"A Spoonful of Poison" - читать интересную книгу автора (Beaton M C)

Chapter Eight

THE FACT WAS THAT Agatha had forgotten about George turning up half an hour late at the restaurant and that he had ordered her meal. What might have been a squalid night of sex that she would bitterly regret, her romantic mind turned into a dream opportunity that had been missed.

As she parked the car in Comfrey Magna the next morning, she said, “I would like to meet Fred Corrie again. See what you think of her. She’s probably in church. We’ll wait for her.”

“Is that a good idea?” asked Toni. “She might come out with a bunch of people. Did she strike you as the sort of female to go to church?”

“Well, she was running that tombola stand, so probably. I know, we’ll drive along to her cottage and wait.”

The day was unusually cold. There were large heavy grey rain clouds on the horizon. “What a lousy summer it’s turned out to be,” mourned Agatha.

“It really is an odd village,” said Toni. “So quiet.”

“They’re all probably in church.”

“That’s one of the things that’s odd. It seems to me as if only a few old people go to church these days.”

“There seem to be a lot of old people here.” Agatha peered in the rear-view mirror. “Oh, God’s waiting room full of villagers is just coming out.”

“Do you see Fred?”

“Not yet. George is there.” Agatha’s heart gave a lurch. She had a sudden impulse to reverse right back up the village street to the church, but she controlled it.

“I think Fred is at home,” said Toni. “I saw one of the curtains twitch. We’d better go and knock. She’ll be wondering what on earth we’re doing sitting here.”

Agatha experienced a certain reluctance as she got out of the car. She knew Fred’s fey appearance was going to make her feel lumbering and ungainly. If the chemists could ever come up with a bottle of something labelled “Self-Respect” that actually worked, they could make millions, she thought.

The door opened just as they arrived on the step. Fred, as dainty as ever, was wearing an emerald-green smock over white linen shorts, and her feet were bare. Her toenails were painted emerald green.

“Really sorry to trouble you again,” began Agatha, “but I wanted to ask you some more questions.”

“Such as? Oh, you’d better come in.”

Although the windows were open, Toni smelled the faint scent of pot.

“Now what?” asked Fred. Agatha sank down onto a very low sofa and immediately regretted it. She twisted her legs sideways so as not to expose her knickers.

“I keep harking back in my mind to the morning of the fête,” said Agatha. “You were out very early.”

“I told you that,” said Fred in a bored voice.

“Can you remember anything that might help? A sound?”

“Like what?”

“A car moving off, footsteps, someone scrabbling to unfasten the tent flap?”

“Just the usual dawn chorus.”

“Have you lived in the village for long?” asked Toni.

“For five years.”

“I wondered if you heard any gossip,” pursued Toni. “Anything about anyone that might lead you to suspect them of being capable of putting LSD in the jam.”

“I am used to country life,” said Fred. “This is a tightly knit community. Most people are churchgoers. All very respectable.”

“And yet,” said Agatha, “there is a rumour that Mr. George Selby’s wife was murdered by Miss Triast-Perkins.”

“Rubbish! Utter rot! And why are you still poking about? Sybilla committed suicide and confessed.”

“But in her suicide note she referred to one murder, only one.”

“The woman was as nutty as a fruitcake. Are you short of work or something, considering one of your own detectives took the church money and killed Arnold? Just go away and stop wasting my time.”

She watched with cold eyes as Toni helped Agatha out of the depths of the sofa.

After Agatha had parked the car beside the churchyard wall, Agatha asked Toni, “What did you make of her?”

“She smokes pot.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, she had opened the windows, but I could smell it.”

“And to think she got so upset when I wanted to light up a cigarette! I tell you, it’s positively PC these days to smoke pot but not nicotine.”

“Not any longer,” said Toni. “They say the new stuff on the market is so strong it causes things like schizophrenia.”

“If she’s into pot, she could be into something stronger, like acid.”

“A lot of people smoke pot. It’s easily come by,” said Toni.

“I’d send you round the clubs trying to find LSD, but I don’t want you to get into trouble again.”

“It wouldn’t work,” said Toni. “Ever since I was on television on that last case, everyone will know I’m a detective and back off. I can ask my friend, Sharon. I wonder what the life of LSD is. Whether it has a sell-by date?”

