Raisin had just finished reading an account of the death of Jessica Tartinck in the local newspaper when her doorbell rang. Always hoping it might be James, she glanced
quickly at her reflection in the hall mirror before opening the door.
Mrs Mason, chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, stood there. ‘Oh, Mrs Raisin. May I come in a minute? I want to ask your advice.’
‘Of course. I was just about to have a cup of coffee.’ Agatha led the way through to the kitchen.
‘So what can I do for you?’ asked Agatha, pouring two mugs of coffee.
‘It’s this terrible murder. A relative of mine is involved.’
Agatha’s bearlike eyes gleamed with interest.
‘My niece, Deborah Camden, is one of the ramblers,’ said Mrs Mason. ‘She had heard through me of your detective abilities and begged me to speak to you. The fact is’
– Mrs Mason preened slightly – ‘that this Sir Charles Fraith is by way of being a friend of Deborah’s.’
‘The landowner?’
‘Yes, and Deborah says he has been arrested for the murder and that they’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Does she know the right person?’
‘No, but she says Sir Charles is nice and kind and it can’t be him.’
‘But there was nothing in the paper about an arrest. It simply said a man was helping police with their inquiries.’
‘That’s Sir Charles. He hasn’t been charged yet. But Deborah says it’s only a matter of time. You see, he says he was up in London on the Saturday she was killed, but
some farm labourer swears he saw Sir Charles in the field shouting at this Jessica and waving his arms.’
‘Oh dear, does she know why Sir Charles lied?’
‘No. But she begged me to ask you for help.’
‘I would be delighted,’ said Agatha, speaking no more than the truth. She could hardly wait for Mrs Mason to leave so that she could call on James and see if she could get him to
join her in detecting adventures again.
But she asked, ‘What can you tell me about your niece?’
‘Deborah is a schoolteacher at the Dembley Comprehensive. She is twenty-eight and not married. I haven’t seen much of her because I quarrelled with her mother, Janice, my sister, a
long time ago and we don’t visit. Deborah always was a clever little thing but a bit mousy, which is probably why she isn’t married.’
‘I think I should talk to her.’
‘She’s teaching until four this afternoon. After that, I could take you over to Dembley.’
‘No, I don’t want to be seen with her in Dembley,’ said Agatha.
‘Why?’
‘Well, perhaps I will be going undercover.’
‘Oh. Oh, well, I’ll go over and fetch her and bring her to you. We’ll be here about five.’
‘That would be splendid.’
As soon as Mrs Mason had left, Agatha darted upstairs and put on a new short-sleeved blouse of a soft leaf-green and then a pair of biscuit-coloured tailored slacks. Taking a deep breath to hold
her stomach in, she made her way next door.
James opened the door. He frowned when he saw her. ‘What is it, Agatha? I’m very busy at the moment.’
And Agatha, feeling hurt and rejected because he wasn’t speaking any of the lines she had written for him in that short breathless time between Mrs Mason’s departure and
Agatha’s arrival at James’s door, said gruffly, ‘Nothing. It can wait.’ And turned and walked away.
Screw him, she thought. Who needs him anyway? How dare he speak to me like that!
She found to her dismay that her interest in the case was waning fast. To counteract it, she drove down to the newsagent’s in Moreton and bought all the papers and retreated to a dark
corner of a tea-room, one of the few which still catered for smokers, and began to read all she could about the death of Jessica Tartinck.
Jessica, who had defied the others and said she would go on the walk on her own, had been found dead in the middle of one of the fields on Sir Charles Fraith’s estate. She had been struck
savagely on the back of the head with
quickly at her reflection in the hall mirror before opening the door.
Mrs Mason, chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, stood there. ‘Oh, Mrs Raisin. May I come in a minute? I want to ask your advice.’
‘Of course. I was just about to have a cup of coffee.’ Agatha led the way through to the kitchen.
‘So what can I do for you?’ asked Agatha, pouring two mugs of coffee.
‘It’s this terrible murder. A relative of mine is involved.’
Agatha’s bearlike eyes gleamed with interest.
‘My niece, Deborah Camden, is one of the ramblers,’ said Mrs Mason. ‘She had heard through me of your detective abilities and begged me to speak to you. The fact is’
– Mrs Mason preened slightly – ‘that this Sir Charles Fraith is by way of being a friend of Deborah’s.’
‘The landowner?’
‘Yes, and Deborah says he has been arrested for the murder and that they’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Does she know the right person?’
‘No, but she says Sir Charles is nice and kind and it can’t be him.’
‘But there was nothing in the paper about an arrest. It simply said a man was helping police with their inquiries.’
‘That’s Sir Charles. He hasn’t been charged yet. But Deborah says it’s only a matter of time. You see, he says he was up in London on the Saturday she was killed, but
some farm labourer swears he saw Sir Charles in the field shouting at this Jessica and waving his arms.’
‘Oh dear, does she know why Sir Charles lied?’
‘No. But she begged me to ask you for help.’
‘I would be delighted,’ said Agatha, speaking no more than the truth. She could hardly wait for Mrs Mason to leave so that she could call on James and see if she could get him to
join her in detecting adventures again.
But she asked, ‘What can you tell me about your niece?’
‘Deborah is a schoolteacher at the Dembley Comprehensive. She is twenty-eight and not married. I haven’t seen much of her because I quarrelled with her mother, Janice, my sister, a
long time ago and we don’t visit. Deborah always was a clever little thing but a bit mousy, which is probably why she isn’t married.’
‘I think I should talk to her.’
‘She’s teaching until four this afternoon. After that, I could take you over to Dembley.’
‘No, I don’t want to be seen with her in Dembley,’ said Agatha.
‘Why?’
‘Well, perhaps I will be going undercover.’
‘Oh. Oh, well, I’ll go over and fetch her and bring her to you. We’ll be here about five.’
‘That would be splendid.’
As soon as Mrs Mason had left, Agatha darted upstairs and put on a new short-sleeved blouse of a soft leaf-green and then a pair of biscuit-coloured tailored slacks. Taking a deep breath to hold
her stomach in, she made her way next door.
James opened the door. He frowned when he saw her. ‘What is it, Agatha? I’m very busy at the moment.’
And Agatha, feeling hurt and rejected because he wasn’t speaking any of the lines she had written for him in that short breathless time between Mrs Mason’s departure and
Agatha’s arrival at James’s door, said gruffly, ‘Nothing. It can wait.’ And turned and walked away.
Screw him, she thought. Who needs him anyway? How dare he speak to me like that!
She found to her dismay that her interest in the case was waning fast. To counteract it, she drove down to the newsagent’s in Moreton and bought all the papers and retreated to a dark
corner of a tea-room, one of the few which still catered for smokers, and began to read all she could about the death of Jessica Tartinck.
Jessica, who had defied the others and said she would go on the walk on her own, had been found dead in the middle of one of the fields on Sir Charles Fraith’s estate. She had been struck
savagely on the back of the head with
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