by M C Beaton
“How old are you?”
“Sixty-seven.”
“Dear God.”
“But very intelligent,” said Mrs. Comfrey.
Agatha sighed, and was about to tell her to get lost when there came a timid knock at the door.
“Come in,” called Agatha.
A harassed-looking woman entered. “I need a detective,” she said.
Mrs. Comfrey took her coffee and moved over to a sofa at the side of the office.
Vowing to get nd of Emma as soon as they were alone again, Agatha asked, “What can I do for you?”
“My Bertie has been missing for a whole day now.”
“How old is Bertie?”
“Seven.”
“Have you been to the police? Silly question. Of course you must have been to the police.”
“They weren’t interested,” she wailed. She was wearing black leggings and a faded black T-shirt. Her hair was blonde but showing dark at the roots. “My name is Mrs. Evans.”
“I fail to see …” Agatha was beginning when Emma said, “Bertie is your cat, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Evans swung round.
“Oh, yes. And he’s never run away before.”
“Do you have a photograph?” asked Emma.
Mrs. Evans fumbled in a battered handbag and took out a little stack of photographs. “That’s the best one,” she said, standing up and handing a photograph of a black-and-white cat to Emma. “It was taken in our garden.”
She sat down beside Emma, who put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll find your cat.”
“How much will it cost?” asked Mrs. Evans.
Agatha had a list of charges but that list did not include finding stray cats.
“Fifty pounds plus expenses if we find him,” said Emma. “I am Mrs. Raisin’s secretary. If you will just give me your full name and address and telephone number.”
Numbly Agatha handed Emma a notebook. Emma wrote down the particulars.
“Now, you go on home,” said Emma, helping her to her feet, “and don’t worry about a thing. If Bertie can be found, we’ll find him.”
When the door closed behind a grateful Mrs. Evans, Agatha said, “You’re rather high-handed, but here’s what I’ll do. Find that cat and you’ve got a job.”
“Very well,” said Emma calmly, tucking the notebook into her capacious handbag. “Thank you for the coffee.”
And that’ll be the last I’ll hear from her, thought Agatha.
Emma Comfrey checked the address in the notebook. She went into a pet shop nearby and bought a cat carrier and asked for a receipt. Mrs. Evans lived on a housing estate on the outskirts of Mircester. Emma tucked herself into her small Ford Escort and drove out to the housing estate. She noticed that Mrs. Evans lived in a row of houses whose back gardens bordered farmland. The farmers had been getting the harvest in and Emma knew that meant lots of field mice for a cat to chase.
She parked the car and made her way to a path that led to the fields. She walked into the first field, her sensible shoes treading through the stubble. The day was warm and pleasant, with little feathery wisps of cloud on a pale blue sky. Emma studied the field and then looked back to where the Evanses’ back garden was located. There were a bordering of gorse bushes and tall grass at the edge of the field. She made her way there and suddenly sat down on the ground, feeling rather shaky. She could not believe now that she’d had the temerity to ask for the job, and felt sure there was no hope of finding the cat.
Emma had been married in her early twenties to a barrister,Joseph Comfrey. He had a good income, but barely three weeks after the honeymoon, he said that it was bad for Emma to sit around the house and she should get work. Emma, an only child, had been bullied by her parents, and so she had meekly taken the Civil Service exams and settled into boring secretarial work for the Ministry of Defence. Joseph was mean. Although he spent quite a lot on himself—the latest Jaguar, shirts from Jermyn Street and suits from Savile Row—he took control of Emma’s wages and only gave her a small allowance. When she retired, he grumbled day in and day out about the paucity of her pension. Two years ago he had died of a heart attack, leaving Emma a very wealthy woman. She did not have any children; Joseph did not approve of children. At first she had spent long days and nights alone in their large villa in Barnes. The habits of strict economy forced on her by her husband were hard to break. She could still hear his nagging, hectoring voice haunting the rooms.
