by M C Beaton
Then another picture came into her mind. Portia. And she had sat on Portia's sofa while Portia had sneered at her.
She must phone Bill. He had said he was taking the rest of the day off. She got her personal phone book and dialled his number.
"What is it?" demanded a cross voice on the other end of the line. Mrs Wong.
"This is Agatha Raisin and I must speak to Bill immediately."
"He's in the bath and I'm not getting him."
Agatha took a deep breath. "I'm phoning to tell him Sharon is pregnant."
There was a gasp and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Agatha hung on grimly.
"Rubbish," she heard Bill saying. "She's joking." Then his voice came on the phone.
"What the hell are you up to, Agatha? You've nearly given Mum a heart attack."
"Bill, listen! I had to get you to the phone. The clothes I was wearing to Portia's last night. They've got white cat hairs on them."
"We never even thought of her," said Bill. "I'll get on to it right away. Good work."
For once Bill ignored his mother's questions and doggedly got dressed. He was just about to go out when the phone rang again. He seized the receiver before his mother could get to it. "James Lacey," said the hurried voice at the other end. "Listen!"
Bill listened. Then he said, "Christ. And he's at Agatha's tonight!"
Earlier that day, James had taken an old friend to lunch in the City. They talked of old times and at last James felt he had had enough of the courtesies and asked abruptly, "Did you find out anything about the Freemont brothers?"
His friend, Johnny Birrell, said, "I asked about and dug about. They borrowed very heavily from the banks to fund this water company."
"So they didn't come out of Hong Kong very rich? I suppose I'm naive, I thought every businessman came out of Hong Kong very rich."
"Not all," said Johnny. "I was over there for a couple of years myself. There was one rumour about Guy Freemont you might like to hear."
"Anything."
"Right. They were in the clothes business, ran sweatshops, got them into trouble here but not in Hong Kong. But their business was doing well. Then they hit a snag. It's all whispers, of course."
"What? What did people say?"
"The rumour was that Guy was crazy about mis Chinese girl and she did lead him on a bit, but then turned him down. It was said he raped her. Now this Guy Freemont thought no more about it. The girl was only Chinese. Chaps like Guy Freemont can think they're in love with a girl without respecting her one bit. But the girl's father was a very rich and powerful Chinese businessman. Evidently there was no proof other than the girl's word that Guy had raped her, and she had been fooling about with several men. But whatever happened, or whatever threats were laid on Guy, I don't exactly know, but the rumour is that he and his brother had to practically bankrupt themselves to buy Guy's way out of trouble. This was right before the Chinese took over. Mind you, it could all be exaggerated. You know what ex-pat communities are like, James. One gets hold of a story and embroiders it and then the other adds to it and passes it on."
James rose to his feet, glancing at his watch. "I'll pay for this and run, Johnny. I must get back to the country as soon as possible."
But on the road back, James began to wish he were one of those mobile-phone users he so despised. His car, which had served him so well, came to a stop and refused to move. A motorist stopped and allowed James to use his mobile phone. Then James had to wait for the breakdown truck. Because his car was causing a bottleneck in the traffic, the breakdown man suggested he tow it straight to the garage and examine it there.
James went dark red with embarrassment in the garage when a laughing mechanic pointed out that all that was up with the car was that it had run out of petrol.
By the time James was able to phone Bill, the sun was setting, and he considered he had been panicking. He had found out Guy Freemont was probably a shifty businessman and a rapist, but that didn't make him a murderer. Anyway, he thought sourly, he didn't have to rape Agatha to get what he wanted.
But when he heard the anxiety in Bill's voice and that she was actually entertaining Guy Freemont, all his worries came flooding back. "Don't phone Agatha," Bill warned. "If he's guilty, we don't want him alerted. I haven't time to tell you the rest; I'm on my way there."
Agatha went to answer the door and let Guy in. "Is it raining?" she asked, noticing wet drops glittering on his coat.
"Just started. Are you ready?"
"I thought we would eat here," said Agatha. "Let me take your coat."
