kill me.”
“I’ll be in more of a fix with the police than you if they find out what I did.” Agatha told her about going to the hairdresser’s home to try to get hold of anything that might incriminate Mrs. Friendly.
“So you see,” she ended, “it’s in your interest to help us. We must find out who really did it.”
There was a long silence. Oh, hurry up, thought Agatha. What if that husband of yours has left something behind and comes back for it?
Then Liza said with a sigh, “I was fascinated by him. He made me feel attractive. We began to meet occasionally for a coffee, and then, a few months ago, Bob went off to Scotland to play golf with an old school friend. We went out for dinner and then we went back to his house.”
She fell silent. “You slept with him,” prompted Agatha.
“Yes.”
“So then what happened?”
“He’d found out I had some money of my own. My mother left me some in her will that was in a separate bank account under my name. After that one night, he didn’t call, didn’t get in touch. I went to the salon several times, but he always got someone else to do my hair. I was frantic. I loved him. I thought I could leave Bob and go away with him. I wrote him several letters, pleading with him, reminding him of our love. And then he phoned and arranged to meet me in the salon after hours. He produced those letters and said unless I paid him, he would send the letters to my husband. Bob has a frightful temper. John wanted five thousand pounds. He said that would be enough and he would let me have the letters. So I paid him.”
Agatha looked at her with pity. “But you didn’t get the letters. He asked for more.”
Liza nodded.
“Did you give it to him?”
“I told him to wait, I needed time. Then I heard he was dead and I felt I had escaped from hell.”
Agatha looked around the poky cottage. “If you have money of your own and I assume your husband has money, why do you live in such a small place?”
“Bob always says we should keep hold of a lot of money for our old age. Old folks homes cost so much.”
“If your husband is as tyrannical as you make out, it’s a wonder he didn’t insist your money went into a joint account.”
“We never had one. Before Mother died, he gave me a weekly allowance. When I got my own money, he said I could use that.”
“You didn’t give John Shawpart a cheque, did you?” asked Charles.
She shook her head. “No, he wanted cash. I paid him in cash.”
“Good, the police won’t find any record of the payment in his bank.” Charles leaned forward. “You don’t think your husband could have found out anything? Shawpart was beaten up just before his death.”
“Oh, no. Bob would never have kept such a thing to himself.”
“Have you any children?” asked Agatha.
She shook her head sadly. “We were never able to have any. I wanted to adopt, but Bob said the kid could turn out to be a psychopath and he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Didn’t you ever work?” asked Agatha.
“I was a secretary when I met Bob. Shorthand and typing. I sometimes thought of going back to work, but Bob said nobody would want me. It’s all computers now.”
“Computing can be learned,” said Agatha.
“Bob would never let me.”
“Look, you’ve got your own money. Have you a car? Can you drive?”
“Yes, I have a little car.”
“So why don’t you just get in the car one day when he’s out and drive off,” said Agatha. “Start a new life somewhere else.”
“Oh, I couldn’t!”
“Why?”
“What would Bob do without me? Who would cook his meals and iron his shirts?”
“He would just have to learn to do that himself,” said Agatha, exasperated.
“We’re getting away from the point,” said Charles hurriedly. “Now, think. Did you ever see John Shawpart with any other women?”
Liza sat silently for a moment, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. Then she said, “When he had stopped getting in touch with me after… after that night, I would drive to his house, on Sundays and half day, Wednesday, and watch. I was mad with jealousy. There was one woman paid him a visit-Maggie, I think her name is. I’ve seen her in the salon. Then another time, I saw Mrs. Dairy coming out of his house.”
Agatha stared at her. “Our Mrs. Dairy? The terror of Carsely?”
“Yes, her. But she was probably collecting for something.”
“Well, well. Anyone else?”
“A young pretty woman, thirties, that’s young to me. I hadn’t seen her before.”
“What did she look like?”
“Blonde, slim, a bit rabbity, rather prominent teeth, skinny legs.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. It’s God’s punishment on me!”
“I don’t think God punishes or rewards,” said Charles unexpectedly. “Those are both such human failings, starting off with, ‘If you’re good, Santa will give you a bike for Christmas.’ I never got one because I was told that Santa was mad at me for blocking up the chimney and smoking out the house.”
Agatha blinked at him in surprise and then went on, “Liza-may I call you Liza?”
She nodded.
“The thing is, Liza, don’t worry about the police. Do you think anyone might have seen you with Mr. John?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps his neighbours… ”
“But his neighbours didn’t know you?”
“No.”
“So at the worst, all they can give is a description, and you’ll probably be lost in all the other descriptions of women Mr. John was seen with.”
“How was he poisoned?”
“Ricin.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a poison from castor-oil beans.”
“But I’ve never even heard of it!”
There was the sound of a key in the door. Agatha glanced out of the cottage window and noticed the leaded panes were smeared with rain.
“Bob!” said Liza.
“So that’s all settled,” said Agatha. She raised her voice. “You’re like me, Mrs. Friendly, and don’t want to perform at any of their concerts, but I would appreciate your help with the catering on the next occasion. Why, Mr. Friendly! We were just leaving.”
“Good,” he said rudely, swinging a bag of gold clubs from his shoulder and stacking them in a corner. “Bloody rain.”
Agatha and Charles got up and made their way to the door. “My wife has enough to do with the housekeeping here without wasting time on parish affairs,” he said as they edged past him.
“Quite,” murmured Agatha. “Such a pleasure to meet you again.”
“Tcha!”
“And ya sucks boo to you to,” said Agatha when she and Charles emerged into the pouring rain. “Let’s run. I’m getting soaked.”
They ran all the way to Agatha’s cottage. They dried themselves off in their respective rooms, changed into dry clothes and met up again in the kitchen.
“Well,” said Agatha, “what did you make of that? Mrs. Dairy!”
