Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (15 page)

“When did you last see Burt Haviland?”

“Monday.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I asked him if there was any way anyone could sneak through the fence and into the factory. He said there was a loose bit in the chain-link fence. So me and Mr. Witherspoon found it and slid through. We were heading for the office to study the lock and see if it was an easy one to pick. Mrs. Smedley had hired a firm of security guards and we were caught and sent off. That was the last time I talked to Burt and it was about the fence. You don’t suspect me, surely? I was still in the office at six o’clock, finishing up business.”

“I suspect you of withholding information.”

“That’s not true,” said Agatha hotly. “I was the one who told you about the girls’ Web site. Didn’t the neighbours see or hear anything?”

“It’s a small block of flats. They were all still out, apart from an old lady on the top floor flat who’s stone-deaf.”

“Well, I’m not withholding a damned thing and you’ve buggered up my date.”

“Not a very gallant date,” murmured Bill Wong. “Rushing off like that and leaving you to face the music.”

“Right,” said Wilkes. “We want you to report to police headquarters tomorrow at ten in the morning and we’ll take a statement. You will tell us everything you know about Burt Haviland.”

“But I already have!”

“Don’t argue. Be there.”

“When he was phoning for help, didn’t Burt say who had stabbed him?”

“No. He said, ‘I’m stabbed. Burt Haviland. Send help,’ and then the phone went dead.”

After they had left, Agatha sat feeling miserable. Another murder. She was useless as a detective and useless as a woman. Then she remembered Charles.

She phoned his number. Gustav answered the phone. Agatha asked for Charles. “He’s busy,” said Gustav rudely and put down the phone.

Agatha glanced at her watch. It was only eleven o’clock. She locked up again and got into her car. Driving carefully and hoping she would not be stopped and breathalysed, she arrived at Charles’s mansion and knocked on the door.

Agatha was prepared to battle her way past Gustav, but it was Charles himself who answered the door.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What’s up?”

“I’m so sorry, Charles,” said Agatha. “When I said that tactless thing about Bill being my best friend, I meant he was my first friend.”

“You mean you didn’t have any friends when you were working in London?”

“No,” lied Agatha. “I meant he was my first friend when I moved to the Cotswolds. I’m sorry.”

“Come in. Gosh, we do behave like kids sometimes. But you have been pretty offhand with your friends in the past. Come through to the study.”

“Burt Haviland’s been murdered, stabbed to death.”

“When?”

“Late afternoon. Six o’clock.”

“How can the police be so precise?”

“He dialled 999 just before he died.”

“Found the weapon?”

“I was so shocked I didn’t ask.”

“Drink?”

“No, I’ve had enough already. I shouldn’t really be driving. The police called on me when I got home.”

“So you’ve been drinking and you’re all glammed up. What have you been up to?”

Agatha did not want to tell him about Freddy because she might lose Freddy, and that meant losing a dream and she was short on dreams.

“The ladies’ society meeting.”

Charles looked cynical. “All that for a bunch of women?”

“You’re behind the times. Women dress up for other women. Anyway, I’m feeling pretty rotten. Three murders and I still haven’t a clue about any of them. I’m due at police headquarters in the morning.”

Agatha stifled a yawn.

“You’d better go home,” said Charles. “I’ll call for you at police headquarters. What time do you think they’ll let you out?”

“Knowing the way they go on, I should think about noon. I’m due there at ten and they’ll probably keep me waiting and then grill me over and over again.”

“They can’t force you to. You’re not under arrest.”

“I’d better do it. Can’t start getting on the wrong side of the police.”

“Right,” said Charles. “I’ll be waiting for you in reception.”

Agatha drove steadily and carefully home. When she got out of the car and stood fishing her house keys out of her handbag, she suddenly stiffened. She had a feeling of being watched. She slowly turned round.

The cobbled lane was deserted. The lilac trees from which it took its name rustled in the lightest of winds.

I’m tired, that’s all, she told herself firmly. She let herself in and went up to bed. The cats followed her upstairs and stretched out on the bed. I really should stop them doing that, thought Agatha. She experienced a feeling of unease when she remembered how Freddy had cleared off. Charles would never have done that. But she needed her dreams, and by the time she fell asleep Freddy had once more been restored in her mind to the status of future husband.

