Agatha Raisin 18 (2007) - Kissing Christmas Goodbye

by M C Beaton

  Agatha ignored him. “Alison, I know you won’t want to believe this, but if any of the Tamworthys had committed the murder, which one would you think it might be?”

  “That’s awful. Jimmy suffered the most but I can’t see him doing it. I mean, it all looks as if it were carefully planned to hurt the family as much as possible. Poisoning that wine means the murderer was not just after my motherin-law.”

  “Unless it was done before the murder,” said Charles. “My money’s on Paul Chambers. He seems a nasty bit of work. A man who would try to rape a young girl in the middle of a murder investigation must be a bit unhinged.”

  “Have you heard anything about witchcraft in the village?” asked Agatha.

  “No,” said Alison, “but then I never had much to do with the place.”

  “I know,” said Agatha, “I’ll phone Phil and send him back to see the Crampton sisters. He seems to have charmed them.”

  Phil was delighted to be able to temporarily drop the divorce case. As he drove into Lower Tapor and parked beside the village green, he could see no one about and yet was conscious of eyes staring at him from behind net curtains. He had never considered himself to be imaginative or psychic in any way and yet he could swear he felt the weight of the hidden watchers’ curiosity and animosity.

  Cotswold buildings weather very well. It was hard for Phil to guess the age of the houses. Some were thatched and timbered, so were probably seventeenth century or maybe earlier, their little dormer windows under the eaves looking like eyes. Others had slate roofs and lintels over the door in the style of Queen Anne.

  He made his way past the pub to the sisters’ cottage and knocked on the door. Once again Doris opened the door to him. She looked wary.

  “I wonder if I might have another word with you,” said Phil.

  Doris leaned forward and looked to right and left and then said reluctantly, “Come in.”

  This time her sister, Mavis, was in the parlour. Phil was not asked to sit down. They both faced him, work-reddened hands folded over their aprons.

  “I heard a rumour there was witchcraft in this village,” said Phil.

  They stared at him in silence and then Mavis turned and walked out.

  “I don’t know where you heard such rubbish,” said Doris. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Terrible thing about Fred Instick,” pursued Phil, not wanting to return to the office with nothing to report.

  “That’s what happens to nosy parkers,” said Doris.

  “You mean he had found something out and someone wanted to silence him?”

  “Look,” said Doris, “Fred was always bragging about what he called gardener’s privileges. One of them was to help himself to a bottle of wine on his road out of the kitchen. He was the only one I knew who would touch the stuff. Mrs Tamworthy did try to sell some at a village fête but nobody liked it. We make the good stuff here. It was sickly sweet and tasted a bit like medicine. I reckon her never allowed it to mature long enough. Now, get on with you.”

  Well, that was something to report, thought Phil. It looked as if the poisoning of the old man had been deliberate. He walked back to his car on the village green. Just as he opened the car door, something struck him viciously on the back of the head and he slumped to the ground, red blood trickling through the white hair on his head.

  Two minutes later, George Pyson drove into the village. He saw Phil lying on the ground by his car, braked to a halt and got out and knelt beside him. He took out his phone and called urgently for an ambulance.

  Bill Wong was the first on the spot. He had been driving to the manor and had heard the emergency call on the police radio.

  George had taken a travel rug from the car and wrapped it around Phil. “There’s a rock over there with blood on it,” said George.

  Bill phoned Agatha and told her what had happened. Then he asked, “What exactly was Phil doing in the village?”

  Agatha told him that Phil had gone over to call on the Crampton sisters. “It’s Pear Tree Cottage,” she said. “I’ll be right over.”

  “Don’t,” said Bill. “Stay right where you are and I’ll let you know which hospital they’ve taken him to.”

  George said, when Bill had rung off, “His pulse is steady enough. Where the hell’s that ambulance?”

  It was an agony of waiting until the ambulance arrived. “Taking him to Mircester General,” said one paramedic.

