“Naw. They was asking about people calling the night o’ the murder.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Burden.”
“Wouldn’t like to wait a bit, young fellow? I go down to the pub at eleven.”
“Got to go.”
Bill Wong had decided to risk Wilkes’s wrath and go to Jensens Electronics late afternoon on the following day. He didn’t think they would demand a search warrant. He was told to wait and then was confronted by Miss Morrison, who raised her eyebrows when he said he wanted to examine the cheese plant in her office.
“Don’t take all day about it,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”
Bill followed her through to the office where the cheese plant in all its greenery loomed up against the window. He took out a thin metal rod. “I’ll try not to destroy it.”
“Won’t bother me,” said Miss Morrison. “I hate the thing.”
Bill crouched down by the pot and slid the rod into the earth. He hit something hard. Maybe it was just the bottom of the pot or there were stones in the bottom.
He pulled a garbage bag out of his pocket, took out a trowel from another pocket and began to scoop the earth into the bag. He scooped and scooped, occasionally changing his tactics to scrape away the soil. Deep down in the pot he saw a gleam of glass. He gently scraped and scraped until a milk bottle was partly uncovered.
God bless Harry Beam, he thought. He took out his phone and called Wilkes.
Agatha, Patrick, Harry and Phil met at her cottage. “Right,” said Agatha. “I suggest we go tomorrow morning and confront Mabel with what we’ve got.”
“I think we should tell the police,” said Patrick.
“We’ve found out things they couldn’t,” said Agatha. “Let’s see her first and then talk to them.
They set out for Ancombe the next morning. Harry wondered whether to tell Agatha about his theory about the milk bottle but decided against it. She might be angry with him for telling the police and not her.
Patrick and Phil were in Agatha’s car and Harry followed on his motorbike.
The drive outside Mabel’s home was empty. Her car was gone.
“We’ll wait for her,” said Agatha.
“You know,” said Patrick, getting out of the car, “that house has an awfully empty look.”
He walked up to the windows and peered in. He turned round. “Everything’s gone,” he said. “All the furniture. Everything.”
“She must have sold the house and moved.”
“The ‘For Sale’ sign is still up,” said Agatha, “and believe me, if it had been sold, then the estate agents would have a big ‘Sold’ sign. We’d better tell the police.”
She rang and was told that neither Bill Wong nor Wilkes was available, but they would pass on a message. So Agatha left an urgent message that they thought Mabel Smedley might have disappeared. She said they were outside Mabel’s house and would wait until someone arrived.
The police had just finished searching Joyce’s house again. Bill had pressed to have it searched the previous evening, but it had been late by the time he got hold of Wilkes and Wilkes had said they should organize a team for the morning. There was no sign of her, and although all her furniture was still in place, it looked as if some of her clothes were missing.
Bill got the call from headquarters that Agatha was at Mabel Smedley’s house and that she appeared to have sold or stored all the contents and fled.
Wilkes, Bill Wong and a police officer raced over to Ancombe.
“What put you on to her?” asked Wilkes. “As you are all here, I assume it wasn’t a social call.”
Agatha handed him the video. “Phil originally came to call on her—they were friends—and he found this in the back garden beside a drum full of burnt stuff. He took it home and looked at it and found it was a video of the girls’ Web site. Phil didn’t look in the windows, he had merely gone round to the back garden in case she was there, so he told us and we all came round to see what she had to say about it.”
“You should have phoned me right away!” raged Wilkes.
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Agatha defiantly. “She’d already have been gone. What about Joyce? Burden told Harry he’d seen them together.”
“Joyce has gone as well,” said Bill. “We found the missing milk bottle at last. It was buried in a cheese-plant pot in the secretary’s office. Some of the old staff are working for the new employers. Maybe Miss Morrison talked about my visit yesterday and one of them phoned Joyce.”
Wilkes took out his phone. “I’ll get an alert out to watch all airports and ports and railway stations. What was the number of Mrs. Smedley’s car?”
“I have it,” said Phil, taking out a notebook. He read it out to Wilkes, who phoned in the alert.
“We’ll get a team out here to search the house,” said Wilkes when he had rung off, “and you lot are coming back to the station. I want statements from all of you. The secretary at Jensens said some young man called about a fictitious appointment. I want to know if that visit had anything to do with you lot.”
Back in an interview room, Wilkes switched on a tape and said grimly, “Now, Mrs. Raisin, begin at the beginning. You obviously suspected Mabel Smedley, otherwise Mr. Phil Witherspoon would not have decided to examine a videotape that looked like Brief Encounter.”
“I was going to come and see you today anyway,” said Agatha. “Harry found out last night that Mabel had been seen outside Burt’s flat having a row with him. I began to think that somehow the murders were all tied up together. I thought if Burt had been having an affair with Mabel as well as Joyce, but was determined to marry Jessica, jealousy might have been the motive. Now I think that maybe Mabel and Joyce joined forces. Mabel had a controlling and bullying husband. He could have his affairs, but he wasn’t going to allow her any, and I think he may have suspected Burt, so he employed us to watch his wife. Mabel found those videos of Jessica and that added fuel to the fire. I think that explains why Jessica’s murder was not sexual. One of them killed her.”
“We can understand now why Joyce Wilson fled,” said Wilkes, “but why Mrs. Smedley? We really had no proof she had done anything.”
“I think she planned all along to get away in case you found something,” said Agatha. “She had time to get the contents of her house put into storage, which is what she must have done. You can’t blame us for her getting away.”
The questioning went on all day and they were all weary by the time they gathered in Agatha’s office that evening.
“I didn’t tell them about the milk bottle,” said Harry. “It wasn’t Bill who interviewed me, it was another detective who kept breaking off the questioning to tell me how much he detested amateurs and to get a real job.”
“Where could they have gone?” fretted Agatha.
“Anywhere,” said Patrick gloomily.
“I wonder if Joyce is calling the shots,” said Agatha. “Joyce hadn’t money, but according to young Harry here, she was greedy. She may have forced Mabel to run, saying if she didn’t help her, she would be forced to betray her. Wait a bit. Joyce wouldn’t want to hole up in the north of Scotland or the mountains of Wales. She’d like a bit of luxury. Harry, did you recognize any of the old staff?”
“I don’t know any of them. Oh, that security man, Berry, was on the gate. I saw his name tag.”
“We’ll start with him,” said Agatha. “He’ll be home by now.”
Berry was watching a football match on television and looked irritated at being interrupted.
“What we wondered,” said Agatha, “is if any of the same staff are still working there that Joyce may have gossiped with in the past.”
“There’s Mary Penth. They was close. I remember her saying she rented a room near Joyce’s house.”
Agatha and Patrick hurried off. They went to the street where Joyce had lived and began to search along the houses on either side. Unlike Joyce’s, they had been divided into flats. “Here it is,” said Patrick at last. “Top floor. Mary Penth.” He rang the bell.
They heard a clatter of heels and then a young woman opened the door. She was small and neat with sandy hair and tight little features.
Agatha took a deep breath, introduced themselves and explained why they had called, while Mary put her hand to her mouth and let out little whimpers of surprise. “You’d better come in,” she said faintly.
They followed her up a steep staircase to the top of the house. “It’s my studio,” she said, ushering them in.
