Agatha looked around the poky cottage. “If you have money of your own and I assume your husband has money, why do you live in such a small place?”
“Bob always says we should keep hold of a lot of money for our old age. Old folks homes cost so much.”
“If your husband is as tyrannical as you make out, it’s a wonder he didn’t insist your money went into a joint account.”
“We never had one. Before Mother died, he gave me a weekly allowance. When I got my own money, he said I could use that.”
“You didn’t give John Shawpart a cheque, did you?” asked Charles.
She shook her head. “No, he wanted cash. I paid him in cash.”
“Good, the police won’t find any record of the payment in his bank.” Charles leaned forward. “You don’t think your husband could have found out anything? Shawpart was beaten up just before his death.”
“Oh, no. Bob would never have kept such a thing to himself.”
“Have you any children?” asked Agatha.
She shook her head sadly. “We were never able to have any. I wanted to adopt, but Bob said the kid could turn out to be a psychopath and he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Didn’t you ever work?” asked Agatha.
“I was a secretary when I met Bob. Shorthand and typing. I sometimes thought of going back to work, but Bob said nobody would want me. It’s all computers now.”
“Computing can be learned,” said Agatha.
“Bob would never let me.”
“Look, you’ve got your own money. Have you a car? Can you drive?”
“Yes, I have a little car.”
“So why don’t you just get in the car one day when he’s out and drive off,” said Agatha. “Start a new life somewhere else.”
“Oh, I couldn’t!”
“Why?”
“What would Bob do without me? Who would cook his meals and iron his shirts?”
“He would just have to learn to do that himself,” said Agatha, exasperated.
“We’re getting away from the point,” said Charles hurriedly. “Now, think. Did you ever see John Shawpart with any other women?”
Liza sat silently for a moment, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. Then she said, “When he had stopped getting in touch with me after… after that night, I would drive to his house, on Sundays and half day, Wednesday, and watch. I was mad with jealousy. There was one woman paid him a visit-Maggie, I think her name is. I’ve seen her in the salon. Then another time, I saw Mrs. Dairy coming out of his house.”
Agatha stared at her. “Our Mrs. Dairy? The terror of Carsely?”
“Yes, her. But she was probably collecting for something.”
“Well, well. Anyone else?”
“A young pretty woman, thirties, that’s young to me. I hadn’t seen her before.”
“What did she look like?”
“Blonde, slim, a bit rabbity, rather prominent teeth, skinny legs.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. It’s God’s punishment on me!”
“I don’t think God punishes or rewards,” said Charles unexpectedly. “Those are both such human failings, starting off with, ‘If you’re good, Santa will give you a bike for Christmas.’ I never got one because I was told that Santa was mad at me for blocking up the chimney and smoking out the house.”
Agatha blinked at him in surprise and then went on, “Liza-may I call you Liza?”
She nodded.
“The thing is, Liza, don’t worry about the police. Do you think anyone might have seen you with Mr. John?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps his neighbours… ”
“But his neighbours didn’t know you?”
“No.”
“So at the worst, all they can give is a description, and you’ll probably be lost in all the other descriptions of women Mr. John was seen with.”
“How was he poisoned?”
“Ricin.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a poison from castor-oil beans.”
“But I’ve never even heard of it!”
There was the sound of a key in the door. Agatha glanced out of the cottage window and noticed the leaded panes were smeared with rain.
“Bob!” said Liza.
“So that’s all settled,” said Agatha. She raised her voice. “You’re like me, Mrs. Friendly, and don’t want to perform at any of their concerts, but I would appreciate your help with the catering on the next occasion. Why, Mr. Friendly! We were just leaving.”
“Good,” he said rudely, swinging a bag of gold clubs from his shoulder and stacking them in a corner. “Bloody rain.”
Agatha and Charles got up and made their way to the door. “My wife has enough to do with the housekeeping here without wasting time on parish affairs,” he said as they edged past him.
“Quite,” murmured Agatha. “Such a pleasure to meet you again.”
“Tcha!”
“And ya sucks boo to you to,” said Agatha when she and Charles emerged into the pouring rain. “Let’s run. I’m getting soaked.”
They ran all the way to Agatha’s cottage. They dried themselves off in their respective rooms, changed into dry clothes and met up again in the kitchen.
“Well,” said Agatha, “what did you make of that? Mrs. Dairy!”
“Who she?”
“The ferrety woman with the nasty little dog.”
“Ah, the one who retrieved your phone book.”
“The same.”
“So do we tackle her next?”
“I suppose so, although she’s going to be most dreadfully rude. Damn, if it hadn’t been for Liza. I would be regretting having tried to rescue any incriminating papers. God, would I love to have some dirt on Mrs. Dairy.”
“What’s her first name?”
“In the ladies’ society of Carsely, Charles, first names do not exist. We are all Miss this and Mrs. that.”
“Where does she live?”
“Grim little house called Parks Cottage up Parks Lane, at the back of the village shop.”
“The rain is easing off. I think we should go before you lose courage. Maybe she’ll have a garden full of castor-oil plants.”
Agatha hesitated. “What sort of approach are we going to take?”
“Nasty and blunt, I should think, dear Aggie. Sort of thing you do best.”
FIVE
WATERY sunlight struck down on the cobbles as they made their way to Mrs. Dairy’s cottage. Not for one moment would Agatha admit to herself that she was intimidated by the waspish Mrs. Dairy and yet she experienced a sinking feeling as they approached the cottage and she saw that the door was standing open and the nasty little dog was snuffling about the steps.
“No castor-oil plants,” commented Charles, looking around the small front garden. “Nothing but laurels and other dreary shrubs. Wonder what’s round the back.”
Mrs. Dairy appeared at her front door. Her greeting was typical. “What do you want?”
“We wanted to have a word with you.” Agatha surreptitiously edged the snuffling dog away from her ankles with her foot.
“I don’t think I should invite you in,” said Mrs. Dairy, her thin face bright with malice. “I have my reputation to think of.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Agatha, irritated, gave the little dog another kick.
“I don’t think I should let you and one of your fancy men into my home.”
Charles brayed with laughter and Agatha glared at Mrs. Dairy.
“Okay,” she said truculently, raising her voice. “We’ll stand out here and discuss your fancy man, the late Mr. John Shawpart.”
For once, Agatha had obviously scored over the terrible Mrs. Dairy, whose green eyes goggled and then darted right and left. “Come in,” she said abruptly. Her little dog raised his leg and peed onto Agatha’s shoe.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” howled Agatha. The dog scampered into the house. Agatha removed her shoe and, taking out a tissue, wiped it clean.
“Supposed to be lucky, Aggie,” said Charles. “Let’s go in before she changes her mind and slams the door on us.”