by M C Beaton
“Ouch! Meaning you thought I would know?”
Harry waited in silence.
“Let me think,” said his father.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Harry. “Where did you take your piece of fluff?”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, young man.”
“Come on, Dad. It’s important.”
“Well,” said Jeremy huffily, “there’s this little country hotel, the Manor, in the village of Tewby Magna.” “Where’s Tewby Magna?”
“You take the Mircester bypass as far as the Evesham Road turn; go down there and you’ll see the signpost.”
Harry set off with high hopes. He’d had such a lot of luck recently that he was almost startled when they told him at the hotel that they had never seen anyone answering the descriptions of Mabel or Burt.
Agatha could not sleep that night. If they did find out that Mabel had been anywhere with Burt, what then? If they told the police, Wilkes would ask what gave them the idea. They would need to turn that tape over to the police before much longer and try to pretend that Phil had just found it.
Her idea, which had seemed so bright and logical, now seemed far-fetched. The trouble was she always thought of Mabel as middleaged because of her dowdy appearance. But Mabel was comparatively young.
Bill Wong was having a restless night as well. He had questioned the forensic team himself, but two of them were on holiday and one had left and the others couldn’t remember if anyone had searched the plant pot.
Agatha, Phil, Patrick and Harry met in the office next morning with lists of where they had been so that one of them didn’t make the mistake of going back to an old address.
The trouble was, she thought as she got in her car, that if they had been having an affair, they could simply have gone to Burt’s flat. Perhaps it was all a waste of time. Give it one more day.
Harry had come to the same conclusion. He made his way to the block of flats where Burt had lived. He trudged up and down the stairs, knocking at doors, but the building was silent. Everyone must be out at work, he thought. He was just about to give up when he saw a man carrying two shopping bags entering the building.
“I wonder whether you can help me,” began Harry. “I work for a detective agency.”
“Work for your mother, do you? Her was asking me questions the other week. I’m Burden.”
Burden by name and Burden by nature, thought Harry with irritation.
“No,” he said patiently, “I am employed by Mrs. Raisin. I have photographs here I would like you to look at to see if you recognize anyone.”
“I’ve forgotten to buy me fags. Can’t think without a cigarette.”
“I’ll get you some. Which is your flat?”
“Number eight.”
“What do you smoke?”
“Rothmans. Get me a carton.”
Greedy old sod, thought Harry, but he ran to the comer store and bought a carton.
“Now,” he said when he handed the cigarettes over, trying not to look accusingly at the cheap roll-up which was dangling from Mr. Burden’s mouth, “have a look.”
“Fix us a cup of tea first.”
Harry went through to the kitchen. The sink was full of greasy unwashed dishes. He searched around until he found a clean mug.
“Make it strong,” came the order from the living room. Harry put two tea bags in the mug and dunked them until the tea was almost black. “Milk and sugar?” he called.
“Five lumps and the milk’s in the fridge.”
Harry carried the mug through to him and then opened the folder of photographs, selecting the ones of Mabel.
“Ever seen this woman before?”
He waited patiently while Mr. Burden greedily tore open the carton of cigarettes, selected a packet, opened it, extracted a cigarette, crushed out his roll-up, put the fresh cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He took a swig of tea and said, “Okay. Let’s see.”
He scowled horribly down at the photographs and then his face cleared. “Oh, her.”
“You’ve seen her?”
Harry could hardly contain his excitement.
“I saw her from the window. Middle o’ the night, it were. Can’t sleep. My prostate. Pee, pee, pee all night long. The doctor says—”
“But you saw her,” Harry interrupted.
“She was getting in a car and that murdered chap was standing there and she was shouting something at him. I recognize her ‘cos she was plain, not like the birds he usually had up there.”
“How long before the murder?”
“Can’t think. Maybe a week.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Naw. They was asking about people calling the night o’ the murder.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Burden.”
“Wouldn’t like to wait a bit, young fellow? I go down to the pub at eleven.”
“Got to go.”
Bill Wong had decided to risk Wilkes’s wrath and go to Jensens Electronics late afternoon on the following day. He didn’t think they would demand a search warrant. He was told to wait and then was confronted by Miss Morrison, who raised her eyebrows when he said he wanted to examine the cheese plant in her office.
“Don’t take all day about it,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”
Bill followed her through to the office where the cheese plant in all its greenery loomed up against the window. He took out a thin metal rod. “I’ll try not to destroy it.”
“Won’t bother me,” said Miss Morrison. “I hate the thing.”
Bill crouched down by the pot and slid the rod into the earth. He hit something hard. Maybe it was just the bottom of the pot or there were stones in the bottom.
He pulled a garbage bag out of his pocket, took out a trowel from another pocket and began to scoop the earth into the bag. He scooped and scooped, occasionally changing his tactics to scrape away the soil. Deep down in the pot he saw a gleam of glass. He gently scraped and scraped until a milk bottle was partly uncovered.
God bless Harry Beam, he thought. He took out his phone and called Wilkes.
Agatha, Patrick, Harry and Phil met at her cottage. “Right,” said Agatha. “I suggest we go tomorrow morning and confront Mabel with what we’ve got.”
