“Aggie, could you? I’ve…”
“Forgotten my wallet. I know.” Agatha went over to the bar and ordered another pint of cider for the old man.
When she rejoined him at the table, Charles said, “This is Bert Smallbone. He was just telling me about the Battle of Worcester.”
“When was that?” asked Agatha.
“That’d be 1651.”
“No, I mean the re-enactment in the village.”
“The re what?”
“I mean the one you put on in the village.”
“ Ur. I thought him”-he jerked a thumb at Charles-“were asking ’bout the real one.”
“What we want to know is whether Mrs. Robin Barley hired an expert-a historical expert-to advise her.”
“I dunno. Silly woman, she were. Allus prancing about shouting orders. I were a Cavalier.”
Charles reflected that no one had surely ever looked less like a Cavalier than Bert.
“But you don’t know whether anyone was advising her or not?” asked Agatha impatiently.
He shook his head.
Agatha had had enough. She half-rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Smallbone.”
“Reckon her didn’t need no expert,” said Bert. “Mrs. Know-all. Her had battle plans, fair like blueprints o’ house.”
Charles reached up a hand and pressed Agatha back into her seat. “I don’t suppose any of these plans are still around?”
Bert tilted back a greasy cap and scratched his head. “Reckon not,” he said. “Mrs. Barley had ’em.”
“Oh, well,” said Charles, giving up. “Thank you for your time.”
“We’d better try someone else,” said Agatha as they walked towards the bar.
“I don’t think so. They are all men in here. We want a woman. A gossip.”
Charles leaned across the bar and said to the barman, “Is there a woman in this village who knows everything that goes on in the village?”
He laughed. “That ’ud be Jenny Feathers.”
“And where do we find her?”
“Five doors down to your left.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you after, Charles? About these battle maps?” asked Agatha when they were outside.
“I thought if someone else had drawn them up, then there might be a name on them. Let’s try this gossip.”
Jenny Feathers was a thin, energetic woman with greying hair and thick glasses. Agatha let Charles do the talking.
“Do come in,” she said. They followed her into a cluttered parlour. There were various arrangements of dried flowers and lots of little occasional tables covered with china ornaments and framed photographs.
“Do make yourselves comfortable.” Agatha and Charles sat side by side on a small chintz-covered sofa, so small that Agatha could feel Charles’s hip pressing against her own.
Jenny sat on a tapestry-covered Victorian chair facing them. “You were asking about our village performance of the Battle of Worcester? Such a shambles. My dears, I actually felt sorry for Robin when she fell onto that cow-pat. The day was so hot, you see, and she was apt to bully people. Not me, of course. I could put her in her place. But then it is always a matter of breeding, don’t you think, Sir Charles? The locals are simple people.”
“We wondered if Robin Barley had consulted any sort of historical expert,” said Charles.
“Now, then, that I doubt, or if she did, she would never let on. She liked to pretend she knew everything.”
“But she had some sort of battle plans drawn up, did she not? We wondered if anyone would still have some of those.”
She shook her head. “She had a couple, but she probably took them home. Poor woman. Such a sad death. But she was so annoying, you see.”
“Did she have any gentlemen friends?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, people came and went. We got so used to seeing strangers visiting her. That man the police are saying murdered her, he visited her once.”
Harry, thought Agatha. Another nail in his coffin.
“You didn’t ever see her with a tall, handsome man-grey wavy hair?”
“I can’t remember.” Jenny looked at Agatha with dislike. She prided herself on her knowledge of what went on in the village and did not like having to say that she knew so little of Robin Barley’s private life.
“When was this mock battle?” asked Charles.
“That would be four summers ago.”
They thanked her and left.
“I think we’re wasting time chasing after Peter Frampton,” said Charles. “I mean, why murder three people and all over a house and a mythical treasure?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. What time is it?”
“Just after nine. Why?”
“How long to Oxford?”
“I could make it in three quarters of an hour. Why?”
“There’s someone I want to see.”
Paul was beginning to think that the prices in this pretentious restaurant were a waste of money, much as Zena appeared to be enjoying herself.
He was dismayed to find out that the boy-friend she had been talking about was not Peter Frampton, but some local youth who worked in a garage.
“I thought you and Peter Frampton were an item,” he said.
“My boss? Keep him sweet. He gives me presents. He thinks he’s going to marry me.”
“And are you?”
“No, he’s ever so old.” Paul reflected that Peter Frampton was probably at least a couple of years younger than himself.
“You see,” said Zena earnestly, “I’m a bit of a women’s libber.”
“No, I don’t see. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table, “it’s like this, see? Men have been exploiting women for centuries, so it’s fair game to take them for what you can get.”
“Oh, really? And what do you get out of Peter?”
“Meals like this. Presents. He gave me a diamond necklace for Christmas.” She giggled. “I told my boy-friend it was fake.”
“And what does Peter get in return?”
“Bit of slap and tickle. I tell him I’ll go the whole way when we’re married. Keep him guessing.”
“Peter Frampton seemed very keen to get his hands on Ivy Cottage.”
Was it a trick of the light or were her large eyes suddenly veiled?
“Oh, him, he’s dotty about history. He hates all those history professors and so-called experts. He says he knows more about the seventeenth century and the Civil War than the lot of them. Tell you what, I’m bored stiff with history. When he’s rabbitting on, I just think of something else.”
“Did he believe Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s treasure was still hidden somewhere in Ivy Cottage?”
“Can I have a sweet?”
“Yes, of course.” Paul signalled for the menu.
He waited impatiently until she had made her choice and then asked again about the treasure.
“Look,” said Zena impatiently, “if you want to know anything, ask Peter. You’re beginning to bore me.”
“So who is this bod we’re going to see?” asked Charles.
“Do you remember William Dalrymple?”
