kitchen first to make a wifely breakfast. She was appalled at her behaviour of the night before. She was determined to back
off and play it cool. So she mentally shelved all her earlier plans of cooking up breakfast in a hurriedly bought satin nightgown and negligée, and bathed and dressed in a plain skirt and
blouse and sensible shoes.
When she arrived in the kitchen, James was cooking eggs and bacon. ‘I put some on for you,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sit down and I’ll serve you. There’s coffee
in the jug.’
Agatha saw the morning newspapers lying at the side of the table and looked hurriedly through them all. But there was no news of the rambler murder.
James served her and himself, ate hurriedly and then settled down to read a newspaper, allowing Agatha to reflect that this was probably more like real married life than any of her wild
imaginings.
She finished eating and cleared away the dirty plates into the dishwasher. The flat, although expensively furnished, depressed her. It was the sort of place that reminded her of her London days,
when she had allowed decorators to do the job for her and never revealed any of her own personality in the furnishings. She wished suddenly she had brought her cats with her. They were back in the
care of Doris Simpson. Perhaps she would take a run home and collect them. She was sure James would not mind.
‘So what are you going to do today?’ asked James finally.
‘I’m going to where Deborah lives,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll take a clipboard and say I’m a market researcher.’
‘That’s a good idea. But don’t you think it might be easier just to question Mrs Mason?’
‘I want to find out Deborah’s movements before the murder. Mrs Mason won’t know that.’
‘But won’t people think it odd that a market researcher would want to know about Deborah Camden?’
‘Not the way I go about it. Look, you represent some product and suggest there’s going to be a prize. They invite you in for a cup of tea. Once in, you start talking about the
murder.’
James looked thoughtfully at Agatha, as if debating whether she was the type of woman that people asked in for a cup of tea, but he said, ‘I’ll see what I can find out about Kelvin.
We’ll meet up back here early evening, swap notes, and then go to that restaurant where Peter and Terry work.’ He retreated back into his newspaper while Agatha’s feverish mind
planned what to wear to dinner.
Seeing she was going to get no more conversation out of James, Agatha found a clipboard among her belongings, attached several sheets of paper to it, and set out.
When she arrived at the doorway between the shops which led to the flats above, one of which was Deborah’s, Agatha longed for the pre-security days when one just opened the street door and
walked in. She studied the names on the bells: D. Camden, Wotherspoon, Sprott – her eyes narrowed – and Comfrey.
After a little hesitation, she rang the bell marked ‘Wotherspoon’. No intercom. The buzzer went and Agatha quickly pushed open the street door and walked in and up a shabby flight of
uncarpeted wooden stairs. An elderly man leaning on a stick was standing on the landing peering down at her as she made her ascent.
‘I don’t know you,’ he said. ‘If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.’
Agatha pinned a bright smile on her face and went resolutely on up. ‘I am doing some market research about the tea-drinking habits of the English. It will only take a moment of your
time.’
He had a grey, very open-pored face, loose dentures, and thin hair greased in streaks across a narrow head. He was wearing a grey shirt and grey trousers and carpet slippers of a furry
plum-coloured fabric, very new, probably a present from some grandchild, thought Agatha.
‘Questions, questions,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t want to answer damn-fool questions.’
‘We are paying ten pounds to each person who helps us,’ said Agatha, all
off and play it cool. So she mentally shelved all her earlier plans of cooking up breakfast in a hurriedly bought satin nightgown and negligée, and bathed and dressed in a plain skirt and
blouse and sensible shoes.
When she arrived in the kitchen, James was cooking eggs and bacon. ‘I put some on for you,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sit down and I’ll serve you. There’s coffee
in the jug.’
Agatha saw the morning newspapers lying at the side of the table and looked hurriedly through them all. But there was no news of the rambler murder.
James served her and himself, ate hurriedly and then settled down to read a newspaper, allowing Agatha to reflect that this was probably more like real married life than any of her wild
imaginings.
She finished eating and cleared away the dirty plates into the dishwasher. The flat, although expensively furnished, depressed her. It was the sort of place that reminded her of her London days,
when she had allowed decorators to do the job for her and never revealed any of her own personality in the furnishings. She wished suddenly she had brought her cats with her. They were back in the
care of Doris Simpson. Perhaps she would take a run home and collect them. She was sure James would not mind.
‘So what are you going to do today?’ asked James finally.
‘I’m going to where Deborah lives,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll take a clipboard and say I’m a market researcher.’
‘That’s a good idea. But don’t you think it might be easier just to question Mrs Mason?’
‘I want to find out Deborah’s movements before the murder. Mrs Mason won’t know that.’
‘But won’t people think it odd that a market researcher would want to know about Deborah Camden?’
‘Not the way I go about it. Look, you represent some product and suggest there’s going to be a prize. They invite you in for a cup of tea. Once in, you start talking about the
murder.’
James looked thoughtfully at Agatha, as if debating whether she was the type of woman that people asked in for a cup of tea, but he said, ‘I’ll see what I can find out about Kelvin.
We’ll meet up back here early evening, swap notes, and then go to that restaurant where Peter and Terry work.’ He retreated back into his newspaper while Agatha’s feverish mind
planned what to wear to dinner.
Seeing she was going to get no more conversation out of James, Agatha found a clipboard among her belongings, attached several sheets of paper to it, and set out.
When she arrived at the doorway between the shops which led to the flats above, one of which was Deborah’s, Agatha longed for the pre-security days when one just opened the street door and
walked in. She studied the names on the bells: D. Camden, Wotherspoon, Sprott – her eyes narrowed – and Comfrey.
After a little hesitation, she rang the bell marked ‘Wotherspoon’. No intercom. The buzzer went and Agatha quickly pushed open the street door and walked in and up a shabby flight of
uncarpeted wooden stairs. An elderly man leaning on a stick was standing on the landing peering down at her as she made her ascent.
‘I don’t know you,’ he said. ‘If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.’
Agatha pinned a bright smile on her face and went resolutely on up. ‘I am doing some market research about the tea-drinking habits of the English. It will only take a moment of your
time.’
He had a grey, very open-pored face, loose dentures, and thin hair greased in streaks across a narrow head. He was wearing a grey shirt and grey trousers and carpet slippers of a furry
plum-coloured fabric, very new, probably a present from some grandchild, thought Agatha.
‘Questions, questions,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t want to answer damn-fool questions.’
‘We are paying ten pounds to each person who helps us,’ said Agatha, all
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