The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [81]
Outside, realizing she had forgotten to smoke, she lit up a cigarette. That was the trouble with all these anti-smoking people around these days. It was almost as if their disapproval polluted the very air and forced one to light up when one didn’t want to.
Because of the traditions of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, women in the village called each other by their second names. SoMrs. Freedman was Mrs. Freedman even in the office, but Mr. Witherspoon volunteered his name was Phil.
Agatha was irritated when Phil turned up alone, but he said that Robert Smedley would be along later. After he didn’t protest at the modest wages Agatha was offering him, she felt guilty and promised him more if his work should prove satisfactory.
The office consisted of one low-beamed room above a shop in the old part of Mircester near the abbey. Agatha and Mrs. Freedman both had desks at the window: Phil was given Patrick’s old desk against the wall. There was a chintz-covered sofa and a low coffee table flanked by two armchairs for visitors. Filing cabinets and a kettle on a tray with a packet of tea and a jar of instant coffee, milk and sugar cubes made up the rest of the furnishings.
Mr. Robert Smedley arrived at last and Agatha’s heart sank. He looked the sort of man she heartily despised. First of all, he was crammed into a tight suit. It had originally been an expensive one and Mr. Smedley was obviously of the type who would not admit to putting on weight or to spending money to have the suit altered. He had small black eyes in a doughy face shadowed by bushy black eyebrows. His flat head of hair was jet-black. Hair dyes are getting better these days, thought Agatha. Almost looks real. He had a small pursed mouth, “like an arsehole,” as Agatha said later to Mrs. Bloxby, and then had to apologize for her bad language.
“Please sit down,” said Agatha, mentally preparing to sock him with a large fee and get rid of him. “How may I be of help?”
“This is very embarrassing.” Mr. Smedley glared round the small office. “Oh, very well. I think Mabel is seeing another man.”
“Mabel being your wife?” prompted Agatha.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think she might be having an affair?” “Oh, little things. I came home early one day and I heard her singing.”
“Why is that so odd?”
“She never sings when I’m around.”
Can’t blame her for that, thought Agatha sourly.
“Anything else?”
“Last week she bought a new dress without consulting me.”
“Women do that,” said Agatha patiently. “I mean, why would she need your permission to buy a new dress?”
“I choose all her clothes. I’m an important man and I like to see my wife dressed accordingly.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough? I tell you, if she’s seeing someone I want evidence for a divorce.”
In that moment Agatha could have strangled both Phil and Mrs. Bloxby. She had been inveigled into hiring a geriatric all on the promise of this case and now it seemed that Smedley was nothing more than a jealous bully.
So in order to get rid of him, she named a very heavy fee and expenses. He took out his chequebook. “I’ll give you a thousand pounds down and you can bill me for the expenses and for the rest if you are successful.”
Agatha blinked rapidly, thought of her overheads, and accepted the cheque.
When Robert Smedley had left, Agatha said crossly to Phil, “This is all a load of rubbish, but we may as well make the moves. You and I will go over to Ancombe and stake out the house. Have you got your camera?”
“Got a car full of them ,” said Phil cheerfully. “Okay, let’s go.”
Ancombe was only a few miles from Carsely. They quickly found Smedley’s home. It was on the outskirts of the village in a heavily wooded area, perched on a rise. It had originally been a small eighteenth-century cottage built of the local mellow golden stone, but a large extension had been added to the back. Phil parked his car a little way away off the road in the shelter of a stand of trees. He took out a camera with a long telescopic lens.
“I’m slipping,” mourned Agatha.