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  “Help yourself,” said Agatha. “Make some fresh, but keep talking while you do.”

  “So we knew there was a financial arrangement attached to the marriage,” said Roy, spooning coffee into a cafetière, “but this was far more than a simple marriage settlement. The Brown-Fields gave Charles a loan of two-point-seven-five million pounds…”

  He paused for effect. Agatha let out a breath. It was way more than she had expected.

  “But get this,” he continued, “the loan was not to the estate, or to a company run by Charles, or to any sort of business set-up. It was a personal loan to Charles himself. His income from the estate has to be used to repay it, plus interest. A large chunk of the money went to clear his immediate debts, but he’s not allowed to spend the rest any way he wants. He has to consult with the Brown-Fields and have them approve every major expenditure. If he falls behind in the repayments, or if the marriage falls apart, the loan and interest have to be repaid in full straight away.

  “As his wife, Mary demanded that half the estate be signed over to her as part of the deal.” Roy sat down with his coffee and consulted a small notebook. “Charles agreed because he apparently saw this as a way of him setting himself up for life. That’s how they sold it to him—they persuaded him that all his money worries would be over, forever. He never expected to have them breathing down his neck night and day.”

  “He should have done,” Agatha sighed. “He should have known better. He obviously thought he could charm the family, keep them happy and carry on as normal. The fool.”

  “Maybe not such a fool, Aggie,” said Roy. “As his wife, and with half the estate already in her name, the rest of it would go to Mary if Charles died. He agreed to that only if, should she die—fall off one of her horses or whatever—all her property went to him.”

  “That’s not so unusual,” said Agatha, “for a married couple.”

  “But the Brown-Fields’ problem is that, for tax reasons, one third of their entire fortune is in Mary’s name. That all now goes to Charles—and it makes that loan they gave him look like a tiny little drop in the ocean.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t have been so reckless? A riding accident could easily have done for her. Why would they take such a risk?”

  “She was giving up competitive riding. Apparently she wasn’t going to have much time for it once she got her hands on Barfield House.”

  “Yes, I saw something of her plans,” said Agatha showing Roy the document on her phone.

  “Barfield House Luxury Hotel and Spa.” Roy nodded. “I’ve seen a slightly different version of that document, darling. What you have is only the first page. The rest of it details schemes for developments of luxury homes on the Mircester and Carsely sides of the estate along with a golf course, a separate golf hotel and an equestrian centre.”

  “She would have torn the estate apart,” said Agatha, “but now she’s dead, and Charles stands to become an extremely wealthy man.”

  “The police will find all of this out sooner or later, Aggie,” said Roy. “If Charles wasn’t already their prime suspect, this will put him firmly in the frame.”

  “And that is just where old Darell wants him! That’s why he was pointing the finger at Charles. If Charles is convicted, he’ll be left with nothing. Darell will secure Mary’s share of the Brown-Field millions and scoop up Barfield House and the estate into the bargain, while Charles rots in jail!”

  They were interrupted by the ringing of telephone bells. Agatha grabbed her mobile phone. James had set that ringtone for her. The old-fashioned bells were a quaint gimmick, but she liked them. They served as a comforting reminder that this computer-camera-email-internetty gizmo was actually a telephone.

  “Charles,” she said, instantly recognising his voice. “We were just talking about you. How are you this morning?”

  “I’m okay, sweetie,” said Charles. “Terrible business. Terrible. Are you all right?”

  “Apart from being accused of murder and spending half the night in a police cell, I’m fine.”

  “Good. Knew you would be. You’re made of the right stuff, no doubt about it. That … well, that’s why I need your help. Can you come over this afternoon?”

  They arranged a time and Agatha dashed upstairs to change, leaving Roy in the kitchen with Boswell and Hodge, who had reappeared and were once again staring at him with feline mistrust. Roy didn’t mind. He was going to Barfield House with Agatha Raisin, private detective, and was involved in a delicious murder investigation. So much better than watching the traffic in stuffy old London!