“Why?”

“Because it might be an idea to find out if any of the suspects has had a wild youth.”

Agatha frowned in thought. “We’ve got to start somewhere. I know, let’s go to the vicarage and ask if they’ve got a collection of photographs of previous fêtes. See if anyone looks odd. Maybe they’ve got some old photographs.”

“You mean like, say, Mrs. Glarely dressed as a hippy?”

“Something like that. We’ve really got nothing else to go on.”

The vicar himself opened the door to them. “Can I help you?” His voice was unwelcoming. “The case is closed and the money has been returned-money taken by one of your detectives who, no doubt, murdered Arnold.”

“True. But we recovered that money for you,” said Agatha briskly. “We are still trying to find out who killed Mrs. Jessop and Mrs. Andrews.”

“The police say it was probably a youthful prank gone wrong.”

“I’d like to be sure.”

“I do not see how I can be of any help to you.”

“We wondered,” said Toni, “if you had old photographs of the previous fêtes, going back a bit. We might see someone there who shouldn’t be. I mean, all the previous ones must have been very small affairs.”

The vicar hesitated. Then he said reluctantly, “I suppose there is no harm in your looking. You must come and wait. I have boxes and boxes of them in the attic.”

“I’m sure you’re awfully busy,” said Toni eagerly. “Just lead us up to the attic and we’ll do the searching ourselves.”

The vicar looked relieved. When they had reached the first landing, Trixie appeared at the foot of the stairs and called out, “Where are you taking them?”

“Just to the attic. They want to look at our old photographs.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’ll tell you when I come down.”

As in all old Cotswold buildings, the stairs grew steeper as they climbed higher. Agatha’s bad hip gave a sinister twinge, reminding her that the hip injection she had paid for had been responsible for the recent absence of pain, and not, as she had desperately hoped, to the fact that she had not been suffering from arthritis at all.

Arthur Chance threw open a low door. “In you go,” he said. “All the old photographs are piled up in that trunk over there. I am afraid they are not in any sort of order.”

“Don’t worry.” Agatha knelt down by the trunk. “We’ll manage.”

When the vicar had left, she opened the trunk and let out a groan. “Hundreds of them. You take a pile out, Toni, and I’ll start on another pile.”

They worked in silence. It had usually been a very small affair indeed. Agatha found a photograph of George standing with two women. One was recognizable as Sybilla. The other, she supposed, must be George’s late wife, Sarah. Sarah Selby was less attractive than Agatha had imagined her to be. She was small with a neat figure, but her hair was a mousy colour and her dress was a print one with an ugly fussy design on it. Sybilla was gazing up at George adoringly. Agatha was about to put the picture down and reach for another when something caught her eye. She fished in her handbag and took out a magnifying glass. Toni giggled. “I didn’t think real-life detectives used those.”

“Never mind. Come here and look at this.” Toni peered at the photograph. “There, in the background, behind those three, that’s Maggie Tubby and just look at the expression on her face. Now which one of the three do you think she hates so much?”

“That’s interesting, but hardly proof of anything,” said Toni. “Let’s go on looking for something else, or there might be other photos of Maggie.”

“Oh, here’s another wedding at the church and Maggie again,” exclaimed Toni. “Take a look at this one. There! In the background on the left side.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Agatha peered at the photograph. Maggie was standing at the side gazing up at George.

“Now, surely that’s the look of a woman in love,” said Toni. “I thought she was a lesbian.”

“Never mind about that. These days, if a woman lives with another woman, particularly in a small village, then they’re judged to be a pair of lesbians.” Agatha scowled. “I’d like to show her this, just to see her reaction. I wonder if there is a way of getting her on her own. I also wonder why she was so anxious to say that George had worked up Sybilla to killing his wife.”

“We can hardly stalk her in a small village like this,” said Toni. “Is there a village shop here?”

“Didn’t notice one. Did you?”

“No. So that means they’ll need to go into Mircester to do their shopping. People do go shopping on Sunday. We could go up out of the village and find a secluded bit to conceal the car and see if she drives past. Or if Phyllis leaves, then we can go back to the village and see Maggie on her own.”

