Agatha was sitting in the vacant armchair, staring at the shopkeeper’s lifeless form, her phone in her hand, when a uniformed police officer, two paramedics and Roy Silver all arrived at once. The paramedics rushed over to the body and, on seeing Roy swoon, Agatha stood to let him have the seat. The police officer, a tall young man Agatha didn’t recognise, stood beside her.
“You’re Agatha Raisin, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, that’s me, Constable.” Agatha was intently watching the paramedics, desperately hoping that they would be able to perform some kind of miracle that would open Mr. Tinkler’s eyes and bring him back. It was not to be. They looked towards the police officer, sadly shaking their heads.
“Was it you who discovered the body, Mrs. Raisin?” asked the officer.
“Yes, it was,” she said. “I just popped in to see him. We were at an auction with him this afternoon. We had tea sitting in those chairs…” Agatha could feel a tear welling in the corner of her eye but fought the urge to cry, her temper rising to force any feelings of grief or shock aside. “Who could have done this to him? Mr. Tinkler wouldn’t harm a fly. He was a gentle soul. Who on earth would want to kill him?”
“That’s what these gentlemen are here to find out, Mrs. Raisin,” said the officer, looking towards the shop door where DCI Wilkes had appeared with Bill Wong in his wake. “If you would wait here, I’ll let them know it was you who called it in.”
The young policeman had a brief word with Wilkes before being sent outside to help a colleague stretching blue-and-white police tape across the front of the shop.
“Agatha Raisin,” Wilkes said, striding towards her with a sneer on his face. “Here you are again, sticking your nose into police business and causing trouble.”
“Have a heart, sir,” said Bill. “Agatha knew Mr. Tinkler, after all.”
“When I want your opinion, Sergeant,” Wilkes said, giving Bill a dark look, but pointing at Agatha, “I’ll ask her for it! She always seems to know more about police business than she should and I hear you two were having a cosy little chat earlier this afternoon. If I find out that you’ve been passing privileged information to this woman, Wong, I’ll have you back in uniform on permanent nightshift before you can say ‘blabbermouth’!”
“You’re such a moron, Wilkes!” Agatha growled. “Maybe you should be concentrating on this crime scene rather than all the petty crap that’s rattling around inside your thick, empty skull!”
“I have years of experience in evaluating crime scenes, you stupid woman!” Wilkes spat. “I’m not an untrained blunderer like you! I can tell at a glance what’s happened here. It’s those damned shop burglars again. After the vicious assault on Audrey Bartlet—”
“I think you mean Aurelia Barclay, sir,” Bill pointed out.
“Don’t interrupt me, Sergeant! The burglars’ behaviour has clearly escalated from straightforward theft to serious assault and now to murder. Mark my words, these are the exact same perpetrators.”
“That’s total bollocks!” Agatha cried, a flash of fury in her bear-like eyes. “If you assume this was done by the same people, you haven’t a hope in hell of catching poor Mr. Tinkler’s murderers!”
“I will conduct my investigations as I see fit!” roared Wilkes.
“And you’ll get nowhere, as usual!” Agatha yelled back at him. “This is a completely different crime from the burglaries. The thieves who raided the shops were after small, easily portable, high-value items. They were in and out of premises before anyone knew they were there. Aurelia was hurt only because she was unfortunate enough to startle them and get in their way as they fled. What happened to Mr. Tinkler is nothing like that! Look at him! He’s been beaten! And this shop is nothing like their usual targets. Mr. Tinkler didn’t sell the sort of goods these burglars are after. The only thing that’s missing here is … my clock…”
“Your clock?” Wilkes eyed her suspiciously. “You owned something that has been stolen from these premises this evening?”
“Well, I don’t know for certain that it’s been stolen,” Agatha said, “but it’s not where I expected it to be.”
“Is that so?” Wilkes snorted. “This raises all sorts of questions about your involvement in events here, Mrs. Raisin. Take her down to the station, Wong. I’ll deal with her when I’m finished here.”
