'People flit by air to countries and never really understand other races or cultures, like dragonflies flitting over a pond. Can't see the murky depth underneath. You are looking unusually serious, Mrs. Raisin.'
Agatha opened her capacious handbag and drew out a white envelope and handed it to the vicar's wife. 'Before you look at that, I'll tell you how we came by it.'
She described how they had found the box under Sunday's shed. 'I extracted the one photo in that envelope, which is withholding evidence from the police, but I wanted to consult you first.'
Mrs. Bloxby took out the photo and slowly sat down. 'Oh, dear. What shall we do?'
'I thought as you knew her, we might go over there and have a quiet word. I cannot for a moment think that Mrs. Timson was ever involved with anyone capable of murder. If you think for one moment she might have got involved with some sort of villain, I can post this anonymously to the police.'
'Have some tea and scones,' urged Mrs. Bloxby. 'Tea and scones are very mind settling.'
'Have you ever heard any gossip about Mrs. Timson?' asked Toni.
'Nothing at all,' said Mrs. Bloxby. 'Oh, dear, perhaps it might have been better if you had both left the matter to the police. They would probably send along a policewoman and . . .'
'They would probably send along Detective Sergeant Collins, who would frighten her to death and no doubt lead her off in handcuffs in front of the whole village,' said Agatha harshly.
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. 'I might as well go with you. Dear me, what sinks of iniquity these little villages can be.'
The rain had stopped as they drove in Agatha's car to Odley Cruesis. Sunlight gilded the puddles of water on the road and glittering raindrops plopped from the branches of the overhead trees. As they climbed out of the car in front of the vicarage, the air smelled sweet and fresh.
Penelope answered the door and smiled when she saw them. 'Please come in. My husband is over at the church.'
'Good,' said Agatha. 'It's you we want to see.'
'Come through. Coffee?'
'No, we've just had some,' said Agatha. She opened her handbag, took out the envelope and extracted the photograph, which she handed to Penelope. Penelope sank down onto a corner of the sofa and hunched herself up and wrapped her arms around her thin body. Mrs. Bloxby sat beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. 'Mrs. Timson, Mrs. Raisin has taken a great risk in not showing this photo to the police. Was Mr. Sunday blackmailing you?'
Penelope gulped and burst into tears. Toni fetched a box of tissues from a side table and handed it to her. Agatha waited impatiently, hoping the vicar would not walk in on the scene. At last Penelope gave a shuddering sigh. 'Yes, he was.'
'Who was the man?' asked Agatha.
'He was a visiting American preacher. Giles asked me to show him around the Cotswolds. We became friendly. He was a widower. He told a lot of very funny jokes. Giles never tells jokes. Jokes can be very seductive,' she said plaintively.
'So you had an affair!'
'Oh, no!' Penelope looked shocked. 'It was the morning before he left. We were in the churchyard and he thanked me for taking care of him and he swept me into his arms and kissed me. Then he laughed and said, 'I shouldn't have done that.' I said, 'No, you shouldn't,' and he patted me on the shoulder and went in to say goodbye to Giles.'
'And did Sunday start to blackmail you?'
'Not exactly. He came round one morning three days later when Giles was over in a neighbouring parish and showed me the photograph. I explained it was just a kiss, but he said my husband would never believe that if he saw the photograph. I asked him what he wanted. He laughed nastily and said he'd get back to me.'
'And when was this?' asked Mrs. Bloxby.
'Three days before he was murdered,' whispered Penelope. 'He phoned me the day before the protest meeting and said I had to get it stopped or he would send the photo to Giles. I couldn't bear it any longer. They always say that blackmailers never go away. So I told Giles.'
Mrs. Bloxby said sympathetically, 'Giles must have been furious.'
'It was worse than that,' said Penelope. 'He laughed and laughed. 'Forget it,' he said. 'I mean, just look in the mirror. Everyone knows Americans are overaffectionate. I'll go and see Sunday and we'll never hear another word.'
'After the murder, I asked him if he had said anything to the police or if he had gone to see Sunday, and he said he hadn't had the time to see Sunday and he had no intention of mentioning the silly photo to the police.'
What have I done now? wondered Agatha miserably. I should have left the photo for the police to find. I believe Penelope. But they would have grilled Giles and checked on his movements. He wasn't with the party when John was stabbed.
'We'll leave it for the moment,' said Agatha.
When they left the vicarage, Mrs. Bloxby said, 'Let's go somewhere quiet. I'm beginning to remember things.'
'My kitchen is the quietest place around here,' said Agatha, setting off in the direction of home.
Once seated in Agatha's kitchen, Mrs. Bloxby began. 'I remember it was last autumn and I remember the visiting preacher. His name was Silas Cuttler. American from some Episcopal church somewhere. He was a round, jolly man. Around that time, Mrs. Timson smartened her appearance and even wore make-up.'
'Is Penelope Timson verbally abused?' asked Agatha.
'Oh, just the usual married stuff. 'What's that muck on your face? You are silly.' Usual things like that. Giles is rather a cold, impatient sort of man.'
'I think I ought to ask him some questions,' said Agatha.
'My dear Mrs. Raisin, he would coldly accuse you of withholding police evidence, take it to the police himself and then you would really be in trouble. I am sure Mr. Timson can't for one moment think his wife is capable of having an adulterous affair.'
'And I can't interview the mayor because the police would wonder how I got on to him. Perhaps I'll just leave it for a few days and then get Patrick to find out from his police contacts what's been happening.'
Agatha asked Toni if she would like to go through the applications for the job of trainee detective and pick out a few suitable candidates, but Toni was still mourning the loss of her friend and so Agatha took a bundle of letters home one evening.
The advertisement had said that applicants must include copies of school certificates and a photograph.
Patrick called at her cottage and followed her through to the kitchen, where letters and photographs were spread across the kitchen table. 'I'm looking for a trainee,' said Agatha. 'But they seem to be a hopeless lot. What brings you?'
'Good news. Tom Courtney has been arrested outside Washington and has been charged with the murder of his mother. He was living with a woman in Mount Vernon and she turned him in to the police. She didn't know he was wanted for murder. She became afraid when he started scrubbing out all her closets and shelves and making her take a shower about five times a day. She asked him to leave and when he wouldn't, she called the police. They thought it was just a domestic, but some sharp-eyed trooper recognised Tom from a photo pinned up in the precinct.'
'When are they going to extradite him?'
'It'll take ages, if ever.'
'At least I don't need to be afraid of him turning up here. What about sister Amy?'
'Nothing, and he swears blind he doesn't know where she is. Husband hasn't heard from her. Complains she emptied their joint bank account before she cleared off. Anyway, Tom Courtney says he had nothing to do with the death of Sunday. Of course, at first the police here wanted that tied up, so they didn't believe him. But when I heard from my contacts that they found letters and a naughty photo of the mayor under the shed in his garden, they