“Right,” said Agatha. “We’ll try that and just hope that precious pair don’t decide to go shopping together. We better drive past their cottage and see what sort of car they drive.”

Agatha reversed up a road in a lane leading up to a farm and parked under the shelter of a stand of trees. “So we’re looking for one of those old Volvo estate cars, built like a hearse.”

After half an hour of watching and waiting, Toni said, “This is going to be difficult. Everyone from the village who’s passed us must have been driving at sixty miles an hour.”

“There she goes!” howled Agatha as a glimpse of a grey Volvo flashed past. They set off in pursuit.

“Can you see who’s driving?” asked Toni.

“I’m sure it’s Maggie. She’s smaller than Phyllis.”

“Don’t get too close! You don’t want her to see us!” cried Toni.

“I am not getting too close,” said Agatha through gritted teeth. She did not like the feeling of taking orders from Toni. But she held back when they reached the main road and let two cars get in front of her.

Maggie-and with any luck it was Maggie, thought Agatha-drove into the main car park in Mircester. “I’ll look,” said Toni after Agatha had parked some distance away. She jumped out of the car and after about a minute came racing back. “It’s her.”

“You’d better follow her,” said Agatha reluctantly. “She would spot me a mile off. Tell me if she goes into a restaurant or goes to the supermarket. Then come back quickly.”

Agatha lit a cigarette while she waited, wondering as she often did if she would ever give up smoking, or if something awful like cancer would make up her mind for her.

Toni seemed to be gone a long time, but she was away only ten minutes before she came flying back.

“Well?” demanded Agatha.

“You’ll never believe this.”

“Believe what?”

“Maggie went into that Chinese restaurant and George Selby was already there. I looked through the window. He got up to meet her and kissed her full on the mouth!”

“Now, there’s a thing,” said Agatha. “I wonder if Maggie has a lot of money. I know she sells expensive pottery, but maybe she’s got family money. Yet it was Maggie who suggested that Sybilla might have murdered Sarah because of her infatuation with George.”

“George might have heard the rumours she’s putting around and is trying to smooch her out of any such ideas,” suggested Toni.

“I know,” said Agatha. “Let’s go and call on Phyllis. I’ll ask her if George is interested in women with money and tell her about my date with him. I’ll be blunt.”

As usual, thought Toni. But she said aloud, “I didn’t know you’d had a date with George.”

“It might have ended up something warmer if Charles hadn’t been at my cottage when I got home. Now I think of it, George might have been courting me because he thought I was rich.”

As she said those last words, Agatha felt a darkness settle somewhere in the region of her stomach. She didn’t want to believe the truth of what she had just said, and yet she had to admit, sadly, it was possible, particularly when she set herself against the glowing youth of Toni.

“Get in the car,” she ordered gruffly.

Not receiving any reply when they rang the front doorbell, Agatha and Toni made their way round the side of the cottage to the back. Phyllis was sprawled out on an old green canvas deck chair in her back garden.

She did not get to her feet when she saw them but smiled lazily up at them and asked, “What is it now?”

“It’s about Maggie,” said Agatha.

Phyllis’s catlike features hardened. “If you want to know anything about Maggie, ask her. She’s gone into Mircester to do some shopping, but she should be back later this afternoon.”

“Maggie is in Mircester, yes, but having a romantic lunch with George Selby,” said Agatha.

For one brief moment, Phyllis’s face registered shock. She quickly regained her composure and said, “Why not? What business is it of yours?”

“George came on to me,” said Agatha, “and I think his motive was because I am a rich woman.”

Phyllis’s eyes raked Agatha up and down. “It could hardly be anything else,” she said sweetly. Her gaze fell on Toni, who was wearing a crop top and shorts, showing an expanse of slightly tanned midriff and long smooth legs. “Now, if you had a figure like that-”

“Take this seriously,” snapped Agatha. “Does Maggie have money?”

“She does. But why should that interest George Selby?”

“Look at it this way. You said Sybilla was dotty about George. Perhaps he encouraged her to push his wife down the stairs. Now he’s after Maggie.”

“Get out of here!” said Phyllis. “You’re only cross because you didn’t even get to first base with George. You’re jealous!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Agatha. “Come on, Toni.”

