The rain had all but stopped by the time Agatha and Toni returned to Raisin Investigations, but winter was still making its presence felt in the chill carried by the wind. As soon as they were back in the warmth of the office, Agatha called a meeting and everyone filed into her room, carrying notepads and dragging chairs.
“Roy will be sitting in on our meetings for the foreseeable future,” Agatha explained as Roy joined the group. “I’ll explain why shortly. First, let’s run through the most pressing work we have on at the moment. Toni?”
“The legal firm, Collins and Strauss, want us to track down a couple of witnesses for a civil case,” Toni said, consulting the notes on her pad. “We have the Parkers’ divorce case, legal papers arriving today that need to be served on behalf of a couple of solicitors and various employee background checks to carry out.”
“Okay,” Agatha said, settling back in her chair. There had been no surprises. The details of the ongoing cases were all safely stored in her memory. “I’ll have a word with David Collins. That case won’t be going to court for months, so I’m sure he can give us some more time. Simon, you can try tailing Mrs. Parker today. I doubt she’ll be having her usual tennis lesson, but we need to know if she meets up with her handsome coach for a spot of indoor sport. Toni, you can press on with the background checks, and Patrick, you be ready for those legal papers. While you’re waiting, find out all you can about the businesses that have been burgled—who they are, how long they’ve been operating, what was stolen and, most importantly, other businesses that might be targeted.”
“So we’re definitely taking on the case for the chamber of commerce?” Toni asked.
“We are,” Agatha confirmed. “Once we’ve worked out a few more details, I will talk to Mr. Mouse.”
“You mean Mr. Mason,” Toni corrected her.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you didn’t. You said Mr. Mouse.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Toni.”
Agatha turned towards Patrick, Simon grinned at Toni and Toni rolled her eyes before concentrating on her notepad.
“Patrick, do you think you can find a couple of your retired colleagues we could employ on night patrols of potential targets?” Agatha asked.
“Can do,” Patrick said.
“Er … if there’s overtime involved, boss, I’m up for a few night patrols,” Simon said with undisguised enthusiasm.
“Not on your own, Simon,” Agatha said. “We’ll do that in pairs. Toni? Patrick? Would you be up for a nightshift a couple of times a week?”
Both nodded.
“Very well, once we have your friends on board, Patrick, we can draw up a nightshift rota,” Agatha said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Mou … Mason later today. Toni, you and I can then interview each of the business owners who’ve been hit by the burglars.”
“Er … weren’t you supposed to be taking a few days off at the end of this week?” Toni asked Agatha.
“Yes…” Agatha paused, her mind drifting to John aboard the Ocean Palace Splendour, due to dock in Palma, Mallorca, in a few days, where the Mediterranean sunshine would be warming the island to a temperature equivalent to a pleasant, late spring day in England. “I may have to cancel that little break. In the meantime, I have some more exciting news. Roy is here to help me with plans for the biggest party the Cotswolds has ever seen!”
Agatha’s announcement was met with raised eyebrows and murmurs of interest from around the table, along with a huge, beaming smile from Roy.
“We’re staging a massive event to launch Sir Charles Fraith’s new wine business,” he explained, “and it’s going to be sensational beyond words, my darlings. I’ve already got a whole list of ideas for the day and masses of contributors who want to be involved, from hot-air balloonists and showjumpers to exotic car clubs and top fashion designers who want to put on a show. It is going to be totally FAB-U-LOUS!”
“This is going to take up a lot of my time over the next few weeks,” Agatha said. “It’s not detective work, but I may have to call on your help from time to time. We’re going to be very busy over the next couple of months, but the Great Barfield Extravaganza should be a lot of fun, too.”
“If you need any help looking after the fashion models, boss,” Simon said, holding his arms out to offer himself, “I’m your man.”
“Thank you, Simon,” Agatha said, shaking her head and ignoring the laughter from Toni and Patrick. “That might seem a little like throwing the cat among the pigeons, although in this case I think the pigeons would probably fling you right back again. We’re also going to stage a charity auction,” she added, checking her watch. “Roy, I’ll ask Helen to grab us a sandwich for lunch, then you and I need to meet Mr. Tinkler downstairs to find out how an auction works.”
