Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [27]
“I haven’t noticed men queuing up to get you into bed.”
They were just glaring at each other when the doorbell rang.
Agatha went to answer it and found Mrs. Mabel Smedley standing on the doorstep.
“Come in,” said Agatha.
She led Mabel into the kitchen. Charles wandered off into the sitting room.
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Please sit down. You must be very upset.”
Mabel did not look upset. She was dry-eyed and composed. Agatha sat down opposite, reached for her cigarettes and then decided against smoking.
“It’s like this,” said Mabel. “My husband has been poisoned at work. The police have been questioning me all day—as if I had anything to do with it! I want you to find out who killed my husband.”
“Very well,” said Agatha. “I will get Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Now, did he have any enemies?”
“No, everyone loved Robert.”
Agatha gave a little sigh. “Look, I do not want to add to your grief, but I cannot envisage everyone loving Mr. Smedley. I mean, someone must have hated him enough to poison him. Do they know how the poison was administered?”
“In his morning coffee.”
“And who took him his coffee?”
“His secretary, Joyce Wilson.”
“Does Joyce have red hair?”
“Yes.”
“I saw Joyce with your husband in Bath last Sunday.”
Did her eyes glint a fraction? But she said in an even voice, “Robert told me about that. Poor Joyce had been to visit her mother.”
“So he wasn’t having an affair?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He was devoted to me—so much so that he employed you to spy on me.”
“And that didn’t make you angry?”
“I thought it was rather sweet. Do you know there’s smoke pouring out of your oven?”
“Blast!” Agatha shot to her feet and switched it off and then opened the back door to dispel the smoke. She normally microwaved her meals but had found that the lasagne she had bought for dinner was of the kind that needs to be cooked in the oven.
“Mrs. Smedley …”
“Mabel, please.”
“Right, then, Mabel. My assistant noticed you had a bad bruise on your arm.”
She gave a merry little laugh. Agatha was suddenly sure that merry little laugh had been well rehearsed. “I’m very clumsy. I’m always banging into things.”
“We’ll leave that for a moment. How do you wish me to start?”
“I own the company. I shall sell it, of course. I have told the staff to be prepared to be interviewed by you.”
“I’ll start with Joyce. Surely she is under suspicion since she gave him the coffee.”
“No, she says she took a new jar out of the cupboard. It was instant coffee. He always took four lumps of sugar in his coffee and I think that must have been what masked the taste of the poison.”
“I’ll try to start tomorrow, but the police will be swarming all over the place.”
Mabel rose to her feet. “I will leave you to it. Do your best. Robert’s murderer must not go unpunished.”
“Have you got Joyce’s address?”
She opened her handbag and took out a notebook. “I’ll write it down for you.” Agatha gave her a piece of paper and a pen.
“I might try her home tomorrow,” said Agatha. “She might decide to stay away from work.”
Agatha saw Mabel out and then went into the sitting room where Charles was sprawled in front of the television.
“This lack of curiosity is not like you.”
“She made a bit of a fool of me, so I’m prejudiced. I listened at the door. She did it. Must have. All this business of ‘Find the murderer of my husband’ is just a blind.”
“I don’t know. I’ll be interested to see what this Joyce has to say for herself.”
“I’ll come with you. I’m bored.”
“I won’t need photos. I’ll phone Phil now and tell him to hitch up with Harry.”
She dialled Phil’s mobile. When he answered, she could hear thudding music in the background.
“Where are you?”
“At the disco with Harry.”
“You’ll stick out like a sore thumb!”
“They don’t know I’m with him. I said I was taking photos for the local paper. The faces might come in handy.”
“Can you go outside? I can barely hear you.”
“Right.”
She told Phil about Mrs. Smedley’s visit, ending