“Now what?” asked Toni when they were outside the cottage.

“That garden of theirs backs onto a field,” said Agatha. “I wonder if we could get into that field. I would like to listen to what happens between that pair when Maggie gets back.”

“Difficult,” said Toni. “I’m sure we’ve already set the lace curtains in this village twitching. How do we get round the back without anyone noticing?”

Agatha scowled in thought. “I know,” she said. “We could drive up to the manor house and go through the grounds and make our way across the fields from there.”

“Maggie’ll be a while yet. Can we go somewhere and buy some sandwiches and drinks to take with us?” asked Toni.

“Good idea.”

By the time they had made their way across the fields carrying a bag of sandwiches and drinks, Agatha felt hot and tired. Fortunately the cottage gardens were screened by trees and bushes.

“How will we know which garden is Phyllis’s?” asked Toni.

“It’s the one with the big cedar tree against the fence,” said Agatha. “I’m dying to sit down and have a cigarette.”

“You can’t!” protested Toni.

“Why? Have you joined the ranks of people who persecute smokers?”

“No, it’s just that there isn’t even a breeze and Phyllis could smell cigarette smoke and decide to investigate.”

“Good point. It’s all right. I don’t need to smoke,” said Agatha defiantly, but thinking longingly of the packet of twenty in her handbag.

They found the back of Phyllis’s garden and settled down on the grass at the edge of the field to wait. They couldn’t talk in case Phyllis heard them. They ate sandwiches as quietly as they could and drank mineral water.

As the afternoon dragged on, Agatha fell asleep. She dreamed that she was passionately in love with James Lacey once more. Once more all her senses were alive and her life full of excitement. Then she was dragged out of her highly coloured dream by Toni shaking her awake.

“Maggie’s back,” whispered Toni.

They strained their ears.

At first all they could hear were faint sounds of some altercation. Then the voices grew louder as Maggie and Phyllis moved into the garden.

“I’m asking you again,” came Phyllis’s voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never liked George.”

“No, and I thought you didn’t either. You were always saying there was something fishy about Sarah’s death. Anyway, I had that infuriating woman, Agatha Raisin, round here warning me that George was only after your money.”

“What!”

“Said he made a pass at her.”

“Rubbish!”

“She is rather sexy, you know.”

“Nonsense!”

“Then dear George’s interest in her must have been because of the money.”

Maggie said, “He got a terrific whack from Sarah’s insurance.”

“I happen to know,” said Phyllis coldly, “that he didn’t get a penny. He had let her life insurance lapse.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” shrieked Maggie this time.

“I didn’t want you to know that he had taken me out for a romantic dinner about a month ago. You were always saying that you didn’t like him. He said we both seemed comfortably off. That’s when I told him you had all the money and I hardly had a bean. Up to that point, he had been quite flirtatious. The minute I told him about not having money, he looked just as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. I never found out why he was so desperate for money. Did you?”

“No,” said Maggie, sounding suddenly weary. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, so I only pretended to think he caused his wife’s death. I’ve got to go inside. I didn’t put the milk and cheese in the fridge.”

Agatha signalled to Toni that they should leave. Toni rose up in one single fluid movement while Agatha struggled to her feet, ignoring that warning twinge in her hip. They made their way wearily back to the car.

Agatha drove up out of the village and then stopped at the side of the road. “What do you make of that?”

“I wonder why he so desperately needs money,” said Toni. “Maybe we should be following him.”

“Good idea. I feel whatever he’s up to happens in the evening. Give Mrs. Freedman details of your overtime.”

When Toni checked her phone that evening, there was a text from Harry. “Please phone. Going on holiday tomorrow.” She nervously bit her thumb. The grown-up thing would be to phone. “But I’m not grown up,” said Toni aloud, “and I don’t want to phone him.” She switched off her mobile and decided not to check it for messages until the following day, when she hoped Harry would be safely on his way somewhere for his holiday.

Early the following evening, Toni and Agatha set out to park in the same place where they had lurked to watch for Maggie leaving the village. “He drives a black BMW,” said Agatha. “It’s going to be difficult to spot a black car racing past.”

“I know,” said Toni, “I’ll go down to the road and hide behind one of those trees. When I spot him, I’ll run back.”

