by M C Beaton
“May I just see the book? Such a rogue. He may have signed in under another name.”
“What book?”
“The book the guests sign,” said Agatha impatiently.
“No, that is so old-fashioned. They sign cards and their bookings are logged on the computer.”
“Oh, if you could just give me a printout.”
“The details are private. Please leave.” The receptionist turned away to where an overdressed woman was waiting. “Mrs. Bentinck, how nice to see you again.”
Agatha saw a bar leading off the hall. “I’m having a nice cold drink.”
“Remember, you’re driving,” cautioned Roy.
“I don’t think one mimsy gin and tonic is going to make a blind bit of difference. Come on.”
The bar was cool and dark. Agatha lowered herself into an armchair with a sigh of relief and wiggled her toes inside her sandals.
A waiter came up and they gave their orders. When they had been served, Roy said, “I know you like to take long shots, but this was a very long one indeed.”
“I know,” conceded Agatha. “Still, I must have lost some weight with all that walking. I’ll tell Patrick about it.” She took out her mobile phone. “He’s supposed to be on the Smedley case and I’m supposed to be finding Jessica’s murderer. Now I feel guilty for having taken time off.”
She spoke to Patrick and then said, “We’ll collect the car and park somewhere on the road out. See if we can catch them leaving. I mean, it’s Sunday. Maybe he wants to get home before the wife suspects anything. Maybe he’s not booked into a hotel.”
“They may not be leaving,” complained Roy as they sat in the sun inside the car by the side of a road leading out of Bath.
“This is the road they’ll take if they’re heading back to the Cotswolds.”
“But they may be shacked up somewhere for another night of mad passion. Isn’t there any air conditioning in this car?”
“No.”
“What happened to the Saab? What happened to the Audi? Why are we sitting in a small hatchback Rover which looks as if it had five hundred previous owners?”
“I wanted an anonymous-looking car. No one notices a cheap car. This is a very good Rover and I got it second-hand. Keep your eyes on the road behind.”
“It’s all right for you. You’ve got the rear-view mirror. I’ve got a crick in the neck from twisting around.”
“Phil’s got the number of the wife’s car,” said Agatha half to herself. “He wouldn’t be driving that. I wonder if he knows the number of Smedley’s car.”
She phoned Phil and asked him. “Yes, I’ve got it,” said Phil. “I went round after dark and photographed both cars in the driveway. It’s a BMW. Dark green.” He gave her the registration number.
Agatha thanked him, rang off, and gave Roy the details. They waited patiently. “This is hopeless …” Roy was beginning to say, when Agatha exclaimed, “Here they come!”
The BMW driven by Smedley roared past.
Agatha set off in pursuit.
“I don’t think you should be so close behind him,” shouted Roy over the noise of the engine. “Let another car get in between you and him.”
But Agatha hung on grimly, only glad that Smedley showed no sign of exceeding the sixty-mile-an-hour speed limit.
Smedley cut off the A-4 and onto the A-365. “Where’s he going?” muttered Agatha. On they flew in pursuit—the A-365, then the A-361, A-360, and turned off again on the A-344. “Is he going to Amesbury?” wondered Agatha.
“I think he’s going to Stonehenge,” said Roy.
Sure enough, that turned out to be where Smedley was headed. A car park attendant directed Smedley to a parking place on the right and then guided Agatha down to one on the far left.
“Quick!” said Agatha, turning off the engine. “We don’t want to lose him now.”
They scrambled out of the Rover and ran to where they had seen Smedley directed to park—just in time to see the BMW roaring out of the car park.
“I told you not to drive so close,” grumbled Roy. “They must have seen us and driven in here to shake us off.”
They went back to their car and Agatha set off in pursuit, but nowhere on the road back did they spot the BMW.
They drove to Ancombe. Roy, instructed by Agatha, got out and crept up the Smedleys’ drive. He returned with the news that the BMW was parked outside. “He must have dropped her off somewhere or maybe it’ll turn out she was a family relative and the wife knows he was taking her for an outing.”
