Agatha Raisin The Perfect Paragon

TEN

AGATHA and Charles sat in Agatha’s cottage that evening going over every little bit of the three murder cases they could think of.

“It’s this business about a woman,” said Charles. “We’ve got Joyce and we’ve got Mabel.”

“And neither of them with any link to Jessica,” Agatha pointed out.

“Oh, yes, there is. Jessica was in love with Burt. Burt worked for Smedleys Electronics. Burt had an affair with Joyce.”

“I’m tired,” complained Agatha. “I’m not thinking clearly. Let’s walk along to the pub and have something to eat.”

When they opened the door, it was to find the rain was lashing down. “Why on earth did I get an air conditioner?” moaned Agatha. “We’ll walk anyway. I feel like having a good stiff drink.” Charles took a large umbrella from beside the door and, huddled under its shelter, they walked briskly to the pub.

The Red Lion was an old Georgian pub with steps down into the bar. Agatha went down the first step, winced as a pain shot through her hip, and clutched Charles’s arm.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing,” lied Agatha. “Just wrenched my ankle a little.”

Agatha was greeted by various locals. One of them said, “Evening, Mrs. Raisin. Nice to see you and your young man.”

Agatha felt immediately depressed. She was in her early fifties and Charles was in his forties. Was the age difference so evident? Maybe she wouldn’t live long. She was getting old. Charles’s voice drifted away as she began to plan her own funeral. James Lacey would come back for it. He would cry and say, “I’ve lost the best woman I’ve ever known.” A tear rolled down Agatha’s cheek.

“Hey!” exclaimed Charles. “You’re crying.”

Agatha brushed the tear away. “Just tired,” she said defensively.

“Maybe you should give up this detective business. It was easier for you when you were an amateur.”

“Oh, I’ll survive. What are we having to eat?”

“We can have scampi and chips, lasagne and chips, curried chicken and chips or the all-day breakfast,” said Charles, reading the items off a blackboard on the other side of the bar. “I think the all-day breakfast would be safest.”

“Okay.”

Charles ordered two. A table by the open fire had just been vacated and they took their drinks over to it.

“Let’s think,” said Charles. “Did you hear a word I said while we were waiting for the drinks?”

“Not really.”

“1 was talking about Phil and Harry. Phil is spending the day with Mabel on Saturday. We’ll need to impress on him that as nice as Mabel seems, he’s really got to keep his eyes and ears open. Then what about Harry and Joyce?”

“Speak of the devil,” said Agatha, looking across the bar. Harry had just entered the pub. “He looks almost human.”

Harry’s hair had grown a little. He was still minus studs and earrings, and he was wearing the outfit he had worn when he had picked up Joyce in the tea shop. Agatha waved him over. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

“What brings you here?” asked Charles. “Any news?”

“No, I came to ask you that.”

“I should have phoned you,” said Agatha. “Did you get the letter back?”

“Just.” Harry told them about the sudden arrival of the police. “I’ll get myself a drink. What about you two?”

“We’re all right at the moment,” said Charles. “Just waiting for food.”

Harry went to the bar and came back with a half pint of beer.

“What do you feel about romancing Joyce again?” asked Agatha.

“Can’t. She knows me as James Henderson, who told her he lived with his parents on the Bewdley Road. She’d be very suspicious if I put in an appearance again and she might tell the police. Then there’s that letter. I was stupid to take it away. The detective agency might be the first place they think of when they’re wondering who took a copy.”

“Did the police ever search Mabel’s house?” asked Charles.

“I don’t think they did a thorough forensic search,” said Agatha. “I think she just let them go through all his papers and search his home computer.”

Harry said, “Don’t tell me you suspect that lady of all the virtues?”

Charles told him about Mr. Burden hearing what sounded like someone in high heels fleeing the scene of the murder.

“Have you ever seen Mabel Smedley in anything other than flat shoes?” asked Harry. “Doesn’t even wear make-up.”

