,” she said. “How could I think anything else? We had eaten a Chinese meal at his house the evening before…”

“So you were with him the evening before he died. Do you know how he got the bruising on his face?”

“Oh, that. I was at his house before that. I was told at the salon that he was ill and I found his address and went there. I was shocked at the state of his face. He said he’d been in a car accident but hadn’t bothered to report it. He said he hadn’t been wearing his seat-belt and had hit the windscreen, but when I left I noticed his car was at the side of the house and that it was unmarked, so I thought maybe some jealous husband might have socked him.”

“And why should you think that?”

“Well, it was seeing him with that customer, Maggie, and then he did come on to me. I supposed he made a habit of chatting up women.”

“Do you know his house was set on fire on the day of the murder?”

“Yes, someone told me,” lied Agatha. “I forget who.”

“It was arson. Someone poured petrol over the place and set it alight.”

“Was anyone seen?”

“The people in the surrounding villas all unfortunately work and the few exceptions that don’t were not looking.”

Agatha stifled the sigh of relief that had risen to her lips.

He looked at her directly. “Did you have anything to do with that or know anything about it?”

So many lies, thought Agatha wearily. “No,” she said.

“We’ll leave that for the moment. Go over what happened at the salon again.”

Agatha described again in detail what had happened. Then she heard a car drawing up outside. Charles! What on earth was he going to say?

Charles breezed it. “Hallo, Bill. What’s this? The third degree?”

“Sit down, Sir Charles.”

“Formal, hey? Okay, it must be about that damned hairdresser. Murdered, was he?”

“Yes.”

“How?

“Ricin poisoning.”

“Ricin? Pretty exotic. That’s the stuff that killed that Bulgarian defector when he was working with the BBC in London in the seventies. Markov. That was his name. Stuff of spy fiction, Aggie. He got stabbed in the leg with an umbrella and the ricin was injected into him that way. They found a metal pellet had been injected into his leg. Hey, I remember them saying that ricin is almost impossible to detect and has no antidote. So how did they get on to it?”

“The pathologist, by coincidence, had been fascinated with the Markov case and had read all the medical notes on it. The tiny platinum sphere, just 1.77 millimetres in diameter and drilled through with two tiny 0.35 millimetre holes to carry the ricin, is now in the Black Museum at Scotland Yard.”

“Was the same thing done to this hairdresser?”

“No, he appears to have swallowed the ricin. There were traces of gelatin. We believe it might have been put into pills of some sort.”

“Lifex,” said Agatha suddenly.

“What’s that?” demanded Bill.

“Vitamin pills. He showed me a bottle of them. Said they were multi-vitamins and that he kept a bottle in the salon as well. They were large and gelatin-covered.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Bill eagerly. “I’ll just phone that through.”

He went into the hall with his mobile phone. Agatha longed to warn Charles not to say too much, but the policewoman, a large and stolid female, sat studying them closely as if they were both some rare species of animal.

Bill came back and sat down.

“In view of your knowledge, Detective Inspector John Brudge of Worcester CID will be over to see you as well.”

Agatha groaned. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

Bill ignored her and turned his attention to Charles.

“Now, Sir Charles, where do you come into this? Were you under the impression that John Shawpart was a blackmailer?”

“I got that idea first from Aggie here. I decided it would be fun to find out and egged her on. I persuaded her to go out with him for dinner and tell him that James Lacey was coming back and she was terrified he would find out about us and so she was to tape the whole thing and see if he demanded money for her silence, but it all went wrong.”

“What happened?”

“To reinforce Aggie’s fiction, I turned up here to wait until they arrived back from the restaurant to play the part of the jealous lover. Unfortunately I did it a bit too well. I grabbed Aggie’s arm and her handbag went spinning and the tape recorder fell out and he saw it.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Let me see, he said something like, ‘Yours, I think.’ He looked amused in a nasty way, but as I explained to Aggie afterwards, lots of people carry these little machines around with them.”

“But he asked Mrs. Raisin to go into business with him, so he cannot think you suspected him of anything.”

“Well,” said Agatha reluctantly, “that was because I managed to make him think I had fallen for him.”

Bill leaned back in his chair. “I must ask you again: What made both of you persist in thinking he was a blackmailer?”

