“I’ll try him again,” said Agatha. Again she tried her home number and Roy’s mobile phone number without success.
“He’s not sitting waiting for us,” she said. “Let’s just go and see this wife. It won’t take long.”
“It’s too bad of Agatha to leave you like this,” Emma was saying.
Roy shrugged. “She might have been trying to phone me but I left my mobile on the table beside the bed.”
“Why don’t you phone her?”
“I forget her mobile number all the time. Now that’s in my address book on the table beside the bed as well. You don’t have it, do you?”
Emma had one of Agatha’s cards with both home and mobile number on it. If she gave it to Roy, Agatha might come back with dear Charles. On the other hand, the longer she stayed away and the angrier Roy got, the more Agatha would be shown up in a bad light. Anything that might disaffect Charles as well was all to the good.
Roy was sitting in Emma’s living-room. He glanced out of the window and saw Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, walking past.
He shot up. “Mrs. Simpson. Ed forgotten about her. She’ll have a key.”
He rushed out, followed by Emma.
An hour later, at Moreton-in-Marsh station, Roy said, “You’ve been awfully kind to me, Emma. No, don’t bother walking over the bridge with me.” He kissed her on the cheek.
The opposite platform across the bridge was already full of people waiting for the London train. Clutching his travel bag, Roy strode off towards the bridge, thinking that anyone watching would be sure that Emma was his mother.
Emma watched him go and felt a little frisson of delightful naughtiness. She felt sure anyone watching would think that Roy was her young lover.
“Here’s Telegraph Road and a convenient car-park.” Charles turned into the car-park and stopped.
Agatha opened the passenger door and got out, wincing slightly as she did so.
“Rheumatism?” asked Charles.
“No,” snapped Agatha. “Just a slight cramp.”
Agatha had been aware for several weeks now of a naggingpain in her hip. But her mind shrieked against the very idea of her having rheumatism or arthritis. Those were ailments of the elderly, surely.
Joyce Peterson lived in a small cottage that leaned slightly towards the road.
Agatha’s hand hovered over the bell. “I wonder why she wasn’t invited to her son’s engagement party.”
“Ring the bell,” said Charles. “You’ll never find out if you don’t ask.”
“Why do I never phone first?” mourned Agatha.
“Because you’re an amateur.” Charles’s voice had an unfamiliar edge to it.
Agatha was just turning to stare at him in surprise when the door opened. A tall blonde woman answered the door. She was wearing tight jeans and a white shirt tied round her trim waist. Her beautiful, expressionless face was half hidden by a wing of her hair.
“Is Mrs. Peterson at home?”
“I am Mrs. Peterson, or was. What do you want?”
Agatha handed over her card. “We are investigating the murder of your husband.”
“Murder! But I was told it was suicide!”
“Please, may we come in? I am Agatha Raisin and this is Sir Charles Fraith. We’ll tell you all about it.”
She nodded and turned away. They followed her through a kitchen and into a long airy room at the back. Agatha was amazed. From the outside, the cottage looked as if it would not have any significant space at all. The room had obviously been extended out to take space from the long garden at the back.
It was tastefully furnished, a mixture of modern and some good antiques.
Joyce sat in an armchair by the open French windows. A gentle breeze floated in, bringing with it the scent of late roses from the garden. Charles and Agatha sat on a sofa opposite her.
She did not ask any questions, simply waited in silence.
Agatha explained how they had found out about the sleeping pills. Still, Joyce said nothing.
“Why weren’t you invited to your son’s engagement party?” asked Charles.
“I was invited but I preferred not to go. Much as I love my son, he said some unforgivable things when I divorced his father. I met the Laggat-Brown female once. Detestable woman. Jason crawls to her. Cassandra is all right, but silly and empty-headed.”
“Why did you divorce your husband?” asked Agatha.
“Why not? You mean I should have stood by a jailbird? He was charged with not only insider trading but pocketing money from clients’ accounts. Then there was another woman.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But I checked his credit-card bills one day. There was a diamond necklace from Asprey’s, hotels and meals in Paris, perfume, clothes, all that. When I challenged him, he said the Paris trips were business and the presents were for clients. I was going to divorce him even if he hadn’t gone to prison. Prison simply made the divorce proceedings easier.”
“Did he know Mr. Laggat-Brown?” asked Charles.
“If he did, he never mentioned it.”
“What kind of man was your husband?”
The room was growing dark and there came a faint rumble of thunder in the distance.
“When I met him, he was very charming. A high-flyer. I like the good things of life. Then I had Jason. He was such a darling little boy.”
“You must have been married very young,” said Charles.
“I was eighteen. I wanted to keep the boy at home, but by the time he was eight, Harrison insisted he was sent away to prep school and then Winchester. He began to change. Very much his father’s boy. Little time for me.”
A sudden puff of wind lifted the wing of hair back from her face, and in the lamplight they saw her cheek was marred by a large bruise.
“That’s a nasty bruise,” said Charles.
“Silly of me,” she said. “I didn’t notice a cupboard door in the kitchen was open and walked right into it.”
There came the rattle of a key in the front door and a man’s voice called, “Joyce!”
“In here, dear.”
A tall man carrying a briefcase walked into the room. He was well-built and tanned with very light grey eyes. He was wearing a well-cut business suit.
“Mark, these people are detectives. They say that Harrison was murdered.”
Those eyes of his, as cold as chips of ice, fastened on Agatha and Charles. “You’re not the police, so get out of here.”
“But Mark—”
“Shut up. You two. Out!”
“You’d better go.” Joyce’s voice sounded weary.
Agatha turned in the doorway. “You have my card. If there’s anything I can do …”
“Just go.”
“Isn’t it amazing,” said Charles as they hurried to the car-park just as fat drops of rain were beginning to fall. “They marry one bastard, then as soon as they’re free, they marry another. I’ll never understand women.”
“I’ve just remembered something.” Agatha slid into the passenger seat. “I forgot to leave Roy a key. That’s why he didn’t answer any of my calls.”
“Oh, Aggie. Of all the things. You’ll just need to hope he’s found refuge with Mrs. Bloxby.”
In Agatha’s cottage, there were two notes on the kitchen table. One was from Doris Simpson saying she had let the cats out after feeding them. The other was from Roy. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, you old bat, but if it hadn’t been for Emma I would have had a rotten time. Doris Simpson finally let me in. I’m off to London. No point in staying. Roy.”
“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha.