“Phil is spending the day with her tomorrow. We’re going to ask him to try to get a proper look around. And did we tell you that Smedley may have been blackmailed? Or someone else? Two deposits of twenty thousand pounds were paid into Haviland’s account—cash.”

“The way I see it…” said Harry. “Oh, here’s your food.”

“Don’t you want anything?” asked Charles.

“Nothing like that. I’ll eat later. I was about to say that if Smedley was blackmailed and as his home computer had been overwritten, he might have been watching the girls’ Web site.”

“But if it was Smedley who paid the money,” said Charles, “the withdrawals would show on his bank account.”

“Unless, of course, the money came out of the firm,” said Harry, “and Joyce fiddled the books to cover it up. But I’m forgetting there is no record of Smedley having checked into that Web site.”

“There must be something,” protested Agatha, “or he wouldn’t have overwritten what was on his computer. Now, there’s a thing. As far as I can gather, everything on his home computer was overwritten right up until his death.”

“Meaning Mabel might have done it, even though she claims not to know one end of a computer from the other.”

Agatha’s mobile rang and she took it out of her handbag. It was Bill. “Agatha, I’m sending you a cheque for that other lamp. I didn’t mean you to buy it. It’s too much.”

“Nonsense. I hope your parents are pleased.”

“Pleased! They’re thrilled to bits. Mum wants you and Charles to come over for dinner on Sunday.”

“Oh, how lovely. But we’re both working flat out. When all these murders are solved, we’ll make a party of it. Please don’t bother sending me a cheque. I’d just tear it up. What is Joyce saying?”

“Stonewalling at every turn, or rather that’s the way it seems to Wilkes. Do you know, Harry may have slipped up a little with that letter. There were no fingerprints on the envelope. And the letter was a copy. Where’s the original?”

“I’ll see him about that,” said Agatha.

When she rang off, she asked Harry, “Why did you replace the letter with a copy?”

“Because my fingerprints and yours would have been all over the original.”

“It may make the police begin to wonder more about Joyce’s mysterious Mr. Henderson and they may begin to look in your direction. Also, you’d better go back to the Gothic look or whatever that was you were adopting when I first met you. I mean, if you should run into Joyce by accident, you might just be able to sneer your way out of it and look as far from the rich young James Henderson as possible. Better lie low for a bit and get on with the divorce cases.”

“I’m nearly finished with those. Phil lent me an excellent camera. I’ll have all the stuff for you tomorrow.”

“I think when we eat this,” said Agatha, “we should all go and visit Phil. I think he admires Mabel too much. We need to stiffen his spine.”

Agatha noticed that Phil did not look particularly pleased to see them. “Have we interrupted anything?” she asked.

“I was just watching television.”

He led the way into his living room. Agatha noticed the television set was switched off.

“Sit down. What can I do for you?”

Agatha told him about Mr. Burden hearing a woman’s footsteps. “So,” she finished, “we’re looking for a woman and the two women we have are Mabel and Joyce.”

“And Trixie and Fairy. And whoever else Burt Haviland might have been having an affair with,” said Phil.

“You don’t want it to be Mabel, do you?” asked Charles.

Phil looked flustered. “My feelings don’t enter into this, but my common sense does. It is my reasoned opinion that Mabel Smedley would not hurt a fly.”

“I think it might be possible,” said Agatha. “Look, Phil, the reason we called is to urge you to keep an open mind. When you’re in her house, keep looking around discreetly.”

“And what am I supposed to be looking for?” asked Phil bitterly. “A recipe for angel cakes?”

“Phil, please,” urged Charles. “Just do your job.”

“Of course I will keep an eye out for anything suspicious,” said Phil. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some work in the darkroom to do.”

“I think he’s smitten with her,” said Agatha as they walked to her cottage through the rain. “Snakes and bastards!” The nasty weather was making her edgy, but she hoped it would continue to rain on Saturday. It might take a bit of the gloss off the crush she was sure Phil had on Mabel.

But the English weather made one of its mercurial changes by Friday evening and Saturday dawned sunny, warm and cloudless.

