by Beaton, MC
“We started to have an affair. I suppose it wasn’t what you’d call an affair. Three evenings at my place, that was all. I didn’t enjoy it a bit, but I thought what marriage to him would entail. Being able to go to posh places and glamorous holidays. Then he just stopped seeing me. After a week, I went into his office. He blustered and said he’d been busy. The business wasn’t doing as well as he’d thought and his wife had invested in it. I felt such a fool. But I hadn’t been in love with him so it wasn’t that bad until I found he’d been going out with Kylie. So I took it upon myself to warn her off. She just laughed at me and told me to go and take a good look in the mirror. Barrington may not have been serious about someone like me, she said, but he was dead serious about her. I hated her. Silly little bitch.”
John felt sad. Joanna thought she was a cut above the rest of them and he had believed that, too. She had read and admired his books, so, with his writer’s vanity, he had assumed she must be intelligent.
“Did you kill Kylie?” he asked.
“Of course not. What do you take me for? She wasn’t worth the effort.”
Joanna lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.
“I’d better be going,” said John.
Joanna’s eyes flew open. “But I’ll see you soon. We’ll go to that restaurant again and have a chat.”
“I’m going to be very busy,” said John. “New book to write. I won’t be socializing for a while.”
She studied him, her eyes suddenly hard. “The police don’t know it was you who put me up to searching Kylie’s e-mail. Maybe I’ll tell them.”
“Then you’ll only look very silly for not having told them in the first place. They will call on me and I will be obliged to tell them what you’ve just told me about Barrington.”
John turned on his heel and walked out.
As he drove back, he could feel a great loathing about telling Agatha Joanna’s story welling up in him. It is a sad fact that there are no new wounds, only old wounds reopened, and the distasteful incident with Joanna had only served to remind him of the failure of his marriage. His wife had been so very beautiful and he so proud of her. Speaking at writers’ conferences, he had enjoyed a thrill every time at looking down from the podium and seeing her blond beauty staring rapturously up at him. When he had found out about her first affair, he had been devastated. She had wept and promised that it would never happen again. But it had, several times, until the humiliation he had felt had killed love. Not that he had loved Joanna or had planned to take a friendship any further. But he had been flattered by the way she had hung on his every word. In fact, he remembered now that, over dinner, it had been he who had talked of books and plays and films while Joanna had breathlessly agreed with everything he had said.
He decided to drive straight on to London and spend some time with friends. But if he didn’t return home to the village, Agatha would phone the police. And he needed to pack.
He didn’t need to tell Agatha about Barrington and Joanna. Surely that had nothing to do with the case. Anyway, he should have left the whole thing to the police.
“There was something odd there,” said Agatha to Roy, after John had explained that Joanna had claimed that Barrington had been giving her a lift home but calling at his home first to pick up some files.
“Yes,” agreed Roy. “He looked more wooden-faced than ever. Doesn’t ever give much away, does he? And he’s shooting off to London.”
“There was something at the back of his eyes,” said Agatha. “He looked hurt. I bet the silly fool made a pass at her and got rejected. Clown!”
“Too right,” cackled Roy. “Why couldn’t he have made a pass at you, eh?”
“I’m weary,” said Agatha, ignoring the gibe. “I don’t want to ask any more questions.”
“Not even to find out what he really said to Joanna? Come on, Aggie. Curiosity’s killing me and he said she was being released tomorrow. Wouldn’t do any harm to drop in on her. I mean, do you really believe that stuff about Barrington going home first to pick up some files? Why not drop Joanna off first?”
“All right,” said Agatha. “May as well try her.” And if, she thought privately, John Armitage did make a pass at someone as young as she is, then I needn’t bother with him again.
Joanna answered the door to them next day looking bright and fresh and pretty, as if she had not recently gone through such an ordeal. But her face fell when she saw Agatha and she peered round her. Looking for John, thought Agatha. “This is a friend of mine, Roy Silver,” said Agatha, introducing him. “May we come in?”
“Yes, of course. Where’s John?”
“Gone to London.”
She gave a little shrug and walked ahead of them into the living-room.
“So,” began Agatha, settling herself on a sofa next to Roy, “can you remember anything at all about the attack?”
“Not a thing,” said Joanna. “One minute I was sitting in front of Kylie’s computer, and then the next, I was struck on the head and that’s the last I remember until I came to in hospital.”
Agatha decided to pretend that John had not told them anything. “I heard that you were seen one evening in Barrington’s car, going along the High Street.”
Joanna rose to her feet and took some dead flowers out of a vase and put them in the garbage bin. She returned and at down. “Sorry. Just tidying up. You were saying?”
Agatha repeated it. “John asked me about that,” said Joanna. “What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell us anything,” said Agatha.
“It was simply that Mr. Barrington had to collect some files from home before going on to Birmingham. He said he would pick them up and then run me home.”
“Was this unexpected?” asked Agatha. “I mean, had he offered to run you home before?”
“Never.”
“So why this time?”
