M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“Thanks, Agatha. Might make a nice little piece.”

Agatha grinned. “Just what I thought.”

Harriet left and Phil Marshall arrived carrying his camera bag. “I think I’ve got enough on that divorce case,” he said. “What now?”

“We’d better get over to Herry’s shoe factory. They say someone’s been pinching their designs and they want us to investigate.”

The managing director of the shoe company, Jimmy Binter, talked to them in the boardroom. “It’s the second time Comfort Shoes has stolen our designs. We do a line which specializes in wide fittings.”

“When did the first one happen?” asked Agatha

“Last spring. One of our models appeared in their spring catalogue, and now another of our latest models is featured in their autumn catalogue.”

“How many do you employ?”

“It’s a small company. Forty on the work force, two designers and four salesmen.”

“I need a list of their names.”

“I have it right here.”

Agatha studied the list and then said, “Mark off the names who started work before, say, last November.”

“I’ll call our personnel manager, Mrs. Goody. She’ll help you.”

“Where is the catalogue printed?”

“At Jones Printers in Mircester. But whoever stole the designs for the shoes wouldn’t work at the printer’s. The shoe featured in the spring catalogue was copied exactly. Someone would need the original design.”

Mrs. Goody arrived and ticked off the names and addresses of the employees who had started work last autumn.

Agatha busily took notes and then stood up. “I’ll get back to you. Give me a spring and an autumn catalogue.”

Outside the factory, Phil said, “What do you plan to do?”

“There’s a new designer, Carry Wilks, taken on last year. She’s our best bet. Let’s check where she lives. If she lives with her parents, it’ll slow things up. But if I remember rightly, it’s block of flats, one of those tower blocks out on the Evesham road.”

Agatha drove steadily, smoking and blowing smoke around the car. Phil coughed crossly and opened a window.

“Here we are,” said Agatha. “She lives in number thirty-four. I hope it isn’t too high up because often the lifts in these places are broken.”

The lift was, indeed, broken. Agatha felt her hip getting worse as she mounted the smelly stone staircase. Phil seemed to take the stairs as easily as a teenager.

“Here we are, thirty-four.” Agatha rang the bell. A child wailed from a nearby apartment and a rising wind moaned around the building.

“No reply. Let’s see if we can get in.” Agatha took out a credit card.

“You can’t!” protested Phil. “That’s breaking and entering.”

“It’s just a Yale lock,” said Agatha, ignoring him. “Good heavens! It works. I thought maybe that only worked in the movies. Come in and shut the door behind you.”

The flat appeared to consist of a small living room, bedroom, tiny kitchen and a shower. Agatha went over to a desk by the window and began to search after putting on a pair of latex gloves.

“Nothing here,” she said while Phil waited nervously. “I could try this computer.”

“Probably protected by a password,” said Phil.

“May not be.” Agatha switched it on. “Let me see. E-mail. No, I can get right into it. Bingo. Silly cow. Here it is. ‘I’ll be bringing over the designs and expect the usual fee,’ sent to Comfort Shoes.”

“But we can’t do anything with this evidence,” protested Phil. “We can’t say how we got it.”

“Never mind. Back to the factory, and watch me!”

The managing director summoned Carry Wilks. A tall, mannish-looking woman came into the boardroom.

Agatha got straight to the point. “You’ve been selling designs to Comfort Shoes. There’s been a leak at their factory. You corresponded with them via e-mail.”

“What have you got to say for yourself?” demanded the managing director.

“Just this,” said Carry. “Screw the lot of you.” She marched out of the boardroom.

The managing director called for security to stop Carry from leaving the building. “I got the information by breaking into her flat,” said Agatha, “so call the police and get them to search her place and don’t say anything about me. Get her charged first. Say you got a tip-off from an anonymous caller at Comfort Shoes.”

As Agatha drove off, a police car sped past, heading for the factory. “I’m glad there weren’t any children,” said Agatha. “I mean, if she had been a single mother with kids to support, I might have felt bad about turning her in.”

When Agatha got back to her cottage that evening, she found Charles had left her a note. “Got to go home. Have taken the photos with me. May be back tonight. Love, Charles.”

Agatha sat down at the kitchen table after having let her cats out into the garden. She was just about to go through the morning’s mail, which she had not had time to open, when the phone rang. It was Roy Silver. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Sure. Why?”

There was a silence and Roy said, “I think I should come down for the weekend.”

“You’re welcome. Any particular reason?”

“We’re friends.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at Moreton Station, usual time, around six-thirty in the evening.”

“See you then.”

What’s up with him? Agatha wondered.

Ever since the advent of e-mail, one hardly ever got anything interesting in the post, apart from bills and junk mail. Agatha put the junk mail on one side to be thrown away and the bills on the other side. There was an interesting-looking square envelope of expensive paper. Agatha saved it for last and then slit it open and drew out a heavily embossed invitation.

At first she could hardly believe what she was reading. She rose stiffly from the kitchen table, went through to the living room and poured herself a gin and tonic. Returning to the kitchen table, she lit a cigarette, took a good strong pull of her drink and studied the invitation again. It said:

Mrs. Agatha Raisin

and the staff of the Agatha Raisin Detective Agency

are invited to a reception

at the George Hotel, Mircester, on October 2nd

to celebrate the engagement

of Felicity Jane Bross-Tilkington

to Mr. James Bartholomew Lacey.

Drinks and snacks. Dress informal.

Reception at 7:30 p.m. in the Betjeman Suite.

RSVP Mrs. Olivia Bross-Tilkington ,

The Laurels, Downboys, Sussex, SX12 5JW

Agatha felt her heart thumping against her ribs. When had all this happened? He had written to her a month ago and said nothing about it.

She heard her front door opening and Charles calling, “Anybody home?”

“In the kitchen,” said Agatha, thrusting the invitation under the pile of junk mail.

Charles came in carrying the boxes of photographs. “You have a look. I can’t find anything. Yes, I got an invitation as well and from the lost look in your eyes, so did you.”

“Bastard!” said Agatha. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Why should he? All was over between the two of you. Stop being bitch in the manger and look forward to the evening. It’ll be interesting to see who won that confirmed bachelor’s heart.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” said Agatha stiffly.

“Oh, but I do. You don’t want him, but you don’t want anyone else to have him.”

“He should have told me!” howled Agatha.

“So you keep saying. Drop it. Life goes on.”

“I won’t go.”

“Of course you will.”

“He’s invited the whole bloody agency.”

“And you were thinking of not telling anybody?”