in her psyche. When she had fled her problems with Archie and his philandering, seeking sanctuary at a health resort, the press had treated her “disappearance” as major news, and then, when she had turned up alive and well (considering), had accused her of staging a publicity stunt.
From that time on, she felt a revulsion toward the press, a dislike for journalists and their undue, tasteless attention. She knew firsthand how a fox felt—hunted, the earth dug up around her, hounds snapping at her every step.
“You are the rare public figure, Agatha, who deplores notoriety. Most authors seek publicity.”
“The work is the work, Stephen. My life is my life. And my own.”
“I know. I hope I have not overstepped….”
“Not yet.”
He sighed. Sipped his tea. Sat back in the hard chair. Folded his arms. Said, “That’s why I have sought you out, to ask you one last time to reconsider the foolishness of involving yourself with Spilsbury and these Ripper crimes.”
“The press has designated them Ripper crimes. I do not necessarily think—”
He raised a hand, stopping her in mid-sentence. “I bring these papers ’round only to let you know what you may be in for. If the press detects your presence, even on the fringes of this matter, you may be in for an unpleasantness for which you are wholly unprepared.”
She frowned in thought. “Stephen… I admit to you that this had not occurred to me. Thank you for pointing it out.”
He leaned forward, touched her hand. “Then you have reconsidered. You’ll stay well out of this.”
“No. But I will take precautions to avoid journalists in the matter.”
His face fell. “Agatha… tell me truthfully. Does Max ever win an argument with you?”
“We don’t argue. We discuss.”
“And do you always prevail?”
“Certainly not. But then Max is my husband… you’re merely my friend.”
He chuckled. “With precious little influence, obviously…. Oh, I must run.”
He came around, kissed her cheek, and was gone.
Back in the flat, in the library, Agatha sat in her easy chair, making notes on the Poirot; but Stephen’s concerns about the press, his warning, lingered.
The telephone rang out in the hall, and she allowed herself to be interrupted; she wasn’t getting much work done, anyway. The phone was on a stand just around the foot of the stairs. The caller proved to be Sir Bernard.
“I am taking you at your word,” he said.
“I would expect nothing else.”
“Well, our murderer has struck again. I’ve been called to the scene—over Soho way, not far from Piccadilly. Shall I come ’round and pick you up?”
“Are you at the hospital?”
“Actually I’m at my flat.”
Sir Bernard lived with his sister Constance on nearby Frognal Street; he and Agatha were practically neighbors.
“I could pick you up,” he was saying, “in a matter of minutes.”
“Please do.”
“Mrs. Mallowan… Agatha. I’m told it’s unpleasant.”
“It’s a murder, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” he said, with an air of understanding.
And they said good-byes and hung up.
Agatha had already assembled a crime-scene wardrobe. She had given it considerable thought, actually. The weather was brisk if not brutally cold, but she could hardly wear a fur coat to a murder—this was not, after all, a first night at the theater.
Nor did she wish to present either an overly feminine or schoolteacher matronly appearance. She chose a wardrobe that seemed to her suitably appropriate for detective work, and only hoped she had not inadvertently stooped to melodramatically theatrical effects.
The suit was a mannish pastel beige affair, jacket with cardigan neckline and patch pockets, skirt pleated front and back. To the Glen Plaid tones-of-brown woolen topcoat—boyish-looking with its flap pockets and raised welt seams on the sleeves and in back—she added a mannish wide-brimmed light brown felt hat with darker brown band.
The latter was enough like a man’s fedora to make her wonder if she might not be pushing her detective credentials; but it was the current style….
Sir Bernard, however, wore no topcoat at all. In his crisp black suit with his characteristic red carnation in its buttonhole, he might have been the best-tailored undertaker in town. He seemed oblivious to (or perhaps contemptuous of) the chill weather.
Agatha, who loved to drive and had a reckless streak herself, found the experience of being Sir Bernard’s passenger in his Armstrong-Siddeley sedan a surprising if not wholly pleasant one. For an individual who appeared the soul of moderation—she had seen no signs that he either smoked or drank—the pathologist took liberties with traffic lights and one-way streets that would have inspired fines and perhaps jail time for any mere citizen.
That the