“Why, why, why?” demanded Joanna angrily. “I happened to be leaving as he was leaving. That’s all.”
Joanna’s faced was flushed and she was staring at the floor.
“No, I don’t think that’s all,” said Agatha. “We’re not the police. Why don’t you get it off your chest?”
Joanna glared at her. “That rat told you.”
Identifying the rat as John, Agatha smiled enigmatically.
“So it was a brief fling until he dumped me for Kylie,” Joanna spat out.
“You must have hated her.”
“She was a grasping silly bitch.”
“A blackmailing silly bitch, too,” said Agatha. “You didn’t try to blackmail him yourself?”
“What do you take me for?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t in a million years have supposed you would have an affair with a man like Barrington.”
“He promised to marry me. He said he would take me on holiday. It’s all right for a rich old cow like you—”
“Watch your mouth!”
“Anyway,” said Joanna sulkily, “you don’t know what it’s like never to have travelled, never to be able to afford to go to good restaurants, buying clothes in thrift shops. These old men are all the same. I hate old people.” Her eyes suddenly lit up with malice.
“John Armitage was another one. He wanted me to move in with him. Can you believe it? But I knew he would turn out like Barrington, so I turned him down. It’s no use asking him about it; he’ll deny it.”
“I’m sure he will,” said Roy. “Do you think Barrington was involved in any way with Kylie’s death? He may not have done it himself but he could have paid someone to do it.”
“He probably did. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“I don’t think so,” interrupted Roy. “I mean, he had paid her the hush money and it was in her account.”
“She could have asked for more.”
“I think that will be all for the moment.” Agatha stood up.
“I think that’ll be all forever,” said Joanna. “Get out and don’t come back.”
“Wow,” said Roy as they retreated to the nearest pub. “What did you think of all that? I don’t think for a moment that Armitage made a pass at her.”
“Oh, really? Then why didn’t he tell us?”
“Probably did fancy her and felt like a fool when he found out she was just a little gold-digger. I must say, they all seem a horrible bunch of girls.”
“The Russians have a saying: The fish always rots from the head down. You have a rotten boss and you get rotten staff.”
“Do you think, Agatha, that the business is really successful? There’s all that about his wife having the money.”
“I’m weary.”
“We shouldn’t give up. Are there any of these girls that seem decent and ordinary to you?”
“There’s Ann Trump. Lives with her parents. Seems straightforward enough.”
“Let’s try her.”
Once they were both seated facing Ann Trump some ten minutes later, Agatha, once more wearing her disguise, began to wonder how to broach the subject of Kylie Stokes and Joanna Trump. Ann was so obviously thrilled to be receiving yet another visit from the “television people.”
At last, after Agatha had pretended to take copious notes on Ann’s life, she said, “How do you get on with the other girls in the office?”
“Oh, we rub along, you know.”
“You must all be feeling afraid after what happened to Joanna.”
“Yes, isn’t it scary? But, I mean, whoever attacked her won’t try again. And she was evidently checking Kylie’s e-mail.”
“I want to ask you a personal question. Did your boss ever come on to you?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You mean, Mr. Barrington? No, he didn’t. Until I heard about him and Kylie, I’d never have thought he’d do anything like that.”
Agatha hesitated. Did she owe Joanna any loyalty? No. “Did you know that he also had an affair, a very brief affair, with Joanna?”
“Why, that dirty old man! And Joanna! Always a bit prim and proper. I mean, she’d always come along for a drink with us, if one of us had a birthday. But she’d never really join in. She’d always be the first to leave the pub.”
“What about the night of the hen party?”
“She stayed to the end, until we all walked into Evesham and split up. Phyllis wasn’t there but then she had it in for Kylie because of Zak. Hey, do you think it might have been Phyllis who struck Joanna?”
“Why would she do that?”
“I dunno. I begin to think I don’t know anything. I mean, if Mr. Barrington hit on Joanna and Kylie, he might have tried it on with Phyllis. Wait till I see Joanna when she gets back to work. I’ll take her down a peg or two.”
Agatha said uneasily, “Please don’t do that. Do treat what we say to you in the utmost confidence. If you are going to be on television, it is essential that you know how to be discreet.”
“I won’t breathe a word.” Ann’s eyes shone at the thought of being on television. Again Agatha felt that stab of conscience.
“Didn’t get anything out of that,” remarked Roy, after they had left.
“I really want to drop the whole thing,” said Agatha. “I hope she doesn’t tell Joanna anything.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid of Joanna. She knows my real identity and she knows where I live.”
“Were you as taken in with her as John obviously was?”
“Yes, I really did think she was a cut above the other girls. She certainly fooled me. I think we’d better call on Freda Stokes. She might know if the police have found out anything.”
Freda was at home and pleased to see them. She listened carefully as Agatha told her everything they had found out.
“The police don’t know about Joanna and Barrington. Should I tell them?” asked Freda.
“Not at the moment because they would want to know how you found out and that would land us in trouble. Have they told you what lines they are working on?”