“I told Bill we saw that ferrety-looking woman, I mean John and me, when we left a restaurant, and she looked so white and frightened,” said Agatha, trying to signal with her eyes to Charles not to betray Mrs. Friendly.

“Oh, I can tell you all about that,” said Charles breezily. Agatha groaned inwardly.

“We were bored,” said Charles.

“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Bill.

“Bored. Ennui. Fed up. No interest. So when Aggie said teasingly, she was sure he was a blackmailer, I went along with it, worked her up, you know. All a bit of fun.”

“And now he’s dead, murdered,” said Bill evenly.

“And so he is, which shows he must have been up to some malarkey after all and it’s up to you to find out what it was. But we had nothing to do with it.”

“You went to the hospital, Sir Charles, with Mrs. Raisin here. She said she was the deceased’s sister. Then, despite the fact that Mrs. Raisin told us before you arrived that someone had told her that Shawpart’s house had been burnt, your car was spotted driving slowly past on the night of the murder.”

“I was curious to see where he lived,” said Charles blandly.

“All right, let’s go back over some points. Which restaurant were you in, Mrs. Raisin, when you saw this frightened woman?”

“The bistro that’s attached to the Crown Inn in Blockley.”

“You said that the night before he died you shared a Chinese meal with him. Which restaurant?”

“He sent out for it. I can’t remember which one.”

“This business he meant to start in London. According to that assistant Garry, John Shawpart seemed under the impression that you were so besotted with him that you were prepared to pay for the whole thing.”

Agatha turned dark red with mortification.

“Good act you put on, Aggie,” said Charles. “He must have believed you were really smitten.”

“Ah, yes, you said it was an act,” said Bill. “That will be all for the moment. You will both be expected to make statements.”

“When will Worcester CID be calling?” asked Agatha.

“Quite soon.”

“Then I’d better stay,” said Charles cheerfully, “and let them deal with both of us at once.”

Agatha stood up to show Bill and the policewoman out, her legs stiff with tension.

“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Raisin,” said Bill, avoiding the hurt and rejected look in Agatha’s eyes.

She nodded to him, shut the door on them both, joined Charles in the living-room and burst into tears.

Bill got into the police car and took the wheel. The policewoman got in on the passenger side. The reason that Bill had been so cold and formal with Agatha was that he was accompanied by Snoopy Christine, the bane of Mircester police headquarters. She delighted in finding out weaknesses in her fellow officers and gossiping about them to anyone who would listen.

Her first words when they had set out from Mircester earlier had been, “Rumour has it that you’re a friend of this Agatha Raisin’s.”

And Bill, who knew Agatha was in trouble over pretending to be dead man’s sister and was well aware that any sign of warmth towards Agatha on his part would be reported by the beady-eyed Christine, had said casually, “Just some woman I met on some cases.”

“Her husband was murdered, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, I was on that case.”

On the road back after interviewing Agatha and Charles, Christine said nastily, “They’re nothing more than a couple of rich layabouts, amusing themselves by playing at detectives.”

“Exactly,” said Bill casually. With any luck, all Agatha would get would be a rap over the knuckles for having pretended to be Shawpart’s sister. Any sign of favouritism on his part, and Christine would put it about and it might get to Worcester and they might feel compelled to punish Agatha to show the police did not have favourites.

“Come on now, Aggie,” Charles was saying in a soothing voice, “it looks as if you’re off the hook. No one saw you going to his house after he was murdered.”

Agatha dried her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s Bill,” she said. “He was my very first friend and now he’s gone off me.”

She cleaned the burnt mess out of the fireplace, put it in a garbage bag, ran out and slung the bag into James’s garden. She returned to Charles.

“Probably had to be formal in front of that cow of a policewoman. Brace yourself. I think the heavy mob’s arrived.”

Detective Inspector John Brudge was an intelligent-looking man with dark hair and a thin, clever face. He not only brought a detective sergeant and a detective constable with him, but two policemen and a search warrant.

While he took Agatha and Charles carefully through their stories again, Agatha could hear the forces of law and order moving through the cottage, searching every drawer, cupboard and nook and cranny.

It was annoying rather than worrying, for she had nothing to hide. She had even wiped her conversation with the hairdresser from her tape recorder.

The one main thing that was making her begin to relax was that no one had seen her at the villa on the Cheltenham Road on the day it was burnt down.