“I think we should tell the police,” said Patrick.
“We’ve found out things they couldn’t,” said Agatha. “Let’s see her first and then talk to them.
They set out for Ancombe the next morning. Harry wondered whether to tell Agatha about his theory about the milk bottle but decided against it. She might be angry with him for telling the police and not her.
Patrick and Phil were in Agatha’s car and Harry followed on his motorbike.
The drive outside Mabel’s home was empty. Her car was gone.
“We’ll wait for her,” said Agatha.
“You know,” said Patrick, getting out of the car, “that house has an awfully empty look.”
He walked up to the windows and peered in. He turned round. “Everything’s gone,” he said. “All the furniture. Everything.”
“She must have sold the house and moved.”
“The ‘For Sale’ sign is still up,” said Agatha, “and believe me, if it had been sold, then the estate agents would have a big ‘Sold’ sign. We’d better tell the police.”
She rang and was told that neither Bill Wong nor Wilkes was available, but they would pass on a message. So Agatha left an urgent message that they thought Mabel Smedley might have disappeared. She said they were outside Mabel’s house and would wait until someone arrived.
The police had just finished searching Joyce’s house again. Bill had pressed to have it searched the previous evening, but it had been late by the time he got hold of Wilkes and Wilkes had said they should organize a team for the morning. There was no sign of her, and although all her furniture was still in place, it looked as if some of her clothes were missing.
Bill got the call from headquarters that Agatha was at Mabel
Smedley’s house and that she appeared to have sold or stored all the contents and fled.
Wilkes, Bill Wong and a police officer raced over to Ancombe.
“What put you on to her?” asked Wilkes. “As you are all here, I assume it wasn’t a social call.”
Agatha handed him the video. “Phil originally came to call on her—they were friends—and he found this in the back garden beside a drum full of burnt stuff. He took it home and looked at it and found it was a video of the girls’ Web site. Phil didn’t look in the windows, he had merely gone round to the back garden in case she was there, so he told us and we all came round to see what she had to say about it.”
“You should have phoned me right away!” raged Wilkes.
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Agatha defiantly. “She’d already have been gone. What about Joyce? Burden told Harry he’d seen them together.”
“Joyce has gone as well,” said Bill. “We found the missing milk bottle at last. It was buried in a cheese-plant pot in the secretary’s office. Some of the old staff are working for the new employers. Maybe Miss Morrison talked about my visit yesterday and one of them phoned Joyce.”
Wilkes took out his phone. “I’ll get an alert out to watch all airports and ports and railway stations. What was the number of Mrs. Smedley’s car?”
“I have it,” said Phil, taking out a notebook. He read it out to Wilkes, who phoned in the alert.
“We’ll get a team out here to search the house,” said Wilkes when he had rung off, “and you lot are coming back to the station. I want statements from all of you. The secretary at Jensens said some young man called about a fictitious appointment. I want to know if that visit had anything to do with you lot.”
Back in an interview room, Wilkes switched on a tape and said grimly, “Now, Mrs. Raisin, begin at the beginning. You obviously suspected Mabel Smedley, otherwise Mr. Phil Witherspoon would not have decided to examine a videotape that looked like Brief Encounter.”
“I was going to come and see you today anyway,” said Agatha. “Harry found out last night that Mabel had been seen outside Burt’s flat having a row with him. I began to think that somehow the murders were all tied up together. I thought if Burt had been having an affair with Mabel as well as Joyce, but was determined to marry Jessica, jealousy might have been the motive. Now I think that maybe Mabel and Joyce joined forces. Mabel had a controlling and bullying husband. He could have his affairs, but he wasn’t going to allow her any, and I think he may have suspected Burt, so he employed us to watch his wife. Mabel found those videos of Jessica and that added fuel to the fire. I think that explains why Jessica’s murder was not sexual. One of them killed her.”
“We can understand now why Joyce Wilson fled,” said Wilkes, “but why Mrs. Smedley? We really had no proof she had done anything.”
“I think she planned all along to get away in case you found something,” said Agatha. “She had time to get the contents of her house put into storage, which is what she must have done. You can’t blame us for her getting away.”
The questioning went on all day and they were all weary by the time they gathered in Agatha’s office that evening.
“I didn’t tell them about the milk bottle,” said Harry. “It wasn’t Bill who interviewed me, it was another detective who kept breaking off the questioning to tell me how much he detested amateurs and to get a real job.”
“Where could they have gone?” fretted Agatha.
“Anywhere,” said Patrick gloomily.
“I wonder if Joyce is calling the shots,” said Agatha. “Joyce hadn’t money, but according to young Harry here, she was greedy. She may have forced Mabel to run, saying if she didn’t help her, she would be forced to betray her. Wait a bit. Joyce wouldn’t want to hole up in the north of Scotland or the mountains of Wales. She’d like a bit of luxury. Harry, did you recognize any of the old staff?”
“I don’t know any of them. Oh, that security man, Berry, was on the gate. I saw his name tag.”
“We’ll start with him,” said Agatha. “He’ll be home by now.”
