The night before the extravaganza, workmen laboured late into the evening. Leaving the final touches to be completed the following morning, a small convoy of cars and vans snaked out along the driveway to the main gates. Barfield House fell silent and, one by one, the lights in the windows flicked off. In Charles’s study on the ground floor, the ruby glow of embers in the fireplace cast a soft, dying light over the room, barely strong enough to pick out the bulky black forms of its solid furniture.
A movement by the French doors, so slight as to be imagined, might have gone unnoticed had it not been for the muted whisper that accompanied it. Two figures crept across the room and the thin light beam from a shielded pen torch picked out a painting on the wall. Without a sound, they approached the portrait, one of them examining the frame and then swinging it out on hidden hinges. The torch beam played on the door to a wall safe where a large brass handle and two matching keyholes stood out against the dark metal. Tools were produced, the locks were picked in a matter of moments and the safe door was hauled open to reveal the inside shelves that were … completely bare.
The click of a wall switch suddenly flooded the room with light and the two figures froze, eyes wide with surprise behind their black masks.
“Not quite what you were expecting?” Agatha said, standing with her finger still resting on the light switch. “No expensive, sparkly, glittery things in there to tempt you?”
The two burglars dashed towards the French doors, but a uniformed police officer stepped out of the night, blocking their exit. They turned towards Agatha, but the door next to the light switch opened and Bill Wong walked in with Toni. The only other door, which led through to the drawing room, was also now standing open, with Patrick and Simon blocking the way.
A split second later, the burglars both launched themselves at the police officer, who hurled one of them to the floor in the middle of the room, the second taking the chance to duck, twist and wriggle past him. Bill sprinted across the room as the officer turned to give chase but there came a squeal and a slapping noise from outside. Charles walked in through the French doors with Gustav.
“Miss Barclay encountered a young woman on the terrace,” Gustav announced, and Aurelia Barclay appeared, dragging Stuart Sculley’s secretary, Yvonne, into the room by the hair, a livid red weal in the shape of a hand slap on the side of her face. Aurelia flung her captive to the floor alongside the other burglar, who pulled off his balaclava mask to reveal himself as none other than Stuart Sculley.
“I reckon she’s the one who whacked me with the hammer,” Aurelia said, running her fingers over the fading bruise on her jaw. “Thanks for inviting me along to see them come unstuck,” she added. “Turned out to be more fun than I thought.”
“You’re a real live wire, aren’t you, Yvonne?” Agatha said, circling the two captives slumped on the floor. “It can’t have been easy keeping up with her expensive travel habits, Mr. Sculley, especially when your ex-wife had taken you for pretty much every penny you had.”
“I told you this was a trap!” Yvonne hissed at Sculley.
“You should have listened to her, Mr. Sculley,” Bill said. “Now you’ll be going to bed in a cell instead of that nice hotel in London.”
“How long did it take you to race up from London on that powerful motorbike, Stuart?” Agatha asked. “Faster than by car, I’d say. It was a clever way to establish an alibi. You drove to the hotel with the motorbike hidden in the back of your van. Then, once you’d made it look like you’d gone to bed, you sneaked down to the car park, avoiding any security cameras, then unloaded the bike. You must have also worked out where you could park the van and not be on camera—an easy thing for a security expert to do.
“Then, after you and your partner in crime had finished your latest job, you raced back down to London again. You parked the bike somewhere near the hotel—it’s easy to leave the car park but it’s far more hassle to drive in—and loaded it back in your van after you checked out of your room the next morning.
“You thought that, having installed the security systems in the shops you burgled, everyone would think it too ridiculous that you’d then disable your own systems to break in. In any case, you had a cast-iron alibi.”
“We’ve got you for breaking and entering here, Mr. Sculley,” Bill said. “I wonder what we’ll find when we search your warehouse? In any case, now we know who we’re looking for, I’ve no doubt forensics will be able to link you to the other crime scenes.”
“DCI Wilkes is going to be so disappointed that he can’t tie the burglaries in with the murder of Timothy Tinkler,” Agatha said to Bill, watching the officer handcuff the prisoners.