At last she found courage to sell the house. She packed up her husband’s clothes and gave them to charity. She presented his law books to an aspiring barrister and bought the cottage in Lilac Lane next to Agatha’s. Although the women in the village were friendly, she became interested in the stories she heard about her next-door neighbour and then she saw Agatha’s advertisement for a secretary. Time was lying heavy on her hands. It took a great deal of courage to walk into Agatha’s office and ask for the job. Had Agatha been less pugnacious, the normally timid Emma might have apologized her way out of any chance of securing the post, but Agatha’s manner brought forcibly to Emma’s mind her bullying husband and various nasty people she had worked with over the years and that had given her courage.
Emma sighed. Her little moment of glory was over. The wretched cat could be anywhere: picked up as a stray, flattened by a truck. Emma had been brought up as a Methodist, but gradually she had ceased to attend the services. She still believed vaguely that there must be a power for good in the universe. She sat for a long time, hugging her bony knees and watching cloud shadows chase each other across the golden stubble. She suddenly felt at peace, as if the past and its miseries and the future and its uncertainties had all been wiped from her mind. At last she rose and stretched. Time to go through the motions of looking for the cat.
Just as she was turning away, a shaft of sunlight struck down on the tall grass and gorse bushes and she caught a glimpse of something. She parted the grass and peered down. A black-and-white cat was lying fast asleep.
Emma went quietly back to the car and got the cat box and returned, hoping against hope that the cat was still there. Her luck held. She bent down and caught the cat by the scruff and popped it in the box. She looked at the houses and at the Evanses’s house in particular. No one in sight.
“First bit of luck I’ve had in my life,” said Emma. “Just wait until that Raisin female sees this!”
Agatha looked up hopefully as the door of the office opened, and her face fell when she saw Emma. And then she saw the cat carrier. “Good heavens! Is that Bertie?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Are you sure?”
“I found him in a field at the back of his home. I’ve checked with the photographs. I have a receipt for the carrier and I will need to buy cat food and a litter tray and litter.”
“Why on earth? I mean, phone the woman up and get her here.”
“Not a good idea.”
“May I remind you who’s boss here?”
“Listen. Would it not be better to wait until this evening? Don’t want to make it look too easy. Tell her we found Bertie wandering on the motorway and saved his life. Then I’ll phone the Mircester Journal and give them a cosy story about the new detective agency.”
Agatha, who had never been outclassed when it came to public relations before, felt a stab of jealousy. As Agatha never recognized jealousy in herself, she put it down to too much coffee.
“Very well,” she said gruffly.
“So I’ve got the job?”
“Yes.”
Emma smiled happily. “I’ll just get the necessary for the cat and then we can discuss my wages.”
The Mircester Journal knew that happy stories were what really sold the paper. After some discussion, Emma and Agatha decided to keep the cat in the office overnight, present it to Mrs. Evans first thing in the morning and make sure a reporter and photographer were present.
Emma could barely sleep. She had visions of Bertie dying in the night and of one of Mrs
. Evans’s neighbours coming forward to say that she had seen a woman snatching the cat out of the field the day before.
But everything went amazingly smoothly. Agatha longed totake all the credit but could hardly claim any with Emma standing there. She felt quite sulky when the Mircester Journal used a photograph of Mrs. Evans, Emma and the cat, but did mention the new detective agency.
TWO
AFTER a week of working—or rather barely working—for Agatha, Emma could feel the little personality she had found for herself crumbling away bit by bit. Agatha was very much the boss. She had instructed Emma to prepare computer files for all the cases she hoped to get. Other than that, she barely spoke to her, and in the evening they went off in their respective cars to Carsely.
Agatha was cross that the first publicity for the new agency had given praise to Emma. The photographer had taken a photo of Agatha and she had worn her new power suit especially for the occasion, but that photograph had not been used.
Of course she told everyone in the village who asked that she was lucky to have “found” Emma. Only Mrs. Bloxby was not deceived.