Roy Silver talked almost nonstop about plans for the extravaganza from the time Agatha drove out of her parking space to the moment they reached the auction house, which turned out to be a converted barn on a farm a few miles outside Mircester, just off the road to Evesham. Mr. Tinkler sat in the back, saying nothing at all until they were about to leave the car.
“I do hope you won’t be disappointed, Mrs. Raisin,” he said, sounding vaguely apologetic. “This isn’t a very glamorous place, but it really is a very good auction house.”
Agatha looked up at the sign above the entrance where the words RANDALL AUCTIONS stood proudly in gold on a black background.
“I’m not sure what I was expecting, Mr. Tinkler,” she said, “but I’m looking forward to the auction.”
“You must be careful not to blink, cough or wave a hankie at the wrong time,” Roy warned her. “Otherwise, you might end up paying a fortune for something you didn’t even want.”
“Actually, that’s something of an old wives’ tale, Mr. Silver,” Mr. Tinkler corrected him. “I have registered as a buyer, and when we go in, I will be given a paddle with a number on it. I’ll hold that up if I want to make a bid. You really can’t bid on things by accident.”
When they made their way inside and Mr. Tinkler checked in at the desk, Agatha was surprised at the number of people in the barn. There were dozens on seats arranged in rows, as though the occupants were attending a lecture or a school play, while even more people were standing around the perimeter where various items of furniture, large and small, were on display. The room was well lit and remarkably warm given how chilly it was outside. They picked a spot to stand on one side, where they had a good view of the proceedings.
“They were doing furniture this morning,” Mr. Tinkler explained. “We’ll be seeing smaller items this afternoon. I have my eye on some porcelain that I saw in the online catalogue.”
The auctioneer took his place behind a lectern on a small platform, introducing himself as Martin Randall. He was a tall, dark-haired, elegant man with the kind of winter tan that comes from an expensive Caribbean holiday rather than a sunbed or a bottle. He wore a well-cut suit with an expensive shirt but no tie. The auction premises might not, as Mr. Tinkler put it, be “very glamorous,” but the auctioneer certainly was. Roy looked at Agatha then raised an eyebrow, cocking his head in Randall’s direction, clearly expressing his approval.
“Steady, there, tiger,” she chided him. “Waggling your eyebrows like that might buy you something you didn’t mean to bid on.”
“Not without the paddle, dear, remember?” Roy said, laughing. “He’s a bit of a looker, though, isn’t he?”
Agatha chose to ignore Roy, but was glad that she had taken the opportunity to touch up her make-up before leaving the car. Martin Randall was the sort of man she would not want to meet unless she was looking her best.
“We’re starting the afternoon session,” Randall announced, “as per the catalogue, with various ornamental figurines, vases and glass.”
He went on to describe each lot as it was displayed by one of his team of assistants, who brought the items up onto the podium. He then scanned the room, taking bids and constantly gauging the level of interest. Telephone bidders were accommodated by one of Randall’s staff using a couple of phones and another relaying online bids from a laptop. When he decided bidding on an item had gone as far as it would, Randall struck a small wooden block on his lectern with a gavel that he held, almost invisibly, in his hand. Agatha scolded herself for feeling slightly vexed that he wasn’t swinging a wooden mallet at the block, as she had imagined he might. There was no point in feeling short-changed every time tiny details of real life failed to live up to your expectations. That could lead to an eternity of disappointment. She concentrated on keeping up with the pace at which bids were made, which could sometimes happen in the blink of an eye. Mr. Tinkler raised his paddle a few times on some chinaware, but didn’t stay in the bidding to the end on anything.
“The thing is, Mrs. Raisin,” he told her quietly, “you should know what you are bidding for, understand its value, and only bid as much as you believe it’s worth to you.”
Once the final piece of glass had been sold, one of Randall’s assistants brought out a large, elaborate ornament that turned out to be a clock. It was golden with a round, white face, and above the face were the figures of a man and woman in Victorian garb, holding each other in a dance pose that was both gently formal and unashamedly romantic. Enamelled panels either side of the clockface showed images of other dancers. On a panel below the face were what looked to Agatha like a series of flower images.
“Oh, my,” said Roy, admiring the clock. “That’s quite something, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that look divine on your mantelpiece, Agatha?”