Phil set out for Mabel’s home, trying to put what Agatha had said to the back of his mind because he did not want his day to be spoiled. He felt a sharp pang of disappointment when he saw the “For Sale” sign.

Mabel answered the door to him wearing a flowery dress with a Peter Pan collar and a drooping hemline. Phil thought she looked every inch the lady she obviously was.

“I didn’t know you were selling up,” said Phil. “Not leaving the area, I hope?”

“No, I plan to find somewhere nearby but much smaller.”

“Where would you like to go today?” asked Phil.

“There’s a nice glade with a stream running through it on Lord Pendlebury’s estate.”

Lord Pendlebury was a local landowner well known for his dislike of ramblers and other trespassers.

“I’m afraid we won’t be allowed anywhere on that estate,” said Phil.

“It’s all right. I phoned him and asked for his permission.” Phil was impressed.

She had a picnic basket ready, which he loaded into the boot of his car. There was a bit of the old-fashioned village snob about Phil and he privately thought that anyone who was a friend of Lord Pendlebury’s must be all right.

With Mabel directing him, they drove back to Carsely and then up the hill leading out of the village.

They left the car outside a gate at the back of the estate and Phil, carrying rugs and picnic basket, followed Mabel through the trees.

She stopped in a little grassy glade. A silver stream wound its way through the glade and the sun filtered down through the green leaves above.

Phil spread the rugs on the grass while Mabel opened the hamper. She had prepared a simple lunch of cold chicken and salad, with a bottle of white wine and slabs of rich fruitcake and a thermos of coffee to follow.

They talked about books they had read and places they had seen. Philip had never felt so at ease with a woman in his whole life.

Then suddenly she asked him how Agatha was getting on solving the murder cases.

“Not very far,” said Phil. “But she seems to think all the murders are tied up in some way and that they were done by a woman.”

“More coffee?”

“Please.”

“Why a woman?”

Phil told her about Mr. Burden hearing footsteps that sounded like a woman wearing heels.

Mabel smiled. “That lets me out. I never wear heels.”

“Oh, Mabel,” said Phil with a rush of affection. “No one could possibly suspect a lady like you.”

“Shall we be getting back?” asked Mabel. “Where has the afternoon gone?”

Phil fretted as he drove her home, wondering how to prolong the day, trying to find the courage to ask her out for dinner.

At her house, she invited him in. “Would you like a drink?” she asked. “I know you’re driving, but one won’t harm you.”

“I’m a beer drinker.”

“I have a cold beer in the fridge.”

She went off to the kitchen. Phil glanced around the living room. The hell with looking for clues, he thought. Waste of time.

He studied his face in the mirror over the fireplace, wondering if he looked too old. He was just about to turn away when his eye fell on a stiff folded piece of paper on the mantelpiece. He would take a quick look at it to justify his work at the detective agency, and that was all he was going to do. He opened it. It was a diploma from Mircester College, made out to Mabel Smedley for completing a computer course. He heard her coming and quickly replaced it.

She had said she knew nothing about computers.

He forced himself to sit and drink the beer and talk a little longer. All thoughts of extending the visit had gone out of his head. He simply wanted to get away and mull over what he had seen. There must be an innocent explanation.

Bill Wong had been summoned by Detective Inspector Wilkes despite the fact that it was his day off. He reluctantly left his gardening and made his way to police headquarters.

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Wilkes. “You’re friendly with that Raisin woman, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In my opinion she’s a blundering amateur who employs blundering amateurs. That young man who works for her. What’s his name?”

“Harry Beam.”

“I think he may be our mysterious Mr. Henderson. Now Joyce says this Henderson picked her up in the Abbey Tea Rooms and then took her to dinner at the Royal. Check both places and get a description. If it is Harry Beam, we’ll get him in here for questioning.”

“Now, sir?”

“Yes. Now.”

Bill phoned Agatha and told her to get hold of Harry Beam and to meet him at her office.

“What’s it all about?” asked Agatha half an hour later as she, Charles and Harry were confronted by Bill.

