Joyce into her living room and told her to sit down and wait.
They came to the bureau. One said, “It’s just all bank statements and accounts. I’ve been through this before.”
“Look again,” snapped Wilkes.
The detective pulled open the bottom drawer. Harry had simply dropped the letter right on the top.
He took the envelope and extracted the letter and read it. “Take a look at this, sir,” he said, handing it to Wilkes.
Wilkes read it. “Odd. It looks like a copy. Let’s go downstairs and see what our Miss Wilson has to say for herself.”
Joyce, confronted by the letter, burst into floods of tears. The policewoman handed her a box of tissues which was lying on the coffee table, and then all waited in stolid silence until she had stopped crying.
“It was just a brief fling,” she said.
“I think you had better accompany us to the police station.”
“What about the building inspector?”
“What building inspector?”
“He was here when you arrived.”
They searched the house and then came back to Joyce. “No sign of anyone. Why was he here?”
“He said there was subsidence next door and needed to check the walls.”
“Did he show you any identification?”
“He flashed some sort of card.”
“Probably some burglar trying it on who fled when we arrived,” said Wilkes. “We’ll check with the neighbours and then, Miss Wilson, you’re coming to the station with us.”
As Joyce was led into police headquarters, a policeman in reception turned and stared at her and then hurried after Wilkes. “Sir?” he called.
“Take her to interview room number two,” said Wilkes. “Yes, Phelps, what is it?”
“That woman you’ve just brought in. She answers the description of a woman who was up at Bewdley Road early this morning, harassing the residents and demanding to see someone called James Henderson.”
“Thanks, Phelps, we’ll ask her about that.”
It was obvious to Wilkes that his first question genuinely amazed Joyce. “Did Mr. Robert Smedley tell you he was being blackmailed?”
“No! And he would have done. He told me everything.”
“So tell us about Burt Haviland. Did you know he was originally called Bert Smellie and did a term in prison for armed robbery?”
Those protuberant eyes of hers looked ready to pop out of their sockets. “I can’t believe that. He was a good salesman. He loved me.”
“How could he love you when he knew you were having an affair with the boss?”
“I am fascinating to men,” said Joyce. She was regaining her composure. I wonder whether she can cry at will, thought Wilkes. I wonder if this one is more devious than we ever imagined.
“This letter is a copy. Where’s the original?”
Joyce looked genuinely surprised. “I don’t know.”
With a few breaks, the questioning went on all day. Joyce became calmer and calmer as the day went on. She stuck to her story that she had had a brief affair with Burt only because she didn’t think Smedley meant to marry her. But shortly after Burt broke up with her, Smedley had said that he would start proceedings for a divorce within the month.
The only time she seemed to lose some of her composure was when Wilkes asked her what she was doing out at Bewdley Road where the residents had described her as hysterical.
“Someone called James Henderson took me out last night. He picked me up. I think he put that date rape drug in my drink because when I woke up this morning, he was gone. I was furious. He said he lived with his parents out on Bewdley Road. I went to confront him. He must have taken the letter and copied it.”
“Were you raped?”
“No, he must have got cold feet.”
“We’ll have you tested for drugs.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Miss Wilson, you tell us that someone calling himself James Henderson slipped you a Mickey and yet you don’t want a test?”
“I may have been mistaken,” said Joyce sulkily. She knew now she’d gone frantic at the thought of such a rich prize slipping through her fingers.
After Agatha had put Harry back on two outstanding divorce cases and she had spent most of the day making notes on the murders without coining to any conclusion, Charles put in an appearance. They decided to go and confront Mabel Smedley. Agatha thought it would be better to leave Phil behind, and let Mabel go on thinking that Phil was a friend.
Agatha started the questioning, “Mrs. Smedley …”
“Mabel, please.”
“Well, Mabel, you must know by now that Joyce Wilson was really having an affair with your husband.”
“So the police keep trying to tell me. I still don’t believe it. He was merely kind to her, taking her to Bath to see her mother. He told me all about it, you know.”
“Did you know that the police have proof that Joyce was also having an affair with Burt Haviland?”
“That’s possible. Burt had a bit of a reputation. He probably killed that Jessica girl and someone killed him in revenge.”
“I see your house is up for sale,” said Charles. “I noticed the estate agent’s board on the way in.”
“Yes, I’ve decided to make a clean start. The factory has been sold to another electronics company. It will be up to them if they want to retain the staff.”
“When is your husband’s funeral?”
“Let me see, last Friday.”
“There was nothing in the papers about it.”
“I suppose it’s old news. The police released his body. I had him cremated. That’s him over there.” She pointed at the sideboard. A black um sat on top of it. “I like to have him with me. I talk to him sometimes. But all this chit-chat is surely not helping you find my husband’s murderer.”
“I’m beginning to think it might have been Joyce Wilson,” said Agatha.
“Joyce is a simpleton. Not a bad secretary as secretaries go, but pretty dim.”
“It doesn’t take much intelligence to put weedkiller in a milk bottle.”
“It takes a lot of nerve to stand up under the strain of a murder inquiry. Believe me, if Joyce had done it, she would have burst into tears by now and confessed all.”
“The poor woman’s under a lot of strain herself,” said Charles as they drove off.
“She was as cool as cucumbers.”
“I thought from her body language she was quite rigid. No more cosy cups of coffee either.”
“I’m beginning to think this all leads somehow to Jessica.”
“Could be coincidence. Jessica could just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Then you would think it would’ve been a sex crime. It was made to look like one. An amateur murderer.”
“Or one just playing for time.”
Agatha squinted at her watch. “It’s after six. We couldn’t get near Burt’s neighbours last night because the police were all over the place. Let’s try again.”
But they found there was a mobile police unit set up in the street and policemen were still busy making door-to-door enquiries.
“There’s a pub two streets back,” said Charles. “Go back there. We might find some of the locals talking about the murder.”
The pub was called The Prince of Wales. No brewery had got around to modernizing it. It was dingy with cigarette bums on the green linoleum on the floor. There was a pool table at one end and a row of machines—video
