by M C Beaton
“And are you?”
“No, he’s ever so old.” Paul reflected that Peter Frampton was probably at least a couple of years younger than himself.
“You see,” said Zena earnestly, “I’m a bit of a women’s libber.”
“No, I don’t see. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table, “it’s like this, see? Men have been exploiting women for centuries, so it’s fair game to take them for what you can get.”
“Oh, really? And what do you get out of Peter?”
“Meals like this. Presents. He gave me a diamond necklace for Christmas.” She giggled. “I told my boy-friend it was fake.”
“And what does Peter get in return?”
“Bit of slap and tickle. I tell him I’ll go the whole way when we’re married. Keep him guessing.”
“Peter Frampton seemed very keen to get his hands on Ivy Cottage.”
Was it a trick of the light or were her large eyes suddenly veiled?
“Oh, him, he’s dotty about history. He hates all those history professors and so-called experts. He says he knows more about the seventeenth century and the Civil War than the lot of them. Tell you what, I’m bored stiff with history. When he’s rabbitting on, I just think of something else.”
“Did he believe Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s treasure was still hidden somewhere in Ivy Cottage?”
“Can I have a sweet?”
“Yes, of course.” Paul signalled for the menu.
He waited impatiently until she had made her choice and then asked again about the treasure.
“Look,” said Zena impatiently, “if you want to know anything, ask Peter. You’re beginning to bore me.”
“So who is this bod we’re going to see?” asked Charles.
“Do you remember William Dalrymple?”
“No. Wait a bit. Wasn’t he that history don?”
“That’s the one. We met him when we were investigating Melissa’s murder.”
“Ah, Melissa. The one James had a fling with before he disappeared.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“So why William Dalrymple?”
“I’m curious,” said Agatha. “I want to know how passionate history buffs can get about their subject.”
“You’re wondering if Frampton could get passionate enough to kill?”
“Yes.”
“Very far-fetched. Although I must admit I still cannot believe it was Harry who murdered Robin Barley. Of course, we may be dealing with two murderers.”
“Let’s see what William has to say.”
William Dalrymple was at home. “I hope we are not disturbing you too late in the evening,” said Agatha. “Remember us?”
“Yes, indeed. Please come in.”
He led them up to his sitting-room on the first floor. It smelt pleasantly of leather from the old leather-bound books which lined the shelves.
“Sherry?” asked William.
“Please,” said Agatha.
He disappeared and came back with a crystal sherry decanter and three glasses. “Now,” he said, pouring sherry and handing them a glass each, “how can I help you?”
Agatha quickly outlined the murders of Mrs. Witherspoon, Barry Briar and Robin Barley and explained why they were interested in Peter Frampton.
“Now where have I heard that name before? Seventeenth century, you say?”
“Yes, a good-looking man, wavy grey hair, well-tailored, runs a building business.”
“Ah, I think I know whom you mean. Academics can be quite cruel to amateurs. It was, let me see, a few years ago, a colleague at the college invited him to dinner at high table. Unfortunately, Professor Andrew Catsworth-we nickname him Catty-was present.
“Now he considers himself the ultimate authority on the seventeenth century in general and the period of the Civil War in particular. Americans often get confused when we talk about the Civil War, thinking we mean their Civil War in the nineteenth century. Where was I? Ah, yes. Mr. Frampton was burning with enthusiasm and seemed to have a good local knowledge. I mean, he had unearthed a lot of local facts from studying old history books of the villages about Worcester. He said he was considering writing a book, a sort of little-known facts of the Commonwealth.”
“Commonwealth?” asked Agatha, wondering if the gentle don had moved on to the twentieth century.
“Cromwell’s reign was called the Commonwealth,” explained Charles.
“I knew that,” lied Agatha.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Just showing an intelligent interest,” said Agatha, glaring at Charles.
William cleared his throat apologetically. “Frampton became quite fired up, saying that the story of a Roundhead officer, John Towdey, had never been published. Evidently the village of Towdey is named after his family who owned the manor-house, long since demolished. This John Towdey fell in love with Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s daughter who was staying with friends. Trusting him, she had confided in him that her father had taken refuge with Simon Lovesey. He reported her father’s whereabouts to the Cromwellian army. Lamont was taken prisoner and hanged. His daughter, Priscilla, never spoke to Towdey again and it is rumoured she died of a broken heart.
“Professor Catsworth asked in a sneering voice if he had proof of this story. Frampton said it had been handed down through word of mouth. Catsworth proceeded to take Frampton to pieces in front of everyone at the high table. ‘You amateur historians, always looking for romance, are dangerous,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on facts.’ He began to reel off a list of academic sources proving that it was Lovesey who’d betrayed Lamont. Then he ended up by saying that with Frampton’s imagination, he ought to be writing historical bodice rippers. Frampton simply rose from the table and walked out. I have never seen a man so furious.
“We ticked the professor off after he’d left and the professor laughed and said he’d made all those facts up and Frampton was too stupid and amateur to realize it. It was a prime piece of academic spite.”
“What was your impression of Frampton?” asked Agatha.
