by M C Beaton
“As I thought,” crowed Wilkes triumphantly, turning towards Agatha. “Clearly an accident.”
“But … but look at her shoes,” said Agatha. “Don’t you think it even a little strange that we find a leg wearing Mrs Dinwiddy’s shoe, and just a couple of days later this happens?”
“I think it is tragic, Mrs. Raisin. That’s what I think. A tragic accident, that’s what this is, and I don’t want you blundering around trying to prove anything different!”
“The real tragedy is that you’re in charge,” said Agatha. “I don’t think you could spot a crime if it jumped out of your lunch and mugged you.”
“I really couldn’t care less what you think,” said Wilkes, rounding on Bill. “I want this all cleared up with the minimum of fuss, Sergeant. Not a second more of police time is to be spent on it than is absolutely necessary. We have enough on our plate as it is.”
Wilkes stormed off to his car, and Bill left Agatha alone for a few moments while he spoke to his uniformed colleagues.
“What will happen to Wizz-Wazz?” asked Agatha, catching up with him again.
“I can’t say,” said Bill, sounding, Agatha thought, more than a little annoyed with her. “The vet has checked the donkey and it is uninjured. It’s really none of your concern, Agatha.”
At that moment, a swarthy little man wearing a flat cap and a muddy waxed jacket came shambling up to them. His hands were crammed into the jacket pockets, and he had a copy of the Racing Post folded under one arm and a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“What’s goin’ on here, then?” he said.
“Who are you?” asked Bill.
“Peter Trotter,” answered the man, pointing to a first-floor window. “That’s my flat above the stables. I look after that there donkey for Mrs. Morrison. Is that the Dinwiddy woman lyin’ there?”
“Where have you been?” said Bill.
“Down the betting shop in Mircester. Had a tip on the four thirty at Cheltenham.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” ordered Bill. “One of these officers will need to take a statement from you. In the meantime, maybe you could move the donkey into its loose box. Forensics and the vet are finished with it.”
Stuffing the newspaper into his pocket, Trotter collected a halter that was hanging on the wall, then walked over to Wizz-Wazz. Having fitted the halter over her head, he tightened it up and gave the attached leading rein a tug.
“Come on, you miserable old bitch,” he coughed.
Wizz-Wazz refused to budge.
“Move it!” yelled Trotter. “I ain’t got all night!”
Still the donkey stubbornly stood her ground. Trotter grabbed the Racing Post from his pocket, rolled it into a baton and smacked her on the side of the head.
“What do you think you’re doing?” screamed Agatha, charging over to confront him. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”
“Mind your own business, you stupid tart!” spat Trotter.
Agatha tensed. She tilted her head ever so slightly to one side. “What,” she growled, “did you just say?”
“I said—” But Trotter never had the chance to repeat himself. Agatha snatched the newspaper from his hand and walloped him right and left across the face.
“Stop that!” called Bill Wong, stepping between them and catching hold of her wrist before she could deliver another flurry of blows. “What are you playing at, Agatha?”
“You saw what he just did!” said Agatha.
“An’ you saw what she just did,” snarled Trotter, pointing a grubby finger at her. “That were assault. Well, I ain’t gonna press charges, Officer, but I ain’t gonna forget, neither.”
Agatha turned her back on him and picked up the leading rein. “Come along, Wizz-Wazz,” she said, and the donkey, calm and compliant, followed her to the loose box.
“Agatha,” said Bill. “Go home now. We’ll talk about all of this again tomorrow.”
* * *
It had started to rain by the time Agatha and Toni were heading down the driveway towards the pineapple gates. Agatha fidgeted with her handbag. She wanted to smoke but did not want to roll down the window for fear of letting in the rain.
Toni turned right onto the road towards Mircester. “I suppose it could have been an accident,” she said, peering through the windscreen, where the wipers had smeared bug splats across her line of sight. “I mean, we know that Wizz-Wazz can be really aggressive.”
