Agatha Raisin The Perfect Paragon

NINE

HARRY rang Joyce’s doorbell. She appeared dressed in a cashmere stole under which she wore a little black dress, sheer stockings and very high heels. She appeared to have drenched herself in an overpowerful and very cheap scent.

Harry complimented her on her appearance while helping her into his car and all the time thinking she had such a rabbity face.

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed,” said Harry. “But The Mikado is off.”

“Oh, why?”

“Well, I like the traditional stuff and someone told me this production is set in a modem-day factory with the whole chorus dressed in denim overalls. So what I thought instead is the Classic Cinema. They’re showing Brief Encounter. Did you ever see it?”

“No.”

“I thought we’d go there and then have dinner at the Royal afterwards.”

Joyce’s protuberant eyes widened. The Royal was Mircester’s best hotel and the restaurant was very expensive. She had tried several times to get Robert Smedley to take her there, but he’d always refused.

“Sounds lovely,” she said.

Harry had taken the precaution of bringing two large handkerchiefs with him. Joyce cried her way through the whole blackand-white film.

“You must think me very silly,” she said outside the cinema, “but it brought back a lot of sad memories.”

“You mean you were in love with a married man?” asked Harry lightly.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. When we get to the hotel, I’ll just go to the ladies’ and repair my make-up.”

So she wasn’t going to admit to having an affair with Smedley, thought Harry.

Joyce came back. She picked up the large menu. “I always like fish,” she said. She ordered avocado stuffed with prawns to start and then a whole grilled lobster. Harry had a feeling she was choosing by price rather than taste. Perhaps Smedley’s attraction for her had been nothing more than money. He ordered pate followed by boeuf bourguignon and also a half bottle of red wine for himself and a half bottle of white for Joyce.

She said coyly that she always liked to have a dry martini before eating. “Could you make it a large one?” she asked. “I’m quite nervous.”

Harry expected the meal to be a fairly silent one. Joyce obviously did not want to talk about Smedley and he wanted to tell as few lies about his background as possible, but Joyce turned out to be loquacious enough for both of them. She prattled on about her parents, father now dead and her mother in care in Bath. She talked about a previous job as secretary to a supermarket manager—”I didn’t even get a discount on my groceries”—and Harry tried not to let his eyes glaze over with boredom.

He kept trying to turn the conversation back to the murder and Joyce always kept on talking about something else.

She finished her meal with crepes Suzette, then brandy and coffee. Harry paid the bill with cash. He did not want to use a credit card in case Joyce could read the name on it, which wasn’t the one he’d given her.

When he drove her home, she asked him if he would like to come in for a coffee. Harry reluctantly agreed.

Perhaps he might have a chance for a quick search.

“Now just relax,” said Joyce, “and I’ll put the kettle on. Be back in a tick.”

Harry moved quietly about the room, searching here, searching there, seeing if there was anything that might provide some lead on the case.

Phil had enjoyed his evening immensely. At times he felt guilty that he had not found out anything at all but consoled himself with the thought that such a fine woman as Mabel had nothing to hide.

By the time she had invited him home for coffee they were talking like old friends, and it was with great reluctance that he finally got up to leave. Suddenly as shy as a schoolboy, he hesitated in the doorway. “I’ve enjoyed myself so much. I’d like to do this again.”

Mabel smiled. “What about Saturday? We could take a drive in the country and have a picnic.”

“I would love that.”

“Let’s make a day of it. Pick me up about ten in the morning.”

“Wonderful.”

Meanwhile, Harry realized that the seconds were ticking into minutes and still Joyce hadn’t appeared.

“Joyce!” he called.

“Here,” she said huskily.

He swung round. Joyce was standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a transparent black nightie. She held out her hand. “Let’s forget about the coffee.”

Oh, Agatha Raisin, mourned Harry inwardly. The things I do for you!

He allowed himself to be led upstairs to the bedroom. Joyce was staggering slightly, all she had drunk evidently just having begun to hit her.

“Where’s the bathroom?” asked Harry, stalling for time. “I need a shower.”

“Just out of the door and rum right. I’ll be waiting.”

Harry went into the bathroom and locked the door. He ran a bath instead. He undressed and tried to relax in the warm water. He wished he were one of those fellows who could get excited at the prospect of sex with any woman.

