“Did you go?” asked Agatha.
“No, there is a Mrs. Clamp who would not look favourably on me going out for dinner with an attractive woman.”
“You could have said you were working late at the office,” said Charles with a grin.
Mr. Clamp was not amused. “I never lie to Mrs. Clamp.”
He could not help them further. They walked back to the car-park, turning over in their minds what they had heard. “I’m damn sure someone threatened her,” said Agatha at last. “I think that’s why she made a will and left everything to Julia, of all people.”
“Considering her treatment at the hands of Dewey, I’m surprised she didn’t make out a will before,” said Charles.
“Maybe it isn’t Dewey. Maybe she knew Dewey so well that she knew he wouldn’t really hurt her,” said Agatha.
“I find that hard to believe. I mean, he certainly terrified Roy.”
“But Roy hadn’t been living with him. Besides, Dewey’s tale of how he threatened Melissa may have only been a fantasy. Maybe the fact is she just got bored with him and got a divorce. Maybe she did threaten to attack his pet doll and so he agreed to a divorce without any protest.”
“If that’s the case, bang goes suspect number one. And what about James? Are we ever going to find James?”
“I think he’s dead,” said Agatha. “Look, his council tax bills and water bills would go unpaid unless I paid them and James was always fussy about paying his own debts. He would have returned to clear things up if he could.”
“I think if he was dead, he would have been found by now. The police don’t give up easily. They’ll have been looking all along. Did you get all his papers?”
“I suppose so. I dealt with the unpaid bills. He hardly ever got any personal correspondence, except from his publisher.”
They both stopped and looked at each other.
“I never thought of his publisher or agent,” said Agatha. “But the police wouldn’t have missed that.”
“Who’s his agent?”
“Some woman called Bobby English, one-woman show, office in Bedford Street in Bloomsbury.”
“The hunt is on again,” said Charles cheerfully. “We’ll go to London.”
¦
Agatha had never met Bobby English before and was taken aback when she saw her and then stabbed with jealousy. She was a tall willowy woman with a cloud of dark hair, very white skin, large dark eyes and a sensual mouth painted deep-red. She was wearing a power-suit and very high heels.
“Terrible for you,” she said briskly, “but I don’t think I can help you any more than I have helped the police.”
Charles looked around at the framed book jackets on the office wall. Some of the covers were quite lurid. He pointed to one, entitled
“No, I’m not. But I met James at a party and we took a fancy to each other.” Agatha scowled. “It amused me to push his book and he was delighted when I found a publisher for it.”
“That’s Greive Books, isn’t it?” asked Agatha.
Bobby nodded.
“What is the name of his editor there?”
“Robin Jakes.”
“I assume Robin is a woman,” said Agatha sourly. Bobby nodded again. Agatha had always disapproved of women who affected men’s names. Now she was beginning to positively hate them. Had James had an affair with Bobby?
She eyed the agent. “No, I didn’t,” said Bobby, “if that’s what you’re thinking. We were just friends.”
“Did James ever let slip some part of the world that he particularly liked?” asked Charles. “I mean, do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“No, he had travelled widely. I don’t think he had any tie to any particular place. I really can’t help you. When we met, we would talk about books, markets, possibility of sales, that sort of thing. You can try his editor, but I don’t think Robin can tell you any more than I can.”
¦
To Agatha’s relief, Robin Jakes turned out to be a pleasant, middle-aged woman with sandy hair and thick glasses. “I am so sorry,” she said, shaking Agatha’s hand. “It must be an awful time for you.”
Agatha blinked back sudden tears. No one else, apart from Mrs. Bloxby, seemed to have thought that she might be suffering. To their questions, Robin said sadly that she had no idea where he could have gone. “He had travelled so much,” she said. “I once suggested he might try writing a travel book, but his passion was military history. I was just his editor, you know. We weren’t friends.” She frowned in thought. “There’s something he said, oh, about a few months before he disappeared. What was it? Oh, I have it. I was asking him again to consider writing a travel book. He was…is…a good descriptive writer. He laughed and said he had an old diary of his travels. He said he might dig it out and have a look at it.”
“A diary!” exclaimed Agatha. “The police said nothing to me about a diary.”
“We’d better get on to them,” said Charles. “They may have held it back.”
¦
Outside the publishing office, Agatha took out her mobile phone. “Better make sure you get Bill,” said Charles. “If they have it, anyone else might not want to release it.”
Agatha was told Bill was out and so, after a meal in London, they travelled back. Once home, Agatha got Charles to phone Bill at home, guessing that the formidable Mrs. Wong might be more prepared to bring Bill to the phone for a man.
When Bill answered, Agatha snatched the phone from Charles. “Bill, it’s me, Agatha. I’ve just heard that James kept a diary of his travels. Do the police have it?”
“They kept back some papers, Agatha. It might be among them.”
“Oh, Bill, I’ve got to see that diary. There might be something in it that would mean something to me and wouldn’t mean anything to you.”
“I’ll ask. Call at headquarters – let me see – at ten tomorrow morning.”
Agatha thanked him and replaced the receiver. “We’re to go to Mircester in the morning,” she told Charles. “He’ll see what he can do.”
“So you’re beginning to hope again that James is alive?”
“Yes, damn him,” said Agatha. “If only I knew one way or the other.”
¦
In the morning, as they travelled to Mircester, Agatha was half-dreading seeing James’s diary, that is, if she was allowed to see it. What if it contained awful things about her? At last, as they were approaching the town, she voiced her worries to Charles.
“I should not think dear James has one deeply personal thought in the whole of that diary,” said Charles. “Probably observations he made on his travels.”
They waited in an interviewing room at police headquarters for what seemed, to Agatha, like ages, but was in fact only half an hour. At last Bill appeared carrying a small, thick, leather-bound book. “I can’t let you take it away with you,” he said, “but you can have a look at it and call me when you’re ready to leave.”
Agatha and Charles sat side by side at a plain wooden table, the top scarred with cigarette burns and coffee-cup rings. Agatha opened to the first page, feeling a pain at her heart as she recognized James’s small, crabbed handwriting. “Oh, it’s an
“You should be relieved there’s nothing about you in there,” said Charles heartlessly. “Let’s start reading. Maybe there’s somewhere he liked more than anywhere else.” Patiently they read descriptions of Nepal, of Cyprus, of Saudi Arabia, even a long description of a trip to China. Prices were marked down, lodging houses and hotels.