“No. They came back again and searched her room. They’d already taken a lot of stuff away.”
“Like what?”
“Aspirin bottles, cosmetics, stuff like that. They were looking for any trace of drugs. They even took her dolls and stuffed animals.”
“No point in us looking, then,” said Agatha. “Did Kylie ever say anything about Joanna?”
“I can’t remember. It was usually Phyllis she was complaining about.”
“Did she have one particular friend amongst the girls? She took that wedding gown to show someone.”
“She never seemed to have any of them round the house. Harry McCoy might know.”
Agatha took out her mobile phone. “May as well have another chat to him.” She checked her clipboard and dialled his number. Roy heard her say, “Harry? We’re still going ahead with the television programme and wanted to ask you some more questions. Can we meet you at that café where we met before? Good. About fifteen minutes.”
Agatha rang off. “May as well keep trying,” she said.
If only, thought Agatha, I could drop this masquerade of being with a television company and cut to the chase instead of pretending to be interested in this young man’s supremely uninteresting social life. But she patiently took notes and then finally asked him, “What did you think of the attack on Joanna Field?”
“I don’t know what to make of it,” said Harry. “I mean, she was at Kylie’s computer and someone obviously didn’t want her to read what was on there.”
Agatha wondered whether to tell him about Joanna, but dreaded Phyllis’s reaction. And yet, why protect Joanna? But she asked, “Kylie, we think, was worried about her wedding gown. We think she wanted to show it to someone. Was she particularly close to any of the girls?”
“She didn’t seem to be. She would laugh about them, you know, call Joanna stuck-up, and Phyllis ugly, and say she wasn’t going to be tied down doing accounts and sales for a plumbing firm. I know they all occasionally got together for a drink. That’s all. I mean, it would need to be someone pretty special to get her out in the middle of the night. What about Zak?”
“I don’t think she’d want him to see it before the wedding,” said Agatha.
“Have you seen Joanna?” asked Harry.
“Yes, she’s out of hospital and is fully recovered.”
“And did she actually see anything on Kylie’s computer?”
“No, she says she switched it on and then someone hit her on the head.”
“Will all this stuff on Kylie’s death be on telly?”
Roy spoke for the first time. “We’re doing some background on it because we can hardly do a programme on the youth of Evesham without mentioning her death. It’s been in all the papers.”
Harry laughed. “Phyllis won’t like that. Being upstaged by Kylie even when she’s dead.”
Agatha looked at his laughing face. “Didn’t you mourn Kylie’s death?”
“What? Well, of course. In a way. I mean, when she died, it wasn’t as if she was my girl any more.”
“But you had been intimate with her.”
“Not for a bit, though.”
He never really knew Kylie, thought Agatha. He had found her decorative and that had been enough.
Agatha saw Roy off at the station that evening. After Harry, they had decided not to see anyone else. They had returned to Agatha’s cottage and had typed out what they had discovered and it seemed to lead absolutely nowhere.
After playing with her cats, Agatha went up to bed, feeling suddenly lonely. She showered and got ready for bed. She tried to read a light romance, but the words could not take her mind off the case. There was one little thing. One dangerous little thing she had missed.
Then she sat bolt upright. Had Joanna found anything among the e-mail on Kylie’s machine before someone hit her? And if she did, would she be stupid enough to try to use it to blackmail the murderer? If Joanna could have an affair with a man like Barrington and all because of money, would she not
see incriminating evidence against someone as a golden opportunity to get out of the rut?
Agatha got out of bed and began to pace up and down. There must be some way of letting the police know that Joanna had been involved with Barrington. The silly girl’s life could be in danger. If she phoned, her voice might be recognized and she was hopeless at imitating accents. Then she thought, there was one accent, no longer hers, buried deep down inside her under layers of Mayfair—that of the Birmingham slums.
She went downstairs, picked up the phone and was about to dial Worcester police when she remembered the call could be traced. She pulled a long coat on over her nightgown, drew on a pair of thin gloves, and went out and got into her car. She drove steadily through the dark to Evesham and to the station. She went to the public phone outside and dialled Worcester police. “Listen’ere,” she said gruffly when a policewoman answered. “That Kylie Stokes murder. Joanna Field, her that was hit on the’ead, was having an affair with Barrington. She saw somethink on that e-mail and is going to blackmail someone.”
“Who is this?” demanded the voice sharply.
Agatha dropped the phone, got into her car, and drove off out by the ring road, knowing the police would trace the call to the phone box and send someone there as fast as possible. Her heart lurched as she remembered seeing a forensic-science programme which said they would soon be able to tell who had used a phone by their DNA. Anyone using a phone left a certain amount of their DNA on the receiver. How old had that programme been? Could they do it now? Then her hands relaxed on the steering wheel. Her fingerprints were on record from previous cases but not her DNA and they had no reason to ask for a sample.
She felt sleepy by the time she arrived back home, relaxed now with the comfortable feeling that she had done her best.