the police find some evidence that Barry Briar was blackmailing someone else.”
“We’ll sleep on it.”
Back at her cottage, Agatha switched off the phone and disconnected the doorbell. “Don’t want to be disturbed,” she said. “I’m going to sleep as long as possible.”
“I’m going to make breakfast.”
“Help yourself. I’m too tired to eat.”
Before Agatha plunged down into sleep, she wondered what Paul would make of the latest development and wished that Charles would take himself off.
Ten
AGATHA’S first thought on waking later in the day was that they should try to see Carol and then go on to Wormstone. When she got up, it was to find Charles was still asleep. She defrosted a package which turned out to be lasagne, microwaved it and ate it. Then she phoned Paul but didn’t get a reply.
Impatient for action, she woke Charles and then had a shower and dressed. Charles was in the kitchen when she went downstairs, playing with the cats by tossing a crumpled ball of alumium foil in the air and watching them leap for it.
She surveyed the scene from the kitchen door, wondering, as she had wondered so many times in the past, what Charles really thought about her. He came and went at will, always as self-contained and enigmatic as her cats.
“I thought we should try to see Carol and find out how Harry’s getting on and then go to Wormstone,” she said.
“Righto,” said Charles lazily. He opened the kitchen bin to drop the foil into it and looked down at the discarded package of lasagne. “Aggie, you’re supposed to eat a certain amount of fresh fruit and vegetables each day. All you do is smoke, drink black coffee, and eat trash. You’ll get spots.”
“I’m too old to get spots.”
“One is never too old to get spots. Or cancer.”
“I haven’t had cancer. You’ve had cancer.”
“But I swear it’s my healthy life-style that fought it off. Okay, let’s go.”
Carol was at home. Her eyes were blotchy with recently shed tears. “Poor Harry,” she said. “Isn’t it awful?”
“He has been actually charged, has he?” asked Charles.
“They’ve charged him with the murder of Mother. Oh, dear, what can I do?”
“We’re working on it,” said Agatha. “Did he say why he went over to see your mother that particular night?”
“He said he couldn’t stop worrying about the financial mess he was in. He said it was just an impulse. He wanted to try again to see if she would lend him some money. He said he got no reply. He assumed she had seen him from the window and had decided not to open the door. She had done that before. So he just drove back and joined the party.”
“It’s a wonder the stage-door man didn’t see him coming and going.”
“Freddy was at the party himself. They decided there was no need for him to man the stage door after the party began.”
“Are you sure neither of you knew about that secret passage?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then why were you both so reluctant to let us search the house?”
“Harry had been down in the cellar and he said there was a lot of stuff there, old toys, things like that. He said we might be able to get a good price for some of it.” She turned pink. “He was worried you might pinch some of it.”
Agatha experienced a flash of dislike for Harry. He probably did the murders, she thought.
“Had he paid Barry any money?” asked Charles.
“No. But he promised to. He said he would pay him when he got his inheritance.”
“How much was Barry asking for?”
“Fifty thousand pounds.”
“I wonder when Barry was murdered,” said Agatha. “You see, if it turns out he was murdered while Harry was in jail, then surely the police will have to let him go. Because that would prove that Barry was probably blackmailing someone else.”
A gleam of hope lit up Carol’s watery eyes. “Can you find out?”
“I’ll try,” said Agatha, thinking of Bill Wong.
“Now, why Wormstone?” asked Charles as they got back into the car.
“I don’t like Peter Frampton.”
“So why don’t we go and spit in his face? He’s in Towdey, not Wormstone.”
“Because it’s a long shot. What if Robin Barley asked him for advice on the Civil War?”
“The rector couldn’t remember.”
“But someone in the village might. We won’t take long.”
Paul Chatterton was at that moment in Towdey, looking for Zena Saxton’s address. He had typed notes into his computer of all he and Agatha had found out. He had more or less made up his mind that Harry had actually committed the murders, but he felt that Peter Frampton was a loose end to be tied up. He had wanted Ivy Cottage. Why that particular cottage? He was cross with Agatha because she was neglecting him in favour of Charles.
He knocked at the door of the first house in the village he came to and was told that Zena lived in a cottage near the church, Dove Cottage.
Paul was relieved to see lights were on in the cottage. He hoped Peter Frampton wasn’t with Zena.
Zena opened the door to him. Paul introduced himself and said he had seen her briefly at the historical society. She looked at him with stony eyes. “You’re another of those snoops. What do you want?”
Paul smiled. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to take you out for dinner.”
Vanity warred with suspicion in Zena’s beautiful face. She was only wearing light make-up and a simple black sheath and Paul reflected that she was incredibly attractive-and knew it.
Vanity obviously won. “I’d like to,” she said cautiously, “but my boy-friend said he might call round.”
“Keep him guessing,” said Paul. He was wearing his best suit and shirt and a silk tie.
“Where did you think of taking me for dinner?” asked Zena.
“Le Beau Gentilhomme.”
“Oh, I’ll get my bag,” said Zena. “I’ve always wanted to go there but my boy-friend says it’s too expensive.”
When she went indoors to collect her handbag, Paul thanked his stars that Peter Frampton should prove to be a cheap-skate. Le Beau Gentilhomme was a new French restaurant in Mircester.
“Well, here’s Wormstone,” said Charles. “Where do we start?”
“There’s the Black Bear pub over there. We’ll try there first.”
The pub was crowded. Agatha brought them both drinks at the bar. Charles, obviously regretting his earlier generosity in buying her a meal, said he couldn’t find his wallet.
Agatha was suddenly reluctant to waylay some local and start asking questions. I am getting soft, she thought.
“Let’s start with that old codger over in the corner,” suggested Charles.
A gnarled gnome of a man sat nursing a pint of cider. “Evening,” said Charles. “Mind if we join you?”
The gnome raised his pint and drank it down to the dregs. “I’d like another,” he said.
