Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [53]
“So the police keep trying to tell me. I still don’t believe it. He was merely kind to her, taking her to Bath to see her mother. He told me all about it, you know.”
“Did you know that the police have proof that Joyce was also having an affair with Burt Haviland?”
“That’s possible. Burt had a bit of a reputation. He probably killed that Jessica girl and someone killed him in revenge.”
“I see your house is up for sale,” said Charles. “I noticed the estate agent’s board on the way in.”
“Yes, I’ve decided to make a clean start. The factory has been sold to another electronics company. It will be up to them if they want to retain the staff.”
“When is your husband’s funeral?”
“Let me see, last Friday.”
“There was nothing in the papers about it.”
“I suppose it’s old news. The police released his body. I had him cremated. That’s him over there.” She pointed at the sideboard. A black um sat on top of it. “I like to have him with me. I talk to him sometimes. But all this chit-chat is surely not helping you find my husband’s murderer.”
“I’m beginning to think it might have been Joyce Wilson,” said Agatha.
“Joyce is a simpleton. Not a bad secretary as secretaries go, but pretty dim.”
“It doesn’t take much intelligence to put weedkiller in a milk bottle.”
“It takes a lot of nerve to stand up under the strain of a murder inquiry. Believe me, if Joyce had done it, she would have burst into tears by now and confessed all.”
“The poor woman’s under a lot of strain herself,” said Charles as they drove off.
“She was as cool as cucumbers.”
“I thought from her body language she was quite rigid. No more cosy cups of coffee either.”
“I’m beginning to think this all leads somehow to Jessica.”
“Could be coincidence. Jessica could just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Then you would think it would’ve been a sex crime. It was made to look like one. An amateur murderer.”
“Or one just playing for time.”
Agatha squinted at her watch. “It’s after six. We couldn’t get near Burt’s neighbours last night because the police were all over the place. Let’s try again.”
But they found there was a mobile police unit set up in the street and policemen were still busy making door-to-door enquiries.
“There’s a pub two streets back,” said Charles. “Go back there. We might find some of the locals talking about the murder.”
The pub was called The Prince of Wales. No brewery had got around to modernizing it. It was dingy with cigarette bums on the green linoleum on the floor. There was a pool table at one end and a row of machines—video computer games and one-arm bandits—at the other.
The pub was quite busy. “Where do we start?” asked Agatha.
“At the bar. Your usual?”
“No, just tonic water.”
Charles ordered a tonic water for Agatha and a Coke for himself. “What are all the police doing around here?” he asked the barman.
“Haven’t you heard? Chap was murdered. Stabbed to death.”
“How awful,” said Agatha. “Does anyone know who did it?”
“Not as far as I know. You could ask Mr. Burden, the chap with the cap over in the comer. He said the police asked him so many questions, he began to feel he’d done it himself.”
“He’s a neighbour?”
“Next-door flat.”
Mr. Burden was sitting alone at a small round table. He was a small neat man in a dark business suit, collar and tie, and with a tweed cap on his head.
“Mr. Burden?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, who wants to know?”
Charles and Agatha sat down next to him. “We’re private detectives working on this murder of Burt Haviland. Did you hear anything?”
“What’s that you’re drinking?” asked Charles.
An empty half-pint glass was in front of Mr. Burden. He brightened visibly. “Very kind of you. I’ll have a double Scotch.”
Charles looked hopefully at Agatha, who refused to meet his gaze. Let him pay for something for once, she thought.
They waited until Charles had returned.
“Now,” said Agatha. “Did you hear anything?”
“I heard him screaming. I know now it must have been him, but at the time I thought it was the telly. Then I heard the door slam and