by M C Beaton
But there was no reply. Agatha climbed out of bed and washed and dressed. She suddenly did not want to wait for James. She wanted to get it over and done with.
She drove steadily to the manor-house in Ancombe, wondering all the while if Mary meant to take her to court for harassment or invasion of privacy or something.
Mary answered the door. "Follow me," she said curtly. She led the way into a dark drawing-room: beamed ceiling, thick curtains, stuffed creatures in glass cases, a brass urn of pampas-grass, a drawing-room out of a Hammer horror movie.
"Sit down," barked Mary.
"I'd rather stand." Agatha felt she might have to make a quick getaway.
"Very well. You have been spreading scandal in my sister's neighbourhood, questioning her local shopkeeper. If you do anything like that again, a nasty accident could happen to you."
Mary had walked up close to Agatha as she said this. Agatha took a step backwards.
"We were just trying to clear up loose ends," she protested. "If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear."
"Just who the hell do you think you are?" She grabbed Agatha by the shoulder and pulled her towards a large mirror over the fireplace. "Look at yourself! You are a middle-aged woman and no lady. You poke your nose into things that don't concern you." She gave Agatha another shove. "Just get out of here and remember: Any more interference and I'll come looking for you!"
Thoroughly demoralized, Agatha stumbled for the door. She drove off, not even looking in the driving mirror to see if Mary was watching her. She never wanted to see her again.
She was getting out of her car outside her cottage when Mrs Darry came scuttling along, the small bundle of yapping hair which passed for a dog trotting in front of her.
"Mrs Raisin!" she called.
Darry, Darcy, bitches all, thought Agatha, and whipping out her keys, let herself into her cottage and slammed the door.
She leaned her back against the door and breathed deeply.
The doorbell rang. "Go away!" shrieked Agatha.
"Are you all right, dear?" The voice of Mrs Bloxby came faintly from the other side.
Agatha opened the door and promptly burst into tears.
"Oh, come along into the kitchen," said Mrs Bloxby, putting an arm around Agatha's shaking shoulders.
Rubbing her eyes on the back of her sleeve, Agatha allowed herself to be led through to her kitchen and gently thrust down into a chair.
"I'll make some strong sweet tea," said the vicar's wife, plugging in the electric kettle and then handing Agatha the box of tissues which had been lying on the kitchen counter.
Agatha blew her nose and said weakly, "I'm sorry. Everything got too much for me."
"Wait until I make us some tea and you can tell me all about it."
Soon, with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, Agatha poured out everything, about her shame at her affair with Guy, about not knowing where she stood with James, and finally about the threat from Mary Owen.
"That's very interesting," said Mrs Bloxby. "About Mary Owen."
"Do you mean if she could threaten me, she could have murdered them?"
"Not exactly. If Mary Owen and her sister were the straight and outraged people they claim to be, why did they not complain to the police?"
"Maybe they did."
"Can you find out?"
"Wait a minute. I'll try to get Bill."
To Agatha's relief, Bill Wong was at police headquarters.
"What is it now, Agatha?" he asked sharply. "What have you been up to?"
Agatha told him about Mary's threat and then said, "Has either Mary or her sister complained to the police about me and James?"
"No, thank goodness."
"Don't you see, that's what so odd about it? If she and her sister were as innocent as they claim to be, they'd simply have gone to the police."
There was a silence. Then Bill said slowly, "But you are making a complaint about Mary Owen threatening you."
"I don't know, Bill. No witnesses. But she phoned and left a message on my answering service asking me to come and see her."
"Do you still have that message?"
"Yes."
"Keep it. I'd like to listen to it. But I'll go and have a talk to her."
"Are you sure she isn't in need of money, Bill?"
"Oh, that. No, we checked her bank statements. She's pretty wealthy."
"So why did Fred Shaw say she wasn't?"
"I asked him. He said since she did all the gardening and cleaning herself, with only a bit of occasional help, he assumed she had gone broke. Leave it to me."
He rang off. Agatha rejoined Mrs Bloxby in the kitchen. "Neither Mary nor her sister complained to the police."
"Very odd, that," said Mrs Bloxby. "I don't like to see you so distressed."
"It's all the insults and cracks about my affair with Guy. I've been made to feel like a vulgar trollop."
"You must not take it all to heart. The fact is that you are dealing with a lot of frightened people. Everyone is suspect and they know it and so they take their fright out on you because they see you as some enemy stirring up the muddy waters."
"I hadn't thought of it that way. I slammed the door in Mrs Dairy's face before you came. She's a horror."
"I'm afraid she is. Cheer up. She whines that she is very disappointed in Carsely and that it is not a very nice place at all. I feel she will be leaving us soon."
"I do hope so. That woman has halitosis of the soul."
After Mrs Bloxby had left, Agatha went upstairs and washed her face and put on make-up. She would call on James and tell him about Mary. If only he would put his arms about her and hold her close.
Bracing herself, she went next door and rang his bell.
James answered the door, looking flustered. "What is it, Agatha?"
"Aren't you going to ask me in?"
"I'm actually very busy packing."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going up to London for a few days."
