“I think she had her head turned when she fell in love with George Selby. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she pushed Mrs. Selby downstairs. Now, George has got his eye on the vicar’s wife, folk say. So jealous Sybilla could have poisoned the jam in the hope that Trixie got some of it. Now, here’s the tea. Don’t use sugar or milk. This is white tea.”
“You should just have given us ordinary tea,” protested Harry. “That stuff is very expensive.”
“What is white tea?” asked Toni.
“It comes from the same plant as green tea,” said Hal, “but the leaves are picked and harvested before the leaves open fully. This is Silver Needle. Best way is to let it infuse in water just below boiling point. Little caffeine and full of antioxidants.”
Toni sipped her cupful cautiously. It tasted light and sweet and was very refreshing.
“Now, as I was saying …” Hal was just beginning when his wife strode into the kitchen.
She went straight up to the table, lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed. She turned a furious face on her husband. “What the hell are you doing serving
“It’s my money that pays for it,” shouted the farmer.
Toni and Harry got to their feet and began to edge towards the door. Mrs. Bassett glared at Toni. “You’re that little snoop. Get out of my house!”
Outside, they hurriedly put on their helmets and climbed on the bike just as a teapot came sailing through the open kitchen window and shattered at their feet.
Harry revved up and they raced off. He stopped again at the churchyard wall. “Whew,” he said, as they took off their helmets again, “I’d hate to be married to Mrs. Bassett. Let’s have a look at the church.”
“Why?”
“I like looking at old churches.”
They walked into the dark quiet of Saint Odo The Severe. “It must have been a Saxon church at one time,” said Harry. “The pews are quite modern. Do you know, Toni, that before Tudor times, there weren’t any seats? People had to stand. But by the reign of Elizabeth the First, sermons had got longer and longer, sometimes four hours, so they had to start letting people sit down. There would have been a rood screen between the chancel and the nave, but I’ll bet Cromwell’s soldiers hacked it down.”
Toni felt very alone. Harry was from another world. In her world, people didn’t go to church or even think of enthusing about church architecture. Harry had the ease of manner which obviously came from a comfortable background. Why couldn’t I have fancied Bill? wondered Toni. I never felt out of place with Bill.
Agatha and Roy drove to the manor house, parked outside, and stood for a moment, Agatha wondering what she should say to Sybilla. Her usual method of detective work was to ask people question after question, like shaking a tree, in the hope that some piece of valuable information would come loose.
The air was very still and hot. Not a leaf on the trees moved. It was as if the whole countryside were waiting for something.
Roy looked up at the cloudless sky and said, “Going to be a storm soon.”
“What do you know about anything?” demanded Agatha huffily. She now prided herself on being a countrywoman.
Roy shrugged his thin shoulders. “I feel it coming.”
“You shouldn’t wear hair gel in this heat,” said Agatha. “It’s melting and you’ve got a snail trail of gel down one cheek.”
Roy squawked in dismay and scrubbed at his face with a handkerchief. Agatha rang the bell.
Following the shrill ring of the bell, silence descended once more.
“Must be out,” said Roy.
“Maybe she’s in the garden and didn’t hear the bell. Let’s walk round the back.”
Agatha pushed open a wrought-iron gate at the side of the manor and, followed by Roy, walked along a weedy path and round into the garden at the back. There were a few signs to show that it had once been a large and beautiful garden. A central path framed by a few struggling rose bushes led to a dry fountain where dusty marble dolphins cavorted over a wide marble basin. Weeds now choked the flower beds.
Agatha walked up shallow steps to a long terrace. “One of the French windows is open,” she said. “Come along, Roy.”
“We can’t just walk in,” said Roy.
“We’ll call out. Mrs. Triast-Perkins!” yelled Agatha.
Silence.
“Let’s get out of here,” hissed Roy.
Agatha walked in through the open French window and found herself in the over-furnished drawing room where she had previously talked to Sybilla.
Roy hovered just inside, prepared to flee.
Agatha walked through the long drawing room and out into the hall. Perhaps Sybilla was taking an afternoon nap. She stood at the bottom of the curved eighteenth-century staircase and decided that they had better leave. Sybilla probably often left that window open, dating as she did from the days when it was safe to do so.
Agatha half turned away and stumbled over a high-heeled shoe lying on the floor. She picked it up and looked upwards and let out a cry of shock.
Sybilla was hanging by the neck from the rail of the balcony on the first floor. Her face was distorted. She was wearing only one shoe.
