by M C Beaton
The receptionist looked up in surprise as they walked in. “Toni!” she cried. “Wot you doin’ here?”
“I’m a private detective,” said Toni. “We’re here to interview your boss.”
“Go on!”
“Fact.”
“Well, I never did. I s’pose you want to speak to Mr Trump himself? He’s the manager.”
“That would be great, Sharon.”
“What’s he done? Cheating on his wife?”
“No, nothing like that. Just a routine inquiry. Tell you what, you get him for us and give me your phone number and we’ll get together one evening.”
“Great. Hang on. I’ll get him.” She picked up the phone.
“Just say,” said Toni quickly, “that a Mr Mulligan wishes to talk to him about a building plot.”
“Got it, Sherlock. Take a seat.”
Sharon made the call. That could have been me, thought Toni, working in a dead-end job like Sharon’s. I’d be having fun if only I didn’t feel so dreadfully grateful to Agatha.
“Better make like I don’t know you,” said Sharon, replacing the receiver. “His secretary’s coming to get you and she’s a tartar.”
The door to the inner office opened and a tall thin bespectacled woman said, “Mr Mulligan? If you will follow me.”
Mr Trump, who rose to meet them as they entered his office, obviously had nothing to do with the manual side of the job. He was plump and well tailored with a round bland face and thick grey hair.
“Please sit down,” he said, indicating two chairs facing his desk, “and let me know how I can be of assistance.”
He began to look like a petulant baby as Patrick explained the reason for their visit.
“I’m a busy man,” he said crossly. “Mrs Tamworthy was interested in selling me a plot of land for building development but she would never close the deal although I offered her a good price. One day she would say that she was coming into the office to close the deal and then she would phone later to say she had changed her mind. I thought she’d gone senile. You’d be better off having a talk with her factor, George Pyson.”
“Where do we find him?”
“He’s got a small office in College Street. Number 10. I called on him one time to see if he could talk some sense into the old girl’s head.”
Patrick and Toni parked in the centre of Mircester and walked along College Street. Number 10 was a small old former shop with bottle-glass windows. Patrick rang the bell and they waited.
The door was eventually answered by a tall man with a thick shock of black hair. He was wearing a checked shirt and green corduroy trousers. His face was handsome in a craggy way. He was younger than Patrick had expected. Patrick placed him as being somewhere in his thirties.
“Are you George Pyson?” asked Patrick. “That’s me.”
“We’re private detectives investigating the murder of Mrs Tamworthy at the request of her family.”
“You’d better come in. Who’s this?”
“Miss Toni Gilmour, also a detective. I am Patrick Mulligan.”
The small office had a desk and hard chairs. A map of the Tamworthy village and estate was pinned to the wall behind the desk.
“What precisely is your job?” asked Toni.
“I run the estate, collect the rents, do the farm books and hire the help.”
“How long have you been doing the job?” asked Patrick. “I mean, you’re much younger than I expected.”
“Only for four years. The previous factor died.”
“So for four years you have been working closely with the people of the village. Have you any idea who might have wanted to murder Mrs Tamworthy?”
“I know an awful lot of people didn’t like her. But murder? Hard to imagine anyone I’ve met actually doing it.”
“Did you get on well with Mrs Tamworthy?” asked Toni.
He surveyed her and smiled. “You’re a pretty girl and would be prettier if you darkened your eyelashes.”
“Leave my appearance out of this,” protested Toni.
“Did I get on with her? She thought so, because I made the farming side pay. She flirted with me. Bit grotesque. Actually, I’m looking around for another job because I assume the heirs will be selling the place. It’s an odd village.”
“In what way?” asked Patrick.
“Closed, secretive. All the Cotswold villages have been infiltrated by newcomers. Often there are more newcomers than villagers. But not in the Tapors. I think there might be a bit of inbreeding. Then there’s witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft!” exclaimed Toni and Patrick in unison.
“Just a feeling, maybe just an odd rumour here and there. There’s a magazine that advertises when covens are meeting. It’s supposed to be white magic. Harmless get-togethers. I looked it up once to see if Lower Tapor was mentioned, but nothing there. I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you. Leave me your cards and I’ll phone you if I think of anything.”
“What’s the name of that magazine and where can I get one?” asked Toni.
“That shop in the High Street called The Other World, you know the one that sells magic rocks and incense sticks and things like that. You can pick one up there.” He rose to show them out. “Young lady,” he said to Toni, “I see that someone’s given you a black eye recently. It’s maybe a dangerous job for one so young.”
“I manage,” said Toni.
He drew her back as Patrick, ahead of her, walked out into the street. “Do be careful.”
“I can look after myself,” said Toni tartly.
“What was that about?” asked Patrick as they walked towards the High Street.
“He told me to be careful. Cheek! He’s old. Are we going to buy that magazine?”
“May as well,” said Patrick. “He didn’t say what it was called.”
“I’m sure they’ll know what it is.”
