Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

SEVEN

AGATHA sat uneasily on the passenger side of her car as Roy hurtled down the motorways towards Portsmouth the following day. She had wanted to leave her cats in the cottage for the day, but Roy had pointed out that the murderer might come looking for her and destroy her cats in revenge, so Hodge and Boswell had been put in their cat boxes and taken round to the cleaner, Doris Simpson’s, for security.

Agatha realized that all her hurt over Charles had dulled the fact that she might be at risk.

“Portsmouth’s a big place,” said Roy, “and there must be an awful lot of hairdressers.”

“We can only ask around a few places,” said Agatha. “Oh, rats!”

“Rats what?”

“I forgot to switch on the burglar alarm. I’m always doing that.”

“Want to go back?”

“Not now. We’ve already gone miles. Just need to hope everything will be safe.”

“You know, I think it will be,” said Roy, “now that I’ve had time to think about it.”

“How come?”

“Well, how’s our murderer supposed to know you’re ferreting around?”

“Easy,” said Agatha. “I think it’s one of the ones who were being blackmailed, or someone like Mrs. Friendly’s husband or Maggie Henderson’s husband. Why did you really come to visit me, Roy?”

“Told you. Had a few days off and wanted to see you.”

“It’s just when you’ve turned up before it’s mostly been because your boss wants me to do some free-lance work.”

“Why do you always pin the worst motives on people?” said Roy crossly. “Or is the idea of friendship so foreign to your twisted mind?”

“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha. “Couldn’t help wondering.”

“Well, here comes Portsmouth. Park in the centre?”

“Yes, John would have had somewhere right in the centre.”

After several frustrating waits in traffic jams, Roy managed to find a place in a multi-storey car-park near Queen Street.

“Now what?” he asked as they walked out into the morning bustle of shoppers.

“Find a library or post office, find a business phone directory and start off at the nearest hairdressing salon.”

They hit gold at the first salon, called A Cut Above. The proprietess had known John Shawpart. Her name was Mary Mulligan. “He had a place round the back of Queen Street,” she said. “Called Mr. John. He and his wife ran it a few years ago. Then the place went on fire. It was arson. The gossip was that they had done it themselves, but John got the money from the insurance. The business was in his name. After that, Elaine Shawpart set up on her own, but she didn’t do very well. He did all right after he’d had the place redone. Then he sold up and disappeared and his wife-they got a divorce by this time-she sold up and went off as well.”

“Do you happen to know where he lived?”

“Don’t know. Wait a bit. I’ve got some old phone books in the back. Never throw them away. Might be in one of those.”

They waited while she went to look. Driers hummed and the air was full of the bad-egg smell of perms. Beyond the plate-glass windows, people went to and fro. Perhaps one of them had been blackmailed by John, perhaps one of them followed him to Evesham.

“You’re lucky,” said Mary, bustling back. “Here we are. Shawpart. Blacksmith’s End. Number two. Blacksmith’s End is one of those private builder’s projects out on the west of the town.”

She gave them directions.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Roy, retrieving the car.

Blacksmith’s End turned out to be a quiet cul-de-sac of stone-built houses, very quiet and suburban with manicured lawns at the front and lace curtains at the windows.

They walked up the neat path of number 2 and rang the doorbell, which emitted Big Ben chimes.

A little woman as neat as the house-neat permed hair, neat little features, trim pencil skirt and tailored blouse-answered the door.

“I never buy from door-to-door salesmen,” she said.

“We’re simply asking questions about John Shawpart.”

“But I’ve told the police everything!”

Agatha felt like the amateur she was. Of course the police would have been checking into his background.

“I was the person who found him when he was dying,” said Agatha.

“Come in. I’m Mrs. Laver.”

“Agatha Raisin and Roy Silver,” sad Agatha as they followed her into a sparklingly clean living-room: three piece suite in Donegal tweed, glass coffee-table, stereo, television; pot plants everywhere, green and lush.

“It must have been dreadful for you, seeing him dying like that,” said Mrs. Laver. “But really, I don’t know anything other than we bought the house from him.”

