“Raisin Detective Agency,” fluted Miss Simms. Then she covered the receiver and hissed, “It’s her. Mrs. Laggat-Brown.”
“Tell her I’m dead,” groaned Agatha. “No, on second thoughts, I may as well get it over with.”
“Hello,” said Agatha and then listened hard as Mrs. Laggat-Brown’s voice quacked down the phone. “We’ll be right over,” said Agatha.
She put down the receiver and beamed in triumph. “I was right! Bill Wong, bless his cotton socks, went over there later and found gun oil and a spent cartridge. Come on, Emma, we’re back in business. While we’re out, Miss Simms, phone Douglas and Sammy and see if they’ve got anything on the Benington case.”
Emma followed Agatha out feeling guilty. She had phoned the local paper late last night. It was just, she had thought at the time, that it was all for Agatha’s good. She was so … well… rumbustious, she needed to be taken down a peg. She had given a false name. Emma comforted herself with the thought that the papers would call on Mrs. Laggat-Brown today and learn the truth.
There was a police mobile unit already set up in the grounds of the manor. Police were combing through the bushes. Agatha rang the bell and it was answered by Cassandra. “Mum’s in the drawing-room with the police,” she said. “You’d better go on in.”
Detective Inspector Wilkes, Bill Wong and a woman constable were all in the drawing-room facing Mrs. Laggat-Brown and Jason.
Wilkes looked up as Agatha entered and said, “Ah, Mrs. Raisin, we were coming to see you when we’d finished our interviews here. Wait over there.”
It appeared to be coming to the end of a long interview. Mrs. Laggat-Brown was protesting over and over again that she had no idea who should wish to stop the engagement. Cassandra did not have any jilted or jealous boyfriends and Jason had never known anyone dangerous or mad.
“Right,” said Wilkes finally. “Mrs. Raisin, if you could just step outside to the mobile unit, we’ll take your statement.”
When Agatha had finished telling the police the little she knew, she returned to the house followed by Emma.
“You really must help me,” pleaded Mrs. Laggat-Brown. “It’s all so terrifying.”
“Emma will sort out the details of our employment later,” said Agatha. “Now, whoever got into the house must have known about that box-room. And who gave the order to start the fireworks?”
“Joe Gilchrist from the village had set them up. He said he heard a voice like mine shouting, ‘Joe, start the fireworks now!’“
“So there was a female, an accomplice?”
“Seems like it.” Mrs. Laggat-Brown twisted a handkerchief in her thin beringed fingers.
“I must ask you again about your husband,” said Agatha. “Is there any reason he would try to stop Cassandra’s engagement?”
“No, none at all. He couldn’t have known about the party. I tried to get in touch with him, but his firm said he had taken a leave of absence.”
“What is the name of his firm?”
“Chater’s, in Lombard Street, in the City.”
“Had he been there long?”
“Quite a number of years. But it can’t be Jeremy. He adores Cassandra.”
“When did you last hear from him?”
“It was on Cassandra’s birthday, last May. He sent her a beautiful diamond bracelet.”
“Did he never come to see her?”
‘“Not since the divorce.”
“Which was when?”
“Three years ago.”
“And you say it was an amicable divorce?”
“Oh, yes.”
She’s lying, thought Agatha suddenly. I don’t know why but I feel she’s lying.
Cassandra came bursting into the room. “Daddy’s here!” “What?”
“The police are talking to him. He’s been abroad. He was just telling me about it when the police came up and took him to that caravan thing of theirs.”
“He’ll be so angry with me,” whimpered Mrs. Laggat-Brown. • “Why?” asked Agatha.
“He’ll think I haven’t been looking after Cassandra properly.”
“Now, how can he say that?” asked Agatha. “You were unable to get him after you received the threatening letter, weren’t you?”
Mrs. Laggat-Brown looked down at her hands. The large rings on her fingers sent little prisms of light darting around the room. “No, I couldn’t get him.”
“This party must have been planned for a long time. Didn’t he reply to the invitation?”
“Cassandra, dear,” said her mother. “Could you get me a cup of coffee?”
She waited until her daughter had left the room and said, “I didn’t send him an invitation.” “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, he wanted the divorce, not me. I’m the one who has to take care of Cassandra. I didn’t want him swanning up at the last minute and taking over. Mrs. Raisin, I do want to employ your services. Send me any forms to sign. At the moment, I would like to rest. I will talk to you later.”
“Would you ask your husband to come and see me? Or call me when he’s free?”
“I’ll do that. Now, please leave me.”
As the entrance to the manor was blocked by police cars, Agatha had parked out on the road. As she made her way out of the gate, a reporter from the local paper hailed her. “Agatha, what have you got to tell us?”
Agatha gave them a succinct account of her bravery and how she had saved Cassandra’s life. She did not mention Emma. The photographer took Agatha’s photo while the reporter said, “Funny, we thought at first there was nothing in it. Someone doesn’t like you. Some woman phoned the paper last night to say you’d made an absolute fool of yourself. You’ve got an enemy.”
“Did she leave a name?”
“No, anonymous tip-off.”
“What kind of voice?”
“Posh.”
“Probably one of the guests,” murmured Emma.
Agatha had planned to go on as she had in the past, concentrating all her efforts on the attempted shooting of Cassandra. But small cases began to come into the detective agency and they had to be dealt with. Agatha was too good a business woman to run her detective agency into the red by dealing with only one case at a time.
There were requests to find missing teenagers, missing dogs and cats, or errant husbands and wives. At least Mr. Bennington was finally proved to be philandering and his grim wife took away the evidence with great satisfaction. To Agatha’s relief, she did not demur over paying for the electronic surveillance.
Bill Wong, calling at the office one day, listened to Agatha’scomplaints and suggested she employ a retired police detective as well. He recommended a Patrick Mullen and gave Agatha the man’s phone number.
“So,” said Agatha, “what type of rifle was used? You’ve been able to find that out from the spent casing?”
“It’s still in a queue at the forensics lab, Agatha. But we’ve interrogated the husband thoroughly.”
“Great! And? He was supposed to come and see me, you know.”
“He’s got a cast-iron alibi. At the time of the shooting he was holidaying in Paris. Small hotel on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Staff saw him that evening, as clear as day. He arrived back at the hotel at six o’clock and went out for a couple of hours, returned and went straight to bed. There is no way he could have nipped across the Channel and fired a gun at anyone. There is one lead, however.”
“What’s that?”
“Jason, the fiance, seems squeaky-clean. But his father was once in prison for insider trading.”
“But what’s that got to do with killing Cassandra?”
“Turns out the couple have already made out their wills. If Cassandra dies, everything goes to Jason.”
“Has she got anything? I mean, doesn’t Mummy have all the money?”
