bank if the deposit was made by cheque and then they can find out who it was. We really can’t keep this sort of information to ourselves.”
“But we’ve done all the work!”
“I still would feel better about it if we told the police.”
“Just one more day,” pleaded Agatha. “We’ll go and see Barrington tomorrow and then we’ll go to the police.”
John frowned. “Then we have to explain why we held on to this information.”
“We’ll tell them we only just found out,” said Agatha impatiently.
“And then they’ll go to Mrs. Stokes for that bank statement and she’ll say we knew today.”
“We’ll go to Barrington first thing in the morning and then straight to the police.”
“Oh, all right. I see you’ve got the newspapers. Let’s have a look through them and see if they’ve got anything.”
Agatha made coffee and they sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table and began to read. Agatha squinted down at the newsprint and then rose and took a large magnifying glass out of a kitchen drawer and returned to the table.
“You should get glasses,” said John.
“I don’t need glasses,” snapped Agatha. “The kitchen’s dark.”
John shrugged and bent his head over a newspaper again.
Agatha raised the glass and looked at him through it. She found it hard to admit to herself that her sight was not nearly as good as it used to be. She noticed for the first time the lines on his forehead, down either side of his mouth and round his eyes. He looked up suddenly and she flushed guiltily and lowered the glass.
“What were you looking for?” he asked. “Blackheads?”
“You always look so young,” said Agatha. “Now I see you’ve got lines.”
“Then you do need glasses. Smoking’s a sure way to ruin your eyesight and give you lots of lines around the mouth.”
Agatha’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. At that moment, the sun came out and the kitchen was flooded with light. “Nonsense,” she said, “I can read perfectly and I haven’t had a cigarette yet today.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she was assailed with a craving for a cigarette. “Although I’ll have one now. Any objections?”
“Go ahead. I’m not a nicotine Nazi.”
Agatha lit up a cigarette. Her head swam and it tasted dreadful, but she was addicted and so she continued to smoke until the dizziness passed.
They read steadily but there was nothing in the papers. John said he would go home and pick her up early in the morning.
Agatha opened her mouth to ask him to stay, to invite him for dinner, but remembered Mrs. Bloxby’s words. Maybe the vicar’s wife was right and she should play it cool, although what did a mere vicar’s wife know about anything anyway?
¦
Once inside his own cottage, John Armitage looked uneasily at the phone. They should have called the police. But if the police somehow got the information about the bank account today, the fact that they might have withheld information would be irrelevant.
He went out and got into his car and drove to Evesham, parked and went to a public phone-box in the High Street. He dialled the number of Worcester police. Putting on what he hoped was a Midlands accent, he said quickly, “Check Kylie Stokes’s bank account.” He quickly replaced the receiver, feeling better; feeling that he had not been quite the bad citizen Agatha Raisin wanted him to be.
On Monday morning, Agatha and John drove back to Evesham. John was silent. He felt he should tell Agatha he had tipped off the police, and yet found he could not. His ex-wife had always been marvellous at making scenes. He had a feeling that Agatha in a really nasty temper might prove to be worse than his ex.
They asked a man behind a counter who took orders and sold spare parts if they could see Mr. Barrington, explaining they were from a television company. He went through to the back of the premises. It was ten minutes before he returned. “Follow me,” he said, lifting up a flap in the counter.
They walked along a corridor until he stopped at a door, knocked and then ushered them in.
Arthur Barrington stood up behind a massive desk and held out his hand. “I’ve heard you were doing research,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sit down.”
They sat down in two easy chairs facing the desk.
Barrington was a portly man with thinning black hair combed across his scalp in long strips. He had a fleshy, florid face and small bright eyes. The backs of his thick hands were covered in black hairs.
“What would you like to know?”
Agatha glanced at John, wanting him, for once, to take over the questioning, but John was staring straight ahead. She cleared her throat. Better cut to the chase.
“During our research,” she began, “we became interested in the murder of Kylie Stokes. We gather she had been having an affair with you. Her bank account shows that fifteen thousand pounds was paid into her account a week before she died. Was she blackmailing you?”
Arthur Barrington got to his feet, his face red with anger. “How dare you! Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them,” said Agatha.
He pressed a buzzer on his desk. The thickset man they had seen at the front desk came charging through the door. “What is it, boss?”
“Get them out of here, George. And make sure they don’t come back.”
Agatha and John got up hurriedly and made for the door. They were followed down the corridor and outside by the menacing bulk of George, who then stood with his hands on his hips until they drove off.
“Where to now?” asked Agatha.
“Worcester, Agatha, and I don’t care what you say; we’re going to the police.”
¦
Although Agatha had silently prayed on the road to Worcester that Detective Inspector John Brudge would not be available, her prayers were not answered, and on arrival they were taken straight to see him.
John, after explaining who he was, outlined what they had found. “We would have come to you yesterday,” he said, “but we thought you might be off work on Sundays.”
“I’m never off work,” said Brudge. He glared at Agatha. “I thought I told you to keep out of this.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Agatha, “and you should be grateful to us for bringing you all this information.”
He eyed them narrowly. “And was it one of you who phoned us anonymously yesterday evening from a public call-box in Evesham to say we ought to look at Kylie Stokes’s bank account?”
“Not us,” said Agatha vehemently, and then wondered if the culprit had been John.
“You’ve got to stop masquerading as people from a television company or I’ll need to charge you.”
“But how can we find out any more information for you if we do?” demanded Agatha.
“Look here, Mrs. Raisin, we can get at the truth without your interference.”
“Oh, really? You hadn’t even thought about checking her bank account.”
“Nonetheless, I can’t have you duping people by pretending to be from some television company. I told you before – ”
“You didn’t!”
“I’m telling you now. From now on, leave things to us.” A very chastened pair exited from police headquarters. “You didn’t tell him someone tried to kill you,” said John. “I left it to you to tell him that.”
“I couldn’t tell him,” wailed Agatha. “That really would have been withholding information. Fortunately, you gave him the idea that we had found out everything yesterday.” She looked at him. “Hey, was that you who gave the anonymous tip-off about Kylie’s bank account?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was a dirty trick.”
“It was on my conscience, Agatha.”
“Your conscience doesn’t matter anymore,” she said gloomily. “We’ve been stopped in our tracks.”
