by M C Beaton
“No reason why they should. It’s not their property.”
“Drive right up to the house,” ordered Agatha. “I don’t care if anyone sees us.”
“We’re trespassing, even if it is only the garden.”
“Harry’s the owner and I’ve got his permission to investigate the case. That’s what I’ll say if we’re caught. Turn up here.”
“It’s certainly isolated,” said Charles, switching off the engine. “I wonder what the landlord was doing skulking around.”
“Let’s go and get it over with.” Agatha got out of the car. The night was very still. A small moon riding overhead silvered a mackerel sky and a breeze sent the ivy which covered the old cottage rippling and whispering.
“Creepy,” muttered Charles. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?”
“May as well. We’re here now. Better put our gloves on.”
They made their way round the side of the house and into the garden. “Right down at the end,” said Agatha. “It’s in that clump of shrubbery.”
An owl sailed overhead, making them jump. They crept into the shrubbery. Agatha took out a small torch and shone it on the ground.
“There’s the trapdoor,” she said.
“If we have to go down there, we’ll leave footprints,” cautioned Charles.
“So? I mean, if there’s no body, we don’t have to worry.”
Charles heaved open the trapdoor. “Shine the torch down,” said Charles. “It’s so dark I can’t even see the stairs.”
Agatha shone the thin beam of the torch down the stairs, let out a squawk and dropped the torch and clutched at Charles so hard he fell back with a crash into the bushes.
“Aggie,” he complained. “What the hell…?”
“Eyes,” stammered Agatha. “Eyes. Down there.”
“Where’s the damned torch?” demanded Charles, struggling to his feet. He felt around the ground until he located it.
“Get out of my way and I’ll have a look.”
Charles shone the torch down. He gave a muttered exclamation and went down a few steps. Then he retreated back up.
“It’s a dead body.”
“Is it Barry Briar?”
“I don’t know. Never met the man. Have a look.”
“No, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Leave everything as it is. I’m calling the police.”
“Must we? I mean, they’ll be awfully angry.”
“Aggie, someone’s dead down there. We can’t just walk away.”
“How do you know he’s dead?”
“If a man’s lying with his neck twisted and his lifeless eyes glaring up at you, it’s ten to one he’s dead. Let’s get out of this shrubbery.”
They emerged into the garden and sat down on the grass. Charles took out his mobile phone and called the police while Agatha hugged her knees and shivered.
“Gloves,” she said when Charles rang off. “It looks criminal, us wearing gloves.”
“I’m not going back there to put fingerprints on the trapdoor. I am wearing an ordinary pair of gloves. Sort of thing a man would wear to lift a dirty trapdoor lid. Stop worrying.”
“They’ll wonder how I knew where the entrance was.”
“It said in the newspapers that a secret passage led from the house to the garden. You had this brainwave, so we searched the garden and found it. Don’t you want to go back and have a peek and make sure it’s the missing landlord?”
“I can’t.”
“Well, we’ll soon know. You’re getting soft in the country, Aggie. I’m sure the city mouse wouldn’t be in such a shake.”
“Charles, I’ve often wondered if you’ve any feelings at all.”
“Oh, lots and lots. But I didn’t know this landlord and he sounds no end of a creep. I can hear sirens. Won’t be long. I’d better get my lawyer out of bed.”
“Why? We didn’t murder him.”
“Try telling Runcorn that. ‘Oh, officer,’ says Aggie, ‘I had a dream.’ He’s not going to buy that.”
It was a long night. Agatha and Charles and Charles’s sleepy lawyer waited and waited after being taken to police headquarters for their interviews.
Agatha was to be interviewed first. At last she was summoned and the lawyer rose to join her.
The lawyer, a Mr. Jellicoe, was an imposing figure and Agatha was sure that without his steely interruptions, Runcorn would have grilled her to the point where she would almost feel like confessing to murder just to have the interview over.
Then it was Charles’s turn.
The noon sunshine was streaming in through the dusty windows of police headquarters when he came out to join her. “They’re giving us a lift back to Hebberdon.” They both thanked the lawyer and went out to where the police car was waiting. Haley was at the wheel.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Agatha, sliding into the back seat with Charles.
“How’s Paul?” asked Haley as she drove off.
“Fine,” said Agatha. “I gather from the horrible Runcorn that the body we found was the landlord’s.”
“I’m not allowed to discuss the case.”
“Oh, really?” snapped Agatha. “Then how come you flapped your mouth off to Paul?”
The back of Haley’s neck turned pink. “That was private.”
“Aggie,” said Charles warningly, “we’re too tired for a fight.”
Agatha relapsed into a resentful silence, only waking when Haley drew up at Ivy Cottage.
“Thank you,” said Charles politely and Haley flashed him a smile.
“Trollop,” muttered Agatha as they walked to their car.
“Now, Aggie, that’s nothing but jealousy.”
Agatha ignored the remark and slid into the passenger seat. “God, I’m tired. I only hope for Harry’s sake that the police find some evidence that Barry Briar was blackmailing someone else.”
“We’ll sleep on it.”
