have asked for a photograph,” mourned Agatha. “We don’t even know what he looks like.”
“I do,” said Charles triumphantly. “When you were yakking on, I studied a photograph of him on the side table next to me.”
“Good for you.”
“Why are you looking suddenly uneasy?”
Agatha had in fact been wondering how to get rid of Charles on Saturday evening. But she said, “I was thinking about poor Mrs. Gibbs. I mean, people say if you’re feeling down, find someone worse off than yourself. But all it makes me feel is that life can be terribly unfair. I think the sort of people who feel grateful at the expense of someone else’s misfortune are the types in the old days who would have enjoyed a good hanging.”
“Here he comes,” said Charles.
A little man with small features and wispy hair had just entered the restaurant. He was wearing a checked shirt, an old tweed jacket, and jeans with knife-edge creases in them.
Charles rose and approached him. Agatha saw them talking and then Charles led Eddie over to their table.
He introduced Agatha and then said, “The least we can do is buy you lunch. What would you like?”
“I’ll have sausage, egg, beans and chips and coffee.”
Charles waved to the waitress and ordered the same for all of them.
“So why do you want to ask me about rotten Robert?”
“We believe you had reason to dislike him,” said Agatha. “No, we don’t mean you murdered him. We mean, can you think of anyone in the firm who might have done it?”
Eddie shook his head. “A lot of us disliked him. Me, I hated him. But I can’t think of anyone who would poison his coffee. Most of the men who disliked him would be more inclined to lash out with their fists. Poison is more a woman’s thing, isn’t it?”
“Only in fiction. Here’s our food.”
There was a silence while Eddie and Charles ate. Agatha pushed hers round on her plate. Normally she loved greasy food, but she didn’t want to get spots before Saturday.
“So,” said Eddie, “I don’t think I can be of any help. Mind you, his wife’s another thing. That woman’s a saint.”
“Your wife told us all she had done for you,” said Agatha.
“Marvellous, she was. Did all the catering for the office party. Kind to everyone. Always a nice word.”
“Fond of her husband?”
“Oh, yes. Devoted to the old bastard.”
“Did you know,” said Charles, “that Robert Smedley was having an affair with his secretary?”
“What, Joyce? I mean, why? What did she get out of it?”
“Her rent paid and probably a few presents. Besides, evidently Smedley told her he was going to get a divorce and marry her.”
“So Joyce might have poisoned him. I mean, who else had the opportunity?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Agatha paid the bill and they thanked Eddie and left.
“Maybe we’re being naive here,” said Agatha as they drove off. “I mean, Joyce is the obvious suspect. Maybe she found out he didn’t mean to marry her after all.”
“And maybe,” said Charles, “Mabel Smedley called on her and told her that.”
“Good point. Let’s go back and ask her.””
Joyce was dusting the office when they arrived. “The factory is very quiet,” said Agatha.
“Mrs. Smedley has told everyone to go home on full pay.”
“When?”
“She called just after you left.”
“Joyce, did Mrs. Smedley know about you and Mr. Smedley?”
“No, he was going to tell her after our weekend in Bath.”
Charles said, “Say someone came during the night and got into the building and poisoned that bit of milk in the fridge. You’ve got CCTV cameras, haven’t you?”
“Yes. That would be the job of Mr. Berry, in security.”
“Where does he live?”
She switched on the computer. “I’ll find his address for you. Here we are. He actually lives in Evesham, 4 Terry Road, near the tax office. Do you know where the tax office is?”
Agatha repressed a shudder. She had a good accountant but found the new complications of value added tax and staff pay bewildering.
Mr. Berry was digging in his small front garden when they drove up. Agatha, her mind full of Saturday night to come, left the introductions and explanations to Charles.
Berry was a burly man in blue overalls with a round red face and strands of grey hair combed across a bald spot on his head.
“We were wondering,” began Charles, “whether the police found anything on the CCTV footage?”
“I ran the tapes for them before they took them away. Nothing but the staff going to work and then leaving work. Nothing during the night but the night watchman.”
“Who’s the night watchman?”
“That’ll be Wayne Jones, like. Lives over Worcester way.”
“Do you know where in Worcester?”
“Might be in the phone book. I’ll get it for you.”
“I’m tired of all this running around,” grumbled Agatha as they waited.
“We must persevere, Aggie.”
“Don’t call me Aggie.” Agatha was beginning to fret. Charles was very keen and a keen Charles would certainly still be at her cottage on Saturday evening.
Mr. Berry came back with a slip of paper with an address written on it. “That must be it,” he said. “His full name’s in the book and he’s the only Wayne Jones.”
They went back to Agatha’s car. She opened the boot. “I’ve got a pile of street directories here,” she said, pulling a box forward. “I’m sure I’ve got one for Worcester.”
She found the right map and looked up the address. “Right, got it,” she said, pointing it out to Charles. “It’s on this side, of Worcester. You guide me.”
“He must be a young man,” said Charles. “I mean, Wayne is a fairly new choice of name.”
“Not that new now. I think it came in around the time Kylie became fashionable.”
But when they ran Wayne to earth it was to find he was in his late twenties. He was tall and surly with a cadaverous face and deep-set eyes under a shaved head.
Again the introductions and explanations before Agatha asked, “Did you see anyone lurking around the night before Mr. Smedley was murdered?”
“All quiet. The police asked me that. What you lot mucking about for? It’s their job.”
“I told you,” snapped Agatha. “Mrs. Smedley has employed us to find out who murdered her husband.”
“And I’m telling you it was a night like any other. Now, piss off.”
“He’s on the defensive about something,” said Agatha as she drove off.
“Probably went to sleep on the job.”
“How do we prove that?”
“His patrolling should have been on the CCTV footage. Back to Berry.”
Agatha groaned.
“Now what?” asked Berry, leaning on a spade, still in his front garden.
“Do you happen to know if the police studied the CCTV footage of the night before Mr. Smedley was murdered?”
“Yes, they did.”
“And they saw Wayne on patrol?”
Berry grinned. “The silly sod was missing. Probably fell asleep. Forgot to tell you before.”
