The Blood of an Englishman (11 page)

As they drove off, Agatha said, “I need junk food.”

“Don't you care about your waistline?” asked Charles.

“Not today.”

“Do you think dear John might be our murderer?”

“No, it doesn't seem like it,” said Agatha.

“But what if George Southern threatened to tell everyone about John taking money from him?”

“Not really enough motive.”

“Well, try this on for size. What if Bert Simple was blackmailing him over something?”

“Too far-fetched,” said Agatha. “Besides, he didn't have anything to do with the pantomime.”

“No, but he didn't need to. Anyone like John could have got below that stage between the dress rehearsal and the actual performance.”

“Oh, forget about John,” snapped Agatha. “What about you and Gwen?”

“She tried to get me to call again, but I told her I was too busy.”

“Aha!”

“Aha, what?”

“If she's chasing after you, then she's hardly the grieving widow.”

“Oh, shut up about it all,” said Charles. “One greasy spoon coming up. You'll get a breakthrough soon.”

But as Agatha ploughed through a plate of egg, sausage, bacon and chips, she did not realise how long it would be before that breakthrough happened.

 

Chapter Six

It was only on television detective shows, thought Agatha bleakly, as she stared out at yet another grey cold day in late spring, that cases were quickly solved.

Winter had moved into a dismal cold spring, and Patrick Mulligan told Agatha that, according to his police sources, there was still not even a hint of the identity of the murderer.

Agatha had reinterviewed as many people as she could think of, with the exception of John Hale.

The weird thing was, that as time went by, the residents of Winter Parva seemed to settle down to their usual ways and forget about the murders. It had happened to Agatha before on a previous case where a whole village had decided the murderer must have been some visiting lunatic. Perhaps, thought Agatha, it was because the idea that the murderer might be one of them was too awful to contemplate. She had reluctantly told Gareth Craven at the end of January that she could not go on charging him until she produced results.

She worked hard on various other cases. Charles had disappeared again and James Lacey was off on his travels.

She had one last try at interviewing the Buxton family to try to find out if Kimberley had really been sexually attacked but the girl's parents threatened to take her to court and charge her with harassment.

The weather continued as gloomy as Agatha's mood. She had put Roy Silver off several times, but finally decided to invite him because she was feeling lonely. Agatha always felt lonely when she was not in love with anyone.

Roy, a rather effeminate young man who had once worked for Agatha, arrived on the Saturday morning. To Agatha's relief, he was, for once, conservatively dressed. Roy, who worked for a public relations firm, was handling a new account for expensive men's shoes. Like a chameleon, Roy dressed according to whatever client he happened to be representing. If he were representing, say, a pop group, then he would have gelled, spiky hair and jeans torn at the knee.

“The weather is simply awful,” said Agatha. “It's so cold that everything is late. I haven't even seen a daffodil, and what's that white blossom that's usually out by now?”

“Blackthorn,” said Roy.

“How do you know that?” asked Agatha.

“I did PR for the
Country People
magazine. I learned ever such a lot of boring rural stuff. So how's murder?”

“Nothing,” said Agatha. “I've tried and tried. Now, what can I do to entertain you?”

“There's a performance of
The Mikado
in Mircester this evening. We could go,” said Roy. “You can point out all the suspects to me.”

*   *   *

It was a full house. Agatha was lucky enough to get two last-minute cancellations.

Roy wondered if something would happen. He was addicted to publicity for himself and in the past had muscled in on Agatha's cases, just to get his photograph in the newspapers.

Edging forward on his seat, Roy whispered, “Who is that gorgeous man?”

“John Hale,” said Agatha. “I'll tell you about him afterwards.”

John and Gwen turned out to have beautiful voices. The performance went without a hitch, much to Roy's disappointment. He began to wish he had not come. The weather was dreary and Agatha's microwave cookery was awful.

To his relief, Agatha suggested they have dinner at a nearby Chinese restaurant. “Now, fill me in,” said Roy.