“Sir, you can’t just—” Bill started to object, but Wilkes dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
“Just do as you’re told, Sergeant,” he said. “Mrs. Raisin will be voluntarily helping us with our investigation, and if she chooses not to, I can think of a number of very good reasons to take her into custody.”
“Let’s go, Bill,” Agatha said, almost relieved to be able to escape from the despicable Wilkes. “I’ve been through this before. I’d rather just get it over with.”
Roy insisted on going with Agatha and the three left the shop to the sound of Wilkes barking instructions at the recently arrived pathologist and the forensics team.
It was after ten at night by the time Agatha and Roy returned to her cottage in Lilac Lane. Having sat around at Mircester Police Station, answered countless questions put to her by Wilkes, then sat around some more, Agatha was tired and sorely irritated. Her front door opened as they walked up the path to reveal James Lacey, her former husband—now her next-door neighbour and most trusted friend—standing inside.
“You must be exhausted after all that’s happened, my dear,” he said, welcoming her inside and helping her off with her coat. “Roy has been phoning regularly to update me about everything. I didn’t think you’d want to come home to an empty house, so I let myself in with the spare key. I can scarcely believe Wilkes put you through all that, especially after the shock of finding Mr. Tinkler.”
“I can’t get over the sight of him slumped in that chair,” Agatha said, reaching down to stroke her cats, who were strutting around her ankles. “The poor man never did anything to deserve that.” She straightened up, a look of solid determination on her face. “Whoever killed him is going to regret it. I’ll find them and they’ll get what’s coming to them!”
“Let’s not think too much about that tonight, Agatha,” Roy said, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. “We can talk to Bill in the morning. He’ll make more sense of it all than Wilkes ever will. Why that man had to badger you with all those questions this evening is beyond me.”
“I was the one who discovered the body,” Agatha said. “Wilkes couldn’t ignore the fact that his enquiry had to start with me, even though he hates me.”
“He didn’t have to do all that tonight, though,” Roy said. “He was just trying to lord it over you. He’s pathetic. I was sitting in the reception area when he came past, putting his coat on. He only stopped questioning you because it was the end of his shift and he was off home for his supper.”
“Speaking of supper,” James said, “I’ve already eaten, but I made a cottage pie for you both. I know it’s a little late to eat but I thought you’d be starving by the time you got home.”
“You’re an angel,” Agatha said, giving James a weary hug. “You too, Roy. Knowing that you were waiting to bring me home helped keep me going through all those pointless questions. Thank you both.”
“The cottage pie smells delicious!” Roy said, rubbing his hands with glee and making for the kitchen with James. Picking up her mail from her little hall table, Agatha tried to push all thoughts of Mr. Tinkler out of her mind. She followed the two men, marvelling at the way they were getting along. James had never been comfortable around Roy when she had first introduced them. He had always found him too colourful, too flamboyant. As a former army officer, James had rigidly set ideas about how things should be done, how things should look and how people should behave. Roy didn’t fit in with James’s way of thinking.
Roy, of course, despite his irresistible charm and his undeniable ability to make friends wherever he went, had never much enjoyed James’s company in the past, either. James had been too straightlaced for him, too much of a stickler for the rules and, in Roy’s eyes, too plain boring. Roy might often appear to make friends, but sometimes his friendship went only skin deep. He chose very carefully those he treasured as real friends, and James had never been one of the chosen. Yet here they both were, chatting happily like old chums. How had that happened?
James had certainly changed since suffering from a brain tumour that had almost taken his life. He was a little more mellow these days, and the tensions that had caused such strife between him and Agatha when they were married had all but evaporated now they had agreed that they liked each other best as friends. Maybe Roy had cottoned on to that. He had, without doubt, become more tolerant of others and less sensitive over the years, but that hardly seemed enough to foster a friendship between these two. What, after all, did they have in common? Agatha smiled. Me, she thought to herself. They’re both here for me, both supporting me! The sudden thought that both men cared about her gave her a warm glow inside and she hurried through to join them in the kitchen, where she opened a bottle of wine.