Back at her cottage, Agatha switched off the phone and disconnected the doorbell. “Don’t want to be disturbed,” she said. “I’m going to sleep as long as possible.”
“I’m going to make breakfast.”
“Help yourself. I’m too tired to eat.”
Before Agatha plunged down into sleep, she wondered what Paul would make of the latest development and wished that Charles would take himself off.
Ten
AGATHA’S first thought on waking later in the day was that they should try to see Carol and then go on to Wormstone. When she got up, it was to find Charles was still asleep. She defrosted a package which turned out to be lasagne, microwaved it and ate it. Then she phoned Paul but didn’t get a reply.
Impatient for action, she woke Charles and then had a shower and dressed. Charles was in the kitchen when she went downstairs, playing with the cats by tossing a crumpled ball of alumium foil in the air and watching them leap for it.
She surveyed the scene from the kitchen door, wondering, as she had wondered so many times in the past, what Charles really thought about her. He came and went at will, always as self-contained and enigmatic as her cats.
“I thought we should try to see Carol and find out how Harry’s getting on and then go to Wormstone,” she said.
“Righto,” said Charles lazily. He opened the kitchen bin to drop the foil into it and looked down at the discarded package of lasagne. “Aggie, you’re supposed to eat a certain amount of fresh fruit and vegetables each day. All you do is smoke, drink black coffee, and eat trash. You’ll get spots.”
“I’m too old to get spots.”
“One is never too old to get spots. Or cancer.”
“I haven’t had cancer. You’ve had cancer.”
“But I swear it’s my healthy life-style that fought it off. Okay, let’s go.”
Carol was at home. Her eyes were blotchy with recently shed tears. “Poor Harry,” she said. “Isn’t it awful?”
“He has been actually charged, has he?” asked Charles.
“They’ve charged him with the murder of Mother. Oh, dear, what can I do?”
“We’re working on it,” said Agatha. “Did he say why he went over to see your mother that particular night?”
“He said he couldn’t stop worrying about the financial mess he was in. He said it was just an impulse. He wanted to try again to see if she would lend him some money. He said he got no reply. He assumed she had seen him from the window and had decided not to open the door. She had done that before. So he just drove back and joined the party.”
“It’s a wonder the stage-door man didn’t see him coming and going.”
“Freddy was at the party himself. They decided there was no need for him to man the stage door after the party began.”
“Are you sure neither of you knew about that secret passage?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then why were you both so reluctant to let us search the house?”
“Harry had been down in the cellar and he said there was a lot of stuff there, old toys, things like that. He said we might be able to get a good price for some of it.” She turned pink. “He was worried you might pinch some of it.”
Agatha experienced a flash of dislike for Harry. He probably did the murders, she thought.
“Had he paid Barry any money?” asked Charles.
“No. But he promised to. He said he would pay him when he got his inheritance.”
“How much was Barry asking for?”
“Fifty thousand pounds.”
“I wonder when Barry was murdered,” said Agatha. “You see, if it turns out he was murdered while Harry was in jail, then surely the police will have to let him go. Because that would prove that Barry was probably blackmailing someone else.”
A gleam of hope lit up Carol’s watery eyes. “Can you find out?”
“I’ll try,” said Agatha, thinking of Bill Wong.
“Now, why Wormstone?” asked Charles as they got back into the car.
“I don’t like Peter Frampton.”
“So why don’t we go and spit in his face? He’s in Towdey, not Wormstone.”
“Because it’s a long shot. What if Robin Barley asked him for advice on the Civil War?”
“The rector couldn’t remember.”
“But someone in the village might. We won’t take long.”
Paul Chatterton was at that moment in Towdey, looking for Zena Saxton’s address. He had typed notes into his computer of all he and Agatha had found out. He had more or less made up his mind that Harry had actually committed the murders, but he felt that Peter Frampton was a loose end to be tied up. He had wanted Ivy Cottage. Why that particular cottage? He was cross with Agatha because she was neglecting him in favour of Charles.
He knocked at the door of the first house in the village he came to and was told that Zena lived in a cottage near the church, Dove Cottage.
Paul was relieved to see lights were on in the cottage. He hoped Peter Frampton wasn’t with Zena.
Zena opened the door to him. Paul introduced himself and said he had seen her briefly at the historical society. She looked at him with stony eyes. “You’re another of those snoops. What do you want?”
Paul smiled. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to take you out for dinner.”
Vanity warred with suspicion in Zena’s beautiful face. She was only wearing light make-up and a simple black sheath and Paul reflected that she was incredibly attractive-and knew it.
Vanity obviously won. “I’d like to,” she said cautiously, “but my boy-friend said he might call round.”
“Keep him guessing,” said Paul. He was wearing his best suit and shirt and a silk tie.
“Where did you think of taking me for dinner?” asked Zena.
“Le Beau Gentilhomme.”
“Oh, I’ll get my bag,” said Zena. “I’ve always wanted to go there but my boy-friend says it’s too expensive.”
