Agatha Raisin The Perfect Paragon

SIX

THE following morning, Charles and Agatha set out. “What kind of car is this?” grumbled Charles. “Here we are in the middle of global warming and you’ve bought a heap without air conditioning.”

“It’s a sturdy little car. Nobody’s going to steal it or scratch it. It doesn’t even have a CD, so they won’t smash the windows to pinch the radio.”

“I wonder if Joyce lives alone or with her parents?” mused Agatha. “Easier if she’s on her own.”

“Is she that young?”

“No, maybe getting on for thirty.”

”That old,” said Charles with a sideways malicious look at Agatha. He felt she was letting herself go these days, and although they did not have a romantic involvement, he thought she might have spruced herself up a bit. Her waistline had thickened and she had forgotten to put on any make-up. He couldn’t remember Agatha ever forgetting to put on make-up before.

“Here we are,” said Agatha at last. “Cherry Road. Quite near Jessica’s home. I can’t see a secretary affording a house even in this modest neighbourhood. Rats! She must be staying with her parents.”

She stopped outside the house. “Here goes.”

They walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Joyce Wilson answered the door. Her eyes were almost as red as her hair with recent weeping.

Agatha introduced them and said, “May we talk to you for a little?”

Joyce ushered them in. The living room was neat and tidy but strangely devoid of personality. New three-piece suite, low coffee table, television, mushroom-coloured carpet, mushroom-coloured curtains, and that was all.

“Have you lived here long?” asked Agatha and they all sat down.

“Not long,” said Joyce, clasping and unclasping her thin fingers. “I rent it.”

Wonder if the horrible Smedley paid the rent, thought Agatha.

“We were interested to know if you had any idea how the poison got into Mr. Smedley’s coffee?” asked Charles.

She shook her head. “I opened a new jar and tore off the foil at the top.”

“Did he take it black?”

“No, milk and a lot of sugar.”

“What about the sugar? Lumps?”

“Yes. He always had four lumps in his coffee.”

“Have the police suggested the poison might have been in the sugar?”

“They don’t think so. Evidently it was a lot of poison and they don’t think it could possibly have been inserted into the sugar lumps.”

“What about the milk?”

“It’s possible. There was just enough left in a bottle in the fridge. There was also a full bottle there. I used the little left and then I washed out the bottle with hot water and put it in the rubbish. The police tried to say that maybe the milk was poisoned and that I’d washed out the bottle to hide the evidence. But I didn’t kill him! I didn’t!”

Agatha took a chance. “How will you be able to afford going on living here now that Mr. Smedley isn’t around the pay the rent?”

“I don’t… he didn’t…” She gasped and then burst into tears.

Charles saw a box of tissues on the coffee table and handed it to her. She sobbed and gulped and then blew her nose.

“I saw you in Bath with Mr. Smedley,” said Agatha. “You were having an affair.”

“It was just until he got a divorce,” she said in a low voice.

“But he seemed devoted to his wife,” Charles pointed out

“He hated her,” said Joyce with sudden venom. “I hated her. She was always turning up at the office and making catty little remarks in that sugary voice of hers. ‘Not married yet, Joyce? We’ll need to find you a husband. Won’t we, Robert?’ That sort of thing. Everyone thinks she’s so perfect, but she’s rotten underneath.”

“How long had you been having an affair with him?” asked Agatha.

“Six months.”

“But why?” asked Agatha. “He was a pompous middleaged man.”

“He was sweet to me. He took care of me!”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead, apart from his wife?”

“I can’t. He wasn’t popular, but the men said the wages were good, so they put up with him. Can you go now? I’ve had enough. I’ve got to go back to the police station later for more questioning.”

Agatha gave Joyce her card and asked her to phone if she remembered anything significant.

When they returned to Carsely, it was to find Bill Wong waiting for them. “I’ve just heard from Mrs. Smedley that she’s employed you to find out who murdered her husband. I warn you, Agatha, not to keep things from the police. You’ve done that in the past and nearly got yourself killed.”

“Oh, come in and stop complaining,” said Agatha. “It’s too hot. I’ve ordered one of those mobile air conditioning units. Should be here this afternoon.”

“That’ll set you back a bit,” commented Bill, following her into the kitchen where the cats leapt on him in welcome.

“Let’s sit in the garden,” said Agatha.

When they were seated over cups of coffee, Agatha said, “What sort of poison was it?”

