“But why?” asked Agatha. “He was a pompous middleaged man.”
“He was sweet to me. He took care of me!”
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead, apart from his wife?”
“I can’t. He wasn’t popular, but the men said the wages were good, so they put up with him. Can you go now? I’ve had enough. I’ve got to go back to the police station later for more questioning.”
Agatha gave Joyce her card and asked her to phone if she remembered anything significant.
When they returned to Carsely, it was to find Bill Wong waiting for them. “I’ve just heard from Mrs. Smedley that she’s employed you to find out who murdered her husband. I warn you, Agatha, not to keep things from the police. You’ve done that in the past and nearly got yourself killed.”
“Oh, come in and stop complaining,” said Agatha. “It’s too hot. I’ve ordered one of those mobile air conditioning units. Should be here this afternoon.”
“That’ll set you back a bit,” commented Bill, following her into the kitchen where the cats leapt on him in welcome.
“Let’s sit in the garden,” said Agatha.
When they were seated over cups of coffee, Agatha said, “What sort of poison was it?”
“Weedkiller. He vomited most of it up and might have survived but he had a weak heart. He hadn’t drunk all the coffee—just one gulp, but that was enough. Must have tasted bitter.”
“Was there anything on his computer?” asked Charles. “I mean, there might be emails.”
“Now that’s the weird thing,” said Bill. “There was nothing but business affairs on the office computer, but his home computer had been wiped clean. So we took out the hard drive and ran it through that machine forensics has which can print stuff off the hard drive and it had been overwritten. You can buy a programme that overwrites everything.”
“That points to the wife,” said Agatha.
“Mrs. Smedley appears to know nothing about computers and the disc with the overwrite programme had only Smedley’s fingerprints on it. He might have indulged himself by watching porn, maybe kiddie porn, and decided to wipe it out.”
“Does Mrs. Smedley have any weedkiller?”
“None at all.”
“I thought everyone had weedkiller.”
“Not her. She goes in for organic methods. No chemicals. She’s just what she seems, Agatha. She’s a thoroughly nice woman. She even baked a batch of fairy cakes for us at police headquarters. She said that baking took her mind off her grief.”
“You’re a trusting lot,” jeered Agatha. “She could have poisoned every single one of you.”
“We’re trying to find out more about Joyce Wilson,” said Bill. “But I can’t see how it could have been her. I mean, she gave him the coffee. Surely a murderer would not make things look so obvious.”
“We’ve just spoken to her,” said Agatha. “She’d been having an affair with Smedley for six months and he was paying the rent of the house she’s living in. She says he promised to marry her.”
“Could be a bluff. He may have told her it was over.”
“What about the factory?”
“We’re currently interviewing all the staff. Then there’s this Jessica murder. The press are hounding us for a result. I’d better go. Now, don’t hide any clues.”
He was about to leave when he hesitated on the doorstep. “Are you all right, Agatha?”
“Fine. Why?”
“You don’t look your usual self.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Not as groomed as usual. And you aren’t wearing make-up. I’ve never known you not to wear make-up before.”
“Oh, just giving my skin a rest. See you. Bye.”
As soon as he had left, Agatha nipped upstairs to the bathroom and stared in the magnifying mirror. She let out a squawk. Her hair was limp, her skin was shiny and she had a spot on her nose. Worse, she could see the shadow of an incipient moustache on her upper lip.
She went downstairs and out into the garden where Charles was lying on the grass, playing with the cats. “I’ve got to go into Evesham,” she said. “Could you be an angel and wait here and let the air conditioning man in?”
“Why Evesham?”
“Hairdresser.”
Agatha spent a whole afternoon getting a facial, a seaweed wrap, and then her hair styled.
As she drove back to Carsely, she hoped the air conditioner had arrived. The air was like soup.
When she walked into her sitting room, she was greeted by a blast of cold air. “Great, isn’t it?” said Charles from the depth of the sofa. He twisted up and looked at her. “Now, that’s an improvement. What if James came back into your life and found you’d let yourself go?”
“Stop making personal remarks. I’ve an idea. Why don’t we try to see Burt Haviland tomorrow?”
“Who he? Remind me.”
“Jessica’s boyfriend. I’m clutching at straws but he may just want to help us.”
“I thought Patrick and the others were following that case.”
“Yes, but he might know someone at the factory who had it in for Smedley.”
Agatha and Charles carried the mobile air conditioner up to Agatha’s bedroom that night. “I’ll leave my door open and you’ll get the benefit, too,” said Agatha.
Agatha undressed and got into bed. She fell asleep immediately and was awakened in the middle of the night by a crack of thunder. She fell asleep again and dreamed of Robert Smedley pursuing her across the icy wastes of the Antarctic. In her dream, she slipped and fell and awoke with a cry. Rain was lashing down outside and the room was like an icebox. Rain was drumming on the thatch and falling onto the garden in a series of waterfalls. She switched off the air conditioner, climbed back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head.
When she awoke again, it was to find the house was still cold. “Sodding British weather,” muttered Agatha, turning on the central heating. “I should never have bought that air conditioner.”
They set out to interview Burt Haviland after Agatha had called Patrick and found Burt was at home, having taken several days leave. The rain had become a thin drizzle and the day was cold.
“It’s at times like this,” said Agatha, “that I wish I’d never started a detective agency. I want to go somewhere warm and lie on the beach.”
“I thought you’d have had enough of heat.”
“Heat on the beach is different from heat inland.”
They drove on in silence until they reached Burt’s address. “Here we go again,” sighed Agatha.
Burt Haviland was a very handsome man with thick black curly hair and a light tan. He must be paid well, thought Agatha, who had noticed the expensive motorbike outside and now saw that his living room contained a huge flat-screen television and a fancy computer.
Agatha explained that they were looking into the murder of Robert Smedley and asked him if he knew anyone at the factory who might have disliked him.
“Everyone hated him,” said Burt. “But he paid good wages.”
“Why did they hate him?”
“He was a bully. He liked finding out about people, finding their vulnerable spot, and pressing it.”
“And yet they all stayed on?”
“All that I know of. I’ve only been with them two years. Oh, I think Eddie Gibbs left.”
“Why?”
“His wife has muscular dystrophy and she’s in a wheelchair. Smedley said to him with a sort of fake jollity, ‘Must be hard on you not getting your leg over.’ Eddie smacked him on the mouth.”
“When was this?”
“About two months ago.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Joyce‘11 know,” said Charles. “I took a note of her number.”