Agatha waited impatiently. She lit a cigarette, took a few puffs and then put it out. She had been momentarily cheered by a new item on television about a hundred-year-old woman who had smoked since the age of seven, but was then depressed when the old lady said she smoked only four cigarettes a day and didn’t inhale.

Just as it was beginning to get dark, Toni hurtled back to the car, crying out, “He’s just gone past.”

Agatha set off in pursuit.

After several miles, straining their eyes to try to keep him in view, George turned onto the Oxford Road.

“It’s so hard to see with all these cars,” complained Agatha as they approached Oxford.

“I see him,” said Toni. “He’s taken the roundabout. Must be going into Oxford by the Woodstock Road.”

“Unless he’s going in to London,” said Agatha.

But on the Woodstock Road, where the traffic slowed down to thirty miles an hour under the harsh glare of the sodium lights, they could clearly see George’s car. At last he turned off on Clarendon Street and went along Walton Street a little way and then parked. Agatha carefully parked several cars behind him.

He turned down Aurelius Street, went up to the door of a trim villa and rang the bell. A statuesque blonde promptly answered the door and fell into his arms. The couple engaged in a passionate clinch.

“I wonder who she is,” said Agatha. She and Toni had cautiously followed on foot. “We can hardly stand out in the street waiting to see what happens. We’ll go back and wait in the car.”

They waited and waited. At one point Toni went off to a fish-and-chip shop and came back with their supper. By the time the bells of Oxford were chiming out midnight, there was still no sign of George.

Agatha yawned and stretched. “I think we should check into a hotel for the night and then come back, say, about seven. This is only two-hour parking, so he’ll want to collect his car before the traffic wardens start checking in the morning.”

To Toni’s relief, Agatha booked them into two single rooms at a hotel up by the roundabout. She wanted to wash out her underwear for the morning and somehow did not want to endure the intimacy of stripping off in front of Agatha.

They set out again at six-thirty the following morning. To Agatha’s relief, George’s car was still there.

At quarter past seven, George appeared, hurrying towards his car. He jumped in and drove off. “Don’t we follow him?” asked Toni.

“No, we put some more money in the parking meter and then go to the end of the road and keep a watch on that house. I want to find out who she is and where she goes.”

It was another long wait. At last, just before nine, the blonde came out and got into her car, a small Ford Escort, and drove off. Agatha groaned as, followed by Toni, she rushed back to her own car and set off in pursuit.

“Thank goodness her car is red,” said Agatha. “I wonder where she’s going. She’s heading towards Woodstock. Oh, look, now she’s turning off. I know, there’s an expensive health farm along this road. It’s called Bartley’s. I’ve often thought of going there for a weekend. She doesn’t know us, so we can follow her right in, if that’s where she’s going.”

Sure enough, the blonde turned in at the gates of the health farm. “Right,” said Agatha, when they saw her enter the building. “We’ll give it a few moments and then go in and ask for a tour of the place.”

In answer to Agatha’s query, the receptionist said their public relations officer would be glad to take them around and show them the facilities. Agatha stifled a yawn as they moved from treatment room to treatment room and then studied health food menus. Then Agatha caught a glimpse of George’s blonde, now dressed in a white overall, going into one of the rooms. “Who is that?” she asked. “I think I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

“Oh, that’s Gilda Brenson, one of our masseuses.”

“No, I don’t know her. But is she good?”

“The best. But I fear we might soon be losing her. Gilda is getting married and her future husband is going to set her up in a clinic of her own. Now, if you will just follow me, I will show you our gym…”

At the end of the tour, Agatha said brightly, “It all looks splendid. I shall probably book in for a week before Christmas. But I wonder if I could ask a favour? I really could do with a massage. I would gladly pay you for Gilda’s services if she has a free appointment this morning.”

“Come to the reception desk with me and I’ll see what we can do.”

The receptionist said that Gilda would be free in half an hour, so Agatha and Toni settled down to wait.

Agatha saw a reflection of herself in a mirror opposite where they were sitting. Her skirt was creased and she had a ladder in one leg of her tights. Beside her reflection, Toni glowed with youth and health.

