Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (18 page)

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.

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?”