Agatha flicked through her mail while Roy poured each of them a glass of pinot noir. There were a couple of bills, the usual flyers and, to her horror, a square envelope with her name handwritten in the same neat capital letters as the one she had received at the office. Roy saw her staring at the envelope.
“It’s another one, isn’t it?” he said, trying not to sound alarmed.
“Another what?” asked James, his hands cocooned in oven gloves as he set the dish of cottage pie on the table.
“It’s nothing,” Agatha said, handing him the unopened envelope. “It’s just someone messing around. Nothing to worry about.”
James took the envelope and, with Agatha’s approval, carefully slit it open with a kitchen knife. There was a single piece of paper inside, bearing a handwritten note just as before.
GIVEN TIME YOU’RE SURE TO MEET ME
YOU CANNOT HIDE OR CHEAT OR BEAT ME
YOU MUST FACE ME ALL THE SAME
AND AT THE END YOU’LL KNOW MY NAME
James read the rhyme aloud then frowned.
“You say you had another one of these?” he asked, and Agatha, who had already fished the first note out of her handbag in anticipation, handed it to him, explaining what Bill Wong had said.
“Well, I agree with Bill,” James said, comparing the two slips of paper. “The first riddle is a death threat, but so is the second.”
“It is?” Roy squeaked, holding a hand to his face.
“Just as ‘death’ was the answer to the first riddle, so it is with this one,” James said. “The title, ‘Who Am I?’ can best be answered with ‘Death’ or ‘The Grim Reaper,’ call him what you will, once you’ve read through the riddle. The first line talks about being ‘sure to meet me’ and ‘given time’ … well, we all meet death eventually.
“The second line, obviously, says that we can’t hide from death, cheat death or beat death. The third line says how we must all face death and the last line is saying that, ultimately, we all know death. Except, of course, this is addressed to you, Agatha. The writer is talking directly to you. Someone is threatening to kill you.”
“Rubbish,” Agatha said, serving Roy a large portion of cottage pie and helping herself to an even bigger one. “It’s nonsense. Whoever sent those notes doesn’t even know me.”
“He knows where you work,” Roy said, toying with his own food while watching Agatha devour a mouthful of hers. “Now, it seems, he knows where you live, too.”
“Roy,” Agatha said, swallowing hard. “It’s very easy to find people in this country, providing that they’re not actively trying to hide from you. I am among the easiest to find. I advertise my business—the place where I work—and there are any number of ways to find where I live, from looking me up in an online telephone directory to simply following me home.”
“Agatha, I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously,” James said. “He could be a real threat.”
“You’ve both made the same mistake,” Agatha pointed out, once she finished another taste of the cottage pie. “This is absolutely delicious, by the way, James. I would ask for your recipe, but you know I would only ruin it. For goodness’ sake, eat up, Roy, before it goes cold.”
“What mistake?” Roy asked, before finally trying the food, then nodding and, his mouth full, giving James a thumbs-up.
“You both said ‘he,’” Agatha explained. “There’s nothing in either of those notes that identifies the writer as a man.”
“That may be true,” James agreed, “but he … or whoever … could still be dangerous.”
“I doubt it,” Agatha said, enjoying a sip of wine. “Whoever’s behind this is a complete amateur.”
“What makes you say that?” Roy asked. “Why an amateur and how can you be sure that he … the riddler … doesn’t know you?”
“The riddles are intended to frighten or intimidate me,” Agatha said. “I’m not sure why the person who sent them wants to scare me, but if that person knew me, they’d know that I don’t scare so easily. Why an amateur? Because both notes were hand delivered, and delivering a note here, to my house, means that whoever did so will have been caught by the security camera covering my front door. We can take a look at the footage to see who it is once we’ve finished eating. Really, James, the cottage pie is wonderful!” She spooned another large helping onto her plate.