Just as the long interrogation was coming to an end, the detective constable entered and quietly handed Brudge a receipt. Agatha stiffened and looked wildly at Charles. It was an Asprey’s receipt for those cuff-links. Then she began to relax again. She could say she had bought them for Charles and Charles would be quick enough, she was sure, to agree.

Brudge moved out into the hall with the receipt. She then heard him talking into his phone but could not make out the words.

He came back in holding the receipt and sat down.

“This is a receipt for a pair of very expensive cuff-links, Mrs. Raisin, gold cuff-links.”

“Yes,” said Agatha easily. “I bought them as a present for Charles here.”

He looked at her steadily for a few moments and then he said, “In the part of the living-room of Shawpart’s house which survived, we found a box containing a pair of gold cufflinks from Asprey’s. I think you bought them for Shawpart, Mrs. Raisin, and it is no use denying it because we can easily check.”

“I bought those for Charles,” protested Agatha.

“Who can no doubt produce them?”

“It’s no use, Aggie,” said Charles. “Why lie when we have no reason to? I urged her to buy Shawpart some expensive present to get close to him.”

“Why?”

“I told you. It was a game. We were sure he was up to something fishy.”

“An expensive game. You have both gone on about finding out about this hairdresser for fun, because you were bored. I find that hard to believe. You initially lied, Mrs. Raisin, although Sir Charles here says you have nothing to hide. I find that very suspicious. You will call at Mircester tomorrow and sign your statements. You are not to travel abroad until this investigation is completed.”

“I’m sorry I lied,” said Agatha, “but I feel embarrassed about wasting so much money on him. And I wasn’t to know he would be murdered.”

“So you say. I have yet to read the Gloucester report. I hope you have not been lying to them as well.”

Agatha thought about her saying that someone had told her the villa had burnt down and then found out Charles’s car had been spotted. She groaned inwardly.

“We are taking some things,” said Brudge. A policeman held out a box containing a few bottles of vitamin pills and aspirin. “We will give you a receipt for them.”

When they had all left, she said to Charles, “What a mess.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not very.”

“Let’s go along to the Red Lion and get a sandwich.”

“All right. Give me a moment while I change. I feel all sweaty.”

She went up to her bathroom and stripped and had a quick shower and put on a clean blouse and skirt.

She looked out of the window. Charles was playing with her cats in the garden. He had made a ball out of kitchen foil and was throwing it in the air while the cats leaped up to catch it.

Did he ever worry about anything? Probably just as well if he did not. She herself was worrying enough for the whole of the Cotswolds.

The lounge bar of the Red Lion was smoky and dim. A fire had been lit and little puffs of grey smoke escaped from it and lay in bands across the low-beamed room.

They collected gin and tonics and ham sandwiches and retreated to a far corner.

“So what do we do now?” asked Agatha.

“We go on. For a start we’ve got to try to get the Friendly woman on her own.”

“How do we do that?”

“You’re all kerfuffled and discombobulated these days, Aggie. You put me up for the night and then we watch her house and see if Mr. Friendly leaves.”

“How can we do that without being too obvious?”

“The cottage is opposite the churchyard. You take me on a tour of the graves. I’m a historian. I make notes. Even if he doesn’t leave, surely she goes out shopping. Then we should get to a library and read up on ricin. Are there any castor-oil plants outside Kew Gardens in this country, for example? If not, which of our suspects has been abroad lately?”

“I don’t think we’ve really got any suspects.”

“Wake up! Of course we have. We have the hairy Mr. Friendly. We have the woman Maggie. We’ll start with them.”

“We can’t haunt the Friendlys tomorrow morning. We’ve got to go to Mircester.”

“So we have. After, then.”

“I’m still hurt by Bill’s behaviour,” fretted Agatha. “Badly hurt. First, he’s on holiday and doesn’t phone, then he’s on duty and treats me like Suspect Number One.”

“Why don’t you just phone him? You’ve got his phone number.”

“I don’t want to,” mumbled Agatha.

“You’re frightened he’s gone off you because of some deep unlikeable flaw in your character, so you prefer to be miserable. Tell you what, I’ll go home and pack a bag. I’ll be staying with you.”

Agatha raised a smile. “No funny stuff.”

“Did I ever? See you back at the ranch, Aggie.”