That evening Agatha drove Roy down to the station to catch the London train and then returned to find Bill Wong waiting for her.
“What’s the news about Haviland?” asked Agatha eagerly.
“Let me inside and make me a coffee and I’ll tell you.”
Seated in the kitchen over mugs of coffee, Bill said, “Haviland was dating Jessica. He’s in his thirties. They didn’t want the parents to know, him being so much older. He’s got a good alibi.”
“Like what?”
“He’s a sales rep for Smedleys Electronics. He was down in Exeter for a week and just got back when we picked him up. He was attending a convention at a hotel there. We checked it out and he never left Exeter.”
“He could have done,” said Agatha. “I mean, conventions are such boozy affairs, he could have nipped back and no one would have noticed. They can check his DNA—”
“That’s the trouble. Jessica was not sexually assaulted.”
“But she was naked from the waist down! And I found a pair of ripped knickers.”
“Jessica Bradley was a virgin.”
“What! In this day and age? Going to the club and dating an older man?”
“I tell you, this Burt Haviland was definitely in love with her. He’s really cut up about everything.”
“So did she tell him anything about anyone? Anyone she was frightened of?”
Bill shook his head. “Haviland said they were waiting until she finished school and then they were going to announce their engagement.”
“I’d like a word with him. What’s his address?”
“I’m not supposed to give you information like that, Agatha.”
“You know I can find it. No one needs to know you told me.”
“Oh, all right. He lives at number ten Bascombe Way in Mircester out on that council estate.”
“All roads seem to lead to Smedleys Electronics,” said Agatha. She told Bill about spotting Smedley with a woman in Bath and ended by saying, “Maybe all that stuff about his wife is guff. Maybe he wanted his wife to find out to throw her off the scent.”
“If Smedley spotted you following him, he’ll be in the office tomorrow to cancel your investigation.”
Not only Robert Smedley turned up in Agatha’s office the following morning but his wife, Mabel, as well.
FIVE
THEY came in, holding hands, and beaming all around. Agatha wished in that moment that Harry Beam was out. The young man was slumped on the sofa with a can of Diet Coke in his hand. He was wearing a denim jacket and jeans torn at the knees.
“I have happy news,” said Smedley. “I no longer need your services. It was all a mistake. I am afraid I am so in love with Mabel that I am inclined to be stupidly jealous.”
As if he saw, hovering on Agatha’s lips, the question, “What were you doing in Bath with a young lady?” he added quickly, “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of asking you for a refund and please bill me for any expenses.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha, wondering whether to bill him for expenses for a trip to Bath and then rejecting the idea. He had already paid a great deal of money. She was supposed to have been spying on Mrs. Smedley, not Mr. Then she wondered why he was not asking for any of his money back.
“I am very pleased that things have worked out for you, Mr. and Mrs. Smedley. May I offer you some coffee?”
“No, we must be off,” he said jovially.
Harry Beam appeared
to rouse himself from some sort of torpor. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your arm, Mrs. Smedley.”
She was carrying a light jacket and immediately put it on. For one moment, something unpleasant flicked at the back of Smedley’s eyes as he surveyed Harry.
“And who are you, might I ask?”
“Harry Beam, detective. I’m on undercover work.”
“From your appearance, it must be something really unsavoury. Come, Mabel.”
When they had left, Agatha asked, “Was there really a bruise? I wasn’t looking.”
“A whopping great one, as if someone had grabbed her arm and twisted it.”
“If he’s hurting her, she should go to the police.” Patrick came in and Agatha told him the Smedley case was over. He was followed by Phil, who said he had good photos of Trixie and Fairy.
“Right, Phil,” said Agatha. “We’ll get down to the mall. Patrick, the latest is that Jessica was not raped but it was made to look that way. This boyfriend appears to have a clear alibi, but go and see if you can talk to him. He might have something interesting to say about Jessica that he’s forgotten.”