“Now you mention it,” Agatha said, nodding, “yes, it would. And just look at that dancing couple … Mr. Tinkler, am I allowed to use your paddle to bid?”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Tinkler replied, passing the paddle to her.
“This is a rather charming nineteenth-century ormolu clock—that’s gilded bronze—with delightful enamel inlays and a beautifully sculpted lady and gentleman dancing,” Randall explained. “It is believed to have been made in Paris for a Russian gentleman, then found its way to Brussels before being inherited by the vendor, who’s had it tucked away in an attic for decades. I should stress that the clock is not currently functioning, although the mechanism appears to be intact as far as we can tell, so there’s no reason to believe it couldn’t be repaired. In consideration of its condition, we’ll start the bidding at one hundred pounds…”
Agatha shot her paddle into the air.
“An energetic one hundred from the lady on my left,” Randall said, smiling at Agatha, then spotting a rival bid at the very back of the room. “One ten at the back there…”
“One-thirty!” Agatha called, waving the paddle.
Randall nodded to Agatha, then looked to the room, saying, “Another twenty?”
A paddle flashed on the far side of the room, then another in the middle.
“Two hundred!” Agatha yelled, holding the paddle above her head.
“Really, Mrs. Raisin,” Mr. Tinkler cautioned her. “You mustn’t bid more than it’s worth. It’s not even working.”
“Yes, yes, I know…” Agatha glanced at him briefly, concentrating instead on the other bidders, who were all still in the game. The one in the middle of the room was a slim, pale man with thinning red hair. She couldn’t quite see who was bidding at the back, but seated on the opposite side of the room was a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing a black coat, a wide-brimmed black hat and dark glasses. That, Agatha thought, looks almost like a disguise, as if she doesn’t want to be recognised, yet who wears a hat like that and sunglasses indoors unless they want to attract attention? Some sort of celebrity, perhaps? It was hard to tell who she might be, but she was most definitely a rival. Agatha raised her paddle.
“Two thirty from the lady on my right,” said Randall, then acknowledged bids from the middle and the back of the room. “Two sixty, two ninety…”
The woman in the glasses raised her paddle and four fingers.
“Four hundred?” Randall asked, pointing his gavel hand at her. She nodded. The balding ginger man flashed his paddle and mouthed something. “Four fifty from the gentleman in the centre,” Randall continued, “Five hundred at the back, five fifty on my right…”
Agatha shot an agitated glower at the woman in black, who ignored her, staring straight ahead at Randall, who looked towards Agatha. She raised her paddle. She watched Randall look to the back of the room but the bidder there seemed to have dropped out. The ginger-haired man and the woman in black, however, were still in the game. Agatha stayed with the bidding through six fifty, seven hundred and seven fifty, at which point the ginger-haired man gave Randall a slight shake of his head.
“Ha!” Agatha whispered to no one in particular. “He’s out. Now it’s just me and her!”
The other woman raised her paddle for a bid of eight hundred pounds and Randall turned to Agatha.
“One thousand pounds!” Agatha shouted, eliciting a brief chorus of “Oooooh” from the room.
“Agatha, are you sure you—” Roy began, a note of nervous excitement in his voice.
“That bloody woman is not getting my clock!” Agatha snapped, stamping her foot as her rival raised the bidding to £1,100.
“Twelve hundred, thirteen…” Randall announced, and Agatha hissed with frustration.
“Two thousand pounds!” she roared, and a rumble of astonishment rolled around the room.
The woman in black turned her head slowly towards Agatha, examining her from behind large, anonymous, dark lenses. She then got to her feet and strode swiftly towards the exit.
“Are we all done at two thousand pounds? Selling at two thousand…” Randall banged his gavel on the block and Agatha gave a squeal of delight.
“I did it!” she said, bouncing on her toes, beaming at Roy and Mr. Tinkler. “I got it!”
Roy congratulated her with a loud whoop and a big hug.
“Normally it’s all a bit dull here,” Mr. Tinkler said, chuckling and patting his chest, “but you certainly livened things up today, Mrs. Raisin. Doesn’t do my poor heart any good, though!”
In the cashier’s office, Agatha settled the bill with her credit card and was watching the clock being carefully cocooned in bubble wrap when Martin Randall appeared, introducing himself and explaining that there was a slight break in proceedings.