“Weedkiller. He vomited most of it up and might have survived but he had a weak heart. He hadn’t drunk all the coffee—just one gulp, but that was enough. Must have tasted bitter.”

“Was there anything on his computer?” asked Charles. “I mean, there might be emails.”

“Now that’s the weird thing,” said Bill. “There was nothing but business affairs on the office computer, but his home computer had been wiped clean. So we took out the hard drive and ran it through that machine forensics has which can print stuff off the hard drive and it had been overwritten. You can buy a programme that overwrites everything.”

“That points to the wife,” said Agatha.

“Mrs. Smedley appears to know nothing about computers and the disc with the overwrite programme had only Smedley’s fingerprints on it. He might have indulged himself by watching porn, maybe kiddie porn, and decided to wipe it out.”

“Does Mrs. Smedley have any weedkiller?”

“None at all.”

“I thought everyone had weedkiller.”

“Not her. She goes in for organic methods. No chemicals. She’s just what she seems, Agatha. She’s a thoroughly nice woman. She even baked a batch of fairy cakes for us at police headquarters. She said that baking took her mind off her grief.”

“You’re a trusting lot,” jeered Agatha. “She could have poisoned every single one of you.”

“We’re trying to find out more about Joyce Wilson,” said Bill. “But I can’t see how it could have been her. I mean, she gave him the coffee. Surely a murderer would not make things look so obvious.”

“We’ve just spoken to her,” said Agatha. “She’d been having an affair with Smedley for six months and he was paying the rent of the house she’s living in. She says he promised to marry her.”

“Could be a bluff. He may have told her it was over.”

“What about the factory?”

“We’re currently interviewing all the staff. Then there’s this Jessica murder. The press are hounding us for a result. I’d better go. Now, don’t hide any clues.”

He was about to leave when he hesitated on the doorstep. “Are you all right, Agatha?”

“Fine. Why?”

“You don’t look your usual self.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Not as groomed as usual. And you aren’t wearing make-up. I’ve never known you not to wear make-up before.”

“Oh, just giving my skin a rest. See you. Bye.”

As soon as he had left, Agatha nipped upstairs to the bathroom and stared in the magnifying mirror. She let out a squawk. Her hair was limp, her skin was shiny and she had a spot on her nose. Worse, she could see the shadow of an incipient moustache on her upper lip.

She went downstairs and out into the garden where Charles was lying on the grass, playing with the cats. “I’ve got to go into Evesham,” she said. “Could you be an angel and wait here and let the air conditioning man in?”

“Why Evesham?”

“Hairdresser.”

Agatha spent a whole afternoon getting a facial, a seaweed wrap, and then her hair styled.

As she drove back to Carsely, she hoped the air conditioner had arrived. The air was like soup.

When she walked into her sitting room, she was greeted by a blast of cold air. “Great, isn’t it?” said Charles from the depth of the sofa. He twisted up and looked at her. “Now, that’s an improvement. What if James came back into your life and found you’d let yourself go?”

“Stop making personal remarks. I’ve an idea. Why don’t we try to see Burt Haviland tomorrow?”

“Who he? Remind me.”

“Jessica’s boyfriend. I’m clutching at straws but he may just want to help us.”

“I thought Patrick and the others were following that case.”

“Yes, but he might know someone at the factory who had it in for Smedley.”

Agatha and Charles carried the mobile air conditioner up to Agatha’s bedroom that night. “I’ll leave my door open and you’ll get the benefit, too,” said Agatha.

Agatha undressed and got into bed. She fell asleep immediately and was awakened in the middle of the night by a crack of thunder. She fell asleep again and dreamed of Robert Smedley pursuing her across the icy wastes of the Antarctic. In her dream, she slipped and fell and awoke with a cry. Rain was lashing down outside and the room was like an icebox. Rain was drumming on the thatch and falling onto the garden in a series of waterfalls. She switched off the air conditioner, climbed back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head.

When she awoke again, it was to find the house was still cold. “Sodding British weather,” muttered Agatha, turning on the central heating. “I should never have bought that air conditioner.”

They set out to interview Burt Haviland after Agatha had called Patrick and found Burt was at home, having taken several days leave. The rain had become a thin drizzle and the day was cold.

“It’s at times like this,” said Agatha, “that I wish I’d never started a detective agency. I want to go somewhere warm and lie on the beach.”

“I thought you’d have had enough of heat.”

“Heat on the beach is different from heat inland.”