* * *

The questioning was every bit as wearying as Agatha had expected it to be. Unlike previous cases, she held nothing back, feeling there was nothing to hold back, although at one point she guiltily remembered those letters Burt had written to Jessica.

It was with a feeling of relief that she found Charles waiting for her. Dear Charles. Always so loyal, thought Agatha, quite forgetting that Charles had happily dropped her in the past whenever a pretty girl came into his life.

“I’ll phone everyone and get them all into the office,” said Agatha. She took out her phone and while Charles waited, told everyone to head for the office. She rang off after the last call and said, “We need to plan some sort of strategy. Where’s your car?”

“Off to the garage with Gustav. Something up with it. I’ve been thinking of something,” said Charles.

“What?”

“Phil, despite his age, is a likeable and attractive man.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Agatha huffily, wondering if Charles was trying to set her up with this geriatric.

“Well, he is. And has Joyce Wilson ever met young Harry?”

“No, where’s this going?”

“Mabel knows Phil’s on the case, so it would be natural for him to call on her, maybe get close to her. She may know more about her husband’s enemies than she’s told us. Joyce hasn’t met Harry, has she?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“If he could shed some of his studs and smarten up a bit, he could maybe ask her out. Now that one, I am sure, knows something. You told me about the missing milk bottle. Before the forensic team arrived, it would be easy for Joyce to hide it somewhere and dump it afterwards.”

“Do you think she did it? I thought you had Mabel down as first murderer.”

“She is the obvious suspect.”

“What about Jessica’s murder? And Burt? Surely they’re tied up?”

“Think about it. Wouldn’t it be better to concentrate all the forces on dealing with one murder at a time? The newspapers are still putting the police under pressure over Jessica’s murder, so they’ll still be concentrating all their efforts over solving that one, and Burt’s as well.”

“All right. We’ll try it your way. I’ll tell them.”

“And no doubt take all the credit for having thought of it,” murmured Charles, but Agatha pretended not to hear.

Later that day, Harry, with not a stud or earring in sight, and dressed conservatively in a soft brown suede jacket, Tattersall shirt and tailored slacks, sat in his parents’ Audi at the end of Joyce’s street. His parents were well-to-do, and as Harry was their only child, they indulged him with a generous allowance.

He knew there was a supermarket nearby, within walking distance, and hoped Joyce would go there. But she came out of her house at last and got into a battered Mini parked outside and drove off.

Harry followed. Joyce drove into the centre of Mircester and parked. Harry parked as well and followed her at a discreet distance. She went into the Abbey Tea Rooms. Harry waited a few minutes and went in as well. The tea room, famous for its cakes, was crowded. Joyce was sitting at a table in the comer by herself. There were no empty tables. Blessing his luck, Harry approached Joyce. “Do you mind if I sit here? Seems to be the only seat.”

“No, go ahead,” said Joyce. The waitress came up. Joyce ordered a pot of tea and a slice of carrot cake and Harry ordered coffee and a toasted teacake. He knew he would have to go carefully. Joyce had taken out a paperback romance and started to read, so he unfolded the newspaper he had originally bought to hide behind when he was watching her house, and pretended to read.

The waitress came up with their orders. Now what? Harry had thought of spilling his coffee on her as a way to break into conversation but rejected the idea almost immediately. All that would do would make her furious.

The table was very small. Joyce’s tea was served in one of those metal pots that always seem to pour anywhere but in the cup. Her saucer filled with tea and she gave an exclamation of dismay.

Harry summoned the waitress with an imperious wave of his hand. “The young lady’s teapot is not pouring properly. Please get her a good one.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Joyce. “But you really shouldn’t have bothered.”

Harry smiled. That smile he used so rarely but when he did, it lit up his face. “Least I can do for a pretty lady.”

Then, so that he wouldn’t appear so pushy, he picked up the paper again.

When her new pot of tea and clean cup and saucer arrived, he lowered his paper and said, “Allow me.” He reached over and deftly poured a cup.

