“I’m just about due for a break. Mrs. Henderson takes over for me. I see her coming.”
“Such a hot day,” said Charles. “Perhaps you might like to join me for a drink? Agatha can’t come. She’s supposed to be helping.”
Agatha opened her mouth and shut it again.
Mrs. Henderson, a plump, sweating woman with a round red face, came hurrying up. “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go to the school. Dwayne’s been playing up again, though if you ask me, that teacher’s got it in for him and so I’ll tell her.”
“It’s all right,” said Charles. “Mrs. Raisin will take over for a bit. Won’t you, Agatha?”
“Oh, all right,” mumbled Agatha ungraciously.
“You are so kind,” said Mrs. Smedley. “The prices are on all the jars.”
Agatha gloomily watched as Charles went off with Mabel. Charles had borrowed a twenty-pound note from her.
“Aren’t we going to the refreshment room?” asked Mabel.
“I saw a nice-looking pub across the road,” said Charles, steering her out of the hall.
“I don’t drink at this time of day.”
“They’ll have soft drinks or coffee.”
They crossed the road and entered the pub. Mabel ordered a tonic water and Charles got himself a whisky.
They sat down at a comer table. Charles smiled at Mabel. “Tell me about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell,” said Mabel. “The Ancombe Ladies’ Society keeps me busy. I make cakes and jam. I fund-raise for the homeless of Mircester. I drive the old folks on outings.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes, and a very lucky woman. Not many women these days are allowed to stay at home. The modem husband wants his wife to make money. What about you, Sir Charles?”
“Just Charles. Oh, I deal with the accounts for the home farm. Then there are the cricket matches and fetes and concerts. The village always thinks it has a right to use my house and grounds for everything. I do a lot of gardening,” lied Charles, who was beginning to feel, under her steady gaze, that he sounded like a dilettante.
“I love gardening. Tell me all about it.”
Fortunately, Charles had a garrulous Scottish gardener who was always lecturing him on flowers, vegetables, trees and mulches. So he talked about gardening while she listened with a little half-smile on her face, the kind of smile you see on classical statues.
And then she suddenly rose to her feet. “I must get back. Do stay and finish your drink.”
She gathered up her handbag and headed for the door. Then she turned and said sweetly, “Do tell your friend Mrs. Raisin that I didn’t enjoy the film either. Pity. Such good reviews.”
THREE
AGATHA was horrified when Charles told her of Mabel’s parting comment. “I should never have employed an amateur like Phil,” she raged.
“That’s not fair, Agatha. Amateur yourself! If it hadn’t been for Phil, you’d never have found Jessica’s body, and both of you were tailing her. Mrs. Bloxby’s trying to get your attention.”
Agatha was aware of Mabel, back once more behind her jams, smiling that little smile.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin, bad news,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Mabel has just confided in me that she knows you were following her. She thinks it’s rather sweet.”
”Sweet!”
“Yes, she says her husband is so jealous and it’s very flattering.”
“How did she know? We were well behind her.”
“Perhaps she took out her compact or something to powder her nose in the cinema and spotted you.”
“She doesn’t wear make-up. Now what do I do?”
“Haven’t you anyone else you could put on the case?”
“I’ve re-employed Patrick Mulligan. She doesn’t know him. He’s working on the Jessica Bradley case. We could switch.”
“So you’ve re-employed Patrick. I thought you were cutting back on expenses.”
“I’d forgotten the golden rule of business and that’s to put money in to get money out. It looks, however, as if Mabel Smedley is a lot sharper than we thought.”
Charles’s mobile rang. He muttered an excuse and hurried outside.
Phil came up and Agatha told him about Mabel spotting them. “I don’t know how she did it,” he said. “I mean, she’s not the suspicious type and all the ladies here think she’s a perfect paragon. Works so hard for good causes …”
“And never was heard a discouraging word,” said Agatha. “Let’s get back to the office, Phil. We’d better put Patrick on it.”
“But what about photographs?”
“We’ll go on to the Jessica case. If Patrick digs up anything worth photographing, he can let us know.”
Charles came back. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Remember my date who didn’t show up? She’s phoned to apologize. Her dog died and she was too distraught to get in touch with me.”
“I’ll drop you back at the cottage,” said Agatha, “and you can collect your car.”
She felt like snapping at Charles on the road back to Carsely. It was not as if she were jealous of this girl, she told herself. It was just annoying the way he dropped in and out of her life, using her cottage as a sort of hotel.
After Charles had collected his bags and left, Agatha felt the old wave of loneliness descend on her. Then she remembered Roy would be coming at the weekend and set out for the office feeling slightly more cheerful.
Before she left her cottage, she had phoned Patrick about the new arrangement. He was waiting for her when she arrived and listened intently as she outlined the case.
“Nobody’s that perfect,” he said. “I think she found out that her husband had employed you. I think I know how she found out.” His eyes slid to where Mrs. Freedman was tapping away at the keys on the computer.
Agatha stared in amazement. “Mrs. Freedman. Stop work for a moment. Did you tell anyone that Robert Smedley had hired us to spy in his wife?”
Mrs. Freedman was a plump, placid lady with tightly curled grey hair, a pleasant face and thick glasses. A tide of red went up from her neck and covered her face.
“Do you remember the Boggles?”
“Can I ever forget them?” said Agatha. The Boggles were an elderly couple who had lived in Carsely and had demanded outings and treats from the members of the ladies’ society with ruthless energy. Agatha had heaved a sigh of relief when they had relocated to a nursing home in Broadway.
“Paid them a little visit and they were asking about things. I didn’t think there would be any harm in telling them.”
“Harm?” raged Agatha. “They’d be on the phone as soon as you had left. You must never discuss anything that goes on here with anyone.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. They looked so old and frail. I never believed for a moment they would phone anyone or tell anyone. I mean, they said that no one ever visited them.”
“That’s that,” said Patrick. “She’s not going to do anything now that she knows we’re on to her. Better tell Smedley.”
“No, not yet,” said Agatha slowly. “If there’s anything to find out about her, it happened before, and that’s what you’ve got to dig up.”
“Do you want me to leave?” asked Mrs. Freedman in a quavering voice.
“Oh, go on with what you’re doing,” said Agatha.
The door opened and a young man slouched in. He had a shaven head, a nose stud, earrings and was dressed all in black—black T-shirt under a black leather jacket and black leather trousers. His face was set in a truculent sneer. He had blue eyes, a sharp nose and a long mouth.
“Hi,” he said and slumped down on the sofa.
