Agatha Raisin 18 (2007) - Kissing Christmas Goodbye

by M C Beaton

  No reply.

  “Go on in,” urged Agatha.

  Charles turned the handle and they both walked in. By the light of a bedside lamp they could see Phyllis.

  Agatha walked forward and looked down at her. “Charles,” she said shakily, “I think she’s dead.”

  Phyllis was lying on top of the bedclothes dressed in what she had been wearing for high tea. Bits of salad stuck to her black top.

  Charles felt for a pulse and found none.

  Fran’s voice sounded from the doorway: “What are you doing?”

  “I think your mother’s dead,” said Agatha.

  Fran rushed up to the bed. She stared at her mother for a brief moment and then reached to pick up the bedside phone.

  “Let’s leave the room as it is,” commanded Agatha. “Phone from downstairs.”

  “What…?”

  “I think your mother may have been murdered.”

  “You’re stark staring mad. I will phone the doctor and you’ll find it was a heart attack.”

  “I am not a friend of your mother,” said Agatha. “I am a detective. She invited me here because she told me she suspected a family member would kill her.”

  Fran turned paper-white. Agatha registered that the news that she was a detective and that Phyllis had suspected one of her family might murder her had shocked Fran more than the death of her mother.

  “It’s all madness,” whispered Fran. “I’ll phone from downstairs.”

  “Let’s leave and lock the door. We’ll wait for the police.”

  The news spread throughout the house and they all gathered in the drawing room.

  “Dr Huxley is on his way,” said Fran.

  “Didn’t you call the police?” demanded Agatha.

  There came a shocked chorus of Whys?

  “Because,” said Agatha loudly above the babble, “as I told Fran, I am a detective hired by your mother to protect her this weekend. She thought one of you might try to kill her.”

  “She was old,” said Sir Henry. “Losing her marbles. There’s proof of it. Here’s the doctor now.”

  Agatha quickly scanned the faces around the room. They betrayed various levels of shock and apprehension but not one of them was grieving.

  Bert went to the door and ushered the doctor in. “Here’s the key to her room,” said Agatha. “I thought it better to lock it until the police get here.”

  Dr Huxley was a small, thin, fussy man. He took the key from her and said firmly, “I am sure I will find that Mrs Tamworthy died of a heart attack. Her heart was not strong. She was taking heart medicine.”

  Bert led the doctor upstairs.

  “I’m going out for some air,” said Agatha.

  “It’s pouring,” said Charles.

  “Don’t care.”

  Agatha went outside and pulled out her mobile phone and called Mircester police and spoke rapidly.

  Then she hurried back inside.

  “As soon as the doctor leaves,” said Sadie to Agatha, “you can jolly well pack your bags and go. This is our house now and you are not welcome.”

  Silence fell as they all waited.

  After what seemed an age, the doctor came down the stairs. “Mrs Tamworthy died peacefully in her sleep when her heart stopped. I have signed the death certificate and given it to Mr Albert Tamworthy.”

  Fran turned glittering eyes on Agatha. “You see? Now, get out.”

  Agatha heard police sirens in the distance and said, “I’ve called the police.”

  There came outraged cries all round. Then Fran flew at Agatha in a rage. Agatha dived behind an armchair. Fran reached over it and seized her by the hair. Charles dragged her off.

  “You have no right to question my judgement,” said the doctor when the protests and shouts had died down.

  The sirens wailed their way up the drive.

  Then there came a loud knocking at the front door and a cry of “Police!”

  Bert went to answer it. Detective Inspector Wilkes came in, followed by Bill Wong. Bill was a friend of Agatha’s. Behind them came four police constables.

  “I am Dr Huxley,” he said. “I have examined Mrs Tamworthy and signed the death certificate.”

  Wilkes ignored him. “Mrs Raisin? When you phoned, you said something about a letter?”

  Agatha produced it from her handbag. Wilkes put on a pair of latex gloves, read it quickly and then handed it to Bill, who donned gloves as well before carefully putting it in an envelope.