  As soon as the ambulance was out of sight, Bill turned to George. “Where is this Pear Tree Cottage?”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  But at Pear Tree Cottage no one answered the door. Bill flipped open the letter box and listened. He could hear a faint sound of movement from inside. He shouted through the letter box, “Police! Open up or I’ll smash the door down.”

  Hurried footsteps could be heard on the other side. Then the door swung open and Doris stood there. “I was down in the garden,” she said.

  “The man who was just here,” said Bill, “was struck on the head with a rock. Did you see anything?”

  “That’s awful. No, like I said, I was down in the garden.”

  “Did he ask you about witchcraft in the village?”

  “Yes, that he did. Told him it was rubbish.”

  “Did he ask anything else?”

  “No, I told him I was busy and he left.”

  Agatha paced up and down the waiting room of Mircester General Hospital. Phil was being examined. Bill and Charles were waiting with her.

  “Collins is furious with you,” Bill said. “She says you’re complicating the case.”

  “She can get stuffed,” snarled Agatha. “Oh, poor Phil. What if it’s brain damage?”

  “Here comes the surgeon now,” said Bill.

  “Mr Marshall has suffered a concussion,” he said. “He must have a very strong head. There is no sign of brain damage.”

  “I would like to try to have a word with him,” said Bill.

  “Make it short. He’ll need a lot of rest.”

  Agatha made to follow Bill. The surgeon barred her way. “Who are you?”

  “His boss.”

  “Then I cannot allow you to go in. I have to allow the police, but after that only family will be allowed in to see him.”

  Deaf to Agatha’s protests, he led Bill away.

  “Oh, God,” prayed Agatha. “Let him be all right.”

  “Didn’t think you believed in God,” said Charles.

  “It’s just an expression,” said Agatha. “I think I’m an atheist.”

  “Do you know the definition of an atheist?”

  “No.”

  “An atheist,” said Charles, “is someone without any invisible means of support.”

  “Oh, ha bloody ha.”

  Bill was gone only ten minutes. “He’s very weak,” he said. “But he told me that according to Doris Crampton, everyone seemed to know that Fred often nicked a bottle of wine. I’m going back to pull her in for impeding the police in their inquiries. Agatha, pull your staff off the case for at least a week because we will now be doing door-to-door inquiries in that hellhole of a village.”

  “Are you going to obey him?” asked Charles as Agatha drove them back to her cottage.

  “I do think I’ll leave it all alone for a few days. Alison had nothing of any interest to tell me. Besides, the place is crawling with press.”

  “I might trot along there tomorrow and blend with the locals.”

  “You!”

  “I’ll go in disguise.”

  “Remember the Crampton sisters have had a look at you. And that posh accent of yours will give you away.”

  “I’ll have you know I can talk mangelwurzel with the best of them.”

  “Charles, look what happened to Phil. I don’t want anything like that happening to you.”

  “Dear me. Our Aggie actually has a heart!”

  Charles, wearing some of his undergardener’s clothes and a flat cap, and with hi
s face and hands stained brown and a straggly moustache pasted to his upper lip, arrived in Lower Tapor at lunchtime the following day.

  The pub was quite full when he entered. Silence fell as everyone turned to survey the newcomer.

  Charles made his way to the bar. “Pint o’ Hook Norton,” he ordered. There was no sign of Paul Chambers. His pint was pulled for him by the gypsy-looking Elsie.

  Charles turned round and saw a small table with one chair over by the window. He took his pint over and sat down. He took out a packet of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. And waited.

  He guessed that curiosity would soon get the better of the locals.

  Sure enough, after five minutes a thickset man came up and loomed over him.

  “You’re a stranger here.”

  Charles nodded.

  “What you doin’ here?”

  “Mind yer own bizzness,” said Charles.

  This seemed to be a satisfactory reply. Charles had guessed that any sign of friendliness would be treated with suspicion.

