open up the chest and just see curtains. You know what we should do, Agatha?”
“What?”
“We should go back there tonight with gloves on and go exactly everywhere we’ve been and wipe it clean. Then we can get Bill over and say we’re sure an old house like that would have a secret passage and had they looked.”
“And while we’re wiping it clean, we could be wiping away traces of the murderer as well.”
“Anyone with murder in mind would have got rid of fingerprints.”
“All right. But I hate the idea.”
At midnight that evening, Mrs. Davenport stood screened by bushes at the end of Lilac Lane and peered along at the cottages of Paul and Agatha. She had been watching on and off all evening. Her patience was rewarded just as the church clock tolled out the last stroke of midnight. Paul Chatterton came out and went to Agatha’s cottage. She came out. He kissed her on the cheek. He was carrying a travel bag. They both got into Agatha’s car and drove off.
Juanita Chatterton has got to be told. It is my duty, Mrs. Davenport told herself.
Seven
AGATHA and Paul worked all night and into the next morning, dusting and wiping and vacuuming. When they left in daylight, they were too exhausted to care whether anyone saw them. The main thing was that they had removed all traces of their visit.
They agreed to go to bed and sleep and meet up in the evening to decide how they could tell the police about the passage.
Agatha’s last dismal thought before she plunged down into sleep was that they were indeed a pair of amateurs, blundering around, without really knowing what they were doing.
They met in Agatha’s kitchen at seven in the evening to plan what to do.
“An anonymous letter?” suggested Agatha.
“Maybe. There must be another way. I wonder whether Peter Frampton knew about the secret passage.”
“Perhaps. The person who did know was whoever put that chest over the trapdoor and put those curtains on top. It was a very old chest.”
“But it must have been moved at some time. The cellar can’t have been full of junk from day one.”
“We could, you know,” said Agatha cautiously, “throw ourselves on Bill’s mercy.”
“Won’t do. Breaking and entering. Destroying valuable evidence. There’s no way he could cover up for us.”
“So what about an anonymous letter?”
“Risky. They can get your DNA off the envelope flap.”
“There are self-seal envelopes,” Agatha pointed out. “I know, Moreton-in-Marsh police station is closed at certain times. Certainly, I think, during the night. We could just post a sheet of paper through the letter-box. Not typed. They used to be able to trace typewriters. Maybe they’re able to trace computers. I’ve got a new packet of computer printing paper. It’s a common brand.”
Paul sighed. “Okay, let’s try it. But we’d better wear gloves.”
Agatha went upstairs and extracted a pair of thin plastic gloves from a hair-dye kit she hadn’t used and went back to join Paul.
They went through to her desk and Agatha put on the gloves and opened the packet of printing paper and gingerly extracted one sheet.
Holding it by the tips of two fingers, she carried it through to the kitchen. With her other hand, she tore off a sheet of kitchen paper and spread it on the kitchen table and then laid the sheet of paper down on it.
“What should I write?” she asked.
“Keep it simple,” said Paul. “Block letters. Say: ‘There is a secret passage in Ivy Cottage. The entrance is at the bottom of an old chest in the cellar.’”
Agatha tried to hold her breath as she wrote, terrified that even a drop of saliva would betray her to the forensics lab in Birmingham.
“There!” she said. “Now how do we get it through the letter-box at the police station without being seen? There are flats for retired people bang opposite and some old person might be watching.”
“Fold it into a square,” said Paul. “We’ll need to think of some disguise.”
“Mrs. Bloxby’s got a box of costumes she keeps for the amateur dramatic company. Funny thing. They’ve just finished a production of The Mikado. She’ll wonder why we want something. I don’t even want to tell Mrs. Bloxby about this.”
Paul said, “I’ll tell her we’re going to a fancy dress party at a friend’s in London.”
“If we wore The Mikado costumes, that would turn the police’s attention back to Harry-that is, if they ever turned their attention off him.”
“Maybe there’s something else. I don’t think we should both dress up. All we need is one of us in disguise. Nothing dramatic.”
At two in the morning Agatha, wearing a bright red wig and a long droopy tea-dress-from a production of The Importance of Being Earnest-nervously walked round from the back road by the cricket ground where Paul had parked the car. A lorry rumbled past her on the Fosseway, but the driver was staring straight ahead. Moreton-in- Marsh seemed deserted. She scurried up to the police station and popped the note through the door.
She heaved a sigh of relief and started to hurry back. A hand caught her arm. “Evenin,’ gorgeous.”
She swung round. A drunk man, small in stature, and far gone in drink, leered up at her. “How’s about a kiss?”
“Let go of me,” hissed Agatha.
The street lights shone on his glasses. They looked two small orange moons in the light from the sodium lamps.
He was amazingly strong. He twisted her arm behind her back. “Come ’ere,” he said thickly, his breath stinking of what smelt to the terrified Agatha like methylated spirits. She swung away from him and kneed him hard, right in his crotch. He let out an animal cry of pain and released her and then he started to scream. A light went on in the building opposite and Agatha picked up her skirts and ran.
Paul was standing by the car, looking anxiously down the road as Agatha ran towards him.
“Drive,” she panted. “Get us out of here!”
They scrambled into the car and Paul shot off.
“What the hell…?” he began.
“A drunk,” said Agatha bitterly. “I thought he was going to rape me. I hit him where it hurts most. That was what the screaming was about. Paul, we’re blundering worse and worse. I think we should keep a low profile.”
“Suits me,” said Paul. “I’m exhausted.”
Agatha spent a miserable time the following day. She knew she was a successful public relations officer. She had thought she was a successful detective. Now, she felt like a failure. With the help of Paul, she had probably destroyed valuable evidence. They had in their possession a valuable historical document. She suddenly groaned aloud. Why, oh, why had they not put the diary back where they had found it and left it for the police to find?
In the cottage next door, Paul’s thoughts were pretty much the same-with one difference. He blamed Agatha. It was her fault she had got him embroiled in all this madness. He totally forgot that it had been his idea in the first place. What if they had left even half a fingerprint? He forgot that he had recently found Agatha attractive. Now he thought of her as a pushy middle-aged woman who might be mad. He had a longing to talk to his tempestuous wife, but when he phoned Madrid, her mother said she was out and she didn’t know when Juanita would be back.
He had just replaced the receiver when the phone rang. “Yes?” he said tentatively.
“Look, Paul, it’s Agatha here. I was thinking…”
“I haven’t time to talk to you at the moment,” he said harshly. “Goodbye.”