He went off. She finished her drink, but instead of going home, walked to the vicarage and rang the bell.

“Christ!” came the unholy voice of the vicar. “It’s that woman again.”

“Don’t blaspheme, Alf, and get on with your sermon,” came Mrs. Bloxby’s calm voice.

“I always call at the wrong time,” said Agatha ruefully as Mrs. Bloxby opened the door.

“Pay no attention to Alf. He’s the same with everyone. I keep telling him he’s too antisocial for a vicar. Come in.”

“If you’re sure… ”

“Quite sure. Tea? Coffee?”

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

“Come into the kitchen.”

The kitchen was warm and welcoming. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling and shining copper pans gleamed against the old stone walls. “I’ve got some ready,” said Mrs. Bloxby, pouring two mugs.

Agatha said, “Can we take this into the garden? Then I can smoke with a free conscience.”

“Certainly, although I hope you don’t find it too chilly. It’s got quite cold since the weather broke.”

“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby when they were both seated, “I know the police were at your cottage and all because of that hairdresser. I wish I had never recommended him. Is it murder?”

Agatha described all the things she had done and left undone. A large bam owl, ghostly in the dark, swooped over their heads, and sleepy birds chirped lazily in the surrounding trees.

“I’ve been so very stupid,” commented Agatha when she had finished her tale.

“I think all the effort you went to on Mrs. Friendly’s behalf,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “shows a noble spirit. Perhaps you should tell her. She must be dreadfully frightened that the police may have found something.”

“So you do think she could have been a victim of blackmail!”

“Just an idea.”

“Does Mr. Friendly go out? I mean, is she ever on her own?”

“He plays golf practically ever afternoon between two and five.”

“Thank you,” said Agatha. “I don’t feel so silly now.”

“In the meantime, I shall ask around about a woman called Maggie and give your description. The joy about being a vicar’s wife is that I can ask questions about people and no one thinks it suspicious.”

“I’d better go. Charles will be back any minute. He’s staying the night. I mean, you know, I don’t mean… ”

Mrs. Bloxby laughed. “Off you go. And phone Bill Wong. There’s bound to be a simple explanation.”

“So what’s happened to you?” demanded Charles as she let him in. “All calm and smiling now. Been at the Prozac?”

“Been seeing Mrs. Bloxby.”

“Ah, confession is good for the soul.”

Agatha led him up to the spare bedroom.

“While you’re putting your things away, I’ll make a phone call.”

She went down to the kitchen extension and dialled Bill Wong’s home number.

She prayed his formidable mother would not answer the phone and it was with relief that she recognized Bill’s voice. “Bill, it’s Agatha.”

“Oh.”

“Bill, what happened? You were on holiday and you didn’t phone.”

His voice to her relief sounded amused. “The phone works both ways, Agatha.”

“I thought you’d gone away on holiday until Charles said he saw you in Mircester.”

“A heavy romance, Agatha.”

“And what was all the formality today about? You treated me like a criminal.”

“Just as well, too. I was accompanied by Snoopy Christine and you’ve got me in deep shit already, Agatha.”

“Why?”

“I did not put in my report that you had lied about driving past the villa with Charles. I don’t know why you did that.”

“I was confused.”

“Anyway, Snoopy Christine somehow got hold of my report and felt duty-bound to point out the omission to Detective Inspector Wilkes, who gave me a lecture on the dangers of favouritism. Then you tried to pretend you hadn’t Charles’s number and threw that phone book over the hedge. I’d left that bit out as well. Christine pointed out that omission as well.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, but I felt guilty because of your coldness and about us playing amateur detectives.”

“I know you well, Agatha, and when you said you knew nothing about the fire, I could swear you were lying.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” said Agatha hotly. She knew that if she confessed to Bill that she had actually been inside when the house went on fire, then he would have to report her and she would probably be arrested for arson, along with impeding the police in their inquiries and anything else they could throw at her.

“Keep in touch with me and let me know if you think of anything you might have missed out,” said Bill. “But it’s mostly Worcester’s case. Don’t flap about and get yourself nearly killed like you’ve been doing in the past. And remember that Worcester CID are very clever.”

“There are cases you would never have solved if it hadn’t been for me,” said Agatha huffily.

“I’ve told you and told you, the police always get there sooner or later. Take a break. Relax. Get a hobby.”

