the lions of the news desk greatly appealed to Mary, and so Agatha and James were shown up.
As he was introduced to the beaming news editor, a Mike Tarry, James reflected that he had accused Agatha of being naïve over the house sale, and yet he himself had walked straight into a
newspaper office without pausing to think that he and Agatha were news themselves.
‘Well, Agatha,’ said Mike, after having practically strong-armed them into his office – ‘I may call you Agatha?’
‘No,’ said Agatha sourly.
‘Ha ha. Mary told me you were a tough character. How can we be of help? You must be anxious to clear your name.’ The offices had windows overlooking the reporters’ desks. Mike
waved an arm. The door of his office opened and a photographer came in, followed by a reporter.
‘What is this?’ demanded Agatha.
‘You help us and we’ll help you,’ said Mike.
‘I’m off,’ said Agatha, heading for the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ called James. Agatha turned back reluctantly.
‘We do need help, Agatha,’ said James, ‘and we should have realized they would want a story. They’ve been pestering us since the murder. We’ve got nothing to hide.
We want to find this Gore-Appleton woman. Why don’t we just tell them what we know?’
‘And then the police will wonder why we didn’t tell them what we’ve found out,’ pointed out Agatha.
‘We would have told them sooner or later. May as well get it over with, Agatha. You’re in the lions’ den now, and even if you walk out, that photographer is going to bash off a
picture of you before you get out of the office.’
‘Let him,’ said Agatha truculently.
‘Agatha, you haven’t any make-up on.’
And that clinched it.
The interviews and photographs had to wait until Agatha was ferried off to the shops by a ‘minder’ to buy make-up and a smart dress and high heels.
Then they both told what they knew, and Agatha and James posed for photographs, Agatha having extracted a promise that the art department would use the airbrush generously on her picture.
But when the reporter searched the files for details about Mrs Gore-Appleton, he found practically nothing, only one mention of her making a speech on the homeless at a charity event. No
photograph. Agatha felt cheated until James pointed out that the publicity would be the one thing to flush out Mrs Gore-Appleton.
There seemed nothing left to do but allow themselves to be entertained to lunch, return to Carsely, and find out what the article in the following morning’s paper would bring.
Agatha struggled awake the next morning out of a heavy sleep. Someone was banging on her bedroom door. She put on her dressing-gown and then stood, irresolute. The someone
would be James, of course. The article must be in the paper. She debated whether to ask him to wait until she changed, but then shrugged. The days of dressing up for James had gone.
She opened the door. He was brandishing a copy of The Bugle. ‘Would you believe it!’ he raged. ‘Not a bloody word!’
‘Come down to the kitchen,’ said Agatha. ‘Are you sure you didn’t miss it?’
‘Not a word,’ he repeated angrily.
Agatha sat down wearily at the kitchen table and spread out the newspaper. The headline screamed, FREDDIE COMES OUT OF THE CLOSET! A comedian, the pet of British audiences for his clean humour,
had declared he was gay. The other story on page one was about a Bugle reporter who had been shot by the Bosnian Serbs.
‘We never heard a word about these stories when we were in the office,’ said Agatha. ‘They must have broken in the afternoon and knocked our story out of the paper.’
‘Maybe they’ll run it tomorrow.’
Agatha shook her head, wise in the way of newspapers. ‘They won’t use it now,’ she said gloomily. ‘If they had had the story right at the time of the murder, they would
have used it no matter what. But now it’s sort of yesterday’s news.’
‘I’ll phone up that editor and
As he was introduced to the beaming news editor, a Mike Tarry, James reflected that he had accused Agatha of being naïve over the house sale, and yet he himself had walked straight into a
newspaper office without pausing to think that he and Agatha were news themselves.
‘Well, Agatha,’ said Mike, after having practically strong-armed them into his office – ‘I may call you Agatha?’
‘No,’ said Agatha sourly.
‘Ha ha. Mary told me you were a tough character. How can we be of help? You must be anxious to clear your name.’ The offices had windows overlooking the reporters’ desks. Mike
waved an arm. The door of his office opened and a photographer came in, followed by a reporter.
‘What is this?’ demanded Agatha.
‘You help us and we’ll help you,’ said Mike.
‘I’m off,’ said Agatha, heading for the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ called James. Agatha turned back reluctantly.
‘We do need help, Agatha,’ said James, ‘and we should have realized they would want a story. They’ve been pestering us since the murder. We’ve got nothing to hide.
We want to find this Gore-Appleton woman. Why don’t we just tell them what we know?’
‘And then the police will wonder why we didn’t tell them what we’ve found out,’ pointed out Agatha.
‘We would have told them sooner or later. May as well get it over with, Agatha. You’re in the lions’ den now, and even if you walk out, that photographer is going to bash off a
picture of you before you get out of the office.’
‘Let him,’ said Agatha truculently.
‘Agatha, you haven’t any make-up on.’
And that clinched it.
The interviews and photographs had to wait until Agatha was ferried off to the shops by a ‘minder’ to buy make-up and a smart dress and high heels.
Then they both told what they knew, and Agatha and James posed for photographs, Agatha having extracted a promise that the art department would use the airbrush generously on her picture.
But when the reporter searched the files for details about Mrs Gore-Appleton, he found practically nothing, only one mention of her making a speech on the homeless at a charity event. No
photograph. Agatha felt cheated until James pointed out that the publicity would be the one thing to flush out Mrs Gore-Appleton.
There seemed nothing left to do but allow themselves to be entertained to lunch, return to Carsely, and find out what the article in the following morning’s paper would bring.
Agatha struggled awake the next morning out of a heavy sleep. Someone was banging on her bedroom door. She put on her dressing-gown and then stood, irresolute. The someone
would be James, of course. The article must be in the paper. She debated whether to ask him to wait until she changed, but then shrugged. The days of dressing up for James had gone.
She opened the door. He was brandishing a copy of The Bugle. ‘Would you believe it!’ he raged. ‘Not a bloody word!’
‘Come down to the kitchen,’ said Agatha. ‘Are you sure you didn’t miss it?’
‘Not a word,’ he repeated angrily.
Agatha sat down wearily at the kitchen table and spread out the newspaper. The headline screamed, FREDDIE COMES OUT OF THE CLOSET! A comedian, the pet of British audiences for his clean humour,
had declared he was gay. The other story on page one was about a Bugle reporter who had been shot by the Bosnian Serbs.
‘We never heard a word about these stories when we were in the office,’ said Agatha. ‘They must have broken in the afternoon and knocked our story out of the paper.’
‘Maybe they’ll run it tomorrow.’
Agatha shook her head, wise in the way of newspapers. ‘They won’t use it now,’ she said gloomily. ‘If they had had the story right at the time of the murder, they would
have used it no matter what. But now it’s sort of yesterday’s news.’
‘I’ll phone up that editor and
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