“Calling that an accident is like saying that the taps on my kitchen sink pour neat gin,” said Agatha. “It would be very convenient, but there’s not a shred of truth in it. There are just too many fishy things going on around Morrison’s. And there was definitely something wrong about that scene in the stable yard.”
She pictured the cobbled yard in her mind, trying to visualise what it was that was nagging at her, the thing that was dancing up and down at the back of her mind yelling “Look at me! I’m here! I’m obvious, you stupid tart!” That made her think of Trotter, and that, in turn, made her picture Wizz-Wazz.
“Oh bugger,” she groaned. “I left my beautiful coat draped around that bloody animal’s neck!”
“Do you want to go back for it?” asked Toni, slowing the car.
“No, it can wait,” Agatha replied, “and it will give me an excuse to revisit the stables tomorrow. I need to find out what really happened there. That was no accident, Toni. Mrs. Dinwiddy was murdered.”
“It did look like the donkey lashed out and killed her, Agatha,” said Toni.
“I think that is what it was meant to look like,” Agatha countered. “And the police and everyone else have fallen for it.”
“But how can you make a donkey kill someone?” asked Toni. “Death by donkey—it’s not something I’ve ever heard of before.”
“Wizz-Wazz didn’t kill that woman,” said Agatha. “I’m no great animal lover, but I could feel how terrified she was. And the blood spatters up the back of her legs didn’t look right. They were too neat, too regular, too perfect. There was nothing random about them. It was as if they had been painted on. It was murder all right. I don’t yet know how it was done, but I intend to find out.”
“It’s certainly strange,” said Toni, turning off the A44 onto the familiar road down into Carsely. “Strange that this should happen now, when we know that something dodgy is going on at the factory.”
“Strange is not the word for it,” Agatha said. “Suspicious is what I would call it. I smell a rat—a murdering rat.”
“A murdering rat that’s framed a donkey,” said Toni.
“I get the feeling you’re not taking this seriously,” Agatha scolded.
The headlights swept across the rain-battered lilac trees that led to Agatha’s cottage. Toni pulled up at the garden gate.
“Right,” said Agatha. “I’ll see you at the office bright and early tomorrow. By then I will have figured out what we should do next.”
“I will be a little late tomorrow, remember?” said Toni. “I mentioned that I had a dental appointment.”
“Right,” Agatha sighed. “Well, let’s talk tomorrow once you’re finished in the torture chair.”
“It’s just a routine check.” Toni smiled. “Will you be okay this evening on your own? I mean, I could stay with you if you…”
“No, I’ll be fine,” said Agatha. “I’m sure you have somewhere else you would rather be.”
“Well, I…”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Agatha hurried up the short garden path, shoulders hunched and head down against the rain. She fumbled with her keys and then darted inside, shaking rain out of her hair as she flipped the light switch. Boswell and Hodge came trotting down the hall towards her, tails up and eyes bright.
“Hello, you two,” she cooed. “This is a lovely welcome. I guess you’re both hungry, aren’t you?” She stooped to stroke the cats as they wound themselves around her legs, swaying in and out of her ankles. “Let’s go through to the kitchen and get you some food
.” They felt soft and warm, comforting, pleasing to touch. Their fur was so much more sleek and smooth than the coarse hair on Wizz-Wazz’s back. And they were purring loudly, the rhythmic rumble throbbing like tiny engines somewhere in their chests. Agatha stroked their heads and tickled their backs. These were real pets. What kind of nutcase kept a psycho donkey—an animal that sprayed you with carrot spit and then made you run for your life?
She couldn’t imagine Aphrodite Morrison taking any real interest in Wizz-Wazz. How could the donkey ever play any part in that woman’s lifestyle? She didn’t seem to fit in. She was just too headstrong, too independent, too demanding, too unpredictable, too smelly. Maybe, thought Agatha, I’m a bit like Wizz-Wazz. Apart from the smelly bit, obviously. Maybe neither of us really fit in. Maybe we are both condemned to be lonely.