  * * *

  Police officers were still milling around outside Barfield House when they arrived. The front door was open and Gustav met them as they walked inside.

  “Have you met Roy Silver?” Agatha asked, introducing Roy.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Roy, offering a hand, which Gustav pointedly ignored. “Isn’t all of this simply awful?”

  “If you say so,” grumbled Gustav. “I’m still hoping it turns out more of a blessing in disguise, but that could take a bloody miracle now.”

  He showed them into the library, where Charles was waiting. They sat on the sofa while Charles took one of the wing-backed chairs, dispatching Gustav to fetch tea.

  “That was one hell of a party last night,” said Agatha. “I’ve never gone to a ball and left under arrest for murder before.”

  “And we’re not out of the woods yet,” said Charles. “I have been assured in no uncertain terms that I am still the prime suspect. I can’t say too much, but Mary’s father—”

  “Charles,” Agatha butted in. “Roy and I know all about the contract with the Brown-Fields and the plans for the luxury homes, the golf club—everything.”

  “How did you…?”

  “I’m a detective,” said Agatha, “and Roy is very good at ferreting out information.”

  “Good…” said Charles, then paused as Gustav came in with a tea tray.

  “Tea,” grunted the butler.

  “That will be all, Gustav,” said Charles.

  “What, no cake with a hacksaw baked inside for you to saw through your prison bars?”

  Charles waved him away.

  “Tell no one about the financial arrangements,” he said. “There is a non-disclosure clause in the contract, and if the Brown-Fields suspect I have been talking to you about it, I’m done for.”

  “My team will have to know,” said Agatha, “otherwise they could come across evidence without realising its significance.”

  “Very well,” said Charles, “but they are not to talk about it to any outsiders.”

  “Mum’s the word,” said Roy. He made a zipping motion across his mouth, turned an imaginary key in a lock and threw the key away. Charles gave him a look of grave concern.

  “Are you sure he’s going to be…?”

  “He’ll be fine,” said Agatha. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to investigate the murder,” said Charles. “Mary’s father appears to be well connected with ranking police officers—that Wilkes chap and his superiors. You know what these people are like—Masonic lodges, golf clubs…”

  “Golf clubs,” said Agatha. “And the Brown-Fields were planning to build one.”

  “That would have been Darell’s vanity project,” said Charles. “My understanding is that golf clubs are closing down all over the country these days. No money to be made in that business. He was obsessed with the game, though. In any case, he’ll do everything he can to make sure that I’m the one who carries the can for Mary’s murder. I need you to find the real culprit and prove me innocent. It seems that Mary made enemies wherever she went. She was very good at antagonising people. I should think there will be no shortage of suspects for her murder.”

  “I’ve been marked as a suspect too,” Agatha reasoned. “Wilkes will try to block me at every turn. He hates me. I won’t be able to use any of our police contacts. It will be tough.”

  “I h
ave no doubt it will. I will pay you double your normal rate—whatever it takes for you and your team to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’m already involved, Charles. You know I would be looking into this anyway, so money really isn’t a problem.”

  “Money certainly won’t be a problem if you can prove me innocent,” said Charles, “but you will be paid on performance. A fat fee if you find the real murderer, but nothing at all if I’m found guilty—I won’t have a penny left to pay you with.”

  “Well, I guess we start with her show-jumping cronies,” said Agatha. “Dressing her up in that outfit has to mean something. Do you know any of that lot?”

  “Here’s the guest list from the party.” Charles handed her a sheet of paper. “I don’t know too many of her friends, but the ones I know are involved with the horses are highlighted. I understand there’s a special charity event in two days’ time at Mircester Manor Park. They’re all bound to be there.”

  “Then we shall be there too,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “Come on, Roy. There’s a lot of work to do.”

  * * *

  Agatha called her team together in the Raisin Investigations offices early the following morning. They all crowded around her desk and Helen provided tea. Simon placed a plate of beautifully baked tarts in the middle of the desk.

  “What are these?” Agatha asked. “They look good enough for the Carsely Ladies’ Society Bake Off.”