She helped him out of it and went to hang it in the hall closet. Her mind had been numb since she phoned Bill. All she could keep wondering was why, if it had been Portia all along, had she done it? She must be some sort of maniac. Should she tell Guy?
But as she slowly put the coat away, Agatha at last was struck by a blinding flash of the obvious. Guy was having an affair with Portia. Guy would have been at Portia's house. Guy could have got cat hairs on his clothes and transferred one to Robert Struthers's clothes. How many people had shouted at her that the Freemonts were guilty and she, the great PR, had refused to believe them? You don't murder for publicity, or do you?
She had better phone Bill. But Bill would be checking Portia, and if she had a Persian cat and was innocent, then they would focus their attention on Guy and, thank God, she had told Bill that Guy Freemont was coming to her house.
Agatha went slowly into the sitting-room and put a match to the fire and then stood looking down at the flames.
"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" Guy's voice came from behind her.
She gave a little start. "Sorry, I was daydreaming. Whisky?"
"Yes, please. Just a splash of soda."
Agatha gave him a generous whisky and soda and poured herself a gin and tonic.
"I'm glad you decided to see me, Agatha," said Guy. "I thought you had dropped me."
"Oh, we were never really an item," said Agatha. She must play for time. If Bill found that cat and if it were all connected to Guy, then the police would arrive in force.
"I thought we were."
"That's odd. Portia Salmond summoned me last night and told me you had been having an affair with her."
"Agatha, Agatha. That was all a long time ago."
"Can't have been. The water company's pretty new. You only hired Portia this year."
"I knew her before."
"In Hong Kong?"
His eyes narrowed. "Been checking up on me, Agatha?"
"Of course. When I was approached to represent your company, I asked a few questions about your background."
"And what did my busy little angel find out?"
"I found out you'd been in the rag trade and had moved back here when Hong Kong went over to the Chinese. Dreadful for those poor people in Hong Kong. They should all have been given British passports."
"Come on, Agatha. They're Chinese, too."
"So? They're people and they were British subjects."
He shook his handsome head. "I never took you for a liberal."
"You mean the wogs begin at Calais?"
"Let's drop this. So boring. So you are a retired lady of leisure?"
"Yes, and I plan to enjoy it. How's the water business?"
"We are doing so well. Exporting to Europe and soon to America. And all thanks to the publicity."
"I'll never understand that. When I see a bottle of Ancombe Water with the skull grinning on the label, all I can think of is poor Mr Struthers lying at the well and the water stained with his blood swirling around the basin."
"Don't you see, Agatha? That's the secret."
"The secret of what?"
"Advertising, promoting a product. There's a new health drink on sale which has a cannabis leaf on the label. Now it doesn't contain the drug-type hash because the cannabis in it is from the male leaf and it's only the female leaf which causes a high. Do you think people buy it because they think if 11 be hea
lthy? No, they think, Maybe I'll get a high."
"I'm still not with you. There's nothing in Ancombe Water but water, surely."
"I discussed this with you before. All human beings are self-destructive. A lot of people go into health shops to buy stuff that will pep them up or slow them down but persuade themselves that as they are buying whatever in a health shop, it makes it all right. People will sozzle their brains in pubs with alcohol and sneer about junkies. Vegetarians stuff their faces with sugar. And in my opinion the health warning on a packet of cigarettes is one of the best advertisements going. People are drawn to death, Agatha, because of their fear of it, Eke people are drawn to the edge of a cliff. And never have people been more afraid of death than in this age."
"I can't really go along with that," said Agatha. "People have very short memories. Ancombe Water was flashed around the world because of the murders, yes. But then they forget that and just remember they've heard about it. I don't believe that dicing with death has any attraction at all." Agatha lit a cigarette.
Guy pulled a newspaper cutting out of his pocket. "Oh, yes? Well, I've brought you a cutting about a hypnotist in Mircester. You do want to stop smoking, don't you?"