She wondered how she had ended up on her own tonight. James was off drooling over some dusty monument up a mountain no one had ever heard of in a country no one could care less about, but where was Charles? He, or more likely Gustav, must have heard on the grapevine by now that she had another tricky situation on her hands. Charles had told her he was interested in the Morrison’s affair, so where was he now that the case, which had been merely interesting, had turned to murder?
But was it really murder? Agatha filled the cats’ bowls with food and considered the gruesome fate of poor Mrs. Dinwiddy. She had been an irritating, irksome woman, but who would really want her dead?
In the unlikely event that she had been having an affair with Albert Morrison and things had turned nasty, it was feasible that either he or Aphrodite might want rid of her. She had worked closely with John Sayer. Maybe she had discovered something about his mysterious past that had cost her her life. And what about Josie, the former receptionist, who might have been a rival for Albert Morrison’s affections? Could she be mixed up in it? Or maybe it was something to do with the security guard about whom Dinwiddy seemed so nervous.
Agatha sighed. Watching the cats devour their food made her realise that she hadn’t eaten properly all day. She opened the freezer and fished out a couple of ready meals that could be nuked in the microwave straight from frozen. Chicken curry or lasagne, which was it to be? Neither. She shoved them both back in their frosty graves, lit a cigarette, and poured herself a glass of wine.
She replayed the discovery of the body in her mind, pausing at the shoes Dinwiddy was wearing. Brogues, just like the one on the fake leg. Only these were on feet attached to real legs, attached to the unfortunate Mrs. Dinwiddy. If she had been murdered, then how was it done? No one could use a donkey as a murder weapon, could they? No, Agatha was convinced that Wizz-Wazz was not the killer. Those blood spatter marks were simply too pristine. Someone was trying to make a murder look like an accident. So who had killed Mrs. Dinwiddy, and how, and why?
She heard a light knock at her front door. Who could that be? Charles? He was here at last! She opened the door to find Margaret Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, standing there wearing oven gloves and holding a casserole dish.
“I heard that something ghastly happened at Morrison’s,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “You must have had a terrible shock. I thought you could use some company.”
“You are indeed a sight for sore eyes,” said Agatha. “Come in out of the rain.”
Mrs. Bloxby headed straight for the kitchen, saying, “And I bet you haven’t eaten today, so I made a casserole. Alf is busy working on one of his sermons; he won’t miss me. I thought I might stay in your spare room so that you’re not alone.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha, suddenly feeling exhausted and with tears welling in her eyes. “You are a true friend.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby, laying a couple of plates on the table. “Tell me all about it.”
Chapter Four
Agatha sat across the breakfast table from Mrs. Bloxby, drinking coffee and nibbling freshly buttered toast. She had woken to the smell of the toast, thrown on her dressing gown and dashed downstairs to find the vicar’s wife preparing a light breakfast.
“You look much better this morning,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “It’s amazing what a good night’s rest can do for you.”
“That’s thanks to you,” said Agatha. “Your casserole was delicious, and offloading onto you about Morrison’s and the murder was just what I needed to help get it all straight in my mind.”
“Well, I’m always around if you need me,” smiled Mrs. Bloxby, “and from what you told me, it sounds as if that poor woman definitely was murdered. But you mustn’t try to solve the case all on your own. Toni will help, and you need to use your man Patrick Mulligan, too.”
“I will,” agreed Agatha, wiping crumbs from her mouth. “He must need a break from that hotel job. He can use his contacts to do background checks on some of these people, starting with the security guards and John Sayer. I’ll get Toni to join me up at the factory later. I want to know what people there think about this, and I want to have another snoop around.”
“I’d best be off, then,” said Mrs. Bloxby, shrugging on her coat. “I have a Carsely Ladies’ Society committee meeting at ten, and the Mircester Choristers are rehearsing in the church hall at noon. That should be different. The conductor has an interesting idea about combining Monteverdi with Motörhead. I suppose Alf will be wanting some breakfast, too.”
“Thanks again for last night!” Agatha called breezily as Mrs. Bloxby made for the door. “I’d best get myself ready. Raisin Investigations is on the trail of a murderer!”
