Deborah opened her mouth to say that she thought Gustav could get the better of anyone, but shut it again. Let Agatha find out for herself.
Agatha went and got out a serviceable notebook and sat down again. 'I'm sure you're tired of questions, Deborah. But let's go through it from the beginning.'
And so in a weary little voice, Deborah described how Jessica had first arrived at the school, how she had taken over the walkers, how much they had all admired her until her reaction to Sir Charles's civil letter had seemed to go over the top and they had all decided they had had enough of her bullying ways. She went through the stories of the others, at least as much of them as she had gleaned while they had all sat around the ballroom.
'So no one except perhaps the waiters has an alibi?'
'If we had known there was going to be a murder on Saturday afternoon, then I am convinced we would have all made sure we had alibis,' said Deborah with a rare show of spirit.
'Very well, then. Now this Gustav. Where does he come from? That's a German name. What's his second name?'
'I don't know,' said Deborah. 'No doubt the police have found out.'
'Was there a detective there who looked Chinese?'
'Yes, he was present during the interviews.'
Bill Wong, thought Agatha. I must try to get hold of him.
She asked Deborah a few more questions and then said she would see her on the following day. She wrote down instructions on how to get to Barfield House.
No sooner had they driven off than Agatha's doorbell sounded again. She patted her hair in the hall mirror. It would be James. Well, she might relent and forgive him for his earlier rudeness. Such news was too exciting to keep to herself. But it was Bill Wong who stood on the doorstep when Agatha opened the door. Her first sharp feeling of dismay was counteracted by the immediate thought that here was the very man she should be most glad to see.
'Come in,' cried Agatha. 'How's the rambler case going?'
'Now, how did you know that?'
'Because I have been asked to investigate.' Agatha, leading the way through to her comfortable kitchen, reflected that she hardly ever used her sitting-room these days.
'Who by?'
'Deborah Camden.'
'Why on earth did she ask you?'
Agatha bridled. 'Why not? She is Mrs Mason's niece and she had heard through her aunt of my detective work in the village.'
'What can you do that the police can't?'
'Well, for a start, I've been invited to Sir Charles Fraith's for lunch tomorrow. It's easier to get to know what makes people tick when you're meeting them socially'
'I suppose so, Agatha. But you've got a way of crashing into things. The next thing we know is the murderer will be after you with a spade.'
'Where did the spade come from?'
'It had been left there by the farm labourer, Joseph Noakes, the one who said he had seen Sir Charles having a row with Jessica. He's a surly chap with a big chip on his shoulder. He had been asked to clear a blockage in a ditch, had been walking back the day before, that was the Friday, got tired of carrying the spade and just stuck it among the rape at the edge of the field. There were two paths through the rape other than the mess left by Jessica. One going towards the house, which we assume was made by Sir Charles, and one leading off to the side of the field from where Jessica was struck. No footprints. Just crushed flowers.'
'This Gustav,' asked Agatha, 'what's his background?'
'Hungarian mother, English father. Brought over here in the fifties, went into service at age fifteen in Clarence House as a kitchen porter, then footman at the Marquess of Drent's, then started work as chauffeur, and finally butler, ending up as butler to the old man, the late Sir Charles, who died three years ago. He's fifty-two. Unblemished record.'
'I always thought of butlers as being very old.'
'The few that are left these days usually are. As a profession, it's finished. Gustav is a houseman, rather than butler. He never married.'
'Homosexual?'
'Don't think so. All unmarried men aren't homosexual. What about me?' His eyes crinkled with amusement. 'What about lover-boy, James, next door? Told him about this?'
'Not yet,' said Agatha, who had no intention of recounting to Bill how she had been snubbed. 'Aren't you going to tell me to keep out of it as you usually do?'
'Not this time. I don't see that a harmless lunch can put you in danger. But I'll call round here tomorrow evening. In fact, I'll be very interested to hear what you make of Sir Charles and Gustav. What did you think of Deborah?'
'Plain little girl. Not much character. Rather bowled over by the fact that Sir Charles took her out. Sort of girl easily swayed by stronger characters. I shouldn't think she had any strong political affiliation with Jessica's views. I think she just latched on to the stronger woman.'
'Maybe. Anyway, I'll hear how you get on.'
Logic and emotion warred in Agatha's bosom next day and emotion won. She found she was dithering over the idea of having lunch with a baronet. Logic screamed at her that Sir Charles was a mere baronet who lived in a Victorian mansion described in the guidebooks as 'architecturally undistinguished'.
Deep down the old Agatha, product of a Birmingham slum, trembled.
Despite all the changes of dress she had put herself through, trying to find just the right outfit, she arrived at the end of the drive to Sir Charles's house a quarter of an hour early. She forced herself to park by the side of the road, and lit a cigarette while peering at her reflection in the driving mirror. There were little lines on her upper lip. She'd need to try anti-wrinkle cream. She smoked and worried and fretted until, with another look at her watch, she realized fifteen minutes had passed. With a heightened colour and a fast-beating heart she drove up the drive.
Barfield House may have been considered 'architecturally undistinguished' by the experts, but it was
Deborah's car rolled to a stop just behind Agatha's and, glad of even this weak support, Agatha went to join her and together they stood on the step while Deborah rang the bell. Agatha was wearing a blouse and skirt and lamb's-wool cardigan. Deborah was wearing a pale-blue polyester trouser-suit and a little white blouse which seemed to make her more bleached-looking than ever.
The door was opened by Gustav. His black eyes flicked over them for a split second, but the look was somehow enough to demoralize both women. It seemed to say, 'That I should have to open the door to such as you!'
'Sir Charles is in the sitting-room,' said Gustav, leading the way across the cavernous hall.
Both women entered the sitting-room. Sir Charles rose to meet them. Sitting beside the fireplace was a faded elderly lady. Sir Charles introduced her as his aunt, Mrs Tassy.
'So you're the detective,' he said heartily after the introductions were over. 'Brought your magnifying glass and fingerprint dust, hey?'
Simple fool, thought Agatha loftily and felt herself relax.
'Raisin,' said Mrs Tassy in a high, strangulated voice. 'Would that be one of the Sussex Raisins?'
Gustav spoke from the corner of the room. 'Hardly,' he said.
Mrs Tassy put on a pair of spectacles and peered at Agatha. 'No, I suppose not,' she said. 'When are we eating, Gustav?'
'Any time you like.'
Mrs Tassy rose. She was a surprisingly tall woman. At least six feet of her loomed over Agatha. 'Good,' she said simply. 'I'm bored.'
'You won't be bored when Mrs Raisin starts grilling us, shining lights in our faces, and applying the old rubber truncheon,' said Sir Charles. 'Come along, Deborah. You look as if you need fattening up.'
Deborah giggled. Agatha suddenly wanted to run away. Never had she felt so timid or inadequate in years.
