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investigation.”
    â€œDid I ever?”
    â€œOften.”
    â€œAnd the result was, you got your murderer,” said Agatha.
    â€œAnd the result on one or more occasions was that the police had to rescue you,” said Bill. “Off you go, and don’t hide evidence.”
    *   *   *
    Outside the mobile unit, Agatha phoned Charles, but his phone was switched off. She fought down a pang of jealousy. She remembered Gareth talking about the English teacher. Perhaps he might have some interesting views. She sent Charles a text message, got in her car and drove to Mircester High School. Pupils were streaming out through the gates, throwing snowballs, wrecking their school uniforms as they went along, the boys pulling their shirts out of their trousers and taking off their ties and the girls hitching up their skirts to above the knee.
    Agatha parked her car and walked into the school, breathing in the smell of sweat, chalk and disinfectant. She stopped a female member of staff and asked where she could find the English teacher.
    â€œWhich one?” demanded the harried-looking woman.
    â€œThe one that sings in the opera.”
    â€œThat’ll be John Hale. I think I saw him in his classroom. Number 10b, along on your left, round the corridor.”
    Agatha walked on until she found the classroom. She put her hand on the doorknob and looked through one of the four glass windows on the upper part of the door.
    John Hale was sitting at a desk, correcting papers.
    He was beautiful. He had thick black glossy hair shadowing a pale sensitive face and perfect straight nose and mouth. Agatha quickly retreated and took out a compact, powdered her nose and repaired her lipstick.
    She then opened the classroom door and walked in. “Can I help you?” he asked.
    Yes, was the answer to that, thought Agatha. Throw me on the pommel of your white horse and ride off with me into the sunset. She handed him her card. “I am a private detective, investigating the death of Bert Simple.”
    He turned her card over with long sensitive fingers. No wedding ring, noticed Agatha.
    â€œI don’t know how I can help you,” he said.
    â€œIt’s like this,” said Agatha. “The more I learn about Bert Simple, the better chance I have of finding out who murdered him.” She saw a chair next to his and went and sat in it.
    â€œHe was a bully. How that saint of a wife of his put up with him is beyond me.”
    Sod his wife, thought Agatha, gripped by a pang of jealousy.
    â€œYou refused a part in the pantomime.”
    â€œThe whole thing was a farce,” said John. “Bert ran the show. He didn’t care that there was no attempt at a plot so long as he could strut about the stage. But out of all the people in the cast, I cannot think of anyone who would go so far as to murder him. Amateur companies are full of scenes and rivalries but it doesn’t mean anything. They think by stamping around that they are behaving like real pros. There was one thing, however.”
    â€œWhat was that?”
    â€œThe tap dancers from this school. There is a girl called Kimberley Buxton. It cropped up at the beginning of rehearsals. She said that Bert had given her a lift home and on the way had stopped the car and tried to assault her. Her parents reported the matter to the school.”
    â€œNot the police?”
    â€œNo. The matter was investigated. Kimberley backed down and claimed it was nothing. She had misunderstood the situation.”
    â€œAnd do you think she had?” asked Agatha.
    â€œWe occasionally have trouble here with pupils trying to get back at the teachers with claims of sexual harassment. That is why we were relieved the police had not been contacted.”
    â€œHow old is this girl?”
    â€œShe’s fourteen now. She was thirteen at the time.”
    â€œI would like to speak to her,” said Agatha.
    â€œI don’t think that’s a