“I was so sorry for him that I didn’t form much of an impression except that I did think at first that he was an extremely vain man. But he did not deserve such treatment.”
“It’s hardly enough to kill three people over and I can’t see the connection anyway,” said Charles.
They talked some more about the case and then left. “Another dead end,” said Charles as they drove home.
Agatha grumbled agreement, but as they were heading down the hill into Chipping Norton, she said, “The diary. I forgot the diary.”
“The one Paul’s got on his bookshelves? What about it?”
“Just suppose,” said Agatha slowly, “that Frampton got hold of some records, or some word-of-mouth evidence that Sir Geoffrey Lamont had written that diary. Suppose he thought it was somewhere in Ivy Cottage and might contain evidence of his daughter’s love for a Roundhead, he might be desperate to get his hands on it and publish his findings and send the result to Professor Carsworth.”
“That’s mad. I mean, I agree he may have wanted to get his hands on the diary, but to kill to get it! Anyway, let’s call on Paul. I mean, didn’t you read the diary?”
“Only skipped to the bit about the treasure.”
“We’ll look in the diary when we get back and see if there’s anything about his daughter. And then what? Go to the police? Can you imagine what Runcorn would make of it?”
“But Bill would listen,” said Agatha. “I mean, they’ve never really thought of anyone else but Harry.”
“Okay, let’s see if your friend, Paul, is at home.”
Paul had just arrived home before them. He had taken Zena back to her cottage and had been kissing her good night, more warmly than a married man should, when Peter Frampton had driven up and got out of his car, his face a mask of rage.
Paul had extracted himself and made his escape.
&
nbsp; He listened to what Agatha and Charles had to say. They told him about visiting Frampton at his building works, about the visit to the history don and Agatha wondering if Frampton could be crazy enough to kill to get his hands on that diary.
Paul took it down from the bookshelves. “It’ll take some time to read through it,” he warned. “It’s very closely written.”
“I’ll make coffee,” said Agatha. “You read.”
She went off into the kitchen, once so familiar to her. Paul, like the previous owner, John, had not made any great changes to it. She sighed as she located a jug of instant coffee and began to make three mugs of it.
When she returned to the living-room, Charles was slumped on the sofa, half asleep, and Paul was still reading intently. The soft glow of the reading lamp over his head turned his white hair to gold. He was really very attractive, thought Agatha with a pang. I wish Charles would take himself off.
At last Paul gave an exclamation. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Listen to this. ‘My dearest and only child Priscilla is causing me Distress. She is Enamoured of one John Towdey, a Cromwellian. I have sent word to her forbidding her to see him, but she is a Stubborn child and with me gone, may Disobey me.’”
“I really wonder if that’s what he was after,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll go and have a talk with Bill tomorrow.”
“You can’t say anything about the diary,” warned Paul. “We’d need to say how we found it.”
“I won’t, but I must say something to turn Bill’s mind in Frampton’s direction.”
“Why don’t we just confront Frampton? Bluff. Tell him we know it’s him.”
“This is one time I think the police should handle it. Do you want to come with us tomorrow?”
Charles rose from the sofa and stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aggie. Let’s go to bed.”
Paul’s face tightened. “No,” he said curtly. “I’ve got work to do.”
After they had gone, Paul was about to put the diary back on the shelves, but decided to find a hiding place for it. He went through to the kitchen and took down an empty metal canister marked “Pasta,” put the diary in and firmly replaced the lid.
He thought that Agatha’s idea of telling Bill was useless. They had no hard evidence. He himself thought that the idea that anyone would commit three murders over an old diary was just too far-fetched. But Frampton might know something. He felt Agatha had cut him out of things, forgetting that it was he himself who had cut himself off. Yes, he would go and see Frampton and have a man-to-man chat. Frampton might be a bit mad with him over kissing Zena, but he could explain that away as well.
Bill interviewed Agatha and Charles at police headquarters the next day. Charles thought gloomily that the more Agatha outlined the reason for her suspicions, the weaker it sounded.
At the end of it all, Bill shook his head. “There’s nothing that would justify us pulling him in for questioning. In order to start asking Robin Barley’s neighbours if she had ever been seen with him would require Runcorn’s permission and he’s not going to give it. There was too much press interest after the last killing and now Runcorn’s got a culprit and got the press off his back.”
“Do you know who Robin Barley left her money to in her will?” asked Agatha. “There was something in the papers about a daughter.”
“Her daughter, Elizabeth, inherits.”
“ Elizabeth who?”
“Barley. She never married.”
“And where does she live?”
“Agatha!” cautioned Bill. “She could have nothing to do with her mother’s death.”
“I was thinking of something else.”
Bill studied Agatha for a long moment. She was an infuriating woman. But he, like Agatha, could not think Harry guilty. And Agatha in the past had had a way of unearthing things by simply blundering about.
“She lives in Mircester, in Abbey Lane. I don’t have the number.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“And what was that all about?” asked Charles as they left.
“She might have some of her mother’s photographs.”
“So?”
“Well, Peter Frampton might be in some of them. If there are any photographs of the Wormstone Battle of Worcester, he might be somewhere in the crowd. Or her mother might have told Elizabeth something about him.”
