NINE
HARRY rang Joyce’s doorbell. She appeared dressed in a cashmere stole under which she wore a little black dress, sheer stockings and very high heels. She appeared to have drenched herself in an overpowerful and very cheap scent.
Harry complimented her on her appearance while helping her into his car and all the time thinking she had such a rabbity face.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed,” said Harry. “But The Mikado is off.”
“Oh, why?”
“Well, I like the traditional stuff and someone told me this production is set in a modem-day factory with the whole chorus dressed in denim overalls. So what I thought instead is the Classic Cinema. They’re showing Brief Encounter. Did you ever see it?”
“No.”
“I thought we’d go there and then have dinner at the Royal afterwards.”
Joyce’s protuberant eyes widened. The Royal was Mircester’s best hotel and the restaurant was very expensive. She had tried several times to get Robert Smedley to take her there, but he’d always refused.
“Sounds lovely,” she said.
Harry had taken the precaution of bringing two large handkerchiefs with him. Joyce cried her way through the whole blackand-white film.
“You must think me very silly,” she said outside the cinema, “but it brought back a lot of sad memories.”
“You mean you were in love with a married man?” asked Harry lightly.
“Oh, no, nothing like that. When we get to the hotel, I’ll just go to the ladies’ and repair my make-up.”
So she wasn’t going to admit to having an affair with Smedley, thought Harry.
Joyce came back. She picked up the large menu. “I always like fish,” she said. She ordered avocado stuffed with prawns to start and then a whole grilled lobster. Harry had a feeling she was choosing by price rather than taste. Perhaps Smedley’s attraction for her had been nothing more than money. He ordered pate followed by boeuf bourguignon and also a half bottle of red wine for himself and a half bottle of white for Joyce.
She said coyly that she always liked to have a dry martini before eating. “Could you make it a large one?” she asked. “I’m quite nervous.”
Harry expected the meal to be a fairly silent one. Joyce obviously did not want to talk about Smedley and he wanted to tell as few lies about his background as possible, but Joyce turned out to be loquacious enough for both of them. She prattled on about her parents, father now dead and her mother in care in Bath. She talked about a previous job as secretary to a supermarket manager—”I didn’t even get a discount on my groceries”—and Harry tried not to let his eyes glaze over with boredom.
He kept trying to turn the conversation back to the murder and Joyce always kept on talking about something else.
She finished her meal with crepes Suzette, then brandy and coffee. Harry paid the bill with cash. He did not want to use a credit card in case Joyce could read the name on it, which wasn’t the one he’d given her.
When he drove her home, she asked him if he would like to come in for a coffee. Harry reluctantly agreed.
Perhaps he might have a chance for a quick search.
“Now just relax,” said Joyce, “and I’ll put the kettle on. Be back in a tick.”
Harry moved quietly about the room, searching here, searching there, seeing if there was anything that might provide some lead on the case.
Phil had enjoyed his evening immensely. At times he felt guilty that he had not found out anything at all but consoled himself with the thought that such a fine woman as Mabel had nothing to hide.
By the time she had invited him home for coffee they were talking like old friends, and it was with great reluctance that he finally got up to leave. Suddenly as shy as a schoolboy, he hesitated in the doorway. “I’ve enjoyed myself so much. I’d like to do this again.”
Mabel smiled. “What about Saturday? We could take a drive in the country and have a picnic.”
“I would love that.”
“Let’s make a day of it. Pick me up about ten in the morning.”
“Wonderful.”
Meanwhile, Harry realized that the seconds were ticking into minutes and still Joyce hadn’t appeared.
“Joyce!” he called.
“Here,” she said huskily.
He swung round. Joyce was standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a transparent black nightie. She held out her hand. “Let’s forget about the coffee.”
Oh, Agatha Raisin, mourned Harry inwardly. The things I do for you!
He allowed himself to be led upstairs to the bedroom. Joyce was staggering slightly, all she had drunk evidently just having begun to hit her.
“Where’s the bathroom?” asked Harry, stalling for time. “I need a shower.”
“Just out of the door and rum right. I’ll be waiting.”
Harry went into the bathroom and locked the door. He ran a bath instead. He undressed and tried to relax in the warm water. He wished he were one of those fellows who could get excited at the prospect of sex with any woman.
He soaked as long as he could and then got out and dried himself. He picked up his clothes and went into the bedroom.
Joyce was fast asleep and snoring lustily. With a sigh of relief, he quietly got into his clothes.
He was about to make a smart exit. Then he noticed a bureau against the wall farthest away from the bed.
He tiptoed over and softly began to pull out the drawers. He didn’t expect to find any letters because nobody, surely, wrote letters in these days of email and text messages.
There were bank statements and credit card receipts. He was about to give up when he saw an envelope tucked at the back of the bottom drawer. He drew it out. Joyce had left lamps burning on either side of the bed.
The envelope was addressed to Joyce and in the top comer was written, “By Hand.”
He slid out the letter. Bingo! The letter, which he quickly scanned, was from Burt Haviland. He shoved it in his pocket.
Harry went down the stairs and softly let himself out of the front door. He had lied to Joyce about living with his parents. As a precaution, he had even lied about where they lived. He had a little flat in the centre of Mircester.
As soon as he was home, he sat down and read the letter carefully. Burt had written: “Dear Joyce, I can’t go on seeing you because Smedley is my boss and if he finds out we’ve been having an affair, I’ll lose my job and you’ll lose your house. Thanks for everything, pet, but let’s just let the whole thing drop. Love, Burt.”
Harry whistled under his breath. “I wonder what Agatha will make of this.”
Phil arrived before Harry next morning. “I went out with Mabel last night,” said Phil, deciding that withholding information from Agatha could be dangerous. “How did you get on?” asked Agatha.
“I didn’t find out anything,” said Phil. “You see, in my opinion, Mabel Smedley is a thoroughly nice woman. What you see is what you get. But we’ve become friends and I’m taking her out on Saturday. She might let something slip if there’s anything to let slip.”
“Keep after it.” Agatha regarded Phil narrowly. He was looking happy and much younger than his years. “Don’t fancy her, do you?” she asked.
Phil coloured. “Don’t be ridiculous. A man of my age!”
“Okay. Here’s Harry.”
She listened excitedly as Harry told her about the attempted seduction and finding the letter. Then she said, “Now, why didn’t the police find it? They must have searched her house.”
“Maybe they missed it.”