“Did he live here with his wife?”

“No, I gather he moved here after they split up.”

Agatha looked around at the plants as if for inspiration. “Did anyone come calling, looking for him, after you moved in here?”

“A couple of women-not together-at separate times. They seemed quite distressed.”

“Did you get their names?”

“No, when I said he had gone, they asked where to, but he didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“That’s odd,” said Roy. “What did you do with the mail?”

“Just marked it ‘Not Known at This Address’ and gave it back to the postman.”

Agatha noticed a faint flush rising up on Mrs. Laver’s face and the way her hands twisted together nervously in her lap.

“It must have been a bit of a chore,” said Agatha, “remembering to return all that mail to the postman. I had that to do when I first moved into my cottage. I got so fed up I forgot to return a couple of letters, and after two months, I regret to say I just threw them on the fire. Did you do that?” she demanded sharply.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. That’s criminal!” cried Mrs. Laver. “But… ”

“But what?” demanded Agatha eagerly. “You’ve still got one, haven’t you?”

She flushed again. “It arrived some time after he’d gone from Portsmouth. My husband was away on business and I had the flu, so I put it in the kitchen drawer and thought I’d give it to the postman when I felt better. But then I forgot about it and I was too ashamed to hand it over after all this time.”

Agatha felt her heart beating hard with excitement. “If you give it to us,” she said, “we’ll give it to the Worcester police. You don’t need to worry. We’ll just say it got stuck under the doormat.”

“Oh, you couldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Laver. “People would think I didn’t clean under the doormat in my own home.”

Agatha looked at her impatiently.

“Then we’ll say it came through the letter-box and slipped under a crack in the skirting in the hall.”

“But I don’t have crack in the skirting. This is a very sound house!”

Agatha felt like tearing her hair in frustration.

She forced herself to say gently, “Then I’ll just tell them the truth. You were ill. You put it in the kitchen drawer and only remembered it when we called.”

“I won’t get into trouble?”

“Not at all. I am very friendly with the police and have helped them on many cases.”

“Oh, well, I s’pose… ”

She got up and went through to the kitchen.

Agatha looked at Roy and rolled her eyes. What if the silly woman changed her mind?

But Mrs. Laver came back and handed Agatha a thick brown envelope. Agatha tried not to snatch it.

She stood up. “We’ll be on our way.”

“Aren’t you going to see what’s in it?” asked Mrs. Laver.

“No, we’ll leave that job to the police. Come along, Roy.”

They made their escape. As they were getting into the car, Mrs. Laver called after them, “I’d better take a note of your name and address. You’re Mrs. Anderson, didn’t you say?”

“Drive off!” hissed Agatha to Roy. “Let the silly woman think I’m Mrs. Anderson in case she calls the police.”

Roy accelerated off.

“Now when we’re clear of this place, stop somewhere,” ordered Agatha, “and let’s have a look at what we’ve got.”

Roy drove for several street and then pulled into the side of the road.

Agatha took out the envelope, which she had stuffed in her handbag. She was about to open it when Roy grabbed her hand.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “You’ll get us into trouble. This is police evidence.”

“I found it, they didn’t,” growled Agatha. “Get off, Roy. I’ll take the responsibility.”

She opened the envelope. It was crammed with fifty-pound notes. “Must be; blackmail money,” she said. “There’s a letter.”

She pulled out one sheet of paper and opened it. She read, “This is all I can afford. I think you’re a wicked, evil man. After all we were to each other, I can’t believe you would do this to me. Harriet.” Agatha counted out the money. “There’s five thousand pounds here!”

“Is there an address?” asked Roy.

“Yes, 14A, Hanson Street, Portsmouth.”

“I’d better stop at a stationer’s and get a street map.”

When they had found a map, Hanson Street turned out to be a small street running off London Road in the centre of the town.

“Back to that car-park,” grumbled Roy, “and let’s hope there’s a space left.”