He soaked as long as he could and then got out and dried himself. He picked up his clothes and went into the bedroom.

Joyce was fast asleep and snoring lustily. With a sigh of relief, he quietly got into his clothes.

He was about to make a smart exit. Then he noticed a bureau against the wall farthest away from the bed.

He tiptoed over and softly began to pull out the drawers. He didn’t expect to find any letters because nobody, surely, wrote letters in these days of email and text messages.

There were bank statements and credit card receipts. He was about to give up when he saw an envelope tucked at the back of the bottom drawer. He drew it out. Joyce had left lamps burning on either side of the bed.

The envelope was addressed to Joyce and in the top comer was written, “By Hand.”

He slid out the letter. Bingo! The letter, which he quickly scanned, was from Burt Haviland. He shoved it in his pocket.

Harry went down the stairs and softly let himself out of the front door. He had lied to Joyce about living with his parents. As a precaution, he had even lied about where they lived. He had a little flat in the centre of Mircester.

As soon as he was home, he sat down and read the letter carefully. Burt had written: “Dear Joyce, I can’t go on seeing you because Smedley is my boss and if he finds out we’ve been having an affair, I’ll lose my job and you’ll lose your house. Thanks for everything, pet, but let’s just let the whole thing drop. Love, Burt.”

Harry whistled under his breath. “I wonder what Agatha will make of this.”

Phil arrived before Harry next morning. “I went out with Mabel last night,” said Phil, deciding that withholding information from Agatha could be dangerous. “How did you get on?” asked Agatha.

“I didn’t find out anything,” said Phil. “You see, in my opinion, Mabel Smedley is a thoroughly nice woman. What you see is what you get. But we’ve become friends and I’m taking her out on Saturday. She might let something slip if there’s anything to let slip.”

“Keep after it.” Agatha regarded Phil narrowly. He was looking happy and much younger than his years. “Don’t fancy her, do you?” she asked.

Phil coloured. “Don’t be ridiculous. A man of my age!”

“Okay. Here’s Harry.”

She listened excitedly as Harry told her about the attempted seduction and finding the letter. Then she said, “Now, why didn’t the police find it? They must have searched her house.”

“Maybe they missed it.”

“I doubt it. Maybe she put it somewhere and put it back after the police had left. Although, why someone would want to keep a Dear John—or, in her case, Dear Jane—letter is beyond me. I’d better tell the police. Damn! It’s not like the old days. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of them. I want Bill Wong because he might trade some information. I’m not going to talk to anyone else. I’ll go to police headquarters. You come with me, Harry. I’ll phone Patrick and get him to liaise with you, Phil. Unless he’s got a hot lead on any of the men who accessed that Web site, I want you to get to some of Smedley’s staff and find out who else Haviland was romancing.”

She telephoned Patrick and gave him instructions and then said to Phil, “He’ll meet you in the square in fifteen minutes.”

Agatha was told Bill Wong was out on a case. She and Harry waited in reception.

While they waited, a policeman and policewoman came out, putting on their helmets. “Where are you off to?” asked the desk sergeant.

“Folks up in Bewdley Road are complaining some hysterical woman’s been harassing them. Honestly, if it weren’t a posh area, we wouldn’t have to bother.”

When they had left, Harry whispered, “Could you step outside for a moment?”

Agatha followed him out.

“What?”

“I told Joyce my name was James Henderson and I lived with my parents on Bewdley Road. They actually live in a cottage out in the country. She’s a greedy thing and must be frantic at the idea of a rich young man slipping through her fingers. I bet it’s her.”

“Serves her right.”

“Where’s Charles?”

“Decided to sleep late. Oh, here’s Bill. Bill, we must talk to you urgently. We’ve got important information.”

He walked them through to the interview room and listened intently while Agatha told him about the letter. Then he read it.

Bill leaned back in his chair. “Agatha, have you thought for a moment what Wilkes will say when he finds out how you went about getting this letter? Young Harry here lying about his name and job and then stealing it while she was asleep? He’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

“Couldn’t you just say we found it and cannot reveal our sources?”

“You’re not a journalist.”

“Say it was delivered to our office anonymously this morning,” said Harry.

“Come on, Bill,” urged Agatha. “It’s too important a piece of information to hold back. If you tell the truth and get us into trouble, what’ll happen to Harry?”