When she went indoors to collect her handbag, Paul thanked his stars that Peter Frampton should prove to be a cheap-skate. Le Beau Gentilhomme was a new French restaurant in Mircester.
“Well, here’s Wormstone,” said Charles. “Where do we start?”
“There’s the Black Bear pub over there. We’ll try there first.”
The pub was crowded. Agatha brought them both drinks at the bar. Charles, obviously regretting his earlier generosity in buying her a meal, said he couldn’t find his wallet.
Agatha was suddenly reluctant to waylay some local and start asking questions. I am getting soft, she thought.
“Let’s start with that old codger over in the corner,” suggested Charles.
A gnarled gnome of a man sat nursing a pint of cider. “Evening,” said Charles. “Mind if we join you?”
The gnome raised his pint and drank it down to the dregs. “I’d like another,” he said.
“Aggie, could you? I’ve…”
“Forgotten my wallet. I know.” Agatha went over to the bar and ordered another pint of cider for the old man.
When she rejoined him at the table, Charles said, “This is Bert Smallbone. He was just telling me about the Battle of Worcester.”
“When was that?” asked Agatha.
“That’d be 1651.”
“No, I mean the re-enactment in the village.”
“The re what?”
“I mean the one you put on in the village.”
“ Ur. I thought him”-he jerked a thumb at Charles-“were asking ’bout the real one.”
“What we want to know is whether Mrs. Robin Barley hired an expert-a historical expert-to advise her.”
“I dunno. Silly woman, she were. Allus prancing about shouting orders. I were a Cavalier.”
Charles reflected that no one had surely ever looked less like a Cavalier than Bert.
“But you don’t know whether anyone was advising her or not?” asked Agatha impatiently.
He shook his head.
Agatha had had enough. She half-rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Smallbone.”
“Reckon her didn’t need no expert,” said Bert. “Mrs. Know-all. Her had battle plans, fair like blueprints o’ house.”
Charles reached up a hand and pressed Agatha back into her seat. “I don’t suppose any of these plans are still around?”
Bert tilted back a greasy cap and scratched his head. “Reckon not,” he said. “Mrs. Barley had ’em.”
“Oh, well,” said Charles, giving up. “Thank you for your time.”
“We’d better try someone else,” said Agatha as they walked towards the bar.
“I don’t think so. They are all men in here. We want a woman. A gossip.”
Charles leaned across the bar and said to the barman, “Is there a woman in this village who knows everything that goes on in the village?”
He laughed. “That ’ud be Jenny Feathers.”
“And where do we find her?”
“Five doors down to your left.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you after, Charles? About these battle maps?” asked Agatha when they were outside.
“I thought if someone else had drawn them up, then there might be a name on them. Let’s try this gossip.”
Jenny Feathers was a thin, energetic woman with greying hair and thick glasses. Agatha let Charles do the talking.
“Do come in,” she said. They followed her into a cluttered parlour. There were various arrangements of dried flowers and lots of little occasional tables covered with china ornaments and framed photographs.
“Do make yourselves comfortable.” Agatha and Charles sat side by side on a small chintz-covered sofa, so small that Agatha could feel Charles’s hip pressing against her own.
Jenny sat on a tapestry-covered Victorian chair facing them. “You were asking about our village performance of the Battle of Worcester? Such a shambles. My dears, I actually felt sorry for Robin when she fell onto that cow-pat. The day was so hot, you see, and she was apt to bully people. Not me, of course. I could put her
in her place. But then it is always a matter of breeding, don’t you think, Sir Charles? The locals are simple people.”
“We wondered if Robin Barley had consulted any sort of historical expert,” said Charles.
“Now, then, that I doubt, or if she did, she would never let on. She liked to pretend she knew everything.”
“But she had some sort of battle plans drawn up, did she not? We wondered if anyone would still have some of those.”
She shook her head. “She had a couple, but she probably took them home. Poor woman. Such a sad death. But she was so annoying, you see.”
“Did she have any gentlemen friends?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, people came and went. We got so used to seeing strangers visiting her. That man the police are saying murdered her, he visited her once.”
Harry, thought Agatha. Another nail in his coffin.
“You didn’t ever see her with a tall, handsome man-grey wavy hair?”
“I can’t remember.” Jenny looked at Agatha with dislike. She prided herself on her knowledge of what went on in the village and did not like having to say that she knew so little of Robin Barley’s private life.
“When was this mock battle?” asked Charles.
“That would be four summers ago.”
They thanked her and left.
“I think we’re wasting time chasing after Peter Frampton,” said Charles. “I mean, why murder three people and all over a house and a mythical treasure?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. What time is it?”
“Just after nine. Why?”
“How long to Oxford?”
“I could make it in three quarters of an hour. Why?”
“There’s someone I want to see.”
Paul was beginning to think that the prices in this pretentious restaurant were a waste of money, much as Zena appeared to be enjoying herself.
He was dismayed to find out that the boy-friend she had been talking about was not Peter Frampton, but some local youth who worked in a garage.
“I thought you and Peter Frampton were an item,” he said.
“My boss? Keep him sweet. He gives me presents. He thinks he’s going to marry me.”