The magazine turned out to be called Your Magic. They flipped to the back where there was a list of events. “Amazing,” said Toni. “Covens all over the place. Must be a lot of sick people around. But nothing listed for Lower Tapor or anywhere near it.”
Bill called on Agatha that evening. She welcomed him in, saying, “I began to wonder if I would ever see you again outside the line of duty.”
“It’s hard,” he said. “You’re hardly the flavour of the month.”
“Want coffee?”
“I came to take you out to dinner—nowhere too expensive.”
“Pub grub all right?”
“Fine.”
“I feel like getting out of the village. The Bear in Moreton is okay, and if we sit in the bar I can smoke.”
“Right, we’ll take both our cars,” said Bill. “I’ll go straight home afterwards. My mother worries about me if she knows I’m not on duty and I’m out too late.”
“Have you ever thought of getting a place of your own and being more independent?” asked Agatha.
Bill looked thoroughly surprised. “I don’t see any reason to. I’m happy at home.”
But you’ll never get married if you continue to stay there. Your mother will see to that, thought Agatha.
Charles had heard about the latest murder on television. He packed a bag and drove to Agatha’s cottage. He noticed her car was not outside so he decided to go in and wait for her. His keys would not work. He tried several times to open the door until it finally dawned on him that Agatha must have changed the locks.
Someone must have threatened her, thought Charles, not pausing for a moment to think that it might have anything to do with him.
He heaved his case back into the car. He decided to go back home through Moreton-inMarsh in case Agatha had decided to do some late-night shopping at Tesco Express.
He saw her car parked outside the Black Bear, found a parking place for himself and strolled towards the pub.
“That’s as much as I know, Bill,” Agatha was saying. “The most interesting bit is Patrick’s report of possible witchcraft.”
“I don’t see what’s so interesting in that,” said Bill.
“If people are so unhinged as to believe in witchcraft, then it follows that murder might be an easy step. What if several of the villagers were responsible? How did the hemlock get into the wine—it was hemlock, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, they’re pretty sure it was inserted through the cork with a syringe. Oh, here’s Charles.” Charles breezed up. “Couldn’t get into your cottage, Aggie. Tracked you down.”
“I changed the locks just so that you couldn’t drop in any time you felt like it,” said Agatha. “On several occasions you’ve frightened me when I came home and heard someone in the house.” Charles’s normally light voice held an edge as he asked, “And didn’t you think, as a friend, that it might be a nice idea to phone me and tell me?”
“Why do you always make me feel in the wrong?” said Agatha furiously.
“Because you are.”
“I didn’t even think to phone you,” said Agatha, “because there is no point in doing so. Either Gustav, your man, or your aunt answers the phone and they both always say you are not at home even when you are.”
“How right you are,” said Charles, sitting down and opening a menu. “What’s good here?”
“Try the sea bass or the lamb shank,” said Bill, looking amused.
Agatha gave a little resigned shrug. “To get back to what we were talking about, the poison was put in the bottle with a syringe. I don’t remember any corks on the bottles.”
“They’re plastic corks. Someone must have made an infusion of hemlock.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Only the gardener’s.”
“And the rest of the bottles?”
“I don’t know. They’re examining them at the moment. Collins is screaming at forensics that they were supposed to have checked every item in that kitchen.”
Charles ordered sea bass and a glass of white wine and leaned back in his chair. “It takes suspicion away from the family surely. I mean, they could have drunk it.”
“I don’t think so,” said Agatha. “Mrs Tamworthy insisted on serving it but she was the only one who drank it. I took a sip and so did Charles but we didn’t like it so we didn’t have any more. It’s terribly sweet. The rest of the family didn’t touch it at all.”
“Well, they wouldn’t, would they?” said Bill.
“That is, if one of them or all of them knew about that poisoned bottle or bottles. But there’s something very odd. Instick delivered vegetables to the manor and according to Alison, he put his head round the drawing-room door where they were all gathered and said, “I know which one of you did it.””
“Oh dear, it really looks as if one of them is a murderer,” said Agatha. “Bill, you said there were only Fred’s fingerprints on the bottle. That means of course someone wiped the bottle clean before putting it back on the rack.”
“Certainly looks that way.”
Agatha had a sudden bright image of Jimmy, smiling and laughing as he practically gave away all the stock in the shop. She hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be Jimmy who was the murderer. He’d already spent a good part of his life in one sort of prison.
“There’s another thing. Paul Chambers is out on bail and back in his pub with the locals ganging up behind him. You’d better keep young Toni away from that village.”
Toni’s mobile phone rang that evening. To her surprise it was George Pyson. “Feel like going out for a drink?” he asked.
Toni hesitated only a moment. She was tired of feeling too frightened to go out in Mircester in the evening in case she ran into her brother. George was a bit old but he had looked strong.
“All right,” she said.
“I’d pick you up,” said George, “but there was only your phone numbers on your card.”
“I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“What about the George, like my name, in the centre?”
“Fine. Say, half an hour?”
“See you there.”
Toni put on some light make–up. She had bought black mascara on the road home. She decided not to put it on. Might give the old boy some ideas.
