Agatha's First Case Read Free

But leave it all to me.” When he finally left, Agatha locked up and walked to South Audley Street and began collecting her file on the press and her other belongings.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?” shouted Jill.
    â€œI’m getting out of your slave labour camp,” said Agatha.
    â€œYou can’t!”
    â€œYou didn’t give me any contract,” said Agatha. “You said, ‘If you don’t match up, I can fire you any time I like.’ So, get this, horse-face, I’m firing you!”
    *   *   *
    Bryce was beginning to regret the impulse that had made him want to set up Agatha in business. But he had used his business acumen to set up other people before and had never been wrong in his judgement. The next morning, he asked to see all the newspapers. He began to smile. They had all covered the fact that he had taken sleeping pills and the surprise came in the Sketch , where Jerry had also written a fulsome report of all his charity work and stated it was time the police looked elsewhere.
    *   *   *
    Agatha Raisin walked around her new offices in South Molton Street and felt quite sick with elation. George South called again. An account had been opened for her and she had been given a credit card. George South had even employed a secretary for her, a woman called Freda Demer, middle-aged, quiet, and polite.
    â€œPut advertisements in all the newspapers for public relations officers. I need two to start, and an office boy. I have been told to pay well.”
    â€œYes, Miss Raisin.”
    â€œYou may call me Agatha. Now, where do I go from here? Snakes and bastards. If only I could find out who actually murdered his wife. Get me Sir Bryce Teller.”
    When he came on the phone, Agatha excitedly cut short his thanks. “When your late wife went out in the evenings, how did she go? Taxi?”
    â€œNo, we used a limo service. Mayfair Limos. Usual driver Peter Black. You’ll find their garage in Clarges Mews. What are you after?”
    â€œFinding out where she went. May I also speak to your housekeeper?”
    â€œShe resigned.”
    â€œDid she, now. Where does she live?”
    â€œWait a minute and I’ll find her address.” Agatha waited impatiently. At last he came back on the line. “Here it is. Bertha Jones, 201A Mill Hill East High Street.”
    *   *   *
    I must stop wearing such high heels, thought Agatha, as she strode along the High Street an hour later, feeling her ankles beginning to swell in the heat. She located the housekeeper’s address, which was in a basement flat under a betting shop.
    â€œBertha Jones?” she demanded, as a plump, grey-haired woman answered the door.
    â€œI ain’t talking to no press,” she said, and began to close the door.
    Agatha shoved her foot in it. “I’m not the press. I am representing Sir Bryce Teller. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she shouted.
    â€œI got nothing to be ashamed of.”
    â€œYes, you have. Walking out on your boss when he needed you most.”
    The door opened again. “It was my Bert, my husband,” said Bertha. “He made me leave. ‘You’ll be next,’ he kept saying.”
    â€œWell, he was wrong. If you look in this morning’s newspapers, you’ll find that Sir Bryce took sleeping pills and so didn’t hear a thing.”
    â€œYou’d better come in. I’m that shook up.”
    Agatha followed her into a living room which was chilly and damp as if summer had shunned it. It was neat and comfortably furnished, though. “What I really want to know,” said Agatha, “is what Lady Teller was like.”
    â€œI don’t like to speak ill of my employers,” said Bertha primly.
    â€œThey’re not your employers anymore and you damned poor Sir Bryce by walking out on him. Come on. Let’s have it. Warts and