“John Hale is a schoolteacher and a mercenary bastard,” said Agatha. “He chased after me because he thought I was rich. The late George Southern paid him one thousand pounds to take his place on opening night. The police found that out. But John swore blind that George was repaying a loan. That it had nothing to do with letting George take the starring role. So back to square one. When George was murdered, John was in rehearsals and there was no way he could have done it.

“Now, Gwen Simple, wife of the first murdered man, showed no sign of grief or shock. But I can't see her as a murderer.”

“She and John are sweet on each other,” said Roy.

Agatha pointed a chopstick at him. “How can you know that?”

“Body chemistry. Bet you anything they've been to bed together.”

Agatha was amazed to feel a pang of pure jealousy. She didn't want John, did she?

“Do you know where he lives?” asked Roy.

“Yes, he's got a flat near the theatre.”

“Let's go and spy on him,” said Roy eagerly. “They've got to take off their make-up. Hurry up and finish eating.”

*   *   *

Agatha was just driving past the theatre when John came out with Gwen. She stopped and watched. John and Gwen walked to a parked car. John held the door open for Gwen and then got into the driving seat. When he moved off, Agatha followed.

“They're heading for Winter Parva,” she said.

“So maybe he'll stay the night,” said Roy.

“So what?” grumbled Agatha. “That won't get us any further.”

“But it might give John a reason to murder her husband,” said Roy.

At last, John stopped outside the bakery. He walked round and opened the passenger door and helped Gwen out. He walked up to the door of the bakery with her, said something, kissed her on the cheek and went back to his car.

“Now, that's what I call a waste of time,” said Agatha.

Roy decided to leave first thing in the morning. Nothing was going to happen that might result in him getting his picture in the newspapers. He had driven himself to Carsely instead of coming by train as he usually did.

When Agatha went downstairs in the morning, it was to find a note from Roy saying he had been called back to London. “I often wonder if that young man really likes me,” said Agatha to her cats. “Or does he only come in the hope of getting some publicity for himself?”

She let her cats out into the garden and stood looking at another grey, cold day. A high wind was driving ragged clouds across the sky. Agatha felt lonely. She tried to contact Charles but was told by Gustav, his gentleman's gentleman, that he had gone abroad. It was Sunday, so the vicar's wife would be busy. She had a longing to go back to bed, pull the duvet over her head and wake up when dreary Sunday was over. She decided to sit down at her computer and go over all the notes and interviews on the Winter Parva murders.

The suspects were stacked up before her eyes, a sort of log jam of suspects without a single clue to break them up and throw up one suspicious person. Still, she tried making a list of likely murderers. She put Harry Crosswith top of the list. According to Patrick Mulligan's police sources, his wife was his only alibi for the time of George Southern's death. Then there was David Buxton, Kimberley's father. Before she went on, she began to wonder if there was someone she hadn't even thought of. What about Colin Blain, who had played the role of the Lord High Executioner?

She checked in the phone book. There was a C. Blain listed in Winter Parva. With a feeling of being back in the hunt again, Agatha put on a warm coat and headed out.

Colin Blain lived on the housing estate on the edge of the village. His was a detached house of the kind that has two rooms upstairs and two down. Agatha rang the bell. She recognised Colin without his stage make-up because he had been the smallest member of the cast, being barely five feet tall. He had thinning hair, combed in strips across a freckled scalp. His blue eyes were watery and his face was dominated by a large bulbous nose.

“Yes?”

Agatha handed him her card and explained that she was still investigating the murders.

“I don't have anything to tell you that I haven't told the police,” he said.

“Just a few questions,” said Agatha. “Can we go inside? It's freezing out here.”

“Oh, all right.” He stood aside to let her past and then opened a door in the small hallway and ushered her into a living room where a tall, mannish woman was watching television. “My wife,” he said. “Darling, leave us alone for a minute. This is a detective.”

