by M C Beaton
“I suppose that at least puts the Chadwick case to bed, so to speak. We have everything we need to report back to Mr. Chadwick on what his wife’s been up to.”
“Not just Mr. Chadwick. I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what a money-grabbing whore she is.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as Agatha nursed her wrath. A few spots of rain spattered the windscreen and the wipers noisily scraped them away.
“News on Deborah Lexington,” said Toni eventually. “Simon and I have been in touch with every medical centre and nursing agency in the area. Simon knows a couple of nurses … quite a few actually … but a couple who had colleagues who used to visit Deborah Lexington at home. They haven’t been to see her for at least three months and we can’t find any evidence that she is receiving ongoing medical care. Remember the young doctor I was seeing?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re back with him again!” Agatha sighed. She hated it when Toni got herself tangled up in a relationship. She wasn’t nearly as useful at work and Agatha always ended up falling out with her. The doctor had been the worst.
“No, I’m not, but why would it be such a…” Toni shook her head, determined not to be sidetracked by a hostile debate with Agatha about her love life. “Anyway, he said that he knew someone involved with Deborah’s treatment and couldn’t believe that she hadn’t fully recovered.”
“Interesting…’Agatha fished out her phone and hit a speed-dial number. “Simon? Yes, I’m back. Yes, I know it’s a Sunday. No, I don’t want you to stake out the Chadwick house. I need you to stake out the Lexington house instead. Yes, tonight. Toni will send you the address shortly. Good. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
Toni dropped Agatha at her cottage in Lilac Lane. Agatha shivered as she hauled her suitcase out of the car. It was far cooler than when she had left. She would have to exchange her summer frocks for something more substantial. She dropped the suitcase in the hall and looked towards the kitchen. No cats came scampering. When she walked into her living room, she realised why. Roy was stretched out on the sofa, watching TV with both of them curled up in his lap.
“I thought you said they didn’t like you?” she said.
“I’ve been the one feeding them, darling,” Roy replied. “They worship the giver of food.”
“How are your legs?”
“Better, but worse. They were so much worse yesterday. Tamara warned me that the stiffness would be worst a couple of days after I started. The only way to make it bearable is to carry on riding. Who’d have thought that the cure for the agony of exercise was to take more of the exercise that caused the agony in the first place? Now I can’t feel the old pain for the new pain.”
“Still hooked on riding?”
“Absolutely. I am bravely suffering and still hooked. Tamara says I’ll soon be ready to try a rising trot.”
“Good. I need you to keep poking around at the stables.”
“That car has been back again overnight—the boyfriend’s car.”
Agatha crossed the room to her drinks cabinet, decided against a gin and tonic now that the weather had turned, and poured herself a whisky. She offered one to Roy.
“What sort of car is it?” she asked.
“A red Ford hatchback.”
“Really? That’s the same as the Lexingtons’ car.”
“Surely just a coincidence, darling,” said Roy, deciding he was bored with the cookery programme he had been watching. The likelihood of him ever poaching a whole octopus was fairly remote. “There must be thousands of red Fords around.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences in a murder investigation. Did you get the registration?”
Roy rattled off the number he had memorised from the car’s licence plate and took a sip of his drink, watching while Agatha tapped an icon on her phone.
“You’re already there? Well done, Simon. Is the red car in the driveway? What’s the licence number? Thank you.”
Agatha slowly placed her phone on a side table and sat down in an armchair. She sampled her whisky and looked over at Roy.
“Very interesting,” she mused. “Jacob Lexington has been calling on Tamara Montgomery.”
Chapter Nine
Roy Silver reckoned that he had worked out at least seven new ways to walk. It all depended on which bit of him was hurting most. His gait had gone from his usual casual London amble, occasionally quickened with a spirit of urgency when he wanted to demonstrate serious intent, to a cowboy roll, then a drunk-type stagger, then something totally alien that he could only liken to a sparrow attempting to lay an ostrich egg. When he walked into the tack room at Montgomery Stables that morning, he was cruising in cowboy mode.
