Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (9 page)

They promised to let Mrs. Bradley know as soon as they found anything and left.

“Why,” asked Agatha as she got into the passenger seat of Phil’s old Ford, “would Trixie and Fairy blackmail her into going out with them?”

“Jealousy,” said Phil. “Good scholar. Probably wanted to make her as low as they are.”

“I’m starving,” said Agatha. “Let’s have something to eat.”

Agatha’s mobile phone rang just as they were finishing lunch. It was Bill Wong. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Just left Mrs. Bradley’s house. Why?”

“The Smedleys came to see you this morning, didn’t they?”

“Yes, both of them. Very lovey-dovey. Smedley asked me to drop the case. Why?”

“Smedley’s just been found dead in his office. We think it’s poisoning. You’d better come here to police headquarters and make a statement.”

Agatha and Phil were interviewed by Bill Wong and Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes.

Agatha told them about the visit of the Smedleys. Then she remembered about Harry noticing a bruise on Mrs. Smedley’s arm. “He could have been beating her. Oh, there’s something else.” She told them about being with Roy in Bath and seeing Smedley with a young woman.

“Description?” snapped Wilkes.

“Lots of red hair, sort of pretty but with a pale face and a rabbity mouth. Good figure.”

“We’ll look into it. Could be one of his employees. Sounds like his secretary. All right. From the teginning. They came into your office this morning …”

“Didn’t you get it the first time?” demanded Agatha crossly. But Bill Wong flashed her a warning look so she went over the whole thing again.

Finally they were told they were free to go. “She must have cracked and poisoned him,” said Agatha outside police headquarters.

“They’ll have a hard time proving that if she wasn’t at the office with him,” said Phil. “Maybe it was that rabbity girl. Anyway, it’s police business now.”

They went back to the office. Patrick Mullen phoned. “I tracked down Burt at a shop in Oxford. We went for a coffee. I swear the man’s sincere and in a miserable state of grief.”

“Two things, Patrick. Can you catch him again and ask him about a red-haired, rabbity-looking girl who might work at Smedleys Electronics? I saw her with Smedley in Bath on Sunday. Smedley’s been poisoned. It isn’t anything to do with us any more but I’d really like to know who she is. And ask him about Fairy and Trixie. Evidently they were threatening to tell the school about him unless Jessica hung out with them. Also she was into something with them that she described as being just work.”

“Will do.”

Agatha rang off and asked, “What now?”

“What about, say, talking to Trixie’s parents while we wait for the pair to get back from school?” said Phil.

“There’s an idea. Let’s go. Mrs. Freedman, could you find out about a bereavement class and phone the information to Mrs. Bradley? And is there any news from Harry?”

“Nothing. I’ll find out about the bereavement class right away.”

Agatha had expected Mrs. Sommers would prove to be a hardfaced blowsy woman, but it transpired she was small and meek and harassed-looking with pale blue eyes and neat hair.

“We are investigating the death of Jessica,” began Agatha, “and wondered if we might ask you a few questions.”

“Come in. That poor girl.”

The living room was almost a mirror image of the Bradleys’: three-piece suite, coffee table, but no books.

When they were seated, Mrs. Sommers asked anxiously, “How can I help?”

“Jessica had a boyfriend, a much older boyfriend,” said Agatha. “In a letter Jessica received from this boyfriend, it appears that Trixie and Fairy had told Jessica that if she didn’t hang out with them, they would tell her teachers that she was going out with this man.”

Agatha expected a hot denial, something on the lines of, “My daughter would never do a thing like that,” but Mrs. Sommers looked sad. “I don’t know what to do with my daughter, and that’s the truth. My husband won’t hear a word against her. He gives her too much pocket money and just laughs when I protest at her clubbing and wearing make-up. ‘You’re in the dark ages,’ he says. ‘Let her have her fun when she’s young.’”

“So you think Trixie might have been blackmailing Jessica?”

“That’s too strong. She might have teased her about it.”

The front door crashed open. “Trixie?” called her mother. Trixie and Fairy sauntered in and stopped short at the sight of Agatha and Phil.

“What are you doing home from school so early?” asked Mrs. Sommers.

“Sports. We don’t do sports,” said Trixie.

