by M C Beaton
“He’ll be so angry with me,” whimpered Mrs. Laggat-Brown. • “Why?” asked Agatha.
“He’ll think I haven’t been looking after Cassandra properly.”
“Now, how can he say that?” asked Agatha. “You were unable to get him after you received the threatening letter, weren’t you?”
Mrs. Laggat-Brown looked down at her hands. The large rings on her fingers sent little prisms of light darting around the room. “No, I couldn’t get him.”
“This party must have been planned for a long time. Didn’t he reply to the invitation?”
“Cassandra, dear,” said her mother. “Could you get me a cup of coffee?”
She waited until her daughter had left the room and said, “I didn’t send him an invitation.” “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, he wanted the divorce, not me. I’m the one who has to take care of Cassandra. I didn’t want him swanning up at the last minute and taking over. Mrs. Raisin, I do want to employ your services. Send me any forms to sign. At the moment, I would like to rest. I will talk to you later.”
“Would you ask your husband to come and see me? Or call me when he’s free?”
“I’ll do that. Now, please leave me.”
As the entrance to the manor was blocked by police cars, Agatha had parked out on the road. As she made her way out of the gate, a reporter from the local paper hailed her. “Agatha, what have you got to tell us?”
Agatha gave them a succinct account of her bravery and how she had saved Cassandra’s life. She did not mention Emma. The photographer took Agatha’s photo while the reporter said, “Funny, we thought at first there was nothing in it. Someone doesn’t like you. Some woman phoned the paper last night to say you’d made an absolute fool of yourself. You’ve got an enemy.”
“Did she leave a name?”
“No, anonymous tip-off.”
“What kind of voice?”
“Posh.”
“Probably one of the guests,” murmured Emma.
Agatha had planned to go on as she had in the past, concentrating all her efforts on the attempted shooting of Cassandra. But small cases began to come into the detective agency and they had to be dealt with. Agatha was too good a business woman to run her detective agency into the red by dealing with only one case at a time.
There were requests to find missing teenagers, missing dogs and cats, or errant husbands and wives. At least Mr. Bennington was finally proved to be philandering and his grim wife took away the evidence with great satisfaction. To Agatha’s relief, she did not demur over paying for the electronic surveillance.
Bill Wong, calling at the office one day, listened to Agatha’scomplaints and suggested she employ a retired police detective as well. He recommended a Patrick Mullen and gave Agatha the man’s phone number.
“So,” said Agatha, “what type of rifle was used? You’ve been able to find that out from the spent casing?”
“It’s still in a queue at the forensics lab, Agatha. But we’ve interrogated the husband thoroughly.”
“Great! And? He was supposed to come and see me, you know.”
“He’s got a cast-iron alibi. At the time of the shooting he was holidaying in Paris. Small hotel on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Staff saw him that evening, as clear as day. He arrived back at the hotel at six o’clock and went out for a couple of hours, returned and went straight to bed. There is no way he could have nipped across the Channel and fired a gun at anyone. There is one lead, however.”
“What’s that?”
“Jason, the fiance, seems squeaky-clean. But his father was once in prison for insider trading.”
“But what’s that got to do with killing Cassandra?”
“Turns out the couple have already made out their wills. If Cassandra dies, everything goes to Jason.”
“Has she got anything? I mean, doesn’t Mummy have all the money?”
“Last year, Cassandra won a million in the lottery.” “Blimey. So what does Jason’s father have to say for himself?”
“That’s the interesting thing. He was seen in the neighbourhood on the day of the party. Now he’s disappeared.”
“What about Jason’s mother?”
“She divorced Harrison when he went to prison. No one seems to know where she’s living. We’ve got a police guard on the house, but we can’t keep guarding them indefinitely. We just don’t have the resources. What with this government closing down country police stations one after the other, we’ve got an even bigger area to cover.”
“I’ll phone this detective you recommended,” said Agatha. “Emma’s been working hard, but I could do with an expert. Have you got a description of Jason’s father?”
“Tall, thin, black-and-grey hair, large nose, black eyes, in his mid-fifties and evidently spry for his age. First name is Harrison. Like Harrison Ford. He hasn’t worked since he got out of prison last year. Don’t know where he’s been living or what on.”
“Maybe Cassandra has been giving him money.”
“She denies that and I think she’s telling the truth.”
“I’d better pay the Laggat-Browns another call,” said Agatha.
Firstly, after Bill had left, she phoned Patrick Mullen. He said he was interested in the job and would call round at the office in the early evening. Emma was out looking for a lost teenager, Sammy and Douglas were working on errant husbands and wives, so Agatha set out alone.
She planned to ask around Herris Cum Magna to see if there had been any other sightings of Jason’s father, but first she went to the manor-house. Mrs. Laggat-Brown herself answered the door. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin,” she fluted. “Do come in. Have you found anything?”
“Working hard on it,” said Agatha, not wanting to admit that she had barely started. “Has your husband left? I thought he was coming to see you.”
“Come into the drawing-room and I’ll explain.”
Agatha followed her through a shadowy hall and into a chintzy drawing-room that looked as if it had been furnished by Laura Ashley on an off-day.