“You’re patronizing.”

“I’m cross because I got into trouble trying to cover up for you.”

“Sorry.”

“We’ll meet soon, Agatha.”

“Okay, how’s the romance?”

“Dead in the water. I don’t know what happened.”

“Take her home to meet the parents and all that?” asked Agatha with affected casualness.

“Yes, but it still collapsed.”

Poor Bill, thought Agatha. Mr. and Mr. Wong were enough to scare off any girl. But he adored his parents and she knew that any criticism of them would wound him deeply.

“Isn’t ricin an odd sort of poison?”

“Not all that odd. The murderer could have got away with it. It’s terribly hard to detect, almost impossible.”

“Seems to point to a pretty sophisticated murderer,” said Agatha. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing some ordinary village housewife would use.”

“Why did you say that?” His voice was sharp. “What ordinary village housewife did you have in mind?”

“I didn’t. I mean I just meant that it was a very exotic sort of poison.”

“If you say so.” Suspicious. “I feel there’s a lot you’re holding back.”

Agatha managed a light laugh. “Don’t I tell you everything?”

“Not always, no.”

“We’ll have a drink and a meal soon, Bill.”

“Right. Go carefully. See you.”

Agatha replaced the receiver. Instead of being relieved to find they were still friends, she now felt worried and guilty about lying to Bill.

They made their statements the following day at Mircester police headquarters and emerged from a gruelling session blinking in the mellow sunlight. Good weather had returned, but without the ferocious heat, and there was an autumnal crispness in the air.

“It’s still morning,” said Charles, “and at least you’re still free. Haven’t banged you up yet, which is a miracle. So what do we do now? Confront Mrs. Friendly?”

“Bit early. The hairy husband doesn’t play golf until the afternoon.”

“So let’s try the library and read up on castor-oil plants.”

Mircester Public Library was dark and silent, a marble-pillared, cavernous Victorian place. Agatha’s high heels clicked across the marble floor.

“Where do we start?” she whispered.

“We’11 look up an encyclopaedia.”

They searched along the reference shelves. “Here we are,” said Charles. “R for ricin.”

He flicked the pages. “Nothing here.”

“Try P for poison,” suggested Agatha.

“Right you are. Now let me see. Ah, poisonous plants. Here we go. Listen to this, Agatha.

“ ‘Castor-oil plant. Ricinus communis. Large plant of the spurge family grown commercially for the pharmaceutical and industrial uses of oil and for use in landscaping because of its handsome, giant, twelve-lobed palmate (fanlike) leaves. The brittle spinel, bronze-to-red clusters of fruits are attractive but often removed before they mature because of the poison, ricinine, concentrated in their mottled bean like seeds. Probably native to Africa-’ ”

“Not Evesham, then. Rats,” interrupted Agatha.

“Listen and learn,” he said severely. “ ‘Probably native to Africa, this species has become naturalized throughout the tropical world. The plants are cultivated chiefly in India and Brazil, largely for their oil.’ Aha here we go! ‘In temperate climates they are raised as annuals and grow one point five to two point four feet in a single season.’ There! This is a temperate climate. Ergo, all we need to do is keep looking in gardens.”

He flicked over another page. “Here are the symptoms of ricin poisoning. Burning of mouth, throat and stomach, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal cramps, dulled vision, respiratory distress, paralysis, death.’ ”

Agatha repressed a shudder. “What a way to go! Let’s go and eat and see if we can catch Mrs. Friendly on her own.”

At two o’clock that afternoon, they left the car outside Agatha’s cottage and walked towards the church. “We’ll wander amongst the gravestones,” said Charles. “I’ll look knowledgeable and take notes and you yack away as if you’re telling me the history. Look at this tombstone. Five children, died so young, and they talk about the good old days. Why do people keep talking about the good old days, Aggie?”

“Nostalgia. If people have had a reasonable childhood, then they remember a time when the days always seemed to be sunny and they had no responsibilities, like work or paying the bills, and grown-ups were some sort of know-all superior giants. Funny, that. It even works for me with the recent past. When I’m depressed and things aren’t moving forward, my mind harks back to the London days and what a marvellous time I had, when, come to think of it, I didn’t really have a marvellous time.” Agatha frowned in thought. “I suppose no matter how old one is, one has to always have a goal. Study something. What?”