“I’ll let him know, but he’s actually on leave right now,” Bill said. “He should have been back, but he’s stuck in Lisbon, trying to get a flight. He was supposed to be on a cruise liner, but it broke down.”
Agatha gave a snort, walked over to sit in Mrs. Tassy’s favourite chair, threw her head back and laughed like none of the others had ever seen her laugh before. They looked at each other in bewilderment, Charles scratched his head and Gustav fetched her a glass of brandy.
The weather for the Great Barfield Extravaganza could not have been better. A few light clouds drifted across the sky and the spring sunshine made it pleasantly warm to be out in the fresh air to enjoy all of the attractions. Charles wisely kept his welcome speech admirably short, encouraging people to sample Château Barfield from the waiters and waitresses circulating throughout the afternoon. In a marquee in one area of the lawn, there was the opportunity to enjoy a wine-tasting experience with Claudette in attendance. She had chosen a variety of good wines that would, nevertheless, show Château Barfield in a very favourable light.
Elsewhere on Barfield’s huge expanse of lawn there was the chance to take a ride in a selection of steam-powered vehicles, or enjoy a whirl on the steam-powered carousel. There were a number of fairground-style attractions and a procession of vintage and classic cars whose owners took guests on short tours of the roads around the estate. Seeing the surrounding countryside from the basket of a hot-air balloon proved extremely popular, and the crowds of guests were encouraged to sample all manner of local produce from snack stands outside the house and food tables set up in the reception hall. The aerobatic display was a huge hit, there was music from brass bands, rock bands and a string quartet, the chance to ride a pony round the paddock, and dozens of businesses from across the country, including Charles’s own ice-cream company, keen to show off their wares and offer samples.
Bill and Alice Wong, there by Agatha’s special invitation, sought her out when they arrived slightly later than the throng of other guests, Bill having taken time to rest after the previous night’s excitement.
“Alice!” Agatha greeted her friend with as close a hug as she could manage, given the bump that lay between them. “You look fantastic!” she said, staring down at Alice’s swollen stomach. Alice laughed.
“Don’t look so concerned, Agatha,” she said. “It’s not anything you can catch from me! And once the baby’s born, I’ve a whole exercise regime planned to get my figure back.”
“How are you … um … feeling?” Agatha asked.
“Wonderful,” Alice answered with a huge smile. “Apart from the nausea, the cramps, the back pain, the swollen ankles, the—”
“Enough!” Agatha said, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look happier!”
“How about me?” Bill asked, a glass of Château Barfield now in his hand and a wide grin on his face. “Not on duty today and not driving.”
“That’s my job for the time being,” Alice said, patting the bump.
“Well, I may have a little job for both of you later,” Agatha said. “Nothing too arduous, I hope, but I know neither of you is ever really off duty.”
“Always happy to help out,” Bill said.
“We haven’t missed the fashion show, have we?” Alice asked.
“It’s just about to start and you can have a seat in the front row!” Agatha said, leading them towards the ballroom.
Guests, business owners and other contributors crowded into the ballroom for the fashion show, which was a breathtaking cavalcade of lights, colour, music and stunning fashion designs displayed by elegant models both male and female. Most of the audience found seats, and in the front row, close to Agatha and Alice, sat Mrs. Tassy, dressed not in her customary black but in a wispy ensemble of red-and-blue chiffon which, in Agatha’s opinion, made her look twenty-five years younger.
With the fashion show over, darkness was beginning to fall outside, and Martin Randall appeared on the catwalk to announce that, while the stage was dismantled to prepare for the charity auction, those who were interested could preview the catalogue items where they were displayed in the drawing room. For everyone else, further refreshments would be served on the terrace from where a fireworks display could be viewed shortly.
Agatha stood on the terrace with Charles, watching people drifting into the drawing room. Her clock was displayed on a table in the far corner of the room, near the fireplace.
“I think it’s all gone tremendously well,” Charles said. “A huge success! Thank you, Aggie!”
Agatha looked at him, about to chastise him for the “Aggie,” when a tall man with a slim, dark-haired woman on his arm went into the drawing room.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“That’s old Binkie,” Charles replied. “You know him. You met when we—”
“Not him. The woman.”