“That was a fiery little bidding war we had out there,” he said, laughing. “It’s a lovely clock, but I didn’t expect there would be quite so much interest in it. The seller will be very pleased.”
Agatha looked him straight in the eye, glad she was wearing heels that allowed her to do so. He had faint laughter lines around his eyes and smile wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, which gave him the air of a man who was relaxed and happy. Flashes of grey in his hair gave him a look of distinction but it was difficult to tell his age. She judged him to be anywhere between forty and fifty-five.
“As am I,” Agatha said. “I wanted the clock from the moment I first saw it, and I’m a woman who always gets what she wants.”
She felt a heavy bell of embarrassment clang in the pit of her stomach. Had she really just said that? “I’m a woman who always gets what she wants”? It sounded so arrogant and so … well … obnoxious!
“I’ve no doubt you are,” Randall said, with a warm smile. “Might what you want include dinner sometime?”
“Yes, I think it might,” she said, recovering her composure, her mind immediately turning to the extravaganza auction. “In fact, I think that’s a very good idea. I’d love to talk auctions with you.”
She gave him her card and he promised to call, then she hurried outside to meet Roy and Mr. Tinkler. She turned briefly, flashed Randall her best, most dazzling smile and gave him a cute little wave, which she immediately regretted. Why the silly wave? It was almost as mortifying as the “always gets what she wants” line. Why was she making such a fool of herself over this complete stranger?
“You fancy him, don’t you?” Roy said, hitting the nail on the head and accepting the boxed clock while Agatha searched for her car keys.
“Nonsense,” she said. “It’s just that he may be useful to us with the charity auction, that’s all.”
Even as the words left her lips, she knew that was undoubtedly one of the least convincing lies she had ever told.
Roy sat with the clock in his lap all the way back to Mircester, then carried it to Mr. Tinkler’s shop.
“Would you both like to come in?” asked Mr. Tinkler, unlocking the shop door. “I would love to take another look at your clock, Mrs. Raisin.”
“Of course,” Agatha said. “I’m sure we can spare a few minutes, can’t we, Roy?”
Agatha and Roy sat on the leather armchairs, which were now behind an ornate screen, shielding them from the front of the shop, out of sight of passersby. The chairs were arranged in front of a table that Mr. Tinkler used as a desk. He served tea in delicate china cups, sat at the desk and asked Agatha’s permission to unwrap the clock. It looked larger on his desk than it had at the auction room and Agatha had an uncertain moment when she wondered whether it would actually fit on her cottage mantelpiece. She said nothing, assured herself that it would and listened to Mr. Tinkler.
“It’s a very fine piece,” he said, studying the clock through his half-round glasses. “Rather unusual. Look, there are three winding arbors.”
He pointed to three holes in the clockface, one by the three, one by the six and one by the nine.
“How many should there be?” Agatha asked.
“I’d normally expect to see one, or possibly two,” Mr. Tinkler explained. “One would be for winding the clock mechanism and the second would be if there was a special chime, but I’ve no idea what the third might be for. It’s such a pity it’s not working.”
“Can you fix it?” asked Agatha.
“Dear me, no, Mrs. Raisin, not me,” he said, backing away from the clock slightly. “I really know very little about clocks. My brother, on the other hand, is something of an expert.”
“I’d be happy to pay him if he can repair it,” Agatha said.
“Oh, you must, Agatha,” Roy said, running his hand over the dancing couple. “Hearing it tick would make it almost as if they were dancing in time.”
“If you can leave it with me,” said Mr. Tinkler, “I’ll have him take a look at it as soon as possible.”
They chatted for a short while, Roy once again enthusing about the extravaganza, finished their tea and prepared to leave. Mr. Tinkler showed them to the door, then paused.
“Mrs. Raisin,” he said hesitantly. “Until my brother comes to pick it up, would you mind if I displayed the clock in my shop window? It’s such a wonderful object, I would love to put it on show.”
“I think that would be absolutely fine, Mr. Tinkler,” Agatha said, “as long as you don’t sell it.”
“Oh … dear me, no … I would never…” He stumbled over his words, utterly flustered, then caught the look in Agatha’s eye. “Ah … that was one of your little jokes, wasn’t it?”
