“I could get him to.”
Agatha had a sizeable bank balance and stocks and shares. But she did not want to become one of those sad people whose lifetime savings were eaten up by trying to run an unsuccessful business.
She said tentatively. “I need someone to do bugging and camera work.”
“I could do that.”
“It sometimes means long hours.”
“I’m fit.”
“Let me see, this is Sunday. If you could have a word with this Mr. Smedley and bring him along to the office tomorrow, I’ll get my Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Shall we say a month’s trial?”
“Very well, you won’t be disappointed.”
Agatha rose to her feet and as a parting shot said, “Don’t forget to thank Mrs. Bloxby for the scones.”
Outside, realizing she had forgotten to smoke, she lit up a cigarette. That was the trouble with all these anti-smoking people around these days. It was almost as if their disapproval polluted the very air and forced one to light up when one didn’t want to.
Because of the traditions of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, women in the village called each other by their second names. SoMrs. Freedman was Mrs. Freedman even in the office, but Mr. Witherspoon volunteered his name was Phil.
Agatha was irritated when Phil turned up alone, but he said that Robert Smedley would be along later. After he didn’t protest at the modest wages Agatha was offering him, she felt guilty and promised him more if his work should prove satisfactory.
The office consisted of one low-beamed room above a shop in the old part of Mircester near the abbey. Agatha and Mrs. Freedman both had desks at the window: Phil was given Patrick’s old desk against the wall. There was a chintz-covered sofa and a low coffee table flanked by two armchairs for visitors. Filing cabinets and a kettle on a tray with a packet of tea and a jar of instant coffee, milk and sugar cubes made up the rest of the furnishings.
Mr. Robert Smedley arrived at last and Agatha’s heart sank. He looked the sort of man she heartily despised. First of all, he was crammed into a tight suit. It had originally been an expensive one and Mr. Smedley was obviously of the type who would not admit to putting on weight or to spending money to have the suit altered. He had small black eyes in a doughy face shadowed by bushy black eyebrows. His flat head of hair was jet-black. Hair dyes are getting better these days, thought Agatha. Almost looks real. He had a small pursed mouth, “like an arsehole,” as Agatha said later to Mrs. Bloxby, and then had to apologize for her bad language.
“Please sit down,” said Agatha, mentally preparing to sock him with a large fee and get rid of him. “How may I be of help?”
“This is very embarrassing.” Mr. Smedley glared round the small office. “Oh, very well. I think Mabel is seeing another man.”
“Mabel being your wife?” prompted Agatha.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think she might be having an affair?” “Oh, little things. I came home early one day and I heard her singing.”
“Why is that so odd?”
“She never sings when I’m around.”
Can’t blame her for that, thought Agatha sourly.
“Anything else?”
“Last week she bought a new dress without consulting me.”
“Women do that,” said Agatha patiently. “I mean, why would she need your permission to buy a new dress?”
“I choose all her clothes. I’m an important man and I like to see my wife dressed accordingly.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough? I tell you, if she’s seeing someone I want evidence for a divorce.”
In that moment Agatha could have strangled both Phil and Mrs. Bloxby. She had been inveigled into hiring a geriatric all on the promise of this case and now it seemed that Smedley was nothing more than a jealous bully.
So in order to get rid of him, she named a very heavy fee and expenses. He took out his chequebook. “I’ll give you a thousand pounds down and you can bill me for the expenses and for the rest if you are successful.”
Agatha blinked rapidly, thought of her overheads, and accepted the cheque.
When Robert Smedley had left, Agatha said crossly to Phil, “This is all a load of rubbish, but we may as well make the moves. You and I will go over to Ancombe and stake out the house. Have you got your camera?”
“Got a car full of them ,” said Phil cheerfully. “Okay, let’s go.”
Ancombe was only a few miles from Carsely. They quickly found Smedley’s home. It was on the outskirts of the village in a heavily wooded area, perched on a rise. It had originally been a small eighteenth-century cottage built of the local mellow golden stone, but a large extension had been added to the back. Phil parked his car a little way away off the road in the shelter of a stand of trees. He took out a camera with a long telescopic lens.
“I’m slipping,” mourned Agatha.’T should have asked him for a photograph of her,”
Phil peered down the road. “There’s a car just coming out of the driveway. Here, you take the wheel. We’ll follow.”