“His latest squeeze,” Charles said, waggling his eyebrows. “Don’t know her name. She’s new. Apparently, he only met her a few days ago.”
Agatha took her phone from her bag and sent a two-word group message: She’s here. Her whole team was now on the alert. She watched from the terrace while guests shuffled around the drawing room, examining the items bearing auction lot numbers. When the first of the fireworks went off, the drawing room emptied, everyone hurrying outside to watch the display. Only Binkie’s “latest squeeze” stayed behind. Agatha shrank back against the wall, urging Charles to do likewise. Having previously ignored the clock, the woman now walked straight up to it, opened the face and set the hands to twelve o’clock.
A fusillade of fireworks drowned out the delicate tones of the “Wiener Carneval” and when the dancers twirled to their full height, the woman gently pulled out the minute hand and counted out the one-two-three combination. She then stood back to watch the enamel panel illustrations all slowly slide forward, revealing themselves as drawers lined with soft, green felt. The woman stared at the drawers, her fists clenched.
“Looking for these?” Agatha walked into the room with Charles at her shoulder, the fireworks outside thundering colour across the sky. In her outstretched hand she showed a selection of gemstones that changed from a deep purple-red colour to an emerald green as she passed beneath the dazzling chandelier that hung from the ceiling.
“I don’t know what…” the woman said, hesitantly, in a lightly accented voice.
“Oh, I think you do, Hedwig … or is it Hedy … no, it’s neither, of course, but let’s make it Hedy. Dark hair suits you better than the blonde wig you wore at the auction house.”
Bill came into the room from the library with Alice and Gustav. Mrs. Tassy, desperate not to miss this showdown, walked in off the terrace with Claudette, Toni and Simon. The door to the corridor opened and Patrick entered, accompanied by Tristan.
“You!” the woman gasped. “But you’re dead!”
“I’ve been getting that a lot recently,” Tristan said, glowering at her.
“I have no idea what this is about!” the woman squawked.
“Yes, you do, Hedy,” Agatha said, holding the handful of stones just out of the woman’s reach. “It’s about these—alexandrite. My clock’s history is hazy but there was thought to be a Russian connection. That’s where the stones came from. These were mined in Russia’s Ural Mountains. I’m told that the quality of these stones is unmatched. My gem expert had never seen anything like them. They may be worth up to ten times more than diamonds and these are only a few of the stones that were in the secret drawers.”
“I just thought the clock looked interesting!” the woman defended herself.
“That’s crap, Hedy! You know all about the clock! You know the dancers rise to release the drawers and you know the combination to unlock them. You expected to find the drawers full of alexandrite. Sadly for you, you’re not the only thief to have found the cupboard bare at Barfield of late.”
“You’re wrong, I…” The woman took a step towards the hall door, and Tristan stepped forward to face her.
“We’re not wrong! It was you that made the big mistake!” he roared above a clamour of fireworks. “You sent two men to get the clock and told them to get my brother to tell them where it was at all costs. You sent the men who murdered my brother!”
Patrick drew Tristan away from the woman.
“Brother…” the woman said, realising who Tristan was.
“Everyone in this room,” Agatha said, closing her fingers around the stones and waving her arm around the room, “was a friend of the man you had killed. We’re sort of like a distant, extended family. I’m guessing that was one of your problems, wasn’t it? Family.
“The clock must have been passed down through generations of your family in Austria, if that’s where you come from, and then sold by someone who had no idea what was hidden in it. Those who did know, however, wanted it back. You were one of those who knew its true value.”
“Why did you stop bidding and walk out of the auction?” asked Martin Randall, who had been listening from outside, wary of what might be happening to his auction lots.
“Because the price was about to get silly,” Agatha answered when the woman responded with nothing more than a pout. “She found the clock almost by accident, up for sale in a small country auction house. If she’d carried on matching my bids, the price might have gone so high that people would be talking about it. You would be boasting about it on your website, Martin. The press might even take an interest. If all that happened, others in her family would get to hear about it, and they would come after her for their share.”
“You know nothing about this clock!” the woman screamed. “The clock is rightly mine! It should have been passed to me. Those stones are mine, not yours!”