“Thank you so much for taking us to the auction, Mr. Tinkler,” Agatha said. She smiled, reached over and kissed him on the cheek. He flushed bright pink, then scurried off back into the shop to hide his bashfulness.
“Wait, look!” he called, carefully picking up the clock. “I’ll show you where it can go.”
He removed an art deco figurine of a ballet dancer from the shop window, gently settling the clock on the velvet-covered display stand in its place. Agatha and Roy watched the operation from the street, applauded Mr. Tinkler’s positioning of the clock, then hurried upstairs as a light drizzle heralded the return of the rain.
No sooner had Agatha walked into the office than Helen Freedman handed her a small, square envelope with “AGATHA RAISIN” neatly handwritten in capital letters on the outside.
“The doorbell rang earlier and this was posted through the letterbox,” Helen explained. “It’s clearly been hand delivered. There’s no stamp and no address.”
“Thank you, Helen,” Agatha said, frowning at the envelope. Once she was back at her desk, she opened the mystery letter to find just one sheet of paper inside. Handwritten in the same, precise capitals used on the envelope were a few short lines:
FIND ME FIRST IN DOORS—SEE ME WEEP FOR A SECOND?
I AM IN ANSWER BUT NOT IF YOU BECKONED
THE END OF THE CUT IS THE FOURTH SIGN
AND THE FINISH ENDS AS YOUR BREATH, NOT MINE
Agatha stared at the note. What did it mean? What the hell was it? Some kind of prank, perhaps? She turned the paper over but there was no clue to identify from where it had come. She set the note aside when Patrick popped his head round the door. She asked him to take a seat but couldn’t help glancing down at the bizarre note.
“Something bugging you there?” Patrick asked, indicating the note.
“No, well, yes, kind of,” Agatha said, frowning. “Just a weird note. Someone’s idea of a joke, I should think. What have you got for me, Patrick?”
“Well,” Patrick said, opening a folder he had brought with him. “Your Mr. Mason from the chamber of commerce seems like a fine, upstanding citizen. He’s an accountant and handles everything from doing the books for small businesses to individual tax returns. He’s a well-respected man who lives a quiet life, married with one daughter.”
“He’s everything I expected him to be,” Agatha said, nodding. “Who else is involved in the chamber of commerce?”
“Lots of businesspeople from around the area,” Patrick said, and ran through a list of some of them. “Most of these people are involved because being a member brings them business contacts and, as a group, they have more clout when it comes to dealing with the local authority on planning issues and suchlike. The chamber also gets involved in various charity things.”
“Okay,” Agatha said, browsing the list of business owners Patrick had passed to her. “Which of the businesses have been targeted in the burglaries?”
“They’re the ones highlighted,” Patrick explained, pointing to the lines marked in yellow. “They’re all shops, obviously, and they all sell expensive items that are easy to transport and easy to sell on—electronics, watches, jewellery and the like. Nine of them have been hit in the last three months.”
“Were they all the same as Aurelia’s break-in? Alarm disabled, professional job?”
“They were,” Patrick said, “and according to a mate of mine who’s still a cop, they all had one thing in common.” He slid a printout of an online advertisement across the desk. “They all had alarm systems installed by this outfit.”
“Sculley Security Systems,” Agatha read from the printout. “Do you know anything about them?”
“Only that Stuart Sculley is a member of the chamber of commerce,” Patrick said. “He has an office on the industrial estate at the old railway marshalling yards. I can keep digging on him if you want me to.”
“Yes, please, Patrick. I think I may need to pay him a visit.”
Patrick returned to his desk and Toni appeared moments later.
“Bill Wong’s here to see you,” she announced and Agatha asked her to show him straight in. Agatha walked round her desk to greet Bill with a warm hug.
“This is a surprise,” she said, taking her seat and waving him into the one Patrick had just vacated. “It’s not often we have an actual, serving police detective here at Raisin Investigations.”
“Fortunately for you, as a law-abiding citizen, the police seldom have any reason to be here!” Bill laughed.
“How is Alice?” Agatha asked. She was almost as fond of Alice as she was Bill and had been instrumental in resolving an issue with Bill’s parents that had almost scuppered Bill and Alice’s wedding plans.