Agatha swung the wheel and followed at a discreet distance while Phil photographed the car and the number plate.
“She’s heading for Moreton,” said Agatha. “Probably going to buy another dress or something evil like that.”
“She’s turning into the station,” said Phil. “Maybe going to meet someone.”
“Or take the train,” said Agatha.
A small, dowdy-looking woman got out of the car. “I hope that’s her and not the cleaner,” said Agatha. “If he chose that dress for her, he should be shot.”
Who they hoped was Mabel Smedley was wearing a cotton shirtwaister in an eye-watering print. The hem practically reached her ankles and she was wearing patent leather shoes with low heels. She had dusty, sandy hair pulled back in a bun. She was obviously much younger than her husband. Smedley, Agatha guessed, looked around late forties. If this was Mrs. Smedley, she looked in her early thirties. Her face, devoid of make-up, was unlined and with no outstanding features. Small tired eyes, regular mouth, small chin.
She turned into the ticket office. As usual, there was a queue, so they were able to stand a few people behind her. They heard her order a day return to Oxford.
When it came their turn, they asked for day returns as well and then went over the bridge to the platform.
Phil had unscrewed the telescopic lens and snapped several discreet shots of Mrs. Smedley waiting for the train.
The train was ten minutes late in that usual irritating way of trains—like some boss keeping you waiting ten minutes outside his door to stress what a busy and important man he was.
She got out at Oxford and began to walk. They followed. Agatha took out her mobile phone and called Mrs. Bloxby. “Do you know what Mrs. Smedley looks like?”
“Yes, you must have seen her before, Mrs. Raisin, but maybe you didn’t notice her. She does a lot of work for the Ancombe Ladies’ Society. She’s small and thin with sandy hair. I think she’s about fourteen years younger than her husband. Very quiet. What. .. ?”
“Tell you later,” said Agatha and rang off. “That’s her, all right,” she said to Phil. “Wonder where she’s going?”
They followed her along Worcester Street and then along Walton Street. At last, Mrs. Smedley stopped outside the Phoenix Cinema and went in.
“Don’t get too caught up in the film,” hissed Agatha.
They bought tickets. The cinema was nearly empty. They took seats three rows behind her. The film was a Russian one called The Steppes of Freedom. It was beautifully photographed, but to Agatha’s jaundiced eyes, nothing seemed to happen apart from the heroine either bursting into tears or staring out across the steppes. Obviously Mrs. Smedley was as bored as Agatha because, before the end, she got up. They gave her a few minutes before following. Back along Walton Street and so down to the station.
Back on the train to Moreton and from there they followed her home.
“Maybe she hoped to meet someone,” said Phil, “and he didn’t turn up. I mean, it seems odd to go all that way to sit through a dreary film.”
“You got photos of her going into the cinema?”
“Of course.”
“I know,” said Agatha. “Let’s go and see Mrs. Bloxby. She seems to know all about Mrs. Smedley.”
They drove to the vicarage. Alf Bloxby, the vicar, answered the door and his face hardened into displeasure when he saw Agatha.
“If you’ve come to see my wife, she’s busy,” he said.
Mrs. Bloxby appeared behind him. “What are you talking about, Alf? Do come in, Mrs. Raisin. And Mr. Witherspoon, too.”
The vicar muttered something like pah under his breath and strode off to his study.
“Let’s go into the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Such a fine day. It won’t last, of course. As soon as Wimbledon comes around, then the rain comes down again.”
They sat at a table in the garden. “I see you’ve employed Mr. Witherspoon,” said Mrs. Bloxby brightly.
“For the moment,” retorted Agatha. “He’s on trial. The case we’re on involves Mrs. Mabel Smedley. Her husband thinks she’s having an affair.”
“That doesn’t seem very likely. I mean, a small place like Ancombe. Such news would soon get out.” “What’s she like?”
“Hard to tell. Have you forgotten, Mrs. Raisin? The Ancombe Ladies’ Society is having a sale of work the day after tomorrow and some of us are going over to help. You could come along and see for yourself. Mrs. Smedley works very hard for good causes, but she is quiet and self-effacing. They’ve only been married for two years.”
“Any children?”
“No, and none by Mr. Smedley’s first marriage either.”
“What happened to the first Mrs. Smedley?”
“Poor thing. She was subject to bouts of depression. She committed suicide.”