They drove on in silence until they reached Burt’s address. “Here we go again,” sighed Agatha.

Burt Haviland was a very handsome man with thick black curly hair and a light tan. He must be paid well, thought Agatha, who had noticed the expensive motorbike outside and now saw that his living room contained a huge flat-screen television and a fancy computer.

Agatha explained that they were looking into the murder of Robert Smedley and asked him if he knew anyone at the factory who might have disliked him.

“Everyone hated him,” said Burt. “But he paid good wages.”

“Why did they hate him?”

“He was a bully. He liked finding out about people, finding their vulnerable spot, and pressing it.”

“And yet they all stayed on?”

“All that I know of. I’ve only been with them two years. Oh, I think Eddie Gibbs left.”

“Why?”

“His wife has muscular dystrophy and she’s in a wheelchair. Smedley said to him with a sort of fake jollity, ‘Must be hard on you not getting your leg over.’ Eddie smacked him on the mouth.”

“When was this?”

“About two months ago.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Joyce‘11 know,” said Charles. “I took a note of her number.”

Agatha’s mobile phone rang. It was Patrick. “You’d better get back here fast, Agatha. Harry’s found something important.”

“We’ve got to go,” said Agatha. She turned in the doorway. “Is your name Burt Haviland? I mean, is that really your name?”

He turned red. “I changed it a few years ago.”

“From what?”

“Bert Smellie. I got sick of people making jokes about my name and my girlfriend at the time picked a new name for me out of a romance she was reading.”

Outside, Agatha said, “We’ve got to get back to the office, fast. Harry’s found something.”

“You mean the one you told me was a troglodyte with studs?”

“Yes, but he’s bright.”

Agatha burst into her office with Charles at her heels. “What is it?” she demanded. “What have you found?”

Harry went over to the computer. “I’ll show you. I was down at the cyber cafe to send an email and this schoolboy was staring at something on one of the screens. I glanced over his shoulder and this is what I saw.”

He clicked on to the Internet and typed in “hotsugarbabes. com.” A picture flashed up on the screen and Agatha bit back an exclamation. There was a photo of Jessica, Trixie and Fairy in their school uniforms. “Now, you want to see more, you click here and enter your credit card number. What’s yours?”

Agatha took out her card case and read him out her Visa number. Another picture came up.

It showed a film of Fairy, Trixie and Jessica lounging on a bed. They were all wearing lacy teddies and fishnet stockings. They giggled and pouted at the camera. Occasionally they kissed one another and fondled one another’s breasts. “You want me to go on?” asked Harry.

“No, that’s enough for now. Does it get worse?”

“Not really. There’s a lot of them in school uniform—you know, blouses open to the waist and stocking tops.”

“Goodbye, age of innocence,” said Charles.

“I don’t think any of them had the expertise to set up a Web site,” said Harry.

Agatha remembered the expensive equipment in Burt Haviland’s living room. “We’d better call the police on this one,” she said. “I’ll phone Bill.”

Bill said he would be around right away. Agatha turned to Harry. “How does this work?”

“There are men who like looking a pictures of sexy schoolgirls. They pay up. It’s usually safe enough for the girls because they never need to be in contact with their clients. Maybe one of them recognized Jessica at the roadside and got carried away.”

“But it wasn’t a sex crime,” Charles pointed out.

The door opened and Bill Wong came in. “I hope you’re not wasting police time. What have you got?”

Agatha silently pointed to the computer.

Harry flicked through the images for Bill. “Stop there!” said Bill suddenly. Agatha looked over Harry’s shoulder. The three girls were in bikinis, chasing one another around a garden. Jessica seemed to be protesting and the other two pulled her hair and then dragged her to the ground.

“How did you get on to this?” asked Bill.

How Agatha would have loved to take the credit. “Harry,” she said. ‘Tell Bill how you discovered this.”

Harry did while Bill listened intently. Then Agatha said, “Burt Haviland has a lot of expensive equipment in his home. His real name’s not Burt Haviland. It’s Bert Smellie.”

“We’ll run that name through the computer. I’d better get a search warrant for his flat.”

“Bill, remember we found this out for you and let us know how you get on.”

“I’ll try to get round tonight. You, Harry, come with me. I’ll need to take a statement from you.”

Bill and Harry left, and shortly afterwards Phil and Patrick came in. They told them about the computer video.

“Well,” said Phil, “I was wondering why a nice girl like Jessica could go and get herself murdered in such a horrible way. Now we know. Could have been anyone.”

