“Mrs. Raisin, when did you last visit the Republic of Ireland?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Please just answer the question,” he rapped out.
Despite his unremarkable appearance, there was something menacing about Fother.
“I haven’t,” said Agatha. “I mean, I never got around to going there. On holidays, you know, I think of sun.”
“And Northern Ireland?”
“Never been there either.”
“We can check.”
“Oh, please do,” said Agatha, her temper beginning to rise. “Have you heard of a man called Johnny Mulligan?” “No. Who is he?”
“He is the dead gentleman on your kitchen floor. He was a foot soldier with the Provisional IRA. He was in the Maze Prison for murder but released under Tony Blair’s famous amnesty.”
“Could he have got the wrong house?” asked Charles. “I mean, Agatha’s got nothing to do with anywhere in Ireland or politics.”
“We’ll get to you later, Sir Charles. In the meantime, it would be helpful if you would remain silent.”
Fother fastened his gaze on Agatha again. “Mulligan was killed by some sort of poison. There was an empty coffee-cup on the table. The contents are being analysed, as is the jar of coffee. So far, we know the jar of coffee did not have any prints on it, which looks as if someone doctored it with poison. Perhaps someone who expected a visit from him?”
“I used the coffee I left in the kitchen before I left for Paris. I had a cup of it. Are you feeling well, Charles? You’ve gone rather white.”
“What if,” said Charles, “someone not connected at all decided to try to poison Agatha and whoever this Mulligan was drank it instead?”
“Who, for instance?”
Should I tell them about Emma? wondered Charles desperately. It would be awful if she turned out to be completely innocent. He rallied, “Maybe someone from one of Agatha’s cases.”
“Police are going through her files at the moment. You look upset. Are you sure you have no idea who put the poison there?”
“No idea,” said Charles.
Fother turned back to Agatha. “Why did you go to Paris?”
“I felt like a break,” said Agatha, “and Charles wanted to look up a friend’s daughter who works at the couture house Thierry Duval. Her name is Felicity Felliet. We were told she was on holiday but due back the next day.”
“And you decided to sacrifice the price of two plane tickets just to wait and see this girl?”
“Not really. As we were in Paris, we thought it might be a good idea to double-check Mr. Laggat-Brown’s alibi. Mrs. Laggat-Brown hired me to work on the attempted shooting of her daughter.”
“We’ll leave that for the moment.” Fother clasped his large hands together and leaned forward. “Before he turned terrorist, Mulligan was an expert burglar. It was said he could get in anywhere. Yet the pane of glass on the kitchen door was smashed by a rock. If you had been at home, you would have heard the noise, believe me.
“That makes me think again about Sir Charles’s idea. We may have two people here. One wants to poison you and the other to shoot you. Perhaps the poisoner came back to see if he had left anything incriminating and finds the dead body. Panics and wants it to look like a break-in. Takes the poisoned coffee away and replaces it with a new jar, wiping it for fingerprints first. Now, DorisSimpson had the keys to your house. The fact that the burglar alarm did not go off when Mulligan got in looks as if it was not on at all but was reset later.”
“Doris would never do anything to hurt me!” exclaimed Agatha.
“We'll see. She is making a statement at this moment.”
There was a tap at the door. Bill Wong's head appeared around it. “A word with you, sir.”
Wilkes, who was sitting next to Fother, made as if to rise, but Fother stood up and went out of the room.
“I wish, Mrs. Raisin,” said Wilkes, “that you would behave like the retired lady you're supposed to be.”
“The tape's still running,” said Charles.
Wilkes rose to switch it off but sat down again as Fother came back into the room.
“Doris Simpson says in her statement that a Mrs. Emma Comfrey, who works for you and lives next door to you, asked her for your keys, saying it would save Doris the trouble of coming and going to look after your cats. Then Mrs. Simpson changed her mind and demanded the keys back, saying that as you were paying her for the work, she would feel she was cheating you if she did not do it herself. What have you to say to that?”