“You’re wrong about that,” Randall said. “Agatha bought the clock perfectly legally. The clock and anything in it belong to her.”
“You couldn’t accept that, though, could you, Hedy?” Agatha said. “So you hired two thugs off the street to steal it for you, and that all went very badly. Timothy Tinkler was killed. Then you got them to try kidnapping me, and they even torched my make-up … I mean … my car. You’re going to jail.”
“I don’t know the men you are talking about. You can’t prove any of that!” the woman hissed, stomping towards Bill and Alice. “Now get out of my way. I am leaving!”
Bill and Alice stood their ground and then, during a moment’s lull in the fireworks, a phone pinged in the woman’s pocket.
“Don’t you want to see who the message is from, Hedy?” Agatha asked. “No, wait a minute, there’s no need,” she added, holding up the phone now in her hand. “It’s from me, using the phone you gave to the thugs who killed Timothy Tinkler. They will identify you, and this proves you were in contact with them.”
“Where did you get that?” the woman demanded.
“There was an attempted robbery at Mr. Tinkler’s antiques shop the other night,” Agatha said, stretching the truth slightly. “One of your two thugs left this behind. The only things on it are messages passed between you and them.”
The climax of the fireworks display came with a mighty explosion that rattled the glass of the French doors.
“Oh, dear, Hedy,” Agatha said sadly. “I think that was all your hopes and dreams going up in smoke…”
Alice, still a serving police officer who, unlike her husband, had not consumed any alcohol, advised the woman that she was being arrested on suspicion of being an accessory to murder, then explained her rights while Bill called Mircester Police Station.
“Come on, Martin,” Agatha said. “You still have an auction to run, and that clock is still up for grabs. The bidders will be waiting.”
“And the alexandrite?” asked Randall.
“That’s mine,” Agatha replied. “There will be special bonuses for my staff, who’ve all worked their socks off, and something by way of compensation for Tristan, but, as you said, I bought the clock fair and square along with whatever was in it. Now let’s get that auction underway before we’re all dragged off to make statements!”
“Well, I must say, old girl, I didn’t think we’d be back here again quite so soon.” Charles seated Agatha at a table in the Ebrington Arms, the dust having settled on the huge success of the Great Barfield Extravaganza long enough for them to enjoy a celebratory visit to the pub where they had started it all.
Agatha paused, irked by the “old girl” remark, but then chose to ignore it. It was a struggle, but she refused to let her temper throw her plans for the rest of the day off course. He took his seat opposite her.
“We’re almost becoming regulars!” He laughed and she smiled. “You know, there was a time, not so long ago, when we had quite a few little regular haunts. An afternoon jaunt to a country inn would turn into an evening meal after a couple of bottles of wine and then we would…”
“I know, Charles. One of the things that makes me a good detective is that I have a very good memory.” She picked up the menu, browsed through the temptations on offer and then set it aside.
“I’m guessing you’re going to say that what we had is all in the past,” he said, a look of forlorn resignation flitting across his features. “I’m guessing you’re going to say that you don’t want to talk about the past, but I miss all that ever so much, you know, Aggie.”
There was that name again. It rankled even more than “old girl” but she took a deep breath, maintained her composure and kept her thoughts on track.
“Actually, I do want to talk about the past,” she said. “I’ve been thinking quite a lot about the past recently and I’ve come to some intriguing conclusions. I’d be interested to know what you think.”
The waitress arrived and Agatha finally decided against having lunch but, with Charles’s enthusiastic agreement, ordered a bottle of the primitivo they had enjoyed on their previous visit.
“I’m more than happy to listen,” Charles said as the waitress departed, “if you want to reminisce about the good old days.”
“It’s not our past I want to talk about,” Agatha replied. “It’s the past. Events around here in the distant past—the 1660s.”
“Aha!” Charles grinned. “The Campden Wonder. I knew that would tickle your fancy!”
“Yes,” Agatha agreed, then asked the waitress, who had returned with the wine, just to pour rather than going through the pantomime of tasting. “You thought a mystery that had gone unsolved for more than three hundred and sixty years would exercise my little grey cells, as Hercule Poirot would say.”