“It’s like this. Wilkes is pretty sure Harry here is the mysterious James Henderson. I’m supposed to be checking those places you took her for a description.”

Harry was back in his leather gear, earrings and studs. “It’s all right. I didn’t look like this.” Harry gave Bill a description of what he was wearing.

“Good,” said Bill. “That should get us all out of this. Agatha, never again drag me into your schemes. I like to do everything by the book. What if Joyce is the murderess? What if she did kill Haviland? We can’t produce a copy of a letter in court, even though she does admit it’s a copy of the original. She could change her tune. Say she lied because of brutal police questioning. All right, I’ll give it an hour and then go back and tell Wilkes that Henderson bears no resemblance to Harry here. Now, to soothe my ruffled feelings, have you found out anything that might be of use?”

Agatha shook her head. At that moment her mobile rang. She answered it and listened and gave a sharp exclamation. Then she said, “I’m at the office with Harry, Charles and Bill Wong. You’d better come here.”

“What was that all about?” asked Bill when she rang off.

“Phil found a diploma in Mabel’s house—a diploma for computer studies.”

They discussed the possible significance of this until Phil arrived.

“Good work,” said Bill. “We’ll need to pull her in again for questioning. She swore blind she knew nothing about computers.”

Phil looked distressed. “She’ll guess it was me.”

“Does that matter?” asked Agatha.

Phil did not want to believe Mabel guilty of anything. “Couldn’t you just check with the college? They’ll have records. I mean, if you destroy my friendship with her, I won’t be able to find out anything else.”

“Good point,” said Agatha. “When are you seeing her again?”

“I was so flustered, I didn’t make another date.”

“Better do it as soon as possible.”

Bill looked cross. “Who’s running this investigation? You or the police?”

“Both of us,” said Agatha soothingly.

“If the facts of that letter come out, I could be suspended from duty and maybe even lose my job. Don’t ever embroil me in one of your mad amateur schemes again.”

“We’re not amateurs,” said Agatha huffily.

“Could’ve fooled me. I’ll be off to Mircester College,” said Bill. “Hope there is someone there on a Saturday evening. I’ll tell Wilkes I had a brainwave.”

“You might at least thank us,” said Agatha.

Bill paused in the doorway. “Agatha, wasn’t life safer in public relations?”

Agatha grinned. “Dog-eat-dog, I assure you. Knives in backs all round.”

“And stale metaphors by the dozen,” murmured Charles as Bill left, slamming the door behind him.

Her mobile rang again. Agatha listened and said, “We’re all in the office. You’d better come in until we figure out what to do about this.”

She rang off and said, “Patrick’s found out something about that maths teacher.”

Patrick arrived half an hour later. He looked weary. He sank down on the sofa and said, “Could someone make me a cup of coffee? I’m beat.”

“I’ll do it,” said Harry. “Detective work wearing you out?”

“No, it’s my home life. We’d both agreed on a divorce, but she wants me out of the house now. I sold my flat when we got married. Prices have gone sky-high, so I don’t know if I can afford to buy anything, and rents are pretty steep as well.”

“You can move in with me until you find a place,” said Phil. “I’ve got a spare room.”

“Phil’s very neat,” cautioned Agatha. “You’re not messy, are you, Patrick?”

“Not in the slightest. That’s what her indoors was always complaining about. She said I tidied things away so much, she couldn’t find anything.”

Agatha cynically reflected that Miss Simms—as she always thought of her—had probably found a new gentleman friend and wanted rid of Patrick as soon as possible.

“Thanks a lot, Phil,” said Patrick. “We’ll get together later and agree on the rent.”

Harry handed Patrick a cup of instant coffee.

“Now,” said Agatha impatiently, “what’s this about that maths teacher? Charles, what are you looking at?”

Charles was staring down from the window. “I’ve just seen Laura Ward-Barkinson. Back in a minute.”

He rushed off.

Agatha felt a pang on jealousy and then reminded herself firmly that Charles was only a friend. In any case, this Laura might simply be a friend of his aunt.

