seemed very old indeed, but her eyes were bright and sharp.
“Come in,” she said.
They entered a low-ceilinged, sunny room. Unlike most homes of the elderly, the room was neither over- furnished nor filled with photographs. There was a good landscape over the fireplace. A sofa and two comfortable chairs were covered in faded chintz facing a low coffee table. A Persian rug lay on the polished boards on the floor. There was a small polished round table with three upright chairs by the window holding a little crystal glass of wild flowers.
“Please sit down,” said Mrs. Brother.
Agatha’s eyes fell on a large glass ashtray on the coffee table. “Do you smoke, Mrs. Brother?”
“Yes, I enjoy the occasional cigarette.”
Agatha pulled out her cigarette packet and offered her one. I can go on smoking if this ancient lady can still smoke and feel no ill effects, thought Agatha.
Mrs. Brother lit up a cigarette and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. “I shouldn’t really,” she wheezed when she could speak.
Agatha decided not to have a cigarette after all.
“Can you tell me anything about Trixie Webster?”
“I remember her. I was the one who phoned the police. She was squatting with a bunch of hippies in the basement. They played music so loudly that the whole building seemed to vibrate. My husband was alive then and went down to give them a ticking-off. Trixie threw a glass of vodka in his face and I do not wish to repeat what she said to him, but it was mostly four-letter words. When he told me, I called the police. It was hard to get the police to come even in those days, so I lied and said I thought they had guns.
“They raided the place and to my delight, they actually found a gun—a sawn-off shotgun. Mark Murphy—he was married to Trixie at that time—was sent away for a long time because it transpired the shotgun had been used in a bank hold-up. They also found a large quantity of drugs. It was Trixie’s first offence and she got off lightly because she testified against the others. After that, I read in the local paper that she had been caught again for supplying drugs at a pop concert.”
“Do you know she is now a vicar’s wife?”
“What is the name of this vicar?”
“Mr. Arthur Chance. I wonder how she met him?”
“Who knows? Maybe he was prison-visiting. Why are you asking about her? Wait a minute. That fete in Comfrey Magna where there was LSD in the jam?”
Agatha nodded her head.
“And two women dead because of it! Trixie Webster is a wicked woman.”
“I wonder why the police didn’t get on to her,” said Toni.
“I remember she was charged under her married name of Murphy,” said Mrs. Brother. “And I don’t think the police would suspect a vicar’s wife. What will you do now? Have you any real evidence?”
“No,” said Agatha slowly. “But if she testified against one of her former friends and was looking for some acid, they may have heard of it. Can you remember exactly when it was that she was charged with the others?”
“You’ll need to wait a minute. I kept a newspaper cutting in my scrapbook.”
Mrs. Brother stubbed out her cigarette and got painfully to her feet. She was doubled up with another frightening fit of coughing. Must really give it up, thought Agatha.
She seemed to be gone a long time. The flat was very quiet. “Do you think she’s dead?” whispered Toni.
“Don’t even think about it,” Agatha whispered back. “I should never have let her have that cigarette.”
There was at last a shuffling sound and Mrs. Brother came back into the room carrying a heavy scrapbook. Toni leaped to her feet and took it from her. “Put it on the table by the window,” said Mrs. Brother.
She opened the book to where she had marked a place with a slip of paper. “There it is.”
They had all given the Puddleton Close address except one, a certain Cherry Upfield, whose address was listed as 5, Bybry Close, Cheltenham. Agatha took out her notebook and wrote it down. She turned to Mrs. Brother. “If she was Trixie Murphy when she was living here and I asked you about a Trixie Webster, how did you make the connection?”
Mrs. Brother smiled. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The name Trixie and drugs and by the time she was booked for possession, she was booked under the name of Webster. She must have been divorced by then and her picture was in the newspapers. This is all very exciting. Will you come back and see me and let me know what happens?”
Agatha promised but, outside, asked Toni to make a note of it. She did not want to think she might forget her promise.
When they were in the car, Agatha said, “Hand me that map of Cheltenham out of the glove compartment. Let me see, Bybry Close. It’s actually in Charlton Kings. Get back out on the London Road and I’ll direct you from there.”
“Surely it’s quicker from here,” said Toni.
“Probably. But I’ve been lost in Charlton Kings so many times, I prefer to go the way that I know I can find my way round the one-way system.”
“Such a long time,” said Toni. “Fifteen years! She may be long gone.”
“Need to just hope,” said Agatha, reflecting sadly that, to her, fifteen years ago sometimes felt like yesterday.
Bybry Close had an air of genteel decay. Some of the houses were bravely painted in pastel colours, but most had faded dirty stucco fronts and weedy little gardens full of the detritus of old
