“I know,” agreed Charles. “I say, look at the fog! Let’s find somewhere to eat and see if it thins out.”
He drove to the multi-storey car-park off Pembroke Street and then they walked round into the main shopping area and found an Italian restaurant.
“So,” said Agatha, after they had ordered pizza, “where are we? Not much further.”
“If only this were a detective story,” mourned Charles, “and we were ace detectives, dropping literary quotations right, left, and centre, we would prove that Julia placed a dummy of herself in the window of her sitting- room to fool her students while she drove to Carsely and murdered her sister. I mean, think of the money she must have got.”
“We haven’t even stirred anything up,” said Agatha. “I mean, if one of the people we’ve been questioning were guilty, you would think they’d have shown their hand by now.”
“You mean, like trying to kill you?”
“Maybe not that. Just warning us off.”
“Julia more or less did that.”
“No, by warning us off, I mean someone saying something like, “Stop now, or it will be the worse for you.” We haven’t rattled anyone. Gosh, why did we order pizza, Charles? This tastes like a wet book.”
“Get it down you.” Charles peered out of the window at wraithlike figures moving through the mist. “I think we’re going to have to stay here the night, Aggie. We can’t drive home in this.”
But Agatha did not want to spend a night in a hotel with Charles. “We can try,” she said. “I mean, you said Cambridge was a foggy place. I bet when we get to the outskirts, it’ll start to clear.”
Charles opted to take the road which went back through Milton Keynes and Buckingham, saying that he did not want to drive on the motorways in fog.
By the time they had crawled as far as the Bedford bypass, the fog was getting worse. “There’s one of those road-house places,” said Charles, swinging off the road. “We’d better check in for the night.”
“I’ll pay,” said Agatha quickly. “You’ve done all the driving.”
Once inside, she firmly booked two rooms. “Honestly,” complained Charles, oblivious of the stare of the desk clerk, “a double room would have been cheaper. And more fun.”
Agatha ignored him. She took the keys from the clerk and handed one to Charles.
“If you think of anything, let me know. I’ll be in my room.”
“I’m thinking of food for this evening. Have you a restaurant here?” he asked the clerk.
“Certainly, sir. You’ll find it through those doors on the left.”
“We’ll go there at seven,” said Charles. “That pizza didn’t go very far.”
Agatha, when she let herself into her room, was glad for the first time to be on her own. She undressed and had a leisurely bath and then washed out her underwear and dried it as best she could with the hair dryer.
Before she could get dressed again, there was a knock at her door. She whipped the coverlet off the bed and wrapped it around herself and opened the door. Charles handed her a sweater. “I just remembered I had a spare one in the car.”
Agatha took it gratefully. “Any sign of the fog lifting?”
“No, as thick as ever.”
“What time is it?”
“Going on for seven.”
“Won’t be long.”
When he had gone, Agatha put on her damp underwear and clothes and then pulled Charles’s sweater over her head. It was blue cashmere. James had one like it. She wished she could stop the sharp pain she felt every time she thought of James.
The restaurant was crowded with other stranded travellers. They managed to get a corner table.
“What now?” asked Agatha, after they had ordered fish and chips.
“I don’t know,” said Charles. “Bit of a dead end all round, if you ask me.”
“If only we could prompt someone into showing their hand. I know, maybe we could see that editor again and give him a story saying we know who the murderer is and we are just trying to find one final bit of proof.”
“Dangerous, that. Not only will he come after us, but the whole of Mircester police will be down on our heads. We’ll be asked to explain ourselves and when they find out we haven’t a clue, we’ll look ridiculous and the murderer will feel safer than ever.”
“Oh, well, maybe I will be able to think of something after a night’s sleep. What time should we ask for a call?”
“Eight o’clock. Go straight off and have breakfast on the road.”
¦
But when they set out the following morning, Agatha could not think of any bright ideas at all. A weak sun was shining through a hazy mist, and the dreadful fog of the day before had gone. She kept racking her brains. She felt that if she did not come up with something, then Charles would leave. Agatha hated being dependent on anyone, and yet she was afraid that without Charles, she would give up the hunt and sink into a depression.
They decided not to stop for breakfast, but to go straight to Carsely. Agatha stifled a yawn. She had slept badly.
Then Charles said the words she had been dreading to hear. “I’d better go home and see how things are. I mean, we seem to have come to a dead end.”
Agatha said nothing. Her pride would not allow her to beg him to stay, or ask him if he was coming back.
“So here we are,” said Charles, pulling up outside Agatha’s cottage. “I’ll get my stuff and be off. Don’t worry about any breakfast for me.”
“Charles,” said Agatha in a thin voice, “the door’s open.”
“Doris Simpson?”
“It isn’t her day for cleaning.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“No, I don’t think whoever did it would break in in broad daylight.”
They got out of the car and together they went up to the door. “It’s been jemmied open,” said Agatha. “Look at the splinters.”
“But what about that expensive burglar alarm system of yours?”
“I forgot to set it,” wailed Agatha. “Oh, my cats. What’s happened to my cats? I’ve got to go in.”
She strode into the house and into her sitting-room. “The television set and the radio haven’t been taken. Oh, look at this.”
Charles followed her into the sitting-room. The drawers of Agatha’s desk in the corner of the room were lying open and papers lay about the floor and her computer was still switched on.
“That’s it!” said Charles. “We’ve finally rattled someone. They were searching your papers, Aggie, to see if you had come up with anything. Look for your cats and I’ll call the police.”
Agatha went through to the kitchen, calling for her cats. Then she noticed the kitchen door was standing open. Her cats were rolling on the grass in the sunshine. She crouched down beside them and stroked their warm fur.
Then she heard Charles calling, “Fred Griggs is on his way. I’ll make some coffee.”
Agatha went into the kitchen. “Should we touch anything? I mean, they’ll want to dust everything for fingerprints.”
“I don’t think our criminal stopped to make coffee.” Charles filled the kettle and plugged it in.
Fred Griggs loomed up in the doorway, making them jump.
“Anything been taken?” he asked, pulling out his notebook. “I’ve phoned headquarters. They’ll be along soon.”
“Maybe I’d better wait for them to arrive,” said Agatha, “and it’ll save me going over the whole thing twice. I haven’t looked upstairs.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Charles to Fred. “You make the coffee, Aggie.”
After some time, they came back downstairs. “I had some papers in my suitcase, some farming accounts I meant to go over,” said Charles. “They’ve been tossed over the floor. Your bedside table’s been ransacked.”
“What about Mr. Lacey’s cottage?” asked Fred, and Agatha and Charles stared at each other in