“So what’s it about, Patrick?” Agatha moved to the window and looked down. Charles was talking animatedly to a tall, leggy brunette. Then they moved off together.

“I don’t think you’re listening,” said Patrick sharply.

“Sorry.” Agatha moved away from the window.

“I was saying that Owen, the maths teacher, was seen one evening several weeks before Jessica was murdered out at the Pheasant restaurant on the road to Pershore. It’s very posh, but I know the owner from the days when I was in the force. I met him by chance in Evesham when I was getting my hair cut—what’s left of it. We went for a drink and I began discussing the case. Funnily enough, I’d quite forgotten I’d once asked Phil to wait outside the school and take a photo of Owen Trump, that teacher. He was in the notes, Agatha, but no picture. Anyway, my friend, John Wheeler, he said to me he might look at photos because he knew so many people in the area and he might recognize someone. I had a whole set of prints in my briefcase and he went through them. He picked out Owen Trump. He remembered him because he’d made such a fuss about the wine and then complained about the food. He hadn’t recognized Jessica first time round, so I showed him a photograph of her again. He said she’d had her hair up and was wearing a lot of make-up and looked much older. He said she seemed embarrassed by Owen’s behaviour and was drinking rather a lot.”

“Let’s look up the phone book and find out where he lives,” said Agatha.

“Already got his address.” Patrick produced a thick notebook. “He’s got a flat in the centre of Mircester.”

“All right. Patrick and I will go. Phil, you may as well see if you can make another date with Mabel. Harry, I think you should keep out of sight for the moment. Oh, if Charles comes back, tell him about this latest development.”

After they had left, Harry paced up and down the office, corning to a halt before the mirror behind Mrs. Freedman’s desk. He suddenly thought he looked ridiculous. Why had he ever thought all this piercing and leather cool? He decided to go home and change, make up some sort of disguise and follow Joyce. In Harry’s mind, all roads led to Joyce. She had had affairs with both Burt and Smedley. She had served the lethal coffee. If he followed her, she might betray herself in some way.

Owen Trump was at home. He gave them a supercilious glare when he saw who was standing outside his door.

“We want to ask you a few questions,” said Agatha.

“If there are any questions to answer, I will speak to the police. Now, go away.”

“All right,” said Agatha. “We’ll go straight to the police now and tell them about your dinner with Jessica Bradley at the Pheasant.”

He had half closed the door. He opened it wide again and said, “You’d better come in.”

I can practically see the wheels turning in his brain, thought Agatha. The living room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and there were empty beer cans on the coffee table.

“It’s like this,” began Owen. “Oh, do sit down.”

Agatha and Patrick sat down on a battered sofa. He took an armchair opposite. He steepled his fingers and gave a stagey little sigh. “I was worried about Jessica’s school work. She used to be such a brilliant pupil. I thought if I took her out for a quiet meal somewhere, I could find out why her work had been falling off.”

“Did you call for her at her home?”

“Well, no. I thought something in her home life might be to blame. I arranged to meet her on the steps of the abbey in Mircester. She looked much older. She was wearing a lot of make-up and had her hair up.”

“And what did you find out when you weren’t complaining about the wine?” asked Patrick.

He flushed angrily. “I had every reason to complain. I know my wines. I have a very good palate.”

Agatha and Patrick looked pointedly at the beer cans on the table. “It’s a ridiculously pretentious restaurant.”

“Does your head teacher know that you were allowing a pupil to drink wine?”

“It was only one glass. I mean, children drink wine in France.”

“This is not France.”

He stood up. “Get out of here, you moralizing old bag.”

Agatha stood up as well and her hip gave a nasty twinge. Old, indeed. Her face flamed with anger.

She stalked out followed by Patrick. “Why didn’t you ask him more questions?” asked Patrick. “I mean, he might have known more about her affair with Burt.”

“Jessica wasn’t having an affair with Burt. She was a virgin, remember?”

Agatha pulled out her phone. “Who are you calling?”

“The police.”

