by M C Beaton
“And you were in Paris at the time of the shooting?”
He grinned. “And plenty of witnesses to that fact. Tell you what, time’s getting on and I promised Catherine I’d be home for dinner. Why don’t you and I have a meal later in the week and then I really will have time to answer all your questions?”
“I would like that.” Agatha tried not to sound too eager. “I’ll give you my card.”
When he left, Agatha decided to go home and spend a quiet evening repairing her face and tinting the roots of her hair. She had thick brown hair but grey was beginning to show through.
Would he really phone? It wasn’t as if he was married. What should she wear?
She could hear faintly the warning voice of Mrs. Bloxby. “You are addicted to falling in love.” But Agatha’s mind blotted it out. It was so wonderful to have a man to dream about, the colourful dreams filling up that empty hole that had been in her head for so long. Without dreams, Agatha was left with Agatha, a person she did not like very much, although that was something she would never admit to herself.
Agatha fed her cats, microwaved herself a shepherd’s pie and then microwaved some chips to go with it. Then she went upstairs for a long soak in the bathtub before tackling her hair. It would be better, she thought, to have a hairdresser do the tinting, so she compromised by using a “brunette” shampoo, colour guaranteed to last through three washes.
She studied her face closely in the “fright” mirror, one of those magnifying ones, and seizing the tweezers, plucked two hairs from her upper lip.
Agatha was just wrapping herself in her dressing-gown when she heard someone moving about downstairs. She looked around for a weapon and then picked up a can of hair lacquer to spray in the intruder’s eyes. It was only when she reached the bottom of the stairs that she realized she could have phoned the police from the extension in the bedroom.
The bottom stair creaked beneath her feet.
“That you, Aggie?” called a lazy voice from the sitting-room.
Charles Fraith.
“You might have knocked!” raged Agatha. “You gave me a fright.”
“And you gave me the keys, remember?”
“No, I don’t. I’d forgotten you still had them.”
“I must say, you do look a picture, Aggie.”
Agatha realized her face was covered in cream and her hair wrapped up in a towel. She made to retreat and then shrugged. “You’ll just need to put up with it, Charles. Drink?”
Emma watched hungrily from the side window. She had seen Charles drive up. She waited and waited for him to leave. He couldn’t surely be staying the night, could he?
At last, tiredness drove her off to bed. Emma resolved to call on Mrs. Bloxby in the morning. Agatha would assume she was out on one of the cases when she didn’t turn up at the office. Mrs. Bloxby would know what was going on.
Mrs. Bloxby wondered why Emma had called. She served her coffee while Emma chatted aimlessly about the weather. At last Mrs. Bloxby said, “Aren’t you due at work?”
“I don’t go into the office much,” said Emma. “So many little cases to work on.”
Mrs. Bloxby let a long silence form between them, hoping Emma would take the hint and go.
“Sir Charles Fraith stayed at Agatha’s last night,” said Emma, breaking the silence.
“Oh, he’s back, is he? They’re old friends.”
Emma let out a false giggle. “Just friends, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“All the same,” said Emma, putting her cup down on the saucer with a clatter, “Agatha doesn’t seem to care much for her reputation, having a man to stay overnight.”
“A lot of the villagers have friends to stay overnight,” said Mrs. Bloxby, looking curiously at Emma’s flushed face, “and nobody thinks anything of it.”
“Charles is a very attractive man. He took me to lunch yesterday.”
“And Mrs. Raisin is a very attractive woman. But I assure you, nobody is gossiping about her relation with Sir Charles.” “Agatha, attractive?”
“I believe men find her sexy. Now, I hate to rush you, but I have parish duties to attend to.”
“Of course. I’ll be on my way.”
Oh dear, thought Mrs. Bloxby. I do believe poor Mrs. Comfrey has fallen in love. Isn’t it odd, all those women’s magazines going on about sex the whole time and they never seem to realize that there’s a silent majority of women who crave romance and find talk about the tricks of the brothel and vibrators and so on disgusting and humiliating. No warnings against romantic obsession, and the later in life it hits, the more dangerous.