Once they had finished eating, James cleared the table, Roy poured some more wine and Agatha brought her laptop into the kitchen.
“I can download the security camera recordings onto here,” she said, tapping a few keys and scrolling through on-screen menus.
“I’m impressed,” James said. “You’ve never been so comfortable with technology in the past.”
Agatha shot him a resentful look.
“I have always been perfectly capable with computers and suchlike…” she began, but hesitated when Roy began to giggle.
“Only when punching the buttons harder and harder and swearing at the keyboard made it work.” He chuckled.
“I am not beyond learning how to handle electronic gadgets,” she said, pursing her lips. “Simon and Toni showed me how to do this. Young people take to this sort of thing like it’s second nature to them, but old … I mean … more experienced people can get far more from it once they know the ropes.
“Now, I doubt even an amateur would risk being seen delivering a note like that in daytime, so we can start looking after dark. Now we just need to fast-forward and … look! That must be our suspect walking up the path!”
The image showed a figure in a dark anorak, with the hood up, clearly carrying the envelope in his hand.
“I’d say you two were right about it being a man,” Agatha said. “You can tell by the way he moves. It doesn’t look like a young man and … there!” She hit the keyboard to pause the footage when the man’s face came into view. Just as she had predicted, the man was middle-aged. He was wearing black-framed glasses and was clean-shaven.
“Do you know him?” James asked.
“Never seen him before in my life,” Agatha replied. “I can take this image and print it out at work. I’ll let all the staff have a copy and tell them to keep their eyes peeled for this creep hanging around anywhere near the office.”
“You should give a copy to Bill Wong, too,” Roy suggested. “He might know who the riddler is.”
“I suppose so,” Agatha said reluctantly, “but I don’t want anyone wasting time on this. I think the ‘Who Am I?’ note shows that this nutter wants to play games. It may be couched like a death threat, but he really wants me to try to find out who he is. He thinks he can outwit me, but I’ve no time for that sort of larking about.”
“You’re right,” Roy agreed. “We’ve got a lot on our plates at the moment.”
“Even more now,” Agatha said. “We’re going after whoever killed Mr. Tinkler. These were not the burglars who’ve been raiding other businesses, despite what Wilkes says.”
“Why are you so sure?” James asked.
“Because Mr. Tinkler didn’t sell the sort of things they’ve been stealing. He liked furniture and mirrors and cut crystal,” Agatha said. “He didn’t deal in jewellery or high-end watches or electronics.”
“Maybe they were after cash,” Roy said.
“Maybe,” Agatha said, then shook her head. “I doubt if Mr. Tinkler would have had much cash on the premises. They wouldn’t have targeted him for that. They’d have got more cash if they’d hit the sandwich shop round the corner.”
“Do we know if anything was actually stolen?” James asked.
“I suppose we won’t know that for sure until there’s some kind of stock check,” Agatha said. “The only thing we know for certain is missing, is my clock. Somehow, that clock holds the key. Find the clock, and we’ll find the killers.”
Early the following morning, Agatha put the final touches to her make-up and checked herself out in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. When she had woken that morning and flung open her curtains, she had been greeted with the sound of birdsong and a blue sky with only a few benign, high-flying fluffy clouds. Spring, it seemed, was finally starting to make its presence felt.
In tribute to the change in the weather, she had chosen a sky-blue suit with a knee-length sheath skirt and paired it with a pale-pink blouse. She had bought the suit some years before on a trip to Paris, shopping in her favourite Rue Saint-Honoré, allowing herself a strict budget, which she had, as always, blown completely in less than an hour. She hadn’t worn this outfit in quite some time and had banished it to the back of a wardrobe when it had started to feel a little too tight. Had she not loved the cut and style of the jacket so much, it would have followed countless other outfits to a charity shop, but she was glad she hadn’t disposed of it, especially as it now seemed to fit her better than ever.
