“Is he a baronet like you?”
“Yes, very old family. The manor-house had been in the family for centuries.” “Pity.”
George came in bearing a tray. “Here we go. Milk, Agatha?” “Black will do.”
“Charles, help yourself. Now, what brings you?”
“Agatha is a detective,” said Charles, “and she’s investigating that shooting at the manor. Have you any idea why someone would want to shoot their daughter?”
“No. Had it been the Laggat-Brown woman, I could have understood it. Did you see what she did to the manor? No soul. The name isn’t really Laggat-Brown.”
“Oh, what is it?”
“Ryan. For some reason Jeremy Ryan decided that Laggat-Brown sounded better and changed it by deed poll.”
“You’d think he’d have chosen something grander,” said Charles.
“I tell you, that lot have only a veneer of sophistication. Underneath, they’re as common as muck. She made her money out of Daddy’s business. And do you know what that was?”
“No.”
“Dog biscuits.”
“You’re being snobbish, George. Nothing up with dog biscuits.”
George sighed. His rubicund face and small mouth gave him the look of a hurt baby.
“I am, I know. It was just the way she went on. Rubbing salt in the wound. Kept saying things like, ‘If you can’t afford to keep up a place like this, it’s much more sensible to sell it to someone like me who can.’ Dealt with us with a mixture of pity and contempt. I really hate that woman. And if I really hate that woman, then, believe me, she’s rubbed someone else up the wrong way.”
“Where’s the wife?” asked Charles.
“Down in the village, shopping.”
“And Felicity?”
“She’s abroad. Travels a lot.”
“What does she do at the moment?”
“Assistant in some dress shop.”
“Which dress shop?”
“Charles, I’m getting angry about all these questions. One would think you suspected the Felliet family of having tried to kill that lumpy daughter of hers.”
“I’m sorry, George,” said Charles. “I’m so used to going around with Agatha trying to find out who murdered whom that I get a bit carried away. Let’s talk about other things.”
Agatha drank her coffee and listened to their reminiscences and longed for a cigarette, but could see no sign of an ashtray anywhere.
At last Charles decided to leave. As they drove off, he said, “Poor old George. I really did rile him up with all those questions. It can’t be anything to do with them. I wish we had the powers of the police. Maybe it would be easier for us to find Peterson then. You know, Agatha, you said you’d engaged that retired detective. Retired detectives usually keep up their contacts in the police. Might be better to let him take over for a bit.”
Agatha grinned ruefully. “And leave me with all the lost cats, dogs and children? Still, it might be worth a try.”
Charles accompanied her to the office. Patrick Mullen was dictating notes to Miss Simms, who was typing them out on her computer with such long nails that Agatha wondered how she managed.
Emma was sitting on the sofa with a small Yorkshire terrier at her feet. “I’ve phoned the owner,” said Emma. “She’s coming round.”
She did not look at Charles, who said breezily, “Hi, Emma!”
Emma murmured something and bent down to stroke the dog.
“Patrick,” said Agatha, “stop what you’re doing. I need you on this shooting case.”
The owner of the dog came in as Agatha was talking and was effusive in her thanks.
When she had left, Emma consulted her notes. Another missing teenager, seventeen-year-old girl called Kimberly Bright. Emma sighed. Charles came and sat beside her. “You look fed up. What’s up?”
“Eve got to start looking for a missing seventeen-year-old. It’s difficult for me because there’s such a generation gap, I don’t know anything about how they behave these days.”
“Miss Simms would know,” said Charles. He interrupted Agatha. “Agatha, Emma’s got a seventeen-year-old to look for. Miss Simms might have a better idea about how to go about it. Why don’t you let her have a go and Emma can do the typing?”
“Ooh, I’d love to try,” said Miss Simms.
“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “Give Miss Simms the file, Emma. I’m taking Patrick out for an early lunch so I can continue filling him in on all the details.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. He reflected that Agatha, preoccupied as she now was, could be amazingly rude and insensitive.
“I’m sure Emma could do with a break as well,” he said. “Ell take you to lunch, Emma.”
Emma flushed up with pleasure. But her face fell when Agatha snapped, “And who’s going to answer the phones?”
“I’ll stay here,” said Miss Simms. “It’ll give me a chance to study the photographs and read up on where you’ve looked, Emma.”
Emma was momentarily diverted by the thought that it was ridiculous that a young woman like Miss Simms should call her by her first name and yet she herself was somehow bound by the ladies’ society tradition of second names only.
Then, to her dismay, Agatha turned in the doorway and said* “Sorry, Charles, I should have asked you as well.”
“Yes, you should. But I’ve asked Emma to lunch, so run along.”
So Emma was in seventh heaven. Excited as a schoolgirl, she chattered about her life all through lunch, saying that her husband had bullied her and that her colleagues had bullied her. She was sure that she was bringing out the strong protective side of Charles’s character, not knowing that he didn’t have one and was damning her as a professional victim.
“This Jeremy Laggat-Brown who used to be Ryan,’’ said Patrick over lunch. “His Paris alibi checks out?”
“Watertight. And why should he want to shoot his OWE daughter?”
“Well, I’ll start in Herris Cum Magna and then I’ll speak to Jason Peterson this evening,” said Patrick.
“You can’t. He’s in Bermuda, remember?”
“Forgot. I’ve still got contacts in the police. Before you asked me, I decided to do a bit of checking up on my own. I’ll find out from them what they’re doing about tracing Harrison Peterson. They’ll have the airports and ports covered, I know that, but I don’t want to go over old ground locally. Also, I’ll check the libraries for old reports about his fraud case and get a photograph.”
“Have the police found out yet what kind of gun was used?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Now, that’s a very interesting thing. It was a sniper rifle. A Parker-Hale M-85. It’s a first- rate sniper rifle, capable of precision fire up to ranges of nine hundred metres. The weapon has a silent safety catch, a threaded muzzle for flash suppressor, and an integral dovetail mount that accepts a variety of sights. Sort of thing a professional assassin would use.”
“I don’t think a professional assassin would bother to send a threatening letter first,” Agatha pointed out.
“True. This rifle is made by Sable Defence Industries here in the UK. Police are going through the books there, trying to trace all the rifles that have been sold.”
. “Have forensics found out anything else?”
“Only that we’re dealing with one very cool customer. He wore gloves and swept his way out of the box-room so there would be no fingerprints. The corridor and stairs are thickly carpeted.”
“He didn’t need to leave in a rush,” said Agatha bitterly. “I mean, the police went into the house, but I don’t think they even went in to the box-room. Just pushed the door open and looked. Well, good hunting. To tell you the truth, I’m not enjoying this detective agency business much. I hate the missing teenager ones because the parents
