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“She doesn’t wear make-up. Now what do I do?”

“Haven’t you anyone else you could put on the case?”

“I’ve re-employed Patrick Mulligan. She doesn’t know him. He’s working on the Jessica Bradley case. We could switch.”

“So you’ve re-employed Patrick. I thought you were cutting back on expenses.”

“I’d forgotten the golden rule of business and that’s to put money in to get money out. It looks, however, as if Mabel Smedley is a lot sharper than we thought.”

Charles’s mobile rang. He muttered an excuse and hurried outside.

Phil came up and Agatha told him about Mabel spotting them. “I don’t know how she did it,” he said. “I mean, she’s not the suspicious type and all the ladies here think she’s a perfect paragon. Works so hard for good causes …”

“And never was heard a discouraging word,” said Agatha. “Let’s get back to the office, Phil. We’d better put Patrick on it.”

“But what about photographs?”

“We’ll go on to the Jessica case. If Patrick digs up anything worth photographing, he can let us know.”

Charles came back. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Remember my date who didn’t show up? She’s phoned to apologize. Her dog died and she was too distraught to get in touch with me.”

“I’ll drop you back at the cottage,” said Agatha, “and you can collect your car.”

She felt like snapping at Charles on the road back to Carsely. It was not as if she were jealous of this girl, she told herself. It was just annoying the way he dropped in and out of her life, using her cottage as a sort of hotel.

After Charles had collected his bags and left, Agatha felt the old wave of loneliness descend on her. Then she remembered Roy would be coming at the weekend and set out for the office feeling slightly more cheerful.

Before she left her cottage, she had phoned Patrick about the new arrangement. He was waiting for her when she arrived and listened intently as she outlined the case.

“Nobody’s that perfect,” he said. “I think she found out that her husband had employed you. I think I know how she found out.” His eyes slid to where Mrs. Freedman was tapping away at the keys on the computer.

Agatha stared in amazement. “Mrs. Freedman. Stop work for a moment. Did you tell anyone that Robert Smedley had hired us to spy in his wife?”

Mrs. Freedman was a plump, placid lady with tightly curled grey hair, a pleasant face and thick glasses. A tide of red went up from her neck and covered her face.

“Do you remember the Boggles?”

“Can I ever forget them?” said Agatha. The Boggles were an elderly couple who had lived in Carsely and had demanded outings and treats from the members of the ladies’ society with ruthless energy. Agatha had heaved a sigh of relief when they had relocated to a nursing home in Broadway.

“Paid them a little visit and they were asking about things. I didn’t think there would be any harm in telling them.”

“Harm?” raged Agatha. “They’d be on the phone as soon as you had left. You must never discuss anything that goes on here with anyone.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. They looked so old and frail. I never believed for a moment they would phone anyone or tell anyone. I mean, they said that no one ever visited them.”

“That’s that,” said Patrick. “She’s not going to do anything now that she knows we’re on to her. Better tell Smedley.”

“No, not yet,” said Agatha slowly. “If there’s anything to find out about her, it happened before, and that’s what you’ve got to dig up.”

“Do you want me to leave?” asked Mrs. Freedman in a quavering voice.

“Oh, go on with what you’re doing,” said Agatha.

The door opened and a young man slouched in. He had a shaven head, a nose stud, earrings and was dressed all in black—black T-shirt under a black leather jacket and black leather trousers. His face was set in a truculent sneer. He had blue eyes, a sharp nose and a long mouth.

“Hi,” he said and slumped down on the sofa.

“My nephew, Harry Beam,” said Mrs. Freedman.

For a moment, Agatha was lost for words. She had imagined the nephew would turn out to be a bright, clean-cut young man.

“So this is your gap year?” Agatha finally