“I’m not surprised. Married to a creature like that.” Agatha described him in trenchant terms, ending up with that description of his mouth.
“Mrs. Raisin! Really.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha.
Phil stifled a laugh by pretending he had a sneezing fit. “I think Mr. Smedley is just unnaturally jealous,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“Oh dear,” sighed Agatha. “It all seems such a waste of time. We’ll leave it for today, Phil, and you can drive me back to the office so I can collect my car. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. I’ve a few things to work on.”
Just as Agatha was setting down to a dinner of microwaved chips and microwaved lasagne that evening, the telephone rang.
“Don’t dare touch my food,” she warned her cats, Hodge and Boswell.
She answered the phone and heard the slightly camp voice of her former assistant, Roy Silver.
“I haven’t heard from you in ages,” he said. “No more killings down there?”
“No, nothing. Just a divorce case and I hate divorce cases.”
“Stands to reason, sweetie. You being such a reluctantly divorced woman yourself.”
“That is not the reason! I just find them distasteful.”
“Divorce cases are surely the bread and butter of any detective agency. Why I’m phoning is to ask you if I can come down for the weekend.”
“Next weekend? All right. Let me know which train you’ll be on and I’ll meet you at Moreton.”
When Agatha rang off, she felt cheerful at the thought of having company. She had endured a brief unhappy marriage to James Lacey. They hadn’t even lived in the same house. But after it was over, she found herself getting lonely when she wasn’t working full out.
Then Agatha realized she hadn’t tackled Mrs. Bloxby over manipulating her into employing Phil. She rang up the vicar’s wife.
“Mrs. Bloxby,” began Agatha, “I feel you forced me into employing Phil.”
“Mr. Witherspoon. I suppose I did push you in that direction.”
“Why? You’re not a pushy woman.”
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “I happened to learn that he has only a small pension. He made some bad investments with his capital. He is desperately in need of money and was ready to sell off some of his precious cameras. You needed a photographer, he needed work. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Oh, well,” muttered Agatha, somewhat mollified. “We’ll see how he works out.”
“Going to Ancombe?”
“Of course. I forgot to ask you what time it begins.”
“Two in the afternoon.” “
I’ll be there.”
Agatha returned to the kitchen to find her cats up on the table, tucking in to her dinner. “You little bastards,” she howled. She opened the kitchen door and shooed them both out into the garden. She scraped her dinner into the rubbish bin and suddenly burst into tears.
She finally mopped her eyes on a dishcloth and lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. Agatha was in her early fifties, but recently had been assailed with a fear of getting old and living alone. On damp days, she had a stabbing pain in her hip but stoically ignored it. She couldn’t possibly have arthritis. She was too young!
“Pull yourself together,” she said aloud. Was this the menopause at last? She had been secretly proud of the fact that she had not yet reached that borderline.
The phone rang again. Agatha wearily went to answer it.
“Charles, here.”
Agatha’s friend, Sir Charles Fraith.
“Oh, hullo, Charles. Where have you been lately?” Agatha gave a gulping sob.
“Have you been crying, Aggie?”
“Don’t call me Aggie. Bit of an allergy, that’s all.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I was about to but the cats got to it.”
“I’ll be right over. I was to entertain some luscious girl to a picnic and she never showed. I’ll bring it right over and we’ll have a picnic in your garden.”
“Oh, thanks, Charles.”
“So dry your eyes.”
“I haven’t been crying!” But Charles had rung off.
He turned up half an hour later, which had given Agatha time to bathe her face in cold water and put on fresh make-up.
She was glad to see Charles, even though she occasionally found him irritating. He had fair hair and neat features and was as self-contained and independent as a cat.
He carried a large hamper into the garden and began to set things out on the garden table.
“Duck breasts in aspic, asparagus, champagne … you really must have thought a lot of this girl.”
“She is very ornamental,” said Charles. “Unfortunately for me, she knows it.”
They ate companionably while Agatha told him about the Smedley case.
“Might go with you,” said Charles. “Mind if I stay the night?”
“No, you know where the spare room is.”
“I’ve got my bag in the car. I’ll get it later.”
The sun slowly set behind the trees at the bottom of the garden. Agatha thought uneasily about her burst of tears. It all seemed like madness now.
(15/30) The Deadly Dance Page 20
