Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (12 page)

Charles rose and approached him. Agatha saw them talking and then Charles led Eddie over to their table.

He introduced Agatha and then said, “The least we can do is buy you lunch. What would you like?”

“I’ll have sausage, egg, beans and chips and coffee.”

Charles waved to the waitress and ordered the same for all of them.

“So why do you want to ask me about rotten Robert?”

“We believe you had reason to dislike him,” said Agatha. “No, we don’t mean you murdered him. We mean, can you think of anyone in the firm who might have done it?”

Eddie shook his head. “A lot of us disliked him. Me, I hated him. But I can’t think of anyone who would poison his coffee. Most of the men who disliked him would be more inclined to lash out with their fists. Poison is more a woman’s thing, isn’t it?”

“Only in fiction. Here’s our food.”

There was a silence while Eddie and Charles ate. Agatha pushed hers round on her plate. Normally she loved greasy food, but she didn’t want to get spots before Saturday.

“So,” said Eddie, “I don’t think I can be of any help. Mind you, his wife’s another thing. That woman’s a saint.”

“Your wife told us all she had done for you,” said Agatha.

“Marvellous, she was. Did all the catering for the office party. Kind to everyone. Always a nice word.”

“Fond of her husband?”

“Oh, yes. Devoted to the old bastard.”

“Did you know,” said Charles, “that Robert Smedley was having an affair with his secretary?”

“What, Joyce? I mean, why? What did she get out of it?”

“Her rent paid and probably a few presents. Besides, evidently Smedley told her he was going to get a divorce and marry her.”

“So Joyce might have poisoned him. I mean, who else had the opportunity?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Agatha paid the bill and they thanked Eddie and left.

“Maybe we’re being naive here,” said Agatha as they drove off. “I mean, Joyce is the obvious suspect. Maybe she found out he didn’t mean to marry her after all.”

“And maybe,” said Charles, “Mabel Smedley called on her and told her that.”

“Good point. Let’s go back and ask her.”“

* * *

Joyce was dusting the office when they arrived. “The factory is very quiet,” said Agatha.

“Mrs. Smedley has told everyone to go home on full pay.”

“When?”

“She called just after you left.”

“Joyce, did Mrs. Smedley know about you and Mr. Smedley?”

“No, he was going to tell her after our weekend in Bath.”

Charles said, “Say someone came during the night and got into the building and poisoned that bit of milk in the fridge. You’ve got CCTV cameras, haven’t you?”

“Yes. That would be the job of Mr. Berry, in security.”

“Where does he live?”

She switched on the computer. “I’ll find his address for you. Here we are. He actually lives in Evesham, 4 Terry Road, near the tax office. Do you know where the tax office is?”

Agatha repressed a shudder. She had a good accountant but found the new complications of value added tax and staff pay bewildering.

Mr. Berry was digging in his small front garden when they drove up. Agatha, her mind full of Saturday night to come, left the introductions and explanations to Charles.

Berry was a burly man in blue overalls with a round red face and strands of grey hair combed across a bald spot on his head.

“We were wondering,” began Charles, “whether the police found anything on the CCTV footage?”

“I ran the tapes for them before they took them away. Nothing but the staff going to work and then leaving work. Nothing during the night but the night watchman.”

“Who’s the night watchman?”

“That’ll be Wayne Jones, like. Lives over Worcester way.”

“Do you know where in Worcester?”

“Might be in the phone book. I’ll get it for you.”

“I’m tired of all this running around,” grumbled Agatha as they waited.

“We must persevere, Aggie.”

“Don’t call me Aggie.” Agatha was beginning to fret. Charles was very keen and a keen Charles would certainly still be at her cottage on Saturday evening.

Mr. Berry came back with a slip of paper with an address written on it. “That must be it,” he said. “His full name’s in the book and he’s the only Wayne Jones.”

They went back to Agatha’s car. She opened the boot. “I’ve got a pile of street directories here,” she said, pulling a box forward. “I’m sure I’ve got one for Worcester.”