  “In view of this letter,” said Wilkes, “we will need to wait for the police pathologist, who is on his way here. I will wait for his report.”

  “If the dining room hasn’t been cleared,” said Agatha, “it might be an idea to lock it up for the moment. Her death could have been caused by something Mrs Tamworthy ate.”

  “Show one of the police officers the dining room,” ordered Wilkes. He heard the sound of a car pulling up outside and looked out of the window. “The pathologist has arrived. A forensic team will be here shortly. Do not leave this room, any of you.”

  A constable let the pathologist in and Wilkes and Bill followed him up the stairs.

  Everyone sat as if turned to stone.

  Then Wilkes called to a constable, who went upstairs. He soon clattered back down and went out to the pathologist’s car and came back in carrying a heavy case and went upstairs again. Agatha, who had risen to watch from the window, wondered what was going on.

  Jimmy suddenly lit up a cigarette. After some hesitation, so did Sadie. With a little sigh of relief, Agatha found her own packet of cigarettes.

  The clock on the mantelpiece gave a preliminary whirr before chiming out the hour. Eleven o’clock.

  Just as it seemed as if they would have to wait all night, Wilkes came in. “The pathologist has conducted a preliminary examination with a portable desorption electrospray ionization mass spectrometer.”

  “So? Stop baffling us with science and get on with it,” said Sir Henry.

  “From the condition of the body, combined with the scraps of salad on her dress and a plant root clutched in one hand, he has come to the conclusion that Mrs Tamworthy was poisoned with some alkaloid plant such as hemlock. You will continue to remain here while the forensic team conduct a search of the house. A mobile police unit has arrived and is outside the house. I will summon you for questioning, one at a time. You first, Mrs Raisin. Follow me.”

  White, stricken faces watched as Agatha followed Wilkes from the room.

  Charles stifled a yawn. He was suddenly bored. He wondered how soon he could leave.

  In the police unit, Wilkes faced Agatha. “Begin at the beginning,” he said.

  Agatha told him again about the letter and then about the will and the threat to leave the money in the will to the founding of a technical college. She then told him about Phyllis’s plan to sell the house and estate also to fund the technical college and how the villagers were riled up.

  Wilkes then asked her what they had eaten. “We had individual bowls of salad,” said Agatha. “Maybe someone prepared a special bowl for Mrs Tamworthy. When she rose from the dining table it was as if she were drunk. She could hardly walk. Does it cause a form of paralysis?”

  “I gather from the pathologist,” said Wilkes, “that a strong dose of poison hemlock would gradually paralyse the whole body. Her mind would remain acute until the end. There was no bell beside the bed and no way of summoning help.”

  “Couldn’t she shout?”

  “No, her vocal cords would have been paralysed. A smaller dose and she might have had fever and vomiting to alert someone.”

  “It was a grated salad,” said Agatha.

  “The root of poison hemlock looks a good bit like parsnip,” said Wilkes. “Have you any idea, Mrs Raisin, which one of them might have committed the murder?”

  “At the moment, I think it’s possible all of them might have been able to do it. Charles and I went to the pub for a meal but before we went Fran was coming out
of Mrs Tamworthy’s room. She said she looked all right. Oh, and Fran was furious about being disinherited—well, not exactly disinherited, but Phyllis planned to build a technical college using the money from the sale of the estate and leave the college to the state—and chucked her bowl of salad into the fireplace. Two women from the village had served dinner. Dinner was in the middle of the day. Mind you, I think they went off after they had cleared up. Mrs Tamworthy seemed proud that she had created the salads herself. And where did she get the plant root? I swear there was nothing in her hands when she left the dining room.”

  “And daughter Sadie’s family left after lunch?”

  “Yes, and Annabelle, as well.” Agatha hesitated. She wondered whether to tell Wilkes about listening at the window but decided against it. She was aware of Bill Wong, her friend, watching her impassively.