“We won’t operate very well as a detective agency if you keep handing over every lead we have to the police.”

But Owen had called Agatha old and she was out for revenge. Bill Wong wasn’t there, so she asked for Wilkes. For once he sounded pleased with her.

“Excellent,” he said. “We’ll get on to it right away.”

Agatha told Patrick they should take the rest of the weekend off and start again on Monday. Patrick’s normally lugubrious face looked even more disapproving than usual.

“I’ll still try to see what I can find,” he said.

Agatha went home and entered her cottage. There was no sign of Charles. She went up to the spare room. His bag was gone.

She trailed downstairs in the morning feeling lonely. She went out into the garden, followed by her cats, and sat down. The day had so far been showery, but now puffy white clouds raced across a sky of washed-out blue. The leaves on the trees were already turning a darker green. All too soon it would be the longest day and then the nights would start drawing in, reminding Agatha of her age and the passing of time. She went through to her office and began working on the notes on her computer.

A ring at the front doorbell roused her from her gloomy thoughts. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I called round to find out how your cases were going,” she said.

“Come in,” said Agatha, glad of the company. “We can go into the garden.”

“Where is Charles?” asked Mrs. Bloxby, looking around.

“He saw some girl from the office window and went scuttling off. His bag’s gone.”

“He’ll be back. He comes and goes. So what has been happening?”

“It’s all very complicated. There are three murders and I feel they are entwined in some way.”

“Tell me all about it from the beginning.”

“Would you like coffee?”

“No, I would like a sherry. I am feeling tired.”

“Here! Sit down at the garden table and I’ll get you a sherry.” Agatha looked at her anxiously. “You do too much. Can’t you leave the parishioners to get on without you until you get a rest?”

“Maybe.” Mrs. Bloxby leaned back in her chair and raised her face to the sun.

Agatha came back with a decanter of sherry and two glasses. “You don’t usually drink.”

“This is a special occasion.”

“What’s that?” asked Agatha, pouring two glasses.

“I rarely take time off from my duties. But this is one of those times. Go on, tell me all about it.”

“You know a lot of it already,” said Agatha, “but I’ll begin at the beginning.

Mrs. Bloxby sipped her sherry and listened intently.

When Agatha had at last finished, she asked, “Did you ever read Kipling?”

“No. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“He wrote: ‘When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride/ He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside,/ But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail/ For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.’”

“I’ve heard the last bit. I didn’t know it was Kipling.”

“Oh, the man’s full of quotations. You see, you said that Trixie and Fairy were bullying Jessica. She was a bright student. Maybe they were jealous and wanted to bring her down to their level. Then it may be that Burt was genuinely in love with Jessica. Surely the fact that she was still a virgin bears that out. But he had been having a fling with Joyce. Joyce could have felt bitter and rejected. Mabel Smedley turns out to be computer-literate. Maybe she found something in her husband’s emails showing he was having an affair with Joyce.”

“And yet,” said Agatha slowly, “I still have a feeling that these murders are all linked.”

“You’ve been thinking too hard. Why don’t you take a train up to London and walk about the city or go to a gallery?”

Agatha squinted at her watch. “It’s two o’clock and I haven’t had lunch.”

“You could still make the train.”

“I’ll do that. Finish your sherry. I’ll just run up the stairs and get a few things.”

But when Agatha returned to the garden, the vicar’s wife was fast asleep. Agatha slowly lowered herself into a chair next to her. Somehow, she did not have the heart to wake her.

So she sat beside her while the cats climbed on her lap, feeling the peace that Mrs. Bloxby seemed able to exude even when asleep.

Jealousy, mused Agatha. Now there was a thought. She remembered when she had come across her ex-husband, James Lacey, entertaining a blonde in the pub, and how she had thrown a terrible scene. She remembered also how corrosive her jealousy had been, how it had taken her over completely. One murder fuelled by jealousy, she could understand. But three! And what did poor Jessica have to do with Smedley? If there had been any record of him visiting that Web site, then Mabel might have done it in a rage. But Patrick had checked carefully and Smedley had never been one of the subscribers. She wondered what Mabel had said to the police about her computer diploma.