Had she lost some weight? Of course she had! Even last night’s cottage pie couldn’t change that. She turned sideways, straightening her shoulders and sucking in her tummy. She’d been exercising every morning—well, almost every morning. The rolled exercise mat in the corner of the room caught her eye. She had to keep herself trim for her next rendezvous with John. She wanted to look her best in the summery dresses she had bought and to be fit for nights spent dancing and … her eyes wandered over to the bed … for all their other nocturnal activities. She sighed. The image of Mr. Tinkler slumped in the chair in his shop forced its way into her mind. Her reunion with John in Mallorca would have to be cancelled. Finding whoever had murdered Mr. Tinkler was now her top priority.
She stepped across to the bedroom door and opened it to be confronted by Roy, who had just opened the door to the spare bedroom opposite. He was wearing a sky-blue suit teamed with a pale-pink shirt. Even had they been trying, they couldn’t have better matched their outfits.
“Agatha!” He beamed. “Good morning! I … oh…”
“No,” she said, abruptly. “This won’t do. We look like two flight attendants. We have people we need to see today and we can’t meet anyone dressed like this.”
“Ah…” Roy said, his smile fading slightly but quickly returning when he realised this gave him the chance to choose another outfit. “Not to worry! I have the perfect solution! Be with you in a moment.”
Agatha doubted that. It never ceased to amaze her that, when sharing her home and her only bathroom with Roy, he consistently demonstrated that he took even longer to get himself ready than she did.
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said. “You make it snappy.”
Roy took only slightly longer to change than Agatha had hoped, eventually appearing in the kitchen wearing a Prince of Wales checked suit. They drank their coffee, neither mentioning the events of the previous evening, then set off in Agatha’s car for their first appointment of the day.
Talking through their plans for the Great Barfield Extravaganza en route to Barfield House helped Agatha to push the murder of Mr. Tinkler and the disappearance of her clock out of her thoughts. The urgency of the Barfield bash meant it was something they had to keep moving forward. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, using the imminent discussion with Charles as a useful distraction, vowing to focus a fresh, clear mind on avenging Mr. Tinkler once the extravaganza’s wheels were in motion.
The morning sunshine had held, promising that an early Cotswold spring might indeed be on the way, and when Agatha parked her car where Barfield’s long driveway opened up in front of the house, she spotted yellow and purple irises poking their heads through the grass at the edge of the lawn.
They walked up the flight of stairs leading to Barfield’s giant front door and Roy knocked forcefully. He winced, blew on his hand and rubbed it vigorously, having made no noticeable sound rapping on the solid oak, iron-studded door that was several inches thick. Agatha gave him a look of mock sympathy and reached towards the bell-push in the doorframe. Before she could ring it, the door swung open and Gustav stood before them.
“Can I help you?” he asked, with a blank expression, making the question sound neither like an offer of assistance nor any kind of welcome.
“Don’t mess us about, Gustav,” Agatha said, stepping forward. “I’m here to see Charles.”
“I shall endeavour to ascertain whether Sir Charles is at home,” Gustav offered, but Agatha already had one foot over the threshold and brushed past him.
“No need,” she said. “I phoned earlier. We’re expected.”
“Yes, we’re expected,” Roy repeated, breezing past Gustav with an impish grin.
“Tolerated and endured are other words one might use,” Gustav said through gritted teeth.
“Oooooh … miaowwww!” Roy said, turning to make a cat-claw gesture before following Agatha across the grand hall towards the library.
“Aggie, so good of you to come at a time like this,” Charles said, rising from his desk to meet her at the door with a warm hug.
“What do you mean?” she asked, wriggling free and choosing to ignore the “Aggie.”
“Well, you must be devasted by what happened to Mr. Tinkler,” he said.
“How did you know about that already?” Agatha asked suspiciously.
