Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [59]
Owen Trump was at home. He gave them a supercilious glare when he saw who was standing outside his door.
“We want to ask you a few questions,” said Agatha.
“If there are any questions to answer, I will speak to the police. Now, go away.”
“All right,” said Agatha. “We’ll go straight to the police now and tell them about your dinner with Jessica Bradley at the Pheasant.”
He had half closed the door. He opened it wide again and said, “You’d better come in.”
I can practically see the wheels turning in his brain, thought Agatha. The living room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and there were empty beer cans on the coffee table.
“It’s like this,” began Owen. “Oh, do sit down.”
Agatha and Patrick sat down on a battered sofa. He took an armchair opposite. He steepled his fingers and gave a stagey little sigh. “I was worried about Jessica’s school work. She used to be such a brilliant pupil. I thought if I took her out for a quiet meal somewhere, I could find out why her work had been falling off.”
“Did you call for her at her home?”
“Well, no. I thought something in her home life might be to blame. I arranged to meet her on the steps of the abbey in Mircester. She looked much older. She was wearing a lot of make-up and had her hair up.”
“And what did you find out when you weren’t complaining about the wine?” asked Patrick.
He flushed angrily. “I had every reason to complain. I know my wines. I have a very good palate.”
Agatha and Patrick looked pointedly at the beer cans on the table. “It’s a ridiculously pretentious restaurant.”
“Does your head teacher know that you were allowing a pupil to drink wine?”
“It was only one glass. I mean, children drink wine in France.”
“This is not France.”
He stood up. “Get out of here, you moralizing old bag.”
Agatha stood up as well and her hip gave a nasty twinge. Old, indeed. Her face flamed with anger.
She stalked out followed by Patrick. “Why didn’t you ask him more questions?” asked Patrick. “I mean, he might have known more about her affair with Burt.”
“Jessica wasn’t having an affair with Burt. She was a virgin, remember?”
Agatha pulled out her phone. “Who are you calling?”
“The police.”
“We won’t operate very well as a detective agency if you keep handing over every lead we have to the police.”
But Owen had called Agatha old and she was out for revenge. Bill Wong wasn’t there, so she asked for Wilkes. For once he sounded pleased with her.
“Excellent,” he said. “We’ll get on to it right away.”
Agatha told Patrick they should take the rest of the weekend off and start again on Monday. Patrick’s normally lugubrious face looked even more disapproving than usual.
“I’ll still try to see what I can find,” he said.
Agatha went home and entered her cottage. There was no sign of Charles. She went up to the spare room. His bag was gone.
She trailed downstairs in the morning feeling lonely. She went out into the garden, followed by her cats, and sat down. The day had so far been showery, but now puffy white clouds raced across a sky of washed-out blue. The leaves on the trees were already turning a darker green. All too soon it would be the longest day and then the nights would start drawing in, reminding Agatha of her age and the passing of time. She went through to her office and began working on the notes on her computer.
A ring at the front doorbell roused her from her gloomy thoughts. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I called round to find out how your cases were going,” she said.
“Come in,” said Agatha, glad of the company. “We can go into the garden.”
“Where is Charles?” asked Mrs. Bloxby, looking around.
“He saw some girl from the office window and went scuttling off. His bag’s gone.”
“He’ll be back. He comes and goes. So what has been happening?”
“It’s all very complicated. There are three murders