But Fother turned his gaze on Charles, not Agatha.
“Sir Charles? I believe you think you know who might have tried to poison Mrs. Raisin.”
“I took Emma Comfrey out for lunch a couple of times,” said Charles in a flat voice. “I think she got a crush on me. She had started stalking me. I think she may have been jealous of my friendship with Agatha. And yet I find it hard to believe she would have gone to such lengths.”
“We'll see. We're bringing her in. I will question her myself. Now we will begin at the beginning again. Your exact movements, Mrs. Raisin, starting with your journey to Paris.”
Emma sat in the back of the police car, her mind going round and round. At times she felt her very brain was spinning with fear in her head.
She was sure they couldn't have found out anything. Then she realized that Doris must have told them about her having the keys. Well, she thought breathlessly, she would simply say that she had not gone in before Doris had claimed the keys back again. She must keep her nerve. She had worked long years for the Ministry of Defence. She was a respectable woman. No one could believe her capable of attempted murder.
The day had turned chilly and grey. The long Indian summer was over and the leaves were turning red, brown and gold.
She expected to be interviewed by Bill Wong, who had taken her initial statement.
Emma was led to an interviewing room. Courage, she told herself. You survived the Superglue investigation. You'll survive this one.
It was not Bill Wong who entered, but the men who had broken off interviewing Agatha and Charles to see what they could get out of her.
She paled slightly when Fother introduced himself. It must be serious. What was someone from the Special Branch doing in Mircester?
The tape was switched on and Fother began. “You are Mrs. Emma Comfrey. You live in Lilac Lane next door to Mrs. Agatha Raisin.”
“That is so,” said Emma, feeling a great calmness descending on her now that the interview had begun.
“Lilac Lane is a dead end and there are only the two cottages in it.”
“Yes.”
“Now, you went to Mrs. Raisin's cleaner and asked for the keys to Mrs. Raisin's cottage. Why?”
“I thought I would save her the time by looking after Agatha's cats myself.”
“You are employed by Mrs. Raisin's detective agency. Why weren't you at work?”
“I had been working very hard and decided to take a day off.”
“But you had also taken the previous day off to go to the fete at Barfield House.”
Emma's calm deserted her. “I did not,” she said in a trembling voice.
“According to both Sir Charles and his manservant, Gustav, you were seen there. The manservant was disguised as Madame Zora. You consulted him.”
“Oh, I should have been working, I know,” said Emma, rallying all her forces, although she was reeling inside from the shock that Gustav had been Madame Zora. “But Charles and I are friends and I happened to be in the area looking for … for a lost dog. The day was fine after the rain. Charles had told me about the fete.”
“Yet you did not approach him.”
“He was very busy. I stayed for a little and then went back to work.”
“It is Sir Charles's opinion that you were stalking him.” Emma suddenly did not care any more what happened toher. “That's ridiculous,” she expostulated. “The vanity of men never f
ails to surprise me. You make a friendly gesture and they all think you are chasing them.”
“We'll leave that for a moment.” Fother leaned across the table towards her. “So when exactly did you enter Mrs. Raisin's cottage?”
“I didn't,” protested Emma. “I did not have time. Doris claimed the keys back before I had time.”
“Had you seen the dead man before? You joined Mrs. Simpson while she was waiting for the police.”
“No, never.”
“When were you last in Ireland?”
“Fourteen years ago. On holiday. We went to Cork.”
The questioning went on and on while Charles and Agatha waited nervously in the adjoining room.
“This is serious, Aggie,” Charles was saying. “That dead man in your kitchen was connected to the Provisional IRA. He was a hit man. Someone wanted you out of the picture.”
“I can't stop thinking about Emma.” Agatha ran her fingers through her hair. “I mean, do you think she might have tried to poison me?”
“I tried to warn you. There's something not right about her.”
“If she's used rat poison, they'll find traces of it somewhere. Where would she hide it? In her garden?”