He was carrying various items of kit that had to be cleaned and put back in their allotted places. Roy was not a naturally tidy person himself, but he respected the way Tamara kept everything in order. Nothing was ever lost or mislaid, which meant that anything you needed for dealing with the horses was always to hand. He was surprised to see the lid of the blanket box sitting slightly open and the corner of a grey padded horse blanket poking out. That was not the way things were usually left around here.
As he lifted the lid to tuck the blanket back inside, he spotted some shimmering gold material farther down in the box. That surely had no place with the blankets. He lifted a couple of blankets aside and frowned. Something was very wrong. He reached a hand into his pocket for his phone.
* * *
At the Raisin Investigations office, Agatha was perched on the edge of Toni’s desk with a mug of coffee. Having done the Lexington night shift, Simon was at home, and Patrick was also absent, having taken over the surveillance. Helen Freedman was filing papers in a cabinet drawer and Toni sat with her hands cupped around her own coffee mug.
“Jacob Lexington and Tamara Montgomery?” she said. “Really?”
“Really.” Agatha nodded.
“They don’t seem a likely couple.”
“Things ain’t always—”
There was a drumbeat of footsteps coming up the stairs and the office door crashed open. Darell Brown-Field stomped in, eyes blazing with fury and chin, as always, set like a snow plough.
“You!” he barked, pointing at Agatha. “I want a word with you!”
“Do you have an appointment?” Agatha asked, calmly sipping her coffee. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
“Don’t get mouthy with me, you jumped-up slut!” he yelled. “I know what you’ve been up to!”
“You know nothing. You’re an idiot.”
“You stay out of my affairs!”
“You’re having more than one, then? Where did you find two women with such bad taste?”
“I’m warning you, I—”
“It’s all getting a bit loud in here, isn’t it?” said Roy Silver, walking in through the open door.
Darell glanced round nervously. Roy was a far from imposing figure, especially in his jodhpurs and riding boots, but Darell clearly felt the odds were now stacked too heavily against him. He turned to leave, giving Agatha a look of pure malice.
“Just you keep your nose out!” he bawled.
“And you keep your chin up,” said Agatha.
He thundered down the stairs and slammed the street door.
“What’s got him in such a state?” asked Roy.
“Maybe French food doesn’t agree with him,” said Agatha. “More to the point, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the stables?”
“There’s something you should see,” said Roy. He flicked through his phone until a photograph appeared on the screen. “I couldn’t send this from the stables. Signal wasn’t good enough.”
Agatha and Toni looked at the photo. It was of an outfit laid out on a table in the tack room: a long coat embroidered with a gold and silver design, a lacy white shirt, knee breeches and white stockings.
“That looks like an outfit from the masked ball.” Agatha frowned.
“Don’t you recognise it?”
said Toni. “It looks a bit different like this, but I swear we both danced with that costume. It’s the one the bloke who first asked you to dance was wearing.”
“You’re right,” Agatha agreed.
“I guessed it was important,” said Roy, “but what was it doing hidden in a blanket box at Montgomery Stables?”
“What indeed?” puzzled Agatha.
“Could Tamara have worn it?” Toni wondered. “Maybe she passed herself off as a man to sneak into the party?”
“But we danced with whoever was wearing this,” Agatha reasoned. “Whoever it was didn’t dance particularly well, but we would have known if it wasn’t a bloke.”
“What did you do with the costume, Roy?” asked Toni.
“I put it back where I found it,” said Roy, “but not as I found it. A blanket hanging out of the box led me to it, which makes me think that it wasn’t Tamara who hid the costume there. She does everything too neatly for that.”
“So why would anyone hide it in a messy way, in a tidy room?” Agatha wondered. “You were meant to find this, Roy. It was planted there.”
“By Jacob Lexington?” said Toni.