  “That will be all for now,” said Wilkes, “but I may want to talk to you later.” He turned to a waiting constable. “Tell Sir Charles Fraith to step over.”

  Agatha got hurriedly to her feet. She must warn Charles not to say anything about listening at the window.

  But Wilkes said, “Just a moment. I noticed none of them seemed particularly grief-stricken. There’s not a chance they could all have been in it together?”

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha.

  “Remember, anything you hear or find out, you must tell me.”

  “Yes, yes.” Agatha hurried out to find Charles being escorted by the constable.

  “A word, Charles,” she said.

  “Later,” said Charles and walked on into the mobile police unit.

  A change had overtaken the family when Agatha returned to the drawing room. Sadie, Sir Henry, Fran, Bert, Alison and Jimmy were all registering grief for the first time.

  “Poor Mother!” wailed Fran as soon as she saw Agatha and put a handkerchief up to her suspiciously dry eyes. Sadie was genuinely crying, as was Jimmy. Bert looked white and strained, as did his wife. Sir Henry was pacing up and down, muttering, “Terrible, terrible.”

  “It must have been one of those villagers,” said Alison. “They’ve been holding meetings and plotting for ages. Anyone can just walk into the kitchen by the side door.”

  “But Mother didn’t make up the salads until just before tea,” said Fran.

  “How do you know that?” asked Agatha.

  “I went into the kitchen to try to make her see sense,” said Fran. “It’s no use you all looking at me like that. I didn’t touch the salad.”

  The wind had gradually been rising and was now howling around the building.

  Suddenly the lights went out.

  “There are candles in the kitchen,” said Fran, “but we’re not allowed to leave the room.”

  “There’s an oil lamp over there,” said Jimmy. “I’ll light it.”

  There came the scraping sound of a match being lit and then the oil lamp blossomed into light, sending out a golden glow.

  “The police van’s still lit up,” remarked Sir Henry.

  “They’ve got a generator,” said Alison.

  The door opened and Charles came in, followed by the constable.

  “Lady Field,” said the constable, “you’re next.”

  “I’ll come with her,” said Sir Henry.

  “My orders were to take only Lady Field,” said the constable firmly.

  “Come on, Aggie.” Charles patted her on the head. “We can go.”

  “Just like that!”

  “Just like that. Come on. Let’s go upstairs and pack. Some policewoman’s waiting to escort us to make sure we don’t poison anyone on the road out.”

  As soon as they were in the car, Agatha said, “I didn’t tell them about listening at the window”

  “I did,” said Charles.

  Agatha wailed, “Now I’ll get a rocket!”

  “Why didn’t you tell them?”

  “It seemed so sneaky.”

  “You’re a detective. You’re expected to be sneaky. Anyway, Bill’s going to call on us in the morning to take a full statement.”

  Chapter Five

  Toni lay in bed in her little flat and listened to the rain drumming on the roof. She wondered if her brother or mother would contact the police. But after some worrying, she doubted it. Agatha would explain why she had ridden to the rescue and Terry would be charged. No more lying in bed with the pillow over her head listening to the loud noise of the television set downstairs or the occasional screams of her mother having the DTs in the bedroom next door.

  Her gratitude to Agatha weighed down on her like a burden. She hoped a really important case would come her way and she would solve it. That would be a good way to pay Agatha back for all she had done.

  Agatha drove slowly to her office the next morning through a rain-washed sunny countryside. Instead of Bill calling on her, she had received a phone call to tell her that he was tied up and to await further instructions. The leaves were turning yellow, gold and brown. The pretty Cotswolds looked their best, free at last from the burden of tourists.

  Agatha, not very often sensitive to beauty, nonetheless could not help noticing the splendour of the morning and suddenly wished she were less driven, less ambitious, and could retire into the embrace of a quiet domestic country life.

  But as she reached the drab outskirts of Mircester, she began to plan the day ahead. She would need to explain why she had not told the police about listening at the window yesterday afternoon. She would also need to explain why cavalier Charles had suddenly decided to go to his own home, telling her that the police could interview him there.

