Agatha's First Case by M. C. Beaton Page B

suddenly longed for a cigarette. The pair studied each other. I could be facing a murderer, thought Agatha, but he looks so kind and normal. Then the intuition that was to serve her so well in the future sparked in her brain. For some reason, she was suddenly convinced he did not do it.
    â€œI hate this,” she burst out. She looked at him and grinned. “You know what? This is the end. I am not under contract. I am going back there and I am going to resign. Whew!”
    Sir Bryce rang the bell. When Bliss appeared, he ordered coffee and said to Agatha, “You may smoke if you wish.”
    He waited until Agatha had lit a cigarette and said, “Tell me about yourself.”
    Agatha was about to give him a fictitious account of her happy childhood in the Cotswolds with adoring parents, but there was something in the shrewd grey eyes surveying her that stopped her. So she told the truth, every bit of it.
    â€œSo, why were you working for Jill?” he asked.
    â€œI wanted to learn the PR business,” said Agatha. “I could be good at it. Jill hasn’t a clue. She takes me along as a dogsbody when she is entertaining journalists. I keep a private file on them all. I know their weaknesses. I know how to apply pressure.”
    â€œYou are a scary lady. Ah, here’s coffee. How do you take it?”
    â€œBlack, please,” said Agatha.
    When Bliss had left, he said, “So how would you go about it?”
    â€œJerry Rothmore of the Sketch is your biggest critic,” said Agatha. “I happen to know he is cheating on his wife. Jill went to powder her nose one day when we were having lunch with him. He went on as if I didn’t exist. Phoning someone called Cynthia and talking sex. His wife is called Beryl. I checked. I’d start with him. I wish I were a PR. I’d soon get the vultures off your back.”
    Bryce looked at the pugnacious face opposite him and suddenly smiled.
    He rang the bell again and when Bliss came in, said, “Tell George to get round here as fast as possible.”
    When Bliss had left, Bryce turned to Agatha. “George is my man of business. Do you know South Molton Street?”
    â€œYes,” said Agatha.
    â€œI have property there I was about to sell. An office above the shops. You may set up your own PR business and represent me. I will fund you to hire staff and advertising. If you aren’t any good, I will drop you. Are you prepared to meet the challenge?”
    â€œOh, yes!” said Agatha, although she was hardly able to believe her ears. “But there is one thing. If I am to handle you, I need your view on your wife’s murder.”
    â€œOf course you do. May I have one of your cigarettes? I’m not supposed to smoke.”
    Agatha rose and gave him one from her packet and then lit it for him with hands that trembled.
    â€œYes, I did have a row with my wife. The windows were open and that interfering doctor next door heard it all. I had been checking the accounts. She had been buying expensive things like an Oyster Rolex and yet couldn’t produce it. I felt sure she was buying presents for a lover. I regretted marrying her but I was damned if I would end up in the divorce courts and pay her anything. She stormed out after I had threatened to kill her and told her I was cutting off her allowance. See how bad it looks? I went to bed. Didn’t hear a thing after that. Got up in the morning, came in here and nearly tripped over her dead body. She was lying by the fireplace with a sort of garrotte around her neck. Wooden handles on the ends. Sort of thing they cut cheese with. The police have only circumstantial evidence but the doctor’s evidence is pretty damning. And worst of all, I love cheese and had used the cutter that evening to slice off a bit. My prints were on the handle. Also, there was no sign of a break-in. I pointed out that I often helped myself to a slice of cheese so it stood to reason that