Charles had muttered a soft exclamation. “I got a glimpse of Mr. Friendly driving off.”

“We’ll give it a few minutes,” said Agatha. “You know, I’m a bit apprehensive about all this. Why not leave it to the police?”

“Solving this murder is your goal, Aggie. We’ll ask a few questions here and there, see how we get on, and when it becomes tiresome, we’ll jack it in.”

“This is just a game for you!”

Charles shrugged. “Why not? Take all this murder and mayhem too seriously and you’ll go barmy. Let’s go and see Mrs. Friendly.”

Liza Friendly looked as if she did not want to let them in. “Just a few moments of your time,” pleaded Agatha.

“Very well, but I’ve got a lot to do.”

They sat down in the small, dark living room. Liza did not offer them tea or coffee but sat facing them, perched on the edge of a chair, her hands clasped in her lap.

Agatha decided to get straight to the point. “That hairdresser, Mr. John of Evesham, was killed… murdered.”

“It was food poisoning!” Mrs. Friendly’s eyes darted this way and that as if looking for escape.

“It’s in the papers this morning,” said Agatha. She and Charles had bought the newspapers on the way back from Mircester.

Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. “I don’t read the newspapers.”

But Agatha noted she did not wonder why they were questioning her.

“You knew Mr. John.” Agatha made it a statement, rather than a question.

“Well, I went to his salon a few times. But then it seemed an unnecessary expense. I do my hair myself now.”

And it looks it, thought Agatha brutally.

She took a deep breath. “So when did he start blackmailing you?”

Liza leapt to her feet. “Get out of here!” she shouted. “Get out of my house.”

“Sit down,” said Charles quietly. “We haven’t told the police, and Aggie here went to great lengths to destroy the evidence.”

Liza sat down suddenly, as if her legs had given way. She said through dry lips, “If my husband finds out, he’ll kill me.”

“I’ll be in more of a fix with the police than you if they find out what I did.” Agatha told her about going to the hairdresser’s home to try to get hold of anything that might incriminate Mrs. Friendly.

“So you see,” she ended, “it’s in your interest to help us. We must find out who really did it.”

There was a long silence. Oh, hurry up, thought Agatha. What if that husband of yours has left something behind and comes back for it?

Then Liza said with a sigh, “I was fascinated by him. He made me feel attractive. We began to meet occasionally for a coffee, and then, a few months ago, Bob went off to Scotland to play golf with an old school friend. We went out for dinner and then we went back to his house.”

She fell silent. “You slept with him,” prompted Agatha.

“Yes.”

“So then what happened?”

“He’d found out I had some money of my own. My mother left me some in her will that was in a separate bank account under my name. After that one night, he didn’t call, didn’t get in touch. I went to the salon several times, but he always got someone else to do my hair. I was frantic. I loved him. I thought I could leave Bob and go away with him. I wrote him several letters, pleading with him, reminding him of our love. And then he phoned and arranged to meet me in the salon after hours. He produced those letters and said unless I paid him, he would send the letters to my husband. Bob has a frightful temper. John wanted five thousand pounds. He said that would be enough and he would let me have the letters. So I paid him.”

Agatha looked at her with pity. “But you didn’t get the letters. He asked for more.”

Liza nodded.

“Did you give it to him?”

“I told him to wait, I needed time. Then I heard he was dead and I felt I had escaped from hell.”

Agatha looked around the poky cottage. “If you have money of your own and I assume your husband has money, why do you live in such a small place?”

“Bob always says we should keep hold of a lot of money for our old age. Old folks homes cost so much.”

“If your husband is as tyrannical as you make out, it’s a wonder he didn’t insist your money went into a joint account.”

“We never had one. Before Mother died, he gave me a weekly allowance. When I got my own money, he said I could use that.”

“You didn’t give John Shawpart a cheque, did you?” asked Charles.

She shook her head. “No, he wanted cash. I paid him in cash.”

“Good, the police won’t find any record of the payment in his bank.” Charles leaned forward. “You don’t think your husband could have found out anything? Shawpart was beaten up just before his death.”

“Oh, no. Bob would never have kept such a thing to himself.”

“Have you any children?” asked Agatha.

She shook her head sadly. “We were never able to have any. I wanted to adopt, but Bob said the kid could turn out to be a psychopath and he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Didn’t you ever work?” asked Agatha.

