Paul’s face tightened. “No,” he said curtly. “I’ve got work to do.”
After they had gone, Paul was about to put the diary back on the shelves, but decided to find a hiding place for it. He went through to the kitchen and took down an empty metal canister marked “Pasta,” put the diary in and firmly replaced the lid.
He thought that Agatha’s idea of telling Bill was useless. They had no hard evidence. He himself thought that the idea that anyone would commit three murders over an old diary was just too far-fetched. But Frampton might know something. He felt Agatha had cut him out of things, forgetting that it was he himself who had cut himself off. Yes, he would go and see Frampton and have a man-to-man chat. Frampton might be a bit mad with him over kissing Zena, but he could explain that away as well.
Bill interviewed Agatha and Charles at police headquarters the next day. Charles thought gloomily that the more Agatha outlined the reason for her suspicions, the weaker it sounded.
At the end of it all, Bill shook his head. “There’s nothing that would justify us pulling him in for questioning. In order to start asking Robin Barley’s neighbours if she had ever been seen with him would require Runcorn’s permission and he’s not going to give it. There was too much press interest after the last killing and now Runcorn’s got a culprit and got the press off his back.”
“Do you know who Robin Barley left her money to in her will?” asked Agatha. “There was something in the papers about a daughter.”
“Her daughter, Elizabeth, inherits.”
“ Elizabeth who?”
“Barley. She never married.”
“And where does she live?”
“Agatha!” cautioned Bill. “She could have nothing to do with her mother’s death.”
“I was thinking of something else.”
Bill studied Agatha for a long moment. She was an infuriating woman. But he, like Agatha, could not think Harry guilty. And Agatha in the past had had a way of unearthing things by simply blundering about.
“She lives in Mircester, in Abbey Lane. I don’t have the number.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“And what was that all about?” asked Charles as they left.
“She might have some of her mother’s photographs.”
“So?”
“Well, Peter Frampton might be in some of them. If there are any photographs of the Wormstone Battle of Worcester, he might be somewhere in the crowd. Or her mother might have told Elizabeth something about him.”
“I’m sure the police studied every bit of paper and photograph that Robin had.”
“But they wouldn’t be looking for Peter Frampton. Let’s go to Abbey Lane. We can walk from here.”
They made their way towards the abbey and then turned into Abbey Lane, which ran down one side of the massive Norman building. There was a newspaper shop on the corner and they found out that Elizabeth Barley lived at number 12.
Abbey Lane consisted of a row of terraced houses dating from the eighteenth century. Agatha rang the bell of number 12. A faded-looking woman wearing an apron answered the door. She had wispy sandy hair, a long, tired white face, and rough red hands.
“Is Miss Barley at home?” asked Agatha.
“I am Miss Barley,” she said. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Agatha explained who they were and what they were doing. She had repeated this introduction so many times that she could hear her own voice echoing in her ears.
“Photographs? What kind of photographs?”
“There was a mock Battle of Worcester in Wormstone. We wondered if there were any photos of that.”
“I don’t know. She had boxes of photos at the studio. I don’t know if the police took them away. I haven’t had the heart to go round there. I’ll give you the key and you can go and look for yourself. Just to be on the safe side, could I see some identification?”
They handed over their cards and driving licenses. She studied them for a moment and then handed them back. “I’ll get you the key. Do you know the address?”
“Yes,” said Agatha.
She left them standing on the doorstep and went indoors. “I wonder what she does, or if she does anything,” said Agatha.
“Don’t even think about asking,” said Charles. “Just let’s get that key.”
Elizabeth came back and handed them the key. “If I’m not here when you return,” she said, “just put it through the letter-box.”
They thanked her and walked off, Agatha setting a brisk pace, frightened Elizabeth would change her mind and call them back.
“If the studio is still sealed by the police, we can’t break in, Aggie.”
“She wasn’t murdered there. Hurry up, Charles.”
There was no police seal or tape outside Robin’s studio. They let themselves in.
There were canvases stacked against the wall and a covered painting on an easel. There was none of the usual messy clutter of the artist. Paints and brushes were ranged in order on a clean bench. They began to search. The studio had a sofa and chairs where Agatha had once sat talking to Robin in one section of the studio with a coffee table. The kitchen had a round table and two chairs. Off the other end of the studio was a small bedroom with a large wardrobe. Agatha opened the wardrobe. There were only a few clothes hanging there. Obviously Robin had kept most of her personal belongings in Wormstone. But at the bottom of the wardrobe were two large cardboard boxes.
Agatha opened one and found it full of photographs. “Bingo!” she said. “I’ll take one and you take the other.”
They carried the boxes into the studio and began to search. At one point Charles got up and examined the canvases against the wall. He sat down again. “She painted from photographs, Aggie. My box is full of photographs of the Cotswolds. I don’t think we’re going to find any personal photographs here. We should have asked for the key to the house in Wormstone.”
“Keep searching,” said Agatha doggedly. “There might be something. Ah, down at the bottom of this box are photographs of people, portrait photographs. She must have painted portraits from the photographs.”
“Recognize anyone?”
“Not yet.”
They worked on until Charles said with a sigh, “No Battle of Worcester. No Peter Frampton. Let’s go back and see if the obliging Elizabeth can let us get into the house in Wormstone. I’ll put the boxes back where we found them.”
Agatha, who had been sitting on the sofa, stood up. She felt flat. Her eyes fell on the canvases. Had Robin been a good painter? She began to turn some around. They were indeed paintings of the Cotswolds, drawn precisely from photographs, competent and lifeless. She turned round some more and came across the portrait of a woman.
“What are you doing?” asked Charles.
“Looking for a portrait of Peter Frampton.”
“Oh, Aggie, I’m getting a bad feeling about this. The man’s probably innocent.”
Agatha ignored him and continued to search the paintings. “Well, well,” she said. “Come and look at this.”
She heaved a large canvas out and turned it around so that Charles could see it. It was a portrait of Peter Frampton wearing nothing but a hard hat. It was not very well executed but nonetheless the subject was clearly Peter Frampton.
“Got him!” said Agatha triumphantly.
“So what do we do now? Go and confront him?”
“Not on your life. I decided to never confront murderers again. Too dangerous. We’ll tell Bill about it and let the