At last, Agatha was ushered into the massage room and told to remove her clothes and lie on the massage table. She winced as she climbed on.

“Trouble with your hip?” asked Gilda.

“No,” said Agatha defiantly. “Nothing up with me at all.” She did not want to admit to having arthritis even to herself.

Gilda was indeed good at her job. Agatha nearly fell asleep but remembered in time why she was there.

“I hear you will shortly be leaving,” said Agatha.

“Yes. I am going to be married and then my fiance says he will set me up in a clinic of my own. There is a good location near the centre of Oxford.”

“That will be expensive,” commented Agatha. “You are lucky to be marrying such a rich man. What does he do for a living?”

“He is a very successful architect.”

“Have you known him a long time?”

“For a few years. He wanted to marry me before, but I always refused. I told him, I need a business of my own for security.”

Agatha fell silent, her brain whirring. Why was George courting rich women? Did he plan to get them so enamoured with him that they would invest in this clinic? A few years? Was he courting her while his wife was alive? She decided she must try to secure another date with George and see if he suggested anything like that. She did not want to ask Gilda any more questions in case she became suspicious. Agatha knew she would have to pay by credit card. She did not have enough cash with her. She could only hope Gilda would not be curious enough to ask at reception for her name. Fortunately, in booking her in, the receptionist had not asked for her name because it was an on-the-spot arrangement.

After the session was over, Agatha paid at the desk and then reluctantly asked Toni to drive her back to Mircester because she was feeling exhausted.

Toni said she was happy to go to work for the rest of the day. Agatha lied and said she had something to check up on, all the while planning to head straight home and go to bed.

When she awoke, she decided to try to get in touch with George.

George Selby sounded at first surprised and then delighted when Agatha invited him out to dinner that evening.

Agatha had chosen Mircester’s most expensive restaurant, Henri’s, for dinner. She hoped the atmosphere of discreet lighting and tables set well apart would set the scene for an intimate conversation, and she cynically guessed that the price of the dishes on the menu would endear her to George.

She brushed her thick brown hair until it shone and made up her face carefully. The evening was not warm enough for a summer dress, so she chose to wear one of rich gold fine jersey, flattering to her figure.

Agatha drove wearing flat heels, changed into a pair of stilettos in Mircester car park and tottered towards the restaurant.

George was already there, and her heart gave a treacherous little flutter when she saw him. She hoped he would turn out to be a really fine person after all. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit, white shirt, and silk tie. Those magnetic green eyes of his lit up when he saw her.

“Your invitation came as a nice surprise,” he said when she sat down. “You are looking very well. What’s this in aid of?”

Agatha fluttered false eyelashes, hoping they would not fall off. “I should have thought asking a handsome man to dinner would not need any explanation,” she said. “Do choose something nice to eat.”

“Shall I choose for both of us?”

Something unholy flickered across Agatha’s bearlike eyes and then she forced a smile.

“Go ahead.”

As she had expected, he started to order the most expensive items on the menu-a dozen oysters each to begin, followed by tournedos Rossini. He ordered a bottle of white wine to go with the oysters and a vintage claret to accompany the steak.

“Now, do tell me about yourself,” said Agatha. “We’ve never really had a chance to talk properly. I’m afraid that last time I did all the talking.”

“Oh, business is very successful,” said George. “I’ve been working hard.”

“I find clever investment is a good idea,” said Agatha. “I mean, it is better to use money to make money rather than leaving it to just lie in the bank.”

“Exactly!” beamed George. “Here are our oysters.”

Agatha fortunately liked oysters, but she could have sworn that George did not. She guessed he was eating them because he thought it the sophisticated thing to do. He was certainly washing them down with a large amount of wine, which suited Agatha, who wanted to keep a clear head. She suddenly wondered if he came from a poor background.

“You were talking about investments,” said George. He had swallowed the last of his oysters with a look on his face reminiscent of a child taking medicine.

“Yes.”

“I have something that might interest you.”

“Do go on.”

“I have a friend who is starting her own beauty salon in Oxford.” George leaned his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on Agatha’s face. “The thing is this. Beauty salons used to be only for the rich, but now there is more money around, all sorts of ordinary people want massage, tanning and non-surgical facelifts. It can’t fail.”