“She’s just swell,” Bill said, arcing a hand out from his stomach. “I think that’s what people say, isn’t it? She’s doing really well and she’s now starting to grow a real baby belly.”
“That must be awful!” Agatha said, aghast at the thought of her midriff expanding beyond her control. “I mean … how is she coping with that?”
“She’s loving it. She’s not loving being stuck in the office, though. She much prefers getting out to crime scenes, but we can’t have her taking on those sorts of duties right now.”
“It must make things difficult, you both being police officers.”
“We’re coping, but I didn’t really come here to talk about Alice and me.”
“Let me guess,” Agatha said, sitting back and folding her arms. “You wanted to warn me to steer clear of Wilkes and his ‘attempted murder’ case?”
“He knows we’re friends,” Bill said, laying his hands on the desk, “so he’s being careful what he says around me, but I know from others that he’s been making all sorts of threats about how he’s going to throw the book at you if you step even slightly out of line on this one.”
“He’s a cretin,” Agatha said with a sigh, “and he can’t stop me from conducting an investigation, especially as the chamber of commerce is employing me to do so.”
“Officially, I have to caution you against that, Agatha. Unofficially, I want to put the people who’ve been burgling the shops and who battered Aurelia Barclay behind bars. I can use any help you can give.”
“Happy to oblige, but ‘help’ has to be a two-way street. I’ll pass on anything that I think might be useful to you, but I want the same in return.”
“Agreed—I’ll do whatever I can on that front. Where have you got to so far?”
“Just scratching the surface. Sculley Security looks to be of interest, though.”
“He installed the alarms on the burgled premises. He’s been operating in the area for almost two years now. He’s installed dozens of alarms, not just those that the burglars managed to get round.”
“He must still be a suspect, though.”
“Sure, but he has a pretty good alibi. He regularly travels down to London on business and he was away when every one of the burglaries happened. He has hotel receipts and we even have him on his London hotel’s CCTV system.”
“I’ll be talking to him anyway,” Agatha said. “I want to find out a bit more about him.”
“Of course,” Bill said, “but take it easy, Agatha. Don’t go treading on Wilkes’s toes, okay? Now, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s that little slip of paper with what looks like a poem written on it? You’ve looked at it at least a dozen times while we’ve been talking.”
“Oh, it’s just some nonsense that someone shoved through the letterbox. Some kind of prank, but it’s irritating me. I hate the thought that someone is out there having a laugh at my expense.”
She handed Bill the note and he read through it quickly, then looked across at Agatha with a sombre expression.
“Agatha, I think you need to take this seriously,” he said, “and, as a police officer, I’m certainly taking it seriously.”
“What are you talking about, Bill?”
“I’ve always been fascinated by little riddles like these, ever since I was a kid. I loved solving puzzles. An enquiring mind, you see? I guess it’s what got me interested in becoming a police officer.”
“So why are you so concerned about it?”
“Let’s work it through together,” Bill said, laying the paper on the table between them. “It’s a letter puzzle. The title ‘Your Final Case’ sounds very Sherlock Holmesy but doesn’t really mean much until you solve the rest of it.
“‘Find me first in doors.’ That’s telling us to find the first letter of the solution in the word ‘doors’ and the first letter in ‘doors’ is, of course, ‘D.’
“Then, ‘See me weep for a second?’ is asking us to look for the second letter, and the second letter in ‘see,’ ‘me,’ ‘weep,’ and ‘second’ is…?”
“‘E,’” Agatha answered.
“Exactly,” Bill agreed. “Then we have ‘I am in answer but not if you beckoned.’ Well, there are four letters in ‘answer’ that aren’t in ‘if you beckoned.’”
“Umm … ‘A,’ ‘S,’ ‘W,’ and ‘R.’”
“Spot on,” Bill said. “So let’s go with the first one, ‘A.’ Now we have ‘The end of the cut is the fourth sign.’”
“‘T’ is the last letter in ‘the cut,’” Agatha offered, warming to the theme.
“It is. So we’re left with our last letter, which ‘ends as your breath.’”
“‘H’!” Agatha punched the air in triumph. “So that gives us D-E-A-T-H … death? My final case?”
Her face fell and Bill reached across the desk, laying his hand on hers.