“Front page of the Mircester Telegraph,” Charles explained, retrieving the newspaper from his desk.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Agatha said, scanning the story beneath the headline SAVAGE MIRCESTER MURDER. She hadn’t taken the time to read the papers that morning and had scarcely listened to the radio. She folded the paper and handed it back to Charles, determined not to let the murder dominate her thoughts again.
“If you want to leave our discussions for another day…” Charles offered.
“No, we have time against us, after all,” Agatha said briskly. “It’s business as usual.”
“Does ‘business as usual’ include finding Timothy Tinkler’s murderer?” came the unmistakably reedy tone of Mrs. Tassy. She was standing in the library doorway, her own copy of the Mircester Telegraph tucked under her arm.
“It most certainly does,” Agatha assured her, slightly taken aback by the use of the name “Timothy.” She had never known Mr. Tinkler’s first name. She abandoned any effort at suppressing thoughts of the murder. It was too big a thing to keep shutting it out. “You sound like you knew him.”
“I met him when he was just a young chap,” Mrs. Tassy said, gliding towards her usual armchair by the window. “I attended an antiques fair in St. Jude’s church hall in Carsely. He cautioned me against buying a rather attractive silver dish, which he advised me was silver plate, although it claimed to be solid silver.”
“Just as well,” Gustav said, appearing with a tray of coffee cups. “Sir Charles would probably have flogged it during the hard times along with the rest of the family silver.”
“After that,” said the old lady, “he visited the house on a number of occasions to help in valuing various items, mainly furniture, for insurance purposes. He was a shy little man but quite charming in his own way. Related to the Telford Tinklers, as I understand it.”
“I wish I’d taken the time to get to know him better,” Agatha said. “We’d really only started to become friends.”
“Speaking of friends,” Charles said breezily, determined to change the subject, “bring another cup, would you, Gustav? Claudette will be joining us shortly.”
Right on cue, Claudette Duvivier dashed into the room, throwing her arms around Agatha and kissing her once on each cheek.
“Agatha, you must tell me how are you?” she demanded breathlessly, her melodic French accent desperate with concern. “This has been such an awful thing to have happen.”
“It’s good to see you, Claudette.” Agatha took a step back and looked the young Frenchwoman up and down. She was wearing a simple white polo shirt with the logo of the vineyard she owned in France embroidered neatly on the breast. Her long dark hair hung straight and glossy to her shoulders and her olive skin against the polo shirt gave her the healthy, fresh look of someone who enjoyed being outdoors. “You look fantastic, as always.”
“And you also,” Claudette said, running her fingers down the lapel of Agatha’s jacket. “This is très chic. It is French, non?”
“You two really should join each other’s fan clubs,” Charles said, smiling. “Let’s take a seat and have some coffee. I’d like Claudette to sit in on our discussion, Agatha. She’s been advising on our Château Barfield and fitting in some show-jumping matches at the same time.”
“Events, Charles, not ‘matches,’” Agatha corrected him.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Charles said, waving for Gustav to pour the coffee. “In any case, we have our very own event to talk about.”
Agatha and Roy ran through their thoughts on how the launch for Château Barfield should work, describing the whole extravaganza in detail and passing Charles a schedule for the day.
“This all looks great,” he said, with a slight hesitation. “But food stalls outdoors as well as catering indoors? Steam traction engine rides? Hot-air balloon rides? Would we expect people to pay for these things?”
“We can’t charge for the tethered-balloon experience,” Roy explained, “because special passenger licences would be needed, but we aim to have sponsors covering most of those sorts of costs.”
“People will also be able to make a donation to charity instead of paying for things like that,” Agatha said. “I also want to stage a charity auction later in the day, so we’ll want all of your posh chums with those big country houses to donate items for the auction. All they need do is to have a rummage in the attic, or get their butlers to do it for them.”
Gustav glowered at her through narrowed eyes.
