It turned out that there were only two garages in Namechester and one
of them didn’t have a James McCrimmon working there, so we set off for
the other, after the helpful Welsh girl from the first place gave us
directions. I can’t say the mood between us in the car was the best.

“I thought you knew where it was,” she said, her arms folded.

I coloured. “Well, I had a vague idea where both of them were, but
nobody said which garage.”

“And you didn’t think to ask your adoring little old lady something
useful like that?”

I pulled the car into said garage and brought her to a halt. “Sarah,
that’s no way to talk about Miss Marple. Hallo!”

The garage owner came ambling across to us. He was a short, dark-
haired man with glasses. “Something wrong, sir?”

“Oh, no,” I said and then caught myself, even as Sarah punched me in
the arm. “I mean, there might be. Old thing’s been making a bit of
racket lately. Thought I ought to get her checked out. Someone said
this’d be the place to come.”

Sarah emerged from the car and I followed hastily. She smiled at the
man and held out her hand. “I’m Sarah Jane Smith. Do you have a
James McCrimmon working here, by any chance?”

“No,” he said and his smile vanished abruptly. I thought he muttered,
“Not another one,” under his breath. Sarah’s eyes narrowed and I
winked at her. Not that I like being petty, but it’s nice to know
that I’m not the only one who puts his foot in it from time to time.

I coughed. “Look, sorry to trouble you and all that, but I was rather
hoping you’d take a look at the old girl.”

He returned his gaze to me and I saw bemusement on his face. “I’m
sorry?”

“The car,” I said gently. “My friend told me you were a whizz at this
sort of thing.”

He made a face. “Just as well someone is. And if she –,” he
indicated Sarah with a motion of his thumb, that I thought insulting,
“- wants to have a word with McCrimmon, he’s over there, probably
putting water in the oil and deflating tyres again.”

“I’m a journalist,” said Sarah, determined to make good her earlier
error. She smiled at him. “I was told he might be able to help with
an article I’m writing.”

He only directed a brief, uninterested glance at her before turning
back to the car. “So what’s the problem, Dr Sullivan?”

“I’m not really sure,” I confessed with perfect honesty. “She’s
always run so well until now.”

The garage owner folded his arms and pushed his glasses back into
place. “Something a bit more specific would be helpful, sir.”

“Well, I was thinking perhaps if you gave her a general once-over,” I
persisted. “You know, a service or what-have-you?”

He glowered back at me. “I’m not sure about a what-have-you, but I
might be able to fit in a service – business has been quiet lately,
worse luck. Probably that Scottish clown driving my customers away.
Doesn’t know a carburettor from a handbrake.”

“Good one,” I said, laughing at his pun in the hope it would improve
his mood.

He stared at me again.

“Driving your customers away,” I said. He still only looked at me
blankly. “Never mind.”

He sniffed. “Well, it’ll be a couple of hours – could be longer if
something needs doing. D’you want to leave it here and walk into town
– or there’s the Crown opposite?”

*

In the end, Sarah and I took refuge in the pub and McCrimmon escaped
his employer a few minutes later and came across to join us. He was a
dark-haired young lad with a pleasant face who looked uncomfortable in
his mechanic’s overalls.

“What did you want to see me about?” he asked, as we all sat round a
circular table. He took a sip of the drink I’d paid for and looked
disappointed to discover it was only lemonade.

Sarah leant forward, her reporters pad and pen at the ready. “Polly
Wright!”

He spluttered into his glass.

“Aha,” said Sarah. “We thought you might know something.”

“Oh, I’ve never heard of her,” he muttered hastily. As lies went, it
was the most unconvincing fib I’d ever heard.

I leant back in my chair. “That’s not what I was told.”

“It’s not what you think,” he said and then frowned slightly. “I
mean, if I knew anybody called that, o’ course.”

Sarah eyed him thoughtfully. It really was a shame she thought I was
such a hopeless case, I mused, distracted by the picture she made,
sunlight from the window outlining her reflective pose. I sighed.

“And I’ve never heard of Kit- who did you say?” McCrimmon was
protesting when I remembered what I was supposed to be doing. This
was a murder investigation, not a romance, even if she did go round
telling people we were engaged when she was annoyed with me.

Sarah looked at me. “Kirsty, wasn’t it? We heard you were walking
out with her.”

“No,” I put in, eager to seem as if I had been giving them my full
attention. “It’s Kirsty’s *cousin* McCrimmon’s been seeing.”

He looked from Sarah to me in bewilderment. “What is this about?
Who’s Kirsty?”

“No,” I said. “Her cousin.”

Sarah glared at me for muddying the waters. “Listen, Mr McCrimmon -.”

“Jamie,” he corrected her with a smile and a wink in her direction. I
took an unaccountable dislike to him.

She smiled back. “Well, Jamie, Polly Wright has been murdered. I
suggest you tell us anything you know that might help bring the killer
to justice.”

“Murdered?” he echoed, his eyes widening. “Not P – I mean, who did
you say again?”

I interrupted. “Come off it, McCrimmon, you obviously knew the girl.
Why don’t you tell us? I imagine it won’t take Inspector Mackenzie
too long to find out the same information and the sort of mood he’s
in, he might just get on and arrest you.”

“Hey, I haven’t done anything wrong,” he protested, about to run.

Sarah put a hand on his arm. “I’m sure you haven’t, Jamie, but
somebody killed the poor girl. If you can help us, don’t you think
you ought?”

“Well, if you put it like that,” he conceded. “Only it’s not my secret
to tell, that’s all. Miss Wright said she heard I was friendly with
one of the maids up at the big house -.”

“One of the maids?” queried Sarah, taking notes.

He blushed. “Well, two, then. But she wanted me to -.”

“Two?” I said. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, given the
garage-owner’s remarks, but what sort of behaviour was that? It
didn’t take into account Kirsty’s cousin, either. (Whoever she was
when she was at home.)

He shrugged. “All right, three. But look, that’s got nothing to do
with Polly – Miss Wright, I mean. She wanted to know all sorts of
things about Lady Louisa and her husband. If you want a murderer, you
should ask one of them.”

“One of the maids? Which one?”

Sarah flashed me a dark glance and I wished I hadn’t said anything.

“No, the posh folks – the Pollards,” said Jamie. “It’s complicated,
but if they knew who Miss Wright – Polly – was, they’d have had reason
to finish her off.”

“Why would they want to do that?”

He said, “I don’t think I should tell you. You’re a writer, miss. If
you put it one of those gossip magazines, I might get murdered, too.”

“I won’t, honestly,” said Sarah. “I promise.”

He looked from one to the other of us again, rather like a trapped
animal and said, “I’ll tell Dr Sullivan. I’m sorry, missie, but I
can’t trust you not to go writing things down in yon little book.”

I smiled at Sarah, seeing her forcibly close her mouth and stifle her
temper. “I see. Well, I shall take myself and my dangerous notebook
outside.”

Once she’d gone, Jamie turned to me and winked. “You and her – are
you -?”

“No,” I snapped. “Anyway, why don’t you tell me what this big secret
is?”

Lines furrowed his forehead again. “This is a wee bit awkward. Will
you come out the back with me a moment, Dr Sullivan?”

“Anything, as long as you’ll explain,” I said, following him along the
narrow, wood-panelled passageway to the rear yard of the pub, where
there would once have been the coaching house. “Now, what is it?”

His answer was not what I had anticipated.