“That’s who my money’s on,” Agatha agreed. “Toni, I think you and I need to plan another visit to the Lexingtons. Roy, you had best get back to the stables.”
“Okay,” said Roy, turning quietly to go. He had hoped for a small pat on the back at the very least for having turned up such an important clue. He cowboy-waddled towards the door.
“Oh, and Roy…” Agatha called after him.
“Yes?” he answered, expectantly.
“Hi-ho, Silver!”
* * *
Agatha spent the rest of the morning researching the names that Jen Warbler-Dow had given her—the Italian, the Dutchman and the German. They were not difficult to find online. Each was a successful businessman. Each was extremely rich. Each had been photographed at glamorous events with his glamorous wife. Why on earth would they risk everything for a woman like Sheraton Chadwick? She wondered if the men knew each other. It seemed likely, given that they were all involved with show-jumping, but Agatha was willing to bet that they were not close friends. She was also convinced that none of them was aware that the others were indulging themselves with Chadwick. These were not the sort of men who would want to share. Chadwick was playing a dangerous game.
As a high-flying PR consultant in London, Agatha had met many rich, powerful men. Their egos knew no bounds. They would revel in the idea that friends and business associates knew, or suspected, that they were having an affair. They would think that made everyone admire their machismo. It pumped their muscles. Sharing was not part of the image. Sharing meant they were not dominant, not top of the tree. That everyone might think they were sharing some English slapper with a couple of other witless cretins would wound them deeply. They could not tolerate the ridicule that would ensue. And the glamorous wives would suddenly acquire expensive lawyers. That would wound them even more deeply. That would be a real pain in the bank account, and Sheraton Chadwick would surely be the one at whom they lashed out. Agatha wondered for a moment if she really wanted to drop Chadwick into that particular arena. Then she thought of being forced over the saddle in the transporter, and that did it. As soon as Agatha was ready, Sheraton Chadwick was being thrown to the lions.
Agatha arranged to meet up with Toni later that afternoon, when Simon was back on shift, to pay another visit to the Lexingtons. Toni had been researching the sale of the Lexingtons’ home and CPD Developments, the company that had bought it. Agatha decided to take a look at the CPD notes later and headed off to do a spot of shopping. She ended up back home in Carsely, in Harvey’s, the village store, where she was busy clearing the freezer section of individual frozen lasagne portions when she bumped into Margaret Bloxby.
“Agatha, you’re back,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I heard you’d gone away for a few days.”
“Just a couple of days,” Agatha replied. “It was a work thing … mainly.”
“Mainly? A little pleasure thrown in, I hope?”
“Pleasure? A pleasant time, yes, but also … confusion.”
“Sounds frustrating. How about a cup of tea?”
“You’re on,” said Agatha, and, having paid for their shopping, they made their way out onto the high street.
“Oh, sod the tea,” said Agatha, looking towards the Red Lion’s pub sign. “How about a drink instead? Do vicars’ wives frequent pubs?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mrs. Bloxby replied. “I may be struck down by a bolt of lightning as soon as I cross the threshold.”
No sooner had they walked into the pub than the barman called out from behind the beer pumps, “The usual, Margaret?”
“The usual, John,” Mrs. Bloxby replied, smiling at Agatha, enjoying her little joke, “and the same for Mrs. Raisin!”
Two glasses of sherry were duly delivered to their table. They clinked glasses and Agatha chatted about everything that had happened on her trip to Bordeaux, focusing mainly on her brief encounter with the sultry Pascal.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bloxby, feigning a swoon and fanning herself with a beer mat, “Pascal sounds like quite a man. I don’t know if I could have been as strong-willed as you under those circumstances.”
“You’re teasing,” said Agatha, sounding cross. “I thought I could rely on you to—”
“You can, Agatha,” Mrs. Bloxby reassured her, laying a calming hand on Agatha’s arm. “My point is that not everyone would have stayed true to themselves the way you did.”
