happened?’ asked Agatha acidly. ‘Did her boyfriend breathe on her?’
‘Him. He died. It was awful. I’ve been frightened of that horrible disease ever since.’
‘Ah, that explains it,’ said Agatha, suddenly cheerful again. ‘Here we are. I think the Beagles are in the first cottage.’
The cottage had probably once been a farm labourer’s cottage. It was made of red brick with a slate roof. The path up to the front door was of red brick as well. A glorious magnolia tree
was just coming into flower in the little front garden.
Agatha rang the bell. An elderly man answered the door. He was small and round-shouldered, wearing two pullovers over a frayed shirt and baggy stained trousers. His face was wrinkled. Spare
lines of greased hair covered a freckled scalp. His faded blue eyes looked at Agatha. ‘So it’s you. Nosey parker.’
‘This is Thomas Courtney, Miriam’s son,’ said Agatha.
‘Oh, I do be right sorry. Come along in. The missus is poorly today.’
‘What is up with her?’ asked Tom sharply.
‘Her do have a bit of a cold.’
‘I might wait in the car,’ said Tom nervously.
‘It’s just a cold!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘Not the black plague.’
‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly.
Mrs Beagle was crouched in an armchair beside the fire. The room smelled strongly of urine, coal smoke and wintergreen.
‘Here’s Miriam’s boy,’ said her husband.
Mrs Beagle was as wrapped up as her husband and every bit as stooped and wrinkled. Agatha mentally removed them from her list of suspects. She estimated they would both have difficulty getting
across the street, let alone murdering John Sunday.
Agatha looked around her, but there was nowhere in the small parlour to sit down. Charlie Beagle had sunk down into an armchair facing his wife. There was a battered sofa but two large somnolent
dogs were stretched on it.
‘Did you see anyone near the manor before it went alight?’ asked Agatha.
‘In the middle of the night!’ said Charlie. ‘Us were asleep. Didn’t hear about it till morning.’
‘About John Sunday,’ pursued Agatha, ‘you were at that protest meeting.’
‘And a fat lot of good that did,’ said Mrs Beagle. ‘Jabber, jabber, talk, talk. Nothing could be done about that horrible man.’
‘Apart from Miriam and Miss Simms, did anyone else leave the room?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ said Charlie. ‘But me and the missus, our sight isn’t as good as it used to be. But good riddance to Sunday, I say. He was after stopping us putting
up the Christmas lights. Such a display we had every year. We was in the Cotswold Journal. I’ll show you. They sent me a photo and Fred Summer got one as well.’
He shuffled over to a table by the window, piled high with magazines, newspapers and photos.
‘Here we are. Just you look at that!’
Agatha studied a colour photograph showing the two cottages. The outsides were covered with Christmas lights. The Summers had a plastic Santa and plastic reindeer riding on the roof and the
Beagles had a lit-up plastic crèche in their front garden. Perhaps the only thing John Sunday did in his life that became it, thought Agatha, who had seen a performance of Macbeth once, was blacking out this monstrosity.
Then her bearlike eyes narrowed. Surely Charlie couldn’t be that infirm if he had got the plastic Santa up on the roof, not to mention wiring up all those lights.
‘What a lot of work,’ she said. ‘It must have taken you ages.’
‘I starts around the end of October, yes. Bit by bit.’
‘And did you get that Santa up on the roof all by yourself?’
‘Easy There’s a skylight. I just push it up through there.’
‘Do you want to ask anything?’ Agatha turned to Tom, who was standing with a handkerchief covering his mouth and nose.
He gave a muffled ‘No.’
They took their leave. ‘You really are terrified of infection,’ said Agatha when they were outside.
‘I hate colds.’
‘I don’t think there’s
‘Him. He died. It was awful. I’ve been frightened of that horrible disease ever since.’
‘Ah, that explains it,’ said Agatha, suddenly cheerful again. ‘Here we are. I think the Beagles are in the first cottage.’
The cottage had probably once been a farm labourer’s cottage. It was made of red brick with a slate roof. The path up to the front door was of red brick as well. A glorious magnolia tree
was just coming into flower in the little front garden.
Agatha rang the bell. An elderly man answered the door. He was small and round-shouldered, wearing two pullovers over a frayed shirt and baggy stained trousers. His face was wrinkled. Spare
lines of greased hair covered a freckled scalp. His faded blue eyes looked at Agatha. ‘So it’s you. Nosey parker.’
‘This is Thomas Courtney, Miriam’s son,’ said Agatha.
‘Oh, I do be right sorry. Come along in. The missus is poorly today.’
‘What is up with her?’ asked Tom sharply.
‘Her do have a bit of a cold.’
‘I might wait in the car,’ said Tom nervously.
‘It’s just a cold!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘Not the black plague.’
‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly.
Mrs Beagle was crouched in an armchair beside the fire. The room smelled strongly of urine, coal smoke and wintergreen.
‘Here’s Miriam’s boy,’ said her husband.
Mrs Beagle was as wrapped up as her husband and every bit as stooped and wrinkled. Agatha mentally removed them from her list of suspects. She estimated they would both have difficulty getting
across the street, let alone murdering John Sunday.
Agatha looked around her, but there was nowhere in the small parlour to sit down. Charlie Beagle had sunk down into an armchair facing his wife. There was a battered sofa but two large somnolent
dogs were stretched on it.
‘Did you see anyone near the manor before it went alight?’ asked Agatha.
‘In the middle of the night!’ said Charlie. ‘Us were asleep. Didn’t hear about it till morning.’
‘About John Sunday,’ pursued Agatha, ‘you were at that protest meeting.’
‘And a fat lot of good that did,’ said Mrs Beagle. ‘Jabber, jabber, talk, talk. Nothing could be done about that horrible man.’
‘Apart from Miriam and Miss Simms, did anyone else leave the room?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ said Charlie. ‘But me and the missus, our sight isn’t as good as it used to be. But good riddance to Sunday, I say. He was after stopping us putting
up the Christmas lights. Such a display we had every year. We was in the Cotswold Journal. I’ll show you. They sent me a photo and Fred Summer got one as well.’
He shuffled over to a table by the window, piled high with magazines, newspapers and photos.
‘Here we are. Just you look at that!’
Agatha studied a colour photograph showing the two cottages. The outsides were covered with Christmas lights. The Summers had a plastic Santa and plastic reindeer riding on the roof and the
Beagles had a lit-up plastic crèche in their front garden. Perhaps the only thing John Sunday did in his life that became it, thought Agatha, who had seen a performance of Macbeth once, was blacking out this monstrosity.
Then her bearlike eyes narrowed. Surely Charlie couldn’t be that infirm if he had got the plastic Santa up on the roof, not to mention wiring up all those lights.
‘What a lot of work,’ she said. ‘It must have taken you ages.’
‘I starts around the end of October, yes. Bit by bit.’
‘And did you get that Santa up on the roof all by yourself?’
‘Easy There’s a skylight. I just push it up through there.’
‘Do you want to ask anything?’ Agatha turned to Tom, who was standing with a handkerchief covering his mouth and nose.
He gave a muffled ‘No.’
They took their leave. ‘You really are terrified of infection,’ said Agatha when they were outside.
‘I hate colds.’
‘I don’t think there’s
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