Mrs. Bloxby placed a straw had on her head and set out to make parish calls. She never even considered warning Agatha simply because she received so many confidences that she had trained herself over the years to forget them immediately. The idea that remaining silent might put Agatha’s life in danger never crossed her mind.
FOUR
“WHO does this Jeremy Laggat-Brown work for?” asked Charles over breakfast.
“Think it was something like Chater’s.”
“Good firm. Lombard Street. I know someone there. I’ll give them a ring.”
When Charles went to the phone, Agatha sipped her coffee and smoked a cigarette, wishing it were like the old days when she hadn’t set up as a professional detective and had only the one case to bother about.
Charles came back, grinning. “Now here’s a thing. Laggat-Brown isn’t with them any more. He’s set up his own business— import/export.”
“Importing and exporting what?”
“Electronic bits and pieces. Got an office up a dingy stair inFetter Lane, according to my old school pal. Our Jeremy travels a lot. Seems to be a one-man operation, with a secretary to look after things when he’s not there.”
“Why did he leave Chater’s?”
“Evidently said he was tired of stockbroking.”
“No leaving under a cloud, anything like that?”
“I’ll push further.”
“I should really put you on the books,” began Agatha, then added hurriedly as she saw a mercenary gleam in Charles’s eyes, “but I’m overstretched as it is.”
He sighed. “To think Cassandra won the lottery. Doesn’t seem fair. Only poor people should win the lottery.”
“Like you?”
“Like me.”
“Charles, one of your suits would feed a family for a year.”
“Which reminds me, I haven’t paid my tailor’s bill. You said something about the Felliets who used to own the manor. I know George. Was at school with him. Why are you interested in the Felliets?”
“I thought they might be able to tell us more about the Laggat-Browns than the Laggat-Browns have been telling me. Do you know where they live?”
“Let me think. I know. Ancombe. They’ll be in the phone book. By the way, I took your assistant, Emma, out for lunch yesterday.”
“Did you? That’s nice. Should we go and visit the Felliets?”
“All right. Like old times. What about the detective agency?”
“They don’t need me at the moment. Runs itself. Emma and a retired detective I’ve hired can deal with everything.”
The Felliets turned out to live in a small cottage on the outskirts of Ancombe. Even small cottages in the Cotswolds now cost quite a lot of money, but as Charles held open the garden gate for her, Agatha reflected that it must have been a sore climb-down for the Felliets to have to give up their manor-house for this.
A small rotund man in his mid-forties wearing stone-washed jeans and an open-necked striped shirt answered the door. “Why, Charles,” he exclaimed, “what brings you here? Haven’t seen you in yonks. Come in.”
They followed him into a little living-room. Agatha glanced around. It was as if a country-house drawing-room had been scaled right down. There were pretty pieces of antique furniture, and family portraits crowded the walls.
“My wife’s out,” said George Felliet, “but
I’ve got a pot of coffee in the kitchen. That do?”
“Fine,” said Charles. “Agatha, George. George, Agatha.”
“We don’t have a sit-in kitchen,” said George. “Wait there and I’ll fetch the coffee.”
“His old man was a bit of a gambler,” said Charles while they waited. “Then the death duties took a lot of what they had.”
“Is he a baronet like you?”
“Yes, very old family. The manor-house had been in the family for centuries.” “Pity.”
George came in bearing a tray. “Here we go. Milk, Agatha?” “Black will do.”
“Charles, help yourself. Now, what brings you?”
“Agatha is a detective,” said Charles, “and she’s investigating that shooting at the manor. Have you any idea why someone would want to shoot their daughter?”
“No. Had it been the Laggat-Brown woman, I could have understood it. Did you see what she did to the manor? No soul. The name isn’t really Laggat-Brown.”
“Oh, what is it?”