Agatha took a sip of wine, her eyes never leaving Charles. He shifted uncomfortably but maintained a boyish smile that, at one time, might have charmed her.
“To tell you the truth, with everything else that’s been going on, William Harrison’s story turned into a real distraction,” she continued, “but I couldn’t help delving into it from time to time. I’m sure you already know that there’s been quite a lot written about it over the years.
“Harrison’s own tale of having been wounded by his kidnappers, then taken on horseback to the east of England before being bundled aboard a ship days later seems fairly unlikely to me. Somewhere along the way he would have been able to leave word with someone at an inn or at the port, to let his family know what was happening to him. That kidnap scenario seems pretty dubious. Neither do I think, as some people do, that Harrison was kidnapped and passed from one gang to another, or sold on, with each purchaser hoping to make a profit from either a ransom or a reward.”
“There was a thriving trade at the time whereby people were kidnapped in Britain and shipped across the Atlantic,” Charles pointed out. “They were forced to work as indentured servants or labourers.”
“Those were mainly young people and children, Charles,” Agatha argued, “not old men like Harrison. Workers were a valuable commodity but an old man wouldn’t be seen as such—more of a liability, really. Who’d want to pay for a servant who might snuff it after a couple of years? No, if Harrison was kidnapped at all, I believe it would have been for ransom, since he was a trusted employee of a wealthy family, or perhaps for more sinister reasons.”
“Ah, the skulduggery theories!” Charles grinned.
“Apparently, there were lots of strange things going on in England in those days,” Agatha went on, enjoying her wine as she picked up the tale. “There were lots of clandestine political deals being struck and plenty of secrets being kept under wraps by the upper classes. Ordinary people suffered most from all the death and destruction during the Civil War, as ordinary people always do. I should think most of them just wanted to get on with their lives in peace, but the aristocrats and wealthy merchants who had lost power, grand houses and vast estates were different. Those who had lost property, status and influence wanted it all back—and they’d stop at nothing to get it.”
“You’ve really been doing your research, haven’t you?” Charles sounded impressed.
“Oh, come on, Sir Charles Fraith of Barfield House—you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’d do anything to keep your family seat, including dodgy business deals, grabbing at outrageously shady investment opportunities and even marrying completely the wrong woman! I’ve hauled your arse out of that mess more than once…”
“I say, I think that’s a little—”
“Oh, shut up, Charles!” Agatha snapped, then took a sip of wine while glancing at her watch. “I’ve a lot to get through and I don’t want you throwing me off course. Because of all the ‘skulduggery,’ as you put it, any number of theories have been proposed about how William Harrison might have been abducted due to him, through his position with the Noel family, knowing too many secrets. Maybe somebody wanted him out of the way until whatever underhand deal they were negotiating could be signed and sealed without the danger of him scuppering it.
“It’s even been suggested that Harrison was sent on some kind of secret mission by Lady Juliana Noel—something to do with land and politics that kept him away for all those months. Like Harrison’s own story about ending up in Turkey, escaping and having to find his way all the way home to Chipping Campden, I think that’s total bollocks.”
“If his story isn’t true,” Charles said, watching Agatha top up her glass, “then why would he lie? Harrison was known to be an honest, reliable, trustworthy man.”
“Exactly!” Agatha said, swallowing some wine and giving Charles a sideways look. “If he wasn’t whisked off in a ship somewhere, where did he go? What is his secret? What are the secrets that men like to keep? In my experience, it all comes down to money and sex. So could it have been money? Had the respectable, highly regarded William Harrison run up massive debts, perhaps through gambling? Did he run off with the rents he collected in order to pay off his debts and then stay out of the way long enough to give his kidnap story some credence? I doubt it, simply because he really was such a fine, upstanding pillar of the community, and utterly loyal to the Noel family. He wouldn’t steal from them.
“In any case, I’ve read that there was far more money in Harrison’s house than he had in his possession when he went missing. If he really needed money, why not just stage a robbery like the one that had happened a few months previously?”
“Perhaps that break-in was actually staged,” Charles suggested. “Harrison could have had money problems going back a long way.”
