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It took over an hour before they were finally able to leave and go to Harby Hall.

 
    Chapter Five
    Damian answered the door himself. “So Ma Bull has turned up her toes?” he said cheerfully.
    â€œNo, she is still alive,” said Agatha. “How did you hear about it?”
    â€œThe jungle drums of Harby have been beating nonstop. Although I was told she was dead and buried in the allotment, just like Peta.”
    â€œYour jungle drums are hitting the wrong beat,” said Agatha. “She was thrown down an old well on the allotments.”
    â€œReally? I say, what larks. Ding, dong, bell. Bull is in the well. Come in. Don’t stand glaring at me. I never liked the woman. Nasty gossip.”
    He led the way through the house to the garden. “Isn’t there anywhere warmer?” pleaded Agatha. “It’s a cold day.”
    â€œOh, well. It’s your age, you know. We’ll sit in the drawing room.”
    â€œI hate you,” hissed Agatha to his retreating back.
    â€œNaughty, naughty. In here.”
    The drawing room was as dark as the other rooms because of the ivy covering most of the windows. Damian went around switching on lamps. A badly executed oil painting of the late Lord Bellington glared down at them. “Drink?” offered Damian.
    â€œNot for Agatha,” said Charles. “She’s driving.”
    â€œOne won’t put me over the limit,” said Agatha crossly. “Gin and tonic, please.”
    Charles said he would have a whisky and soda, avoiding a threatening look from Agatha.
    â€œNow,” began Agatha, “the police will be here any moment. Think! Why Mrs. Bull?”
    â€œAs I said, she was a malicious gossip. Probably nothing to do with the other murders.”
    â€œMay I remind you that your sister has accused you of murdering your father?”
    â€œWell, she would, wouldn’t she?”
    â€œWhy?”
    Damian brought their drinks over from an ancient sideboard. “She wants to start a farm for sick donkeys. Asked me for the money. Told her, no. She’s got a large allowance. Says it’s not enough. Screams and jumps up and down with rage. Does that answer your question?”
    â€œOne of them,” said Agatha. “Have the police questioned Lady Bellington about Mrs. Bull’s claim that she caught her down in the cellar with a syringe?”
    â€œOver and over again. But you see, she was in a rehab in Oxford for months. And everyone down there can testify that she was not allowed to leave.”
    â€œBut why would she say such a thing?” asked Charles.
    â€œMy father was toying with the idea of a reconciliation. He wrote to her. She wrote back that she would never return if Mrs. Bull was still the housekeeper. I am sure the old trout read the letter. She was always reading private correspondence.”
    Agatha felt herself becoming exasperated. Damian seemed perpetually amused by the whole thing. “Haven’t you the faintest idea who might have murdered your father?” she demanded.
    â€œIf I had, I wouldn’t have employed you. Try the villagers. They’re a weird lot. People keep accusing the aristocracy of inbreeding and never take a look at these little villages, buried away from the tourist route.”
    â€œWell, give us at least a suggestion of where we should start.”
    â€œTry Mary Feathers at Lime Cottage. She’s the head of the allotments committee.”
    But when they returned to Harby, police were going from door to door. “We’ll come back in the evening,” said Charles. “How are you getting on with Gerald?”
    â€œHe’s a creep. He wanted me to employ him and then was lured away by Wilkes.”
    â€œI’m surprised you aren’t chasing him, Agatha. You have a weakness for creeps.”
    â€œYou mean men like you? Oh, let’s go and eat something.”
    When they returned in the evening, a small moon was