Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

pursued James.
    The man’s dark eyes focused impatiently on them again. ‘I bought it from Quickie Photocopying and Printing. Before that it was the Peter Pan Temp Agency, before that, Gawd knows. Nobody stays here long. Business rates are diabolical, trust me, guv That Help Our Homeless died about four years ago.’
    They gave up and left. James stood on the pavement head down, scowling furiously. ‘If Help Our Homeless was a charity, then surely this Gore-Appleton must have been in the press, opening something, talking about something. Do you know a helpful reporter?’
    ‘I used to know lots of journalists, but they were usually fashion editors or show-biz.’
    ‘But they would have access to the records. Can we ask?’
    Agatha searched her brain for a journalist she knew who might not hate her too much. When she had been a public relations officer, the press had regarded her as a pain in the neck and usually featured her clients just to get rid of her.
    ‘I know the show-biz editor of The Bugle,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Mary Parrington.’
    ‘Let’s go and see her.’
    They drove slowly down to the East End. Fleet Street was no more. The big papers had all relocated to cheaper, larger sites.
    At last they stood in the sterile steel-and-glass hall of The Bugle, waiting to see whether Mary Parrington would grant them an audience.
    Fortunately for Agatha, the news editor had been passing Mary’s desk just as she was telling her secretary, ‘Tell that awful old bat, Agatha Raisin, I’m dead or gone, or anything.’
    ‘Wait a bit,’ said the news editor. ‘That’s the female involved in the Cotswold murder. Get her up here and introduce me. No reporter’s been able to get near her.’
    The idea of throwing Agatha to 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