  “From a grateful client,” Simon explained. “Home-baked rhubarb tarts from Mrs. Fletcher as a thank you for sorting out her problem.”

  “Well done,” Agatha congratulated him as everyone helped themselves to a tart. “You go first then. I want to get up to date with everything before I brief you on our biggest ever case. You all know Roy,” she added, waving her tart in his direction. “He’s going to be helping us out. So, Simon—tell us about the phantom pooper.”

  Simon slid a thick folder across the desk.

  “It’s all in my report,” he said, “but I can give you a summary. Basically, it was her husband. I caught him making a deposit—caught him with his trousers down, so to speak. I really surprised him when the camera flash went off. If he hadn’t already been doing it, he would have sh—”

  “Photos—really?” Agatha wrinkled her nose.

  “They’re in the file. He put the excrement through two different treatments to remove all pathogens,” said Simon, “and then used it as fertiliser. He said it brought his rhubarb on a treat.”

  Everyone stared at their half-eaten rhubarb tarts. Simon burst out laughing.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” he said, “but Mr. Fletcher didn’t think his wife would like his little experiment, so he didn’t tell her. She knows now, obviously.”

  “Okay, Simon,” said Agatha, dropping the remnants of her tart into the bin and taking a big gulp of tea. “Good work. Patrick, what about the Philpott case?”

  “In brief,” said Patrick, handing over his report, “Philpott’s new MD is an impostor. The real Harold Cheeseman is still in Australia. The impostor is a cleaner who worked at Cheeseman’s previous firm. He rifled through the personnel files, came across Cheeseman’s photo and CV, realised that they looked quite alike and conned his way into the top job with Philpott. We need to advise Philpott to have him arrested for fraud.”

  “Take care of that, would you, Patrick?” said Agatha.

  They quickly ran through the other cases on the books, including the Chadwick divorce case, before Agatha pulled an envelope from her drawer and began to arrange some photos on the desk.

  “We have been engaged by Sir Charles Fraith,” she said, slapping down his photo, “to investigate the murder of his wife, the former Mary Darlinda Brown-Field.”

  Agatha explained everything that had happened leading up to the murder and Roy filled them in on the financial situation between Charles and the Brown-Fields. He stressed the need for secrecy.

  “The police will find out all about it,” said Patrick, “and your sources already know, Roy. It’s not going to be any kind of secret for very much longer.”

  “We need to make sure that we’re not the ones spreading it around,” said Agatha. “Apart from anything else, it gives Charles a compelling motive for the murder. We don’t want to reinforce the idea that he did it for the money and to save his estate.”

  “So who else is a potential suspect?” Simon asked.

  “Well, there’s me,” said Agatha, putting her own photograph on the table. “I am widely known to have despised the victim and to have come to blows with her. Some would say this was out of jealousy because she married the man I was in love with…”

  She took a breath, looking around the room into the eyes of each of her team in turn.

  “… but that is absolute rubbish. I am not a murderer. I did not kill Mary. She was a hateful character and I wanted Charles out of her clutches, but for his sake, not mine. Given time, I would have found a way. Murder would not have been my way.”

  “We all know it wasn’t you,” Toni said. “Who else has a motive for murder?”

  “Gustav.” Agatha placed his photograph on the desk. “He works for Charles and hates the Brown-Fields, especially Mary. He believed that she was going to have him sacked. He is also intensely loyal to Charles and suspected that Mary was going to destroy his family heritage.

  “Mrs. Tassy.” She produced another photo. “Charles’s aunt. She detests the Brown-Fields and rarely leaves her room now that they are in residence at Barfield. An unlikely suspect, especially given the circumstances of the murder—she’s not physically strong enough to have overpowered Mary and strung her up—but we need to keep an open mind.”

  “She and Gustav could have been working together,” Simon suggested.

  “That’s possible,” Agatha agreed, “and in keeping an open mind, we should consider that. Wilkes certainly will. He may even believe that we were all in it together, but he is wrong as usual. The murderer isn’t in these photos. The riding gear indicates that this is someone who crossed swords with Mary on the show-jumping circuit.”