“Thank you,” said Joyce.

Harry began to drink his coffee and eat his toasted teacake. Let her make the first move, he told himself.

Then Joyce spoke. “Are you new to Mircester?”

“No, I live with my parents out on Bewdley Road.”

Joyce was impressed. She knew Bewdley Road. That was where the most expensive villas in the town could be found. Her eyes took in the expensive suede jacket.

“It’s odd to find a young man living with his parents these days.”

“I’m taking a gap year before I go to university,” said Harry. He had decided not to try and cover up his age. Joyce would probably be flattered that a young man was interested in her.

He was about to pick up the paper again, but Joyce’s curiosity had been awakened. She noticed he was wearing a Rolex. Joyce was attracted by any show of wealth.

“And what are you doing in your gap year?” she asked.

“I’m doing freelance computer programming work.”

“And will you do that when you leave university?”

“Maybe. I’ll be studying physics.”

Joyce let out a sigh. “I wish I’d gone to university instead of being just a secretary.”

“Where do you work?”

“Smedleys Electronics.”

Harry let his eyes widen. “Good heavens! Wasn’t there a murder there?”

“My boss.” Joyce began to cry.

“Oh, don’t cry.” Harry edged his chair round next to hers and handed her a large white handkerchief.

He put an arm lightly round her shoulders until she gave a final gulp. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “It’s all been such a strain.” She tried to hand him back his handkerchief, now liberally smeared with make-up. “Keep it,” said Harry. Seeing she had recovered, he moved his chair back.

With bent head, she picked at her carrot cake and sipped a little tea.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Don’t be,” said Harry bracingly. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”

“It’s worse. One of our sales reps has been found murdered.”

“Really?”

“Isn’t it in the paper?”

Harry silently cursed. He hadn’t really been reading the paper. “I was looking for something else. Let me see. You’re right! Here it is. Front page. Oh, you poor thing.”

“I’m so frightened,” said Joyce. “What if someone is out to murder the lot of us?”

“I shouldn’t think so for a moment. Did Mr. Smedley have any enemies?”

“Everybody loved him,” said Joyce and began to cry again.

He waited patiently until she had again recovered and said, “Look, you need something to take your mind off things. I bought two tickets for the production of The Mikado that’s on tonight. But my girlfriend’s just broken off with me. Would you like to come along? Cheer you up. No strings.”

She gave him a watery smile. “I’d like that. I hate being in the house on my own.”

“There you are then. That’s all set. Let me get the bill. No, I insist.” Harry called over the waitress and paid, extracting a note from a wallet stuffed with money. He left a generous tip on the table.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You don’t know where I live. Or my name. I’m Joyce Wilson.”

“And I’m James Henderson.”

Harry leaned across the table. “Fact is, I feel I’ve known you for ages. What’s the address?”

“More tea, Mr. Witherspoon?”

“Yes, please. Do call me Phil. I must say these sponge cakes of yours are as light as a feather.”

“I like a man with a good appetite.”

Phil had found a particularly flattering photograph of Mabel he had taken at the Ancombe sale of work. It showed Mabel behind the jam counter standing in a shaft of sunlight from the high window above her. The light had cast an aureole around her head. He had used that as an excuse to call on her.

He felt so relaxed and at ease that he did not want to talk about murder. Her sitting room was so pleasant and her baking superb. She was everything he thought a woman should be. He sometimes had to confess to himself that Agatha Raisin could be very intimidating.

But mindful of duty, he asked, “Have you any idea who could have murdered Burt?”

“I’ve been thinking and thinking about it. The only thing is those dreadful videos the police told me about. People who look at things like that on the Internet are sick and dangerous. I think one of his weird customers found out where he was and killed him in a rage.”

“The police are interviewing all the men who checked into the Web site. Maybe they’ll come up with something.”

“Of course, I heard at one of the staff parties that he had a bit of a reputation as a philanderer. Maybe some jilted female.”

“I thought he was deeply in love with Jessica.”

“My dear Phil. If you really love someone you don’t have them cavorting on some dirty Web site.”