“I’m sure the police studied every bit of paper and photograph that Robin had.”
“But they wouldn’t be looking for Peter Frampton. Let’s go to Abbey Lane. We can walk from here.”
They made their way towards the abbey and then turned into Abbey Lane, which ran down one side of the massive Norman building. There was a newspaper shop on the corner and they found out that Elizabeth Barley lived at number 12.
Abbey Lane consisted of a row of terraced houses dating from the eighteenth century. Agatha rang the bell of number 12. A faded-looking woman wearing an apron answered the door. She had wispy sandy hair, a long, tired white face, and rough red hands.
“Is Miss Barley at home?” asked Agatha.
“I am Miss Barley,” she said. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Agatha explained who they were and what they were doing. She had repeated this introduction so many times that she could hear her own voice echoing in her ears.
“Photographs? What kind of photographs?”
“There was a mock Battle of Worcester in Wormstone. We wondered if there were any photos of that.”
“I don’t know. She had boxes of photos at the studio. I don’t know if the police took them away. I haven’t had the heart to go round there. I’ll give you the key and you can go and look for yourself. Just to be on the safe side, could I see some identification?”
They handed over their cards and driving licenses. She studied them for a moment and then handed them back. “I’ll get you the key. Do you know the address?”
“Yes,” said Agatha.
She left them standing on the doorstep and went indoors. “I wonder what she does, or if she does anything,” said Agatha.
“Don’t even think about asking,” said Charles. “Just let’s get that key.”
Elizabeth came back and handed them the key. “If I’m not here when you return,” she said, “just put it through the letter-box.”
They thanked her and walked off, Agatha setting a brisk pace, frightened Elizabeth would change her mind and call them back.
“If the studio is still sealed by the police, we can’t break in, Aggie.”
“She wasn’t murdered there. Hurry up, Charles.”
There was no police seal or tape outside Robin’s studio. They let themselves in.
There were canvases stacked against the wall and a covered painting on an easel. There was none of the usual messy clutter of the artist. Paints and brushes were ranged in order on a clean bench. They began to search. The studio had a sofa and chairs where Agatha had once sat talking to Robin in one section of the studio with a coffee table. The kitchen had a round table and two chairs. Off the other end of the studio was a small bedroom with a large wardrobe. Agatha opened the wardrobe. There were only a few clothes hanging there. Obviously Robin had kept most of her personal belongings in Wormstone. But at the bottom of the wardrobe were two large cardboard boxes.
Agatha opened one and found it full of photographs. “Bingo!” she said. “I’ll take one and you take the other.”
They carried the boxes into the studio and began to search. At one point Charles got up and examined the canvases against the wall. He sat down again. “She painted from photographs, Aggie. My box is full of photographs of the Cotswolds. I don’t think we’re going to find any personal photographs here. We should have asked for the key to the house in Wormstone.”
“Keep searching,” said Agatha doggedly. “There might be something. Ah, down at the bottom of this box are photographs of people, portrait photographs. She must have painted portraits from the photographs.”
“Recognize anyone
?”
“Not yet.”
They worked on until Charles said with a sigh, “No Battle of Worcester. No Peter Frampton. Let’s go back and see if the obliging Elizabeth can let us get into the house in Wormstone. I’ll put the boxes back where we found them.”
Agatha, who had been sitting on the sofa, stood up. She felt flat. Her eyes fell on the canvases. Had Robin been a good painter? She began to turn some around. They were indeed paintings of the Cotswolds, drawn precisely from photographs, competent and lifeless. She turned round some more and came across the portrait of a woman.
“What are you doing?” asked Charles.
“Looking for a portrait of Peter Frampton.”
“Oh, Aggie, I’m getting a bad feeling about this. The man’s probably innocent.”
Agatha ignored him and continued to search the paintings. “Well, well,” she said. “Come and look at this.”
She heaved a large canvas out and turned it around so that Charles could see it. It was a portrait of Peter Frampton wearing nothing but a hard hat. It was not very well executed but nonetheless the subject was clearly Peter Frampton.
“Got him!” said Agatha triumphantly.
“So what do we do now? Go and confront him?”
“Not on your life. I decided to never confront murderers again. Too dangerous. We’ll tell Bill about it and let the police take it from there.”
Paul was puzzled. He had confronted Peter Frampton at the building works about the diary. Peter had simply laughed and said he must be mad if he thought anyone would murder three people over a diary. Paul had tried to get him to betray himself by saying that he had the diary. But Frampton showed no reaction. He was so much at ease and so friendly that Paul began to feel ridiculous.
“Anyway, now you’re here.” said Peter, “come and I’ll give you the royal tour.”
“I really should be getting back.”
“Oh, come on. I’m proud of the place. Where is this mysterious diary, by the way?”
“At my cottage in Carsely.”
“How did you get it?”
“Bit of detective work,” said Paul vaguely.
“Ah, you amateur detectives.” He led Peter through metal sheds piled high with bricks, sheds full of sacks of concrete, and other-what Paul privately termed-dreadfully boring machinery.