The sun sank lower in the sky and Agatha’s stomach rumbled. Mrs. Bloxby let out a snore and Agatha smiled. Nice to know the saintly vicar’s wife could make vulgar human sounds.

Mrs. Bloxby snored again, choked and came suddenly awake and looked around startled. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Couple of hours.”

“Mrs. Raisin, you should have awakened me. You’ve missed your train.”

“It’s all right. You needed the rest. I’d changed my mind about going to London anyway.”

Mrs. Bloxby struggled up. “No, you didn’t. You let me sleep out of the kindness of your heart. I feel so much better. I’d better get back. My husband will wonder what’s become of me.”

Agatha looked at her curiously. “Have you ever been jealous?”

“Oh, many times. It’s an ordinary human feeling. But it’s when ordinary human feelings run riot that the danger starts. Thank you so much.”

When she had gone, Agatha was rummaging in her deep freeze looking for something to microwave when the doorbell rang.

She went to answer it and found Roy Silver standing on the step. “Oh, Aggie,” he moaned and burst into tears.

“Come in. What’s up?” asked Agatha, shepherding him into the sitting room and pressing him down onto the sofa. She handed him a box of Kleenex and waited patiently and anxiously. Roy at last blew his nose and gulped and said, “I’ve been fired.”

“You! Not possible. What happened?”

“It was all because of that pop group I was representing. I decided to get Gloria Smith of the Bugle to do a piece.”

“Roy! She’s poison!”

“But she took me out for dinner and said she’d always admired me, the way I could cope with some dreadful clients. I thought we were getting friendly.”

“Oh dear.”

“I told her that the pop group were the worst clients I’d ever had to cope with, about them sniffing coke up their noses, wrecking hotel rooms, seducing teenagers, you name it.”

“God!”

“She wrote the lot. Two pages. I denied the whole thing, but she’d taped everything. I’m mined. You see, despite their weird appearance, I’d sold the story that underneath they were all just regular home boys.”

Agatha sat back beside him and thought hard. Eventually, she said, “So they’re mined as well.”

“That’s it.”

“Where are they now?”

“Holed up in the Hilton.”

“All right. Let’s go and sort this out.”

“How?”

“Don’t ask.”

Two hours later Agatha was facing the Busy Snakes in their suite at the Hilton. To Agatha’s relief, the lead singer was relatively sober.

“I am here to save your career,” she said. “Are you prepared to listen?”

“Do anythink,” he said, scratching his crotch nervously.

“Then this is how we’ll play it. I will get the Daily Mail to run an exclusive about how you really are all the decent boys you were supposed to be. You will tell a pathetic story about how fame and late nights and tours ruined you, but that you are all going into rehab to show young people how they can come about as well. It’s the only way you’ll get back in public favour. You must say you owe it all to Roy Silver. How he’d tried so hard to help you.”

“We don’t want to go in no rehab,” said the drummer.

“So what do you do?” snarled Agatha. “Sit on your scrawny bums and watch your fame disappear? No one wants you now.”

They stared at her. Then the lead singer said, “Wait outside.”

Agatha went out into the corridor and waited, aware the whole time of Roy fretting in the lounge downstairs. At last the door opened.

“Come in,” said the lead singer. “Okay, we’ll do it.”

Agatha worked like a fury most of that night and all the following day, with a bewildered but grateful Roy helping her as best he could.

She drove back to Carsely on the Tuesday morning after having read with pleasure the huge article in the Daily Mail. Roy was hailed by the band as “our saviour” and all about how he had tried time after time to straighten them out, until he had unfortunately given that interview to a newspaper. Roy said he had sacrificed his career and done it deliberately because he could not bear to see such fine young men killing themselves. There was a good photo of Roy and one of the band at the gates of a fashionable rehab.

She felt weary when she let herself in. Doris Simpson, her cleaner, had already fed her cats.

Agatha switched off her phone and went to bed. Murder could wait.