The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [40]
“The murderer must have been someone Peterson knew,” said Roy, spooning up caviar, and hoping the people walking along Piccadilly on the other side of the large plate-glass window were envying him. “I mean, you didn’t say anything about the door of his room being forced. He must have phoned someone else besides you. How else could anyone have found out? Unless your phone is bugged.”
“You’ve been reading too many spy stories.”
“Believe me, I have recently been talking to a real-life spy, and truth is stranger than fiction.”
“What real-life spy?”
“Oh, just someone I met. I’m not supposed to talk about it. Have they buried the body?”
“I don’t think so. There’ll be another autopsy if the police think anything could have been missed in the first one.”
“Might be worth your while to look into that boyfriend of Joyce Peterson’s. He sounds a violent sort of chap.”
“I might call on her tomorrow when I know he’s out at work. But I don’t think so. I mean, someone had a very sophisticated sniper rifle. You’d almost think someone was being paid to do it.”
“You mean, like a professional assassin?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Can I have lobster?”
“Have anything you like.”
“Emma’s quite a dear, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she turned out to be a very good worker.”
“Hidden depths, there.”
“I don’t think so,” said Agatha Raisin, who prided herself on being a good judge of character. “I think what you see is what you get.”
Emma parked her car in a field near Barfield House that had been turned into a temporary car-park for the day. She was wearing a wide floppy hat and sunglasses, which she considered sufficient disguise.
Stands were briskly selling home-made jams and jellies, cakes, home-made wine, wooden salad bowls, country clothes and second-hand books. There was no entrance fee, but programmes of events cost two pounds each. Emma studied the programme. There were to be choir singing a hundred-yard sprint, wellie throwing, ferret racing, dog and horse judging competitions and various other events. The wellie throwing was new to Emma, but she guessed it would be to see who could throw a Wellington boot the farthest.
Emma felt thirsty and headed towards a large refreshment tent. Her heart beat quickly when she saw Charles. He was sitting at a table near the entrance, selling raffle tickets. She longed to go over to him but was frightened that if he recognized her she would need to think up another lie, and besides, he might tell Agatha she had been at the fete instead of working. She bought a cup of tea and then sat in a corner of the tent and watched him hungrily. It would be marvellous if she were there by his side, greeting people, hanging on to his arm.
A pretty girl came up to Charles. He stood up and kissed her enthusiastically on both cheeks, and then she took his place at the table while Charles went outside.
Emma finished her tea and followed. Charles went up to a platform overlooking a meadow and announced the start of the hundred-yard sprint. Emma stayed and watched while he judged event after event. The sun beat down and her legs began to ache. She turned around to see if there was somewhere she could sit down and keep Charles in view.
And then she saw a fortune-teller’s tent.
Emma was a great believer in astrology, clairvoyants and fortune-tellers. Perhaps Madame Zora could tell her whether there was any hope with Charles.
Madame Zora was Gustav, and Gustav was in a bad temper. Normally fond of his employer, he decided that day that he hated him. The woman from the village who had volunteered to play Madame Zora had fallen ill and Charles had insisted Gustav get dressed up and play the part.
Emma had to wait in a queue. Gustav was a big success. As the day grew hotter and his temper higher, his predictions became more and more bizarre. Word spread around the fete and people became anxious to consult this outrageous fortune-teller.
At last it was Emma’s turn. She pushed aside the flap and walked in. The tent was dark and so she removed her sunglasses. It was delightfully eerie, she thought.