"Oh, no," said James, horrified. "Surely it was an accident?"
"Why decide to clean a gun in the middle of the night, and the night after your visit?" said Bill wearily. "It's dangerous to interfere with police work."
James glanced sideways at Agatha's stricken face. "Look," he said, "we were about to give you all this information anyway. So what would happen? You would start with the health farm and then you would call on Sir Desmond. Would you think of asking them to describe the woman who said she was Lady Derrington? No, you would not. So you would have approached him and he would know his wife was going to find out all about it and the result would have been the same."
"We thought of that. But Maddie pointed out that a visit from the police might not have tipped the balance of his mind the way the appearance on the scene of what appeared to be a couple of blackmailers would do."
"Maddie says, Maddie says," jeered Agatha tearfully. "You think the sun shines out of her arse!"
There was a shocked silence. Agatha turned red.
"Go upstairs and put some make-up on or something," said James quietly. When Agatha had left the room, he said to Bill, "Agatha heard an unfortunate conversation between you and Maddie in the pub in Mircester. The toilets are behind where you were both talking. Maddie was manipulating you into calling on us to find out if we knew anything. I gather her remarks about Agatha were pretty insulting. Had Agatha not been so badly hurt and had I not sympathized with her, we might have told you all this earlier. Friendship," said James sententiously, "is a valuable thing. All you had to say to Maddie was that you would be calling on us anyway as part of your investigations. Do you not feel she is using you to find out extra facts which might help her to solve the case?"
"No," said Bill hotly. "Not a bit of it. She is a hardworking and conscientious detective."
"Oh, really? Well, let's return to the question of Sir Desmond's death. His wife held the purse-strings. So how did he manage to pay out this five hundred a month, if that was blackmail money and not some money to a young mistress, without his wife finding out?"
"He had a monthly income from Lady Derrington's family trust. It was generous, but Sir Desmond had quite an extravagant life-style in a quiet way. Hunting, for example, takes a bit of money, not to mention the shirts from Jermyn Street and the suits from Savile Row. Lady Derrington never checked his bank account. It was overdrawn each month. That came as a surprise to her."
"So I gather you insensitive cops put her wise to the mistress. How did Lady Derrington take it?"
"Coldly. She said, 'Silly old goat'."
"And who was this charmer who seduced Sir Desmond?"
"A secretary from the House of Commons, secretary to an MP friend of Sir Desmond's. We're trying to get her. She's on holiday in Barbados at the moment. Called Helen Warwick. Not young. Blonde, yes, but in her forties."
"Married?"
"No."
"So no blackmail there?"
"We'll need to wait and see. She is a respectable lady and might not want to feature in a divorce case. Look, I'd better talk to Agatha. Things overheard are always worse than things said direct."
"Leave it for the moment," said James curtly. "I'll speak to her."
"Well, don't do any more detecting without telling me. In fact, don't do any detecting at all."
Bill left and climbed into the car beside Maddie. "Well, did you tell that interfering pair what you thought of them?" she asked.
"I was the one that was made to feel guilty. Agatha overheard a conversation between us in the pub where you were urging me to sound them out to see what they knew and she also heard some of your unflattering remarks."
"Serves her right." Maddie shrugged.
For the first time, Bill's mind made a separation between lust and love. For a brief moment, he wondered if he even liked Maddie, but when she crossed her legs in their sheer black stockings, lust took over and rationalized all his feelings back into romance.
Agatha came back into the living-room and said in a weary voice, "Has he gone?"
"Yes, and very guilty about having hurt you, too." James surveyed Agatha. Her face was scrubbed free of make-up and she was wearing an old sweater and a rather baggy skirt and flat heels. He had always considered privately that women did not need to plaster their faces with make-up, but he found himself missing the Agatha of the high heels, make-up, French perfume and ten-denier stockings. He had not forgiven her for having made such a fool of him on the wedding day. Somewhere in his heart he knew he would never forgive her and therefore he did not want to get romantically involved with her again, but he did not like to see her so down and crushed.
"Bill has asked us to butt out, as usual," said James, "but I say, let's go on with it. That'll cheer you up. We'll have an easy day and then try the next on the list, Miss Janet Purvey."
"And have her kill herself?"
"Now, Agatha. Sir Desmond would have been found out anyway and the result would have been the same. Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?"
"I'll see. I promised to go to Ancombe with the Carsely Ladies' Society. We're being hosted by them. They're putting on a revue."
"Well, well, the delights of the countryside. Have fun."
"At the Ancombe Ladies' Society? You must be joking."
"Why go?"
"Mrs. Bloxby expects me to go."
"Oh, in that case..."
Agatha was not religious. Often she thought she did not believe in God at all. But she was superstitious and felt obscurely that divine punishment for the death of Sir Desmond was just beginning when Mrs. Bloxby asked her apologetically if she would mind taking the Boggles over to Ancombe in her car.
"I know, Agatha," said Mrs. Bloxby ruefully, "but we put names in a hat before you came and you got the Boggles. Ancombe isn't far, about five minutes' drive at the most."
"Okay," said Agatha gloomily.
She drove round to the Boggles' home, named Culloden, on the council estate. Like most of the people on the estate, they had bought their house. How could James even think for a moment I would live in a place like this, thought Agatha. It was admittedly a well-built stone house, but exactly the same as all the other houses round about. She stood looking dismally up at it. The door opened and the squat figure of Mrs. Boggle appeared, followed by her husband. "Are you goin' to stand there all day," grumbled Mrs. Boggle, "or are you coming to help me?"
Agatha repressed a sigh and went forward to support the bulk of Mrs. Boggle, who smelt strongly of chips and lavender, towards the car.
They both got in the back while Agatha, chauffeur-like, got into the driving-seat. Mrs. Boggle poked Agatha in the back as she was about to drive off. "Us shouldn't be going with the likes of you," she said. "Poor Mr. Lacey. What a disgrace."
Agatha swung round, her face flaming. "Shut up, you old trout," she said viciously. "Or walk."
"I'll tell Mrs. Bloxby on you," muttered Mrs. Boggle but then relapsed into silence during the drive to Ancombe.
Agatha hoisted the two Boggles from the car outside Ancombe church hall and sent them inside and then went to join Mrs. Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely group, Miss Simms, the secretary, and Mrs. Bloxby. "Shame about you landing them Boggles," said Miss Simms, Carsely's unmarried mother. "Don't worry, I had them last time."