The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [48]
“That is so,” said Emma, feeling a great calmness descending on her now that the interview had begun.
“Lilac Lane is a dead end and there are only the two cottages in it.”
“Yes.”
“Now, you went to Mrs. Raisin's cleaner and asked for the keys to Mrs. Raisin's cottage. Why?”
“I thought I would save her the time by looking after Agatha's cats myself.”
“You are employed by Mrs. Raisin's detective agency. Why weren't you at work?”
“I had been working very hard and decided to take a day off.”
“But you had also taken the previous day off to go to the fete at Barfield House.”
Emma's calm deserted her. “I did not,” she said in a trembling voice.
“According to both Sir Charles and his manservant, Gustav, you were seen there. The manservant was disguised as Madame Zora. You consulted him.”
“Oh, I should have been working, I know,” said Emma, rallying all her forces, although she was reeling inside from the shock that Gustav had been Madame Zora. “But Charles and I are friends and I happened to be in the area looking for … for a lost dog. The day was fine after the rain. Charles had told me about the fete.”
“Yet you did not approach him.”
“He was very busy. I stayed for a little and then went back to work.”
“It is Sir Charles's opinion that you were stalking him.” Emma suddenly did not care any more what happened toher. “That's ridiculous,” she expostulated. “The vanity of men never fails to surprise me. You make a friendly gesture and they all think you are chasing them.”
“We'll leave that for a moment.” Fother leaned across the table towards her. “So when exactly did you enter Mrs. Raisin's cottage?”
“I didn't,” protested Emma. “I did not have time. Doris claimed the keys back before I had time.”
“Had you seen the dead man before? You joined Mrs. Simpson while she was waiting for the police.”
“No, never.”
“When were you last in Ireland?”
“Fourteen years ago. On holiday. We went to Cork.”
The questioning went on and on while Charles and Agatha waited nervously in the adjoining room.
“This is serious, Aggie,” Charles was saying. “That dead man in your kitchen was connected to the Provisional IRA. He was a hit man. Someone wanted you out of the picture.”
“I can't stop thinking about Emma.” Agatha ran her fingers through her hair. “I mean, do you think she might have tried to poison me?”
“I tried to warn you. There's something not right about her.”
“If she's used rat poison, they'll find traces of it somewhere. Where would she hide it? In her garden?”
“I would think she'd want to get it out of her house and garden and as far away as possible. If it were me, I'd dump it in the woods somewhere—you know, in the undergrowth.
“Anyway,” Charles went on, “what on earth can the Irish connection be? Was Peterson working for them in some capacity, bagman or something?”
“In that case you would think the terrorists would be after whoever killed him.”
After an hour and several cups of bad coffee supplied by a policewoman, their interrogators came back.
Detective Inspector Wilkes took over the interview. When the tape was switched on, he said, “Mrs. Raisin, were you aware that your phone was being bugged?”
“No!” Agatha's eyes widened in shock.
“I want you to tell us all you know about the shooting at the Laggat-Browns.”
Agatha marshalled the facts, leaving out the all-important one that Patrick Mullen had phoned her to tell her where Harrison Peterson was staying and that he wanted to talk.
Questions, and more questions. The day wore on. At last Fother said, “We have arranged a safe house for you, Mrs. Raisin. I suggest, also, that you do not go to your detective agency for the next few days. Sir Charles, I suggest you stay in the safe house with Mrs. Raisin for your own protection. We will call on you tomorrow for further questioning. Before you leave, we would like to check your mobile phones to make sure they are secure. Then tell us what clothes you want us to collect for you.”
While they waited for their phones to be checked, Agatha thought