"But you must have met other people, other men," said Agatha.
"At first, Jennifer gave a lot of parties but the people that came were mostly schoolteachers. I invited people from the office but they didn't seem to enjoy the parties and they stopped coming."
"Didn't you make friends with any of the women in the office?"
"Sometimes one of them would suggest we had a drink after work, but Jennifer usually waited for me after work and so..."
Jennifer's a leech, thought Agatha.
She stood up again. "I'll see what I can do with the records."
Agatha went into Mr. Martin's office and asked him if it would be possible to look up old records. He said all the old books were down in the cellars and she was welcome to try but he could not spare any of the staff to help her. He handed Agatha a large key and led her downstairs to the basement and then indicated a low door. "Down there," he said. "You'll find them all stacked on bookshelves at the back of all the junk."
Agatha unlocked the door and made her way down stone steps. The basement was full of old bits of furniture, dusty curtains, even oil lamps. She picked her way through the clutter to the piles of bound hotel registers, which were piled up on shelves in a far corner. To her relief, the date of each year was stamped on the outside.
She had to lift down piles of books to get at the one marked "1955." She sat down on a battered old sofa and opened it, searching until she found July.
She ran her fingers down the entries, glad it was such a small hotel so she did not have a multitude of names to look through. And then she found it, Joseph Brady. Agatha frowned. He had given his address as 92 Sheep Street, Hadderton. What on earth was someone with a car who lived in Hadderton and who could easily have motored over every day doing spending a holiday in an expensive place like the Garden Hotel?
She took a small notebook from her handbag and wrote down the address, put the book back, went upstairs and returned the key to the office and went into the lounge where Mary was still knitting.
"I've found it," said Agatha.
"You have? Just like that? And after all these years ..."
"The funny thing is he's given an address in Hadderton, and Hadderton's so close."
She held out the piece of paper. "I can't believe it," whispered Mary.
"We may as well lay your ghost. We'll go tomorrow."
"It might be a good idea if we didn't tell Jennifer," said Mary.
"Will that be difficult?"
"I don't think so. I'll say I'm going with you to look at a dress."
"Right you are. I'll ask the others what they think about the seance when we all meet up tonight."
Jennifer was scornful of the idea of a seance and said so, loudly. Daisy said she had decided that things like that were best left alone. But the colonel showed unexpected enthusiasm and said it "sounded like a bit of a lark." Harry said it would be interesting to see what fraudulent tricks Janine got up to. Daisy capitulated to please the colonel. And so it was decided that Agatha should arrange it for an evening in two days' time. She phoned Janine, who said she would expect them all at nine in the evening.
After dinner, they set out to walk to the dance. They were all unusually silent and Jennifer was openly sulking. She obviously did not like the idea of the seance, but did not want to be left out.
Although they all danced amiably enough that evening, there was an odd sort of constraint which Agatha could not understand. She kept looking towards the doorway of the ballroom, always hoping to see Jimmy arrive, but the evening wore on and there was no sign of him. At last, Daisy said she had a bit of a headache and would like to return to the hotel and the others agreed.
And what was all that about? wondered Agatha as she got ready for bed. Could it be that the idea of the seance frightened one of them and that inner fright had subconsciously communicated itself to the others? Could it be remotely possible that one of them had committed the murder?
And why hadn't Jimmy come? Maybe the love potion wore off after a while.
In the morning, Agatha and a guilty-looking Mary took a cab to Hadderton. "No trouble getting away?" asked Agatha.
"No, not this time, but she did somehow make me feel guilty."
"Worse than having a bullying husband."
"Oh, you mustn't say that, Agatha. Jennifer's the only true friend I've ever had."
They fell silent as the old cab rattled into Hadderton.
"Sheep Street," called the taxi driver.
"Ninety-two," called back Agatha as the cab slowed to a crawl. Sheep Street was lined with red brick houses. Some were smartened up with window-boxes and with the doors and window-sashes painted bright colours. But the others were distinctly seedy. And ninety-two was one of the seedy ones.
"Shouldn't we just leave it alone?" pleaded Mary as Agatha paid off the cab.
"May as well go through with it now we're here." Agatha marched determinedly up to the front door and knocked on it.
"He probably left here years ago," said Mary.
The door opened and a very old woman stood there, peering up at them. "We're looking for Joseph Brady," said Agatha.
"Come in." She shuffled off into the interior and they followed her. The living-room into which she led them was dark and furnished with battered old chairs and a sagging sofa.
"This is Mary Dulsey and I am Agatha Raisin," began Agatha. "Mary knew Joseph when he was much younger. She always wondered what became of him. Do you know him?"
"He's my son."
They both looked at the old woman. She eased herself into an armchair. Her hands were knobbly with arthritis and her face was seamed and wrinkled.
Mary seemed to have been struck dumb. "Where is he?" asked Agatha.
Mrs. Brady gave a wheezy little sigh. "Doing time."
"Why, what for?" asked Agatha, ignoring Mary's yelp of distress.
"Same old business. Stealing cars." She peered at Mary. "How did you know him?"
Mary found her voice, albeit a trembling voice. "It was years ago, in 1955. At Wyckhadden. At the Garden Hotel."
Mrs. Brady nodded. "That would be about the first time he got into trouble."
"With the police?" asked Agatha.
"Yes," she said wearily. "He was working as a car salesman for a firm in Hadderton. He'd just got his driving licence. He stole a car and he stole the money from the firm's office. He said afterwards that he had planned to go to a posh hotel and look for a rich girl." The old eyes looked sympathetically at Mary. "Was that you, dear?"
"I suppose so," said Mary miserably. "We weren't rich. My father was only a lawyer."
"That would be rich to Joseph. We never had much, see. Well, the police got him a couple of days after he came back. How he thought he'd get away with it, I don't know. He'd left the stolen car in a side street, as if someone else had pinched it. But he'd left his fingerprints all over the office at the car firm and the police found the rest of the money hidden in his room. He swore he'd never do anything like that again. He got a light sentence, but it was hard to get work with a criminal record. He left home one day shortly after that. Said he was going to Australia. Then, four years later, he wrote to me from prison. Cars again and a longer sentence. Then it was burglary. The latest was stealing cars and driving them over to some crooked dealer in Bulgaria."
"Have you a recent photograph?" asked Agatha.
Mrs. Brady rose painfully from her chair and lifted a cardboard box down from a shelf beside the fireplace. She rested it on a small table, and putting on a pair of spectacles, began to look through the photographs. She lifted one out and handed it to Mary. "That you, miss?"
Mary looked down at a picture of herself and Joseph on the prom at Wyckhadden. "Yes," she said in a choked voice. "One of those beach photographers took that picture. One for me, one for Joseph."