“We’ll get back out there,” said Patrick. “We’ll see Trixie and Fairy and tell them they’ve been found out. If the police have pulled them in, we’ll try the parents.”

When they’d gone, Charles said, “I’m going off for the afternoon, Agatha. Got things to do at home. See you later.”

Agatha slumped down on the sofa. She felt tired and jaded. “Mrs. Freedman,” she said. “You don’t wear make-up? Does your husband ever ask you to?”

“No, m’dear. Doesn’t notice much.”

“Bill noticed when I wasn’t wearing make-up.”

“Could be a way of him saying you haven’t been your usual sparky self lately. Have you eaten anything?”

“Haven’t had time.”

“Go out and get something. I’ll look after things here.”

“You’re a treasure.”

Agatha went out and round to a cafe and ordered sausage and chips, which she doused liberally with ketchup. She wished she could shake off the heavy feeling of nothingness that was beginning to overtake her.

She did not realize that the root of the problem was that she was obsessive when it came to men. Agatha was addicted to falling in love. While she was obsessing about some man, she could dream. But now, with no obsession, when she lay down to sleep at night there seemed to be a black hole left in her head, around the edges of which swirled nagging, petty little worries.

Charles was sitting at his desk going through the farm accounts when his manservant, Gustav, announced, “Chap called Freddy Champion to see you.”

Charles’s face lit up. “Freddy! Haven’t seen him in ages. Show him in.”

A tall, lean, bronzed man with a shock of white hair and dark brown eyes came into the room.

“Out of Africa?” asked Charles.

“Thrown out of Zimbabwe.”

“What will you do now?”

“Nigeria’s offering us farmers land. Might try that.”

“You’re a devil for punishment.” They talked of old friends and old times and then Charles talked about Agatha and the murders.

“What an extraordinary woman she seems to be. I’d like to meet her.”

“If you’re not doing anything this evening, I’ll take you over. Where’s the missus?”

“Gone to South Africa for a break.”

Agatha tried to work in her office at home that evening, writing down everything she knew about the Smedley case. The evening was cold and damp and she wished she’d never gone to the expense of buying an air conditioner. She switched off the computer. She had changed into an old pair of trousers and a sweater. No need to dress up for Bill and Charles.

She fed the cats but was reluctant to prepare anything for herself. Perhaps she and Charles could go to the pub after Bill had left.

The doorbell rang. When Agatha answered it, she found not only Charles standing there but a tall, handsome man. Charles introduced Freddy. Agatha was suddenly acutely aware of her old sweater and trousers.

Any minute now, thought Charles cynically, Agatha’s going to say she’s nipping up to the bathroom and she’s going to come down with her face freshly made up. And that’s exactly what Agatha did.

Agatha began to ask Freddy about his life in Zimbabwe. Charles, watching her animated face and sparkling eyes, suppressed a groan. He was just about to drop some remark about Freddy’s wife when the doorbell rang announcing Bill’s arrival.

“Well?” demanded Agatha eagerly.

Bill sat down at the kitchen table. He looked enquiringly at Freddy and Agatha quickly introduced him.

“We ran the name Bert, or Albert, Smellie through the police computer. I’m amazed he gave you his real name. How did you get on to that?”

“Think of it,” said Agatha. “Burt Haviland is like one of those names in romance books.”

“Anyway, he’s got a record for armed robbery. In prison took his A levels. Left prison and took a degree in electronics engineering. Bright lad. His probation officer was so proud of him. We raided his house. We found the video set-up hidden in a shed in the garden. But we recognized his bedroom and the garden from the video. He blustered and protested that it was just a bit of fun. The girls weren’t doing anything pornographic and it was an easy way to make money out of dirty old men. We’re keeping him in overnight for more questioning and while we double-check his alibi for the night Jessica was killed.”

“Did the parents know about this?”

“They were genuinely horrified,” said Bill.

“Where did three schoolgirls get the time to do all this?”

“Weekends, evenings, school holidays. We’re tracking down all the men who paid for a viewing.”

“I’ve an idea,” said Agatha, suddenly excited. “Maybe these two murders were tied up in some way. Robert Smedley’s computer at home had been overwritten to conceal what he had been logging into.”

“It’s an idea. We’ll check his credit-card details. I don’t suppose we’ll need a search warrant. Mrs. Smedley is very helpful. In fact, she’s one of the most charming ladies I’ve come across in a long time.”

