A flicker of disappointment crossed his faded green eyes.
“How nice. How’s the detective business?”
“Not much work at the moment.”
“That’s odd. There’s so much infidelity in the Cotswolds, I would have thought you would have enough to keep you busy.”
“I don’t do divorce cases any more.”
“Pity. That’s where the money is. Now, take Robert Smedley over in Ancombe. He’s very rich. Electronics company. Madly jealous. Trunks his wife is cheating on him. Pay anything to find out.”
They studied each other for a long moment. I really need the money, thought Agatha.
“But he hasn’t approached me,” she said at last.
“I could get him to.”
Agatha had a sizeable bank balance and stocks and shares. But she did not want to become one of those sad people whose lifetime savings were eaten up by trying to run an unsuccessful business.
She said tentatively. “I need someone to do bugging and camera work.”
“I could do that.”
“It sometimes means long hours.”
“I’m fit.”
“Let me see, this is Sunday. If you could have a word with this Mr. Smedley and bring him along to the office tomorrow, I’ll get my Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Shall we say a month’s trial?”
“Very well, you won’t be disappointed.”
Agatha rose to her feet and as a parting shot said, “Don’t forget to thank Mrs. Bloxby for the scones.”
Outside, realizing she had forgotten to smoke, she lit up a cigarette. That was the trouble with all these anti-smoking people around these days. It was almost as if their disapproval polluted the very air and forced one to light up when one didn’t want to.
Because of the traditions of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, women in the village called each other by their second names. So Mrs. Freedman was Mrs. Freedman even in the office, but Mr. Witherspoon volunteered his name was Phil.
Agatha was irritated when Phil turned up alone, but he said that Robert Smedley would be along later. After he didn’t protest at the modest wages Agatha was offering him, she felt guilty and promised him more if his work should prove satisfactory.
The office consisted of one low-beamed room above a shop in the old part of Mircester near the abbey. Agatha and Mrs. Freedman both had desks at the window: Phil was given Patrick’s old desk against the wall. There was a chintz-covered sofa and a low coffee table flanked by two armchairs for visitors. Filing cabinets and a kettle on a tray with a packet of tea and ajar of instant coffee, milk and sugar cubes made up the rest of the furnishings.
Mr. Robert Smedley arrived at last and Agatha’s heart sank. He looked the sort of man she heartily despised. First of all, he was crammed into a tight suit. It had originally been an expensive one and Mr. Smedley was obviously of the type who would not admit to putting on weight or to spending money to have the suit altered. He had small black eyes in a doughy face shadowed by bushy black eyebrows. His flat head of hair was jet-black. Hair dyes are getting better these days, thought Agatha. Almost looks real. He had a small pursed mouth, “like an arsehole,” as Agatha said later to Mrs. Bloxby, and then had to apologize for her bad language.
“Please sit down,” said Agatha, mentally preparing to sock him with a large fee and get rid of him. “How may I be of help?”
“This is very embarrassing.” Mr. Smedley glared round the small office. “Oh, very well. I think Mabel is seeing another man.”
“Mabel being your wife?” prompted Agatha.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think she might be having an affair?”
“Oh, little things. I came home early one day and I heard her singing.”
“Why is that so odd?”
“She never sings when I’m around.”
Can’t blame her for that, thought Agatha sourly.
“Anything else?”
“Last week she bought a new dress without consulting me.”
“Women do that,” said Agatha patiently. “I mean, why would she need your permission to buy a new dress?”
“I choose all her clothes. I’m an important man and I like to see my wife dressed accordingly.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough? I tell you, if she’s seeing someone I want evidence for a divorce.”
In that moment Agatha could have strangled both Phil and Mrs. Bloxby. She had been inveigled into hiring a geriatric all on the promise of this case and now it seemed that Smedley was nothing more than a jealous bully.
So in order to get rid of him, she named a very heavy fee and expenses. He took out his chequebook. “I’ll give you a thousand pounds down and you can bill me for the expenses and for the rest if you are successful.”
Agatha blinked rapidly, thought of her overheads, and accepted the cheque.
When Robert Smedley had left, Agatha said crossly to Phil, “This is all a load of rubbish, but we may as well make the moves. You and I will go over to Ancombe and stake out the house. Have you got your camera?”
“Got a car full of them,” said Phil cheerfully
“Okay, let’s go.”
Ancombe was only a few miles from Carsely. They quickly found Smedley’s home. It was on the outskirts of the village in a heavily wooded area, perched on a rise. It had originally been a small eighteenth-century cottage built of the local mellow golden stone, but a large extension had been added to the back. Phil parked his car a little way away off the road in the shelter of a stand of trees. He took out a camera with a long telescopic lens.
“I’m slipping,” mourned Agatha. “I should have asked him for a photograph of her.”
Phil peered down the road. “There’s a car just coming out of the driveway. Here, you take the wheel. We’ll follow.”
Agatha swung the wheel and followed at a discreet distance while Phil photographed the car and the number plate.
“She’s heading for Moreton,” said Agatha. “Probably going to buy another dress or something evil like that.”
“She’s turning into the station,” said Phil. “Maybe going to meet someone.”
“Or take the train,” said Agatha.
A small, dowdy-looking woman got out of the car. “I hope that’s her and not the cleaner,” said Agatha. “If he chose that dress for her, he should be shot.”
Who they hoped was Mabel Smedley was wearing a cotton shirtwaister in an eye-watering print. The hem practically reached her ankles and she was wearing patent leather shoes with low heels. She had dusty, sandy hair pulled back in a bun. She was obviously much younger than her husband. Smedley, Agatha guessed, looked around late forties. If this was Mrs. Smedley, she looked in her early thirties. Her face, devoid of make-up, was unlined and with no outstanding features. Small tired eyes, regular mouth, small chin.
She turned into the ticket office. As usual, there was a queue, so they were able to stand a few people behind her. They heard her order a day return to Oxford.
When it came their turn, they asked for day returns as well and then went over the bridge to the platform.
Phil had unscrewed the telescopic lens and snapped several discreet shots of Mrs. Smedley waiting for the train.
The train was ten minutes late in that usual irritating way of trains—like some boss keeping you waiting ten minutes outside his door to stress what a busy and important man he was.
She got out at Oxford and began to walk. They followed. Agatha took out her mobile phone and called Mrs. Bloxby. “Do you know what Mrs. Smedley looks like?”
