(15/30) The Deadly Dance (16 page)

“But you had also taken the previous day off to go to the fete at Barfield House.”

Emma's calm deserted her. “I did not,” she said in a trembling voice.

“According to both Sir Charles and his manservant, Gustav, you were seen there. The manservant was disguised as Madame Zora. You consulted him.”

“Oh, I should have been working, I know,” said Emma, rallying all her forces, although she was reeling inside from the shock that Gustav had been Madame Zora. “But Charles and I are friends and I happened to be in the area looking for … for a lost dog. The day was fine after the rain. Charles had told me about the fete.”

“Yet you did not approach him.”

“He was very busy. I stayed for a little and then went back to work.”

“It is Sir Charles's opinion that you were stalking him.” Emma suddenly did not care any more what happened toher. “That's ridiculous,” she expostulated. “The vanity of men never fails to surprise me. You make a friendly gesture and they all think you are chasing them.”

“We'll leave that for a moment.” Fother leaned across the table towards her. “So when exactly did you enter Mrs. Raisin's cottage?”

“I didn't,” protested Emma. “I did not have time. Doris claimed the keys back before I had time.”

“Had you seen the dead man before? You joined Mrs. Simpson while she was waiting for the police.”

“No, never.”

“When were you last in Ireland?”

“Fourteen years ago. On holiday. We went to Cork.”

The questioning went on and on while Charles and Agatha waited nervously in the adjoining room.

“This is serious, Aggie,” Charles was saying. “That dead man in your kitchen was connected to the Provisional IRA. He was a hit man. Someone wanted you out of the picture.”

“I can't stop thinking about Emma.” Agatha ran her fingers through her hair. “I mean, do you think she might have tried to poison me?”

“I tried to warn you. There's something not right about her.”

“If she's used rat poison, they'll find traces of it somewhere. Where would she hide it? In her garden?”

“I would think she'd want to get it out of her house and garden and as far away as possible. If it were me, I'd dump it in the woods somewhere—you know, in the undergrowth.

“Anyway,” Charles went on, “what on earth can the Irish connection be? Was Peterson working for them in some capacity, bagman or something?”

“In that case you would think the terrorists would be after whoever killed him.”

After an hour and several cups of bad coffee supplied by a policewoman, their interrogators came back.

Detective Inspector Wilkes took over the interview. When the tape was switched on, he said, “Mrs. Raisin, were you aware that your phone was being bugged?”

“No!” Agatha's eyes widened in shock.

“I want you to tell us all you know about the shooting at the Laggat-Browns.”

Agatha marshalled the facts, leaving out the all-important one that Patrick Mullen had phoned her to tell her where Harrison Peterson was staying and that he wanted to talk.

Questions, and more questions. The day wore on. At last Fother said, “We have arranged a safe house for you, Mrs. Raisin. I suggest, also, that you do not go to your detective agency for the next few days. Sir Charles, I suggest you stay in the safe house with Mrs. Raisin for your own protection. We will call on you tomorrow for further questioning. Before you leave, we would like to check your mobile phones to make sure they are secure. Then tell us what clothes you want us to collect for you.”

While they waited for their phones to be checked, Agatha thought again about Emma. Just to be on the safe side, she'd better phone her solicitor and get that codicil taken out.

Mrs. Bloxby had endured an exhausting day. Angry villagers kept calling at the vicarage, wanting Agatha Raisin expelled from the village. Somehow it had got out about the would-be killer having had a gun and a Balaclava. By setting up as a detective agency, Agatha Raisin had brought terror to Carsely, they said.

The vicar's wife answered each as patiently as she could, pointing out that several murderers would still be roaming free if it hadn't been for the work of Mrs. Raisin. At last she told her husband that she was not going to answer the door that evening. She poured herself a rare glass of sherry and took it out to the garden. She was just sitting down at the garden table with her drink when the doorbell went again. Ignoring its shrill summons, she sipped her sherry and watched the light fading over the churchyard at the end of the garden.

And then a plaintive voice from the churchyard hailed her. “Mrs. Bloxby!”

“Who's there?” she demanded sharply.

“It's me, Emma Comfrey. I must talk to you.”

Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Come round to the door.”

When she let Emma in, she thought the woman looked on the edge of a breakdown. Her eyes were red with weeping and her hands trembled.

“Come into the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Would you like a sherry?”

“No, thank you. I've just got to talk to someone.” No sooner were they seated than Emma burst out with “They think I tried to poison Agatha!”

“Did you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby quietly.

“Of course not. I wouldn't dream … Oh, it's worse than

that.”

“I can't think of anything worse. Go on.” “Charles told the police I had been stalking him.” “And had you?”

“No, I hadn't!” shouted Emma. And then, quietly, “It's all adreadful mistake. I went to the fete at Barfleid House, that's all.”

“Why did you go there when you should have been working?”

“I was working in the area. Charles is … was … a friend of mine.”

“What did he say when you saw him?”

“I didn't approach him because he was so busy.”

“If there is nothing in it,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “then you have nothing to worry about. All you need to do is to keep well clear of Sir Charles Fraith in future.”

“But don't you see, I have to talk to him. I have to ask him why he said such a dreadful thing. I was interrogated for hours.”

The doorbell shrilled again. “I'd better answer that.” Mrs. Bloxby was suddenly anxious not to be alone with Emma.

She opened the door.

“Police,” said a plainclothes officer. “The forensic team have finished with Mrs. Raisin's cottage for the moment and would like to go into Mrs. Comfrey's cottage. Is she here?”

“Yes, I'll fetch her.”

Mrs. Bloxby went back into the garden. “Mrs. Comfrey, a forensic team wishes to examine your cottage.”

Emma turned pale. “Can't I just give them the keys and stay here?”

“I'm afraid not. But just let's hope nothing happens to Mrs. Raisin, because if it does, Mrs. Comfrey, I'm afraid you might find yourself the first suspect.”

Emma clutched her arm. “You think I did it!”

Mrs. Bloxby pulled her arm away. “Please go, Mrs. Comfrey. I must get my husband's supper and the police are waiting for you.”

“I always wondered what a safe house would look like,” said Agatha. “Not much, is it? It's not a house anyway. It's a flat.”

The flat was situated in a block on the outskirts of Mircester. The flats had been newly built and several were still vacant. Theirs was sparsely furnished with the bare essentials. There were three bedrooms: one for herself, one for Charles, and one for their minder, a burly individual in plainclothes who answered to the name of Terry.

Agatha went into the kitchen. There was milk in the fridge and teabags and ajar of instant coffee were on the counter.

“What about food?” asked Agatha.

“I've got list of food deliveries,” said Terry. “Tell me what you want and I'll phone for it. There's Indian, Chinese, pizza— you name it.”

“What about drink?” asked Charles. “I could do with a stiff

one.”

“I can get the local supermarket to deliver. They're open twenty-four hours.”

“I'll give you a shopping list,” said Agatha, “because we'll need stuff for breakfast as well.”

When Terry was on the phone, Charles drew Agatha aside and whispered, “Say we're going to share a bedroom.”

“Honestly, Charles, at such a time!”

“Pillow talk. We need to talk and we can't do it with him listening.”

“Okay.”

After they had eaten and watched several programmes on television, Charles said he and Agatha were going to bed.

Terry said he thought it would be better if he slept on the sofa, “just to be on the safe side.” He added the caution, “Don't go using your mobiles and telling anyone at all where you are.”

Once Agatha and Charles were in bed, he snuggled up to her. “Get off!” whispered Agatha fiercely.

“We've got to talk,” he whispered. “Let's start with Emma. Let's just suppose she tried to poison you. She'd be clever enough to get rid of the stuff. Where would she put it? Where would you put it?”

“Same idea as you … in the woods somewhere.”

“She'd be frightened of anyone seeing her, maybe meeting a gamekeeper. The woods around are criss-crossed with paths for ramblers and people walking their dogs. Think again.”

“There's something at the back of my mind,” said Agatha slowly. “I know. It was one day in the office. Emma said there was some rubbish in the shed at the bottom of the garden she wanted rid of. A broken chair, a table with one leg missing, that sort of thing. Miss Simms said, 'Why don't you take the lot out to the council tip on the old Worcester Road,' and gave her directions. As soon as we get out of here, let's go and have a look.”

