“That’s that,” said Agatha. “We’ll find out where he lives and tackle him at his home.”
“Let’s ask some of the locals about Ivy Cottage. Mr. Bragg,” said Paul, approaching that elderly gentleman.
“Yuss?”
“Can you tell us anything about the history of Ivy Cottage?”
“Where her was killed?”
“Yes.”
“It be an old place. Tudor.”
“We know that,” said Paul impatiently. “Weren’t there supposed to be jewels hidden there?”
“Oh, that old story. Naw. Nary a one, I reckon. If there was anything, it was stolen long afore I was born and that weren’t yesterday.” He laughed, spraying Paul with cake crumbs.
“We might be interested in buying it,” said Agatha.
“Then you should see Mr. Frampton. He were arter it, but the old girl wouldn’t budge.”
Agatha’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Do you know where Mr. Frampton lives?”
“Third cottage down from the pub. Faggots Bottom.”
Agatha blinked at him. “That can’t be the name of the place!”
“That it is. Always was. Course Mr. Frampton just has a number outside. Didn’t hold with the name.”
A watery sunlight was sparkling off raindrops on the old trees surrounding the churchyard when they left.
“So what do you think?” asked Paul when they got into the car.
“It could be a front, the historical society, I mean,” said Agatha, ever eager to discover major crime syndicates in the Cotswold villages.
He laughed. “No, you weren’t paying attention. He gave a very good lecture. He was passionate about it. He doesn’t really care if most of the audience only come for the eats.”
“But what about that girl who came in? Totally out of place.”
“She may be a relative. Stop speculating and see if we can get some facts.”
They drove slowly past the pub and counted off two cottages and stopped outside the third.
“There’s a light on, anyway,” said Agatha. “Must be at home.”
“Unless he left it on as security.”
They got out of the car and walked to the cottage door. Agatha rang the bell.
The door opened and Peter Frampton surveyed them impatiently. “Is it important?” he asked.
“We wanted to ask you about Ivy Cottage,” said Agatha.
“Well, what about it?”
“Do you mind if we come in for a moment?” asked Paul.
“Just for a minute,” he said reluctantly.
He turned away and they followed him into a small dark living room. He did not ask them to sit, simply stood facing them.
“The story of Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s jewels,” said Paul. “Any truth in that story?”
“I believe there is, or rather was. There is a short history of the village published in the nineteenth century. Evidently one of the owners around 1884 practically had the cottage dismantled looking for the treasure, but nothing was found.”
“What about secret passages?”
Peter Frampton threw back his head and laughed. “None of those. I once got Mrs. Witherspoon’s permission to search Ivy Cottage, but there was nothing odd there. No jewels, no secret passage.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Agatha, disappointed. “Thank you for your time.”
“So where do we go from here?” asked Agatha as they drove off. “No wicked hotel owner, no sinister man from the historical society.”
“Someone killed her and it was probably Harry. Let’s concentrate on Harry.”
“Not much good. The police will have been concentrating their efforts on Harry and I don’t see that we can find out anything they can’t. What about the daughter? She may have known she wasn’t going to get anything and murdered her mother in a rage.”
“Let’s leave it until tomorrow. I’m tired.”
“And I’m hungry,” said Agatha, hoping he would ask her out for dinner.
“I’ll leave you to your microwave meals.” Paul laughed and Agatha repressed an impulse to hit him.
Agatha slept heavily and woke to the sounds of cleaning. Doris Simpson, who “did” for Agatha, had obviously arrived.
Agatha washed and dressed and went downstairs just as Doris emerged from the kitchen. “Morning, Agatha,” said Doris, who was one of the very few women in the village to use Agatha’s first name.
“Come into the kitchen and join me for a coffee, Doris. I want to know if you’ve heard anything.”
“I made a fresh pot of coffee.” Doris sat down at the kitchen table. “I let your cats out into the garden.”
“Thanks,” said Agatha. “How’s Scrabble?”
Scrabble was a cat Agatha had rescued during one of her cases. Feeling that three cats were too much, she had given Scrabble to the cleaner.
“Scrabble’s blooming,” said Doris. She helped herself to three spoonfuls of sugar and then a generous topping of milk. “Don’t know how you can drink it straight black like that. What do you want to know?”
“Have you heard any gossip about Mrs. Witherspoon?”
“That old woman that got murdered? She did get murdered, didn’t she? There was a bit in the paper this morning. I didn’t see it, but someone in the village told me.”
“Yes, it came out at the inquest. So, heard anything?”
“Too early yet, Agatha. You see, up till this morning, everyone thought it was an accident. But I’ll ask around. I hear you’ve been seeing a lot of your neighbour.” She tilted her head to one side and peered at Agatha through her glasses.
“I’ve been asking around about Mrs. Witherspoon and he’s been helping me.”
“Doesn’t do to mess with married men.”
“I’m not messing with him,” said Agatha crossly. “And I’ve met his wife.”
“Oh, that Spanish woman. Very rude, she was. Told one of my ladies that Carsely was a living grave and she wasn’t ever coming back.”
“I think she’s very temperamental,” said Agatha cautiously. “She wants her husband to live in Spain.”
“What does he think about that?” asked Doris.
Agatha shrugged. “Don’t believe he wants to, but it’s none of my business.”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Agatha.
She opened the front door to Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. “Official?” asked Agatha.
“Semi,” he said, following her indoors. “I wondered if you had unearthed anything.”
“Nothing much. Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Morning, Doris.”
“Morning, Bill. I’ll get one with my work, Agatha. I was going to feed the cats for you, in case you wanted a long lie-in, but I couldn’t find any tins of cat food.”
“I’ll get some from the shop this morning.”
When Doris had left and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner and was busily cleaning the living-room, Bill said, “She doesn’t know you feed your cats on fresh fish and pate, now does she?”
Agatha turned pink. “I give them a little treat from time to time. So what have you found out?”
“It’s hard to pin-point the exact time of death, but from eight that evening until midnight, Harry Witherspoon was in an amateur production of The Mikado in Mircester. He’s in the chorus. He attended the back-stage party after the show, which went on late.”
“But she was found in her night-gown. It could have happened during the night.”
“From the contents of her stomach, the pathologist suggests she probably died around eleven o’clock.”
“Rats! He never left the theatre?”
“Not according to witnesses. Have you got anything?”