  “Or that could be a complete red herring,” said Patrick, “to direct attention away from everyone in our photos here.”

  “Maybe,” said Agatha, “but I still think the riding outfit is significant. It takes a peculiarly sick mind to dress someone you’ve just murdered—all the while risking someone discovering you in the act—and then stage a suicide. That all has to mean something.”

  “According to Charles,” said Toni, “Mary was not well liked, so why were there so many people at her party?”

  “Who wants to miss a good party?” Roy volunteered. “We know that a lot of the Brown-Fields’ so-called friends were business associates who would use a function like that for networking, but in the kind of social set Mary was mixing with, a party like this would be an event to be seen at. Nobody would want to be left out.”

  “We need to find out a lot more about Mary and that set,” said Agatha. “In the meantime, we all have to be wary of these two. They desperately want to pin the murder on Charles, probably with me as his accomplice.” She laid photographs of Darell and Linda Brown-Field on the desk.

  “Wait a minute!” said Simon. “That’s him!”

  “That’s who?” Agatha asked.

  “There’s no mistaking that chin now that I see it again,” Simon said, picking up Darell’s photograph. “That’s the bloke who’s been seeing Mrs. Chadwick at that house in Oxford!”

  “But she called out to George,” said Toni. “She shouted for George to fetch the shotgun.”

  “There was no George,” Agatha began to smile, “and there was no shotgun. They were having a damned good laugh at our expense. She didn’t know it was us out there, of course. She just shouted to scare off anyone who might be hanging around and then they both had a giggle about it!”

  “So Darell Brown-Field is having an affair with Sheraton Chadwick,” said Simon. “Though we’ve still no photo to confirm that
for Mr. Chadwick.”

  “Let’s keep it to ourselves for the time being,” Agatha decided. “The murder investigation has to take priority and it could be useful to have that little titbit of information about Darell. No mention of this to Mr. Chadwick until we see how it all fits together and— Toni!” A sudden realisation dawned. “The horse brooch that was on Mary’s jacket! Mrs. Chadwick has one exactly like it!”

  “That was a very expensive-looking item,” said Toni. “Gold and diamonds. The kind of gift a rich man might buy. A rich man like Darell?”

  “Really?” said Patrick, scowling and shaking his head. “He’ll have done a deal, I bet. Bargained for a hefty discount for buying two—one for his daughter and one for his mistress. Unbelievable.”

  “Patrick,” Agatha said, “I want you to dig up everything you can on the Brown-Fields, especially Darell. He’s a golfer. See what you can find out about that. And see if there’s anything more we can find out about Gustav as well. His past is still something of a mystery.”

  Patrick nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, Agatha could see Roy clutching his hands together with excitement. He was beside himself at the thought of being part of a murder investigation. So he should be, Agatha thought. This is exciting stuff!

  “Simon,” she said, “I want you back on the Chadwick case. Mrs. Chadwick is tied into this now. Keep up the surveillance and keep trying for a photograph of Darell coming or going. I will get Charles to send us a photo of Mary wearing that brooch. Track down where it was bought or the jeweller who made it.

  “Toni and Roy, we need to start researching the show-jumping business. We’re going to an event tomorrow and we need to have some idea of what we’re looking at when we get there. We also need to find out more about these people before we go, so that we know who we’re talking to.” She gave the two of them a copy of the party guest list with Mary’s riding friends highlighted.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s get on with it—we have a murderer to find!”

  * * *

  Mircester Manor Park lay on the opposite side of town from Charles’s estate. The stone wall surrounding it ran along a grass verge, with a ditch separating it from the main road. On the other side of the road was a large housing estate, giving the impression that the area was heavily built up, but that all changed when Toni drove through the stone arched gateway into Manor Park. Agatha guessed that the arch was high enough and wide enough to accommodate two horse-drawn carriages passing beneath it, as it would have to have done when it was originally built. A weather-ravaged, barely discernible coat of arms was carved on the keystone of the arch.