“I was a secretary when I met Bob. Shorthand and typing. I sometimes thought of going back to work, but Bob said nobody would want me. It’s all computers now.”

“Computing can be learned,” said Agatha.

“Bob would never let me.”

“Look, you’ve got your own money. Have you a car? Can you drive?”

“Yes, I have a little car.”

“So why don’t you just get in the car one day when he’s out and drive off,” said Agatha. “Start a new life somewhere else.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

“Why?”

“What would Bob do without me? Who would cook his meals and iron his shirts?”

“He would just have to learn to do that himself,” said Agatha, exasperated.

“We’re getting away from the point,” said Charles hurriedly. “Now, think. Did you ever see John Shawpart with any other women?”

Liza sat silently for a moment, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. Then she said, “When he had stopped getting in touch with me after… after that night, I would drive to his house, on Sundays and half day, Wednesday, and watch. I was mad with jealousy. There was one woman paid him a visit-Maggie, I think her name is. I’ve seen her in the salon. Then another time, I saw Mrs. Dairy coming out of his house.”

Agatha stared at her. “Our Mrs. Dairy? The terror of Carsely?”

“Yes, her. But she was probably collecting for something.”

“Well, well. Anyone else?”

“A young pretty woman, thirties, that’s young to me. I hadn’t seen her before.”

“What did she look like?”

“Blonde, slim, a bit rabbity, rather prominent teeth, skinny legs.”

“Anyone else?”

“No. It’s God’s punishment on me!”

“I don’t think God punishes or rewards,” said Charles unexpectedly. “Those are both such human failings, starting off with, ‘If you’re good, Santa will give you a bike for Christmas.’ I never got one because I was told that Santa was mad at me for blocking up the chimney and smoking out the house.”

Agatha blinked at him in surprise and then went on, “Liza-may I call you Liza?”

She nodded.

“The thing is, Liza, don’t worry about the police. Do you think anyone might have seen you with Mr. John?”

“I don’t think so. Perhaps his neighbours… ”

“But his neighbours didn’t know you?”

“No.”

“So at the worst, all they can give is a description, and you’ll probably be lost in all the other descriptions of women Mr. John was seen with.”

“How was he poisoned?”

“Ricin.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a poison from castor-oil beans.”

“But I’ve never even heard of it!”

There was the sound of a key in the door. Agatha glanced out of the cottage window and noticed the leaded panes were smeared with rain.

“Bob!” said Liza.

“So that’s all settled,” said Agatha. She raised her voice. “You’re like me, Mrs. Friendly, and don’t want to perform at any of their concerts, but I would appreciate your help with the catering on the next occasion. Why, Mr. Friendly! We were just leaving.”

“Good,” he said rudely, swinging a bag of gold clubs from his shoulder and stacking them in a corner. “Bloody rain.”

Agatha and Charles got up and made their way to the door. “My wife has enough to do with the housekeeping here without wasting time on parish affairs,” he said as they edged past him.

“Quite,” murmured Agatha. “Such a pleasure to meet you again.”

“Tcha!”

“And ya sucks boo to you to,” said Agatha when she and Charles emerged into the pouring rain. “Let’s run. I’m getting soaked.”

They ran all the way to Agatha’s cottage. They dried themselves off in their respective rooms, changed into dry clothes and met up again in the kitchen.

“Well,” said Agatha, “what did you make of that? Mrs. Dairy!”

“Who she?”

“The ferrety woman with the nasty little dog.”

“Ah, the one who retrieved your phone book.”

“The same.”

“So do we tackle her next?”

“I suppose so, although she’s going to be most dreadfully rude. Damn, if it hadn’t been for Liza. I would be regretting having tried to rescue any incriminating papers. God, would I love to have some dirt on Mrs. Dairy.”

“What’s her first name?”

“In the ladies’ society of Carsely, Charles, first names do not exist. We are all Miss this and Mrs. that.”

“Where does she live?”

“Grim little house called Parks Cottage up Parks Lane, at the back of the village shop.”

“The rain is easing off. I think we should go before you lose courage. Maybe she’ll have a garden full of castor-oil plants.”

Agatha hesitated. “What sort of approach are we going to take?”

“Nasty and blunt, I should think, dear Aggie. Sort of thing you do best.”