"Yes," lied Agatha, who did not really in her heart want to stop at all. "I'll get you another drink and then I'll fix dinner."
"Okay. I'll join you in the kitchen."
"No, don't do that. I don't like anyone watching me cooking."
She gave him another drink and then went into the kitchen and shut the door. All that talk about death being good for publicity. Was it Guy after all who was the murderer? She had arranged the salmon mousse on plates. The duck would need to be heated in the microwave and then both portions, along with the already micro-waved potatoes and vegetables, kept warm in the oven.
What a fool she had been! James had kept insisting it was the Freemonts. How James would crow over her.
She looked back at the closed kitchen door. Maybe a call to police headquarters...
She cautiously picked up the receiver and got through to police headquarters. She asked for Bill but was told he was out. "Tell him," she said urgently, "that Guy Freemont is at my home and I am convinced he committed those murders. This is Mrs Agatha Raisin. No, I haven't time to wait to be put through to anyone else..." She heard a movement outside the kitchen door and quickly replaced the receiver.
Her cats curled around her legs. She opened the kitchen door and shooed them out into the garden. "You'll be safe there," she whispered, and was later to wonder why she had not run out of the kitchen door and fled to safety herself.
She put the duckling in the microwave, picked up the two plates of salmon mousse and headed for the dining-room.
She put down the plates and lit the candles. Then she went through to the sitting-room.
"Were you on the phone?" asked Guy. He was standing by the fireplace.
"Were you listening?" asked Agatha lightly.
"No, when you pick up the receiver in the kitchen, the receiver in here gives a little ping."
"Yes, I was on the phone. I was calling Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife."
His face was hard and his eyes glittered oddly in the firelight. He took a step towards her.
The doorbell rang.
The police, thought Agatha.
"I'll just get that."
He caught hold of her arm. "Don't you want to be alone with me?"
He studied her face. Agatha tried to look as puzzled and offended as she would have been in normal circumstances.
"AH right," he said, releasing her.
Agatha went to the door and opened it. Mrs Bloxby stood on the doorstep.
Agatha goggled at her and then raised her voice. "I was just saying to Guy when I phoned you a moment ago that it was bound to be you." She winked desperately.
"I brought you some of my trifle." Mrs Bloxby held out a bowl.
"Come in and meet Guy," said Agatha.
"If you're entertaining, I don't want to interrupt you."
"Just a drink," pleaded Agatha.
"Yes, how nice." Guy loomed up behind Agatha.
"How good to see you, Mr Freemont," said Mrs Bloxby. "I won't stay long. As I was saying to Agatha a moment ago on the phone, I thought she might like some of my special trifle."
Guy looked as relaxed now as he had been tense a moment before. "You take the trifle, Agatha, and I'll get Mrs Bloxby a drink." Mrs Bloxby handed over the bowl of trifle and then put her umbrella in the stand in the hall.
"Such a dreadful evening, Mr Freemont," she said. "Oh, this is comfortable. I always think a log fire is so pretty. Just a sherry, please."
Agatha came in and sat down. The fact that Guy was more than likely a cold-blooded killer had finally sunk in and she felt sick and frightened.
Mrs Bloxby looked brightly at Agatha and then at Guy. "Do you go to church, Mr Freemont?"
"What?"
"I asked, do you go to church?"
"Why?"
"Because I am the vicar's wife and I like to collect as many souls for the church as possible."
Mrs Bloxby knows, thought Agatha. Somehow she knows. It was totally out of character for the vicar's wife to ask anyone if they went to church.
Guy gave an awkward laugh. "Well, Christmas, Easter; I'm afraid I am a two-service-a-year Anglican."
"But are you never afraid for your immortal soul?"
"Never think about it."
"Oh, but you should. We will all be judged on Judgement Day."
"I don't want to offend you, Mrs Bloxby, but it's all a lot of tosh. When someone dies, they just die--finish, the end."
"That is where you are wrong."
"How do you know that? God tell you so?"