When she entered the lounge bar of the George she wished she had dressed up instead of keeping on the jeans and white T–shirt she had been wearing all day. He had changed into a welltailored suit, blue shirt and silk tie.
He really was quite handsome, she decided with surprise.
“What are you having?” he asked.
“Just a tonic water.”
“Right.” Toni was impressed by the fact that he hadn’t urged her to take something stronger.
When he came back with the drinks, he began to talk about Lower Tapor, explaining, “I’ve been thinking and thinking if I might know anything that might help you. I went over there after you left and I talked to the tenant farmer, Kenneth Macdonald.”
“Sounds Scottish.”
“He is. The former tenant died leaving no heirs and so I advertised and got him. He’s a good worker and honest. He’s not accepted by the villagers and so he has a detached view of them. He says he’s sure they practise witchcraft and are planning something for next Saturday night. He overheard two of the farmhands talking.”
Toni’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Does he know where?”
“No, but there’s a stand of trees on a hill above Lower Tapor. They’re supposed to be fairy trees. I would guess there.”
“I might go over and have a look at that,” said Toni.
“Might not be safe. Remember, there’s a murderer about.” He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass. “I could go with you if you would like?”
“I’ve been told by my boss to keep away from the village,” said Toni. “The landlord of the pub, Paul Chambers, tried to rape me.”
“That’s awful. I heard he was out on bail but the newspapers didn’t give the name of the victim and the locals apart from Kenneth don’t gossip to me. On the orders of the family, I’ve given him a month to pack up and get out. The family owns the pub. If they are going to wind up the estate, I could probably get a fair price for them from one of the breweries.”
“He must really hate me now,” said Toni. “I don’t have a car, yet. I’m taking a crash course next week. Yes, I would like you to drive me there.”
“Right, when you’ve finished your drink, I’ll walk you home. I’ll pick you up at around ten o’clock on Saturday evening. We’ll need to find a good place to hide ourselves.”
Toni was relieved when he walked her home chatting away about the estate, because he showed no signs of being interested in her sexually.
“I’ve just remembered something,” said Agatha. “British sherry.”
“What about it?” asked Bill.
“She said she loved draught British sherry. I don’t think it’s been around for years. So she must have stocked up on bottles and put them in the cellar.”
Bill took out his mobile. “I’ll be back in a moment. I’d better tell them to search the whole of the cellar.”
When he had gone, Agatha turned to Charles.
“Do you plan to stay with me?”
“That’s the idea, Aggie.”
“I’m not giving you a set of keys, mind”
“Suit yourself, sweetie.”
Chapter Eight
The following day, Agatha phoned Alison and told her that there was no point in her going to the manor while the police were around and asked her if she could possibly get away and come to the office. Alison said she would be there in an hour’s time.
Agatha decided her staff should work on other cases. Toni was sent in search of a missing teenager. She did not tell Agatha anything about the coming Saturday night. She was sure Agatha would refuse to let her go.
Patrick brightened when he was given a case of suspected industrial espionage at a sweet factory. The owners claimed that they were planning the launch of a new chocolate bar. The previous launch of a new health bar had been stolen by
their competitors. “Anything to get away from divorce,” said Patrick. Phil sighed. He was stuck with a divorce case.
Charles strolled into the office, helped himself to a coffee, and sat quietly in the corner.
When everyone had left except Mrs Freedman, Charles asked, “What now?”
“Alison should be here soon,” said Agatha. “Better here than up at the manor with police and the enraged Collins prowling around. Now, be an angel and shut up while I get some paperwork done.”
Charles folded his arms on his chest and promptly fell asleep.
“He must be tired,” whispered Mrs Freedman.
“He should be,” retorted Agatha. “He was up all night watching old movies.”
Charles woke up when Alison arrived. Agatha was shocked at her appearance. Her face was drawn and there were heavy bags under her eyes.
She sank down wearily on the office sofa. “I don’t know how much longer we can all go on like this. The police are now searching the cellar.”
“Were any of the other bottles on that rack in the kitchen poisoned?” asked Agatha.
“They don’t know yet. George Pyson, the factor, is finding another gardener to fill in in the meantime. He has also found an accountant for us because it turns out Mrs Tamworthy had lots of money salted away in different accounts. If we ever get out of this, we’ll all be very rich indeed. But we’ll never have any peace until this murderer is found. We’re paying some of the villagers to patrol the estate because the press are doing everything they can to get in to interview us. When I drove off, I was nearly blinded by all the flashes from the cameras. Of course, the villagers have been talking, so George says, and it’s probably all a lot of scurrilous gossip.”
“What you need is a good foreign story,” said Agatha cynically.
“I don’t understand.”
“If there’s a big story abroad, you’ll see the press trying to get back to their offices to buy the foreign editor drinks and free meals, begging, “Send me. I’ve got a visa.””
Charles laughed. “Only Aggie could wish a war on the world for a bit of peace at Lower Tapor,” he said.
