Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [47]
“It’s worse. One of our sales reps has been found murdered.”
“Really?”
“Isn’t it in the paper?”
Harry silently cursed. He hadn’t really been reading the paper. “I was looking for something else. Let me see. You’re right! Here it is. Front page. Oh, you poor thing.”
“I’m so frightened,” said Joyce. “What if someone is out to murder the lot of us?”
“I shouldn’t think so for a moment. Did Mr. Smedley have any enemies?”
“Everybody loved him,” said Joyce and began to cry again.
He waited patiently until she had again recovered and said, “Look, you need something to take your mind off things. I bought two tickets for the production of The Mikado that’s on tonight. But my girlfriend’s just broken off with me. Would you like to come along? Cheer you up. No strings.”
She gave him a watery smile. “I’d like that. I hate being in the house on my own.”
“There you are then. That’s all set. Let me get the bill. No, I insist.” Harry called over the waitress and paid, extracting a note from a wallet stuffed with money. He left a generous tip on the table.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“You don’t know where I live. Or my name. I’m Joyce Wilson.”
“And I’m James Henderson.”
Harry leaned across the table. “Fact is, I feel I’ve known you for ages. What’s the address?”
“More tea, Mr. Witherspoon?”
“Yes, please. Do call me Phil. I must say these sponge cakes of yours are as light as a feather.”
“I like a man with a good appetite.”
Phil had found a particularly flattering photograph of Mabel he had taken at the Ancombe sale of work. It showed Mabel behind the jam counter standing in a shaft of sunlight from the high window above her. The light had cast an aureole around her head. He had used that as an excuse to call on her.
He felt so relaxed and at ease that he did not want to talk about murder. Her sitting room was so pleasant and her baking superb. She was everything he thought a woman should be. He sometimes had to confess to himself that Agatha Raisin could be very intimidating.
But mindful of duty, he asked, “Have you any idea who could have murdered Burt?”
“I’ve been thinking and thinking about it. The only thing is those dreadful videos the police told me about. People who look at things like that on the Internet are sick and dangerous. I think one of his weird customers found out where he was and killed him in a rage.”
“The police are interviewing all the men who checked into the Web site. Maybe they’ll come up with something.”
“Of course, I heard at one of the staff parties that he had a bit of a reputation as a philanderer. Maybe some jilted female.”
“I thought he was deeply in love with Jessica.”
“My dear Phil. If you really love someone you don’t have them cavorting on some dirty Web site.”
“I thought at first that Burt might have killed Jessica, but he had a cast-iron alibi.”
“I really don’t believe in cast-iron alibis. But let’s talk about something else. Tell me about yourself.”
After half an hour, Phil reddened and said apologetically, “You must forgive me. I usually don’t talk about myself much. You are such a good listener.”
“And you are such an interesting man. Do you like Gilbert and Sullivan?”
“Very much.”
“I am on the board of the Mircester Operatic Society. They are putting on The Mikado. Would you like to see it?”
“Very much.”
“If you call here for me at, say, six-thirty, I’ll take you along. I always have tickets left for me at the box office.”
Agatha and Charles had spent an exhausting day interviewing all the neighbours in Burt’s street. She called all the staff into the office for five-thirty. She and Charles planned to go back out when Burt’s immediate neighbours came home from work. She hoped the police had found out where the neighbours worked and had already interviewed them, or they would not appreciate her presence.
“How did you get on?” Agatha asked Phil.
Phil did not want to tell Agatha about his proposed visit to The Mikado. He felt Agatha was jealous of Mabel’s reputation as a domestic paragon. He said he hadn’t got much further except