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Authors: M. C. Beaton
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the Four Pools estate.”
“Did you know Jill Davent?” asked James.
“I don’t want to talk about that cow. The day I heard about her murder was like Christmas. Now shove off.”
The door slammed.
“Back to the car,” said James, “and let’s see exactly where we can find Computing Plus.”
* * *
After circling around the Four Pools business estate, they found the shop, parked the car and walked in. The shop was full of expensive-looking equipment. One young man was serving a couple, while another leaned on the desk, reading a newspaper. Agatha approached the newspaper reader. “Is Mr. Davent available?”
“If it’s a complaint, I can maybe deal with it,” he said in a strong Eastern European accent. Probably Polish, thought Agatha. Evesham was rapidly becoming Little Poland.
Agatha handed him her card. “Tell him I would like to ask him a few questions.”
The young man disappeared into a back office with a frosted-glass door. “Stop eyeing his bottom, Agatha,” admonished James.
“It’s those skintight black jeans,” said Agatha ruefully. “They just scream, ‘look at my bum.’”
“Be your age.”
“No wonder our marriage didn’t work out,” snarled Agatha. “Always nitpicking and complaining. Furthermore…”
The office door opened. “You’re to go in,” said the assistant.
They walked in. Davent stood up to meet them. Agatha introduced herself and James.
“I don’t know how I can help you,” he said. “I have had so many grillings from the police.”
“Just a few questions, Mr. Davent.”
“Call me Tris. It’s short for Tristram.”
He was a good-looking man in possibly his early forties. He was of moderate height with a thick head of hair with auburn highlights. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a striped shirt and blue silk tie. He had neat regular features and a square chin with a dimple in it.
“Please sit down,” he said. Tris sat behind his desk and Agatha and James took chairs in front of it.
“It’s like this,” said Agatha. “In order to find out who murdered your late wife, we have to know more about her background. Was she a therapist when you met her?”
“No, she was a tart.”
“Why did you marry her?” asked James curiously.
He sighed. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I went to a computer conference in Chicago, ten years ago. Jill was blond then. She just seemed to be one of the computer crowd. My wife had died of cancer the year before. Jill was a good listener. She was English and I was lonely. We ended up in bed together. In the morning, she said she had an important appointment and had to rush. We arranged to meet in the hotel bar that evening. That’s when I found my wallet was missing.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“I felt I had been conned. I was too ashamed. I still turned up in the bar that evening at the appointed time and wasn’t much surprised when she didn’t turn up. I put it down to experience. Two months later, she turned up at my address in Evesham in tears, saying she was pregnant. I accused her of stealing my wallet and she looked horrified. She denied the whole thing and said someone must have picked my pocket when we were in the bar. She said she was a qualified therapist. My late wife could not have children and I wanted to believe her. So we got married.
Then after four months, she said she’d had a miscarriage. I had begun to get suspicious of her. She was somehow so … how can I describe it?… glib.
One day when she was out, I searched her things. I found my wallet. No money, but the cards were there. I taxed her with it and she said that she had been unable to keep her appointment in the bar but had been so worried about the missing wallet that she had got hold of the hotel detective. The wallet had been found in the hotel trash. When I was in my shop, I phoned the hotel and asked to speak to the detective. He said no one had asked him to look for any wallet. He asked for
“Did you know Jill Davent?” asked James.
“I don’t want to talk about that cow. The day I heard about her murder was like Christmas. Now shove off.”
The door slammed.
“Back to the car,” said James, “and let’s see exactly where we can find Computing Plus.”
* * *
After circling around the Four Pools business estate, they found the shop, parked the car and walked in. The shop was full of expensive-looking equipment. One young man was serving a couple, while another leaned on the desk, reading a newspaper. Agatha approached the newspaper reader. “Is Mr. Davent available?”
“If it’s a complaint, I can maybe deal with it,” he said in a strong Eastern European accent. Probably Polish, thought Agatha. Evesham was rapidly becoming Little Poland.
Agatha handed him her card. “Tell him I would like to ask him a few questions.”
The young man disappeared into a back office with a frosted-glass door. “Stop eyeing his bottom, Agatha,” admonished James.
“It’s those skintight black jeans,” said Agatha ruefully. “They just scream, ‘look at my bum.’”
“Be your age.”
“No wonder our marriage didn’t work out,” snarled Agatha. “Always nitpicking and complaining. Furthermore…”
The office door opened. “You’re to go in,” said the assistant.
They walked in. Davent stood up to meet them. Agatha introduced herself and James.
“I don’t know how I can help you,” he said. “I have had so many grillings from the police.”
“Just a few questions, Mr. Davent.”
“Call me Tris. It’s short for Tristram.”
He was a good-looking man in possibly his early forties. He was of moderate height with a thick head of hair with auburn highlights. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a striped shirt and blue silk tie. He had neat regular features and a square chin with a dimple in it.
“Please sit down,” he said. Tris sat behind his desk and Agatha and James took chairs in front of it.
“It’s like this,” said Agatha. “In order to find out who murdered your late wife, we have to know more about her background. Was she a therapist when you met her?”
“No, she was a tart.”
“Why did you marry her?” asked James curiously.
He sighed. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I went to a computer conference in Chicago, ten years ago. Jill was blond then. She just seemed to be one of the computer crowd. My wife had died of cancer the year before. Jill was a good listener. She was English and I was lonely. We ended up in bed together. In the morning, she said she had an important appointment and had to rush. We arranged to meet in the hotel bar that evening. That’s when I found my wallet was missing.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“I felt I had been conned. I was too ashamed. I still turned up in the bar that evening at the appointed time and wasn’t much surprised when she didn’t turn up. I put it down to experience. Two months later, she turned up at my address in Evesham in tears, saying she was pregnant. I accused her of stealing my wallet and she looked horrified. She denied the whole thing and said someone must have picked my pocket when we were in the bar. She said she was a qualified therapist. My late wife could not have children and I wanted to believe her. So we got married.
Then after four months, she said she’d had a miscarriage. I had begun to get suspicious of her. She was somehow so … how can I describe it?… glib.
One day when she was out, I searched her things. I found my wallet. No money, but the cards were there. I taxed her with it and she said that she had been unable to keep her appointment in the bar but had been so worried about the missing wallet that she had got hold of the hotel detective. The wallet had been found in the hotel trash. When I was in my shop, I phoned the hotel and asked to speak to the detective. He said no one had asked him to look for any wallet. He asked for
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