Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (10 page)

“That was dinner.”

“I’ll phone out for a pizza. Don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“Me neither,” said Agatha. “I can hardly wait to see what Joyce has to say for herself.”

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 café 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.”