  When she got to the office, Mrs Freedman told her the police had already called and she was to go immediately to Mircester police headquarters to make a statement. Agatha groaned. Facing Bill would have been bad enough, but now she would have to explain herself to his superior.

  She noticed Charles’s car parked outside the police station. So he had been summoned as well.

  She entered the police headquarters. It had recently been refurbished to make it look more ‘customer friendly’. Gone was the institutional green, to be replaced with what was meant to be sunny yellow but was the colour of sulphur. Two plastic palms, their fronds already covered in dust, stood in two pots looming over a shiny imitation-leather sofa and two plastic chairs.

  Agatha gave her name to the desk sergeant and was told to wait. And wait she did, longing for a cigarette. It was a full half-hour before she was summoned.

  She was led to an interview room, noticing it had escaped the redecoration. The same scarred table with coffee-ring marks and old cigarette burns from the days when smoking was allowed. The same dull green walls.

  “Sit down, Mrs Raisin,” said Wilkes. Bill was not there. Instead there was a woman in a grey power suit. She had a drab, sallow face, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, a thin mouth and hooded eyes.

  She put a tape in the recording machine and announced, “Interview with Mrs Agatha Raisin commencing. Detective Inspector Wilkes and Detective Sergeant Collins conducting the interview. Time ten-five a.m.”

  Agatha realized with a sinking heart as the interview began that Collins was going to ask all the questions. She had considered Wilkes severe in times past, but Collins fired questions at her in an aggressive manner and with an accusatory tone.

  “Now,” snapped Collins at one point, “you listened at the dining-room window, according to Sir Charles, and yet you failed to tell the police what you had heard. I have here Sir Charles Fraith’s statement. Let me read you a bit.”

  She read out an accurate report of what they had both heard as they had listened outside the window.

  “Would you agree with this?” asked Collins.

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “So why didn’t you tell us? Is there anything else you are hiding from us?”

  “No,” said Agatha miserably, feeling her face turn red. “I’ve told you everything.”

  “You consider yourself an experien
ced detective?” sneered Collins.

  Agatha sat silently, glaring at her.

  “Very well. We will accept your lame excuse for the moment…”

  The questioning went on remorselessly for two hours. Feeling as if she had been mugged, Agatha finally emerged blinking in the sunlight, and looked outside the police station. Charles’s car was gone.

  She told herself she should be used to his erratic behaviour. Agatha made her way to her office. Her small staff were waiting for her to get the day’s instructions.

  Agatha was about to begin when there was a knock at the office door and then Alison Tamworthy walked in. Despite the sunny day, she was wearing a tweed skirt and cotton blouse under a Barbour. Her normally pugnacious face showed signs of recent crying.

  She stared at Agatha. “I don’t care what the others say,” she said. “I have to know.”

  “Please sit down,” urged Agatha. “You want us to find out who killed your mother-in-law?”

  “That’s it. The others say, “Oh, just let it go.” All they think about is the money. But I can’t go on wondering and wondering. They don’t know it, but suspicion will hang over the lot of them until this is cleared up. I have my own money.”

  Agatha signalled to Mrs Freedman, who came forward with a notebook. “I’ll need all the names and addresses,” said Agatha.

  “I can give you that,” said Alison. “Jimmy lives above the shop but has moved into the manor and will remain there until we decide what to do with the estate. They are all still at the manor. I want you to come back with me. I want to tell them all that I have engaged you.”

  “Do you think one of them did it?” asked Agatha.

  “I can’t believe that. I think it must be one of the troublemakers from the village. Paul Chambers is the ringleader.”

  “Right,” said Agatha. “Mrs Freedman will draw up a contract for you to sign. Toni, get Mrs Tamworthy a coffee.”

  While Mrs Freedman prepared the contract and Alison sipped coffee, Agatha gave Phil and Patrick their instructions for the day. Toni looked at her dismally. Agatha appeared to have forgotten her existence.