“Is it true you threatened to tell Jessica’s teachers that she was seeing an older man if she didn’t hang out with you?” asked Agatha.

“Naw. Well, maybe we might have teased her a bit. We was friends. Wasn’t we, Fairy?”

Fairy moved a wad of gum to the other side of her mouth and volunteered, “Yeah.”

“Were you doing any sort of work with Jessica after school?”

They stared at her with flat eyes.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?” pursued Agatha.

“Maybe her boyfriend.”

“He has a cast-iron alibi. Anyone else? Boy at school?”

“Naw. She was crazy about her fellow. Said they was going to get married. Can we go to my room, Mum? This is boring.”

They’re old, so old, thought Agatha, with their flat, dead eyes. I wonder if they do drugs. I must ask Bill if that club has ever been raided.

“Run along,” said Mrs. Sommers. She smiled weakly at Agatha. “It’s all a front, you know. Trixie will soon grow out of it.”

“Wait a bit,” said Agatha to the girls. “Did you see her at the club the night she was murdered?”

“Sure,” said Fairy. “She was there but she started rabbiting on about having to get home, so we left her to it.”

With that, they both slouched out of the room.

“Didn’t get much there,” said Agatha outside. “Now what?”

“Maybe send young Harry back to the club this evening,” suggested Phil. “He might be able to find out more.”

Agatha made an appointment with Richard Rasdall, the masseur in Stow-on-the-Wold, for early evening. All her hip needed, surely, was a bit of massage. The massage room was in the bathroom above a sweet shop called The Honey Pot.

Lyn Rasdall, Richard’s pretty wife, looked up from serving chocolates and said, “You know the way. He’s waiting for you.”

Agatha climbed up the steep stairs at the back of the shop where Richard was standing on the landing. He retreated while she stripped down to her knickers, covered herself with a large bath towel and climbed on the table.

When Richard came in, Agatha said, “I’ve got a little twinge of pain in my hip.”

“Arthritis?”

“Of course not! I’m too young!”

“Can hit at any age. If I were you, I’d get that hip x-rayed. But let me see what I can do.”

While he worked on her, Agatha told him about trying to find Jessica’s murderer.

“It may turn out to be some stranger who just picked her up on the road,” said Richard.

“I don’t think she’d have got in a car with a stranger. Not these days.”

“She was stabbed, wasn’t she? She could have been forced to get in.”

“With a gun, maybe. But a knife?”

“Maybe whoever it was saw her standing, waiting to cross. You said you didn’t think she’d use the bridge at that time of night. He might have looked quite safe. Middle-aged. Gets out the car and says, ‘Are you all right?’ She replies that she’s going home. He asks, ‘Where’s home?’ She tells him. ‘Funny thing,’ he says, ‘I just happen to be going that way. Hop in.’ Was she murdered in the car?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should ask.”

When Agatha left—pain in the hip gone, arthritis—rubbish!—she took out her mobile phone and called Bill Wong.

“Was Jessica murdered in a car? What do forensics say?” she asked.

“Looks that way. Not enough blood at the scene. She could have been murdered anywhere and then dumped. We’re going on television tonight again to appeal to any driver who might have seen her.”

“The other thing. Has Mrs. Smedley been accused of murdering her husband?”

“He was poisoned in his office. She was in the church in Ancombe all morning, cleaning the brass and doing the flowers. We’ve got nothing to hold her on.”

“What about that girl I saw him with?”

“His secretary. She said her mother, who lives in Bath, was poorly, so he drove her over.”

“Come on! What were they doing listening to the band?”

“We checked up. Mother is in a residential home in Bath. Yes, they did call on her. Maybe they decided to enjoy the sunshine. Relax, Agatha, it’s not your case.”

Agatha rang off and went home and fed her cats. Doris Simpson, her cleaner, had probably fed them earlier, but feeding them made Agatha feel less guilty for leaving them so much on their own.

She started to heat up her own dinner. And then she stiffened. There was the sound of movement upstairs. She looked wildly around for a weapon and seized a bottle of spray detergent. She stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Me, Charles,” came a voice. “Be down in a minute.”

I’m going to take my keys away from him, vowed Agatha. He might have phoned to warn me he was coming.

