“Nothing. Just checking my notes.” A young woman’s voice could be heard in the background calling, “Where are you, Charles?”
Poor Agatha, thought Harry, ringing off. Hope she isn’t keen on him.
He looked across the square again just in time to see Bill getting out of a car.
Harry ran across the square and accosted him on the steps of police headquarters.
“What are you all smartened up for?” asked Bill crossly. “If Wilkes gets a look at you, he might begin to wonder again about the young man who was seen with Joyce.”
“Never mind that. There’s a whopping great cheese plant in Joyce’s old office in a big pot.”
“So?”
“She could have buried a milk bottle in there easy.”
“I think someone would have looked. I’ll check up on it.”
Bill thought hard as he went into the station. He went to see Wilkes. He knew Wilkes would not give the matter much serious thought if he learned it came from what he termed “that stupid amateur agency.”
“I’ve had an idea, sir,” began Bill.
“All right, then. Spit it out.”
“In Joyce Wilson’s office, there was a large cheese plant.”
“What’s a cheese plant?”
“Great big green thing like a young tree in a large pot. If by any chance Joyce Wilson is guilty, could she have hidden the missing milk bottle in there?”
“A team of forensic experts went over every single thing in that office. Besides, if it’s such a monster, the new secretary has probably got rid of it.”
“Wouldn’t do any harm to phone and ask, sir.”
“Look here, we’re overloaded with cases. Three murders and a spate of burglaries. Leave it.”
Agatha managed to get Harry on his mobile and asked him to join in the search of hotels and restaurants to see if Mabel had ever been spotted with Burt. She said they had left photographs of Mabel and Burt for him at the office.
Phil had received a text message from Mabel cancelling their date but suggesting the week after next. Part of him couldn’t help still hoping that there would be an innocent explanation for everything to do with Mabel.
Harry picked up the photographs at the office and stood lost in thought. Where would Mabel and Burt go for a liaison—that is, if they ever went anywhere together?
He decided to ask his father. His father was a successful architect. Harry’s parents’ marriage had nearly broken up two years ago when Harry’s mother found out that her husband had been having a fling with his secretary.
That evening, Harry went to his parents’ home. His father, Jeremy Beam, welcomed him. “Your mother’s gone out to her Women’s Institute meeting. Still working for that detective agency?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here. If a married woman was having an affair with a young employee of her husband’s, which hotel or restaurant around Mircester would they go to?”
“Ouch! Meaning you thought I would know?”
Harry waited in silence.
“Let me think,” said his father.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Harry. “Where did you take your piece of fluff?”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, young man.”
“Come on, Dad. It’s important.”
“Well,” said Jeremy huffily, “there’s this little country hotel, the Manor, in the village of Tewby Magna.” “Where’s Tewby Magna?”
“You take the Mircester bypass as far as the Evesham Road turn; go down there and you’ll see the signpost.”
Harry set off with high hopes. He’d had such a lot of luck recently that he was almost startled when they told him at the hotel that they had never seen anyone answering the descriptions of Mabel or Burt.
Agatha could not sleep that night. If they did find out that Mabel had been anywhere with Burt, what then? If they told the police, Wilkes would ask what gave them the idea. They would need to turn that tape over to the police before much longer and try to pretend that Phil had just found it.
Her idea, which had seemed so bright and logical, now seemed far-fetched. The trouble was she always thought of Mabel as middleaged because of her dowdy appearance. But Mabel was comparatively young.
Bill Wong was having a restless night as well. He had questioned the forensic team himself, but two of them were on holiday and one had left and the others couldn’t remember if anyone had searched the plant pot.
Agatha, Phil, Patrick and Harry met in the office next morning with lists of where they had been so that one of them didn’t make the mistake of going back to an old address.
The trouble was, she thought as she got in her car, that if they had been having an affair, they could simply have gone to Burt’s flat. Perhaps it was all a waste of time. Give it one more day.
Harry had come to the same conclusion. He made his way to the block of flats where Burt had lived. He trudged up and down the stairs, knocking at doors, but the building was silent. Everyone must be out at work, he thought. He was just about to give up when he saw a man carrying two shopping bags entering the building.
“I wonder whether you can help me,” began Harry. “I work for a detective agency.”
“Work for your mother, do you? Her was asking me questions the other week. I’m Burden.”
Burden by name and Burden by nature, thought Harry with irritation.
“No,” he said patiently, “I am employed by Mrs. Raisin. I have photographs here I would like you to look at to see if you recognize anyone.”
“I’ve forgotten to buy me fags. Can’t think without a cigarette.”
“I’ll get you some. Which is your flat?”
“Number eight.”
“What do you smoke?”
“Rothmans. Get me a carton.”
Greedy old sod, thought Harry, but he ran to the comer store and bought a carton.
“Now,” he said when he handed the cigarettes over, trying not to look accusingly at the cheap roll-up which was dangling from Mr. Burden’s mouth, “have a look.”
“Fix us a cup of tea first.”
Harry went through to the kitchen. The sink was full of greasy unwashed dishes. He searched around until he found a clean mug.
“Make it strong,” came the order from the living room. Harry put two tea bags in the mug and dunked them until the tea was almost black. “Milk and sugar?” he called.
“Five lumps and the milk’s in the fridge.”
Harry carried the mug through to him and then opened the folder of photographs, selecting the ones of Mabel.
“Ever seen this woman before?”
He waited patiently while Mr. Burden greedily tore open the carton of cigarettes, selected a packet, opened it, extracted a cigarette, crushed out his roll-up, put the fresh cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He took a swig of tea and said, “Okay. Let’s see.”
He scowled horribly down at the photographs and then his face cleared. “Oh, her.”
“You’ve seen her?”
Harry could hardly contain his excitement.
“I saw her from the window. Middle o’ the night, it were. Can’t sleep. My prostate. Pee, pee, pee all night long. The doctor says—”
“But you saw her,” Harry interrupted.
“She was getting in a car and that murdered chap was standing there and she was shouting something at him. I recognize her ‘cos she was plain, not like the birds he usually had up there.”
“How long before the murder?”
“Can’t think. Maybe a week.”
“Did you tell the police?”