Agatha had chosen an office in one of the old medieval lanes of central Mircester. It was situated above an antique shop. Now she wished she had gone for a cheaper place, perhaps out in the industrial estate. She felt tucked away and it was impossible for anyone to park outside.
After two weeks, Agatha felt she had good reason to sack Emma. It was silly to pay wages to a secretary who had no work to do.
She braced herself, looking truculently at Emma, who was immersed in a book. Agatha coughed. Emma looked up. She knew the chop was coming and her heart sank.
And then they both heard the voice of Dennis Burley, the antique dealer, saying, “Yes, go on right up. The agency’s on your right at the first landing.”
Both women looked at each other, momentarily bonded by hope.
A small man wearing a flat cap, a polo shirt and baggy flannels came in without knocking. His face seemed to be all nose, as if some godly hand had pulled his face forward at birth. A small toothbrush moustache lurked under its shadow.
“Please sit down,” cooed Agatha. “Tea or coffee?”
He cleared his throat. “Nothing. I wonder if you can help me.”
Emma produced her notebook.
“My son has gone missing,” he said.
“May I have your name?”
“I’m Harry Johnson. My son is called Wayne. He’s nineteen.” “Have you been to the police?”
“Yes, but Wayne’s got a bit of a record for stealing cars, so they’re not bothering much.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“Two days.”
“Does he normally live with you?”
“Yes; here’s my card.”
He extracted his wallet and fished out a card. Emma rose and took it from him, noting that Mr. Johnson was a plumber.
“Can you give us a list of places he usually frequents?”
“He likes going to Poppy’s Disco, reckon pretty much all the pubs, that’s about all.”
Emma suddenly spoke. “Mr. Johnson, why are you so anxious about him? He is nineteen, he likes pubs and clubs. Might he not just have taken off somewhere? Does he have a car?”
“Yes, he does. My bleedin’ car. That’s why I want to find him.”
“Make of car and registration?” asked Emma, while Agatha fretted. She should be the one asking all the questions.
“It’s a red Rover SL-44. Here. I’ll write down the registration number for you.”
“Quite an old car,” said Emma.
“But I kept it beautiful. I told him he was never to touch it. He must have taken the keys off the table while I was asleep in front of the telly. How much do you lot charge?”
“If we recover your car, the charge will be a hundred pounds,” said Emma, “but our expenses will be added on. They may not amount to much unless he has gone out of town.”
“I’m not a rich man,” said Mr. Johnson. “Oh, go ahead. But I don’t want to be running up no big expenses. If you haven’t found him after two days, forget it.”
“I’ll get you the form to sign,” said Emma, going to a filing cabinet. Agatha’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t even know they had a suitable form. Also, Emma was no longer wearing the old tweed suit but a smart linen skirt and blouse. I hope the cow isn’t thinking of taking over, thought Agatha sourly.
“Here we are,” said Emma. “I’ll fill in the money—here— and then you sign here and here. Fill in your address and your phone numbers and an e-mail address if you have it. If you will give us a cheque for a hundred pounds now, then we will bill you for any expenses.”
He brought out a battered wallet. “Credit card?”
“No,” said Emma with a smile. “Cheque and bank card, please. Oh, and we’ll need a photograph.”
He took a photograph from his inside pocket and was about to hand it to Emma, but Emma, conscious of Agatha’s eyes boring into her, said, “Please hand it to Mrs. Raisin.”
Agatha looked down at the photograph in surprise. “This is your car. Haven’t you got a photograph of your son?”
“Oh, him. Yeah, got one here.” He ferreted back in his inside pocket and produced a small passport photo.
Wayne had black hair gelled up into a crest on top of his head. He had a nose stud and five little earrings in one ear. His face was thin and his lips were curled in a sneer.
“Do I get my money back if you don’t find my car. .. I mean, him?” asked Mr. Johnson.