They had to wait a frustrating half an hour for a car to drive out and leave them a space. They walked to Hanson Street. Fourteen A turned out to be the basement of a shop.

“Doesn’t look very prosperous,” said Agatha as they walked down the steps.

Roy rang the bell. A tired-looking middle-aged woman answered the door.

“Harriet?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, who are you?”

“We’ve brought you this.” Agatha handed her the envelope full of money.

Harriet turned a muddy colour.

“Are you the police?”

“No,” said Agatha. “Just a couple of people trying to make sure that blackmailing bastard doesn’t continue to ruin people from beyond the grave. Can we come in?”

Clutching the envelope tightly, Harriet led them into a large room strewn with coloured fabrics and dominated by a sewing machine.

“You’re a dressmaker?” asked Roy.

“Yes, it’s a living,” said Harriet wearily. She seemed drained of energy.

She sat down and said, “You can’t blackmail me as well. It was all for nothing.”

“We’ve only come to help you,” said Agatha. “We should have given that money and letter to the police. But we didn’t.”

“Thank you. I could do with the money.”

“Let’s introduce ourselves,” said Agatha briskly. “I’m Agatha Raisin and this is Roy Silver. I found John Shawpart’s body and decided to find out what I could. You don’t want us to tell the police about you and I don’t want you to tell the police about me. I’ll tell you what happened.”

So Agatha told her all about Evesham, about the house being burnt down, about the other women who had been blackmailed.

“Why didn’t I even guess he was so evil?” sighed Harriet. “Move some of those fabrics and sit down. I’m Harriet Worth.”

“So how did he get his claws into you?” asked Agatha.

“In pretty much the same way as he got hold of those other women,” said Harriet. “I went to the salon to get my hair done. Unlike those other women, my marriage was happy. Luke’s got a good job with a computer company. Mr. John asked me out and of course I refused. But he laughed it off and he was a wizard at doing my hair and Luke liked my new appearance so I kept going.

“Then John started to look at me in a sort of pitying way and I asked him sharply what was up. At first he said, nothing, but I insisted. He said with a great show of reluctance-he knew what Luke looked like because Luke had called in for me a couple of times at the salon-that he had been out the evening before at a restaurant and had seen Luke with a young blonde. He then made me promise not to tell Luke anything and I did. But I began to get suspicious. It was coming up to Christmas and Luke was often late at the office. He said they were all working flat-out on a new game.”

Harriet heaved a deep sigh. A truck rumbled past on the road above their heads and a child ran a stick along the railings at the top of the steps.

Harriet went on. “I called up at the office one evening. I never usually went there; in fact, come to think of it, I had only been there once before when I forgot my keys. Luke had a new secretary, a pretty young blonde. When I walked in, they had their heads close together and were laughing about something.

“After that, I waited outside the office one evening. I saw them come out together and followed them. Luke and his secretary went into a pub.

“I was devastated. When he at last came home, I asked him why he was so late and he said as usual, pressure of work. I told him I had seen him go to the pub with his secretary and he told me with a sheepish laugh that they had both been working so hard, they had just dropped in for a drink before they both went home.

“I must have gone a bit mad with jealousy because I agreed to go out with John. We had an awful lot to drink. John said, ‘You can’t go home in that state; the salon’s just round the corner, I’ll make us some coffee.’ But once in the salon, he took me through to the back and began to take off my clothes and I was so drunk, it all seemed to be happening in a dream. I let him make love to me and then I passed out.”

There was a long silence. Agatha and Roy sat amongst the bright swathes of fabric and waited, although both knew in their hearts what was coming. How could I even have let that bastard touch me, raged Agatha inwardly.

“I told my husband I had gone out with my friend, Julie, to a hen party and had drunk a bit too much and stayed at her place. Then a week later-I’d stopped going to John to get my hair done-he phoned me. He said we had better meet. There was something threatening about his voice. I met him at the salon after hours. He had taken photos of both of us naked-awful photos. He must have set up the camera after I passed out. He said if I paid him five thousand pounds, he would let me have the negatives.”