Mrs Bloxby took a sip of sherry and looked meditatively at the leaping flames. "No, but I have observed goodness in people as well as evil. There is a bit of the divine spirit in all of us. I have also observed an odd pattern of justice."
"Justice?" demanded Guy sharply and Agatha groaned inwardly.
"Oh, yes, I have seen evil people thinking they have got away with things, but they always suffer in the end."
"The fires of hell?"
"Yes, and they suffer from them in their lifetime. I think whoever killed poor Mr Struthers and Robina Toynbee will eventually suffer dreadfully."
"Not if the police don't catch him, or her." Guy stood up. "Excuse me, I've left my cigarettes in my coat pocket."
"Have one of mine," said Agatha. "I didn't know you smoked."
"There's a lot about me you don't know."
He went out. Agatha looked at the vicar's wife with agonized eyes. She mouthed, "Don't go too far."
Guy came in and stood in the doorway. He had his coat on and a small serviceable revolver was pointed straight at them.
"Fun's over," he said coldly. "We're going for a ride. Into the car and one squeak and I'll shoot both of you."
"Why are you doing this?" demanded Agatha.
"Just shut up and get moving. Move!"
Outside, he snarled at Agatha. "You drive and the Holy Roller can sit beside you. One false move and I'll kill you both."
"Take the road through Ancombe," he ordered as Agatha drove off.
Agatha felt all hope die. The police would come into the village the other way and so miss them. The cold muzzle of the revolver was pressed against her neck.
Mrs Bloxby sat quietly beside her, hands clasped in prayer. What good will that do? Agatha wanted to scream at her.
"Down to Moreton and take the Fosse towards Stratford," ordered Guy.
Agatha obeyed. There was nothing else she could do. Jammed beside her on the seat was her handbag, which she had picked up through force of habit. Was there anything in it she could use as a weapon? Nail scissors? Forget it. There was a little can of spray lacquer. If only she could get that and spray it in his face. But how?
Start him talking, she thought. "So you killed them?" she said.
"Just drive and keep your
mouth shut."
In books, thought Agatha wildly, the criminals always bragged about their crimes, allowing the hero to escape. The windscreen wipers moved rhythmically like metronomes.
They left Moreton-in-Marsh behind and out they went along the Fosse Way, the Roman road which, like all Roman roads, went straight up hills and down the other side. Roman armies had not gone in for easy detours.
"Right here!" barked Guy.
"This goes to Toddenham," said Agatha. "We could have gone round the back of Budgen's."
"Drive!"
Would Doris Simpson look after her cats? He surely meant to kill them.
"Stop!" he commanded.
Agatha stopped with a squeal of brakes. "You first," Guy said to Mrs Bloxby. "If you run for it, I'll kill her."
"Run for it," Agatha urged the vicar's wife. "He's going to kill both of us anyway."
But Mrs Bloxby got out and stood meekly beside the car.
"Into the field," said Guy.
Agatha found she was still clutching her handbag.
As she ducked under the fence, she released the flap and groped for that little can of lacquer.
"Now stand there, together." The rain had stopped and faint starlight shone on the black revolver in Guy's hand.
He levelled the pistol at them.
Mrs Bloxby left Agatha's side and walked forward and put a hand on his arm.
"This will not do," she said gently. "You cannot get away with this."
He jerked his arm away.
Agatha darted forward and sprayed lacquer in his face. He shouted, clutched at his eyes and dropped the revolver.
The vicar's wife grabbed the revolver and shouted, "Stand back, Agatha."
Guy looked at them blearily. "So go on and shoot." He advanced on Mrs Bloxby. "But you won't, will you, oh lady of God? You can't!"
His hand reached out.
Mrs Bloxby shot him full in the chest.
He stared at her in surprise and then down at the spreading stain on his white shirt. "I'll be damned," said Guy Freemont.
Mrs Bloxby sat down suddenly on the wet grass. "Probably," she said faintly and then buried her face in her hands.
Guy toppled forward on his face and lay still. The moon swam out from behind ragged black clouds. Far away the thunder grumbled.