“Agatha,” he said gravely. “This is a death threat.”
“Rubbish!” she said, snatching her hand away and banishing any such thoughts from her head. “This is someone’s idea of a joke.”
“I hope you’re right,” Bill said, “but there are plenty of people out there with good reason to bear a grudge against you. There are murderers locked up in prison because you tracked them down. I want you to take every precaution from now on. Don’t go out anywhere on your own.”
“That’s just silly,” she said, watching Bill photograph the note with his mobile phone. “I can’t put my life on hold just because of a stupid note.”
“I’m not asking you to do that,” Bill said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “You just need to be careful, okay? Promise me.”
“All right!” Agatha threw her arms wide in exasperation. “I promise! I’ll look twice before I cross the road and check under my bed every night for bogeymen!”
“Good,” Bill said, rising to leave. “I’ll make a few enquiries, but my guess is that this is probably just someone trying to scare you.”
“Well, you know me better than that, Bill Wong,” she replied, walking round the desk to hug him goodbye. “I don’t scare that easily.”
Agatha returned to her desk, made a few phone calls, then strode out into the main office.
“I’ve told Mr. Mason we’ll take on the burglars,” she said. “Toni, you and I need to meet with him tomorrow to discuss our plan of action. Roy, we need to do likewise with Charles. Now … why are you all looking at me like that?”
The team were all staring silently at her, their expressions deadly serious.
“When Bill left he said we should keep our eyes open for any suspicious characters,” Toni said.
“I told him we’re usually the suspicious characters lurking around,” Simon said, trying but failing to force a grin. “What’s going on, boss?”
“Are you in some kind of trouble, Agatha?” Roy asked.
“Is it something to do with that note on your desk?” Patrick got straight to the point.
“Detectives,” Agatha said, looking round the room and shaking her head. “You all think you’re on to the case of the century, but I’m sorry to disappoint you—this is just a load of crap.”
She explained about the note.
“A death threat?” Roy’s right hand clutched at the neck of his pink paisley-pattern shirt.
“It’s not the first time someone’s threatened to kill me,” Agatha said, waving aside their concern, “although usually they’ve got the balls to do it to my face. Don’t lose any sleep over this. I certainly don’t intend to.”
The end of the working day rolled round and, one by one, the Raisin Investigations staff drifted off home until only Agatha and Roy were left in the office.
“Agatha,” he called, strolling towards her room. “I need to pop out to the shops to pick up a few things before we head back to your place. I’ll only be about half an hour and I’ll lock the street door. My car is parked close to yours, so wait here for me and we can walk round to the car park together.”
“Roy,” she said, stony-faced. “I’m a big girl. I can look after myself. Stop fussing.”
“Very well,” he said, turning on his heel. “I shall be back in half an hour in any case.”
Agatha spent a few minutes sifting through tedious paperwork, paced three times round the office, then pulled on her coat, ready to leave. She would meet Roy downstairs. That would give her the chance to admire her clock in Mr. Tinkler’s window. She wanted to photograph it and ping the picture to John, somewhere in the western Mediterranean. The dancing couple, after all, in her mind’s eye, was them.
Approaching the shop front, however, she could see no sign of her clock. The velvet stand on which Mr. Tinkler had so carefully placed it was empty. There was a light on inside the shop and when she stepped towards the door, she could see it was standing slightly ajar.
“Mr. Tinkler!” she called, pushing the door fully open. “Mr. Tinkler, are you there?”
She moved hesitantly into the shop. Why had Mr. Tinkler left the door open? That was odd. He never did that, especially when it was so cold outside. Agatha had the uneasy feeling that something was wrong.
“Mr. Tinkler, I wanted to photograph the clock,” she said loudly, making her way slowly forward past an ornate cast-iron umbrella stand loaded with a collection of silver-topped walking sticks. She pulled one of the sticks from the stand, felt its comforting heaviness and held it in front of her, like a club.
“Mr. Tinkler, are you…?” She rounded the ornate screen to find the shopkeeper slumped in one of the leather armchairs, his face battered and bruised, trickles of blood at his nose and the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Tinkler!”
She dropped the stick and rushed forward, shouting in his face while gently feeling first at his neck and then his wrist, but there was no trace of a pulse.
Mr. Tinkler was dead.