“I considered that, but it seems unlikely,” Agatha replied. “Again, it doesn’t fit with Harrison’s character—his highly respectable image and his allegiance to the Noels. So was it sex? Had he sloped off for a few months to spend some time with a secret mistress until the money he’d collected that day ran out? I don’t believe that, for all the reasons I’ve just mentioned. If Harrison suddenly decided to have a final fling with a mistress, then there was far more money available to him that he could have used to prolong the affair.
“No, the idea that Harrison ran off with a mistress for a while just doesn’t make sense. Neither, of course, do poor John Perry’s rambling accusations, confessions, denials and, ultimately, his silence when his whole family went to the gallows.”
“That, indeed, is the crux of the matter,” Charles said, nodding.
“So, if William Harrison wasn’t abducted, where the hell did he go?” She took another sip of wine and he sat back in his chair, arms folded, waiting for her theory to unfold. “Actually, I don’t think he went anywhere at all—well, certainly not very far. You see, despite the fact that William Harrison didn’t die, I think that the Campden Wonder is still very much a murder story. Consider this…” Agatha sat forward in her chair, Charles half expecting she was about to stand up and pace the room, as though playing the part of a barrister in a courtroom drama. “We know that William Harrison was a proud man, devoted to the Noel family. He expected to work for Lady Juliana until the day he died and that his son would then take over from him. When his house was broken into and money stolen, that money was undoubtedly in his care prior to being passed on to her ladyship. He must have been devastated that such a thing had happened. He would have been distraught at the thought of having let Lady Juliana down. His house was secure and the money had been well hidden. How did the thieves know the best way to break in, and where to find the cash? If it were me, I’d suspect an inside job.”
“John Perry, of course, later confirmed that to be the case.”
“He did,” Agatha agreed, “and, despite the fact that John was at church with the Harrisons when the break-in happened, William Harrison must immediately have suspected him of having colluded with his family in the burglary. Harrison would have known pretty much everyone in the area, and he would have known that John’s brother, Richard, and mother, Joan, were not well respected. In fact, they were regarded as local lowlifes. People around Chipping Campden took such a dim view of the family that some even believed Joan Perry was a witch. I think that John Perry was a simple soul who had been employed by William Harrison almost as an act of charity—maybe even to get him away from the bad influence of his mother and brother.”
“That would fit with William Harrison’s image of being a fine, upstanding, compassionate sort of chap,” commented Charles.
“Perhaps,” Agatha said, enjoying a little more wine. “But John Perry was also someone who would do what he was told. He was vulnerable, easily led and easily confused. I think Harrison knew that he had been burgled by Richard and Joan Perry long before John confessed it to the magistrate. I doubt it would have been difficult for Harrison to bully or frighten John into telling him the truth about the burglary. That’s when he came up with the idea to stage his own death. Ultimately, he turned the fiction into a kidnap scenario.”
“You think Harrison faked his abduction?”
“Almost certainly. John Perry will have helped him, having had the fear of God put into him by Harrison, who may even have used the nonsense about Joan being a witch to get John to do and say whatever he wanted him to. Harrison planted his hat and bloodstained scarf for searchers to find and then made himself scarce, hiding out not too far away—possibly even in his own house with the connivance of his wife and son.
“When John Perry was first held in jail, it seems that pretty much anyone had access to him. They brought him ale, everyone keen to be the one who solicited the truth from him about what had happened to his master. Harrison may well have been feeding Perry outlandish tales to tell. I’m pretty sure his son, Edward, will have played a part in that. Then, when the time came, Perry was instructed to accuse his mother and brother of Harrison’s murder.”
“Do you really think John would do something like that at the bidding of William Harrison?” Charles asked. “Even if he wasn’t very bright, he would have known that they would be sent to the gallows.”
“I believe that Harrison persuaded John that it was all a ploy to get them to confess to the burglary,” Agatha explained. “I think that he, or his son, or maybe even his wife, were the ones who told John how he should keep changing his story and that they also made sure the Perrys knew about the Indemnity and Oblivion Act, resulting in them admitting to the burglary.
