The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [80]
“There’s Mr. Witherspoon in the village. He’s an expert cameraman and so good with computers and things.”
“I know Mr. Witherspoon. He must be about a hundred.”
“Come now. He’s only seventy-six and that’s quite young these days.”
“It’s not young. Come on. Seventy-six is creaking.”
“Why not go and see him? He lives in Rose Cottage by the school.”
“No.”
Mrs. Bloxby’s normally mild eyes hardened a fraction. Agatha said hurriedly, “On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt me to go along for a chat.” Agatha Raisin, who could face up to most of the world, crumpled before the slightest suggestion of the vicar’s wife’ s displeasure.
Rose Cottage, despite its name, did not boast any roses. The front garden had been covered in tarmac to allow Mr. Witherspoon to park his old Ford off the road. His cottage was one of the few modern ones in Carsely, an ugly redbrick two-storeyed affair. Agatha, who knew Mr. Witherspoon only by sight, was prepared to dislike someone who appeared to have so little taste.
She raised her hand to ring the doorbell but it was opened and Mr. Witherspoon stood there. “Come to offer me a job?” he said cheerfully.
Much as she loved Mrs. Bloxby, in that moment Agatha felt she could have strangled her. She hated being manipulated and Mrs. Bloxby appeared to have done just that.
“I don’t know,” said Agatha gruffly. “Can I come in?”
“By all means. I’ve just made coffee.”
She telephoned him as soon as I left. That’s it, thought Agatha. She followed him into a room made into an office.
It was impeccably clean and ordered. A computer desk stood at the window flanked on either side with shelves of files. A small round table and two chairs dominated the centre of the room. On the wall opposite the window were ranks of shelves containing a collection of cameras and lenses.
“Sit down, please,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “I’ll bring coffee.”
He was an average-sized man with thick grey hair. His face was not so much lined as crumpled, as if one only had to take a hot iron to it to restore it to its former youth. He was slim.
No paunch, thought Agatha. At least he can’t be a boozer.
He came back in a short time carrying a tray with the coffee things and a plate of scones.
“Black, please,” said Agatha. “May I smoke?”
“Go ahead.”
Well, one good mark so far, thought Agatha. “I’ll get you an ashtray,” he said. “Have a scone.”
When he was out of the room, Agatha stared at the plate of scones in sudden suspicion. She picked up one and bit into it. Mrs. Bloxby’s scones. She would swear to it. Once again, she felt manipulated and then experienced a surge of malicious glee at the thought of turning him down.
He came back and placed a large glass ashtray next to Agatha.
He sat down opposite her and said, “What can I do for you?”
“Just a social call,” said Agatha.
A flicker of disappointment crossed his faded green eyes.
“How nice. How’s the detective business?”
“Not much work at the moment.”
“That’s odd. There’s so much infidelity in the Cotswolds, I would have thought you would have enough to keep you busy.”
“I don’t do divorce cases any more.”
“Pity. That’s where the money is. Now, take Robert Smedley over in Ancombe. He’s very rich. Electronics company. Madly jealous. Thinks his wife is cheating on him. Pay anything to find out.”
They studied each other for a long moment. I really need the money, thought Agatha.
“But he hasn’t approached me,” she said at last.
“I could get him to.”
Agatha had a sizeable bank balance and stocks and shares. But she did not want to become one of those sad people whose lifetime savings were eaten up by trying to run an unsuccessful business.
She said tentatively. “I need someone to do bugging and camera work.”
“I could do that.”
“It sometimes means long hours.”
“I’m fit.”
“Let me see, this is Sunday. If you could have a word with this Mr. Smedley and bring him along to the office tomorrow, I’ll get my Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Shall we say a month’s trial?”
“Very well, you won’t be disappointed.”
Agatha rose to her feet and as a parting