“Humph,” muttered Agatha. “But what about Burt? Is he still claiming he was madly in love with Jessica?”

“Yes, he is. He said the video thing was a bit of fun. He was saving up to give Jessica a super wedding.”

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe and that’s a fact. Thanks for the info, Agatha. We must have dinner sometime when all this is over … if it’s ever over.”

After Bill had left, Charles suggested they all go out for dinner. He watched uneasily as Agatha sparkled and told highly embroidered stories of her cases. He felt he should throw in some remark about Freddy’s wife, but it was so grand to see Agatha once more back on form. Let Freddy tell her.

Freddy didn’t, so Charles consoled himself with the thought that after this evening Agatha would probably never see him again.

But when Charles, predictably, went to the toilet as soon as the bill arrived, Freddy said, as he paid for it, “I have enjoyed this evening. I’m a bit at a loose end at the moment. What about dinner, just the two of us, on Saturday?”

Agatha glowed. “That would be lovely.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Freddy did not tell Charles of the arrangement he had made with Agatha, and Agatha did not tell him in case he volunteered to join them.

She went to bed that night wrapped in rosy dreams.

In the morning, at the office, Agatha said, “The police have talked to the parents, but see what more you can find out about this video business, Patrick, and take Phil with you. Did you see the girls?”

“No, the police chased us away.”

“Harry,” said Agatha, “you keep questioning her schoolmates. If a boy at the cyber cafe came across that Web site, then it stands to reason some of the others must have known what they were up to. Charles and I will try to track down Eddie Gibbs.”

“Who’s he?” asked Patrick.

“Some chap who left Smedleys Electronics. He evidently had every reason to hate Smedley. I know, we’ll start with Joyce. I wonder if she’s still at home.”

Joyce was. Her face was very white against the red of her hair and her hands trembled. “Come in,” she said. “The police asked dreadful things.”

“What about?” asked Agatha.

“You’ll never believe it. They wanted to know if he was keen on young girls. I was furious. Robert wasn’t like that.”

“We were wondering if you could find the address of a former employee called Eddie Gibbs.”

“Oh, I remember him. A quiet little man. Such a tragedy. His wife is in a wheelchair. I could look up the records in the office. I don’t mind. I would like to get out for a bit in case the police come back. It’s silly to go on hiding here. I’d better get back to work. I suppose Mrs. Smedley will sell the firm. Maybe the new people will keep me on. I’ll get my jacket.”

They drove her to the factory. Agatha wondered why Smedleys Electronics hadn’t bother to put in an apostrophe. Joyce shuddered a bit on the doorstep of the office.

“Fingerprint dust everywhere,” said Agatha. “I thought they used a type of light or something.”

“Do you think it’s all right to touch anything?” asked Joyce.

“Sure,” said Agatha. “The office door’s no longer taped off.”

Joyce hung up her jacket and sat down at the computer. She typed away busily and at last she said, “I’ve got it. Mr. Edward Gibbs, 78, Malvern Way.”

“Where’s Malvern Way?” asked Charles.

“It’s over at the other end of Mircester on the Evesham Road. You take the dual carriageway and turn off at the second roundabout into Cherry Walk and Malvern Way is the third on the right.”

“How do you know exactly where it is?”

“Eddie had a bit too much to drink at an office party and I drove him home.”

“Did you ever hear him having a row with Mr. Smedley?”

“Well, yes,” said Joyce awkwardly. “But Robert was very good about it. He said Eddie was all strung up because of his wife’s condition.”

They dropped Joyce back at her home and then set out to find Eddie Gibbs. “He’ll be at work, won’t he?” asked Charles.

“We’ll have a word with the wife and find out where he is. Maybe catch him on his lunch break.”

The house in Malvern Way was a small bungalow with a neat garden. Agatha rang the doorbell which played the Westminster chimes. The door opened and a woman in a wheelchair faced them. She had a long beautiful face, rather like one of the faces in a Modigliani painting.

“Yes?” she asked.

Agatha introduced them and explained they were trying to find out who had murdered Robert Smedley. She said they were anxious to speak to Mr. Gibbs.

“Why?” asked Mrs. Gibbs.

“Because he didn’t like Mr. Smedley and we thought he might give us a good picture of his character. The more you know about the murdered person, the easier it is to guess who might have wanted to kill him.”

“Well, my Eddie wouldn’t. He’s too kind and nice. But come in. He won’t be back until six this evening.”

