back of the kitchen garden to where those ruined houses are, you'll find his cottage just the other side of the ruins.'
'Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Mrs Tamworthy?' asked Agatha.
Jill put down the bucket and ran a hand through her short curly hair. 'I've only worked here for three months. The previous groom left in a huff. Said she wasn't being paid enough and there was too much work for one person.'
'And is there?'
'Not now,' said Jill with a sigh. 'Several owners have been up with their horse boxes to take their precious animals away. I'm starting to look for another job.'
'They surely don't think anyone would murder the horses,' said Phil.
Jill laughed. 'If you owned several thousand pounds' worth of horseflesh, you wouldn't be taking any chances either. They say that even if it turns out that the hemlock in the salad was an accident, then it follows that some of the stuff might get into the feed.'
They thanked her and walked back to the kitchen garden, then round it and found themselves facing the field with the ruined houses. 'That must be the cottage,' said Phil, pointing to a small building on the other side of the field. 'We'll need to cross the field.'
Agatha was wearing flat sandals. The field was still sodden from the previous day's rain. She squelched across it following elderly Phil's athletic stride. Phil was wearing serviceable boots. How does he manage to keep so fit at his age? wondered Agatha. Maybe it's because he doesn't smoke. Must stop. Well, maybe tomorrow.
'Here we are,' said Phil. 'Real agricultural labourer's cottage. Cheap brick. Look, there's even a pump in the garden. Maybe he doesn't have any running water. I don't suppose he uses the front door. Let's try the side.'
Phil knocked loudly on the door. They waited. Somewhere in the distance they could hear the sound of a tractor. Good heavens, thought Agatha. She said she had someone to manage the farming bit. Must find out who that is and where he lives.
Phil bent down and peered through the letter box. 'I can hear the sound of a television set,' he said. 'Maybe the old boy fell asleep in front of it last night. The curtains on the windows are still drawn.'
'Try the door,' said Agatha.
Phil turned the handle and the door opened. 'I don't suppose he bothers to lock up out here,' he whispered. 'What should we do?'
'Let me,' said Agatha, pushing past him. She opened a door to the left off a tiny dark hall. Fred Instick was slumped in front of a small television set.
'Time to get up!' called Agatha.
The figure in the chair did not move.
Agatha swung round wildly. 'Phil...?'
'Let me,' said Phil. He went forward and bent over the old gardener. His heart sank. Fred's eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly at Jerry Springer on the television set. He felt for a pulse on the man's neck. Then he straightened up. 'He's dead, Agatha.'
'Heart attack?'
'Look, there's a bottle of wine nearly empty on the little table beside his chair.'
'We'd better not touch anything,' said Agatha. 'Let's get out of here and call the police.'
Outside the cottage, Agatha took out her mobile phone and called the manor. Alison answered. 'You'd better tell the police that the gardener, Fred Instick, is dead,' said Agatha. Phil could hear the tones of Alison's shocked voice squawking down the line. Then Agatha said, 'I know he was old, but the circumstances are suspicious. I think he was poisoned.'
Agatha rang off and said, 'Now we're in for a day of questioning. And I meant to go over to Blentyn's today.'
'Who are they?'
'They're the builders. The ones who were going to build on that ruined-houses bit. Oh, here comes that bitch with Wilkes.'
Detective Sergeant Collins came marching across the field towards them, followed by Inspector Wilkes.
When they arrived, Agatha said curtly, 'Living room on the left as you go in.'
'Wait here,' snapped Collins. 'We'll need you for questioning.'
It was a long dreary day. First Agatha and Phil waited at the manor while a forensic team and pathologist arrived. Then back came the mobile police unit and parked outside the manor.
Finally Bill put his head round the drawingroom door and said, 'Mrs Raisin?'
As soon as they were in the hall, Agatha complained, 'You said you were coming to see me to take my statement last time.'
'Wilkes countermanded that,' said Bill. 'He wanted to interview you himself.'
'Was Instick poisoned?'
'It looks like it. The top brass are coming to deliver a rocket to the forensic team. They were supposed to have examined everything in that kitchen.'
The door opened and Collins stood there. 'We are waiting to interview Mrs Raisin,' she said harshly, and then turned on her heel.
'Why not you?' asked Agatha.
'Collins is Wilkes's pet.'
'Good God!'
'You'd better go. I will try to call round.'
Agatha marched out towards the mobile police unit. It was going to be a long day.
She stopped just outside the unit and phoned Patrick. 'Could you drop what you're doing and go and interview Blentyn's, the builders? They're in Mircester. Take Toni with you.'
Patrick and Toni drove to Blentyn's offices out on the industrial estate. Toni was hugging herself with excitement. Mrs Freedman had booked her a crash driving course for the following week.
'Here we are,' said Patrick. 'Let's see what they have to say for themselves.'
The receptionist looked up in surprise as they walked in. 'Toni!' she cried. 'Wot you doin' here?'
'I'm a private detective,' said Toni. 'We're here to interview your boss.'
'Go on!'
'Fact.'
'Well, I never did. I s'pose you want to speak to Mr Trump himself? He's the manager.'
'That would be great, Sharon.'
'What's he done? Cheating on his wife?'
'No, nothing like that. Just a routine inquiry. Tell you what, you get him for us and give me your phone number and we'll get together one evening.'
'Great. Hang on. I'll get him.' She picked up the phone.
'Just say,' said Toni quickly, 'that a Mr Mulligan wishes to talk to him about a building plot.'
'Got it, Sherlock. Take a seat.'
Sharon made the call. That could have been me, thought Toni, working in a dead-end job like Sharon's. I'd be having fun if only I didn't feel so dreadfully grateful to Agatha.
'Better make like I don't know you,' said Sharon, replacing the receiver. 'His secretary's coming to get you and she's a tartar.'
The door to the inner office opened and a tall thin bespectacled woman said, 'Mr Mulligan? If you will follow me.'
Mr Trump, who rose to meet them as they entered his office, obviously had nothing to do with the manual side of the job. He was plump and well tailored with a round bland face and thick grey hair.
'Please sit down,' he said, indicating two chairs facing his desk, 'and let me know how I can be of assistance.'
He began to look like a petulant baby as Patrick explained the reason for their visit.
'I'm a busy man,' he said crossly. 'Mrs Tamworthy was interested in selling me a plot of land for building