“This murder looks like the work of an amateur,” said Patrick. ‘These days most people would know that with DNA they’d soon find out she hadn’t been raped.”
“Maybe not. They might assume the police would think a condom had been used. Whoever did it didn’t know she was a virgin.”
“What about me?” asked Harry.
“There are two outstanding divorce cases, both well-to-do people, so you’ll need to blend in. Different clothes and no studs.”
She expected him to protest, but he gave a laconic “Okay.”
“Mrs. Freedman will give you the files.”
“You’ve got the photographer,” said Harry. “You want me to take a camera?”
Agatha was reluctant to surrender Phil. He was proving to have a good insight into things.
“Come down to my car,” said Phil, “and I’ll fix you up with a proper camera and a telescopic lens.”
“Cool.”
“What should I be working on?” asked Patrick.
“See if you can have a chat with Burt Haviland.”
Agatha and Phil set out for the mall. The recent rain had left the skies grey and the air muggy and stifling.
They went back to the clock and, armed with the pictures of Trixie, Fairy and Jessica, began to quiz the shopkeepers round about, but although four of them recognized the girls, it was always the same story. They had seen them waiting but after that had not noticed anything else.
“I think it’s time we went back and saw the parents,” said Agatha. “The body won’t have been released for burial yet, so they’ll probably just be sitting around. I’d like to ask them about Burt Haviland. That sounds like a name out of a romance. Be interesting to find out if he changed his name at any time.”
Mrs. Bradley opened the door to them, looking like a zombie. Agatha guessed she had probably been prescribed tranquillizers.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. So kind of you to still offer to find Jessica’s murderer. Do come in.”
Her voice had a soft Gloucestershire burr.
They went into a pleasant living room. There was a large photograph of Jessica on the sideboard, looking every inch the correct English schoolgirl.
Pretty net curtains fluttered at the open windows and the room was full of domestic clutter: books and magazines, videos, and a discarded piece of knitting.
“Is your husband home?” asked Agatha.
“He’s gone back to work at the ice cream factory. He says it keeps his mind off the horror of it all.”
“You should try one of those bereavement counselling classes,” said Agatha gently. “Tranquillizers only keep the grief damped down and it can erupt worse later on. I’ll find out where the nearest one is for you.”
“Thank you.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, rolling down silently, one after the other.
“I’ll make tea,” said Phil.
Mrs. Bradley mopped her eyes with a tissue.
“Did you know Jessica had a boyfriend?”
She looked at Agatha in amazement. “No, was it one of the boys at school?”
“It was a man of thirty-five called Burt Haviland. Works in sales at Smedleys Electronics.”
“She said nothing of this to us.”
“It appears Jessica may have been frightened you’d stop him seeing her because he was so much older. He appears to have been very much in love with her. He has an alibi. Mrs. Bradley, your daughter was not raped. The police will no doubt inform you. Jessica was a virgin.”
“My poor little girl.” She began to cry again.
Agatha suddenly wished she was the type of woman who would find it easy to cross the room and give Mrs. Bradley a comforting hug, but she wasn’t, so she made what she hoped were sympathetic noises.
Phil came in with the tea things. “I’ve made yours very sweet,” he said to Mrs. Bradley. “Good for shock.”
She gave him a weak smile and sipped her tea.
Seeing she was once more composed, Agatha asked, “May we see Jessica’s room?”
“Please go upstairs. It’s at the top on the left. I won’t go up with you. I can’t.”
Agatha and Phil went up the stairs and pushed open the door of Jessica’s room. They each pulled on a pair of latex gloves. It looked the usual teenager’s room with posters of pop stars on the walls, but with more books than usual. There was a computer desk against the wall but no computer. Agatha guessed the police must have taken it away to find out if she had been communicating with anyone on the Internet.