Berry was watching a football match on television and looked irritated at being interrupted.
“What we wondered,” said Agatha, “is if any of the same staff are still working there that Joyce may have gossiped with in the past.”
“There’s Mary Penth. They was close. I remember her saying she rented a room near Joyce’s house.”
Agatha and Patrick hurried off. They went to the street where Joyce had lived and began to search along the houses on either side. Unlike Joyce’s, they had been divided into flats. “Here it is,” said Patrick at last. “Top floor. Mary Penth.” He rang the bell.
They heard a clatter of heels and then a young woman opened the door. She was small and neat with sandy hair and tight little features.
Agatha took a deep breath, introduced themselves and explained why they had called, while Mary put her hand to her mouth and let out little whimpers of surprise. “You’d better come in,” she said faintly.
They followed her up a steep staircase to the top of the house. “It’s my studio,” she said, ushering them in. Studio, reflected Agatha, was a real estate agent’s name for one room with a kitchen and a minuscule shower tacked on.
“Would you like tea or coffee?” asked Mary.
“No,” said Agatha. “What I would really like to know is if Joyce ever talked about a place abroad or somewhere where she would really like to live.”
She frowned. “I’m trying to think. I can’t really believe Joyce would murder anyone. We had such laughs. I phoned her yesterday. I told her, ‘You’ll never guess the excitement. They’ve found a milk bottle in that cheese plant.’ I saw no harm in telling her. We were such friends. I couldn’t believe for a moment she had done anything wrong,”
“Did you know she was having an affair with Robert Smedley?”
“No! Surely not. In fact, I used to tease her about not having any boyfriends.”
“Did you never wonder how she was able to rent a whole house?”
“She said she had rich parents. Oh dear. She must have been lying to me all along.”
“Did she ever go abroad on holiday?”
“Just the once and only for a weekend. Let me think. She said Daddy was taking her to Marbella.”
“Daddy was probably Robert Smedley.”
“Joyce went on about how beautiful it was and how she’d like to live there.”
Agatha was suddenly anxious to be off. They thanked Mary and made their way out.
“Let’s go home and pack,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell Phil and Harry to hold the fort.”
TWELVE
MABEL drove steadily and competently down through Spain. She was feeling tired and depressed. She had meant to get clean away on her own. She had put all the furniture in storage and had transferred her money to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
And then Joyce had come round to say that the milk bottle had been found and unless Mabel helped her escape, she would tell the police everything. She began to call the shots, saying she wanted to go to Marbella. Mabel pointed out that Spain no longer harboured British criminals, and if found, they could be extradited, but Joyce was adamant. Mabel felt it was all a dreadful mistake. If she hadn’t been so flustered and frightened and on her own, she would have hidden out in London under an assumed name and tried to find out how to get a forged passport. Mabel planned to stay in Marbella for one night to shut Joyce up and then move on.
Mabel had abandoned her car in the south of England and had paid cash for a new Land Rover.
Once in Marbella, she would find some way to get rid of Joyce. Mabel loathed Joyce, but she had joined forces with her, motivated by one great hate: Mabel was desperate to rid herself of the husband she had once loved so much. It had not crossed her mind until much later that he had married her only for her money. At first she had admired the way he had set up the electronics business, and saw him as a ca
ptain of industry. But gradually he had turned surly, possessive and bullying. Mabel soon discovered that he was possessive, not through love, but because he feared she would take her money away from him if she found someone else. When she met Burt, it was as if all her old girlhood dreams had come true. She had been so sure that Burt was in love with her, but when she began to talk of divorcing Robert, Burt had told her about Jessica. Jealous Joyce had been watching Burt’s flat and had known of the affair. She had called on Mabel and Mabel was at first delighted to share her pain with another betrayed woman. At first she had decided to divorce Robert. He had given her a beating and said he would kill her.
And then she had found those videos. Her jealousy of Jessica had become corrosive. She began to stalk her. That was how she knew when the girl went to the nightclub. Girls were always getting murdered on the road home from nightclubs, or so she told herself. She waited until she saw Jessica leave the club. If the girl had been with friends, Mabel would have abandoned the idea. But she raced ahead and waited a little along the bypass until she saw Jessica appear, and drove quickly up. She introduced herself and said, “What is a young girl like you doing out at this time of night?” Jessica had said she was going home from the club. “Where’s home?” Mabel asked, just as if she didn’t know. When Jessica told her, Mabel said, “Hop in. I’ll drive you there.” And the misting Jessica did.
It was when Jessica started saying, “This isn’t the road home,” that Mabel had pulled the car over to the verge, taken a knife out of her handbag, and stabbed her in the chest. She waited patiently until the girl died and then, when the road was clear, pulled her out of the car and rolled her body down from the verge and dragged it up into the woods.
She ripped Jessica’s knickers off, hoping the police might think it a sex crime. Then she saw the ring on the chain round Jessica’s neck, an engagement ring, and tore it off the girl’s dead body in a fury.
Two days later, she took the dagger out of its hiding place in her kitchen and decided to bury it in the garden. Robert appeared behind her. He looked down at the knife and said, “You killed Jessica.”
