The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [33]
Roy’s boss, on hearing that he was going to visit Agatha, had suggested that he try to lure her back to London to do some freelance work. Roy knew he could take Emma out for a slap-up lunch and put it on his expense sheet as having entertained Agatha.
They drove into Oxford and parked at the Randolph Hotel.
He hoped people would think Emma was his mother. She looked such a lady. She looked like the type of woman one always wanted one’s mother to look like on school sports day. He remembered his own mother with a shudder. She’d been such a coarse, powerful woman.
Over lunch, Emma began a tale of her miserable life. Most of Emma’s life had indeed been pretty miserable, but a lot of it had been self-inflicted. She had taken revenge on people who had upset her at the office by spreading false rumours about them. She had nearly lost her job once. A pretty secretary had been rising up the ranks fast. She was popular with everyone. In a fit of spite, Emma had squeezed a tube of Superglue over the keyboard of her computer after erasing all the girl’s files.
As some of the files contained classified documents, the police forensic department had been called in. Emma had worn gloves, but someone had seen her coming out of the girl’s office, and although nothing could be proved against her, she had ended her years at the Ministry of Defence under a cloud. She still felt that it had been an extraordinary fuss about nothing. The files had been restored from the hard drive and a new keyboard found.
But of course she did not tell Roy about that particular crime. Roy listened, fascinated. Although Emma had been only a secretary, she told Roy that she had been a spy, sent to different countries on dangerous missions. She invented several colourful stories.
Then she realized that if Roy told Agatha or Charles anything about these stories, she might not be believed, and so she said, “Please don’t tell Agatha or Charles anything about my secret life. I shouldn’t have told you. But you are such a good listener, and”—she giggled—”such a very attractive young man.”
Roy beamed. He wished he had worn his white suit.
SIX
“WE’RE in luck,” said Charles. “God bless the Asians. He’s got a surgery at two o’clock this afternoon. We’ll have a quick bite to eat. How are we going to handle this? Ask him outright? Or are you going to pretend to be ill and then drop it into the conversation?”
“Ask him outright. I’ll phone Roy. I feel guilty about him.” Agatha rang her home number but there was no reply.
They had a sandwich in a pub and then went back to the surgery. There were already five people waiting. Agatha went up to the receptionist and handed her card over. “We would like a few words with Dr. Singh.”
The receptionist was an enormous woman. Her thighs spilled over the typing chair. Her huge bosom cast a shadow over the keyboard in front of her. Her head was surprisingly small despite triple chins. Agatha guessed she could not be any more than thirty yearsold. Her appearance conjured up memories of a seaside holiday where one got one’s photograph taken by sticking one’s head through a life-sized cardboard cut-out of the fairground’s fat lady.
“You’ll need to wait until all the patients have been seen to,” she said. “Take a seat.”
So they did and waited and waited. Agatha tried to contact Roy several times, phoning Roy’s mobile phone as well as her own home number, but failing each time to get a reply.
At last they were told that Dr. Singh would see them. Dr. Singh was a small neat man, dark-skinned, wearing glasses and a white coat, as thin as his receptionist was fat.
“I have already spoken to the police,” he began. “I see you are a private detective, Mrs. Raisin. I assume you wish to ask about the sleeping pills I was supposed to have prescribed.”
“Yes,” said Agatha eagerly.
“Mr. Harrison Peterson was a temporary patient. He suffered from high blood pressure. I prescribed high blood pressure pills. The police showed me the bottle. Someone had carefully