“I know,” said Harry. “There’s nothing wrong with part of the truth. Say Joyce picked me up in a tea shop. I made a date with her because she didn’t know who I worked for and I thought I might get some information by taking her out for dinner. She drank too much. I took her home. She invited me in for coffee, went to make it and disappeared. I went to look for her and found her dead asleep in the bedroom. I searched her bureau because that’s my job and found the letter.”

“So far, so good. But he’ll be furious at you for taking the letter away.”

“If you give me an hour, I’ll put it back,” said Harry.

“How?”

“I’ll find a way. Please.”

“I should be shot for agreeing to this. Okay. But if you’re caught, I know nothing about it.”

“Thanks.” Harry took the letter and left.

“Now Bill,” said Agatha. “What about giving me some crumbs of information?”

“As long as you don’t say you got it from me.”

“Of course.”

“Burt Haviland’s bank account reveals that in the past six months he received two payments of twenty thousand pounds each.”

“Blackmail?”

“Could be. It was paid in cash. The teller who took the payments has left the bank and is now on holiday in Turkey. We’re trying to find her.”

“I keep wondering if all these murders aren’t connected in some way,” said Agatha.

“Maybe. You’d better get off. I’ll tell everyone it was just a friendly call. Oh, by the way, my parents are still thrilled with that lamp.”

“Good.”

“They only wish they could afford the other one.” “What other one?”

“There’s a blue one in the shop now and Mum thinks it would be a companion to the other. I’d buy it, but I’m overdrawn at the bank as it is.”

Agatha repressed a sigh. “I’ll get it for them.”

“No, it’s too much. Don’t even think of it.”

It was only when Agatha had paid for the other lamp and sent it off in a taxi that she reflected that Mr. Wong ran a very successful dry-cleaning business and could easily have afforded it. But she got a warm feeling just thinking how pleased Bill would be.

Harry went to his flat first. Wearing a pair of thin latex gloves, he took out an envelope similar to the one containing the letter and copied out a forgery of the “By Hand” legend. The police did not have his fingerprints but they might have Agatha’s. Of course they also might wonder why there were no fingerprints on the envelope at all, but that was a minor problem. Then he realized that his fingerprints and Agatha’s would be all over the letter itself. He would need to replace it with a copy. He ran off a copy on his printer. Then he dressed himself in a pair of worker’s overalls he had once used when he was painting his flat. He padded out his cheeks, dug into a box of costumes he had worn when he was in the school dramatic society and found a heavy fake moustache, which he glued on with spirit gum. Putting on a pair of dark sunglasses and pulling a baseball cap down low on his head, he went out and stopped off at a hardware shop to buy a toolbox. He set off on his motorbike and left it at the end of Joyce’s street.

He walked boldly up to Joyce’s front door and rang the bell. She opened the door. He felt a guilty pang when he saw her eyes were red with weeping.

“What is it?”

Joyce lived in a terraced house. Harry flashed his student rail card so quickly that no one could possibly have seen it clearly and said, “I’m from the council. Your neighbours are worried about subsidence. Just going to check the walls.”

“Come in. Don’t be long. I’ve got to go out.”

Harry made a great show of tapping the walls. The trouble was Joyce followed his every move. He was just wondering how he could ever put that letter back without her noticing when there was a ring at the doorbell.

Harry heard a stem voice. “Detective Inspector Wilkes. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

Harry heard Joyce complain. “I’m not letting you in. You’ve already searched them.”

“If you do not let us in, we will need to take you down to the station.”

Harry ran lightly up the stairs. He slipped the letter back into the drawer, opened the bedroom window, threw his toolbox into the back garden, stepped out and, hanging on to the drainpipe, closed the window and slithered down. Thanking his stars that the back of Joyce’s house was not overlooked by any other houses and was a jungle of untended trees and bushes which shielded him from Joyce’s neighbours on either side, he made his way out by the back garden gate, along a lane and out into the main road.

How had Wilkes been able to move so quickly?

The fact was that Bill had told Wilkes almost immediately he had heard a rumour that Joyce had been having an affair with Haviland and that evidence of that may have been overlooked during the initial search. Although he had expected it would take some time to get a search warrant, Wilkes had pointed out that the original search warrant was still legal, called together a search team, and set out.