“John will have been told that, once this happened, his brother and mother would be kept in jail for a while—that would serve as their punishment—but that William Harrison would then reappear long before they ever faced the hangman’s noose. He didn’t, of course, but Edward was reported to be there at the gallows steps, perhaps reassuring John that William would be along any moment.”
“So you think that William Harrison left the Perry family to die?” Charles asked. “Why did he have to let that happen?”
“He didn’t,” Agatha said. “But, while William Harrison was not a murder victim, he was most certainly a murderer. He didn’t have to let them die, he chose to do so. He knew they would all hang and he planned it that way all along. He murdered them as surely as if he had shot them all dead. He had a classic motive—revenge. As far as he was concerned, the Perrys had made him look incompetent and had endangered his livelihood, as well as that of his son. His pride had been compromised and he felt they had damaged his trustworthy reputation in the eyes of the Noel family. Their money had been stolen while it was in his care, after all. Satisfying his revenge by showing up at the Perrys’ home with a couple of well-armed heavies was an option, but beating the crap out of them risked leaving a stain on his character that might affect his status in the community. Instead, he followed the lead of the upper classes and indulged in a little skulduggery, keeping his hands clean but condemning the Perrys to death.”
“What happened to the money?” asked Charles. “If the Perrys really did steal it, they couldn’t have spent it all. Once they confessed, wouldn’t they have to return it?”
“Why would they agree to do that? They expected to be set free after the robbery trial. They knew they hadn’t murdered William Harrison, after all, and John may even have assured them the old man was set to show up and clear them of the murder charge. They might have been counting on using the money to leave the area once they got out of jail. Wherever they hid it, or buried it, my guess is it’s still there.
“That, then, is my take on the Campden Wonder.” Agatha drained her glass. “William Harrison used the judicial system to murder all three Perrys in revenge for them having robbed and humiliated him.”
Placing her glass on the table, she caught a glimpse of her lipstick stains on the rim. She would have to reapply, almost excusing herself in order to head for the ladies,’ then checking her watch again and deciding against it. Charles should see her making sure that she looked her best. She took her lipstick and a compact mirror from her handbag, then made a show of repainting her lips.
“I think you’ve come up with an excellent theory,” Charles said, finishing his own glass and holding up the empty bottle. “Why don’t we order another of these? It’s far too late for lunch now, but we can easily while away the rest of the afternoon, think about an early dinner, then perhaps leave the car here and take a taxi back to—”
“I’m afraid I have other plans, old boy,” Agatha said, standing and looking towards the door. John Glass had just walked in. “I don’t need a taxi. My handsome driver has arrived. We’re off to a tea dance in Worcester, followed by dinner at the Feathers in Ancombe. I’d suggest you join us but you don’t have a partner and, well, you’ve never really been much of a dancer anyway, have you?”
With her coat and handbag over one arm, she tweaked his cheek with her free hand, then left him sitting on his own as she strode over to John. She put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips with such passion that it brought a cheer from two real-ale drinkers standing at the bar. Agatha looked over at them and winked.
“That was the best welcome I’ve ever had,” John said, catching his breath and smiling. “Not that I’m complaining, but what happened to your ‘no public displays of affection’ rule?”
“It’s a rule that’s there to be broken,” Agatha said. “Spend too much time worrying about rules and you’ll have no time left to live your life. Now,” she added, linking her arm through his, “take me dancing so that I can work up an appetite for dinner and for … whatever else takes our fancy.”
Charles watched them leave and called for the bill. Things had not gone entirely as he had expected with Agatha, but when had they ever? She was a formidable woman with a stubbornly independent streak, determined to enjoy life to the full. How was it, then, that she could choose to be with her dancing retired policeman instead of enjoying all he could offer—the estate, the grand house and the burgeoning new businesses? Gazing out through the window, he saw John’s car leaving the car park. He shook his head in resignation at the thought of her, the great detective and hard-nosed businesswoman, heading off to a genteel tea dance. He smiled. For now, she was gone, and he had no choice but to bide his time, gather his thoughts and come up with a new tactic. He had lost this battle, but not the whole war. Agatha Raisin, after all, was worth fighting for.