“Sounds good. What is the name of this friend?”

“Why?”

“Simple question.”

“Gilda Brenson.”

“So what is she selling? Shares? If it’s not up and running, she can hardly have floated the salon as a company on the stock market.”

“No, the offer would be this. You would get two per cent of the net profits.”

“Now, that’s not good. I would only be interested in two per cent of the gross. How much would you want me to invest?”

George took a deep breath. He leaned across the table and took Agatha’s hand in his. The tournedos arrived. George scowled. “This came too quickly,” he said. “I don’t like it when it comes too quickly. It looks as if it’s been precooked and just waiting in the kitchen.”

“Looks great to me,” said Agatha cheerfully. “Why don’t we eat it first and discuss businesses afterwards? And I can’t eat while you’re holding my hand.”

“Oh, right.”

George proceeded to eat and drink quickly. Between bites, Agatha talked about the weather and the disastrous results of the flooding. When she had finished eating and had embarked on yet another flooding story, George interrupted her by asking eagerly, “So, you would be interested?”

“In what?”

“In investing in this salon?”

“Would you care for dessert?” asked the waiter.

“Go away and give us a break,” snapped George. He turned his gaze back on Agatha. “Well?”

“How much?” asked Agatha.

“Oh, nothing much. Seventy-five thousand pounds.”

“That is actually a lot of money.”

“Come on, Agatha. It’s a great chance for you to make money.” Again he took her hand. “I can see a future for us,” he breathed.

“Together?”

“Why not?”

“And what would Gilda have to say about us being together?”

“Agatha, Agatha, my darling. Poor old Gilda is just a business associate.”

Agatha withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gilda is your fiancee, is she not?”

His mouth fell open.

“You’ve a bit of pureed spinach on your teeth,” commented Agatha. “It matches your eyes.”

He scrubbed his front teeth furiously with his napkin. “How did you know Gilda was my fiancee?”

“I’m a detective. I detect. And you interest me an awful lot. I think you’re in debt and the fair Gilda won’t marry you until you produce the goods. Did you get Sybilla to push your wife downstairs?”

Agatha had read in books of people’s faces going black with fury. Now she knew what the writers meant.

“No, I did not murder my wife,” hissed George. “You are a malicious old trout.”

“Now we’ve settled that,” said Agatha. “What about pudding?”

“Screw the pudding and you!”

George thrust his chair back, stood up and stormed out of the restaurant.

I might have done something dangerous, thought Agatha and called for the bill.

When she entered her cottage, carrying her stiletto shoes, she found Charles in the living room, sitting with her cats and watching television.

“Hot date?” asked Charles lazily. “Those eyelashes are a bit much.”

“I’ve been out for dinner with George Selby. Let me tell you what’s been going on.”

Charles switched off the television and listened carefully. When Agatha had finished, Charles said, “How could you do such a stupid thing? If the man really is a murderer, he’ll come after you.”

“It’s a risk I have to take,” said Agatha. “Aren’t looks so misleading? I don’t think he’ll come after me. Too obvious.”

“If he charmed Sybilla into bumping off his wife, he may get this Gilda to drop by one night and strangle you.”

“Now I’m at dead slow and stop,” said Agatha, sinking down on the sofa beside him.

“What are all those boxes of photos doing on the floor?”

“I phoned Toni before I went to sleep today and told her to go back to the vicarage and collect them. We didn’t really have time to look at them thoroughly.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Someone in former photos whose face doesn’t fit.”

“Aha! Some sinister face holding a dagger.”

“Something like that.”

“So you don’t think it’s a local?”

“Not any more. I can’t think any of them would do it. I’m going to bed.”

“What’s the programme for tomorrow?”

“Office, I suppose. What about you?”

“I feel like a lazy day. I’ll take a look at those photos for you. Did you find anything during the first search?”

“Yes. Maggie Tubby is in one of them, gazing adoringly at George. She’s got money. He took her for lunch yesterday and gave her a passionate kiss. I know what I’ll do tomorrow. I’ll pay a call on Maggie and tell her about George’s fiancee.”

“If she’s promised to invest money and you make her pull back, then dear George is really going to feel murderous. I’ll come with you.”