She wheeled herself back and they followed her into a sunny living room.

“Sit down,” she said. Agatha and Charles sat down together on a sofa covered in cheerful chintz.

“I thought Smedley was a despicable man,” she said. “He made several very crude remarks to Eddie about my condition. But his wife is a saint.”

“You know Mrs. Smedley?” asked Agatha.

“I owe her a lot. She never said a word against her husband but she turned up here one day. Eddie had put his back out trying to get me to bed. She organized carers to come in the morning and get me up, give me a sponge bath and get me dressed, and to come in the evening to put me to bed. She organized Meals on Wheels to give me lunch and dinner, which means that Eddie has only got to pick up something for himself on the road home. That beast, Smedley, would not give Eddie a reference, but she wrote one out on the firm’s paper and signed it on behalf of her husband.”

“And where is he working now?”

“Over at Baxford Engineering on the Harley Industrial Estate. It’s a good job and he’s happy there. I know, he goes to Peg’s Pantry at lunchtime, one till two. You can’t miss it. It’s the only restaurant on the estate. I don’t know why we should help you with this because I’m glad he’s dead.”

“We won’t bother you any further,” said Charles.

“Is there any news about that poor girl who was also murdered, Jessica?”

“We’re also working on that,” said Agatha.

They drove to the industrial estate and waited until lunchtime before going into Peg’s Pantry. “We should have asked for a photograph,” mourned Agatha. “We don’t even know what he looks like.”

“I do,” said Charles triumphantly. “When you were yakking on, I studied a photograph of him on the side table next to me.”

“Good for you.”

“Why are you looking suddenly uneasy?”

Agatha had in fact been wondering how to get rid of Charles on Saturday evening. But she said, “I was thinking about poor Mrs. Gibbs. I mean, people say if you’re feeling down, find someone worse off than yourself. But all it makes me feel is that life can be terribly unfair. I think the sort of people who feel grateful at the expense of someone else’s misfortune are the types in the old days who would have enjoyed a good hanging.”

“Here he comes,” said Charles.

A little man with small features and wispy hair had just entered the restaurant. He was wearing a checked shirt, an old tweed jacket, and jeans with knife-edge creases in them.

Charles rose and approached him. Agatha saw them talking and then Charles led Eddie over to their table.

He introduced Agatha and then said, “The least we can do is buy you lunch. What would you like?”

“I’ll have sausage, egg, beans and chips and coffee.”

Charles waved to the waitress and ordered the same for all of them.

“So why do you want to ask me about rotten Robert?”

“We believe you had reason to dislike him,” said Agatha. “No, we don’t mean you murdered him. We mean, can you think of anyone in the firm who might have done it?”

Eddie shook his head. “A lot of us disliked him. Me, I hated him. But I can’t think of anyone who would poison his coffee. Most of the men who disliked him would be more inclined to lash out with their fists. Poison is more a woman’s thing, isn’t it?”

“Only in fiction. Here’s our food.”

There was a silence while Eddie and Charles ate. Agatha pushed hers round on her plate. Normally she loved greasy food, but she didn’t want to get spots before Saturday.

“So,” said Eddie, “I don’t think I can be of any help. Mind you, his wife’s another thing. That woman’s a saint.”

“Your wife told us all she had done for you,” said Agatha.

“Marvellous, she was. Did all the catering for the office party. Kind to everyone. Always a nice word.”

“Fond of her husband?”

“Oh, yes. Devoted to the old bastard.”

“Did you know,” said Charles, “that Robert Smedley was having an affair with his secretary?”

“What, Joyce? I mean, why? What did she get out of it?”

“Her rent paid and probably a few presents. Besides, evidently Smedley told her he was going to get a divorce and marry her.”

“So Joyce might have poisoned him. I mean, who else had the opportunity?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Agatha paid the bill and they thanked Eddie and left.

“Maybe we’re being naive here,” said Agatha as they drove off. “I mean, Joyce is the obvious suspect. Maybe she found out he didn’t mean to marry her after all.”

“And maybe,” said Charles, “Mabel Smedley called on her and told her that.”

“Good point. Let’s go back and ask her.””

Joyce was dusting the office when they arrived. “The factory is very quiet,” said Agatha.

“Mrs. Smedley has told everyone to go home on full pay.”

“When?”

“She called just after you left.”

“Joyce, did Mrs. Smedley know about you and Mr. Smedley?”

“No, he was going to tell her after our weekend in Bath.”