She found the right map and looked up the address. “Right, got it,” she said, pointing it out to Charles. “It’s on this side, of Worcester. You guide me.”

“He must be a young man,” said Charles. “I mean, Wayne is a fairly new choice of name.”

“Not that new now. I think it came in around the time Kylie became fashionable.”

But when they ran Wayne to earth it was to find he was in his late twenties. He was tall and surly with a cadaverous face and deep-set eyes under a shaved head.

Again the introductions and explanations before Agatha asked, “Did you see anyone lurking around the night before Mr. Smedley was murdered?”

“All quiet. The police asked me that. What you lot mucking about for? It’s their job.”

“I told you,” snapped Agatha. “Mrs. Smedley has employed us to find out who murdered her husband.”

“And I’m telling you it was a night like any other. Now, piss off.”

“He’s on the defensive about something,” said Agatha as she drove off.

“Probably went to sleep on the job.”

“How do we prove that?”

“His patrolling should have been on the CCTV footage. Back to Berry.”

Agatha groaned.

“Now what?” asked Berry, leaning on a spade, still in his front garden.

“Do you happen to know if the police studied the CCTV footage of the night before Mr. Smedley was murdered?”

“Yes, they did.”

“And they saw Wayne on patrol?”

Berry grinned. “The silly sod was missing. Probably fell asleep. Forgot to tell you before.”

“So anyone could have got past him?”

“The factory gates are locked and alarmed at night. There are cameras all over the place. Not a sign of anyone.”

They thanked him and left. “Let’s jack it in for the rest of the day,” said Agatha. “We’ll go back to the office and see how the others are getting on.” But all the time she was wondering how she could get rid of Charles. Tomorrow was Saturday.

* * *

Freddy Champion was having dinner that night with old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Burkington-Tarry. He regaled them with stories of Charles and Agatha’s investigation.

“We haven’t seen Charles in this age,” said Mrs. BurkingtonTarry. “We’ll ask him to dinner.”

“What about tomorrow night?” suggested Freddy. “I happen to know it’s the one night he’s free.”

“What about this Agatha woman?”

“No, she works weekends.”

Agatha was lying in the bath that evening wondering whether she ought to tell Charles the truth about her date with Freddy when the phone rang.

She heard Charles answer it but could not hear what he was saying.

She got out of the bath, dried herself and dressed and made her way downstairs. “Who was on the phone?”

“Old friends of mine. They want me to join them for dinner tomorrow night. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no!” said Agatha.

“You mean you don’t want me to go?”

“I didn’t mean that at all,” babbled Agatha. “Go, go, go!”

“All right. Calm down.” Charles regarded her suspiciously. “Not up to anything, are you?”

“Me, no, of course not.”

SEVEN

AGATHA fretted all Saturday, wondering when Charles would leave so that she could begin preparing herself for the evening.

When he finally left at six o’clock, she hurtled up to her bedroom and started taking clothes out of her wardrobe. To her horror, after trying on a few of her best items, she found they were too tight at the waist. After agonizing for half an hour, she chose a black silk chiffon skirt with an elasticated waist and a white glittering evening top.

Just before eight, she was beginning to fret she was too dressed up. But when Freddy arrived promptly at eight, he was formally dressed in a dark lounge suit, silk shirt and striped tie.

“Would you like a drink before we go?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, please. Whisky and soda, no ice.”

They went into the sitting room. Agatha was just preparing the drinks when the doorbell rang. “Maybe I shouldn’t answer it,” she fretted. “But maybe it’s Bill Wong.”

She went and opened the door. Mabel Smedley stood there. “I wondered how you were getting on,” she asked.

“Come in,” said Agatha reluctantly. She introduced Mabel to Freddy. “We’re only a little further with the case,” Agatha was beginning when Freddy interrupted.

“I heard about your sad loss,” he said. “We were just going for dinner. Why don’t you join us and Agatha can fill you in on the details?”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Good, we’ll take my car.”