Bill hoped that Harry, who he believed was probably out on the street, watching the house and waiting for Joyce to leave, would not be discovered.

Joyce tried to follow the search team upstairs, but Wilkes had brought along a policewoman who ushered Joyce into her living room and told her to sit down and wait.

They came to the bureau. One said, “It’s just all bank statements and accounts. I’ve been through this before.”

“Look again,” snapped Wilkes.

The detective pulled open the bottom drawer. Harry had simply dropped the letter right on the top.

He took the envelope and extracted the letter and read it. “Take a look at this, sir,” he said, handing it to Wilkes.

Wilkes read it. “Odd. It looks like a copy. Let’s go downstairs and see what our Miss Wilson has to say for herself.”

Joyce, confronted by the letter, burst into floods of tears. The policewoman handed her a box of tissues which was lying on the coffee table, and then all waited in stolid silence until she had stopped crying.

“It was just a brief fling,” she said.

“I think you had better accompany us to the police station.”

“What about the building inspector?”

“What building inspector?”

“He was here when you arrived.”

They searched the house and then came back to Joyce. “No sign of anyone. Why was he here?”

“He said there was subsidence next door and needed to check the walls.”

“Did he show you any identification?”

“He flashed some sort of card.”

“Probably some burglar trying it on who fled when we arrived,” said Wilkes. “We’ll check with the neighbours and then, Miss Wilson, you’re coming to the station with us.”

As Joyce was led into police headquarters, a policeman in reception turned and stared at her and then hurried after Wilkes. “Sir?” he called.

“Take her to interview room number two,” said Wilkes. “Yes, Phelps, what is it?”

“That woman you’ve just brought in. She answers the description of a woman who was up at Bewdley Road early this morning, harassing the residents and demanding to see someone called James Henderson.”

“Thanks, Phelps, we’ll ask her about that.”

It was obvious to Wilkes that his first question genuinely amazed Joyce. “Did Mr. Robert Smedley tell you he was being blackmailed?”

“No! And he would have done. He told me everything.”

“So tell us about Burt Haviland. Did you know he was originally called Bert Smellie and did a term in prison for armed robbery?”

Those protuberant eyes of hers looked ready to pop out of their sockets. “I can’t believe that. He was a good salesman. He loved me.”

“How could he love you when he knew you were having an affair with the boss?”

“I am fascinating to men,” said Joyce. She was regaining her composure. I wonder whether she can cry at will, thought Wilkes. I wonder if this one is more devious than we ever imagined.

“This letter is a copy. Where’s the original?”

Joyce looked genuinely surprised. “I don’t know.”

With a few breaks, the questioning went on all day. Joyce became calmer and calmer as the day went on. She stuck to her story that she had had a brief affair with Burt only because she didn’t think Smedley meant to marry her. But shortly after Burt broke up with her, Smedley had said that he would start proceedings for a divorce within the month.

The only time she seemed to lose some of her composure was when Wilkes asked her what she was doing out at Bewdley Road where the residents had described her as hysterical.

“Someone called James Henderson took me out last night. He picked me up. I think he put that date rape drug in my drink because when I woke up this morning, he was gone. I was furious. He said he lived with his parents out on Bewdley Road. I went to confront him. He must have taken the letter and copied it.”

“Were you raped?”

“No, he must have got cold feet.”

“We’ll have you tested for drugs.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Miss Wilson, you tell us that someone calling himself James Henderson slipped you a Mickey and yet you don’t want a test?”

“I may have been mistaken,” said Joyce sulkily. She knew now she’d gone frantic at the thought of such a rich prize slipping through her fingers.

After Agatha had put Harry back on two outstanding divorce cases and she had spent most of the day making notes on the murders without coining to any conclusion, Charles put in an appearance. They decided to go and confront Mabel Smedley. Agatha thought it would be better to leave Phil behind, and let Mabel go on thinking that Phil was a friend.

Agatha started the questioning, “Mrs. Smedley …”

“Mabel, please.”

“Well, Mabel, you must know by now that Joyce Wilson was really having an affair with your husband.”

“So the police keep trying to tell me. I still don’t believe it. He was merely kind to her, taking her to Bath to see her mother. He told me all about it, you know.”

“Did you know that the police have proof that Joyce was also having an affair with Burt Haviland?”

