“Shall we be getting back?” asked Mabel. “Where has the afternoon gone?”
Phil fretted as he drove her home, wondering how to prolong the day, trying to find the courage to ask her out for dinner.
At her house, she invited him in. “Would you like a drink?” she asked. “I know you’re driving, but one won’t harm you.”
“I’m a beer drinker.”
“I have a cold beer in the fridge.”
She went off to the kitchen. Phil glanced around the living room. The hell with looking for clues, he thought. Waste of time.
He studied his face in the mirror over the fireplace, wondering if he looked too old. He was just about to turn away when his eye fell on a stiff folded piece of paper on the mantelpiece. He would take a quick look at it to justify his work at the detective agency, and that was all he was going to do. He opened it. It was a diploma from Mircester College, made out to Mabel Smedley for completing a computer course. He heard her coming and quickly replaced it.
She had said she knew nothing about computers.
He forced himself to sit and drink the beer and talk a little longer. All thoughts of extending the visit had gone out of his head. He simply wanted to get away and mull over what he had seen. There must be an innocent explanation.
Bill Wong had been summoned by Detective Inspector Wilkes despite the fact that it was his day off. He reluctantly left his gardening and made his way to police headquarters.
“I’ll get right to the point,” said Wilkes. “You’re friendly with that Raisin woman, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In my opinion she’s a blundering amateur who employs blundering amateurs. That young man who works for her. What’s his name?”
“Harry Beam.”
“I think he may be our mysterious Mr. Henderson. Now Joyce says this Henderson picked her up in the Abbey Tea Rooms and then took her to dinner at the Royal. Check both places and get a description. If it is Harry Beam, we’ll get him in here for questioning.”
“Now, sir?”
“Yes. Now.”
Bill phoned Agatha and told her to get hold of Harry Beam and to meet him at her office.
“What’s it all about?” asked Agatha half an hour later as she, Charles and Harry were confronted by Bill.
“It’s like this. Wilkes is pretty sure Harry here is the mysterious James Henderson. I’m supposed to be checking those places you took her for a description.”
Harry was back in his leather gear, earrings and studs. “It’s all right. I didn’t look like this.” Harry gave Bill a description of what he was wearing.
“Good,” said Bill. “That should get us all out of this. Agatha, never again drag me into your schemes. I like to do everything by the book. What if Joyce is the murderess? What if she did kill Haviland? We can’t produce a copy of a letter in court, even though she does admit it’s a copy of the original. She could change her tune. Say she lied because of brutal police questioning. All right, I’ll give it an hour and then go back and tell Wilkes that Henderson bears no resemblance to Harry here. Now, to soothe my ruffled feelings, have you found out anything that might be of use?”
Agatha shook her head. At that moment her mobile rang. She answered it and listened and gave a sharp exclamation. Then she said, “I’m at the office with Harry, Charles and Bill Wong. You’d better come here.”
“What was that all about?” asked Bill when she rang off.
“Phil found a diploma in Mabel’s house—a diploma for computer studies.”
They discussed the possible significance of this until Phil arrived.
“Good work,” said Bill. “We’ll need to pull her in again for questioning. She swore blind she knew nothing about computers.”
Phil looked distressed. “She’ll guess it was me.”
“Does that matter?” asked Agatha.
Phil did not want to believe Mabel guilty of anything. “Couldn’t you just check with the college? They’ll have records. I mean, if you destroy my friendship with her, I won’t be able to find out anything else.”
“Good point,” said Agatha. “When are you seeing her again?”
“I was so flustered, I didn’t make another date.”
“Better do it as soon as possible.”
Bill looked cross. “Who’s running this investigation? You or the police?”
“Both of us,” said Agatha soothingly.
“If the facts of that letter come out, I could be suspended from duty and maybe even lose my job. Don’t ever embroil me in one of your mad amateur schemes again.”
“We’re not amateurs,” said Agatha huffily.
“Could’ve fooled me. I’ll be off to Mircester College,” said Bill. “Hope there is someone there on a Saturday evening. I’ll tell Wilkes I had a brainwave.”
“You might at least thank us,” said Agatha.
Bill paused in the doorway. “Agatha, wasn’t life safer in public relations?”
Agatha grinned. “Dog-eat-dog, I assure you. Knives in backs all round.”
“And stale metaphors by the dozen,” murmured Charles as Bill left, slamming the door behind him.
Her mobile rang again. Agatha listened and said, “We’re all in the office. You’d better come in until we figure out what to do about this.”
She rang off and said, “Patrick’s found out something about that maths teacher.”
Patrick arrived half an hour later. He looked weary. He sank down on the sofa and said, “Could someone make me a cup of coffee? I’m beat.”
“I’ll do it,” said Harry. “Detective work wearing you out?”
“No, it’s my home life. We’d both agreed on a divorce, but she wants me out of the house now. I sold my flat when we got married. Prices have gone sky-high, so I don’t know if I can afford to buy anything, and rents are pretty steep as well.”
“You can move in with me until you find a place,” said Phil. “I’ve got a spare room.”
“Phil’s very neat,” cautioned Agatha. “You’re not messy, are you, Patrick?”
“Not in the slightest. That’s what her indoors was always complaining about. She said I tidied things away so much, she couldn’t find anything.”
Agatha cynically reflected that Miss Simms—as she always thought of her—had probably found a new gentleman friend and wanted rid of Patrick as soon as possible.
“Thanks a lot, Phil,” said Patrick. “We’ll get together later and agree on the rent.”
Harry handed Patrick a cup of instant coffee.
“Now,” said Agatha impatiently, “what’s this about that maths teacher? Charles, what are you looking at?”
Charles was staring down from the window. “I’ve just seen Laura Ward-Barkinson. Back in a minute.”
He rushed off.
Agatha felt a pang on jealousy and then reminded herself firmly that Charles was only a friend. In any case, this Laura might simply be a friend of his aunt.
“So what’s it about, Patrick?” Agatha moved to the window and looked down. Charles was talking animatedly to a tall, leggy brunette. Then they moved off together.
“I don’t think you’re listening,” said Patrick sharply.
“Sorry.” Agatha moved away from the window.
“I was saying that Owen, the maths teacher, was seen one evening several weeks before Jessica was murdered out at the Pheasant restaurant on the road to Pershore. It’s very posh, but I know the owner from the days when I was in the force. I met him by chance in Evesham when I was getting my hair cut—what’s left of it. We went for a drink and I began discussing the case. Funnily enough, I’d quite forgotten I’d once asked Phil to wait outside the school and take a photo of Owen Trump, that teacher. He was in the notes, Agatha, but no picture.
