"Let me see those other photos again." Iris bent her head and went through them. "There," she said triumphantly. "That's the same woman."
James found himself looking at a hard-faced blonde with a thin, aggressive face.
And then, as he stared down at that face, he found himself becoming sure he had seen it before. Agatha had changed amazingly from the days of her youth. People changed. Women changed in middle age, often put on weight.
And suddenly he knew who it was. Let the blonde hair grow out and put on a few stone and you had Mrs. Hardy. Yes, the mouth was the same, and the same hard eyes.
"Oh, my God," he said, "and I've told her to look after Agatha."
"Who?" screeched Roy.
"Mrs. Hardy. That's Mrs. Hardy, our next-door neighbour."
"I told Agatha it was probably her all along," said Roy.
James phoned home. No reply. Then he phoned Mrs. Hardy. The engaged signal. Beginning to sweat, he phoned Bill Wong and talked urgently.
NINE
AGATHA finally decided that if she had a bath and dressed, she might feel better. She soaked for a long time in the bath and then, returning to her room, dressed in a warm sweater and slacks, looking forward to the day when she could return to her cottage and blast the central heating as much as she wanted. James had his central heating system on a timer so that the radiators pushed out two hours' heat in the morning and two in the evening, which Agatha thought mean.
The phone rang. It was Mrs. Hardy. James had said Agatha was ill. Did she want food made or anything?
Agatha was suddenly anxious to get out of the house, even for a short while. "I'd like a cup of coffee," she said. "Be along in a minute."
She let the cats in from the garden, fed them and, putting her cigarettes in her handbag, went out and headed for next door.
It was only when she was inside and ensconced in the kitchen that Agatha regretted having come. All Mrs. Hardy's remarks about the village and the villagers came back into her mind. Also, Agatha began to suspect that Mrs. Hardy not only found her an object of pity but slightly amusing. There was a mocking glint in Mrs. Hardy's eye when she looked at Agatha, although her voice was kind as she gave her a cup of coffee and said, "Here. That's some of the good Brazilian stuff from Drury's. You look truly awful. Are you sure you should be out of bed?"
"Yes, I actually feel better than I look," said Agatha. She cast a proprietorial look about the kitchen. Soon the whole cottage would be hers again.
"What's Mr. Lacey doing in London?" asked Mrs. Hardy.
"Oh, he's not in London. He's at police headquarters in Mircester. He left me a note."
"That's odd. He phoned me and told me to look after you. I did the one-four-seven-one dialling thing as soon as he had hung up. It was a London number."
"Maybe he decided to go on from there," said Agatha.
The phone in the living room rang out. "Excuse me." Mrs. Hardy went to answer it. Agatha heard her say, "No, I haven't seen her today." The phone was replaced. It promptly rang again. Agatha realised with surprise that Mrs. Hardy must have answered it for in the quiet of the cottage she could hear a little tinny voice yapping from the other end and yet Mrs. Hardy said nothing in reply. When Mrs. Hardy came into the kitchen, Agatha said, "There's someone on the line. I can hear the voice from here."
"Oh, it's one of those nuisance calls. Heavy breathing and all." Mrs. Hardy went back and slammed down the receiver and then took the phone off the hook.
"I've just remembered," said Mrs. Hardy. "I have to go out. But stay there and finish your coffee while I go upstairs and get some things."
Agatha nodded and sipped her coffee. Finally, feeling bored, she got up and looked in the kitchen cupboards in a nosy sort of way. Then she slid open the drawers. In one were some photographs. She flipped through them idly and then stared at amazement. She was looking down at the face of her husband, sitting next to a hard-faced blonde woman, somewhere in France at an outdoor cafe.
And then as she looked closer she remembered something about this Mrs. Gore-Appleton having taken Jimmy to the south of France. The face looked familiar. Those eyes with the mocking look, that hard mouth.
She slowly closed the drawer and stood hanging on to the kitchen counter. What fools they had all been. It was so dreadfully simple. Mrs. Hardy was Mrs. Gore-Appleton. It must have been she who recognized Miss Purvey in the cinema that day, even though she had said she was going to London. The mercenary Helen Warwick must somehow have decided to call on James and had spotted Mrs. Gore-Appleton and recognized her. They must have spoken.
Mrs. Gore-Appleton was so changed in appearance that Helen might have said something like, "Aren't you that woman I met at the health farm?" Something like that. And did Mrs. Gore-Appleton try to bribe her? Say she would call on her in London? What was the address? That sort of thing. And Helen might have gone along with it, hoping to make some money.
The sound of Mrs. Gore-Appleton coming down the stairs made Agatha's blood freeze.
Had Agatha not been so disoriented by the fever, which was rising again, she would have done the sensible thing and left immediately and called the police. But a sort of dizzy outrage took hold of her and she said, "Mrs. Gore-Appleton, I presume." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I saw the photo of you and Jimmy in that drawer."
"You truly are a village person, poking your nose into things." Mrs. Gore-Appleton was standing, her bulk blocking the doorway.
Agatha could have asked her why she had murdered three people, but instead she heard herself saying stupidly, "Why Carsely? And why this cottage?"
"I wanted out of London," said Mrs. Gore-Appleton. "I'd tried living in Spain, but it didn't suit. I'd asked a house agent to look for a place in the Cotswolds. I was sent several brochures and decided to come down and have a look around. I heard your name mentioned as one of the sellers. I didn't know you had been married to Jimmy, he never mentioned your name or that he had been married, but the name amused me, and so I bought this."
"And Jimmy came back and recognized you and tried to put the screws on?"
"Exactly. I'd changed my name to Gore-Appleton with some false papers. When I wound up the charity, I just reverted to my old name."
"Why didn't you kill me?" asked Agatha, her eyes darting this way and that, looking for a weapon.
"Well, do you know, I did try by setting fire to Lacey's cottage but in case some villager saw me at the scene, I had to look as if I was trying to put it out. Then I took rather a liking to you, and I saw a further way to remove any suspicion from myself and so hired someone to play the part of the gunman. That kick of mine was very well rehearsed."
"Who was that on the phone just now?" demanded Agatha. "The police?"
"No, it was the interfering vicar's wife, demanding to know where you were for some suspicious reason."
Agatha braced her shoulders. Mrs. Gore-Appleton had no weapon. "I am going to walk past you and phone the police," she said.
Mrs. Gore-Appleton stood aside. "I am not going to stop you, I am tired of running. At least they don't have the death penalty any more."
She stood aside.
Agatha marched past her and into the living-room. She put the receiver back on the hook and lifted it again and began to dial Mircester Police Headquarters.
Mrs. Gore-Appleton, who had crept up behind her, brought a brass poker down hard on Agatha's head.