might have been something or someone she’s been involved with. Did you ask him whether she had any relationships with men?”
“Don’t think I did.”
“Well, there you are. Her murder might not have anything to do with this first one.” Charles finished his breakfast and stood up. Hodge, the cat, slid past him out into the garden, followed by Boswell. Hodge was holding a sausage in his mouth.
“Waste of food,” said Charles crossly. “After all my hard work you’re not supposed to feed your breakfast to the cats. So let’s go.”
Harry Witherspoon’s shop was closed and there was a FOR SALE sign in the window. “Hope he’s at home,” said Agatha. “It’s not far from here.”
Harry answered the door to them, blinking in the sunlight. “Oh, it’s you,” he said ungraciously. “Come in. Who’s this? Where’s the other fellow?”
“This is Sir Charles Fraith, who has helped me on cases before.” Oh, the magic of a title, thought Agatha, as Harry smiled and began to fuss. “Must offer you something. Too early for a drink?”
“Nothing for us,” said Agatha firmly. “What about this Robin Barley business?”
“I can’t understand it,” said Harry, looking bewildered. “She was an infuriating woman. But to kill her, and in such an elaborate way!”
“And you weren’t at the theatre?” asked Charles.
“No, thank God. At the time she was being murdered I was over in Broadway in a pub having drinks with this chap in the antiques business who is going to offer a good sum for my stock and may take over the shop as well. I need some ready cash. The lawyers say they can advance me money on Mother’s will because I haven’t been charged with anything, but I want to have the whole thing settled.”
“Did Robin have any lovers?” asked Agatha.
“I don’t know. She went around in the company of a lot of young gays. Then she was friendly with her local rector. We all rather kept clear of her.”
“I want to ask you about that secret passage,” said Agatha. “When Paul and I wanted to search the house, you refused permission. Why? Did you know about the passage?”
He shook his head. “You’ve no idea what our upbringing was like. After school we were sent up to our rooms and locked in, only to be let out for half an hour for supper and then locked in for the night. I often climbed out of the window and escaped, just to get away. Mother found out and said Carol had told her. When I got into trouble, she always said it was Carol who had told her. Now, I see it was never Carol, it was just her way of divide and rule.”
“But your mother must have known about the passage.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, when that ghost business started, if she’d known, she would have told the police. I know she once told me that when she’d bought the house there was a lot of old junk left in the cellar and she should really get someone to take it off to the tip. But she was penny-pinching, so I guess that was why she left it there.”
“I wonder if the two murders are connected,” said Charles.
“I can’t see that they are.” Harry gave a weary shrug. “Mind you, Robin infuriated a lot of people.”
“Not much there,” said Charles, as they drove towards the village of Wormstone. “Let’s hope the rector, Mr. Potter, can come up with something.”
Mr. Potter was welcoming but puzzled to find that Agatha should think he had anything to add to what he had already told her.
His housekeeper served them tea in the rectory garden, a peaceful place with apricot trees growing against a mellow stone wall and a large round pond where water-lilies opened their waxy petals to the sun. Agatha, looking at Mr. Potter’s mild, tranquil face and then round his peaceful garden, experienced a pang of envy. How pleasant it would be to be comfortable in one’s own skin, to be free of worries and inadequacies.
Charles said, “Perhaps there might be a clue in any relationships Mrs. Barley might have had?”
“I don’t really know of any. She was always busy. You would have thought her art and the theatre would take up all of her time, but she was always organizing something new.”
“Like what?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, so many things. Plays in the church. The village fete-provided she opened it. She had boundless energy.” His face suddenly creased in a smile. “I thought she was going to be killed once.”
Agatha, who had been lounging in her chair, sat up straight. “Tell us about it.”
“She had been over at Stow once, where the Sealed Knot were re-enacting the Battle of Worcester. Mrs. Barley decided we were going to outdo the Sealed Knot in a re-enactment. She divided up the villagers into Roundheads and Cavaliers. It was that very hot summer four years ago. I tried to point out to her that this is a very small village and we hadn’t really enough people to play the parts, but she was determined because she said Midlands Television was going to film it. As I said, it was a very hot summer and she had made the mistake of supplying the ‘troops’ with a plentiful amount of mead and cider. Instead of making everyone cheerful, the drink made a lot of people tetchy, and what with the heat and a general dislike of being bullied into things by Mrs. Barley, tempers began to run high. We had to wait about because no television camera appeared. At last, she shouted to them to go ahead, and the battle began to get nasty. I said to her I was frightened someone would get hurt.
“She strode into the midst of the battle, shouting, ‘Stop it! You are behaving like children.’ She jumped back to avoid being trampled by a horse, tripped and sat down on a cow-pat. The whole crowd erupted into laughter. It was very cruel of the villagers, but it restored good humour. Poor Mrs. Barley just walked away. Her face was scarlet and she was nearly in tears.”
“She would need advice to get it right,” said Agatha slowly. “Did she have some sort of historical expert to help her?”
“Mrs. Barley might have had. But if she had, she didn’t tell me.”
“But don’t you think,” said Agatha eagerly, “that she might have asked for expert advice? Have you heard of a Mr. Peter Frampton?”
“No. You see, a lot of people came and went in Mrs. Barley’s life.”
“Thank you for the tea,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “There’s someone I’ve got to see.”
“Peter Frampton?” asked Charles. “Who’s he? You didn’t mention him.”
“He heads a historical society at Towdey, which is a village near Hebberdon. Paul and I went to one of his lectures. It was supposed to be on local history, but we got a lecture on the Battle of Worcester instead. There was something else odd. This young girl, Zena Saxon, turned up during the lecture. I think she and Frampton are an item, which is odd.”
“Why?”
“Well, I would guess she’s in her early twenties, sort of local disco chick, and he’s in his late forties-grey hair, stylish, looks like a Conservative MP out of central casting.”
“Why on earth would he murder anyone?”
“He wanted Ivy Cottage, Mrs. Witherspoon’s house. Maybe he thought he could find the treasure. Maybe he knew about the secret passage.”
“What does he do when he’s not giving historical lectures?”
“I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to Hebberdon to find out.”
They were driving through Mircester when Agatha cried, “Stop the car!”
Charles swerved in towards the kerb and parked on a double yellow line. “Be quick,” he urged. “I don’t want to get a ticket for illegal parking. What is it?”
“I just saw Paul going into a pub with Haley.”
“And who’s Haley?” asked Charles patiently.
“She a policewoman. Bill’s quite keen on her. Paul offered to give her computer lessons.”
“So that explains what he’s doing.”
“He could be finding out things about the case from her.”
“If he finds out anything, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”