“Ryan. For some reason Jeremy Ryan decided that Laggat-Brown sounded better and changed it by deed poll.”
“You’d think he’d have chosen something grander,” said Charles.
“I tell you, that lot have only a veneer of sophistication. Underneath, they’re as common as muck. She made her money out of Daddy’s business. And do you know what that was?”
“No.”
“Dog biscuits.”
“You’re being snobbish, George. Nothing up with dog biscuits.”
George sighed. His rubicund face and small mouth gave him the look of a hurt baby.
“I am, I know. It was just the way she went on. Rubbing salt in the wound. Kept saying things like, ‘If you can’t afford to keep up a place like this, it’s much more sensible to sell it to someone like me who can.’ Dealt with us with a mixture of pity and contempt. I really hate that woman. And if I really hate that woman, then, believe me, she’s rubbed someone else up the wrong way.”
“Where’s the wife?” asked Charles.
“Down in the village, shopping.”
“And Felicity?”
“She’s abroad. Travels a lot.”
“What does she do at the moment?”
“Assistant in some dress shop.”
“Which dress shop?”
“Charles, I’m getting angry about all these questions. One would think you suspected the Felliet family of having tried to kill that lumpy daughter of hers.”
“I’m sorry, George,” said Charles. “I’m so used to going around with Agatha trying to find out who murdered whom that I get a bit carried away. Let’s talk about other things.”
Agatha drank her coffee and listened to their reminiscences and longed for a cigarette, but could see no sign of an ashtray anywhere.
At last Charles decided to leave. As they drove off, he said, “Poor old George. I really did rile him up with all those questions. It can’t be anything to do with them. I wish we had the powers of the police. Maybe it would be easier for us to find Peterson then. You know, Agatha, you said you’d engaged that retired detective. Retired detectives usually keep up their contacts in the police. Might be better to let him take over for a bit.”
Agatha grinned ruefully. “And leave me with all the lost cats, dogs and children? Still, it might be worth a try.”
Charles accompanied her to the office. Patrick Mullen was dictating notes to Miss Simms, who was typing them out on her computer with such long nails that Agatha wondered how she managed.
Emma was sitting on the sofa with a small Yorkshire terrier at her feet. “I’ve phoned the owner,” said Emma. “She’s coming round.”
She did not look at Charles, who said breezily, “Hi, Emma!”
Emma murmured something and bent down to stroke the dog.
“Patrick,” said Agatha, “stop what you’re doing. I need you on this shooting case.”
The owner of the dog came in as Agatha was talking and was effusive in her thanks.
When she had left, Emma consulted her notes. Another missing teenager, seventeen-year-old girl called Kimberly Bright. Emma sighed. Charles came and sat beside her. “You look fed up. What’s up?”
“Eve got to start looking for a missing seventeen-year-old. It’s difficult for me because there’s such a generation gap, I don’t know anything about how they behave these days.”
“Miss Simms would know,” said Charles. He interrupted Agatha. “Agatha, Emma’s got a seventeen-year-old to look for. Miss Simms might have a better idea about how to go about it. Why don’t you let her have a go and Emma can do the typing?”
“Ooh, I’d love to try,” said Miss Simms.
“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “Give Miss Simms the file, Emma. I’m taking Patrick out for an early lunch so I can continue filling him in on all the details.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. He reflected that Agatha, preoccupied as she now was, could be amazingly rude and insensitive.
“I’m sure Emma could do with a break as well,” he said. “Ell take you to lunch, Emma.”
Emma flushed up with pleasure. But her face fell when Agatha snapped, “And who’s going to answer the phones?”
“I’ll stay here,” said Miss Simms. “It’ll give me a chance to study the photographs and read up on where you’ve looked, Emma.”
Emma was momentarily diverted by the thought that it was ridiculous that a young woman like Miss Simms should call her by her first name and yet she herself was somehow bound by the ladies’ society tradition of second names only.
Then, to her dismay, Agatha turned in the doorway and said* “Sorry, Charles, I should have asked you as well.”