  The man pulled up a chair and joined him. “Had an accident, then?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Charles’s hands. Charles had bandaged his hands to disguise the fact that they had never done any hard work at all.

  “Yus.”

  “Terrible goin’s-on in this village,” said the man. Charles looked indifferent. “Yes, murders, that’s what we’re having. And it was them up at the manor that did it.”

  “Why you say that, then?” asked Charles.

  “Cos they did. Wanted the old woman’s money. Then Fred, he was the gardener, he got wise to them so they killed him as well.”

  Charles decided it was time to show some animation. “Reckon you must all be scared.”

  “Naw, they won’t touch one o’ us provided we keep our mouths shut. We got ways to protect ourselves.”

  “Like what?” asked Charles.

  “Keith!” shouted Elsie from behind the bar. “You get right over here.”

  Charles’s companion got reluctantly to his feet. Elsie leaned over the bar and hissed something at him. He left the pub quickly.

  Deciding there wouldn’t be much more to be found, Charles left. But he wondered about those ways of protection. Witchcraft?

  Toni felt excited as she dressed in dark clothes on Saturday evening and then waited for George. She was sure they wouldn’t find anything, but the outing would make her feel like a real detective, stalking and hiding in the bushes. George arrived on time. “This is my new flat,” said Toni proudly.

  “Where did you get the furniture?” asked George.

  “Agatha bought it from the owner.”

  George looked at the battered sofa and scuffed chairs. “You could do better. I’ve got some bits and pieces in the attic. You could come over one day and have a look.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “So let’s go on the witch hunt. I’ve been there already and I’ve found a good place where we can hide out and see what goes on at the top of that hill—if anything.”

  There was a glade at the top of the hill surrounded by trees. They hid in the bushes at the side. A full moon rose overhead.

  Toni wanted to pass the time chatting but he whispered to her to be quiet because sounds in the countryside at night could carry very far.

  By eleven-thirty, Toni was beginning to feel cramped and bored. Then they heard voices. Soon they heard people approaching up the hill.

  Toni peered through the bushes and stifled a gasp. Paul Chambers was leading a small group of villagers into the grove. Elsie, the barmaid, was beside him.

  At first it looked as if they had all come up for a picnic. Sandwiches and bottles were passed around. Then, just before midnight, Paul said, “It’s time.”

  They all began to undress until they were stark naked. A CD of some oriental music began to play. They all joined hands in a circle and began to dance. Paul had a good figure but the rest had sagging rolls of white fat. Flaccid breasts jiggled, sagging buttocks rolled. Toni could feel laughter bubbling up inside her. She pressed a hand to her mouth. At last she could not contain herself any longer and let out a burst of laughter.

  “That’s torn it,” said George. He grabbed her hand. “Crouch down and run.”

  Doubled up, they raced through the undergrowth until George pulled up short. “Wrong way,” he said. They were standing on the lip of a disused quarry. “Back into those bushes over there and hope they don’t find us,” said George.

  They lay down flat under the bushes. Toni felt the beating of her heart was so loud that the pursuers must surely hear it.

  Then they heard Chambers’s voice: “I’ll swear they came this way,” and Elsie’s reply, “Probably kids.”

  In the clear moonlight, George could see Paul and Elsie standing on the lip of the quarry. Both were still naked.

  “Forget about them, darlin’,” said Elsie. “Let’s have some fun.”

  “Leave me alone, you silly tart. This is serious.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “I said you were a silly tart and that’s all you are.”

  “You said you’d marry me.”

  “Oh, not again. The things I say in bed. Forget it.”

  In front of Toni’s and George’s horrified eyes, Elsie gave Paul an enormous push in his back and he stumbled forward and fell over the quarry. He screamed as he went down and then there was no sound at all.

  Elsie peered over the quarry and then turned and ran away.

  George could feel Toni shaking and put an arm around her. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll get the police.”

  Agatha was awakened the following morning by the shrill, insistent clamour of her doorbell.

  She glanced at her bedside clock. Six in the morning!