“Did you have any money?” asked Agatha.

“I had just a little over that in my bank account. Of course I paid, but he didn’t let me have the negatives. I was nearly ill with fright. He said coldly he needed more money. One more payment would do it. So I sent that money, the money you brought back to me. I took out a personal loan.”

Agatha looked around. “Is your husband at work?”

Tears welled up in Harriet’s eyes. “That’s the bloody tragedy. After I’d paid that last instalment, Luke left me-for that secretary. The house was in his name. Oh, I suppose I could have got a lawyer. But I was so crushed I just let it all happen.”

“You know Shawpart was murdered?” asked Roy.

“Yes, and when I read it in the papers, I thought if I ever met the woman who did it, I would shake her hand.”

“Might have been a man,” suggested Agatha.

“I’m sure it was a woman.”

“What about his wife?”

“They split up just after I started going to Mr. John.”

“What was she like?” asked Agatha.

“Well, she wasn’t a very good hairdresser, although she didn’t know it. She thought she could start up on her own, but her own business soon failed.”

“What did she look like?” asked Roy.

“Blonde, lots of hair, sort of statuesque.”

“Do you think she was in on this blackmailing racket?” asked Agatha.

“I don’t know. He only started on me after the divorce.” Harriet clasped her hands and looked at Agatha beseechingly. “I keep having nightmares about those negatives.”

“I think they were burnt in the fire,” said Agatha soothingly. “If they hadn’t been, the police would have been on to you.”

“Someone’s coming,” said Roy as the figure of a man descending the area steps could be seen through the window above.

“I’m not expecting a customer,” said Harriet. She rose and went to the door just as a sharp knock sounded on the outside.

“Luke,” exclaimed Harriet, falling back a step.

Agatha moved like lightning. She picked up the envelope full of money and thrust it into Harriet’s open handbag and clicked the clasp shut. She picked up a swathe of material and draped it around her. “What do you think?” she was asking Roy as Luke walked into the room.

Agatha had imagined that someone called Luke-a romance name, a cowboy name-would be a brooding sort of man with saturnine good looks, not this tubby little bespectacled man who stood blinking at them in the gloom of the basement.

In a trembling voice, Harriet introduced Agatha and Roy.

“I see you’re busy,” said Agatha. “I think this red would be nice.”

“Too ageing,” said Roy and Agatha threw him a filthy look.

“We’ll be on our way,” said Agatha briskly. “I’ve left that payment in your handbag.”

…

“So what d’you think?” she asked Roy outside. “Reconciliation?”

“Poor woman. I hope so. What do we do now?”

“I’m tired of Portsmouth and we haven’t eaten. I suggest we drive home and stop off on the road and eat some lovely, greasy, cholesterol-laden food.”

“But we haven’t really got anywhere,” said Agatha, exasperated.

“Don’t know what else we can do. John’s dead, we don’t know where the wife is. But the police will know and they’ve probably interviewed her. I’ve a feeling we’re at a dead end, Aggie.”

Agatha was suddenly engulfed by a wave of weariness. Was she really interested in this case? Or was she always searching for something to take her mind off James-and now the humiliation of Charles?

Finally comforted by a large, greasy plate of sausages and chips, she slept fitfully on the drive home.

“Hope you haven’t had a visit from the murderer,” said Roy cheerfully as they drove up to Agatha’s cottage.

“I wish I’d left the burglar alarm on,” grumbled Agatha.

“I was only joking,” said Roy, suddenly nervous.

“We’ll go in and check and then go round to Doris Simpson and collect the cats.”

“You first.”

“Coward.”

Agatha walked up the path and then stopped short. Roy collided into her.

“What’s up?” he hissed.

“There’s a light on in the living-room.”

“Then we go and get a copper. Did you leave a light on?”

“No, honestly. Let’s get Fred Griggs.”

Following Agatha’s directions, Roy drove to the village police station. It was in darkness, but there was a light on in the flat above. Agatha rang the bell and waited while Fred Griggs lumbered down the stairs.