“I wonder how long they mean to keep us here?” said Charles.

“God knows. It's going to be like being in prison. There must be some connection between the hit man and the killing of Peterson.”

“Wait a bit,” said Charles. “Wasn't there something you said about Laggat-Brown changing his name from Ryan? Ryan's an Irish name.”

“It can't be him,” said Agatha impatiently. “He's a charming and civilized man. Besides, he can't have had anything to do with the attempted shooting. His own daughter, too! And we've double-checked his alibi.”

“You've got a soft spot for him, Aggie.”

“Well, he took me out for dinner and he paid the bill, which is more than you ever do.”

They grumbled and discussed the case and grumbled again until they both fell asleep.

Terry, who had pressed his ear against their bedroom door, quietly retreated and picked up the phone. He suggested the forensic team should check the council tip on the old Worcester Road.

Emma had moved into a hotel in Moreton-in-Marsh for the night. She tossed and turned, wondering whether she was safe or not.

She felt that she should check the council tip in the morning and try to find out when the containers were taken away. Until she knew that, she felt she could not rest.

The morning dawned cold and misty. The only colour in the bleached countryside was the red of the autumn leaves. She drove steadily and carefully, although her hands on the steering wheel were damp with nerves.

She turned off the old Worcester Road and headed for the tip. She was just about to turn in at the entrance when up ahead, through the swirling morning mist, she saw the white-coated figures of a forensic team.

Emma reversed slowly, and once out on the road, put her foot down on the accelerator and sped to the hotel.

She hurried to her room and packed up the few belongings she had taken for her overnight stay. She paid her bill and estimated she had a very short time before they found the coffee jar and the rat poison. She had not left fingerprints but knew that the very fact they were searching the tip meant they thought she was guilty.

Emma got in her car, wondering whether to risk going home and collecting some more things, but then decided against it. She had arrangements to draw money on a bank in Moreton, but if she wanted to clean out her account she would need to go to the head bank in London. An hour and a half to London. She might just make it.

There was an agonizing wait at the bank while they dealt with her request to draw out twenty thousand pounds. When she at last got the money, she went to the nearest hairdresser and got her heavy hair cut to a short crop and dyed dark brown. Then she went into a shop and bought jeans, sweaters, T-shirts and an anorak and trainers. She changed into a new outfit in the fitting room, where she left the clothes from her suitcase and filled it with the new purchases. A shop assistant, finding the clothes later, did not think to report the find to the police. She took the clothes home to her mother.

Emma knew she needed a new car, one that would not be traced for some time. She abandoned the car in a side street and took a taxi to Victoria Station and put her suitcase in the “Left Luggage” and then took the tube to the East End.

She found a shady-looking car dealer and paid cash for a small Ford van, then drove into central London, leaving it near Victoria in an underground car-park. Emma had a frightening time at the station, hoping any police there would not recognize her. She had bought a rain hat in the East End and had the brim pulled well down to shadow her face.

She got back to the van and slung her suitcase in the back. Now where? At first she thought of driving north and into the wilds of Scotland, but she had read stories of people who did that and found they were more noticeable out in the Highland wilderness than they were in a town.

Scarborough, she thought. A seaside town which would still have a lot of end-of-season visitors. She drove steadily north out of London. By the time she reached Yorkshire, the van engine was making strange clanking sounds. She thought of abandoning it on the Yorkshire moors and then decided against it. The police would be called to any abandoned car. She drove instead into York and parked in a suburb. She took out her suitcases and left the keys in the van, hoping someone would steal it.

Emma then caught a bus to the railway station and took a train to Scarborough. She longed to take a taxi into town because she was beginning to feel weary, but decided, despite her altered appearance, that it would be safe to take the bus. She then found a small, anonymous-looking bed-and-breakfast and checked in.

Only when she was in a small dingy bedroom with the door shut and locked did she collapse on the bed and feel anger like poison bubbling up inside her. Charles had betrayed her. Charles had humiliated her. He had called her a stalker and he should suffer for it if it was the last thing she did.