Anyway, my friend, John Wheeler, he said to me he might look at photos because he knew so many people in the area and he might recognize someone. I had a whole set of prints in my briefcase and he went through them. He picked out Owen Trump. He remembered him because he’d made such a fuss about the wine and then complained about the food. He hadn’t recognized Jessica first time round, so I showed him a photograph of her again. He said she’d had her hair up and was wearing a lot of make-up and looked much older. He said she seemed embarrassed by Owen’s behaviour and was drinking rather a lot.”
“Let’s look up the phone book and find out where he lives,” said Agatha.
“Already got his address.” Patrick produced a thick notebook. “He’s got a flat in the centre of Mircester.”
“All right. Patrick and I will go. Phil, you may as well see if you can make another date with Mabel. Harry, I think you should keep out of sight for the moment. Oh, if Charles comes back, tell him about this latest development.”
After they had left, Harry paced up and down the office, corning to a halt before the mirror behind Mrs. Freedman’s desk. He suddenly thought he looked ridiculous. Why had he ever thought all this piercing and leather cool? He decided to go home and change, make up some sort of disguise and follow Joyce. In Harry’s mind, all roads led to Joyce. She had had affairs with both Burt and Smedley. She had served the lethal coffee. If he followed her, she might betray herself in some way.
Owen Trump was at home. He gave them a supercilious glare when he saw who was standing outside his door.
“We want to ask you a few questions,” said Agatha.
“If there are any questions to answer, I will speak to the police. Now, go away.”
“All right,” said Agatha. “We’ll go straight to the police now and tell them about your dinner with Jessica Bradley at the Pheasant.”
He had half closed the door. He opened it wide again and said, “You’d better come in.”
I can practically see the wheels turning in his brain, thought Agatha. The living room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and there were empty beer cans on the coffee table.
“It’s like this,” began Owen. “Oh, do sit down.”
Agatha and Patrick sat down on a battered sofa. He took an armchair opposite. He steepled his fingers and gave a stagey little sigh. “I was worried about Jessica’s school work. She used to be such a brilliant pupil. I thought if I took her out for a quiet meal somewhere, I could find out why her work had been falling off.”
“Did you call for her at her home?”
“Well, no. I thought something in her home life might be to blame. I arranged to meet her on the steps of the abbey in Mircester. She looked much older. She was wearing a lot of make-up and had her hair up.”
“And what did you find out when you weren’t complaining about the wine?” asked Patrick.
He flushed angrily. “I had every reason to complain. I know my wines. I have a very good palate.”
Agatha and Patrick looked pointedly at the beer cans on the table. “It’s a ridiculously pretentious restaurant.”
“Does your head teacher know that you were allowing a pupil to drink wine?”
“It was only one glass. I mean, children drink wine in France.”
“This is not France.”
He stood up. “Get out of here, you moralizing old bag.”
Agatha stood up as well and her hip gave a nasty twinge. Old, indeed. Her face flamed with anger.
She stalked out followed by Patrick. “Why didn’t you ask him more questions?” asked Patrick. “I mean, he might have known more about her affair with Burt.”
“Jessica wasn’t having an affair with Burt. She was a virgin, remember?”
Agatha pulled out her phone. “Who are you calling?”
“The police.”
“We won’t operate very well as a detective agency if you keep handing over every lead we have to the police.”
But Owen had called Agatha old and she was out for revenge. Bill Wong wasn’t there, so she asked for Wilkes. For once he sounded pleased with her.
“Excellent,” he said. “We’ll get on to it right away.”
Agatha told Patrick they should take the rest of the weekend off and start again on Monday. Patrick’s normally lugubrious face looked even more disapproving than usual.
“I’ll still try to see what I can find,” he said.
Agatha went home and entered her cottage. There was no sign of Charles. She went up to the spare room. His bag was gone.
She trailed downstairs in the morning feeling lonely. She went out into the garden, followed by her cats, and sat down. The day had so far been showery, but now puffy white clouds raced across a sky of washed-out blue. The leaves on the trees were already turning a darker green. All too soon it would be the longest day and then the nights would start drawing in, reminding Agatha of her age and the passing of time. She went through to her office and began working on the notes on her computer.
A ring at the front doorbell roused her from her gloomy thoughts. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I called round to find out how your cases were going,” she said.
“Come in,” said Agatha, glad of the company. “We can go into the garden.”
“Where is Charles?” asked Mrs. Bloxby, looking around.
“He saw some girl from the office window and went scuttling off. His bag’s gone.”
“He’ll be back. He comes and goes. So what has been happening?”
“It’s all very complicated. There are three murders and I feel they are entwined in some way.”
“Tell me all about it from the beginning.”
“Would you like coffee?”
“No, I would like a sherry. I am feeling tired.”
“Here! Sit down at the garden table and I’ll get you a sherry.” Agatha looked at her anxiously. “You do too much. Can’t you leave the parishioners to get on without you until you get a rest?”
“Maybe.” Mrs. Bloxby leaned back in her chair and raised her face to the sun.
Agatha came back with a decanter of sherry and two glasses. “You don’t usually drink.”
“This is a special occasion.”
“What’s that?” asked Agatha, pouring two glasses.
“I rarely take time off from my duties. But this is one of those times. Go on, tell me all about it.”
“You know a lot of it already,” said Agatha, “but I’ll begin at the beginning.
Mrs. Bloxby sipped her sherry and listened intently.
When Agatha had at last finished, she asked, “Did you ever read Kipling?”
“No. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“He wrote: ‘When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride/ He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside,/ But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail/ For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.’”
“I’ve heard the last bit. I didn’t know it was Kipling.”
“Oh, the man’s full of quotations. You see, you said that Trixie and Fairy were bullying Jessica. She was a bright student. Maybe they were jealous and wanted to bring her down to their level. Then it may be that Burt was genuinely in love with Jessica. Surely the fact that she was still a virgin bears that out. But he had been having a fling with Joyce. Joyce could have felt bitter and rejected. Mabel Smedley turns out to be computer-literate. Maybe she found something in her husband’s emails showing he was having an affair with Joyce.”
“And yet,” said Agatha slowly, “I still have a feeling that these murders are all linked.”
“You’ve been thinking too hard. Why don’t you take a train up to London and walk about the city or go to a gallery?”
Agatha squinted at her watch. “It’s two o’clock and I haven’t had lunch.”
“You could still make the train.”
“I’ll do that. Finish your sherry. I’ll just run up the stairs and get a few things.”
But when Agatha returned to the garden, the vicar’s wife was fast asleep. Agatha slowly lowered herself into a chair next to her. Somehow, she did not have the heart to wake her.
