anyway.’
‘Oh,’ said James. ‘It’s a good thing I’m not a vain man or I might have thought it was all for me.’
Bill smiled happily. ‘Our Agatha’s usually got bigger fish to fry, haven’t you, Agatha? Why didn’t your flame turn up, anyway?’
I can lie as easily as you, thought Agatha. ‘Threatened with a merger,’ she said. ‘But he’s going to take me to the Savoy for dinner to make up for his absence.’
James felt silly. I really must stop imagining this woman’s pursuing me, he thought.
‘So,’ said Agatha, putting down cups of coffee in front of them, ‘tell us all, Bill. Why have I not to leave the country?’
‘What is all this?’ cried James, exasperated. ‘It’s about that librarian’s death, isn’t it? It’s all the talk at Harvey’s.’
Agatha told him about the arranged call on Mrs Josephs and of finding Mrs Josephs dead. ‘You, now, Bill,’ she said. ‘Is it murder?’
‘We’re waiting for the pathologist’s report,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll tell you this off the record. There’s something funny.’
‘Like what?’ asked Agatha.
‘Forensic found scuff marks on the stairs, all the way up from the parlour to the bathroom. Mrs Josephs was wearing brown leather walking shoes. The stairs aren’t carpeted. There were scuff marks which could have come from her shoes, and she was wearing those thick stockings and there are a couple of stocking threads caught in a crack on the stairs.’
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. ‘You mean someone could have killed her in her parlour and then dragged her upstairs and dumped her in her bathroom?’
‘I don’t understand that,’ said James. ‘If someone’s going to kill her, why bother dragging the body up to the bathroom?’
‘I’m speculating,’ said Bill. ‘I’m going out on a limb and neither of you must breathe a word of this to anyone.’
They both nodded like mandarin dolls.
‘Everyone seems to have known she was a diabetic and injected herself with insulin. What if someone gave her a jab of something lethal and then dragged her up to the bathroom where she kept her syringes and left her there hoping we would think she had died as she was giving herself one of her usual injections?’
James shook his head, to Agatha’s irritation. ‘I still don’t like it,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows about the wonders of forensic science these days.’
‘Any murderer is usually desperate or deranged,’ said Bill. ‘It would amaze you how little they think.’
‘Did the neighbours see anyone calling at the house?’ asked James.
‘No, but there’s a lane runs along the end of the back gardens. Mrs Dunstable at the other end of the terrace said she thought she heard a car stopping just at the end of the back lane – you can’t get a car along there – about eight in the morning. But she’s deaf! She says she felt the vibrations of a car, can you believe it?’
‘It would be odd if it turned out to be murder,’ said James slowly. ‘After what she said to Agatha in front of all those women, it might cast doubts on the death of Paul Bladen.’
‘She might have committed suicide,’ Bill pointed out. ‘Everyone said she was very depressed since the death of her cat. The scuff marks could have been made when she dragged herself upstairs. That’s the news so far. I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for the coffee, Agatha.’
When Bill had left, Agatha returned and sat down at the coffee-table and closed her eyes. ‘Want me to go?’ asked James.
‘No, I’m thinking. If I had murdered Mrs Josephs and injected her with something, I wouldn’t leave that lethal something among her bottles and pills in the bathroom. I’m not a very clever murderer. Think of the scuff marks. So I’m driving off with this bottle or ampoule I’ve used in my pocket. I’m sweating and panicky.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I’d chuck it out the car window.’
‘It’s a thought,’ said James. ‘And the road from the end of
‘Oh,’ said James. ‘It’s a good thing I’m not a vain man or I might have thought it was all for me.’
Bill smiled happily. ‘Our Agatha’s usually got bigger fish to fry, haven’t you, Agatha? Why didn’t your flame turn up, anyway?’
I can lie as easily as you, thought Agatha. ‘Threatened with a merger,’ she said. ‘But he’s going to take me to the Savoy for dinner to make up for his absence.’
James felt silly. I really must stop imagining this woman’s pursuing me, he thought.
‘So,’ said Agatha, putting down cups of coffee in front of them, ‘tell us all, Bill. Why have I not to leave the country?’
‘What is all this?’ cried James, exasperated. ‘It’s about that librarian’s death, isn’t it? It’s all the talk at Harvey’s.’
Agatha told him about the arranged call on Mrs Josephs and of finding Mrs Josephs dead. ‘You, now, Bill,’ she said. ‘Is it murder?’
‘We’re waiting for the pathologist’s report,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll tell you this off the record. There’s something funny.’
‘Like what?’ asked Agatha.
‘Forensic found scuff marks on the stairs, all the way up from the parlour to the bathroom. Mrs Josephs was wearing brown leather walking shoes. The stairs aren’t carpeted. There were scuff marks which could have come from her shoes, and she was wearing those thick stockings and there are a couple of stocking threads caught in a crack on the stairs.’
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. ‘You mean someone could have killed her in her parlour and then dragged her upstairs and dumped her in her bathroom?’
‘I don’t understand that,’ said James. ‘If someone’s going to kill her, why bother dragging the body up to the bathroom?’
‘I’m speculating,’ said Bill. ‘I’m going out on a limb and neither of you must breathe a word of this to anyone.’
They both nodded like mandarin dolls.
‘Everyone seems to have known she was a diabetic and injected herself with insulin. What if someone gave her a jab of something lethal and then dragged her up to the bathroom where she kept her syringes and left her there hoping we would think she had died as she was giving herself one of her usual injections?’
James shook his head, to Agatha’s irritation. ‘I still don’t like it,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows about the wonders of forensic science these days.’
‘Any murderer is usually desperate or deranged,’ said Bill. ‘It would amaze you how little they think.’
‘Did the neighbours see anyone calling at the house?’ asked James.
‘No, but there’s a lane runs along the end of the back gardens. Mrs Dunstable at the other end of the terrace said she thought she heard a car stopping just at the end of the back lane – you can’t get a car along there – about eight in the morning. But she’s deaf! She says she felt the vibrations of a car, can you believe it?’
‘It would be odd if it turned out to be murder,’ said James slowly. ‘After what she said to Agatha in front of all those women, it might cast doubts on the death of Paul Bladen.’
‘She might have committed suicide,’ Bill pointed out. ‘Everyone said she was very depressed since the death of her cat. The scuff marks could have been made when she dragged herself upstairs. That’s the news so far. I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for the coffee, Agatha.’
When Bill had left, Agatha returned and sat down at the coffee-table and closed her eyes. ‘Want me to go?’ asked James.
‘No, I’m thinking. If I had murdered Mrs Josephs and injected her with something, I wouldn’t leave that lethal something among her bottles and pills in the bathroom. I’m not a very clever murderer. Think of the scuff marks. So I’m driving off with this bottle or ampoule I’ve used in my pocket. I’m sweating and panicky.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I’d chuck it out the car window.’
‘It’s a thought,’ said James. ‘And the road from the end of
Similar Books
