Beth did not bother introducing them. “Coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Neither,” said Agatha quickly, not wanting a moment to be lost while Beth disappeared into the kitchen. “Have the police found out how your mother died?” she asked.
“Someone poisoned her first with weedkiller and then strung her up,” said Beth. Her eyes were dry and her voice hard and rather impatient, with an underlying faint twang of an American accent.
“Don’t worry,” said James. “The police will soon find out who did it.”
“How?” asked John Deny, speaking for the first time.
“There must be loads of clues,” said James. “There’s the rope which tied her, the weedkiller, surely lots of things.”
“The rope,” said Beth, “was old-fashioned Woolworth’s-type clothes-line, probably bought a long time ago, for all you can get now is the plastic stuff. There were no fingerprints at all apart from those of the two who found the body.” Her eyes widened a fraction. “Oh, that was you two, wasn’t it?”
Agatha nodded. There was something almost intimidating about Beth’s self-possession. “Will your father be arriving for the funeral?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t think so. He hated Mother.”
“So he’s still in America?”
“Yes, Los Angeles.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“He phoned a few days ago and asked if he could help…financially. But Mother left me comfortably off.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a…” Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Look, it’s kind of you to call, but I am fed up with journalists and their cheeky questions and I don’t have to put up with being grilled in my own living-room.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha.
James began to talk soothingly of Mary’s work for the horticultural society and how much she had been liked by the villagers. Agatha took a covert look around. Mary’s living-room had been altered already. The green wallpaper had been painted over, so that the walls were a uniform white. A lot of the little china ornaments which Mary had displayed on the mantelpiece and side-tables had gone. There were new bookshelves in the corner, or rather planks on bricks holding a great quantity of books. The green fitted carpet had been covered with faded and worn Persian rugs. The green curtains had been taken down and replaced with Venetian blinds. Beth or John Deny had tried to take as much green out of the room as possible.
“And are you a gardener yourself, Miss Fortune?” Agatha realized James was asking.
“No, I can’t be bothered. I took all those plants out of the conservatory and got a friend in Oxford who likes all that sort of tropical junk to take them away. I switched off the heating. The conservatory will make a good study.”
“So you plan on staying here?” asked Agatha.
Beth gave her a hard look. “Why not?”
“I assumed you would have rooms in Oxford,” said Agatha weakly.
“Of course. But these are the university holidays, or had you forgotten?” Beth suddenly rounded on James. “Wait a bit. Did you say your name was James Lacey?”
“Yes.”
“I want a word with you in private. John, show Mrs Raisin out.”
There was nothing Agatha could do but get up and take her leave. Outside in the porch, John looked down at her. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You’re the village Nosy Parker. Don’t come round here again.”
Agatha walked off as stiff as an outraged cat.
When she returned home, her cleaner, Doris Simpson, was there. “See, there’s a bit in the newspapers this morning about Mrs Fortune’s husband.”
“Rats!” Agatha seized the papers and sat down at the kitchen table and flicked through them. The American correspondent of the Daily Mail had interviewed Barry Fortune, Mary’s ex. He was quoted as saying he was sorry to learn about such a terrible murder. He said he and Mary had separated amicably fifteen years ago. He had married again. He owned a chain of video-rental shops. If I had only
“Neither,” said Agatha quickly, not wanting a moment to be lost while Beth disappeared into the kitchen. “Have the police found out how your mother died?” she asked.
“Someone poisoned her first with weedkiller and then strung her up,” said Beth. Her eyes were dry and her voice hard and rather impatient, with an underlying faint twang of an American accent.
“Don’t worry,” said James. “The police will soon find out who did it.”
“How?” asked John Deny, speaking for the first time.
“There must be loads of clues,” said James. “There’s the rope which tied her, the weedkiller, surely lots of things.”
“The rope,” said Beth, “was old-fashioned Woolworth’s-type clothes-line, probably bought a long time ago, for all you can get now is the plastic stuff. There were no fingerprints at all apart from those of the two who found the body.” Her eyes widened a fraction. “Oh, that was you two, wasn’t it?”
Agatha nodded. There was something almost intimidating about Beth’s self-possession. “Will your father be arriving for the funeral?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t think so. He hated Mother.”
“So he’s still in America?”
“Yes, Los Angeles.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“He phoned a few days ago and asked if he could help…financially. But Mother left me comfortably off.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a…” Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Look, it’s kind of you to call, but I am fed up with journalists and their cheeky questions and I don’t have to put up with being grilled in my own living-room.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha.
James began to talk soothingly of Mary’s work for the horticultural society and how much she had been liked by the villagers. Agatha took a covert look around. Mary’s living-room had been altered already. The green wallpaper had been painted over, so that the walls were a uniform white. A lot of the little china ornaments which Mary had displayed on the mantelpiece and side-tables had gone. There were new bookshelves in the corner, or rather planks on bricks holding a great quantity of books. The green fitted carpet had been covered with faded and worn Persian rugs. The green curtains had been taken down and replaced with Venetian blinds. Beth or John Deny had tried to take as much green out of the room as possible.
“And are you a gardener yourself, Miss Fortune?” Agatha realized James was asking.
“No, I can’t be bothered. I took all those plants out of the conservatory and got a friend in Oxford who likes all that sort of tropical junk to take them away. I switched off the heating. The conservatory will make a good study.”
“So you plan on staying here?” asked Agatha.
Beth gave her a hard look. “Why not?”
“I assumed you would have rooms in Oxford,” said Agatha weakly.
“Of course. But these are the university holidays, or had you forgotten?” Beth suddenly rounded on James. “Wait a bit. Did you say your name was James Lacey?”
“Yes.”
“I want a word with you in private. John, show Mrs Raisin out.”
There was nothing Agatha could do but get up and take her leave. Outside in the porch, John looked down at her. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You’re the village Nosy Parker. Don’t come round here again.”
Agatha walked off as stiff as an outraged cat.
When she returned home, her cleaner, Doris Simpson, was there. “See, there’s a bit in the newspapers this morning about Mrs Fortune’s husband.”
“Rats!” Agatha seized the papers and sat down at the kitchen table and flicked through them. The American correspondent of the Daily Mail had interviewed Barry Fortune, Mary’s ex. He was quoted as saying he was sorry to learn about such a terrible murder. He said he and Mary had separated amicably fifteen years ago. He had married again. He owned a chain of video-rental shops. If I had only
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