  She struggled out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing gown and went downstairs. Agatha opened the door and found a white-faced Toni and a tall man she did not recognize.

  “It’s terrible,” said Toni. “Paul Chambers has been murdered.”

  “Come in,” said Agatha. And to George, “Who are you?”

  “I’m George Pyson, the factor for Mrs Tamworthy’s estate.”

  She led them into the kitchen. “Sit down. Toni, what’s been going on?”

  Toni turned to George. “You tell her.”

  So George told the tale of the witch-hunt and then how Elsie had shoved Paul into the quarry. “He broke his neck in the fall,” he ended.

  “Toni,” said Agatha, “you should have told me about this.”

  “We didn’t have any hard facts,” said George. “We just went on the off chance.”

  Agatha’s eyes were suddenly hard. She surveyed George. “How old are you?”

  “I am thirty-three and no, I do not have designs on your young detective.”

  “We’re friends,” said Toni, and George smiled at her.

  “I’ll make us coffee,” said Agatha. “I don’t suppose either of you have had any sleep.”

  “No,” said Toni. She stifled a yawn. “That Collins woman interviewed me all night.”

  “The good thing is,” said Agatha over her shoulder as she plugged in the percolator, “you won’t have to turn up in court for Paul Chambers’s trial. The bad thing is that Lower Tapor will now be crammed with the world’s press. Murder and witchcraft in an English village! Toni, you’d better rest up today. That should keep you out of harm’s way.”

  At that moment, Charles ambled into the kitchen. Agatha told him about the latest murder.

  “Chambers is no great loss,” said Charles callously. “Good for you, Toni.”

  “I feel it’s all my fault,” said Toni. “It was when I saw them all dancing around naked that I began to laugh. All that loose white fat jiggling about. That’s why we ran to the quarry and hid in the bushes and that’s why Paul and Elsie followed us there.”

  Agatha scowled into her coffee cup. She could feel a treacherous roll of fat at her midriff. Oh, to be as young as T
oni. “With all the press that are going to be around,” she said, “we’d all better keep clear of the manor until the fuss dies down. But I hate to leave it alone.”

  “I wonder if she made any enemies in her past,” said George. “I mean, look at the way she treated her own children. Maybe there’s someone she crossed before.”

  Agatha brightened. “That’s a good idea.” Then she suddenly looked full at George, said a hurried “Excuse me,” and rushed up the stairs.

  “Gone to grout her face,” said Charles.

  Sure enough, Agatha reappeared fifteen minutes later with her face made up.

  Toni gave a massive yawn and knuckled her eyes.

  “Come on, young lady,” said George. “Time I got you home.”

  When they had left, Charles helped himself to one of Agatha’s cigarettes. “What goes on there?” he asked.

  “Nothing. He’s too old for her.”

  “And too young for you,” murmured Charles.

  “I’m going back to sleep,” said Agatha. She had been roused from a glorious dream of Christmas, complete with James smiling down at her, and she wanted to see if she could recapture it.

  “Now you’ve got to take all that make–up off again,” Charles called after her.

  But Agatha pretended not to hear.

  George drove Toni to her flat. He turned to her and said, “Get some sleep and don’t answer the phone or the doorbell. If the police want to interview either of us again, they can just wait until Monday morning.”

  Toni thanked him and then hesitated, waiting for him to say something else. But he climbed out and went round and held the car door open for her.

  “Bye,” said Toni and went inside.

  In her flat she undressed, took a shower and climbed into her narrow bed. He hadn’t said anything about seeing her again. Maybe she wasn’t posh enough. It wasn’t as if she were romantically interested in him. He was too old.

  She slept all day and awoke feeling refreshed, but wondering if she would get any more sleep that night. Toni decided to drop in at the Tammy Club. It seemed ages since she had gone clubbing and she wanted to be among people her own age.

  There had been protests about the club being open on Sundays, but somehow it managed to survive the complaints.