Agatha cursed under her breath. Freddy was relieved. His conscience, not usually active, was bothering him. Agatha was not a beauty and yet she exuded a strong air of sexuality which quickened his senses. He wanted to have an affair with her, but he was pretty sure Charles would let her know soon enough that he was married. Charles might even have already done so. Anyway, Mabel would be chaperone.

Over dinner in a restaurant in Broadway, Agatha forced down a resentment to Mabel—Mabel had taken the front seat in the car next to Freddy, leaving Agatha to sit in the back—and described what they had found out, with the exception of Robert Smedley’s affair with Joyce. She felt she would rather impart that bit of information when she was alone with Mabel.

Conversation then became general—or rather, it became general between Mabel and Freddy. Mabel, prim and proper in a navy wool dress, seemed to know a lot about Zimbabwe and the situation there and asked a lot of intelligent questions to which Freddy responded enthusiastically. Agatha sat practically ignored. It crossed her mind that Mabel might be cutting her out deliberately.

The meal ended. Freddy drove them back to Agatha’s cottage and escorted Mabel to her car. Agatha said goodnight to Mabel, went into her cottage and slammed the door. A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Freddy smiled down at her. “You didn’t give me a chance to say goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” said Agatha curtly. The door began to close.

“Look,” said Freddy, “I was trying to help you by being nice to her. Let’s have an evening by ourselves.” He suddenly wanted to kiss Agatha as she stood, pouting slightly.

“Oh, all right. Just us. When?”

“Wednesday evening?”

“With Charles?”

“Without Charles.”

“What will I tell him?”

“Tell him you’re working on the case.”

“That won’t work. He’ll wonder why I’m not taking him along. I know. There’s a ladies’ society meeting that evening. I’ll tell him I’m going there.”

“Good. He leaned forward to kiss her on the mouth, but Agatha drew back and said again, “Goodnight.” She still had not quite forgiven him for spending the whole dinner talking to Mabel.

Agatha heard Charles coming home sometime after midnight but pretended to be asleep.

Bill Wong rang the next morning and invited Agatha and Charles to his home for Sunday lunch.

“It’s an honour to be invited and I only accepted because of Bill,” said Agatha. “How did he turn out to be so sweet with such awful parents? And he adores them. He never notices how rude they are.”

Bill’s father was Hong Kong Chinese and his mother was born in Gloucestershire.

Mrs. Wong, small, bent, sour, and fussy, opened the door to them. She jerked her head by way of greeting. They followed her into the living room. Bill rose to welcome them.

The living room had been refurnished since Agatha had last seen it. There was a new three-piece suite covered in protective plastic, a low glass coffee table, a stuffed parrot on a perch by the window and a massive television set, all standing on a shag carpet of shocking pink.

“Where did the parrot come from?” asked Agatha.

“Great, isn’t it? Dad picked it up at a boot sale.”

Mrs. Wong came in with three small glasses of sweet sherry on an imitation silver tray which she banged down on the coffee table so that some of the sticky liquid slopped over the side. “Don’t be long,” she said.

Bill followed her out and came back with a roll of kitchen paper and the bottle of sherry. He mopped the tray and refilled the glasses.

They raised their glasses. “Cheers,” said Charles.

The door burst open. “Don’t sit there drinking all day,” said Mrs. Wong. “Food’s ready.”

They hurriedly put down their glasses and followed her into the dining room. The table was covered in a pink crocheted cloth. The knives and forks were imitation gold. Mr. Wong sat at the head of the table dressed in his usual old ratty grey cardigan. He grunted by way of greeting. His face was greyish yellow and he had a drooping moustache. Only his eyes behind thick glasses were like Bill’s.

Soup was served, soup out of a can, tomato soup, Agatha’s pet hate. But she was terrified of offending Bill’s formidable mother, so she drank the lot of it. She tried to discuss the case, but Bill said gently, “Afterwards, Agatha. Mum doesn’t like talking at the table.”