"Why?"
"Private business."
Agatha felt so rejected, so forlorn, that she did not tell him about Mary. "Bye," she said weakly and walked away.
James looked after her impatiently, at the droop of her shoulders. He opened his mouth to call her back and then shut it again and went, back inside to finish his packing.
Agatha, in her own cottage, dialled Roy's office.
She didn't want to be alone. Roy would surely come running if she asked him.
Roy came on the phone. "Changed your mind about the water company, Aggie?"
"What?"
"I mean, are you going to go on working for them after all?"
"No."
"So is this just a friendly chat?"
"I wondered whether you would like to come down for the weekend?"
Roy had been invited to a barbecue on Saturday by his boss and he was not going to turn down such an important invitation, particularly as the boss had a marriageable daughter.
"Sorry, sweetie, too busy. Maybe another time."
"Yes. Bye."
Agatha sat staring at the phone. She wondered if she should pack a suitcase herself, drive to Heathrow and get on the first available plane out to anywhere.
The phone rang. Agatha picked it up cautiously, as if the receiver might bite.
"Agatha!" It was Guy's voice. "I really miss you. What about dinner on Saturday?"
"I don't know..."
"Come on. It would be nice to see you again. That French restaurant in Mircester. What about it? I could pick you up at eight."
"All right," said Agatha, thinking as she said goodbye and replaced the receiver, what the hell, nobody else wants me.
By Friday, Agatha was feeling calmer. Some healthy walks and a comfortable meeting of the Carsely Ladies' Society did much to restore her equanimity, that and the news that Mrs Dairy had gone on holiday.
By late on Friday evening she had decided to cancel her date with Guy. She was just reachin
g for the phone when it rang. She picked it up gingerly, all her old fears coming back.
"This is Portia Salmond," said a cool voice. "I think we should talk."
"So talk."
"I don't want to talk over the phone. Can you come here?"
"Where's here?"
"I live at 5 Glebe Street. It's near the abbey in Mircester."
"I know it. Why now? It's late."
"It won't take long."
Curiosity overcame Agatha. "Give me half an hour."
She drove through the quiet night-time lanes and then down the A44 to the Fosse. There was a chill in the air. Summer had gone.
She wondered if James had ever taken Portia out for dinner. That was what she really wanted to find out.
Glebe Street was narrow and cobbled and dark. A sliver of moon hung in the sky at the end of the street and the great btdk of the abbey loomed over the houses on the left.
Great English abbeys and minsters always reminded Agatha more of the power of the state, the crown and the army than the power of God.
She parked the car. Number 5 was a trim little house, like a mews house.
The lights were on behind the windows.
Agatha knocked on the pretentious brass knocker in the shape of a grinning demon.
There was a clack of high heels from the other side of the door and then Portia opened it, the light from the hall shining on her blonde hair.
"Come in, Mrs Raisin."
She led the way into a small living-room done in shades of green: green carpet, green-and-gold curtains, green linen-fabric upholstery on the sofa and two armchairs. On the walls were various photographs of Portia.
"Sit down," said Portia abruptly. "I want to get this over with."
"Okay. Let's have it."
"I am having an affair with Guy Freemont," said Portia.
"Really?" Agatha wondered why she didn't feel more surprised.
"Yes, really. He is only amusing himself with you. I think he's got a mother complex. I want you to back off."
"Are you engaged, married?"
"No."
"Then what's it got to do with you, sweetheart?"
"You are making a laughing-stock of yourself. Everyone is laughing at you. Someone at the office said the other day, 'Who's that old woman I saw with Guy the other night? His mother?'"
Agatha stood up. Her legs felt like lead. She felt unutterably weary. She looked down at Portia.
"Get stuffed, you dreary bag," said Agatha. "Get double stuffed. And you think you could do my job in public relations? Well, you can't sleep your way into column inches. It's been tried by sluts like you and it doesn't work. Don't ever phone me or speak to me again."
She marched to the door. Portia followed her and caught her arm. "He's seeing you for dinner tomorrow. Don't go!"
"Get off!" Agatha rammed her elbow into Portia's ribs, jerked open the door and unlocked her car.
"I'm warning you!" screamed Portia.
"Join the queue, darling." Agatha got into the car and drove off, her hands damp on the steering-wheel. This case had been too much for her. But she was going on that date with Guy. That blonde bitch was not going to tell such as Agatha Raisin what she could or could not do!
Nine
The following morning, Bill Wong called on Agatha. He looked depressed and weary.
"How did you get on with Mary Owen?" asked Agatha.
"She denied everything. She said your accusation was fantastic and she thought you deranged. I won't repeat the rest of the insults."
"This case is getting you down."
"It's not just the case, Agatha. It's Sharon."
"Oh."
"At first she said she couldn't go out with me because her mother was visiting or her hair needed washing or things like that, so I asked her straight out if we were finished and she said yes. I don't know what happened. We were getting on so well together."
Agatha took a deep breath. "Bill, do you think your mother frightened her off?"
"Mum? How?"
"Well, by talking about marriage and about Sharon and you living with them."
"Why would that frighten her off?"
