16 The Return of Gorgeous Will

Christie’s Detective Agency Two Part 16 THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY

“As far as I can make out, there was nobody anywhere near when Damsel was given a fatal dose of poison,” Jenny told Horace next morning. They were both early for work and both confessed to having lost sleep worrying through the problems of two murders in a library.

“I wouldn’t know where to get hold of strychnine,” admitted Horace, “I’m sure I can’t pop into the pound shop and buy a bottle!”

“Nor any shop without your details being entered into a poisons register,” Jenny told him. “From what I’ve gleaned from Cyril now that he’s calmed down a bit, the stuff put in the woman’s coffee was distilled from rat poison, and that type’s not been readily available for decades. It was mostly used by farmers with a problem with rats.”

“Farming seems to have entered into the two murders quite a lot,” pointed out Horace.

“That crossed my mind too,” nodded Jenny “and when Cyril finally decided to calm down he said he thought Lofty might have pinched some from the Pritchard farm when he went to burn it down.”

“He claims he didn’t do anything of the sort, and I believe him,” declared Horace, “he didn’t have any kind of motive. His anger was directed at Ian Pritchard, and he’d already killed him. And anyway, by the time that arson destroyed a barn and an outbuilding the farm belonged to someone else and not the Pritchards. The other son, Leslie, was off discovering himself somewhere and the old man was enjoying life in an expensive retirement home. Lofty had no motive whatsoever, and by his own reckoning not enough strength left in his poor old legs anyway.”

“From what I gathered from Cyril the records show he didn’t say much in defence of himself at his arson trial. In fact, he probably as good a confessed.” murmured Jenny. “It was a poor job either way, because he was bound to be sent back to jail because he was only out on licence. A decent legal team should have been able to get to the truth, though.”

“What about Damsel?” asked Horace, “in broad daylight she was given a coffee laced with strychnine. Enough to kill her, no messing, while she was stamping books at her counter. It was young Rosie who found her. Was it Rosie who killed her?”

Jenny shook her head, almost vigorously. “I’ve met killers in my time,” she said, “and she doesn’t tick a single box.”

“You like her, don’t you?” asked Horace.

“I like her honesty and her sympathy for the underdog,” said Jenny, “she went out of her way to befriend our first victim, you know, met her in the park on Sundays, chatted with her about books they’d read, that sort of thing.”

“And you’re sure she’s innocent?” persisted Horace, enjoying himself.

“Why persist, number two? She’s a thoroughly decent lass and no killer!”

“I hate to ask you, could it be that you, er, fancy her?”

“I may be some things, Horace, but I’m not a cradle snatcher, though I’m getting to appreciate the female of the species more and more, especially as I get to know more men! I married two wasters, don’t forget, so beware!.”

“Sorry for suggesting…” Horace suddenly felt guilty implying that his boss might have feelings for Rosie, probably because deep down he was feeling some for her himself.

“Don’t worry, lad. You’re all right. It’s probably just that your own hormones are clicking in.”

A sudden unexpected knock at the door put an end to what may have developed into an uncomfortable conversation. Horace was beginning to feel his feet with Jenny, who he admired maybe a shade too much for a lad of his age and lack of real experience with women

“Come in!” called Jenny, raising her eyebrows. Although the agency was widely advertised they got very few personal enquiries.

They were surprised when the last person they expected strolled in. But Gorgeous Will, the tenth rate celebrity who claimed to have been first to spot Lauren Foster as a beam of moonlight caught her sitting at the table in the library, immobile and to all intents and purposes as dead as she was later when the assistant librarian Damsel found her.

“What can we do for you?” asked Jenny, not particularly liking the man because she reckoned that she knew the type: all ego based on very little.

“I had an idea, don’t you know?” he began.

Of course we don’t know! That was the though that instantly ran through the minds of both Christie’s personnel.

“Really?” replied Jenny, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm out of her one word reply.

“Well, I found myself being fascinated by the events in the library,” he began, “I can’t help it when there’s not much else on and I’ve seem my swimwear commercial more times than enough! I read the report in the local rag, and I got to thinking, so I popped into their office and because I was recognised as a person of note…” here he paused and would have puffed his chest out if he could have emphasised it any more than he already did … and they let me poke amongst their old editions.”

“We’ve been there,” Jenny told him, wishing he would say what was on his mind and leave them in peace. To her mind there was something wrong in a world in which nonentities get a plastic sort of fame for no better reason than they’ve done something like eat undercooked testicles on television in order to entertain she didn’t know what sort of mankind.

“Well,” continued their visitor as if he hadn’t noticed the rancour in her expression, “I read that it mentioned that Mr Leslie, the librarian, wasn’t always Mr Leslie.”

“We know that many years ago he changed his name,” Horace said, sounding a smidgen more friendly than his boss.

“So did I,” smirked Gorgeous Will, “it might come as a surprise to you when I tell you that I’m not Gorgeous Will at all!”

“You can say that again,” muttered Jenny under her breath.

“No,” he smiled as if he was revealing something as vital as the meaning of life itself, “no my real name before I changed it, and I ask that this doesn’t travel beyond these walls, was Will Goatbeard!”

“I can see what you wanted to improve it,” said Horace, glad that he hadn’t been encumbered with a surname like Goatbeard.

“I’m sure you can,” continued their visitor, “but did you notice what I did? Clever, I thought, very clever, but I took my old forename and used it as a surname. I wondered … did the librarian cookie do something similar? Was Mr Leslie once Leslie something? And if that’s the case why?”

“I see what you mean,” murmured Jenny, Gorgeous Will climbing a little higher in her estimation, “and I hadn’t thought of that,” she confessed. “But it does make sense. I’ll check that out as soon as I can. Thanks for coming by. It’s very good of you.”

“I was going to tell the coppers, but they wouldn’t find the time of day to talk to me,” he smiled, aggrieved.

“Did you try to speak to the D.I?” asked Jenny.

He nodded. “Try. Yes I tried. But I got the impression he was enjoying the company of one or two smart young policewomen a tad too much for his own good. He wears a wedding ring, you know. Naughty him!”

Jenny smiled as their visitor made his excuses and was gone.

“Not the empty-head I first thought him to be,” murmured Horace.

“Really, number Two, and you can honestly say that when you know that he eats testicles?” she said, smiling.

© Peter Rogerson 11.10.21

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