“Fred,’! said Agatha when he answered the door. “There’s a light on in the living-room of my cottage. Someone must be in there.”

“Sure you didn’t leave it on?”

“No, Fred. What if it’s this murderer waiting for me to come home?”

“I’ll just pop on my uniform. Wait here.”

Roy and Agatha waited for what seemed like an age until Fred reappeared.

“Haven’t you got a weapon?” hissed Agatha.

“Just my fists. Not even CS gas,” said Fred comfortably.

They drove him back to Agatha’s cottage. “Look at that!” exclaimed Agatha. “The light’s gone out.”

“Maybe you imagined it,” said Fred.

“No, I didn’t, did I, Roy?”

“Well, you did say you’d seen it, but maybe we imagined it,” said Roy.

“Can’t wait here all night.” Fred walked up to the door. “Your keys, Mrs. Raisin.”

Agatha handed him her door keys. Fred opened the door and Roy and Agatha crowded in behind him.

“Which way’s the living room?”

“Here.” Agatha pointed to the living-room door. Fred opened it and switched on the light.

“Look!” hissed Agatha.

A half-finished glass of whisky stood on a table and a newspaper was dropped on the floor.

“Not yours?” whispered Fred.

Agatha shook her head.

“Wait here.” Fred went off and looked in the dining-room and kitchen.

He came back. “I’ll just be taking a look upstairs.”

“I’m coming with you,” Agatha whispered back, not wanting to be left in the hall with only the weedy Roy for protection.

They followed Fred as he crept up the stairs. He opened Agatha’s bedroom door. Nothing and no one. Then the bathroom door. Sodden towels lay on the floor.

“I didn’t leave it like that,” muttered Agatha.

“Last room,” whispered Fred and opened the door of the spare bedroom. He fumbled and switched on the light.

Sir Charles Fraith lay in bed, fast asleep.

“Seen ‘im before with you, Mrs. Raisin,” Fred remarked.

“Oh,” said Agatha, weak at the knees with relief. “It’s only Charles. Just leave him.”

They backed out and went downstairs. “How did your boyfriend get in?” asked Fred with a grin.

“He’s not my boyfriend. Just a house guest. I gave him the spare set of keys. Look, Fred, it was very good of you. Roy’11 run you back.”

“I’ll walk. Nice night for it. Got a full house, hey?” Fred winked at Agatha, slapped her on the bottom and went off whistling.

“Bang goes your reputation, sweetie,” said Roy. “What a klutz you are! What’s with the baronet in the bed? You never told me about him. I mean, I didn’t know you were close”

“He’s just a friend,” protested Agatha. “He was staying here for a bit and then he left.”

“I’ve seen him recently.” Roy frowned. “Aha, he was in that restaurant in Stratford and with some girl and you never said a word.”

“Can we just leave the whole thing? I’m tired.”

“Have it your way. What’s the programme for tomorrow?”

“Nothing. I mean, what’s the point? We haven’t the resources of the police. I’m going to bed.”

“Come into the living-room a minute and let’s have a nightcap. We have to talk.”

“I told you, Roy, I’m dropping the case.”

“Dropping the case,” jeered Roy. “Hark at the great detective. I want to talk about us.”

Agatha’s bearlike eyes narrowed. “If you’ve come down here again in the name of friendship to twist my arm into going back into public relations, forget it.”

“I did come down here just to see you, but Mr. Wilson did happen to mention…” Mr. Wilson was Roy’s boss.

“I thought so,” said Agatha bitterly. “You’ll need to share a bed with Charles and I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

She made for the door. “I’m going to get my cats. I’ll run you to the station in the morning. Early train.”

“But, Aggie…”

“Good night.”

After Agatha had seen a still-protesting Roy off on the early-morning train, she returned to the cottage to find Charles sitting in the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing-gown and buttering toast.

“What the hell do you mean by creeping back here last night,” snapped Agatha. “I thought the murderer had broken in. I summoned the local bobby and he found you fast asleep.”

“That’s tunny.”