* * *
Toni sat in the dentist’s waiting room. She always tried to be punctual for appointments with the doctor or the dentist, but they rarely saw her on time. She was always left waiting. She had been waiting for more than ten minutes and it was becoming tedious.
She gazed at the posters on the walls. One showed a revolting photograph of a man with his mouth propped open, displaying broken, blackened, and rotting teeth with dark gaps between them. His gums were red and inflamed and the whole thing really didn’t look much like a human mouth at all. It had the appearance of a wounded sea creature or some kind of alien just landed from the planet Stinky Decay. A second photograph showed the man smiling, having had all of the bad teeth removed and replaced with gleaming new dental implants. It was supposed to demonstrate how the implants changed the man’s looks, and presumably his life, completely. In fact, it looked like exactly the same man wearing someone else’s teeth. He looked like a tooth burglar. Toni thought tooth theft would be a crime worthy of investigation by the great Chief Inspector Wilkes … or maybe he would find a way to write that off as an accident, too.
The next poster showed a young couple strolling hand in hand along a deserted beach under a clear blue sky, their dazzling smiles outshining the sun. It was an advertisement for tooth whitening. Toni wondered if the couple were really as much in love as they looked. She didn’t think so. After all, they were only models, weren’t they? They weren’t real people. They could pretend to be in love for as long as it took to get that one photograph for the poster. They didn’t have to spend any time together. They didn’t have to spend the rest of their lives together or meet each other’s families. They didn’t have to pretend to like the same music, the same TV shows or the same colour of paint for the living room walls. They might not even like each other. They probably made catty comments about each other to the photographer. She’d say he spent more time fussing with his hair and applying his anti-wrinkle cream than she did. He’d say she could do with shaving her legs more often, and her top lip while she was at it. Maybe the only thing the poster couple had in common was unfeasibly white teeth.
Toni sighed. She was trying desperately hard to fight off the thought that she and her young doctor had very little in common. Perhaps he was simply not the right man for her. Or perhaps he was the right man, just at the wrong time. Perhaps she was not yet ready for the relationship she thought she wanted. How could she explain that to him? She tutted with frustration and snatched a society magazin
e from a pile on the chair next to her. To her surprise, it was an issue from this year. In fact, it was from this month, published just a few days ago.
She flicked through pages packed with advertisements for clothes, jewellery, watches, cars, and houses that she would never be able to afford. She scanned one photograph after another of aristocrats and minor royals leaving nightclubs and restaurants that she would also never be able to afford. Then she stopped and thumbed back a couple of pages. She was sure she had seen a face she recognised. Yes, there it was—Charles. He was looking particularly dapper in an evening suit with black tie, and on his arm was a painfully plain-looking young woman.
Sir Charles Fraith, the picture caption announced, leaving a family dinner at the Savoy with Miss Mary Darlinda Brown-Field. The dinner marked a special celebration. Miss Brown-Field said …
“‘… I am delighted to announce my engagement to Charles’!” gasped Toni, reading aloud.
“That’s nice, dear,” smiled an old lady sitting in the corner.
“No, not me,” Toni started to explain. “It’s my … Oh, never mind.”
“Miss Toni Gilmour?” A dental nurse poked her head round the waiting room door.
“Not for long,” chirped the old lady. “She’s just got engaged, you know.”
“Really?” said the nurse. “Congratulations, Miss Gilmour.”
“No, no, it’s not me,” said Toni, dropping the magazine back on the pile as she stood up. It’s never going to be me, she thought as she followed the nurse into the surgery. She might have allowed a dark cloak of depression to weigh her down at that thought had it not been for the sudden dread she felt when she realised that Agatha knew nothing about Sir Charles’s engagement. She was going to go batshit crazy! Toni knew she would have to tell her eventually, but prayed that Sir Charles would pluck up the courage to do so first. She did not want to be anywhere in the vicinity when that particular tornado touched down. The dubious delights of the dentist’s chair were far preferable to being caught up in the wake of Agatha Raisin on the rampage.
