mostly Worcester’s case. Don’t flap about and get yourself nearly killed like you’ve been doing in the past. And remember that Worcester CID are very clever.”
“There are cases you would never have solved if it hadn’t been for me,” said Agatha huffily.
“I’ve told you and told you, the police always get there sooner or later. Take a break. Relax. Get a hobby.”
“You’re patronizing.”
“I’m cross because I got into trouble trying to cover up for you.”
“Sorry.”
“We’ll meet soon, Agatha.”
“Okay, how’s the romance?”
“Dead in the water. I don’t know what happened.”
“Take her home to meet the parents and all that?” asked Agatha with affected casualness.
“Yes, but it still collapsed.”
Poor Bill, thought Agatha. Mr. and Mr. Wong were enough to scare off any girl. But he adored his parents and she knew that any criticism of them would wound him deeply.
“Isn’t ricin an odd sort of poison?”
“Not all that odd. The murderer could have got away with it. It’s terribly hard to detect, almost impossible.”
“Seems to point to a pretty sophisticated murderer,” said Agatha. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing some ordinary village housewife would use.”
“Why did you say that?” His voice was sharp. “What ordinary village housewife did you have in mind?”
“I didn’t. I mean I just meant that it was a very exotic sort of poison.”
“If you say so.” Suspicious. “I feel there’s a lot you’re holding back.”
Agatha managed a light laugh. “Don’t I tell you everything?”
“Not always, no.”
“We’ll have a drink and a meal soon, Bill.”
“Right. Go carefully. See you.”
Agatha replaced the receiver. Instead of being relieved to find they were still friends, she now felt worried and guilty about lying to Bill.
They made their statements the following day at Mircester police headquarters and emerged from a gruelling session blinking in the mellow sunlight. Good weather had returned, but without the ferocious heat, and there was an autumnal crispness in the air.
“It’s still morning,” said Charles, “and at least you’re still free. Haven’t banged you up yet, which is a miracle. So what do we do now? Confront Mrs. Friendly?”
“Bit early. The hairy husband doesn’t play golf until the afternoon.”
“So let’s try the library and read up on castor-oil plants.”
Mircester Public Library was dark and silent, a marble-pillared, cavernous Victorian place. Agatha’s high heels clicked across the marble floor.
“Where do we start?” she whispered.
“We’11 look up an encyclopaedia.”
They searched along the reference shelves. “Here we are,” said Charles. “R for ricin.”
He flicked the pages. “Nothing here.”
“Try P for poison,” suggested Agatha.
“Right you are. Now let me see. Ah, poisonous plants. Here we go. Listen to this, Agatha.
“ ‘Castor-oil plant. Ricinus communis. Large plant of the spurge family grown commercially for the pharmaceutical and industrial uses of oil and for use in landscaping because of its handsome, giant, twelve-lobed palmate (fanlike) leaves. The brittle spinel, bronze-to-red clusters of fruits are attractive but often removed before they mature because of the poison, ricinine, concentrated in their mottled bean like seeds. Probably native to Africa-’ ”
“Not Evesham, then. Rats,” interrupted Agatha.
“Listen and learn,” he said severely. “ ‘Probably native to Africa, this species has become naturalized throughout the tropical world. The plants are cultivated chiefly in India and Brazil, largely for their oil.’ Aha here we go! ‘In temperate climates they are raised as annuals and grow one point five to two point four feet in a single season.’ There! This is a temperate climate. Ergo, all we need to do is keep looking in gardens.”
He flicked over another page. “Here are the symptoms of ricin poisoning. Burning of mouth, throat and stomach, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal cramps, dulled vision, respiratory distress, paralysis, death.’ ”
Agatha repressed a shudder. “What a way to go! Let’s go and eat and see if we can catch Mrs. Friendly on her own.”
At two o’clock that afternoon, they left the car outside Agatha’s cottage and walked towards the church. “We’ll wander amongst the gravestones,” said Charles. “I’ll look knowledgeable and take notes and you yack away as if you’re telling me the history. Look at this tombstone. Five children, died so young, and they talk about the good old days. Why do people keep talking about the good old days, Aggie?”
“Nostalgia. If people have had a reasonable childhood, then they remember a time when the days always seemed to be sunny and they had no responsibilities, like work or paying the bills, and grown-ups were some sort of know-all superior giants. Funny, that. It even works for me with the recent past. When I’m depressed and things aren’t moving forward, my mind harks back to the London days and what a marvellous time I had, when, come to think of it, I didn’t really have a marvellous time.” Agatha frowned in thought. “I suppose no matter how old one is, one has to always have a goal. Study something. What?”
Charles had muttered a soft exclamation. “I got a glimpse of Mr. Friendly driving off.”
“We’ll give it a few minutes,” said Agatha. “You know, I’m a bit apprehensive about all this. Why not leave it to the police?”
“Solving this murder is your goal, Aggie. We’ll ask a few questions here and there, see how we get on, and when it becomes tiresome, we’ll jack it in.”
“This is just a game for you!”
Charles shrugged. “Why not? Take all this murder and mayhem too seriously and you’ll go barmy. Let’s go and see Mrs. Friendly.”
Liza Friendly looked as if she did not want to let them in. “Just a few moments of your time,” pleaded Agatha.
“Very well, but I’ve got a lot to do.”
They sat down in the small, dark living room. Liza did not offer them tea or coffee but sat facing them, perched on the edge of a chair, her hands clasped in her lap.
Agatha decided to get straight to the point. “That hairdresser, Mr. John of Evesham, was killed… murdered.”
“It was food poisoning!” Mrs. Friendly’s eyes darted this way and that as if looking for escape.
“It’s in the papers this morning,” said Agatha. She and Charles had bought the newspapers on the way back from Mircester.
Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. “I don’t read the newspapers.”
But Agatha noted she did not wonder why they were questioning her.
“You knew Mr. John.” Agatha made it a statement, rather than a question.
“Well, I went to his salon a few times. But then it seemed an unnecessary expense. I do my hair myself now.”
And it looks it, thought Agatha brutally.
She took a deep breath. “So when did he start blackmailing you?”
Liza leapt to her feet. “Get out of here!” she shouted. “Get out of my house.”
“Sit down,” said Charles quietly. “We haven’t told the police, and Aggie here went to great lengths to destroy the evidence.”
Liza sat down suddenly, as if her legs had given way. She said through dry lips, “If my husband finds out, he’ll