“The fact is,” said Mrs. Laggat-Brown, “that Jeremy and I have got together again. He’s living here but commuting up to the City.”
“And is Cassandra happy about this?” “Of course. She adores her father.” “Where is she now?” “Bermuda.” “Bermuda? “
“I decided to send her and Jason away on holiday for their safety.”
“Mrs. Laggat-Brown…” “Oh, do call me Catherine.”
“Very well. I’m Agatha. Catherine, do the police know where Cassandra and Jason are?”
“Yes, the chief constable is a friend of mine and he thought it was a very good idea.”
“I gather Jason’s father was seen in the vicinity. You didn’t tell me he had a criminal record.”
Catherine flushed slightly. “Well, he’s served his sentence and it’s so much better to forget things like that, don’t you think?”
“Not when you’re dealing with attempted murder. Any more letters?”
“None at all.”
“Did the police find any fingerprints on the letter or where the stationery had been bought?”
“No. I gather they’ve just finished their tests.”
“No DNA from the flap?” asked Agatha, who was now thinking of all the questions she had failed to ask Bill. “Self-sealing kind.”
“Will Mr. Laggat-Brown be home this evening?”
“Yes, he comes home on the commuter train. Gets in at More-ton at six-thirty.”
“Tell him to phone me.” Agatha opened her handbag and extracted a card. “I would really like to talk to him. He might just remember something about someone.”
“Very well. I’ll try. You see, the fact is, he’s rather angry with me for engaging you. He says it should be left to the police and all amateurs do is mess things up. The thing is, to keep him quiet, I told him I’d fired you.”
Agatha looked at her curiously. “You don’t seem to have enjoyed your freedom from marriage
very much, Catherine. You’re back with him and it seems he gives the orders.”
“But one does so need a man around,” sighed Catherine. “I mean, a woman feels so silly and alone without a man. The feminists say a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, but that always struck me as being rather stupid. I mean, why should they speak for fish? For all they know, fish might like a bicycle if they had the choice.”
“I’ll get back to you,” said Agatha before Catherine could indulge in any more mad philosophy. “Is there a pub in the village?”
“The Oaks. Right in the centre. Turn left as you go out of the gate.”
Agatha parked outside The Oaks. It was lunch-time and she was hungry. She hated to admit it, but she missed her usually lazy life.
She missed her cats and her talks with Mrs. Bloxby. She even missed the evenings with the ladies’ society. She and Emma had been working every evening as well as every day. Agatha sighed as she pushed open the door of the pub. Thank God for Emma. She had turned out to be a good friend and a hard worker.
Emma went into the office and sat down and eased her long feet out of her shoes. “Rough day?” said Miss Simms.
“Too much walking in the heat,” sighed Emma. “But I found that missing girl. I’ll give you the notes to type up after lunch.”
“I think I’ll nip out and get something,” said Miss Simms. She slid her long legs out from behind the desk. How can she go around in heels like that without her ankles swelling? wondered Emma. “Can I get you something?” asked Miss Simms.
“A ham sandwich, thank you.”
“Brown or white?”
“Brown.”
“Lettuce?”
“Yes, but no mayonnaise.” “Okey-dokey. See ya.”
Emma massaged her feet. She looked forward to telling Agatha about her latest success. Agatha was so grateful. Emma felt guilty now about having given the newspaper that malicious call. Agatha deserved loyalty.
The door opened and a man breezed in. He was in his late forties and impeccably tailored. He had small neat features and fair hair.
“Aggie here?” he asked, looking around.
“No, Mrs. Raisin is out on a case.”
“I’m Charles Fraith.”
“Oh, you’re the one who recommended us to Mrs. Laggat-Brown.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Emma Comfrey. I work with Agatha. I’m a detective.” Charles smiled. “You look a worn-out one. What about a spot of lunch?”
“I’ve just sent out for a sandwich.”
“Forget it. Come on.”
Over lunch, Charles listened while Emma told him all about the agency, rather stressing her successes and minimizing those of Agatha. Then she told this sympathetic listener the story of her life and bored Charles murmured, “How amazing,” and, “Really!”
By the end of the lunch, Emma Comfrey was deeply in love with Sir Charles Fraith.
Agatha always marvelled that some of these tucked-away village pubs managed to survive. This one had a good few customers, and like most pubs these days, was set up with tables for eating.
She ordered fish and chips and when the waitress brought them asked her if a Mr. Harrison Peterson had been in the pub recently. “The police were asking that,” said the buxom girl, leaning a hip against the table and ignoring the signalling hands of some of the other diners. “I tole them, he come in here two days, I think, afore the big party.”
“Do you have rooms? I mean, does anyone know if he stayed in the village?”
“No, we don’t let rooms, and besides, what with them big cars everyone’s got, he could have come down from London.”
“Jess!” shouted the landlord from behind the bar. “Customers!”
Jess moved away. Agatha ate her fish and chips and wondered what to do. The police would have conducted a door-to-door search. She decided to take a break and go home and see her cats and call on Mrs. Bloxby.
