Agatha hardly ever recognized feelings of jealousy in herself. She persuaded herself that it was in the interests of the case to find out what Paul was doing.
“I’ll just go and join them,” she said.
“I can’t wait here!” complained Charles. “I’ll get booked.”
“Then find somewhere legal to park and join us.”
Agatha got out of the car and hurried off in the direction of the pub.
Paul and Haley were sitting at a corner table when she walked in. “Hullo!” said Agatha with a crocodile smile that contained no humour whatsoever.
Paul looked at her with an expression of dismay on his face. Agatha thought sourly he looked like an adulterous husband caught in the act.
“What are you doing here, Agatha?” he asked.
“I saw you and Haley and thought I’d join you,” said Agatha, preparing to sit down.
“Do you mind not joining us, Agatha? I’m going to talk computer stuff with Haley and I’m sure you’d find it very boring.”
“Oh, in that case…” Agatha turned towards the door.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he called.
Agatha went out and looked up and down the street. Charles was still parked where she had left him.
“You didn’t find a legal parking place?” asked Agatha, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Didn’t even try. I felt in my bones you wouldn’t be long.”
“Why?”
“When a middle-aged gent goes into a pub with a saucy blonde, I don’t think he wants anyone butting in.”
“It’s not like that,” said Agatha. “I met her with Bill and she asked Paul to help her with some computer stuff.”
“And so kindly helpful Paul sends you off with a flea in your ear?”
“I’m sure he’ll explain it all later,” said Agatha huffily.
“And look at it his way. He finds you cosy with me and gets jealous.”
“He wouldn’t have been jealous if you hadn’t implied we were having an affair!”
“You should be grateful to me,” said Charles loftily. “Nothing like a bit of competition to spice things up a bit. You never talk about James.”
“Leave it.”
“Okay.”
“This is an odd village,” said Charles as he parked in Towdey’s main street. “All these little thatched cottages crouched along the road like so many animals. Secretive-looking place.”
“It’s getting dark,” said Agatha, ever practical. “I think it’s going to rain.”
They rang the doorbell of Frampton’s cottage, but there was no reply.
“I suppose he must be out working at something,” said Agatha. “There’s a general store along the street. We’ll try there.”
A woman behind the shop counter told them that Mr. Frampton owned a building and demolition works in the new industrial estate outside Moreton-in-Marsh.
“So that’s where he gets his money from,” said Agatha as they got back into the car. “I wonder if that sort of demolition work means he could get his hands on cyanide.”
“Shouldn’t think so. I know cyanide is used in mining. We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”
“Have you any cards on you?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, why?”
“I think he’s a snob and I’m hoping to melt him with your title.”
“You’re an old-fashioned girl, Aggie. I’m a mere baronet, not a duke. And a title doesn’t melt anyone these days with so many odds and sods in the House of Lords.”
“Let’s see anyway.”
“Where is this industrial estate?”
“Turn off on the Oxford road. It’s just a few miles out of town.”
Frampton’s Building Works was a large, prosperous-looking modern building. And inside a glittering reception area which seemed to have been fashioned out of steel tubes and then decorated with plants sat Zena Saxon behind a desk. She had toned down her dress and make-up for work, or so it seemed. She was wearing a neat white blouse and subdued make-up, but when she stood up to greet them and walked round the desk, she revealed that on the lower half of her body she was wearing brief sky-blue shorts and very high stilettos.
“Wow!” whispered Charles.
He presented his card, introduced Agatha, and asked if they could speak to Peter Frampton.
“What about? I think he’s busy right now,” said Zena. She had a nasal singsong Birmingham accent.
“Please ask,” urged Charles.
She shrugged. “Wait here.” She swayed off into the nether regions.
“Frampton’s a lucky man,” said Charles. “That must be the best bum in the Midlands.”
“Control yourself,” snapped Agatha, reflecting moodily on the plight of middle-aged women who had to watch equally middle-aged men lusting after girls young enough to be their daughters.
She was gone quite a long time but eventually reappeared, followed by Peter Frampton, impeccably tailored and carrying a hard hat in one hand.
“Is this important?” he asked.
“It is,” said Charles. “Did you know a Mrs. Robin Barley?”
He frowned. He pressed one long finger against his forehead. Then his face cleared. “Can’t say I do.”
“You don’t seem surprised at the question,” said Agatha.
“Should I be?”
“Mrs. Robin Barley is the woman who has just been so dramatically murdered with cyanide.”
“Oh, that Mrs. Robin Barley. That’s why the name sounded familiar and gave me pause. But, no, sorry.”
“But the rector of Wormstone said you were advising her on the historical details of the Battle of Worcester, which was being re-enacted in the village,” lied Agatha.
“Was I? Dear me, when was this?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Agatha, wishing in that moment she’d asked the rector when the village Battle of Worcester had taken place.
He shook his handsome head. “I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I meet a lot of people.”
“Why did you ask Mrs. Witherspoon to sell her house to you?” asked Charles.
“It’s an interesting building and my passion is the seventeenth century.”
“But it’s a Tudor house, isn’t it?”
“I am fascinated with old buildings, that’s all.”
“I asked you this before,” said Agatha, “but I’ll ask you again. Did you hope to find Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s treasure?”
“I am sure that is long gone and I am sure previous owners of Ivy Cottage searched the place from the cellar to the rafters.”
“But why do you want to move into such a large house?” pursued Agatha.
“Meaning a single man should not want space? My dear Mrs. Raisin, I have an extensive library of historical books, some of them valuable and quite a lot in storage because at the moment I do not have room for them. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
They reluctantly left, unable to think of any more questions.
When they got back to Agatha’s cottage, Paul ran along to meet them. “The case is over,” he said. “Harry’s been arrested.”
“Why? How?” asked Agatha.
“He was over at Hebberdon around the time of the murder. The landlord of the local pub in Hebberdon saw him and was blackmailing him. Harry cracked and went to the police. He was seen going up to the house just before
