Agatha sighed. “Nothing. We spent a dreary evening at the historical society at Towdey.”
“Why there?”
“Ivy Cottage is an old house. During the Civil War, a Cavalier, Sir Geoffrey Lamont, fleeing the Battle of Worcester, took refuge there. He was supposed to be carrying a fortune in jewels and gold with him. His host, Simon Lovesey, unknown, I suppose, to Lamont, was a Cromwell sympathizer and turned him in. Nothing was ever heard of the fortune. Legend has it that the fortune is somewhere in the house.”
“Sounds like a Boy’s Own story. Hidden treasure!” scoffed Bill. “Anyway, Simon Lovesey probably became richer or gave the booty to Cromwell.”
“I suppose,” said Agatha. “Dead ends all round. But the fact remains that even before her death, someone was able to get into the house. There may even be a secret passage.”
“Agatha! I am sure generations of owners have turned the place upside down looking for the jewels. So if there was a secret passage, they’d have found it.”
“Maybe. But would they talk about it? I mean, if they were looking for jewels and only found an old secret passage, would they bother talking about it?”
“You’re clutching at straws,” said Bill.
“You haven’t even got a straw to clutch at,” commented Agatha, lighting a cigarette. “Nothing from forensics? No footprints anywhere?”
“Nothing of use.”
“What about the daughter, Carol? She needs money. She might have thought she was inheriting something, or maybe she knew she wasn’t and killed her mother in a fit of rage, and she has a key.”
“She’s a sad creature and has been treated badly by her mother but she doesn’t seem the type to plan such a murder. Whoever did this was cold and calculating. Don’t worry. They’re working on it.”
“They? Not you?”
“No, the case is being handled by Detective Inspector Runcorn.”
“Oh, him! Nasty chauvinist.”
“Agatha, it’s no use trying to talk like an old-fashioned women’s libber when you fall for any man who crosses your path.”
“I do not! I have not fallen for Paul!”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” called Doris.
“It’s Mr. Chatterton,” she called.
Bill grinned as Agatha squawked and ran for the stairs. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
When Agatha came back to join them, Bill noticed the pretty summer dress and the newly applied make- up.
“It’s seems no one’s getting anywhere,” said Paul. He turned to Bill. “Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”
“Not my case. I’ve no doubt Runcorn, who’s in charge of it, will be there.” Paul flashed a warning look at Agatha. How could they steal the house key and not be observed?
“I’d better get on,” said Bill. “If I hear anything interesting I’ll let you know.”
“That’s odd,” said Agatha after he had left.
“What’s odd?”
“Usually he warns me to stay clear and leave it to the police.”
“Then take it as a compliment to your detective abilities.”
“My detective abilities are not doing much for me in this case.”
“What can we get that the police can’t?” said Paul. “I’ll tell you. Gossip. I think we should drive over and see the neighbours again.”
“You mean Greta and Percy?”
“Yes, them.”
“Worth a try, I suppose.” She raised her voice. “I’m going out for a little, Doris.”
“Don’t forget to get food for the cats.”
“I won’t. Come on, Paul.”
As they drove into Hebberdon, Agatha said, “We should remember that Greta threatened to stick a bread knife into Mrs. Witherspoon.”
“You’ve met Mrs. Witherspoon. Seems just the sort of thing a lot of people must have said to her. But saying and doing are two different things. Oh, look at the roses!” He pointed to where rambling roses in pink and white tumbled over the doorways of two cottages. “It’s almost as if God is compensating us for the dreadful autumn, winter and spring of rain and more rain.”
Agatha grunted. She always felt uneasy when people mentioned the God word. But she had to admit to herself that she became so used to the beauty of the Cotswolds that she was apt to take it all for granted-except two days after a visit to London.
“Well, here’s Pear Cottage. Let’s start off with Greta.”
Greta answered the door to them, wearing trousers and a sleeveless shirt. Agatha was struck anew at how muscular Greta was. Although small and round, there seemed to be no spare fat on her figure.
“Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “So it’s murder. Not surprised. Could have murdered the old bird myself. Come in.”
They followed her into her living-room and sat down.
“The police seem to think that her son Harry did it,” said Paul.
“That little pussy-cat! Know why he kept away from her? She terrified him. Old folks round here say she beat him when he was a boy. That’s why he turned out the way he is.”
“What way?” asked Agatha.
“Well, he’s a poof, isn’t he?”
“Do you mean he is homosexual?” said Agatha.
“Stands to reason. Not married.”
Agatha suddenly thought of James, who had remained a bachelor until his middle age, when he had married her.
“The fact that he is not married,” said Agatha in a cold voice, “does not mean that he is homosexual. Furthermore, if he is, it does not mean that he is either lacking in brains or courage.”
Greta snorted with contempt. “You’re one of those bleeding-heart liberals.”
Paul suppressed a grin. He wondered if Agatha had ever been accused of such a thing before. But seeing that Agatha was about to renew the attack, he said quickly, “Did you happen to hear any stories about a secret passage to Ivy Cottage?”
“Not that I ’member. Why?”
“Someone was trying to frighten her. I mean, we spent the night there and there was carbon dioxide gas coming under the door.”
“Did that herself to get the attention.”
“Maybe,” said Paul. “On the other hand, if someone else was doing it, there may be a secret way in. And what about this old story about treasure being hidden in the house?”
“That’s all it is. Just an old story.”
“On the night she was killed,” Agatha put in, masking her dislike for Greta, “you didn’t see or hear anyone around? Any strangers reported in the village?”
“You should leave detecting to the police. Don’t you think they’ve asked around? They’ve had men going from door to door.”
Agatha had had enough. She stood up. “Thank you for your time. Come along, Paul.”
Paul meekly followed her out.
“Bitch!” said Agatha loudly.
“Shut up. She’ll hear you and we might need her again.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Agatha. “Anyway, I’ve got a good idea.”
“Like what?”
“Like Harry is now prime suspect, alibi or not. I bet the police still think he might have sneaked over to
