Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (19 page)

“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.