“Not again,” grumbled his wife, but she left them alone after switching off the television.

“I really want to know if it was your idea to get that sword sharpened,” said Agatha.

“Sit down,” he said.

Agatha sat on a battered sofa and Colin on an equally battered armchair. Threads were hanging off the side of the armchair as if a cat had been sharpening its claws on it.

“It was meant to be a bit of fun,” said Colin. “I mean, make it a real executioner's sword for a laugh. I took some melons in and cut them up for the chorus before the show, demonstrating how sharp the sword was.”

“And where did you put it afterwards?”

“I shut it in a cupboard in my dressing room. With all that fuss over the fake head, anyone could have gone in there.”

“And you were in on the joke? I mean placing the box with the fake head on the stage?”

“Yes. The idea was they would look at it when the curtain came down.”

“The head was very lifelike,” said Agatha. Did George make it?”

“Yes. He was awfully clever with papier-mâché. When we had a fair in the village last year, he constructed carnival heads. Some of the heads were of the villagers and very lifelike they were, too. Mind you, he annoyed a lot of people with his practical jokes.”

“But can you think of anyone who would be annoyed enough to kill him?”

Colin shook his head.

“But what about the sword? Surely the police would take it away after the practical joke. They would regard it as a dangerous weapon.”

“I think they forgot it. They were so fed up with us all and yakked on about wasting police time. So, like I said, I shut it up in the cupboard in my dressing room.”

“George Southern was a bachelor?”

“No, he was married but the marriage broke up years ago.”

“Does his wife live in Winter Parva?” asked Agatha.

“She lives in Mircester, or did do, the last I heard.”

“Do you have an address for her?”

“No, but I 'member someone saying it was in one of those tower blocks out by the industrial estate.”

“What was her name before she got married?” asked Agatha.

“Alice Freemont.”

Back in her car, Agatha checked on her iPad for the correct address. She found an A. Freemont listed at Haden Court, wrote down the address and headed back towards Mircester.

A group of tower blocks loomed up against the steel grey sky. Bits of rubbish blew across a parking lot outside Haden Court. To Agatha's relief, the lift worked, because she had discovered from studying a board at the entrance that Alice's flat was on the top floor. As she came out of the lift, the icy wind seemed to cut through to her very bones.

She hurried along the open corridor and rang the bell of Alice's flat, suddenly wishing she had phoned first.

The door was opened by a small woman whose features showed a sort of faded prettiness. Her brown hair was curly and her eyes, brown. She was wearing two sweaters over a pair of jeans.

Agatha introduced herself. “You'd better come in,” said Alice. She had a soft, Gloucestershire accent.

The living room looked as if it had been furnished by Ikea. There were no books, pictures or photographs and everything was scrupulously clean.

“If you're here to ask about George, I can't help you,” said Alice. “I can't think of anyone who might want to have murdered him.”

“Why did your marriage break up?” asked Agatha.

“Do sit down.”

Agatha sat on a sofa and Alice sat next to her.

“Fact is,” said Alice, “it was because he wouldn't stop playing practical jokes. Even on our honeymoon, he put a rubber spider in the bed and gave me a fright. The odd thing is, I saw him a week before he died. He didn't have to pay alimony or anything like that. It was an amicable divorce. But he turned up saying he wanted us to get back together again. He said he was lonely. I told him I'd made a life for myself and I didn't want to marry him again. He said he was coming into money…”

“How?” asked Agatha.

“He didn't say. But he said he was going to sell the gift shop and we could go abroad.”

“Did you think the money he was talking about was to come from the gift shop?”

“I can't understand it. I know he took out a second mortgage.”

Agatha scowled horribly in thought. At last she said slowly, “Just suppose George knew the identity of the murderer and was blackmailing him. Is that possible?”

“He certainly was always short of money. But I can't believe he would do something so dangerous. He might just have confided in that girl who worked for him, Molly Kite.”