Charles said, “Say someone came during the night and got into the building and poisoned that bit of milk in the fridge. You’ve got CCTV cameras, haven’t you?”

“Yes. That would be the job of Mr. Berry, in security.”

“Where does he live?”

She switched on the computer. “I’ll find his address for you. Here we are. He actually lives in Evesham, 4 Terry Road, near the tax office. Do you know where the tax office is?”

Agatha repressed a shudder. She had a good accountant but found the new complications of value added tax and staff pay bewildering.

Mr. Berry was digging in his small front garden when they drove up. Agatha, her mind full of Saturday night to come, left the introductions and explanations to Charles.

Berry was a burly man in blue overalls with a round red face and strands of grey hair combed across a bald spot on his head.

“We were wondering,” began Charles, “whether the police found anything on the CCTV footage?”

“I ran the tapes for them before they took them away. Nothing but the staff going to work and then leaving work. Nothing during the night but the night watchman.”

“Who’s the night watchman?”

“That’ll be Wayne Jones, like. Lives over Worcester way.”

“Do you know where in Worcester?”

“Might be in the phone book. I’ll get it for you.”

“I’m tired of all this running around,” grumbled Agatha as they waited.

“We must persevere, Aggie.”

“Don’t call me Aggie.” Agatha was beginning to fret. Charles was very keen and a keen Charles would certainly still be at her cottage on Saturday evening.

Mr. Berry came back with a slip of paper with an address written on it. “That must be it,” he said. “His full name’s in the book and he’s the only Wayne Jones.”

They went back to Agatha’s car. She opened the boot. “I’ve got a pile of street directories here,” she said, pulling a box forward. “I’m sure I’ve got one for Worcester.”

She found the right map and looked up the address. “Right, got it,” she said, pointing it out to Charles. “It’s on this side, of Worcester. You guide me.”

“He must be a young man,” said Charles. “I mean, Wayne is a fairly new choice of name.”

“Not that new now. I think it came in around the time Kylie became fashionable.”

But when they ran Wayne to earth it was to find he was in his late twenties. He was tall and surly with a cadaverous face and deep-set eyes under a shaved head.

Again the introductions and explanations before Agatha asked, “Did you see anyone lurking around the night before Mr. Smedley was murdered?”

“All quiet. The police asked me that. What you lot mucking about for? It’s their job.”

“I told you,” snapped Agatha. “Mrs. Smedley has employed us to find out who murdered her husband.”

“And I’m telling you it was a night like any other. Now, piss off.”

“He’s on the defensive about something,” said Agatha as she drove off.

“Probably went to sleep on the job.”

“How do we prove that?”

“His patrolling should have been on the CCTV footage. Back to Berry.”

Agatha groaned.

“Now what?” asked Berry, leaning on a spade, still in his front garden.

“Do you happen to know if the police studied the CCTV footage of the night before Mr. Smedley was murdered?”

“Yes, they did.”

“And they saw Wayne on patrol?”

Berry grinned. “The silly sod was missing. Probably fell asleep. Forgot to tell you before.”

“So anyone could have got past him?”

“The factory gates are locked and alarmed at night. There are cameras all over the place. Not a sign of anyone.”

They thanked him and left. “Let’s jack it in for the rest of the day,” said Agatha. “We’ll go back to the office and see how the others are getting on.” But all the time she was wondering how she could get rid of Charles. Tomorrow was Saturday.

Freddy Champion was having dinner that night with old friends, Mr. and Mrs. BurkingtonTarry. He regaled them with stories of Charles and Agatha’s investigation.

“We haven’t seen Charles in this age,” said Mrs. BurkingtonTarry. “We’ll ask him to dinner.”

“What about tomorrow night?” suggested Freddy. “I happen to know it’s the one night he’s free.”

“What about this Agatha woman?”

“No, she works weekends.”

Agatha was lying in the bath that evening wondering whether she ought to tell Charles the truth about her date with Freddy when the phone rang.

She heard Charles answer it but could not hear what he was saying.

She got out of the bath, dried herself and dressed and made her way downstairs. “Who was on the phone?”

“Old friends of mine. They want me to join them for dinner tomorrow night. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no!” said Agatha.

“You mean you don’t want me to go?”

“I didn’t mean that at all,” babbled Agatha. “Go, go, go!”

“All right. Calm down.” Charles regarded her suspiciously. “Not up to anything, are you?”

“Me, no, of course not.”