impatiently.
Had Tristan had a mobile phone? If he had, could someone have phoned him the night he died and threatened him? But the police would have found it and checked the numbers.
“Are you going to give me any of that punch or not?” demanded a man in front of her.
“Sure.” Agatha ladled some into a cup. She realized she had served the same man about five times before. The crowd was getting noisy and boisterous. Agatha, seeing the punchbowl was nearly empty, added a bottle of wine and fruit juice to fill it up again. Perhaps two bottles of the stuff had been too strong. A team of Morris dancers had just arrived in their flowered hats and jingling bells and started buying bottles of wine. “I don’t have a spare corkscrew,” said Agatha uneasily. She had not imagined that anyone would drink that lethal stuff until they got home. “Got one here,” said a red-faced Morris dancer and his friends all cheered.
Over the Tannoy came an announcement that there would be a break for lunch. Agatha picked a placard off the ground at her feet which said closed for lunch and placed it on the table. “Do you think anyone will pinch anything?” asked John.
“We’ll put the bottles back in the boxes for now and tape them over.”
The members of the ladies’ societies had set up a buffet at the far corner of the field and had laid out tables and chairs.
Mrs. Bloxby came up to Agatha, her eyes shining. “Such a success,” she said. “We were going to confine it to six races, but we’ve decided to hold more in the afternoon and finish with the Morris dancers.”
“What about prizes?” asked Agatha. “Surely all the cups have gone.”
“I thought we might present each winner with two bottles of wine.”
“Good idea,” said Agatha in a flat voice because she still thought that she should have been the one to present the prizes.
“And seeing as the organization has been largely done by you, Mrs. Raisin, I thought it would be nice if you could address the crowd at the end.”
Agatha brightened visibly.
When Mrs. Bloxby had left, John said, “What now? Do we go over there and fight for something to eat?”
“I wonder if you could get me a plate of something, John. I want to speak to Mrs. Feathers.”
“What about?” he demanded sharply. “I thought you had given up.”
“Just one question. I’ll tell you later.”
Agatha began to search. Mrs. Feathers was not with the lunch crowd nor among the people still crowding in front of the farmers’ stalls, Agatha being the only one who had packed up for lunch. And then she saw her grey head bobbing along in the direction of the gate. She ran after her, shouting, “Mrs. Feathers!”
The old lady turned around slowly, blinking in the sunlight. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Raisin. Lovely day.”
“Yes, it is. We’re very lucky. Mrs. Feathers, did Tristan have a mobile phone?”
“I was sure he had. But I must have been mistaken. He always used mine.”
“What makes you think he had one?”
“I went into his flat one day when I thought he was out, to change the bed linen. But he was in and he was using a mobile phone. He put it away quickly when he saw me. Later when he came down to use the phone, I asked him why he didn’t use his own phone and he said it had been a friend’s and he had returned it. It was a terrible business, that murder. It really shook me up.”
“And Tristan never at any time said anything that you might think would give the police a clue to his murder?”
“Oh, no, they’ve asked me and asked me. Dear Tristan. He said I was like a mother to him.”
“I’m sure you were,” said Agatha. “When’s the funeral?”
“That took place some time ago. A cousin arranged it.”
Drat, thought Agatha, I’d forgotten all about the funeral. But what good would that have done me?
“Do you have a name and address for this cousin?”
“Reckon as how you’ll need to ask the police, m’dear. They took away all his stuff and then I think they sent it on to the cousin.”
Agatha thanked her and was about to turn away when she saw Bill and Alice just paying their entrance fees.
“Bill,” said Agatha, approaching him. “Could I have a word?”
“What about?” demanded Alice.
Agatha looked at Bill pleadingly. “It’s a police matter.”
“All right. Alice, go and see if there’s anything at the stall that Mother would like.”
Alice shot Agatha a venomous look and trudged off.
Agatha told Bill about the mobile phone. “Good work,” he said. “I’ll get them on to it. They can check all the mobile phone companies and see which one he was registered with. But I thought I told you to stop investigating.”
“It just came up in conversation with Mrs. Feathers,” said Agatha. “Oh, here’s your beloved back again.”
“I want a drink,” said Alice, “but that stall is closed.”
God forgive me for what I am about to do, thought Agatha. “I’ll get you a drink, Alice.” She went to her stall and drew the cork on a bottle of home-made wine while Bill had pulled out his mobile and was phoning headquarters. She picked up one of the large tumblers she had kept for people who only wanted fruit juice and filled it up. “I’d tell Bill that’s just punch,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty strong stuff.”
“I can drink any man under the table,” sneered Alice. She went back to join Bill.
John came back with a plate of ham and salad, which he handed to Agatha. “Thanks,” she said.
“What’s going on?” asked John. “When I was queuing up, I saw you talking to Bill and he looked very serious.”
Agatha told him about the mobile phone. “That might be something,” said John. “Say he had his phone beside the bed. Someone phones him after you left and frightens him. He decides to make a run for it, but first of all, he thinks he’ll take that money out of the church box. Whoever threatened him is watching the house, follows him to the vicar’s study and stabs him.”
“Could be. Oh, they’re starting up again and I haven’t had time to eat.”
“You go ahead. I’ll cope with the first lot and then you take over so that I can eat something.”
Agatha walked over towards the duck races carrying her plate. People were cheering on the ducks, bets were being laid. The little yellow plastic ducks were bobbing down the stream, occasionally swirling round in the eddies. Agatha found it too difficult to eat with just one plastic fork, so she headed for the lunch tables and found a chair. A little way away from her the Morris men were downing glasses of Miss Jellop’s wine, their faces flushed and their voices loud.
“Mrs. Raisin? It is Agatha Raisin, isn’t it?”
Agatha looked up. A pretty young woman was standing over her holding a child by the hand. With a wrench of memory, Agatha said, “Bunty! How are you?”
The woman seated next to Agatha moved away and Bunty sat down and put the child on her knee.
Bunty had been Agatha’s last secretary before she retired. “Is that yours?” asked Agatha, pointing with her fork to the little girl Bunty was holding.
“Yes, this is Philippa.”
“Who did you marry?”
“Philip Jervsey.”
“Of Jervsey Advertising?”
“That’s the one. After you packed up and retired, I took a job as his secretary.”
Agatha frowned. “I thought he was married.”
“Yes, he was…then.”
“Did he get a divorce to marry you?” asked Agatha, ever curious.
“Yes. I feel guilty about it. But I was mad about him. Still am. I took my time about saying yes. You know how it is, Agatha, secretaries and bosses. It gets like a marriage. You get to know them better than their wives.”
“Was it a bitter divorce?”
“Not too bad. Cost him a lot, though. But there were no children. We’ve got a place over in Cirencester we