She pulled open the drawer on the desk. “I suppose if she had a diary, the police will have that as well. Unless she hid it. Where would a teenager hide a diary?”
“Don’t know,” said Phil. “Let’s search.”
They began to search everywhere in the room. There was a chest of drawers. Agatha pulled out each drawer and felt underneath. Nothing.
“Let’s try the desk.” There were three drawers. Agatha began to slide them out one by one. The bottom drawer stuck a little and Agatha gave it an impatient wrench. It clattered onto the floor and a packet of letters which had been taped to the underside of the drawer spilled across the floor.
They gathered up the letters. They were all addressed to Jessica, care of Sommers. “That’s Trixie and her address,” said Agatha. “She must have been using Trixie to get letters from her boyfriend.” She gently spread out the envelopes on the desk.
“We’ll split them up. There are twelve here. You take six and I’ll take the other.”
They turned out to be passionate love letters from Burt. It was evident he hoped to marry her as soon as she had finished school.
“There’s something here,” said Phil. “He says in this letter that he’s worried that Jessica was letting her friends blackmail her into going clubbing with them. ‘If Trixie and Fairy are threatening to tell your teachers, then let them. I don’t like you going around with that precious pair. The other thing with them is just a laugh, just work.’”
“That’s interesting. What other thing? It’s time we had a talk with those girls after school.”
“What do we do with the letters? Hand them over to the police?”
“No, there’s nothing there that can really help them.”
“Yes, there is,” said Phil. “It sheds a new light on why she was seen with Trixie and Fairy. And I wonder as well about that ‘other thing’ she refers to.”
“Let’s leave poor Jessica a bit of privacy. We’ll put them back. I mean, it’s awfully romantic to send letters in this day and age instead of texting and emailing.”
They went downstairs and Agatha asked Mrs. Bradley, “Weren’t you worried about Jessica going out clubbing?”
“Yes, I was. But she had changed. She said all the girls did it. She was always home on time until the last night.”
“Did the police take away her computer?”
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“They wanted to check if she’d been in contact with anyone on the Internet, but I told them my husband was always afraid of girls getting into one of those chat rooms and meeting a pervert and he used to check all her emails.”
The Bradleys were turning out to be stricter than Agatha had imagined. “Did Jessica have a mobile phone?”
“Frank, that’s my husband, wouldn’t let her have one. She begged for one, but he said that perverts were texting schoolgirls. I suppose that’s why we let her go clubbing, but just the once a week. We didn’t want to put too many restrictions on her and they do grow up so fast these days.”
They promised to let Mrs. Bradley know as soon as they found anything and left.
“Why,” asked Agatha as she got into the passenger seat of Phil’s old Ford, “would Trixie and Fairy blackmail her into going out with them?”
“Jealousy,” said Phil. “Good scholar. Probably wanted to make her as low as they are.”
“I’m starving,” said Agatha. “Let’s have something to eat.”
Agatha’s mobile phone rang just as they were finishing lunch. It was Bill Wong. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Just left Mrs. Bradley’s house. Why?”
“The Smedleys came to see you this morning, didn’t they?”
“Yes, both of them. Very lovey-dovey. Smedley asked me to drop the case. Why?”
“Smedley’s just been found dead in his office. We think it’s poisoning. You’d better come here to police headquarters and make a statement.”
Agatha and Phil were interviewed by Bill Wong and Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes.
Agatha told them about the visit of the Smedleys. Then she remembered about Harry noticing a bruise on Mrs. Smedley’s arm. “He could have been beating her. Oh, there’s something else.” She told them about being with Roy in Bath and seeing Smedley with a young woman.
“Description?” snapped Wilkes.
“Lots of red hair, sort of pretty but with a pale face and a rabbity mouth. Good figure.”
“We’ll look into it. Could be one of his employees. Sounds like his secretary. All right. From the teginning. They came into your office this morning …”
