The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [32]
Jason is in Bermuda, although he’s probably heading back by now. Laggat-Brown has a cast-iron alibi. Who’s left?”
“Someone we don’t know about,” suggested Charles. “Might be an idea to get hold of Harrison Peterson’s wife.”
“I could phone Patrick,” said Agatha reluctantly. “But I told him to take a rest.”
“You could see if he’s dug up anything else and then he can rest while we do something about it,” said Charles.
Roy shifted uneasily in his chair. He resented the appearance of Charles, although he knew him of old. This was supposed to his weekend with Agatha.
“While you make your phone calls,” he said. “I’ll take a walk down the village.”
“Right,” said Agatha. “I’ll phone Patrick.”
Roy nipped upstairs and changed out of his white suit into an old pair of jeans, checked shirt and moccasins. He could see no reason to waste the glory of his best wardrobe on what he waspishly damned as “a bunch of sheep-shaggers.”
He was just strolling past the cottage next door when Emma, who had been pretending to weed her front garden, called out, “Are you visiting Agatha?”
“Yes,” said Roy, “but she’s got phone calls to make and I’m feeling bored.”
“Why don’t you come in and we’ll sit in my garden and have coffee.”
Roy brightened. “Just until she’s finished with her phone calls.”
He followed her through her cottage, looking about him as he passed through the living room. It had changed a lot since the days of James Lacey, Agatha’s ex. Where James had walls lined with books, Emma had shelves of ornaments: china cats, little pottery houses and glass animals. The wood-burning fire now had an electric fire with fake logs in front of it. A sofa and armchairs were covered in chintz. Roy thought it all charming.
“Now sit down,” said Emma brightly when they were in the garden, “and Ell fetch the coffee. Ell just move this umbrella so that you’re in the shade. It is rather hot.”
Nice old bird, thought Roy, stretching his feet out on the grass.
Agatha came back from the phone. “He’s working on the wife’s address, but I’ve got the doctor’s. It’s a Dr. Singh in Cheltenham. His surgery’s in Portland Lane just off the old Bath Road.”
“He won’t be there on Saturday. He might have an emergency surgery on Saturday mornings, but it’ll be over by now. You think someone else got these sleeping pills masquerading as Peterson?”
“Far-fetched, I know,” said Agatha, “but I’d like to check it out. I’m hungry. I’ll make us something to eat.”
“No, you don’t. Last time I was here it was the Swami’s extra-hot curry done in the microwave. We’ll get something in Cheltenham.”
“All right. We’ll drive round the village and pick up Roy.”
But there was no sign of the young man. He was not in the Red Lion or in the general stores or anywhere walking along the cobbled sun-baked streets.
“Let’s just go without him,” said Agatha.
“You’d better leave a note,” said Charles. “You’ve got a nasty way of cutting out your friends when it suits you.”
Agatha opened her mouth to apologize to Charles for having left him when she had gone with Patrick for lunch, but the apology died on her lips.
They drove back to Lilac Lane where Agatha scribbled a note for Roy and propped it on the kitchen table against a jar of instant coffee.
“I’d better get back,” Roy was saying reluctantly. “Maybe they’ve found out the address of that doctor.”
“What doctor’s that?” asked Emma.
“Well, Harrison Peterson took an overdose of sleeping pills, so they want to check up and make sure he really got them for himself.”
Emma saw her chance. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I am a detective, too.”
“Good idea,” said Roy. Emma had mothered him and fussed over him, something, he thought, that Agatha Raisin should learn how to do.
They went next door. There was no answer to the doorbell. Agatha had completely forgotten that Roy did not have a key.
Roy turned round. “Her car’s here but his has gone. I must say that’s a bit thick. And I’m hungry. Tell you what, I’ll take you for lunch.”
Emma brightened. This young man was obviously attracted to much older women. Although her heart