meet her for a drink on the Friday evening after work.
They told her what to wear right down to the underwear and scent. They told her what to talk about and how to behave and then sent her off on Friday.
On Monday morning Agatha stopped by Fran's desk and asked, 'How did it go?'
'I didn't meet him,' said Fran.
'What!' exclaimed Agatha. 'Didn't he show?'
She remembered Fran's little resigned sigh and how she had said, 'I went right up to the door of the pub and looked in and he was there at the bar, waiting. So I turned and walked away. You see, I'd dreamt and dreamt about him for so long that I realized he could not possibly live up to my dreams and expectations. I'm not into reality.'
But I am...now, thought Agatha, and it feels good.
After several mistakes, they found Mrs Camden's address. It was a terraced council house. The garden was weedy, scraggly flowerbeds surrounding a balding lawn. The gate sagged on its hinges.
The house had a neglected, deserted air, and they were almost surprised when they heard someone approaching on the other side of the door to answer their knock.
The woman who opened the door was somehow recognizable as Deborah's mother. She had the same skinny bleached look, but her shoulders were stooped and the only colour about her was in her work-reddened hands.
'We are friends of Deborah's,' said Agatha. 'Is she here? It is Mrs Camden?'
'Yes, come in. Deborah's not here, but I was just about to put the kettle on.'
'We've got a kettle of Deborah's here,' said James, brandishing it. 'Should we leave it with you?'
'I'll take it. She might be over this evening.' A smile transformed Mrs Camden's thin white face. 'She'll be anxious to tell me the news.'
'Oh, about the murder,' remarked Agatha.
Mrs Camden led them into a small living-room. It contained a few battered chairs, a sofa and a chipped table. There were no books or pictures, only a television set in the corner flickering away. Mrs Camden switched it off.
'Make yourselves comfortable,' she said. 'I'll get the tea.'
Agatha introduced them both to her as Mr and Mrs Lacey, getting the usual little thrill when she mentioned the names. Then she and James sat down side by side on the sofa.
'It's bleak,' muttered James.
'She doesn't seem to be working,' whispered Agatha. 'I wonder if Deborah gives her any money.'
The miserable room silenced them. The wind had risen outside. A piece of newspaper blew against the window panes, staring at them like a face, and then blew away.
Mrs Camden returned with a tray on which were china cups decorated with roses, a teapot, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits.
After tea was poured, Agatha said sympathetically, 'You must be very worried about your daughter.'
'Oh, because of these dreadful murders? But Deborah has always been the strong one. Thank goodness. And now she's going to be Lady Fraith.'
They both stared at her.
'Are you sure?' asked James.
'Yes, she's gone over there today and she knows he's going to pop the question.'
'Are you sure she isn't imagining things?' asked James cautiously.
'Oh, no,' said Mrs Camden with supreme confidence. 'Deborah always knows what's what. Mind you, it was a bit of a blow when she said that me and Mark and Bill - that's her brothers - couldn't come to the wedding.'
Agatha looked at her in a dazed way. 'Why not?'
'It wouldn't be fitting. I mean, we're not of Sir Charles's class.'
'Neither is Deborah,' pointed out James.
'But she's made herself that way,' said Mrs Camden. 'I'm that proud of her. She was always the hope of the family.'
'Are you working?' asked Agatha. It seemed later an odd thing to ask, but there was something about Mrs Camden's stooped figure which seemed to suggest years of drudgery.
'I have my cleaning jobs,' she said. 'And then I work in the supermarket at weekends.'
'Deborah must be able to help you out a bit,' said James.
'She can't.'
'Why not?' asked Agatha.
'She needs all her money to keep up the right appearance. She's amazing. Even when she was little, she would say, 'Mum, I'm going to the university and I'm going to be a teacher.' And so she did. So when she said to me, 'I'm going to marry Sir Charles Fraith and live in that big house,' I knew she meant it.'
'And what of your sons?' asked Agatha.
She sighed. 'They take after their father. They're both in a council flat in Stratford, on the dole, but at least they're not under my feet.'
'Do you know where your husband is?' asked Agatha.
She shook her head. 'Don't want to know, either. He was a violent man. I'm not complaining. Deborah's my whole life. Let me show you something.' She stood up and walked from the room and they followed her.
She pushed open a door. 'This was Deborah's room.' She stood aside to let them pass.
James and Agatha stood shoulder to shoulder and looked in awe at the bedroom. It was a sort of shrine. The bed had a pretty coverlet and was covered with dolls and stuffed animals. The walls were covered with photographs of Deborah. Deborah as a baby, as a toddler, at school, at university. There were long low bookshelves containing books, the shells of Deborah's life, from the brightly coloured children's books right through to the works of Marx.
The wind moaned louder and the branches of a dead tree tapped against the window.
'Very impressive,' said Agatha in a weak voice.
They returned to the living-room which, after the bright bedroom, hit them afresh with its sad, shabby dullness.
Mrs Camden sat down again with a sigh. 'It was something to work for,' she said. 'You know, seeing Deborah had the best of everything.'
'Surely you don't need to work so hard now?' suggested James.
'Well, girls always need something extra these days. She needed help getting her little car, and things like that. How did you come to meet my girl?'
'We are both retired,' said James, 'and we joined the Dembley Walkers, just after the murder.'
'Good exercise,' commented Mrs Camden.
James looked at her in surprise. 'You do not seem very frightened for the welfare of your daughter, considering there have now been two murders.'
'Sir Charles will look after her,' she said comfortably. 'She says the first thing she's going to do as soon as they are married is get rid of that servant, Gustav. Is that his name?'
'She seems very sure of herself,' was all Agatha could think of saying.
'Mmm.' Mrs Camden's face was again illuminated with that smile. 'Although I won't be at the wedding, I'll read about it in the society magazines. Just think of that!'
'Deborah must have been upset at Jessica Tartinck's death,' said James.
'What?' Mrs Camden came out of her rosy dream. 'Oh, that strapping big woman. But Deborah told me she was always getting people's backs up. I mean, it was bound to happen sooner or later.'
Agatha stood up. She suddenly wanted to get away. She had never considered herself a particularly sensitive person, but she was now assailed with such a feeling of impending doom that she was desperate to get out of that shabby living-room.
'We must go,' she said abruptly.
As if suffering from the same feelings, James leaped to his feet and held open the door for Agatha.
Once they were in the car, Agatha, who was driving, said, 'Let's find somewhere quiet. I need to think.'
She drove out of Stratford and parked in a lay-by and switched off the engine and looked blankly at the wind whipping through the trees at the side of the road.