She said as much when Charles pattered down the stairs.

He kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry. I’ll phone next time.”

“What happened to your gorgeous lady?”

“You’ll never believe it.”

“Try me.”

“I was just moving in for the kill when she pushed me away and said she couldn’t because she had found God.”

“Excellent,” said Agatha cynically. “I must try that next time. What a put-down! I mean, there really is no answer to that.”

“I haven’t noticed men queuing up to get
you
into bed.”

They were just glaring at each other when the doorbell rang.

Agatha went to answer it and found Mrs. Mabel Smedley standing on the doorstep.

“Come in,” said Agatha.

She led Mabel into the kitchen. Charles wandered off into the sitting room.

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Please sit down. You must be very upset.”

Mabel did not look upset. She was dry-eyed and composed. Agatha sat down opposite, reached for her cigarettes and then decided against smoking.

“It’s like this,” said Mabel. “My husband has been poisoned at work. The police have been questioning me all day—as if I had anything to do with it! I want you to find out who killed my husband.”

“Very well,” said Agatha. “I will get Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Now, did he have any enemies?”

“No, everyone loved Robert.”

Agatha gave a little sigh. “Look, I do not want to add to your grief, but I cannot envisage everyone loving Mr. Smedley. I mean, someone must have hated him enough to poison him. Do they know how the poison was administered?”

“In his morning coffee.”

“And who took him his coffee?”

“His secretary, Joyce Wilson.”

“Does Joyce have red hair?”

“Yes.”

“I saw Joyce with your husband in Bath last Sunday.”

Did her eyes glint a fraction? But she said in an even voice, “Robert told me about that. Poor Joyce had been to visit her mother.”

“So he wasn’t having an affair?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He was devoted to me—so much so that he employed you to spy on me.”

“And that didn’t make you angry?”

“I thought it was rather sweet. Do you know there’s smoke pouring out of your oven?”

“Blast!” Agatha shot to her feet and switched it off and then opened the back door to dispel the smoke. She normally microwaved her meals but had found that the lasagne she had bought for dinner was of the kind that needs to be cooked in the oven.

“Mrs. Smedley …”

“Mabel, please.”

“Right, then, Mabel. My assistant noticed you had a bad bruise on your arm.”

She gave a merry little laugh. Agatha was suddenly sure that merry little laugh had been well rehearsed. “I’m very clumsy. I’m always banging into things.”

“We’ll leave that for a moment. How do you wish me to start?”

“I own the company. I shall sell it, of course. I have told the staff to be prepared to be interviewed by you.”

“I’ll start with Joyce. Surely she is under suspicion since she gave him the coffee.”

“No, she says she took a new jar out of the cupboard. It was instant coffee. He always took four lumps of sugar in his coffee and I think that must have been what masked the taste of the poison.”

“I’ll try to start tomorrow, but the police will be swarming all over the place.”

Mabel rose to her feet. “I will leave you to it. Do your best. Robert’s murderer must not go unpunished.”

“Have you got Joyce’s address?”

She opened her handbag and took out a notebook. “I’ll write it down for you.” Agatha gave her a piece of paper and a pen.

“I might try her home tomorrow,” said Agatha. “She might decide to stay away from work.”

Agatha saw Mabel out and then went into the sitting room where Charles was sprawled in front of the television.

“This lack of curiosity is not like you.”

“She made a bit of a fool of me, so I’m prejudiced. I listened at the door. She did it. Must have. All this business of ‘Find the murderer of my husband’ is just a blind.”

“I don’t know. I’ll be interested to see what this Joyce has to say for herself.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m bored.”

“I won’t need photos. I’ll phone Phil now and tell him to hitch up with Harry.”

She dialled Phil’s mobile. When he answered, she could hear thudding music in the background.

“Where are you?”

“At the disco with Harry.”

“You’ll stick out like a sore thumb!”

“They don’t know I’m with him. I said I was taking photos for the local paper. The faces might come in handy.”

“Can you go outside? I can barely hear you.”

“Right.”

She told Phil about Mrs. Smedley’s visit, ending up by saying, “You and Harry work on the other cases tomorrow and tell Patrick to keep on the Jessica case and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She rang off.

“What’s that terrible smell?” asked Charles.