James said, 'Our vet in Carsely died and we went to offer Mrs Bladen our sympathies, but she doesn't seem in need of any'
'No, she wouldn't' said Bunty. 'She had a very unhappy marriage'
'Other women?' suggested Agatha.
'I think it was more a question of money, or the lack of it. Greta Bladen was a wealthy woman when she married Paul, and he seemed to spend a great deal of her money. When she left him, that dingy little cottage was all she could afford. She really hated him. I heard how Bladen died. Now if he had been found dead because someone had biffed him with the frying-pan, that someone being Greta, I wouldn't have been at all surprised. But you'd really need to know about veterinary things to shove a syringe full of deadly stuff in him. I mean, think of it. How many of the population would know that stuff was deadly? Maybe his partner wanted the business for himself' And Bunty laughed.
James looked at his watch. 'We really must go-' 'Must you?' Bunty smiled at Agatha. 'Then do come back and see me. I'd like that'
Agatha smiled back, feeling all her social inadequacies fade away, feeling welcome.
'She had a point,' said Agatha as she drove out of the village. 'I mean about Rice. Surely it would need to be someone with a knowledge of veterinary medicine' 'Not necessarily,' he remarked. 'That story about the vet who died last year when the horse nudged his breast pocket with the syringe in it and caused his death was in all the local papers. I read it. Anyone could have read it and got the idea'
'But it would need to be someone who knew where he was going and what he was doing on that day'
'Any of his lady friends might know. 'What are you doing tomorrow, Paul?' 'Oh, I'm cutting the vocal cords of one of Pendlebury's horses.' That sort of thing'
'Yes, but say he had said that to me. I wouldn't immediately think of Immobilon'
'No, but a vet might talk about it, saying how deadly it was and talking about the accident of the previous year. I've got a feeling a woman did it'
Agatha was about to exclaim, 'So you
Bill's home came as a surprise to Agatha. She had naively expected something, well, more oriental and exotic. The Beeches was one of those closes designed by builders, each house different, with trim suburban lawns, oozing respectability and dullness. Agatha knew that Bill's father was Hong Kong Chinese and his mother from Gloucestershire, but she had not expected him to live somewhere so ordinary. Bill's house was called Clarendon, the name being poker-worked on a wooden sign hung on a post at the gate. They went up a trim path between regimented flower-beds and rang the bell, which played a chorus of 'Rule, Britannia'.
Bill himself answered the door. 'Come in. Come in,' he cried. Til just put you in the lounge and go and get the drinks. Ma's in the kitchen getting dinner ready.'
Agatha and James sat in the lounge, not looking at each other. There was a three-piece suite, shell-backed, in a nasty sort of grey wool material. There were Venetian blinds drawn down over the 'picture' windows and niched curtains. The fitted carpet was in a noisy geometric design of red and black. The wallpaper was white and gold Regency stripe. There were little occasional pie-crust tables on spindly legs. A display cabinet full of Spanish dolls and little bits of china stood against one wall. A gas fire with fake coals and logs burned cheerfully but threw out very little heat.
Agatha longed for a cigarette but could not see an ashtray.
Bill came in with a small tray on which were three tiny glasses of sweet sherry.
'You're honoured' said Bill. 'We don't use this room much. Keep it for best.'
'Very nice' said Agatha, feeling strange and awkward at seeing her Bill, chubby and oriental as usual, in these cold English suburban surroundings.
'May I use your toilet?' she asked.
'Top of the stairs. But don't go standing on the hand basin.'
Agatha climbed up thickly carpeted stairs and pushed open the door of a bathroom which contained a suite in Nile green. The toilet had a chenille cover. A flowery notice on the back of the bathroom door stated, 'When you have had a tinkle, please wipe the seat.'
She tugged at the toilet roll to get a piece of tissue to blot her lipstick and started in alarm as the toilet-roll holder chimed out 'The Bluebells of Scotland'.
'Dinner's ready' said Bill when she arrived downstairs again.
He led them across the hall and into another small room, the dining-room, where at the head of the table sat his father, a small morose Chinese gentleman with a droopy moustache, a grey baggy cardigan and large checked carpet slippers.
Bill performed the introductions. Mr Wong grunted by way of reply, picked up his knife and fork and stared at the polished surface of the laminated top of the table. Agatha looked down at a place-mat depicting Tewkesbury Abbey and wished she had not come.
A hatch from the kitchen shot up and a Gloucester accent said shrilly, 'Bill! Soup!'
Bill collected plates of soup and passed them round. 'Have you got that bottle of Liebfrau-milch, Ma?' he called.
'In 'er fridge'
Til get it'
Mrs Wong appeared. She was a massive woman with a discontented, suspicious face and appeared to resent having guests. Bill poured wine.
The soup was canned oxtail. Little triangles of bread were passed around. Even James Lacey seemed stricken into silence.
'Roast beef next' said Bill. 'Nobody does roast beef quite like Ma'
'That's for sure' said Mr Wong suddenly, making Agatha jump.
The roast beef was incredibly tough and the table knives were blunt. It took all their concentration to hack pieces off. The cauliflower was covered in a coat of thick white sauce, the carrots were overcooked and oversalted, the Yorkshire pudding was like salted rubber and the peas were those nasty processed kind out of a can which manage to turn everything on the plate green.
'Days are drawing out' said Mrs Wong.
'That's for sure' said Mr Wong.
'Soon be summer' pursued Mrs Wong, glaring fiercely at Agatha, as if blaming her for the seasons. I hope we get another nice summer' said James.
Mrs Wong rounded on him. 'You call last summer nice? Did you hear that, Father? He called last summer nice?7
'Some people' muttered Mr Wong, taking more cauliflower.
'So hot, it nearly brought on one of my turns' said Mrs Wong. 'Didn't it nearly, Father?'
'That's for sure.'
Silence.
Til get the pudding' said Bill.
'Sit down' said his mother. 'These are your guests. I told you I wanted to watch that quiz on the telly, but you would have them'
Soon bowls of stewed apples and custard were banged in front of them. I want to go home, thought Agatha . . . Oh, please God, let this evening be over quickly.
Take them through to the lounge' said Mrs Wong when the dreadful meal was over. Til bring the coffee'
'You really must show me your garden' said James. I'm very interested in gardens'
'We're not going out in the evening air to catch our deaths' said Mrs Wong, looking outraged. 'Are we, Father?'
'Funny thing to suggest' said Mr Wong.
To Agatha's and James's relief, they had only Bill for company over coffee. Tm so glad you could come' said Bill. Tm really proud of my home. Ma's made quite a little palace out of it'
'Really cosy' lied Agatha. 'Bill, are you sure there is nothing odd about Bladen's death?'
'Nothing that anyone could find' he said. He looked amused. 'You two have been sleuthing'
'Just asking around' said Agatha. 'Bill, do you mind if I have a cigarette?'