Agatha looked at Emma. “No, but you will not be charged expenses,” said Emma.
“Right, I’ll be on me way. Keep me posted.”
There was a silence after he had left, and then Agatha said, “We didn’t charge enough. The rent of this place is awful, not to mention the business tax.”
“I thought it might be an idea to keep prices low until we have built up a reputation.”
“In future, consult me. Right? Now, Ed better get started.”
“Do you want me to go and look for the boy?” asked Emma.
“Remember this. You’re a secretary. So stay here and man the phones.”
Agatha went straight to Mircester Police Headquarters and asked to speak to her friend. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. She was in luck; Bill was not out on a case.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been round to see you,” said Bill. “I read in the paper that you’d opened up your detective agency. How’s it going? Who is this Emma Comfrey who found the cat?”
“She’s only my secretary. She’s my new neighbour and wanted the job. Actually, she got lucky, that’s all. I’m thinking of replacing her with someone young. I mean, she’s sixty-seven, for God’s sake.” Like a lot of people in their fifties, Agatha considered sixty-something ancient, as if it were an age she would never reach.
“Fit and well?”
“Yes.”
“I’d think that’d be an asset, Agatha. I mean, if you’re out and about and someone calls, it would be reassuring to have a mature woman there instead of some little girl.”
“I think she’s too pushy.”
Bill roared with laughter. Then he said, “Coming from you, that’s rich. Don’t glare at me. You want something. What?”
Agatha told him about the missing Wayne.
“Oh, that one,” said Bill. “I’ve picked him up a couple of times for drunk and disorderly. He wasn’t driving at the time. Has he got a licence?”
“I didn’t check,” mumbled Agatha, and then in a stronger voice. “That’s Emma’s fault. She was the one asking all the questions. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.”
“Talking about licences, Agatha. Do you have one for the agency?”
“Don’t need one yet in the UK. You should know that. How do I start looking for Wayne?”
“Every pub and club in Mircester. Last time I arrested him was outside Poppy’s Disco.”
“He’s taken his father’s Rover and Pa wants that
back more than his son. Could you be an angel and run the registration through your computer and see if it’s turned up smashed anywhere?”
“Just this once,” said Bill severely. “You can’t expect me to do all your detecting for you. Wait here.”
“As if I hadn’t helped you before,” grumbled Agatha to his retreating back.
Bill Wong was Agatha’s oldest and first friend. When she had sold her public relations business and taken early retirement and moved to the Cotswolds, Bill, son of a Chinese father and Gloucestershire mother, had investigated what Agatha remembered as her first case. Before that, grumpy and prickly Agatha had not had any friends.
While Bill was away, Agatha wondered what to do about Emma Comfrey. Mrs. Bloxby was so pleased she had employed Emma and Agatha did not want to disappoint Mrs. Bloxby, but she regarded Emma as a rival.
While she was waiting, her mobile phone rang. It was Emma.
“Mr. Johnson has just called,” she said in those clear upper-class accents which made Agatha feel so diminished. “He says the car has been returned and is outside his house. He says it’s all right—no scratches and a full tank of petrol. He tried to cancel the investigation and get his money back, but I told him that it would look extremely bad for him if anything had happened to his son and he had done nothing to find him. So he agreed.”
“I’d better get round there,” said Agatha.
She rang off just as Bill returned. She told him about the reappearance of the car.
“You’re a waste of time, Agatha,” said Bill. “But there’s one thing I do remember. Wayne had a girl-friend. She hit me with her handbag last time I arrested him.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sophy Grigson. You’ll find her at the check-out at Bran-ford’s supermarket in the square.”
“Thanks, Bill. I owe you.”
Agatha made her way to the supermarket. She asked the manager if she could speak to Sophy Grigson about a missing person. “She’ll be on her break in ten minutes,” he said.
“I’ll wait.”
Agatha sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs at the supermarket entrance, placed there for elderly customers.
