computer games and one-arm bandits—at the other.
The pub was quite busy. “Where do we start?” asked Agatha.
“At the bar. Your usual?”
“No, just tonic water.”
Charles ordered a tonic water for Agatha and a Coke for himself. “What are all the police doing around here?” he asked the barman.
“Haven’t you heard? Chap was murdered. Stabbed to death.”
“How awful,” said Agatha. “Does anyone know who did it?”
“Not as far as I know. You could ask Mr. Burden, the chap with the cap over in the comer. He said the police asked him so many questions, he began to feel he’d done it himself.”
“He’s a neighbour?”
“Next-door flat.”
Mr. Burden was sitting alone at a small round table. He was a small neat man in a dark business suit, collar and tie, and with a tweed cap on his head.
“Mr. Burden?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, who wants to know?”
Charles and Agatha sat down next to him. “We’re private detectives working on this murder of Burt Haviland. Did you hear anything?”
“What’s that you’re drinking?” asked Charles.
An empty half-pint glass was in front of Mr. Burden. He brightened visibly. “Very kind of you. I’ll have a double Scotch.”
Charles looked hopefully at Agatha, who refused to meet his gaze. Let him pay for something for once, she thought.
They waited until Charles had returned.
“Now,” said Agatha. “Did you hear anything?”
“I heard him screaming. I know now it must have been him, but at the time I thought it was the telly. Then I heard the door slam and footsteps running down the stairs.”
“The police said no one was at home except a deaf old lady on the top floor.”
“I was off sick. First time they came round and I heard them hammering, I didn’t answer. I was feeling poorly and I was in bed. Food poisoning.”
Agatha looked at the glass Mr. Burden had just drained, wondering whether alcohol poisoning would be nearer the mark.
“What kind of footsteps?” she asked.
He twisted his empty glass this way and that.
“I’m sure Mr. Burden would like another one, Charles,” said Agatha hurriedly.
Charles sighed and went back to the bar.
When he returned, Mr. Burden seized the glass eagerly and took a swig of whisky. “Footsteps,” prompted Agatha.
“What do you mean?”
“Were they heavy, light, heels, what?”
He frowned. “Quick, light, sort of click, clack, click clack.”
“Like high heels?”
“That’s it.”
Charles and Agatha exchanged glances. They were looking for a woman.
TEN
AGATHA and Charles sat in Agatha’s cottage that evening going over every little bit of the three murder cases they could think of.
“It’s this business about a woman,” said Charles. “We’ve got Joyce and we’ve got Mabel.”
“And neither of them with any link to Jessica,” Agatha pointed out.
“Oh, yes, there is. Jessica was in love with Burt. Burt worked for Smedleys Electronics. Burt had an affair with Joyce.”
“I’m tired,” complained Agatha. “I’m not thinking clearly. Let’s walk along to the pub and have something to eat.”
When they opened the door, it was to find the rain was lashing down. “Why on earth did I get an air conditioner?” moaned Agatha. “We’ll walk anyway. I feel like having a good stiff drink.” Charles took a large umbrella from beside the door and, huddled under its shelter, they walked briskly to the pub.
The Red Lion was an old Georgian pub with steps down into the bar. Agatha went down the first step, winced as a pain shot through her hip, and clutched Charles’s arm.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing,” lied Agatha. “Just wrenched my ankle a little.”
Agatha was greeted by various locals. One of them said, “Evening, Mrs. Raisin. Nice to see you and your young man.”
Agatha felt immediately depressed. She was in her early fifties and Charles was in his forties. Was the age difference so evident? Maybe she wouldn’t live long. She was getting old. Charles’s voice drifted away as she began to plan her own funeral. James Lacey would come back for it. He would cry and say, “I’ve lost the best woman I’ve ever known.” A tear rolled down Agatha’s cheek.
“Hey!” exclaimed Charles. “You’re crying.”
Agatha brushed the tear away. “Just tired,” she said defensively.
“Maybe you should give up this detective business. It was easier for you when you were an amateur.”
“Oh, I’ll survive. What are we having to eat?”
“We can have scampi and chips, lasagne and chips, curried chicken and chips or the all-day breakfast,” said Charles, reading the items off a blackboard on the other side of the bar. “I think the all-day breakfast would be safest.”
“Okay.”
Charles ordered two. A table by the open fire had just been vacated and they took their drinks over to it.
“Let’s think,” said Charles. “Did you hear a word I said while we were waiting for the drinks?”
“Not really.”
“1 was talking about Phil and Harry. Phil is spending the day with Mabel on Saturday. We’ll need to impress on him that as nice as Mabel seems, he’s really got to keep his eyes and ears open. Then what about Harry and Joyce?”
“Speak of the devil,” said Agatha, looking across the bar. Harry had just entered the pub. “He looks almost human.”
Harry’s hair had grown a little. He was still minus studs and earrings, and he was wearing the outfit he had worn when he had picked up Joyce in the tea shop. Agatha waved him over. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“What brings you here?” asked Charles. “Any news?”
“No, I came to ask you that.”
“I should have phoned you,” said Agatha. “Did you get the letter back?”
“Just.” Harry told them about the sudden arrival of the police. “I’ll get myself a drink. What about you two?”
“We’re all right at the moment,” said Charles. “Just waiting for food.”
Harry went to the bar and came back with a half pint of beer.
“What do you feel about romancing Joyce again?” asked Agatha.
“Can’t. She knows me as James Henderson, who told her he lived with his parents on the Bewdley Road. She’d be very suspicious if I put in an appearance again and she might tell the police. Then there’s that letter. I was stupid to take it away. The detective agency might be the first place they think of when they’re wondering who took a copy.”