“It was not funny at all. So when you’ve finished your breakfast, please leave.”

Charles looked mildly at the flushed and angry Agatha.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“You, you insensitive, self-absorbed little bastard. You have sex with me, bugger off and then tell me you’re in love.”

“Was in love. Was.”

“Then you couldn’t have been in love in the first place.”

“You’re probably right. Do sit down. I’ve made some coffee. It’s as hot as the steam coming out of your ears.”

Agatha’s rage subsided. She felt suddenly weary. She sat down.

“Did you not think, Charles, that your behaviour towards me was selfish and insensitive?”

“No, Aggie. I thought we had fun. Then I had these guests and there was this girl, eminently suitable.”

“That doesn’t sound like love.”

“It sounds like marriage. I really think I ought to get married. Get an heir and all that.” He waved a piece of buttered toast in the air. “But she didn’t even like me. Met some friend in a restaurant in Stratford and went off with him and left me flat. So I thought, I’d best get back and see what Aggie’s up to.”

“Just don’t come on to me again!”

“You, Aggie, were the one who crept into my bed.”

“For comfort, not sex.”

“I thought the sex very comfortable.”

“You’re not only immoral, Charles, you’re amoral.”

“Perhaps. How’s the case?”

Agatha sighed. “Dead in the water. I went to Portsmouth.”

“And?”

Agatha told him about Harriet.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t stay on in Portsmouth. It’s probably crawling with blackmailers of the wicked hairdresser.”

“John’s ex-wife probably knows all about it, but she could be anywhere in the country now. The police have the resources to trace her. I don’t. Oh, and I found out something else.” She told him about Jessie and Mavis.

Charles listened intently. Then he said, “Run that bit about Mavis past me again.”

Agatha looked at him in surprise but repeated what had happened during her interview with Mavis.

“And you believed her?” Charles reached across the table and fished a cigarette out of Agatha’s packet.

“Why not? She seemed a straightforward, honest woman. Her home was clean and tidy. It had the atmosphere of a happy family home.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Why?”

“She just sounds too good to be true.”

“Oh, well, I suppose you won’t be satisfied until you’ve met her. I never checked to see if you’d packed and taken your clothes away.”

“No, I rushed off and left them. I’ll go and dress and we’ll be off.”

“I wonder if she’ll be at home,” said Agatha as she turned off the by-pass and into the Four Pools Estate. “Perhaps we should have phoned first.”

“Better to surprise her,” said Charles. “Got another cigarette?”

“We’re nearly there and if you’re going to take up smoking in earnest, then I suggest you buy your own.”

“Filthy habit. There’s this hypnotist in Gloucester, said to work wonders.”

“I might try that,” said Agatha. “I heard about him. But if I do give up smoking, I hope to God I don’t turn into one of those morons who goes around making smokers’ lives hell. Here we are. You see, you didn’t have time for another cigarette.”

As they walked up the path, a curtain twitched. The door opened before they could even ring the bell and Mavis stood there, smiling a welcome.

“How nice to see you again!” she cried. “Come in. This your husband?”

I like this woman, thought Agatha. It was flattering to be considered Charles’s wife, as Charles was much younger than she.

Agatha introduced Charles and they both followed Mavis inside. Mavis bustled off to make tea while Charles walked around the room, peering at photographs. “Now here’s a thing, Aggie,” he whispered. “Our Mavis was on the stage in her youth.”

“So?”

“So her acting abilities might have fooled you.”

“I’m a good judge of character,” said Agatha huffily.

“Except when it comes to men.”

Agatha was glaring at him as Mavis tripped in bearing the tea-tray.

After she had served tea, Mavis asked brightly, “So what brings you back?”

Agatha looked helplessly at Charles, who smiled at Mavis and said, “Aggie here told me what you had said and I wondered why you had lied to her.”

Mavis goggled at him and Agatha stared at Charles in surprise.

Then Mavis’s face cleared and she laughed. “Oh, all that stuff about my Betty being a drug addict.”