“I would think she'd want to get it out of her house and garden and as far away as possible. If it were me, I'd dump it in the woods somewhere—you know, in the undergrowth.
“Anyway,” Charles went on, “what on earth can the Irish connection be? Was Peterson working for them in some capacity, bagman or something?”
“In that case you would think the terrorists would be after whoever killed him.”
After an hour and several cups of bad coffee supplied by a policewoman, their interrogators came back.
Detective Inspector Wilkes took over the interview. When the tape was switched on, he said, “Mrs. Raisin, were you aware that your phone was being bugged?”
“No!” Agatha's eyes widened in shock.
“I want you to tell us all you know about the shooting at the Laggat-Browns.”
Agatha marshalled the facts, leaving out the all-important one that Patrick Mullen had phoned her to tell her where Harrison Peterson was staying and that he wanted to talk.
Questions, and more questions. The day wore on. At last Fother said, “We have arranged a safe house for you, Mrs. Raisin. I suggest, also, that you do not go to your detective agency for the next few days. Sir Charles, I suggest you stay in the safe house with Mrs. Raisin for your own protection. We will call on you tomorrow for further questioning. Before you leave, we would like to check your mobile phones to make sure they are secure. Then tell us what clothes you want us to collect for you.”
While they waited for their phones to be checked, Agatha thought again about Emma. Just to be on the safe side, she'd better phone her solicitor and get that codicil taken out.
Mrs. Bloxby had endured an exhausting day. Angry villagers kept calling at the vicarage, wanting Agatha Raisin expelled from the village. Somehow it had got out about the would-be killer having had a gun and a Balaclava. By setting up as a detective agency, Agatha Raisin had brought terror to Carsely, they said.
The vicar's wife answered each as patiently as she could, pointing out that several murderers would still be roaming free if it hadn't been for the work of Mrs. Raisin. At last she told her husband that she was not going to answer the door that evening. She poured herself a rare glass of sherry and took it out to the garden. She was just sitting down at the garden table with her drink when the doorbell went again. Ignoring its shrill summons, she sipped her sherry and watched the light fading over the churchyard at the end of the garden.
And then a plaintive voice from the churchyard hailed her. “Mrs. Bloxby!”
“Who's there?” she demanded sharply.
“It's me, Emma Comfrey. I must talk to you.”
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Come round to the door.”
When she let Emma in, she thought the woman looked on the edge of a breakdown. Her eyes were red with weeping and her hands trembled.
“Come into the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Would you like a sherry?”
“No, thank you. I've just got to talk to someone.” No sooner were they seated than Emma burst out with “They think I tried to poison Agatha!”
“Did you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby quietly.
“Of course not. I wouldn't dream … Oh, it's worse than
that.”
“I can't think of anything worse. Go on.” “Charles told the police I had been stalking him.” “And had you?”
“No, I hadn't!” shouted Emma. And then, quietly, “It's all adreadful mistake. I went to the fete at Barfleid House, that's all.”
“Why did you go there when you should have been working?”
“I was working in the area. Charles is … was … a friend of mine.”
“What did he say when you saw him?”
“I didn't approach him because he was so busy.”
“If there is nothing in it,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “then you have nothing to worry about. All you need to do is to keep well clear of Sir Charles Fraith in future.”
“But don't you see, I have to talk to him. I have to ask him why he said such a dreadful thing. I was interrogated for hours.”
The doorbell shrilled again. “I'd better answer that.” Mrs. Bloxby was suddenly anxious not to be alone with Emma.
She opened the door.
“Police,” said a plainclothes officer. “The forensic team have finished with Mrs. Raisin's cottage for the moment and would like to go into Mrs. Comfrey's cottage. Is she here?”
“Yes, I'll fetch her.”
Mrs. Bloxby went back into the garden. “Mrs. Comfrey, a forensic team wishes to examine your cottage.”