“And what about staying true to James?”
“James may be part of staying true to yourself. The only advice I can give you is be honest and follow your heart.”
“I’ve followed that up plenty of blind alleys in the past.”
“Yet proved yourself to be a loyal companion in the process. You are still, after all, fighting Sir Charles’s corner.”
“Oh, I wish I could go back to being the old Agatha—the one who built a successful business in cut-throat London and didn’t give a stuff about anyone else.”
“The old Agatha? The one who demanded promises about her staff’s job security before she sold the business and then went bananas when the new owner reneged on that part of the deal?”
“We’ve talked a lot since I came to Carsely, haven’t we?”
“We’ve got through a lot of sherry.”
“But the staff thing was all about me. It was all about me not wanting anyone to think that I had lost out on a deal. I didn’t care two hoots about the staff.”
“Yet one of them, Roy, still comes to see you, still takes every opportunity to work with you.”
“I’m really not as nice as you think I am.”
“Or as terrible as you think you are. There are people you care about, and those who care about you.”
Mrs. Bloxby drained the last drops from her glass. “I must be getting back to the vicarage,” she said. “I’m playing meditative piano mood music for the ladies’ choral society Pilates class in half an hour.”
They gathered their shopping bags and made for the door. Agatha was first to bustle out into the street, bumping straight into a figure walking past.
“Why don’t you watch where the hell you’re going?” she snarled. “Haven’t you got— James!”
“Sorry, Aggie,” he apologised with a grin. “Here, let me take those for you.”
He stooped to take her bags and Mrs. Bloxby bade them farewell, heading off to the vicarage and ladies in leotards while they made for Lilac Lane.
“How was Bordeaux?” he asked.
“There were bits you would really have enjoyed,” Agatha assured him. “I was thinking about you rather a lot.”
“That’s nice to know. I—”
“Hey, you! Raisin!” A voice came from a parked car—a red Ford. Jacob Lexington stepped out. “I tried to be nice to you before and that didn’t work, so now I’m telling you straight. I know you’ve had
someone watching our house. Call him off. Stay away from us.”
“This is getting to be a habit,” Agatha muttered to James. “Second one today.”
“Don’t start any of your smart talk. Just keep your stupid nose out of our business, you old tart.”
“I won’t have you talking to Agatha like that!” said James, setting down the shopping and stepping towards Jacob.
“Stay out of this, old man!” snarled Jacob, grabbing James to push him aside. The pair took hold of one another and shuffled this way and that, grunting and huffing. No punches were being thrown. No damage was being done. Agatha was beginning to think it wasn’t much of a fight and that she probably needed to join in when somebody brushed past her and forced himself between the two men.
“Mircester Police! Calm down, both of you!” It was Bill Wong. “You all right?” he said to James, who nodded and straightened his jacket. Bill turned to Jacob. “Make yourself scarce. I don’t want to see you around here again.”
Jacob jumped into his car and drove off.
“What was all that about?” Bill asked.
“Mary Brown-Field, what else?” said Agatha.
“That’s what I need to talk to you about too,” said Bill. “Let’s go inside. Quickly, we don’t have much time.”
James and Bill sat at Agatha’s kitchen table while she emptied her shopping bag into her freezer.
“Agatha,” said Bill, “Sir Charles has been re-arrested for his wife’s murder.”
“What?” Agatha scoffed. “On what grounds?”
“New evidence.” Bill slipped a sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it on the table. “I shouldn’t be showing you this. I shouldn’t even be here, but something very fishy is going on and I’m worried that Wilkes is going to find a way to make this stick. This is an email that was retrieved from Sir Charles’s computer. It was sent over two months ago, before he married Mary Brown-Field, while they were still engaged. The address it was sent to was somewhere in eastern Europe, but that account could have been handled from anywhere in the world and has since been shut down. There’s no way to trace the recipient.”
