“Here’s your coffee. Now tell me why you were following me.”
“Well, at these duck races in the village, I met my former secretary, Bunty, who had married her boss. I got to thinking about secretaries who were in love with their bosses and I thought that if Mr. Binser had been under some sort of threat from Tristan, you might have stepped in to protect him. It all seems fantastic now I’m here talking to you.”
“I should be angry but I suppose three murders in and around your village must have made you want to grasp at straws. So the police have no leads?”
“Not unless the one I’ve just given them comes to anything.”
“And what was that?”
“Mrs. Feathers, the elderly lady Tristan was living with, she told me she had once seen him using a mobile phone. I told the police. You see, he might have got a phone call on the night he died that frightened him. I think he broke into the church box to take the money because he planned to make a run for it and wanted some petty cash. So if there was a call, they’ll be able to trace who it was.”
A cloud crossed the sun, darkening the garden outside, where two starlings pecked for worms in the small lawn.
“You don’t see many of them nowadays,” said Agatha.
“What? Mobile phones?”
“No, starlings. London used to be full of them. I was looking at the starlings on your lawn.”
“Tell me about these duck races,” said Miss Partle. “It sounds very primitive. It’s a wonder you didn’t have the animal-rights people after you or the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.”
“These were plastic ducks, the little yellow ones.” Agatha told her all about the races and the drunken Morris men.
“I didn’t realize there was so much fun to be had in a village,” said Miss Partle. “What on earth made you decide to poke around in murder?”
“Insatiable curiosity, I guess. But I have no intention of giving up until I find out who did it.”
“Well, you know what they say: curiosity killed the cat. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
“Not really,” said Agatha. “I think I’d better be getting back down to the country.”
“You were talking about all that wine the dead woman’s sister gave to the races. I’ve built up quite a cellar. Not homemade, mind. Good stuff.”
“You have a cellar?”
“Yes, here.” Miss Partle opened a door in the kitchen. “Come on. You can choose a bottle.”
Agatha walked to the cellar door and peered down some stone steps. “You go on down,” said Miss Partle behind her. “I’ll just switch off the percolator.”
“Is there a light switch?” said Agatha, uneasily reminded of being trapped in Mrs. Tremp’s coal cellar.
“On the inside of the door on your right.” Agatha was searching inside the door for the switch when a massive blow struck her on the back of the head and she fell headlong down the steps and lay in a heap at the bottom.
Agatha could feel pain all over though she was still conscious, but as she heard Miss Partle coming down the stairs, with what was left of her wits she realized she had better look as if she were unconscious.
Then she felt her ankles being bound and then her wrists. A piece of strong adhesive tape was put over her mouth. “Interfering bitch,” hissed Miss Partle. “I thought that phone had been got rid of. I phoned from a call-box round the corner. I hope they don’t realize the phone-box is near where I live. What’ll I do now? I’ll be back. Oh, God, why couldn’t you leave things alone!”
Agatha heard her footsteps mounting the stairs and then the cellar door banged shut. At first Agatha was in such a state of pain and fright that her brain did not seem to be able to work at all. Then she thought dismally that she should have told Bill her suspicions. When she went missing, John would tell him, and he would then question Miss Partle and maybe her body would be found.
John Armitage carried his groceries to his car parked in the public car-park in front of Mircester police headquarters. Bill Wong hailed him. “On your own? Where’s your fiancee?”
For one split second, John wondered whom he was taking about and then rallied and said, “Oh, Agatha. She must still be up in London. Any luck with that mobile phone?”
“There was a call to him the night he was murdered. It came from a call-box in Notting Hill.”
“Pity. Look, Bill, I hope she isn’t getting herself into trouble.”
“You’d better tell me.”
“It’s just that she had this mad idea that the murderer was Miss Partle – you know, Binser’s secretary.”
“Why on earth should she think that?”
“It’s because she met her former secretary at the duck races. Former secretary married her boss. Agatha starts thinking about secretaries who are in love with their bosses and comes to the mad conclusion that the respectable Miss Partle must have gone around bumping off people to protect Binser. I just hope she doesn’t get into trouble. She’s gone to find out about her. Binser’s got powerful friends.”
Bill stood very still. “I’ve often thought,” he said slowly, “that although Agatha might sometimes do silly things, she is possessed of an almost psychic ability to leap to the right conclusion.”
John looked unconvinced. “Unless Miss Partle has any connection with Notting Hill, the whole idea remains farfetched.”
“I have the addresses of everyone concerned with the murder cases in the station,” said Bill. “Do no harm to have a look.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“All right.” Bill led the way into police headquarters and told John to take a seat and wait.
John waited and waited, feeling increasingly uneasy. Bill was taking an unusually long time.
At last Bill came out. “Miss Partle lives in Notting Hill,” he said. “I’ve phoned Kensington to pull her in for questioning just in case, and hope Binser doesn’t sue us.”
“Give me the address,” said John.
“No, one amateur is enough. Leave it to the police.”
John raced to the post office and asked for the London phone directory. He located Miss Partle’s address, got back into his car and set off at speed for London.
Agatha was in a state of sheer terror. For a long time she was unable to think. Then she remembered that paper-knife she had bought and put in the pocket of her coat. She twisted her bound hands, trying to get her fingers inside her coat pocket.
Then the cellar door opened again. This is it, thought Agatha. Miss Partle came down the stairs carrying a hammer. “I’ll just put an end to you,” she said, “and then worry about getting rid of the body later.”
She hefted the hammer and Agatha closed her eyes. Then, above their heads, the doorbell shrilled.
Miss Partle lowered the hammer. Should she answer it or wait for them to go away? But sometimes Mr. Binser sent important documents to her home for her to study. She dropped the hammer on the floor beside Agatha and went back up the stairs.
She opened the street door. Two policemen stood there. “Miss Partle?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if you would accompany us to the police station. Just a few more questions concerning the murder of Tristan Delon.”
“But I have already answered all your questions. Mr. Binser will be most displeased.”
“It won’t take long.”
The desire to get them away from the house prompted Miss Partle to say, “I’ll fetch my handbag.”
Agatha heard the voices but could not make out what they were saying. She heard Miss Partle go back into the kitchen, and then back to the front door. Agatha began to bang her feet on the floor. But the door slammed shut behind Miss Partle and the house was quiet.
Bill and Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes were speeding for London, siren blaring. “I told them to hold this Miss Partle until we got there,” said Wilkes.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Bill, “what if Agatha’s gone to her house?”
“They say she seemed to be alone.”
“Might be an idea to call at the house first and ask the neighbours if they saw anyone like Agatha call at the