The cats looked singularly uninterested when she came in the door. Agatha sighed. Every time she left them alone for any length of time, the cats seemed to transfer their affections to her cleaner, Doris Simpson. The weather was still warm. She let the cats out into the garden. Then she closed the house up again and made her way along the dusty cobbled streets to the vicarage.
Agatha’s hand hovered over the bell. The vicar always looked at her as if she were an unwelcome visitor. She walked round to the gate that led to the vicarage garden and saw Mrs. Bloxby deadheading roses. Agatha noticed with a pang that her friend looked tired. Her gentle face had lines Agatha had not noticed before and her slim figure drooped.
She unlatched the gate and walked in. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin. How nice. Let me bring some tea out into the garden.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve just had lunch. You look tired.”
“It’s the heat. Come and sit down. The parish duties are heavier than usual. Quite a number of our old people are suffering from the heat. I was going to fund-raise to buy them all electric fans, but wouldn’t you know it, the shops are all sold out. Really, one would think some entrepreneur would bring truckloads of them over from Taiwan or somewhere. I keep telling them to drink lots of water, but then, some of them have arthritis and it is so painful to go to the loo that they cut down on fluids.”
“Don’t they have carers?”
“Yes, they do, and district nurses and Meals on Wheels, but a lot of them are frightened of death and Alf is overworked as it is. So I have to help. You do see that.”
“Yes,” said Agatha, although she privately thought she might well have left them all to the care of the state if their roles had been reversed.
“Tell me about the latest case, Mrs. Raisin.”
Agatha settled back in her chair and began to talk. As she talked, Mrs. Bloxby’s eyelids fluttered and then closed. Agatha lowered her voice. Soon Mrs. Bloxby was fast asleep. Agatha sat enjoying the peace of the old garden and the next thing she knew Mrs. Bloxby was shaking her arm. “Do wake up, Mrs. Raisin. We both fell asleep and I was frightened you might be missing appointments.”
Agatha looked at her watch. “Good heavens. I’d better go. I’ve got a retired detective to see!”
Patrick Mullen was a tall, cadaverous man who rarely smiled. Agatha discussed wages with him and then told Miss Simms to show him the files on the various unsolved cases.
“What about that shooting business?” he asked.
“I’ll put you on it if we get some of this backlog cleared up,” said Agatha. “Now I’ve got to run. There’s someone arriving at Moreton-in-Marsh I’ve got to see.”
The train, as usual, was late. Agatha waited beside the flowerbeds on Moreton station and wished she had asked for a description of Mr. Laggat-Brown. This detective business was difficult. So many questions one forgot to ask.
At last she could see the train down at the end of the long, long stretch of line. He would probably be travelling first-class.
That would mean the carriages at the back if it was a Great Western train or the one cramped little bit of carriage for first-class passengers if it should turn out to be a Thames train.
What would he look like? She conjured up a picture of a small fussy man with thinning hair in a business suit.
The train drew in and the passengers poured off. A lot of people were now commuting between London and the country. A man who looked like her mental image came bustling up. “Mr. Laggat-Brown?” asked Agatha.
He stared at her and then walked past. “Were you looking for me?” asked a voice.
Agatha found herself staring up at an extremely handsome man. “Mr. Laggat-Brown?”
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“Agatha Raisin.”
“Oh, that detective female.”
“Can we talk?”
“If you must. But I told my wife that to go to the expense of paying a detective agency when the police are doing all they can is ridiculous. Still, it’s her business. Let’s sit on that bench over there.”
/> Agatha was suddenly conscious of her crumpled linen suit and flat heels. Jeremy Laggat-Brown was tall with a square-cut tanned face and bright blue eyes. His thick hair was slightly curled and pure white. His suit was a miracle of good tailoring.
“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked. He lit a cigarette and Agatha opened her handbag and took out her own cigarette case. Cigarette cases had come back into fashion because of all the nasty government warnings on the packets.
“I wondered, of course, if you had any idea of why anyone would want to shoot your daughter?”
“None in the slightest. Must be some maniac.”
“Do you think it could be Jason’s father?”
“I don’t. I mean, what would he gain by it? He was in prison for fraud, not psychopathic killing.” He suddenly smiled at her. “I must say, you’re not what I expected from my wife’s description.”
“And what was that?”
“Never mind. 1 didn’t expect an attractive woman.”
Somewhere deep in Agatha’s treacherous stomach rumbled that old sexual buzz.
“Jason would inherit if Cassandra were killed.”
“And you mean the father would hope to get money from the son? Far-fetched, One does not think of a young daughter as dying. The whole thing’s weird. You know what I really think? I think there’s some mad sharpshooter in the neighbourhood who decided to use us for target practice.”
“And what about the threatening letter?”
“Same nutter, I suppose. Lots of class jealousy around.”
“You haven’t always lived at the manor, have you?”
“The manor-house belonged to the Felliet family for centuries, but they went broke and we bought it. The villagers went on as if the queen had been dethroned.”
“When did you buy the manor?”
“Only about eight years ago.”
“And where are the Felliets now?”
“That’ll be Sir George and his lady. Don’t really know.”
“And you are reconciled with your wife?”
“Well, in a way. We won’t be remarrying or anything like that. We rub along all right. Doing it to please Cassandra.”