“That’s possible. Burt had a bit of a reputation. He probably killed that Jessica girl and someone killed him in revenge.”

“I see your house is up for sale,” said Charles. “I noticed the estate agent’s board on the way in.”

“Yes, I’ve decided to make a clean start. The factory has been sold to another electronics company. It will be up to them if they want to retain the staff.”

“When is your husband’s funeral?”

“Let me see, last Friday.”

“There was nothing in the papers about it.”

“I suppose it’s old news. The police released his body. I had him cremated. That’s him over there.” She pointed at the sideboard. A black um sat on top of it. “I like to have him with me. I talk to him sometimes. But all this chit-chat is surely not helping you find my husband’s murderer.”

“I’m beginning to think it might have been Joyce Wilson,” said Agatha.

“Joyce is a simpleton. Not a bad secretary as secretaries go, but pretty dim.”

“It doesn’t take much intelligence to put weedkiller in a milk bottle.”

“It takes a lot of nerve to stand up under the strain of a murder inquiry. Believe me, if Joyce had done it, she would have burst into tears by now and confessed all.”

“The poor woman’s under a lot of strain herself,” said Charles as they drove off.

“She was as cool as cucumbers.”

“I thought from her body language she was quite rigid. No more cosy cups of coffee either.”

“I’m beginning to think this all leads somehow to Jessica.”

“Could be coincidence. Jessica could just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then you would think it would’ve been a sex crime. It was made to look like one. An amateur murderer.”

“Or one just playing for time.”

Agatha squinted at her watch. “It’s after six. We couldn’t get near Burt’s neighbours last night because the police were all over the place. Let’s try again.”

But they found there was a mobile police unit set up in the street and policemen were still busy making door-to-door enquiries.

“There’s a pub two streets back,” said Charles. “Go back there. We might find some of the locals talking about the murder.”

The pub was called The Prince of Wales. No brewery had got around to modernizing it. It was dingy with cigarette bums on the green linoleum on the floor. There was a pool table at one end and a row of machines—video computer games and one-arm bandits—at the other.

The pub was quite busy. “Where do we start?” asked Agatha.

“At the bar. Your usual?”

“No, just tonic water.”

Charles ordered a tonic water for Agatha and a Coke for himself. “What are all the police doing around here?” he asked the barman.

“Haven’t you heard? Chap was murdered. Stabbed to death.”

“How awful,” said Agatha. “Does anyone know who did it?”

“Not as far as I know. You could ask Mr. Burden, the chap with the cap over in the comer. He said the police asked him so many questions, he began to feel he’d done it himself.”

“He’s a neighbour?”

“Next-door flat.”

Mr. Burden was sitting alone at a small round table. He was a small neat man in a dark business suit, collar and tie, and with a tweed cap on his head.

“Mr. Burden?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, who wants to know?”

Charles and Agatha sat down next to him. “We’re private detectives working on this murder of Burt Haviland. Did you hear anything?”

“What’s that you’re drinking?” asked Charles.

An empty half-pint glass was in front of Mr. Burden. He brightened visibly. “Very kind of you. I’ll have a double Scotch.”

Charles looked hopefully at Agatha, who refused to meet his gaze. Let him pay for something for once, she thought.

They waited until Charles had returned.

“Now,” said Agatha. “Did you hear anything?”

“I heard him screaming. I know now it must have been him, but at the time I thought it was the telly. Then I heard the door slam and footsteps running down the stairs.”

“The police said no one was at home except a deaf old lady on the top floor.”

“I was off sick. First time they came round and I heard them hammering, I didn’t answer. I was feeling poorly and I was in bed. Food poisoning.”

Agatha looked at the glass Mr. Burden had just drained, wondering whether alcohol poisoning would be nearer the mark.

“What kind of footsteps?” she asked.

He twisted his empty glass this way and that.

“I’m sure Mr. Burden would like another one, Charles,” said Agatha hurriedly.

Charles sighed and went back to the bar.

When he returned, Mr. Burden seized the glass eagerly and took a swig of whisky. “Footsteps,” prompted Agatha.

“What do you mean?”

“Were they heavy, light, heels, what?”

He frowned. “Quick, light, sort of click, clack, click clack.”

“Like high heels?”

“That’s it.”

Charles and Agatha exchanged glances. They were looking for a woman.