doorstep was Bill Wong with a group of men.
“I’m sorry about this, Mrs Raisin,” said Bill formally. “But we are searching the houses in the village for anyone who knew Mary Fortune, and I’m afraid you can’t be excluded.”
“Do you have a search warrant?” asked Agatha feebly.
“Come on, now. You know we can get one. What have you got to hide?”
“Joke,” said Agatha miserably.
It was not the search of the house that troubled her but the dread moment when they moved out into the garden. The small group of men surveyed the neat lawn bordered by well-weeded empty flowerbeds. One scratched his head and said, “You’re a woman after my heart, Mrs Raisin. Can’t stand gardening myself. But why such a high fence? I see it’s got a top section which could be lifted off and let some of the sun in.”
“I don’t like nosy neighbours,” said Agatha defiantly.
“But the only person who could see into your garden is that Mr Lacey next door,” said another. “Doesn’t look the nosy type to me.”
“Just get on with what you have to do,” snapped Agatha and turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen.
The case simply had to be solved before Open Day or these coppers would still be around and would know she had created an instant garden, that she had cheated.
At last the search was over. Bill Wong stayed behind.
“Has the daughter arrived?” asked Agatha, setting a mug of coffee down in front of him.
“Yes, her name is Beth Fortune and she is studying history at Oxford. She has brought a boyfriend with her who turns out to be the stranger you saw in the pub the day she was killed.”
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “There’s the motive. Beth inherits the lot and gets him to do the dirty work. Does he explain what he was doing in the village?”
“His name is John Deny. He said he had been visiting friends in Warwick, and on the road home he decided to call in at Carsely. He had heard about it from Beth, he said, and was curious to see the village. He had not called on Mary because he had met her once with Beth for a lunch in Oxford and she had taken a dislike to him. We checked with his friends in Warwick and they swear he was there until seven in the evening.”
“And when was Mary killed?”
“They’re still finding out when and how.”
“Will you let me know?”
“Agatha, whoever killed Mary Fortune is mad and dangerous. Leave it alone.”
“Okay,” said Agatha meekly, and Bill looked at her suspiciously.
Six
I t had been a week since the murder, and the national press had exhausted every angle. Just when it looked as if interest was dying, some reporter found out that Mrs Josephs, the librarian, had been murdered in that very cottage, and that brought down the feature writers from the noisier tabloids to describe the ‘house of death’, and the more respectable heavies kept it going by sneering at the Grub Street tabloids and repeating paragraphs out of the ‘house of death’ stories to prove their point, which was their traditional way of seeming to avoid sensationalism while indulging in it.
But a week is a long time in journalism, and so it was left to the local papers and news agencies to keep tabs on developments while the television people packed up their cameras and sound equipment and satellite dishes and went back to town.
Agatha and James had had a non-productive evernng in the Red Lion and so had decided to let the dust settle before they started on their inquiries. It was James who reported at last to Agatha that the daughter, Beth, and her boyfriend were in residence at Mary’s cottage, that the press had gone from the gate and the policeman from the door. It was time to make a move.
There was to be no funeral in the village. The body, when finally released by the pathologist, was to be cremated in Oxford and the ashes scattered out to sea at some point within the regulations of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. That much, said James, as he
“I’m sorry about this, Mrs Raisin,” said Bill formally. “But we are searching the houses in the village for anyone who knew Mary Fortune, and I’m afraid you can’t be excluded.”
“Do you have a search warrant?” asked Agatha feebly.
“Come on, now. You know we can get one. What have you got to hide?”
“Joke,” said Agatha miserably.
It was not the search of the house that troubled her but the dread moment when they moved out into the garden. The small group of men surveyed the neat lawn bordered by well-weeded empty flowerbeds. One scratched his head and said, “You’re a woman after my heart, Mrs Raisin. Can’t stand gardening myself. But why such a high fence? I see it’s got a top section which could be lifted off and let some of the sun in.”
“I don’t like nosy neighbours,” said Agatha defiantly.
“But the only person who could see into your garden is that Mr Lacey next door,” said another. “Doesn’t look the nosy type to me.”
“Just get on with what you have to do,” snapped Agatha and turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen.
The case simply had to be solved before Open Day or these coppers would still be around and would know she had created an instant garden, that she had cheated.
At last the search was over. Bill Wong stayed behind.
“Has the daughter arrived?” asked Agatha, setting a mug of coffee down in front of him.
“Yes, her name is Beth Fortune and she is studying history at Oxford. She has brought a boyfriend with her who turns out to be the stranger you saw in the pub the day she was killed.”
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “There’s the motive. Beth inherits the lot and gets him to do the dirty work. Does he explain what he was doing in the village?”
“His name is John Deny. He said he had been visiting friends in Warwick, and on the road home he decided to call in at Carsely. He had heard about it from Beth, he said, and was curious to see the village. He had not called on Mary because he had met her once with Beth for a lunch in Oxford and she had taken a dislike to him. We checked with his friends in Warwick and they swear he was there until seven in the evening.”
“And when was Mary killed?”
“They’re still finding out when and how.”
“Will you let me know?”
“Agatha, whoever killed Mary Fortune is mad and dangerous. Leave it alone.”
“Okay,” said Agatha meekly, and Bill looked at her suspiciously.
Six
I t had been a week since the murder, and the national press had exhausted every angle. Just when it looked as if interest was dying, some reporter found out that Mrs Josephs, the librarian, had been murdered in that very cottage, and that brought down the feature writers from the noisier tabloids to describe the ‘house of death’, and the more respectable heavies kept it going by sneering at the Grub Street tabloids and repeating paragraphs out of the ‘house of death’ stories to prove their point, which was their traditional way of seeming to avoid sensationalism while indulging in it.
But a week is a long time in journalism, and so it was left to the local papers and news agencies to keep tabs on developments while the television people packed up their cameras and sound equipment and satellite dishes and went back to town.
Agatha and James had had a non-productive evernng in the Red Lion and so had decided to let the dust settle before they started on their inquiries. It was James who reported at last to Agatha that the daughter, Beth, and her boyfriend were in residence at Mary’s cottage, that the press had gone from the gate and the policeman from the door. It was time to make a move.
There was to be no funeral in the village. The body, when finally released by the pathologist, was to be cremated in Oxford and the ashes scattered out to sea at some point within the regulations of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. That much, said James, as he
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