"Bill, no woman wants to live with the in-laws, no matter how nice they are."
"But Sharon would have said something."
"Not necessarily. You hadn't even proposed to her. She might think she was being hustled towards marriage."
He buried his hands in his thick dark hair. "I never thought of that."
Agatha shook her head. Bill was highly intelligent when it came to police work but when it came to dealing with women, he was as thick as two planks.
"Anyway, enough of my love life. What about yours?"
"A mess. James has taken off again and I think it's because he anticipated trouble from Mary Owen and her sister, so he cleared off, leaving me to deal with any trouble on my own."
"That doesn't sound like James."
"That's very like James. He did the same thing to me in Cyprus. So I'm seeing Guy Freemont this evening and now I don't really want to see him. It was Portia warning me off..."
"Portia? Portia Salmond, the secretary?"
"The same. She said she was having an affair with Guy."
"Messy. Do you really fancy Guy?"
Agatha sighed. "Only when my ego is battered, as it is now. I'm flattered that a younger man, a handsome man, should want my company. But I don't think I want to be seen out with him, I feel so battered. I think I'll run over to Marks and Spencer in Cheltenham and get something and have a meal here."
"Hasn't he booked a table at some restaurant?"
"If he has, he can cancel it. I want peace and privacy to tell him that the affair is over."
"So you were having an affair!"
"Does that shock you?"
"No. No I suppose not. I suppose it's because we're friends, I never think of you in that way." Bill laughed. "Rather like finding out one's mother is having an affair."
A picture of Bill's sour mother rose before Agatha's eyes. She wondered whether it would not be better to forget about love and romance, to forget about dieting and the beautician and get fat and frumpy and wear large tentlike dresses and eat everything smothered in double cream.
She suddenly wished that Roy would change his mind and come down. She would cancel her date and they would both go out on an eating binge.
"Ever find that cat?"
"No, no white Persians anywhere."
Agatha rested her chin on her hands. "I've been thinking about all of them, the parish councillors. At first it seemed incredible that any one of such a bunch of worthy citizens should commit murder, but once you start scraping below the surface, there's all these resentments and jealousies and passions. Find out anything about where Robina got her notes typed?"
"No, we've hit a dead end on that one as well."
"I'm really beginning to think it was Andy Stiggs."
"The vice-chairman. Why him?"
"He seems a violent man. He had a life-long resentment against Robert Struthers because Strufhers married the love of his life and Andy married a shrew on the rebound and blamed Robert for that. Then he really hated the idea of the water company, and furthermore he thought he ought to have been chairman."
"We've got nothing on him. That's the trouble with this lot. There's nothing in any of their backgrounds that points to the character of a murderer."
"There is Mary Owen, however, paying that group to make trouble."
"She's certainly a nasty piece of work."
"They're all nasty," said Agatha. "In fact, I have endured so many threats and insults that you'll be glad to learn that I am not going to do any more investigating."
"Now, that's sensible, Agatha. The police may seem to be moving very slowly, but we're thorough and we'll get there in the end. Although I must admit I'm tired and I'm taking the rest of the day off."
Agatha drove into Cheltenham and bought food for dinner: salmon mousse for a starter, duckling in orang
e sauce--check the packet to make sure it could go in the microwave--and sticky toffee pudding. She also bought some microwavable vegetables and a packet of potatoes in a cheese sauce. She wasn't quite sure whether potatoes au gratin went with duckling in orange sauce, but she did not feel like buying real ones.
She then loaded the groceries in her car and walked back along the Promenade, looking in the expensive boutiques, hoping to spy some dress which would miraculously take years off her, but without success.
When she returned home, she put the packets of food in the fridge and went upstairs to lie down for an hour and read. But she fell fast asleep, not waking until six in the evening.
She awoke with a start and let out a faint scream when she saw the time on her bedside clock. She went downstairs to lay the table in the dining-room and to vacuum the sitting-room and set the fire ready to be lit.
Then she went upstairs again and had a bath and began to search through her stock of clothes for something elegant but comfortable to wear. She finally found a long purple caftan with gold embroidery which she hadn't worn in years. It would do. It was loose and comfortable and yet looked like a dinner gown.
She then made up her face carefully and brushed her hair till it shone.
Agatha was about to rise from the dressing-table when she gave an exclamation of irritation.
The clothes she had been wearing the day before were thrown in a heap in the corner of the room. It was not as if she expected Guy to see the inside of her bedroom again, but still, they ought to be in the laundry basket.
She picked up her underwear and a navy blouse. She tossed the lot into the laundry basket. Then in the bright light of the bathroom--one-hundred-watt bulb, all the better to see you with--she stared down into the laundry.
She gingerly picked up the navy blouse. There, on the back of it, were several white hairs. Surely they were cat hairs!
She ran into the bedroom and found the skirt she had been wearing. Two white hairs clung to the skirt.
She sat down suddenly on the bed. Mary Owen. It must have been Mary Owen.
But she had a sudden vivid picture of Mary Owen barking, "Sit down," and she had refused. Certainly Mary had come up close to her when she had shoved her in front of the mirror.
