The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [34]
“So it must have been murder,” said Charles.
Outside, Agatha said excitedly, “So the case is open again. How did the murderer get him to take the sleeping pills?”
“Can’t think. I wonder what the results of the autopsy were,” said Charles as they walked to the car-park. “I mean, he may not have taken sleeping pills. He knew his killer. No sign of forced entry. They have a drink. The murderer doctors Peterson’s drink with that date-rape drug, whatever it’s called, and then, when he passes out, smothers him with a pillow or pinches his nostrils and then sets the scene.”
“You know what this means? We’re back at the beginning,” mourned Agatha, “and I don’t know where to start.”
“Phone Patrick and see if he’s got an address for the wife.”
Agatha phoned Patrick and told him what they had found out. Then Charles heard her say excitedly, “You’ve found the wife? Where is she? Hang on a minute.”
Holding the phone under her ear, she took a notebook and pen out of her bag and wrote something down. “I’ll go and see her,” said Agatha. “The murderer was obviously someone that Peterson knew.”
When she rang off, she said to Charles, “She’s living in Telegraph Road in Shipston-on-Stour.”
“I think we should go back and get Roy,” said Charles cautiously. “He must be feeling a bit neglected.”
“I’ll try him again,” said Agatha. Again she tried her home number and Roy’s mobile phone number without success.
“He’s not sitting waiting for us,” she said. “Let’s just go and see this wife. It won’t take long.”
“It’s too bad of Agatha to leave you like this,” Emma was saying.
Roy shrugged. “She might have been trying to phone me but I left my mobile on the table beside the bed.”
“Why don’t you phone her?”
“I forget her mobile number all the time. Now that’s in my address book on the table beside the bed as well. You don’t have it, do you?”
Emma had one of Agatha’s cards with both home and mobile number on it. If she gave it to Roy, Agatha might come back with dear Charles. On the other hand, the longer she stayed away and the angrier Roy got, the more Agatha would be shown up in a bad light. Anything that might disaffect Charles as well was all to the good.
Roy was sitting in Emma’s living-room. He glanced out of the window and saw Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, walking past.
He shot up. “Mrs. Simpson. Ed forgotten about her. She’ll have a key.”
He rushed out, followed by Emma.
An hour later, at Moreton-in-Marsh station, Roy said, “You’ve been awfully kind to me, Emma. No, don’t bother walking over the bridge with me.” He kissed her on the cheek.
The opposite platform across the bridge was already full of people waiting for the London train. Clutching his travel bag, Roy strode off towards the bridge, thinking that anyone watching would be sure that Emma was his mother.
Emma watched him go and felt a little frisson of delightful naughtiness. She felt sure anyone watching would think that Roy was her young lover.
“Here’s Telegraph Road and a convenient car-park.” Charles turned into the car-park and stopped.
Agatha opened the passenger door and got out, wincing slightly as she did so.
“Rheumatism?” asked Charles.
“No,” snapped Agatha. “Just a slight cramp.”
Agatha had been aware for several weeks now of a naggingpain in her hip. But her mind shrieked against the very idea of her having rheumatism or arthritis. Those were ailments of the elderly, surely.
Joyce Peterson lived in a small cottage that leaned slightly towards the road.
Agatha’s hand hovered over the bell. “I wonder why she wasn’t invited to her son’s engagement party.”
“Ring the bell,” said Charles. “You’ll never find out if you don’t ask.”
“Why do I never phone first?” mourned Agatha.
“Because you’re an amateur.” Charles’s voice had an unfamiliar edge to it.