“No,” said Charles. “I believe that was a lie. But I happen to know that Shawpart was blackmailing you.”

There was a shocked silence. “Mam!” called a child shrilly out on the street. A car drove past, a gust of wind rattled the leaves of the wisteria outside the window and then the room was quiet again.

At last Mavis said in a thin voice, “So that letter wasn’t burnt in the fire.”

Agatha looked to Charles for help, but he was studying Mavis, waiting for her to go on.

“If my husband finds out,” said Mavis, “it’ll be the end of our marriage.”

“He won’t,” said Agatha fiercely. “Tell her, Charles!”

But Charles waited patiently.

“It was like this,” said Mavis. “He flattered me. He said I should never have left the stage. Oh, he worked on me. He got me when I was feeling down and bored and he supplied a bit of excitement. At first it was just sneaky little coffee meetings and then he said we couldn’t talk freely when we were frightened that someone would see us. He invited me to his house. We drank a lot of champagne and he told me… he told me he loved me. He was so passionate, he seemed so sincere. And I thought I was the actor! So I went to bed with him. I was so infatuated, I was prepared to run away with him.”

She began to cry. They waited until she had blown her nose and composed herself.

“Then he did not get in touch with you,” prompted Agatha.

“Yes, and I was desperate. I thought I had done or said something. I wrote to him. When he phoned and said he wanted to meet me, I was over the moon. Then he told me unless I paid him he would send the letter to my husband.”

“I thought you didn’t have any money of your own,” said Agatha.

“I lied. I had a bit put by. But then what seemed like a miracle happened. He was murdered. No, it wasn’t me, although I dreamed of it. Don’t go to the police.”

“We won’t go to the police,” said Agatha. “And there’s no evidence. All the evidence was burnt in the fire.”

Mavis’s yes narrowed. “So where the hell do you pair get off, tormenting me?” She stood up. “Get out of here!”

“We’re only trying to find out who did it,” said Agatha patiently.

“That’s a job for the police. I’ve a good mind to report you.”

“If you do that,” said Charles, “we’ll be obliged to tell the police what we know about you.”

Mavis crumpled. “I’m sorry. But it has all been so horrible. I’m sorry I got angry.”

“That’s all right. We’ll be off,” said Charles. “Think no more about it.” He stood aside to let Agatha past, and then whipped round.

“You weren’t ever married to John Shawpart, were you?”

“No!”

“Know anything about his wife?”

“He said something about her being jealous of him. She was a hairdresser as well.”

They thanked her and left.

“How did you know about her, Charles?” asked Agatha as they drove off.

“I didn’t. I just guessed.”

“Why? How?”

“Well, Shawpart seems to have been a cunning bastard. If there was no money in it, he dropped them.”

“So what made you think he hadn’t dropped Mavis? She told me she had told him that she hadn’t any money and I believed her.”

“It was a lucky guess. I thought it was worth a try. I mean, she did tell him all those lies about herself to get his interest. She must have told him the one about her drug-dealing daughter was a lie or he wouldn’t even have bothered bedding her. He’d just have used that.”

“Let’s go back and make some notes,” said Agatha.

“Interested again?”

“Sort of. There might be something I’ve missed.”

“Now,” said Charles, sitting over a sheet of paper at Agatha’s kitchen table half an hour later, “let’s see what we’ve got. We’ve got Mavis Burke. She could have put ricin in his vitamin pills. Then there’s the receptionist, Josie. She was in love with him. Mr. and Mrs. Friendly. Maggie Henderson or her brutal husband. Harriet of Portsmouth or her husband.”

“But Harriet’s husband left her for the secretary.”

“So she said. Could be another liar. She could have looked shocked when Luke turned up on her doorstep, not at seeing him again but in case you guessed she’d been telling a pack of lies. Anyone else?”

“Jessie Lang, but that’s a non-starter.”

Charles leaned back in his chair. “Yes, let’s think about Jessie Lang. Why would our philandering blackmailer waste his time on a bit of crumpet with no money? Not his scene.”

