'So you believe she was a murderee?' asked James. 'I mean someone who is going to get murdered because of some flaw in their character?'
How can you talk about Mary with such academic interest when you once made passionate love to her? thought Agatha. Aloud, she said, 'If only it would turn out to be an outsider!'
'You sound more like a villager every day, Agatha,' said Mrs Bloxby. 'I must go and look at some of the other gardens. Why, James, what about yours?'
'It's open,' he said easily. 'I do what the others do and just leave a box at the gate for the money.'
'Then I'll have a look. Agatha?' Mrs Bloxby turned to her. 'Care for a walk?'
Agatha shook her head. 'I couldn't bear the looks and whispers.'
'I wouldn't worry about it. Yes, they will most of them be laughing over it, but I think with affection. You are regarded as something of a character.'
'That's me,' said Agatha. 'The village idiot complete with cats. So where do we go from here?'
Bill came back into the garden. 'Until this murder is solved, Agatha,' he said, 'you should keep your front door locked at all times. Come to think of it, with that expensive security system in your garden, the lights must have been blazing while the men were working. Or did you switch it off?'
'It switched itself off ages ago,' said Agatha. 'I'll phone the security people and get them to fix it. What did Beth and John have to say for themselves?'
'John did it,' said Bill, sitting down. 'And he's quite unrepentant about it.'
'What!' screeched Agatha. 'Have you charged him?'
'It's up to you. But for a schoolboy trick? And have your deception come out in court?'
'But if he did that to me, maybe he did it to the other gardens. What was his reason for switching those labels?'
'He said he went out for a long walk because he couldn't sleep. He turned along Lilac Lane. As he passed your house, he saw the truck outside leaving. Wondering if it might be a burglary, because it was dawn and no one was about, he started to go up to the front door. He heard voices from the back garden and went to the side path and listened. He heard someone say, 'So now we can go and get a bit of sleep. When do the people start coming?''
'Roy,' breathed Agatha.
'And then your voice saying, 'Not till ten. How do I tell them what flowers are what? I don't want to be exposed as a cheat.' And then Roy here replying, 'Labels tied on all of them, nicely faded and weathered, but legible. You just bend down and read.' So he thought he would pay you back for 'meddling in his life', as he put it, by switching the labels. He went down the lane a little and sat by the hedge and waited until the house became quiet. Then he went into the garden and moved all the labels around. I still can't think him guilty of anything else. He seems to me typical of a certain type of Oxford University student, boorish and somewhat sulky.'
'Damn him,' muttered Agatha. 'I would look a fool if this ever came to court.'
'Thought I'd let you know,' said Bill.
'How did the funeral go?' asked James. 'You did go to it, didn't you?'
'Yes, I was there at the crematorium. Very sad. Only me and two other detectives and Beth and John.'
'Some of us from the village should have gone,' said Agatha, suddenly conscience-stricken because all at once it was hard to think of the Mary who had been exposed since her death. She could only remember Mary's warmth and charm. Agatha suddenly became more determined than ever to see what she could do about solving Mary's murder. Whatever Mary had been, she had not deserved such a death.
Nine
Agatha remembered Bill Wong's warning when she was putting on make-up in her bedroom and heard her front door open the next day and someone walk into the hall. She was looking wildly at her dressing-table for some sort of weapon and seeing only the nail scissors when James's voice called up, 'Agatha, are you there?'
'Coming,' she yelled, and put some Blush Pink lipstick over her chin, swore dreadfully, wiped it off, and applied it properly.
She ran down the stairs. 'What's the matter?'
'I wondered whether you would fancy a trip into Oxford,' said James. 'I remembered this professor friend and phoned him up. He's at one of the other colleges but he's got us an introduction to a don at St Crispin's. I phoned him and asked him to lunch. That way we can find out more about John Deny.'
'And Beth,' said Agatha eagerly. 'Wait a minute. I'd better change.'
He looked appraisingly at her flowered blouse and plain skirt. 'You'll do. We're lunching at Brown's and no one dresses for that. I'll drive.'
And Agatha was happy as they drove off. She tried to persuade herself that she was happy because the day was sunny, because she was getting out of the village and ahead with the investigation. She did not want to admit that James's company was beginning to exert its old magic.
He took the road through Chipping Norton and Woodstock. 'Do you think anything will come out of this lunch?' asked Agatha.
'It might. I don't think either Beth or John Deny had anything to do with the murder, but we may as well try everything.'
'I wonder what he'll be like, this don. What's his name?'
'Timothy Barnstaple.'
Perhaps he'll be attractive, thought Agatha.
James parked in the underground car-park at Gloucester Green and they walked back along St Giles and so to Brown's Restaurant on the Woodstock Road.
'This is silly,' said James. 'I forgot to ask what he looked like.'
'Did you book a table?'
'No. We're meeting him now, at twelve, so it won't be too crowded, and it is the university holidays.'
They entered the restaurant and looked about. A thin middle-aged man got up as they walked in. He was leaning on a stick. He was dressed in a black jacket and black trousers. His black hair was greased back from a tired lined face. Porter from one of the hotels, thought Agatha and turned her eyes elsewhere.
But the man called out, 'Are you Mr Lacey?'
This, then, was Timothy Barnstaple.
'I took the liberty of ordering a drink while I waited for you,' he said. His voice was beautiful. In these days of the cult of the common accent, it was a pleasure to hear a well-spoken, well-modulated voice.
'I didn't know you were bringing Mrs Lacey,' said Timothy, leering at Agatha, 'but the pleasure is all mine.'
'Mrs Raisin is my neighbour and friend,' said James.
'And where is Mr Raisin?'
'I don't know,' said Agatha truthfully. 'I walked out on him years ago. I suppose he's dead.'
'Sit beside me, Mrs Raisin. But why are we so formal? What is your first name?'
'Agatha.'
'A good old name, Agatha. So sad the way they name girls these days. I have a student called Tootsy. That is her real name. She was christened that. A most scholarly girl. But how will she succeed in life? Her full name is Tootsy McWhirter, and she is a Thatcherite. Could not her parents write down, say, the Right Honourable Tootsy McWhirter and see how strange it might look? But we digress. I am very hungry. I will just order another drink while we look at the menu.'
The don ordered another double whisky and water and then peered over the menu. When they had ordered their food and Timothy had ordered a bottle of claret - 'We'll start with one bottle and then see how we get on' - he leaned his elbows on the table, pressed his knee against Agatha's and asked, 'How can I help?'
James told him briefly about the murder.
