“And you never had any suspicion that Kylie might be on drugs?”
“My Kylie? Never! She was part of a youth group at the church. They’re very down on drugs.”
“So why do you think she took her wedding dress?”
“Like I said, she’d had a bit to drink. I think one of them girls said she wanted to see the dress. Kylie was ever so proud of it. I think she took it round to one of their houses. She might have been attacked on the road home. It’s hard to get a cab.”
“She’d change back into her ordinary clothes, surely,” said Agatha. “And whoever she had been visiting, if they had nothing to hide, then why wouldn’t they come forward?”
“Maybe whoever it was might be frightened of being suspected.”
“What about Phyllis Heger?”
“She wasn’t at the office party, like I said.”
“I don’t know if you know this, Mrs. Stokes – ”
“Freda.”
“Right, then, Freda. I don’t know if you know that Zak, according to Phyllis, was dating her.”
“Oh, Kylie told me about that. She said Phyllis hated her. Do you think it could have been her?”
“I’d like to think so,” said Agatha. “I don’t like her. But just think of the organization! Could Phyllis have injected her with heroin and then dumped her body in a freezer chest, and then somehow got it into the river? Was Kylie dating anyone before Zak?”
“She was engaged once before, to Harry McCoy.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s a machine-tool operator at Barrington’s. Steady chap. I liked him.”
“What’s his address?”
Freda gave it to her and Agatha wrote it down.
Agatha leaned forward. “I’d better tell you something in confidence. I’ve already been investigating your daughter’s murder. I’ve been going around masquerading as someone from television, wearing a disguise of blond wig and glasses. If you hear about such a person, you’ll know it’s me.” Agatha thought about Brudge. Had he really been encouraging her to go ahead?
“Worcester police are very good,” she said cautiously. “They’ll probably get to the bottom of it eventually. What about drugs? I didn’t think they’d be that much in a quiet place like Evesham. You work at the market. You must hear things.”
“Evesham’s like everywhere else, riddled with the stuff,” said Freda bitterly. “They found a pub dealing in the stuff and closed it down. Nobody knows where it’s coming from now.”
“The people who take drugs must know,” said Agatha. “Ever hear of anything connected to the club?”
“Not even one Ecstasy tablet. It’s been raided at least once. A few under-age drinkers, that’s all.”
“Give me your phone number,” said Agatha. “I’ll let you know anything I find out.”
“Bless you,” said Freda, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks. “I’ve been feeling so helpless.”
Agatha handed her a wad of tissues. When Freda had recovered, Agatha saw her out and then returned to the kitchen and sat down, feeling guilty. After all, she did not deserve Freda’s blessing for pursuing an investigation out of no higher motive than curiosity and a desire to allay the boredom of retirement in a country village. Mrs. Bloxby was the one with pure motives. Or was she?
By omission, she had deliberately led Agatha to believe the new neighbour wasn’t worth bothering about. She had some explaining to do.
¦
Some ten minutes later, Mrs. Bloxby found herself facing a truculent Agatha in the vicarage drawing- room.
“I shouldn’t try to manipulate your life,” said Mrs. Bloxby ruefully. “But I did not want to see you fall enamoured of another neighbour and get hurt.”
“Do you know what I did?” demanded Agatha wrathfully. “He came to my door carrying a Bible, and I thought he was a Mormon and slammed the door in his face.”
Mrs. Bloxby snorted with laughter.
“It’s not funny!” howled Agatha. “What was he carrying a Bible for anyway?”
“He left it with me,” said Mrs. Bloxby when she had stopped laughing. “It was James’s Bible. He found it in a closet. I’ll get it for you.”
She went out and then returned carrying the Bible. Agatha opened it and noticed James’s name written in his familiar handwriting inside. A wave of love and loss engulfed her and she clutched the Bible and stared at Mrs. Bloxby with miserable eyes.
“It’ll pass,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “All things pass.”
Agatha firmly put the Bible away from her. “So tell me about John Armitage.”
“I know very little. Just that he’s a successful writer. He seems very pleasant. I gather he was once married and is divorced. I think the Anstruther-Jones woman has been bothering him. I told him not to answer the door to her and she would soon get tired of calling on him.” Mrs. Bloxby looked at Agatha ruefully. “I’m afraid I told him not to answer the door to any of the women. They have all been pestering him, taking him cakes and home-made jam or copies of his books for him to autograph.”
So I can’t do any of those things, thought Agatha. Rats.
“I wish you had told me the truth,” she said severely. “I am not a child.”
“No, I shouldn’t have misled you, but the temptation was irresistible. I won’t do it again.”
“Sometimes I wonder about you,” said Agatha. “Anyway, that dead girl’s mother has just called on me. She wants me to investigate her daughter’s death. She even offered to pay me.”
“It must have made you feel like a real detective.”
“I am a real detective,” snapped Agatha, who had not quite forgiven the vicar’s wife for misleading her about John Armitage.
“Of course. How are you getting on?”
Agatha outlined her findings. Mrs. Bloxby listened carefully. Then she said, “Someone’s dealing drugs in Evesham. Could it be possible that Kylie stumbled across the source?”
“Then that would suggest the club.”
“Not necessarily. One of those girls could have said something, let something slip. They must all have had a bit too much to drink at that hen party. Maybe one of them panicked and told her supplier.”
“Far-fetched,” said Agatha grumpily because she had not considered such a possibility herself.
“Possibly. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“You’ll need to forgive me sometime.”
“I have forgiven you,” lied Agatha and stumped out.
¦
When she got home, she went over her notes and then logged everything she had in the computer. Whom should she approach that evening? Perhaps she should start with Harry McCoy before going on to one of the other girls. She looked at her watch and remembered she had a Pilates class and rushed to change into tights and a T- shirt before driving fast to Evesham. By the time she returned home, she was feeling relaxed and refreshed. Still no sign of John Armitage in residence, she noted.
Later that day, she put on the new blond wig, tying it in a neat pony-tail. It looked much more natural than the old one, and the spectacles with the plain glass lenses really did make her look different. She hesitated before leaving. Was the disguise really necessary? Mrs. Stokes had asked her to investigate, so she could surely go as herself. But, then, Harry McCoy might be friendly with the girls. He might even be the villain!
So Agatha set off, feeling very lonely. She missed Roy’s chattering company. When she parked in Merstow Green, she took out a street map of Evesham and checked on Harry McCoy’s address. He lived not far from the car-park in Horres Street. She decided to walk. The streets away from the High Street seemed strangely deserted. No children played outside. Television flickered behind lace-curtained windows. The wind had risen, and fallen cherry blossoms swirled in front of Agatha. It had turned unseasonably cold. She located the small red-brick- terraced house in which he lived. It looked dark and empty.
There were two bells, one for upstairs and one for downstairs, but no one answered the summons of