“I’m sure she was telling me the truth,” said Agatha hotly. “You think she’s lying because I got a lot more out of her than you did!”

“It’s a thought all the same. Then there’s Mrs. Shaw-part.”

“But we don’t know where she is!”

“Don’t we? We don’t know how long any of the married women suspects have been married. Could be Mavis.”

“Who miraculously produces a teen-aged daughter and son after about a year?”

“Did you see any photos of her children? I didn’t. I don’t trust Mavis one bit.”

“We’re forgetting Mrs. Dairy,” said Agatha. “Poor Mrs. Dairy. What on earth could she have possibly found out that we didn’t?”

“That’s a point. Why don’t we trot along to the vicarage and ask Mrs. Bloxby for some gossip?”

As they approached the vicarage door, Agatha found herself hoping the vicar was not at home to start shouting in front of Charles about “that dreadful woman.”

But Mrs. Bloxby answered the door with her usual glad smile of welcome. Agatha knew her to be a busy woman and yet she never appeared to be flustered by the unheralded arrival of visitors.

“This is nice,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Come into the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee ready.”

Agatha sat down at the kitchen table and half-closed her eyes, letting the peace of the vicarage wash over her. Why did she always create such an insane world for herself, she wondered, where the totally unacceptable became the acceptable? What was she doing sitting here companionably with Charles? She should have told him to get lost, she should have said she would never see him again. And, what was even more important, she should stop this silly business of pretending to be a detective and let the police get on with it.

Mrs. Bloxby put down thin china mugs of coffee in front of them and a plate of chocolate biscuits before sitting down herself. “You were away yesterday, Agatha?”

“Yes”

“The press were suddenly all over the place. You know, there were only a few directly after the murder. The police must have released that there was some connection between Mrs. Dairy and the murder of the hairdresser, although they appear to have released nothing about John Shawpart’s blackmailing activities. You see, there wasn’t much of a fuss before because the press thought it was just another murder of a pensioner in the Midlands. How awful that sounds! Just another murder. But there are so many. The longer people live, the more pensioners there are, and the more that get murdered. They’re such an easy, vulnerable target.”

“Someone will be after Aggie next,” said Charles.

“I’m not a pensioner,” snapped Agatha.

“So were you investigating yesterday?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“Went to Portsmouth.”

“With her toy boy,” murmured Charles.

“Now why does that ring a bell? Portsmouth,” mused Mrs. Bloxby, ignoring Charles.

“That’s where John Shawpart came from,” said Agatha.

“So it is. But there’s something else… Never mind, it’ll come to me. So how did you get on?”

Agatha told her about Harriet. “That poor woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby.

“If she was telling the truth,” Charles put in. “Aggie here is very gullible.

“I think that remark was uncalled for,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Tell him about Mavis,” said Agatha.

Mrs. Bloxby listened intently and then said, “But it does not follow that Harriet was lying. Why should she lie? She paid, didn’t she, and it’s thanks to Agatha that she got that five thousand pounds back.”

“There’re too many suspects,” said Agatha gloomily. “Because of Mavis, I think everyone has been lying to me. When I overheard that woman telling John she would kill him, he said it was the woman in the shop next door talking to her husband, but she said she wasn’t married. So she wasn’t married, but what if John had got his clutches into her?”

“So where do you go from here?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“I don’t know,” said Agatha wearily.

Charles nibbled on a chocolate biscuit. Then he said, “What about us visiting Bill Wong? He surely knows something about that wife of John’s. In fact, he probably knows a hell of a lot more than we do.”

Agatha brightened. “That’s an idea. Let’s go and see Bill. In fact, I think we’ll do that now. Thanks for the coffee.”

She and Charles got up.

Agatha turned in the doorway. “I quite forgot to ask you: Do you know where Mrs. Dairy came from? Where did she live before she came to Carsely?”

“How stupid of me,” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby. “How could I have forgotten?”

“Forgotten what?”

“Why, Portsmouth, of course. Mrs. Dairy came from Portsmouth!”