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where she lives,” said Agatha, “is in one of the council estates on the edge of town. I would have expected her to live somewhere better.”
    â€œMaybe she relied on Bellington for money and a home, I wonder what she looks like,” said Gerald, after Agatha had parked the car and they were walking towards the entrance to the flats. “I got photos of Bellington at various functions e-mailed to me from an old contact. His ex is in a lot of the old ones, but in the newer ones, there’s no sign of any love life.”
    Agatha felt a stab of envy. Of course he would have more useful contacts than she did herself. She often fretted at being kept out of police investigations, being left with no forensic details.
    Jenny Coulter’s flat was in a small block, only four stories high. Jenny’s flat was on the top floor. There was an OUT OF ORDER sign on the lift. When they reached the top floor, Agatha found she was out of breath and that her feet hurt. Oh, God, she thought, here it comes at last. No more cigarettes and no more high heels. I’m doomed.
    â€œIs anything the matter?” asked Gerald.
    â€œWhat? No, I’m fine. Ring the bell.”
    Gerald pressed the bell. Then there was silence: only the moaning sound of the wind which had risen outside. There were no usual sounds one would expect in a block of flats: no television sounds, crying babies or rowing couples. There were only two apartments to each floor. “I’ll try the apartment opposite,” said Agatha. At first, there seemed to be no one home there either, but just as Agatha was turning away, the door was opened by a very old man, leaning on two sticks. “Who is it, Grandpa?” called a voice behind him.
    â€œI think it’s the Jehovahs,” he said. “Look here, I don’t believe in God, never have, never will and…”
    â€œWe are private investigators,” shouted Agatha. “Do you know when your neighbour, Miss Coulter, will be home?”
    His pale, watery eyes stared at her. “I ain’t deaf. She’s usually home, but she don’t answer the door if she thinks it’s someone she don’t know.”
    â€œThank you,” said Agatha, still cross at having been mistaken for a Jehovah’s Witness.
    Agatha took out a business card and shoved it through the letterbox. She rang the bell again. After a few minutes, when she was just about to give up, the door opened, and a plump woman with grey hair answered it. “I was hoping to speak to Miss Coulter,” said Agatha.
    â€œThat’s me. Is it about that mean old bastard?”
    â€œYes, if you mean Lord Bellington.”
    â€œCome in.”
    They followed her into her living room. Agatha introduced Gerald. The room contained some nice pieces of antique furniture and a basketweave Sheraton sofa and chairs.
    Jenny saw Agatha surveying the furniture and grinned. “When I left the old bastard, I got the removal lorry round first during the night. Left a note saying if he wanted his stuff back, he could sue me.”
    Gerald said, “Have you any idea who might have poisoned him?”
    â€œI bet it was that son of his. Weird. The whole family’s weird. Was the poison in one of his filthy-sweet drinks?”
    â€œYes,” said Gerald. “It was either in the sweet wine or the crème de menthe. So it must have been someone who knew he liked sweet alcohol.”
    â€œHe had a fete or some type of thing like that,” said Agatha. “One of the villagers could have got into the house. I’m sure they used a lavatory in the house.”
    â€œHe knew his drinking habits weren’t fashionable,” said Jenny. “Only the immediate family would know about his liking for sweet drinks.”
    â€œWhat about dinner parties?” asked Gerald.
    â€œOnly the best wine and port afterwards,” said Jenny. “I told all this to the police. They tracked me down