“Yes, you should. But I’ve asked Emma to lunch, so run along.”
So Emma was in seventh heaven. Excited as a schoolgirl, she chattered about her life all through lunch, saying that her husband had bullied her and that her colleagues had bullied her. She was sure that she was bringing out the strong protective side of Charles’s character, not knowing that he didn’t have one and was damning her as a professional victim.
“This Jeremy Laggat-Brown who used to be Ryan,’’ said Patrick over lunch. “His Paris alibi checks out?”
“Watertight. And why should he want to shoot his OWE daughter?”
“Well, I’ll start in Herris Cum Magna and then I’ll speak to Jason Peterson this evening,” said Patrick.
“You can’t. He’s in Bermuda, remember?”
“Forgot. I’ve still got contacts in the police. Before you asked me, I decided to do a bit of checking up on my own. I’ll find out from them what they’re doing about tracing Harrison Peterson. They’ll have the airports and ports covered, I know that, but I don’t want to go over old ground locally. Also, I’ll check the libraries for old reports about his fraud case and get a photograph.”
“Have the police found out yet what kind of gun was used?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Now, that’s a very interesting thing. It was a sniper rifle. A Parker-Hale M-85. It’s a first-rate sniper rifle, capable of precision fire up to ranges of nine hundred metres. The weapon has a silent safety catch, a threaded muzzle for flash suppressor, and an integral dovetail mount that accepts a variety of sights. Sort of thing a professional assassin would use.”
“I don’t think a professional assassin would bother to send a threatening letter first,” Agatha pointed out.
“True. This rifle is made by Sable Defence Industries here in the UK. Police are going through the books there, trying to trace all the rifles that have been sold.”
. “Have forensics found out anything else?”
“Only that we’re dealing with one very cool customer. He wore gloves and swept his way out of the box-room so there would be no fingerprints. The corridor and stairs are thickly carpeted.”
“He didn’t need to leave in a rush,” said Agatha bitterly. “I mean, the police went into the house, but I don’t think they even went in to the box-roo
m. Just pushed the door open and looked. Well, good hunting. To tell you the truth, I’m not enjoying this detective agency business much. I hate the missing teenager ones because the parents are naturally distraught and it’s awfully hard trying to find someone the police were unable to.”
“The whole police force will search far and wide for a missing child,” said Patrick, “but once they reach the late teens, the search isn’t so urgent. What are Sam and Douglas doing?”
“Adultery cases. They pay well.”
“I’ll get off to Herris Cum Magna.”
“Wait a minute. Harrison Peterson was seen on the day of the party in Herris Cum Magna. Who saw him?”
“I got a tip-off. A Mrs. Blandford. I’ll start with her.”
Agatha made her way back to the office. Patrick had made her feel like an amateur. Why hadn’t she tried to get Bill to tell her the name of the person who had spotted Harrison?
To her annoyance, the office was locked. She unlocked the door and walked in. Emma had left a note. “Not feeling very well. Had to go home and lie down. Miss Simms is out on that job. Emma.”
The afternoon dragged on. Miss Simms did not return and there was no sign of Charles. At last Agatha locked up and went home, calling first at Emma’s cottage, but there was no reply.
She went into her own cottage, calling, “Charles!” The house was silent. She went upstairs to the spare bedroom. Charles had arrived with an overnight bag. It was gone. Agatha realized she had offended him and knew from experience that an offended Charles could stay away for quite a long time.
She went downstairs again just as the phone started to ring. It was Roy Silver, her one-time assistant, on the other end of the line.
“Aggie!” he cried. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. Feel like doing some free-lance PR?”
“I can’t, Roy. I’ve started up my own detective agency.”
“How exciting. Can I come down this weekend for a visit?”
“Of course. Are you driving down or taking the train?”
“The train. We’re coming into the wong-kind-of-the-leaves-on-the-line season and the trains will probably run late. I’ll be down Friday about eight o’clock.”
“Fine.”
