deductions and realized Bill would probably feel the same.
Once at Binser’s offices, she took one of the many seats in the large reception area, confident that no one would ask her what she was doing there. People came and went and the seats around her began to empty. Staff began to pour out of the building. The receptionists began to pack up for the night, their places being taken by two security guards. Agatha knew she was beginning to look conspicuous and so she left and lurked outside.
Time dragged on. A cold wind blew along Cheapside. Then suddenly Miss Partle appeared. Agatha sighed with relief. She had been worried that Miss Partle might be wearing a hat or something that might make her difficult to recognize. Keeping well behind her, Agatha followed Miss Partle along to St. Paul’s tube and then down the long escalators to the Central Line platform. Now what to do? she wondered. Get into the same carriage? Why not, she decided. Miss Partle would not recognize her, disguised as she was.
They were travelling west. The carriage was crowded. Agatha strap hung, peering occasionally through the press of bodies to where Miss Partle was standing, farther down the carriage.
The secretary got out at Notting Hill Gate and Agatha doggedly followed her. Miss Partle went quickly along Pembridge Road and to Agatha’s disappointment went into a Turkish restaurant. Still, I’m disguised and I may as well eat something, thought Agatha. The restaurant was quiet. Agatha was placed three tables away from Miss Partle.
The secretary took the
She missed John. She missed someone to talk to. She took a notebook out of her handbag and made a note of the address. Perhaps she should check into a hotel for the night and try again the next day. Try what? jeered a voice in her head.
The more Agatha stood there and thought about Miss Partle being the killer, the more ridiculous it began to seem.
She decided to go home. After all, she hadn’t told Doris Simpson to look after her cats. She had left dried food out for them, which her spoilt cats hated. No, it was time to go home and leave it all to the police.
John Armitage had endured a humiliating evening. He had arranged to meet Charlotte in a smart restaurant in the Kings Road. Charlotte had turned up half an hour late accompanied by a handsome young man. “This is Giles,” she said. “Giles, John Armitage. You don’t mind if Giles joins us, do you, darling?”
So John, who had hoped for a romantic evening, was forced to entertain Giles as well as Charlotte, and Giles was a man of few words. Apart from saying he thought reading books was a waste of time, he drank a lot and said little else. John began to hope that when the meal was over, maybe Charlotte would get rid of this boring young man and invite him home.
The price of the meal made him blink, but ever hopeful, he paid up. To his chagrin, once outside the restaurant, Charlotte thanked him firmly but sweetly for dinner, tucked her arm in Giles’s and walked off with him down the Kings Road in the direction of her home.
John cursed himself for a fool. He found himself missing Agatha. He would have been better off to have gone with her on whatever mad-goose chase she was on. Agatha could be infuriating and bossy, but she was never boring. He had tried to discuss the case with Charlotte until he realized her beautiful eyes were glazing over with boredom. Charlotte, when not talking about herself, only liked to hear things she was interested in, like which restaurant or fashion designer was in and which was out.
The lights were out in Agatha’s cottage when he arrived home. He decided that on the following day he would drive to Mircester where there was an excellent butcher and buy some steak and invite Agatha for dinner.
Agatha awoke the next day with the beginning of a sniffle. She was afraid she must have caught a cold with all that hanging around Cheapside in the cold wind. But somehow her belief that the murderer might be Miss Partle was renewed. She paced up and down her kitchen. Perhaps the thing she should have done was simply to confront the woman and see if she betrayed herself in any way.
Determination rose in her. She swept the morning’s mail off the mat, including a note from John inviting her for dinner, and placed it on the hall table without looking at any of it. She served her cats chopped lambs’ liver and then put a warm coat on and made her way out to her car.
In London, she parked her car in the underground car-park at Hyde Park and took the tube to Notting Hill Gate. The area was crowded as people made their way to the antiques market in the Portobello Road.
Agatha went straight to the house in Chepstow Villas and rang the bell and waited. There was no reply. She stood for a moment, irresolute, and then decided to take a look at the stalls in the Portobello Market. It felt odd to be surrounded once more by the smells and crowds of London. Agatha walked from stall to stall, examining jewellery, military badges and old clothes. She saw a handsome silver paper-knife and decided to buy it for Alf Bloxby. He would need a new one. The stall owner wrapped it up in tissue paper and Agatha slid it into her coat pocket.
She was just making her way through the crowds, past a man with a hurdy-gurdy and with a parrot on his shoulder when a voice in her ear said, “Mrs. Raisin?”
Agatha swung round. There was Miss Partle, surveying her.
“What a surprise!” said Agatha. “Isn’t this market fascinating?”
“It is, if you can tell fake from genuine. But I like looking,” said Miss Partle. “Like a coffee?”
“Thanks,” said Agatha. “Where shall we go? It’s so long since I’ve been here.”
“I live close by. I was just going home.”
They walked together chatting amiably about how London had changed and all the while Agatha was thinking, I must have been mad to suspect this nice woman.
In Chepstow Villas, Miss Partle unlocked the door. Agatha followed her into a sitting-room which led off a narrow entrance corridor. It was furnished with good antiques and some fine paintings. The room, which had originally consisted of front and back parlours, was now one long room with long windows front and back.
Miss Partle went to a thermostat on the wall and turned it up. “Keep your coat on. It’s chilly in here but it will soon warm up. Come downstairs to the kitchen and I’ll make coffee.”
“This is a fine house,” said Agatha when they were downstairs, looking around the gleaming modern kitchen. “You’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“I bought it with an inheritance from an aunt back when Notting Hill was still pretty unfashionable and got work done on it every time I could afford it. Take a seat and tell me why you were following me yesterday in that strange disguise. The coffee will be ready in a minute.”
Agatha laughed. “You are never going to believe this. I must have had a rush of blood to the head. I didn’t know you had spotted me last night.”
“That’s a very distinctive ring you are wearing. You should have left it off. And the wind must have disarranged your wig. I noticed in the restaurant that a strand of brown hair had escaped. I studied you when you thought I wasn’t looking and finally I was able to place you and then I saw you standing outside my house. So what were you doing?”
“I may as well tell you. I hope you are not going to be too furious with me. It all started at the duck races.”
“This sounds weird. Duck races? What has that got to do with me? Oh, the coffee is ready. How do you take it?”
“Just black. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll live without one.”