“I’m sure we can persuade people to dust off a few less-loved family heirlooms and whatnot,” Charles said, scanning the schedule. “We’ve got a lot of ideas here. Can you pull it all together in time?”
“We can make it work,” Agatha said, with solid confidence.
“I mean, even with this dreadful Tinkler business?” Charles said.
“We’ll make it happen,” Agatha assured him.
“Then let’s go for it,” Charles said, and they spent the next half an hour talking through the details. Charles’s aunt said nothing at all during the discussion, although Agatha was aware that the old lady was watching her closely. It wasn’t until the conversation drew to a close that she spoke up.
“According to the newspaper, Mrs. Raisin,” she said, “you were the one who found Timothy’s body.”
“I was,” Agatha confirmed, “and I intend to be the one to find his killer.”
“That’s very reassuring,” said Mrs. Tassy. “You’re really rather good at that sort of thing, aren’t you? It’s always heartening to have good people dealing with important matters.”
“That must have been how Lady Juliana felt about William Harrison,” Agatha said, turning to Charles. “She had a good, reliable person there to deal with important matters.”
“Still pondering over that old mystery?” Charles asked.
“You know me, Charles,” Agatha said. “I like to get to the bottom of things.”
“Well, I should imagine Lady Juliana felt hugely relieved to have Harrison working for her,” Charles said. “She needed someone running the estate she could trust implicitly.”
“Did anyone ever check out his story about being abducted and making his way back to England?”
“That would have been very difficult to do,” Charles said. “Clearly whoever kidnapped him and sold him into slavery wouldn’t want to stand up in front of a magistrate and admit to what they’d done. Neither was there any record of him taking passage aboard a ship when he made his way back to England. When his master died, Harrison said he tried to persuade several sea captains to take him, but they all refused. Eventually, he used a golden bowl given to him by his old master to bribe a crewman to help him stow away. The sailor hid him aboard ship and brought him food during the voyage. Once he was in London, of course, he was able to contact people he knew.”
“I see…” Agatha said, frowning. “So the only corroboration of his story starts in London.”
“As far as I know,” said Charles.
They said their goodbyes, Claudette insisting on meeting Agatha for lunch at some point before she had to return to her estate in the Gironde.
Mrs. Tassy stood beside her nephew, watching Agatha’s car disappear down the avenue of rhododendrons leading to the main gate.
“Well, Charles, you must be feeling very pleased with yourself,” she said quietly.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Mrs. Raisin has taken your bait. She is now busier than ever with a real murder to solve on top of that old Campden Wonder mystery.”
“Yes, she made a point of asking about that, didn’t she?” Charles smiled and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. “She’s like a dog with a bone. Several bones, it now appears, and she won’t leave any of them alone. We’re going to be seeing a lot more of her here over the next few weeks—and here is just where I want her.”
“You should be careful of your fingers,” Gustav said gravely, while gathering the coffee cups onto a tray. “I believe that’s the customary advice to offer little boys who play with fire.”
Claudette, standing unnoticed in the doorway after waving Agatha off, turned without saying a word and made her way upstairs to her room.
Agatha bustled into the office, accepting the usual armful of paperwork from Helen and asking her to book a meeting with Martin Randall at his auction house. Roy reminded her that they were going out to meet two potential sponsors and the president of the local vintage-vehicle society that afternoon, and Toni followed her to her room.
“Bill Wong will be round to see you shortly,” she said, “and I’ve arranged for us to see Stuart Sculley from the security company tomorrow morning. Patrick is on the first night patrol this evening with one of his old police pals, Simon is keeping an eye on Mrs. Parker and I’ve almost finished those background checks.”
“Excellent,” Agatha said. “I’m sending you an image of a man who stuck another one of those ridiculous riddle notes through my door.”
“You’ve had another one?” Toni looked alarmed.
“Don’t worry, Toni, it’s all a load of nonsense,” Agatha said, “but if you can print out his picture, everyone can keep their eyes peeled for the little toad. Maybe you can show it to people in the pub across the lane, too. Somebody might recognise him.”