Emma turned pale. “Can't I just give them the keys and stay here?”
“I'm afraid not. But just let's hope nothing happens to Mrs. Raisin, because if it does, Mrs. Comfrey, I'm afraid you might find yourself the first suspect.”
Emma clutched her arm. “You think I did it!”
Mrs. Bloxby pulled her arm away. “Please go, Mrs. Comfrey. I must get my husband's supper and the police are waiting for you.”
“I always wondered what a safe house would look like,” said Agatha. “Not much, is it? It's not a house anyway. It's a flat.”
The flat was situated in a block on the outskirts of Mircester. The flats had been newly built and several were still vacant. Theirs was sparsely furnished with the bare essentials. There were three bedrooms: one for herself, one for Charles, and one for their minder, a burly individual in plainclothes who answered to the name of Terry.
Agatha went into the kitchen. There was milk in the fridge and teabags and ajar of instant coffee were on the counter.
“What about food?” asked Agatha.
“I've got list of food deliveries,” said Terry. “Tell me what you want and I'll phone for it. There's Indian, Chinese, pizza— you name it.”
“What about drink?” asked Charles. “I could do with a stiff
one.”
“I can get the local supermarket to deliver. They're open twenty-four hours.”
“I'll give you a shopping list,” said Agatha, “because we'll need stuff for breakfast as well.”
When Terry was on the phone, Charles drew Agatha aside and whispered, “Say we're going to share a bedroom.”
“Honestly, Charles, at such a time!”
“Pillow talk. We need to talk and we can't do it with him listening.”
“Okay.”
After they had eaten and watched several programmes on television, Charles said he and Agatha were going to bed.
Terry said he thought it would be better if he slept on the sofa, “just to be on the safe side.” He added the caution, “Don't go using your mobiles and telling anyone at all where you are.”
Once Agatha and Charles were in bed, he snuggled up to her. “Get off!” whispered Agatha fiercely.
“We've got to talk,” he whisp
ered. “Let's start with Emma. Let's just suppose she tried to poison you. She'd be clever enough to get rid of the stuff. Where would she put it? Where would you put it?”
“Same idea as you … in the woods somewhere.”
“She'd be frightened of anyone seeing her, maybe meeting a gamekeeper. The woods around are criss-crossed with paths for ramblers and people walking their dogs. Think again.”
“There's something at the back of my mind,” said Agatha slowly. “I know. It was one day in the office. Emma said there was some rubbish in the shed at the bottom of the garden she wanted rid of. A broken chair, a table with one leg missing, that sort of thing. Miss Simms said, 'Why don't you take the lot out to the council tip on the old Worcester Road,' and gave her directions. As soon as we get out of here, let's go and have a look.”
“I wonder how long they mean to keep us here?” said Charles.
“God knows. It's going to be like being in prison. There must be some connection between the hit man and the killing of Peterson.”
“Wait a bit,” said Charles. “Wasn't there something you said about Laggat-Brown changing his name from Ryan? Ryan's an Irish name.”
“It can't be him,” said Agatha impatiently. “He's a charming and civilized man. Besides, he can't have had anything to do with the attempted shooting. His own daughter, too! And we've double-checked his alibi.”
“You've got a soft spot for him, Aggie.”
“Well, he took me out for dinner and he paid the bill, which is more than you ever do.”
They grumbled and discussed the case and grumbled again until they both fell asleep.
Terry, who had pressed his ear against their bedroom door, quietly retreated and picked up the phone. He suggested the forensic team should check the council tip on the old Worcester Road.
Emma had moved into a hotel in Moreton-in-Marsh for the night. She tossed and turned, wondering whether she was safe or not.
She felt that she should check the council tip in the morning and try to find out when the containers were taken away. Until she knew that, she felt she could not rest.
The morning dawned cold and misty. The only colour in the bleached countryside was the red of the autumn leaves. She drove steadily and carefully, although her hands on the steering wheel were damp with nerves.
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