miserably. “Evidently someone had strangled her and then strung her up.”
“Do you know of anyone who hated her enough?” asked Agatha.
“She was by way of being a managing bully, but no one really stood up to her.”
“Well, tell me all you know about her.” While Jessica talked, Agatha took notes.
When Jessica had finished, Agatha said, “I’ll do my best. Leave it with me.”
After Jessica had left, Agatha sat, deep in thought. What were the usual reasons for murder? Sex and money. So who inherited? She asked one of her detectives, Patrick Mulligan, who had contacts with the police, to find out if Mary had made a will.
The next day, Patrick had the news. “It’s an old will,” he said. “She left everything to her husband.”
“That’s no good,” said Agatha. “He’s dead. Jessica said she was a widow.”
“No, she was posing as a widow. They were divorced four years ago. He was paying alimony. His name is John Brand. He owns the Gloucester deli in Mircester.”
Agatha sat outside the deli until closing time. Patrick had given her a photograph of John Brand so she recognised him when he came out. He was followed by a pretty young blonde. He was a squat florid man in his fifties. The blonde looked as if she were not long out of her teens. He looked around and gave the blonde a hurried kiss. Agatha got out of her car and sent off in pursuit of the blonde.
She caught up with her in a quiet street near the abbey. “Excuse me,” said Agatha. “Do you know that John Brand is shortly going to be arrested for the murder of his ex wife?” Agatha’s methods were often the despair of the police.
The girl turned white. “Who are you?” demanded Agatha.
“Are you the police?”
“I am in plain clothes,” said Agatha jesuitically.
“I’m Tracey Forest. I ain’t had nuffink to do with it. He said the old crow was bleeding him dry. He hated her. He said he had to kill her.”
“Wait there, I’m calling the police,” said Agatha.
“I thought you was the police,” wailed Tracey.
“Sort of,” said Agatha.
“Do you have to arrest him? He was going to take me to Paris.”
Agatha sat drinking coffee with Jessica a week after the arrest of John Brand. The bells pounded out for the funeral of Mary.
“Hellish noise,” shouted Agatha.
Jessica grinned.
“Music to my ears, Agatha.”
THE END
Copyright Marion Chesney
“Do you know of anyone who hated her enough?” asked Agatha.
“She was by way of being a managing bully, but no one really stood up to her.”
“Well, tell me all you know about her.” While Jessica talked, Agatha took notes.
When Jessica had finished, Agatha said, “I’ll do my best. Leave it with me.”
After Jessica had left, Agatha sat, deep in thought. What were the usual reasons for murder? Sex and money. So who inherited? She asked one of her detectives, Patrick Mulligan, who had contacts with the police, to find out if Mary had made a will.
The next day, Patrick had the news. “It’s an old will,” he said. “She left everything to her husband.”
“That’s no good,” said Agatha. “He’s dead. Jessica said she was a widow.”
“No, she was posing as a widow. They were divorced four years ago. He was paying alimony. His name is John Brand. He owns the Gloucester deli in Mircester.”
Agatha sat outside the deli until closing time. Patrick had given her a photograph of John Brand so she recognised him when he came out. He was followed by a pretty young blonde. He was a squat florid man in his fifties. The blonde looked as if she were not long out of her teens. He looked around and gave the blonde a hurried kiss. Agatha got out of her car and sent off in pursuit of the blonde.
She caught up with her in a quiet street near the abbey. “Excuse me,” said Agatha. “Do you know that John Brand is shortly going to be arrested for the murder of his ex wife?” Agatha’s methods were often the despair of the police.
The girl turned white. “Who are you?” demanded Agatha.
“Are you the police?”
“I am in plain clothes,” said Agatha jesuitically.
“I’m Tracey Forest. I ain’t had nuffink to do with it. He said the old crow was bleeding him dry. He hated her. He said he had to kill her.”
“Wait there, I’m calling the police,” said Agatha.
“I thought you was the police,” wailed Tracey.
“Sort of,” said Agatha.
“Do you have to arrest him? He was going to take me to Paris.”
Agatha sat drinking coffee with Jessica a week after the arrest of John Brand. The bells pounded out for the funeral of Mary.
“Hellish noise,” shouted Agatha.
Jessica grinned.
“Music to my ears, Agatha.”
THE END
Copyright Marion Chesney
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