“I tell you what,” said Agatha, “I’ll run you up to London tomorrow and then I’ll go to Lewisham.”
“On your own?”
“No, I’ll see if Harry will come with me.”
Harry was delighted at the prospect when she phoned him the next morning. Agatha was relieved. She had been sure that a young man like Harry would have a busy social life. She did not know Harry had cheerfully cancelled a date with his latest girlfriend and was glad of an excuse to do so, as his interest in her had been wearing thin.
They dropped Roy at his home in Fulham and then made their way to Lewisham.
“Where does Cyril live?” asked Agatha.
“Perry Way. I’ll direct you. Haven’t been there, but I looked up directions before in case we needed them.”
Cyril’s home was in a row of terraced houses. Two children were playing in the weedy front garden.
“Must have visitors,” said Agatha, ringing the bell.
A tired-looking woman with a baby on her hip answered the door.
“Mr. Hammond?” asked Agatha.
“Don’t live here any more. We bought the house from him.”
“Do you know where he lives now?”
“Wait there. Got the address somewhere. Here, hold the baby.”
Agatha clutched hold of the baby, which began to cry. “Let me,” said Harry, taking the baby from her and starting to talk nonsense to it. The baby gurgled happily and sucked its thumb.
After a while the woman came back and handed them a piece of paper which had grease spots on it.
They thanked her, Harry handed back the baby, and they left.
“So where is he?” asked Harry.
“He’s moved to Swindon. I hate Swindon. I always get lost in the roundabouts.”
“Should we go there, or try to see Fred Jankers now we’re here?”
“Maybe. But I’d really like to see Cyril. My money’s on him.”
“I’ll drive if we go to Swindon.”
Agatha capitulated, and Harry drove off.
“It’ll be interesting to know what state of mind Cyril’s in,” said Harry. “It’s a hell of a way to Swindon. It’ll take us nearly three hours.”
On they went through Forest Hill, Dulwich, Streatham, Clapham, Wandsworth Common, East Putney, Kew Bridge, the traffic hell of the Chiswick Roundabout, and then, with a sigh of relief, Harry drove down onto the M4.
“I’d better drive in the centre of Swindon and ask for directions,” said Harry. “What’s that address again?”
Agatha fished the greasy piece of paper out of her handbag. “Tullis House, Maycombe Avenue.”
Harry lowered the window and asked various passers-by, but no one seemed to recognize the address.
He drove on a bit, seemingly happily oblivious to the angry hooting of horns from cars behind him every time he stopped. Then he cried, “Oh, look, there’s a copper on the beat. Haven’t seen one of those in years.” He stopped and asked the policeman for directions.
Agatha was glad she wasn’t driving. She could never have remembered all these turn-rights and turn- lefts.
She sat silently while Harry weaved his way competently through street after street out to the outskirts of Swindon.
“Here we are,” he said at last. “Gosh, they must have got then-hands on Geraldine’s money pretty fast.”
They had expected Tullis House would turn out to be a block of flats, but it was a large white villa in a street of equally large white villas. Harry drove up the short driveway at the front and then parked. “If he’s not at home,” said Harry, “I’ll scream.”
Agatha felt that awful pain in her hip and swung her right leg out of the car by putting one hand under her hip to support it.
Harry rang the doorbell and they waited. The Indian summer day bathed everything in a golden glow. Then they could hear light footsteps approaching the door. A pretty young Asian woman stood smiling at them. She had skin as golden as the day and she had long black hair down to her waist.
“Mr. Hammond?” asked Agatha.
“You are friends of his?”
“Just tell him Mrs. Raisin is here to see him.”
The girl giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Such a funny name.”
“What’s so funny about it?” asked Agatha as the girl pattered off into the house.
“I suppose it’s a bit like being called Mrs. Prune.”
“No, it is not!” said Agatha huffily. “And who is this, anyway? Has he got himself a maid?”
The girl came back. “Please to come in.”
She shut the door behind them and led the way to a sitting room on the ground floor. Cyril was waiting to meet them.
“Nice to see you again,” he said. “You’ve met Lin.”
The sitting room was furnished with Victorian chairs and a Victorian sofa. Dull landscapes in need of cleaning hung on the walls. A portrait of a severe-looking woman in a black gown and lace cap hung over the marble fireplace. Agatha guessed that Cyril had bought the contents along with the house.
“Sit down,” said Cyril. “Like a drink?”
“Just coffee,” said Agatha. Harry said he would have the same. Cyril nodded to Lin, who hurried off.
“Where’s Dawn?” asked Agatha.
“We broke up. We’re getting a divorce. I’ll be marrying Lin as soon as the divorce comes through.”
“Where did you meet Lin?”
“Chinese restaurant in Swindon. Love at first sight. What brings you?”
“I don’t know if it’s in the papers yet,” said Agatha, easing herself down onto the sofa and trying not to wince. “Archie Swale was arrested yesterday.”
“Geraldine’s ex! Why?”
“He had a drawerful of jewellery. Turns out to be the jewellery from that theft.”
Lin came in with a laden tray. The cups rattled as Cyril shouted, “The old bitch! She told me Charlie had hidden the jewels after giving a few pieces to Wayne. She said she didn’t know where they were.” He suddenly calmed down, and taking out a gaudy silk handkerchief, mopped his brow.
Lin cast him nervous little looks as she poured cups of coffee.
“Go away and do something,” Cyril ordered her. Lin scurried from the room, her head bent.
“I thought I knew everything there was to know about Geraldine,” said Cyril, sinking down into an armchair. “We were childhood sweethearts.”
“Why didn’t you marry her?” asked Harry.
“Because at that time we had no money and Geraldine wanted money andwhat Geraldine wanted, Geraldine got. But Archie Swale! She despised him. She thought she’d married into money and then found out he had pretty much only his pension.”
“I can’t understand it either,” said Agatha. “I could swear Archie hated her. Why would she let him have the jewellery?”
“Perhaps because she hit another bum one with Fred Jankers. I remember her telling me he had this chain of dress shops. But the shops weren’t doing much business. She tried to get him to sell the lot, but he stuck his heels in and said his father had started the business and he was damned if he would sell even one shop. Wait a bit. Archie must have murdered her. That’s why she went out in the middle of the night. Of course she’d go, knowing he had the jewellery.”
“Trouble is,” said Harry, “the police don’t have a shred of evidence.”
“Why wouldn’t Geraldine sell the jewels if she liked money that much?” asked Agatha.
“The stuff was hot. She would guess if she held on to it for a long time, she could then get rid of it bit by bit. But Archie! I can’t get over it. I was her friend. She’d still be alive if she’d asked me to keep them.”
