Agatha was prepared to battle her way past Gustav, but it was Charles himself who answered the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I’m so sorry, Charles,” said Agatha. “When I said that tactless thing about Bill being my best friend, I meant he was my first friend.”
“You mean you didn’t have any friends when you were working in London?”
“No,” lied Agatha. “I meant he was my first friend when I moved to the Cotswolds. I’m sorry.”
“Come in. Gosh, we do behave like kids sometimes. But you have been pretty offhand with your friends in the past. Come through to the study.”
“Burt Haviland’s been murdered, stabbed to death.”
“When?”
“Late afternoon. Six o’clock.”
“How can the police be so precise?”
“He dialled 999 just before he died.”
“Found the weapon?”
“I was so shocked I didn’t ask.”
“Drink?”
“No, I’ve had enough already. I shouldn’t really be driving. The police called on me when I got home.”
“So you’ve been drinking and you’re all glammed up. What have you been up to?”
Agatha did not want to tell him about Freddy because she might lose Freddy, and that meant losing a dream and she was short on dreams.
“The ladies’ society meeting.”
Charles looked cynical. “All that for a bunch of women?”
“You’re behind the times. Women dress up for other women. Anyway, I’m feeling pretty rotten. Three murders and I still haven’t a clue about any of them. I’m due at police headquarters in the morning.”
Agatha stifled a yawn.
“You’d better go home,” said Charles. “I’ll call for you at police headquarters. What time do you think they’ll let you out?”
“Knowing the way they go on, I should think about noon. I’m due there at ten and they’ll probably keep me waiting and then grill me over and over again.”
“They can’t force you to. You’re not under arrest.”
“I’d better do it. Can’t start getting on the wrong side of the police.”
“Right,” said Charles. “I’ll be waiting for you in reception.”
Agatha drove steadily and carefully home. When she got out of the car and stood fishing her house keys out of her handbag, she suddenly stiffened. She had a feeling of being watched. She slowly turned round.
The cobbled lane was deserted. The lilac trees from which it took its name rustled in the lightest of winds.
I’m tired, that’s all, she told herself firmly. She let herself in and went up to bed. The cats followed her upstairs and stretched out on the bed. I really should stop them doing that, thought Agatha. She experienced a feeling of unease when she remembered how Freddy had cleared off. Charles would never have done that. But she needed her dreams, and by the time she fell asleep Freddy had once more been restored in her mind to the status of future husband.
The questioning was every bit as wearying as Agatha had expected it to be. Unlike previous cases, she held nothing back, feeling there was nothing to hold back, although at one point she guiltily remembered those letters Burt had written to Jessica.
It was with a feeling of relief that she found Charles waiting for her. Dear Charles. Always so loyal, thought Agatha, quite forgetting that Charles had happily dropped her in the past whenever a pretty girl came into his life.
“I’ll phone everyone and get them all into the office,” said Agatha. She took out her phone and while Charles waited, told everyone to head for the office. She rang off after the last call and said, “We need to plan some sort of strategy. Where’s your car?”
“Off to the garage with Gustav. Something up with it. I’ve been thinking of something,” said Charles.
“What?”
“Phil, despite his age, is a likeable and attractive man.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” said Agatha huffily, wondering if Charles was trying to set her up with this geriatric.
“Well, he is. And has Joyce Wilson ever met young Harry?”
“No, where’s this going?”
“Mabel knows Phil’s on the case, so it would be natural for him to call on her, maybe get close to her. She may know more about her husband’s enemies than she’s told us. Joyce hasn’t met Harry, has she?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“If he could shed some of his studs and smarten up a bit, he could maybe ask her out. Now that one, I am sure, knows something. You told me about the missing milk bottle. Before the forensic team arrived, it would be easy for Joyce to hide it somewhere and dump it afterwards.”
“Do you think she did it? I thought you had Mabel down as first murderer.”
“She is the obvious suspect.”
“What about Jessica’s murder? And Burt? Surely they’re tied up?”
“Think about it. Wouldn’t it be better to concentrate all the forces on dealing with one murder at a time? The newspapers are still putting the police under pressure over Jessica’s murder, so they’ll still be concentrating all their efforts over solving that one, and Burt’s as well.”
“All right. We’ll try it your way. I’ll tell them.”
“And no doubt take all the credit for having thought of it,” murmured Charles, but Agatha pretended not to hear.
Later that day, Harry, with not a stud or earring in sight, and dressed conservatively in a soft brown suede jacket, Tattersall shirt and tailored slacks, sat in his parents’ Audi at the end of Joyce’s street. His parents were well-to-do, and as Harry was their only child, they indulged him with a generous allowance.
He knew there was a supermarket nearby, within walking distance, and hoped Joyce would go there. But she came out of her house at last and got into a battered Mini parked outside and drove off.
Harry followed. Joyce drove into the centre of Mircester and parked. Harry parked as well and followed her at a discreet distance. She went into the Abbey Tea Rooms. Harry waited a few minutes and went in as well. The tea room, famous for its cakes, was crowded. Joyce was sitting at a table in the comer by herself. There were no empty tables. Blessing his luck, Harry approached Joyce. “Do you mind if I sit here? Seems to be the only seat.”
“No, go ahead,” said Joyce. The waitress came up. Joyce ordered a pot of tea and a slice of carrot cake and Harry ordered coffee and a toasted teacake. He knew he would have to go carefully. Joyce had taken out a paperback romance and started to read, so he unfolded the newspaper he had originally bought to hide behind when he was watching her house, and pretended to read.
The waitress came up with their orders. Now what? Harry had thought of spilling his coffee on her as a way to break into conversation but rejected the idea almost immediately. All that would do would make her furious.
The table was very small. Joyce’s tea was served in one of those metal pots that always seem to pour anywhere but in the cup. Her saucer filled with tea and she gave an exclamation of dismay.
Harry summoned the waitress with an imperious wave of his hand. “The young lady’s teapot is not pouring properly. Please get her a good one.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Joyce. “But you really shouldn’t have bothered.”
Harry smiled. That smile he used so rarely but when he did, it lit up his face. “Least I can do for a pretty lady.”
Then, so that he wouldn’t appear so pushy, he picked up the paper again.
When her new pot of tea and clean cup and saucer arrived, he lowered his paper and said, “Allow me.” He reached over and deftly poured a cup.
“Thank you,” said Joyce.
Harry began to drink his coffee and eat his toasted teacake. Let her make the first move, he told