“Okay,” Toni said. “I was going to ask to take a look at their security-camera footage as well. They might have images of whoever went into Mr. Tinkler’s shop…”
“Good idea,” Agatha agreed. “Bill will already have asked them for it, but they’re bound to have a copy we can take a look at.”
Agatha busied herself with paperwork and phone calls for the next hour or so until Bill Wong knocked lightly on her door. She welcomed him in and they sat down to talk.
“Does Wilkes know you’re here?” Agatha asked. “He really doesn’t want us speaking to each other.”
“I know, but you’re an important witness and you had something stolen from the shop. Do you have a photograph of the clock?”
“I wish I did. It was gone when I went down to the shop yesterday evening and…” She paused, the image of Mr. Tinkler in the armchair flashing back into her mind.
“Okay, we’ll go with the description that you gave to Wilkes for now,” Bill said quickly, “and maybe the auction house will have a photo if they put it in a catalogue. Now, Toni told me when I arrived that you’ve had another note.”
“Yes,” Agatha said with a sigh, hauling her handbag out of her desk drawer and finding the “Who Am I?” riddle for Bill.
“Have you any idea at all who might be writing these?”
“No, but I’ve got a picture of him,” Agatha said, waving Toni into the room, who delivered a couple of prints of the security-camera image before leaving again.
“Can’t say I recognise him,” Bill said, “but I’ll ask Toni to send me the image and I can spread it around to see if anyone knows him.”
“You shouldn’t waste time on this moron, Bill. We need to concentrate on Mr. Tinkler’s murder.”
“No, ‘we’ do not,” Bill said. “You are much too close to this, Agatha. Officially I have to warn you to leave the murder investigation to the police.”
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially…” Bill spread his arms in exasperation, then shook his head, smiling in resignation. “Unofficially, I know you’ll do exactly as you want. Just keep me informed and stay out of Wilkes’s way.”
Having spent the afternoon in Barfield meetings with Roy, Agatha returned to the office alone, Roy taking off to visit his friend Tamara, who ran riding stables near Blockley. Working late, Agatha eventually walked out into the main office to find Toni the only one still there. They decided to pop into the King Charles for a drink before going home, chatting as they walked down the stairs to the gloom of the old lane, where the woefully inadequate streetlights cast ripples of shadow across the cobbles.
Agatha was surprised to see that the police tape had gone from around the antiques shop, which stood in darkness. Turning to Toni to mention the missing tape, she saw a grey van roaring up the deserted lane, screeching to a halt beside them. A side door slid open and a masked man dressed entirely in black leaped out, grabbing hold of Toni from behind. Agatha lunged forward to help Toni fight him off but the driver of the van was suddenly there, wrapping one arm round her waist and clamping his gloved hand over her mouth.
Toni screamed, dropped her handbag then flung back her head, making solid contact with her attacker’s nose.
Agatha struggled against her own opponent, wrenched her head to one side, felt a finger across her mouth and bit it as hard as she could while stamping down with her leg, driving the high heel of her shoe like a spike into the bridge of her assailant’s foot. He roared in pain and Agatha pushed herself away from him.
Toni wriggled free from her dazed attacker, turning and swinging her leg in one swift movement, kicking him hard in the groin. He doubled over with a wheezing whimper, falling back into the van. The antiques shop’s lights came on and the van driver immediately hopped back behind the wheel, gunning the engine, the van then careering off down the lane.
“Snakes and bastards!” Agatha gasped, breathing hard, her hands on her knees. “Toni … you okay?”
“I think so,” Toni replied, out of breath and crouching to pick up her handbag.
“Mrs. Raisin,” came a man’s voice. “Please do come inside.”
A sudden chill seeped down Agatha’s spine, leaving her frozen with horror. Standing on the pavement in the yellow light of the shop window was Mr. Tinkler!