Hebberdon when no one was looking.”
“What? Dressed as a citizen of Titipu?”
“Say the show finished at ten. He’d still have time to get his make-up off and drive over and then nip back again in time for the party.”
“What’s all this about, Agatha?”
“He might be glad of our help. If he wanted our help, he might let us search the house.”
“Long shot.”
“Maybe. But I’ll ask him at the funeral tomorrow.”
“I think your timing’s wrong.”
“Why? He must have hated his mother after the way she brought him up.”
“Not necessarily. Mothers are mothers.”
“And by all accounts, this one was a right mother, as they say in New York.”
“Tut, Agatha. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Why not? I’m just joining the legions who haven’t a good word to say for the old bat. Let’s see if Percy is in his shed.”
Percy Fleming was delighted to see them. “A real-live murder and practically on one’s doorstep,” he said cheerfully. “Are you sleuthing? The police have been round but I couldn’t really tell them anything.”
“We were wondering whether you knew of any hidden passage in Ivy Cottage,” said Paul.
“I’ve heard about the treasure but never a word about a secret passage.”
“And you didn’t hear or see anything or anyone around on the night of the murder?”
“Not a thing. But I have a Theory.”
“That being?” asked Agatha.
“The daughter did it. Yes, she found the body. But what was she doing on the night of the murder? I asked one of the coppers. He said she was home all evening. Neighbours say her lights were on and heard her television going on until late. But I say, what’s to stop her from leaving the lights on and the telly on and nipping over to Hebberdon?”
“I didn’t see a car,” said Agatha. “How did she normally get over here?”
His face fell. “She took the bus, which arrives here in the morning, stayed with her mother and then took it back again at two in the afternoon.”
“But the buses don’t run in the evening, do they?”
“No. But she could have hired a car.”
“So she could,” said Agatha, suddenly weary. It was hot inside the shed and Percy was wearing a very strong aftershave. “Well, thanks for your help.”
“Waste of space,” grumbled Agatha as they walked back to the car. “What now?”
“Nothing till the funeral tomorrow.”
Six
A light drizzle was smearing the window-panes when Agatha woke up the next morning. She struggled out of bed and began to rummage through her wardrobe to find something suitable to wear for the funeral. Church of England meant all black was not necessary, but bright colours might be regarded as offensive. Then she had to wear suitable gear for any nimble action, such as stealing the key and rushing off to get it copied. She opted finally for a dark brown silk trouser suit and a white blouse. She could wear heels with it but carry flat shoes with her in a bag.
She peered anxiously at her hair. A line of grey was showing at the roots. Agatha let out a squawk of dismay. A picture of Juanita with her long black hair rose unbidden in her mind.
She went into the bathroom and rummaged along a shelf of hair conditioners, shampoos and dyes. Forgetting that she had found in the past that to colour her own hair instead of going to the hairdresser was often a mistake, she found a packet of brunette colour shampoo rinse and began to apply it.
Agatha was just reaching for the hairdrier when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch and found the time was ten-thirty. Must be Paul. Rats! She wrapped a towel around her head and put a dressing-gown on over her underwear and ran down and opened the door.
“Won’t be a minute,” she said to Paul.
“You look like more than a minute. Hurry up.”
Agatha ran back upstairs and dried her hair and brushed it into a smooth bob, scrambled into the trouser suit and blouse and surveyed herself in the mirror. The rain had stopped and a watery shaft of sunlight shone in and lit up her hair. She now had red roots.
“Agatha!” shouted Paul impatiently from the bottom of the stairs. Agatha seized a brown suede hat with a floppy brim, jammed it on her head and ran downstairs.
“You look like an agitated mushroom,” commented Paul. “I assume you’re somewhere under that hat. Let’s go.”
As he drove them towards Towdey, he glanced sideways at her. “The sun’s out and it’s quite warm. Women don’t really need to wear hats to funerals any more.”
“I like this hat,” said Agatha truculently. “It’s the height of fashion.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Are you always this rude?”
“No, but you’re a good teacher.”
They both relapsed into silence until they reached the church.
Paul parked beside the church wall and they got out and walked through the graveyard. “Don’t suppose she’ll be buried here,” said Paul, looking around.
“Why?”
“No room left. Have you noticed when anyone’s buried on television it’s usually in some old English churchyard? Doesn’t happen these days. The places are fairly walled up with the English dead.”
A mischievous breeze danced across the churchyard and whipped Agatha’s hat from her head and sent it flying. “I’ll get it,” said Paul and set off in pursuit. He returned with a sodden hat. “You can’t wear it. It ended up in a puddle.” He looked at her hair. “Quite fetching, you know. Brown hair with red roots.”
Agatha angrily took the wet hat from him and placed it on top of a gravestone.
“There’s Runcorn just going into the church,” hissed Paul.
“And Carol,” said Agatha in surprise. “She looks quite smart and cheerful. Let’s see who else has turned up.”
They entered the gloom of the church. It was quite full. Agatha saw Greta Handy and Percy Fleming sitting side by side. She assumed the rest were curious villagers.
“Peter Frampton has just come in with that peculiar girl, Zena,” whispered Paul.
Agatha and Paul had selected a pew at the back of the small church so that they would have a good view of everyone present. Peter walked up the aisle with Zena on his arm. She was wearing a dull red dress of Indian cotton and long wooden beads with clumpy boots. Her hair was worn down and brushed straight and nearly reached to her bottom. She turned her head and looked back down the church. Her make-up was brown with purple eye- shadow and purple lips.
“Odd couple,” murmured Agatha. “Could be his daughter.”
“Doubt it,” said Paul. “Hey, what if there isn’t any reception?”
“Drive to Ivy Cottage afterwards and hope there is.”
“I wonder whether they still begin with ‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together…’ and so on. Probably not. I hate these modern translations of the Bible. They lack the beauty of language in the King James’s Version and the absolute faith that underlies the words.”
Solemn music from the organ sounded out in the church. The coffin was carried in. Harry was one of the
