himself.
Then Joyce spoke. “Are you new to Mircester?”
“No, I live with my parents out on Bewdley Road.”
Joyce was impressed. She knew Bewdley Road. That was where the most expensive villas in the town could be found. Her eyes took in the expensive suede jacket.
“It’s odd to find a young man living with his parents these days.”
“I’m taking a gap year before I go to university,” said Harry. He had decided not to try and cover up his age. Joyce would probably be flattered that a young man was interested in her.
He was about to pick up the paper again, but Joyce’s curiosity had been awakened. She noticed he was wearing a Rolex. Joyce was attracted by any show of wealth.
“And what are you doing in your gap year?” she asked.
“I’m doing freelance computer programming work.”
“And will you do that when you leave university?”
“Maybe. I’ll be studying physics.”
Joyce let out a sigh. “I wish I’d gone to university instead of being just a secretary.”
“Where do you work?”
“Smedleys Electronics.”
Harry let his eyes widen. “Good heavens! Wasn’t there a murder there?”
“My boss.” Joyce began to cry.
“Oh, don’t cry.” Harry edged his chair round next to hers and handed her a large white handkerchief.
He put an arm lightly round her shoulders until she gave a final gulp. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “It’s all been such a strain.” She tried to hand him back his handkerchief, now liberally smeared with make-up. “Keep it,” said Harry. Seeing she had recovered, he moved his chair back.
With bent head, she picked at her carrot cake and sipped a little tea.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Don’t be,” said Harry bracingly. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”
“It’s worse. One of our sales reps has been found murdered.”
“Really?”
“Isn’t it in the paper?”
Harry silently cursed. He hadn’t really been reading the paper. “I was looking for something else. Let me see. You’re right! Here it is. Front page. Oh, you poor thing.”
“I’m so frightened,” said Joyce. “What if someone is out to murder the lot of us?”
“I shouldn’t think so for a moment. Did Mr. Smedley have any enemies?”
“Everybody loved him,” said Joyce and began to cry again.
He waited patiently until she had again recovered and said, “Look, you need something to take your mind off things. I bought two tickets for the production of The Mikado that’s on tonight. But my girlfriend’s just broken off with me. Would you like to come along? Cheer you up. No strings.”
She gave him a watery smile. “I’d like that. I hate being in the house on my own.”
“There you are then. That’s all set. Let me get the bill. No, I insist.” Harry called over the waitress and paid, extracting a note from a wallet stuffed with money. He left a generous tip on the table.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“You don’t know where I live. Or my name. I’m Joyce Wilson.”
“And I’m James Henderson.”
Harry leaned across the table. “Fact is, I feel I’ve known you for ages. What’s the address?”
“More tea, Mr. Witherspoon?”
“Yes, please. Do call me Phil. I must say these sponge cakes of yours are as light as a feather.”
“I like a man with a good appetite.”
Phil had found a particularly flattering photograph of Mabel he had taken at the Ancombe sale of work. It showed Mabel behind the jam counter standing in a shaft of sunlight from the high window above her. The light had cast an aureole around her head. He had used that as an excuse to call on her.
He felt so relaxed and at ease that he did not want to talk about murder. Her sitting room was so pleasant and her baking superb. She was everything he thought a woman should be. He sometimes had to confess to himself that Agatha Raisin could be very intimidating.
But mindful of duty, he asked, “Have you any idea who could have murdered Burt?”
“I’ve been thinking and thinking about it. The only thing is those dreadful videos the police told me about. People who look at things like that on the Internet are sick and dangerous. I think one of his weird customers found out where he was and killed him in a rage.”
“The police are interviewing all the men who checked into the Web site. Maybe they’ll come up with something.”
“Of course, I heard at one of the staff parties that he had a bit of a reputation as a philanderer. Maybe some jilted female.”
“I thought he was deeply in love with Jessica.”
“My dear Phil. If you really love someone you don’t have them cavorting on some dirty Web site.”
“I thought at first that Burt might have killed Jessica, but he had a cast-iron alibi.”
“I really don’t believe in cast-iron alibis. But let’s talk about something else. Tell me about yourself.”
After half an hour, Phil reddened and said apologetically, “You must forgive me. I usually don’t talk about myself much. You are such a good listener.”
“And you are such an interesting man. Do you like Gilbert and Sullivan?”
“Very much.”
“I am on the board of the Mircester Operatic Society. They are putting on The Mikado. Would you like to see it?”
“Very much.”
“If you call here for me at, say, six-thirty, I’ll take you along. I always have tickets left for me at the box office.”
Agatha and Charles had spent an exhausting day interviewing all the neighbours in Burt’s street. She called all the staff into the office for five-thirty. She and Charles planned to go back out when Burt’s immediate neighbours came home from work. She hoped the police had found out where the neighbours worked and had already interviewed them, or they would not appreciate her presence.
“How did you get on?” Agatha asked Phil.
Phil did not want to tell Agatha about his proposed visit to The Mikado. He felt Agatha was jealous of Mabel’s reputation as a domestic paragon. He said he hadn’t got much further except that Mabel seemed doubtful about Burt’s alibi.
“Is she, now?” said Agatha. “Maybe we should look into that alibi ourselves. What about you, Harry?”
He told them how he had engineered the meeting with Joyce and how he was taking her to see The Mikado. Phil was horrified. He could not now tell Agatha he was going himself. He cursed himself. After all, the whole point of his visit to Mabel was to get friendly with her. Now it was too late. Agatha would wonder why he had held that bit of information back. He’d need to have a private word with Harry.
“See you all here at nine in the morning,” said Agatha.
“I won’t be in,” said Patrick. “I got the names of the men who checked into that Web site. Better you don’t know how. I’m going to try to see some of them tonight, so it’ll be a late evening for me. I might be a bit late in the morning.”
“Fine,” said Agatha.
Harry left quickly, and, with surprising agility, Phil raced after him down the stairs. “Wait, Harry,” he said. “You can’t go to The Mikado.”
“Why?”
“Mabel’s taking me there and she knows what you look like and of course she knows Joyce.”
“Why didn’t you say something upstairs?”
“Don’t know,” mumbled Phil.
“Damn, I’ll think of somewhere else to take her.”
