by M C Beaton
Toni entered and breathed in the old familiar smell of alcohol and pot. Strobe lights were flashing across the floor where dancers gyrated to the loud beat of the music.
“Hi! Look, folks, it’s Tone,” called a girl.
Toni was soon surrounded by some of her exschool friends. One of them, Karen, shouted above the music, “Heard you was a tec.”
Toni nodded in reply. The music suddenly finished and the DJ said, “Taking five minutes out, folks.”
“Let’s get a drink,” said Karen.
They all moved to the bar. They pressed Toni to talk about her work, but Toni did not feel like going into details. “What’s the talent like?” she asked.
A thin spotty girl called Laura said, “You haven’t met the latest dreamboat. His name’s Rex”
“Sounds like a dog or a cinema,” said Toni. “Look, that’s him over there.” Laura pointed to where a young man was slouched at the end of the bar. He was wearing a black leather jacket over his bare chest and leather trousers. His black hair was gelled into spikes. He had a stud below his bottom lip. His face was very white and he had heavy black eyebrows and designer stubble.
Toni suddenly felt a wave of isolation. Not so long ago, she might have found Rex attractive. But not now. She listened to the chatter of her former friends and felt she was looking at them through the wrong end of a telescope. The music started up again.
“Gotta go,” muttered Toni and she headed towards the door and out into the night. She took great gulps of fresh air. Maybe after a week or two, she would go back to the club, but at the moment she felt caught somewhere between the youth of her former school friends and what she thought of as the ‘old folks’ at the detective agency.
Agatha kept clear of the manor house for a week. She knew it would be impossible to move freely with press and police swarming all over the place. Other cases had to be dealt with. She missed Toni, who was taking driving lessons, interrupted by police interviews.
After work she prowled the supermarkets because they were already selling Christmas decorations, wondering which ones would look best. She ordered a turkey from a Norfolk farm, to be delivered ten days before Christmas. She ordered a new cooker with an oven large enough for the bird to fit into.
Charles had disappeared back to his home, promising to return the following week.
On Friday evening Bill Wong called on her at her cottage. He looked tired. “We’re getting nowhere. Elsie has been arrested, of course, but nothing about the murder at the manor or who killed that poor old man.”
“This factor, George Pyson,” said Agatha, “anything odd about him?”
“Highly respectable, by all accounts.”
“Married?”
“He was, but his wife died of cancer five years ago. No children. Why are you interested in him?”
“I think he’s interested in young Toni and he’s too old for her.”
“I sat in on the interviews with Toni. I would say that young lady is older than her years. Very sensible. I wouldn’t worry about her.”
“You’ve interviewed all of them at the manor house,” said Agatha. “Can you think of any one of them that might have done it?”
“I’ve thought and thought. And the more I think about it, I’m amazed that with such a mother they’ve all turned out sane. Now, the people in the village with their damned witchcraft, it’s beginning to seem more and more likely that one or several of them might have conspired to murder her.”
“I can’t see them doing that,” said Agatha.
“Why?”
“She charged them low rents. With her gone, ten to one the family or whoever they sell the estate to will jack up the rents. Where was Mrs Tamworthy brought up?”
“I don’t know. You’ll need to ask one of the family. Why?”
“Maybe it was someone out of her past.”
“If you find out anything, let me know.”
On Saturday evening Toni was walking along the street to her flat, elated at having got her driving licence, when she felt her arm seized. She swung round. Her brother’s beery face was thrust into her own. “You’re coming home, now,” he said.
“Leave me alone,” howled Toni. People scurried past them, averting their eyes. No one wanted to get involved. These days, villains were apt to sue the rescuer for assault.
Toni kicked and struggled but Terry was much stronger. A battered Land Rover came along the street and stopped abruptly. George Pyson jumped down.
“Leave her alone this minute,” he shouted at Terry.
“Piss off, you posh git,” snarled Terry. “This here’s a family matter.”
George seized Terry’s arm and twisted it up his back. Terry howled in pain.
“Who is this?” asked George.
“My brother,” gasped Toni, breaking free. “He’s trying to get me to go home and I don’t want ever to go there again.”
“Are you going to go quietly?” asked George, giving Terry’s arm a painful wrench.
“You’re breaking me arm! Yes. Let me go.” George released him and Terry ran off down the street.
Toni said in a low voice, “Thanks.” He won’t want to know me now, she thought, coming from my sort of family.
But George said, “Let’s go for a drink. I only caught glimpses of you at police headquarters when I was being grilled in one room and you in another. I’d better move the car. It’s blocking the street.” A volley of horns bore witness to this. They both climbed into the Land Rover and George drove off.
“I’ll just park in the square and we’ll go to the nearest pub and you can tell me about your driving lessons.”
“I passed today,” said Toni. “I’m still a bag of nerves.”
In the pub he asked her to tell him why she had left home and listened while Toni recounted how Agatha had come to her rescue.
“And your mother?” he asked. “Any chance of getting her into a rehab?”
“Rehabs cost a lot of money.”
“They take a few National Health patients. Her doctor could put her name down. She may have to wait but it would be better than nothing.”
“She’s hardly ever sober enough to listen to me. Maybe I’ll try when Terry’s not around.” Toni eyed him covertly, wondering whether he was coming on to her, but after she had finished her drink, he said briskly, “Right, young lady, let’s get you home.”
And that is exactly what he did, giving her a cheery goodbye as she climbed down from the Land Rover.
As she watched him drive off, her mobile phone rang. It was Agatha. “I passed my test,” said Toni.
“Great. We’ll get you some old banger. I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”
“Back to the village?” asked Toni uneasily. “No, we’re going to find out more about Phyllis Tamworthy.”
Chapter Nine
Alison had informed Agatha that her mother-inlaw had been brought up in the village of Pirdey in Lancashire. With Toni studying a route map beside her, Agatha drove northwards out of the Cotswolds.
Rain smeared the windscreen and she switched on the wipers. A blustery wind was pulling ragged grey clouds across a large sky. Out on the motorway, spray from huge lorries made driving a misery. Agatha wished Charles had not turned down her invitation to come with them. In his company she often stopped thinking about James Lacey. Also, she liked being accompanied by a man after years of battling on her own. She sometimes felt it was still an old–fashioned world. A woman on her own was often treated by hoteliers and waiters like a second-class citizen.
She had been pleased to learn that Phyllis Tamworthy had been brought up in a village. If she had been brought up in a large city, there would be little chance of anyone remembering her, thought Agatha, forgetting that anyone who remembered Phyllis would have to be pretty old. Phyllis’s maiden name had been Wright. Agatha wished it had been something more unusual.
They stopped off at a motorway restaurant to break their journey. Toni had recently read an article which stated th
at the diet of the working classes was still abysmal, consisting as it did of microwaveable meals and takeaway food. But Agatha was tucking into a large plate of greasy eggs and bacon with every sign of enjoyment.
Soon they were on their way again. Agatha slid a CD into the player and the strains of a Brahms symphony filled the car. She did not like classical music but was trying hard.
Toni had expected the village to be like Carsely but it was a grim little place stuck out on moorland. The rain had stopped but a yellow watery sunlight only enhanced the drabness of the place, which seemed to consist of one long straggling street. Agatha drew up outside a sub-post office and general stores. “Wait here,” she said to Toni. She marched in and asked an Asian woman behind the counter where she could find some old residents.
The woman, her sari a bright splash of colour in the dingy shop, volunteered the information that the elderly residents met in the community centre at the eastern end of the village in half an hour for tea.
Agatha rejoined Toni in the car. “We need to wait for half an hour. The old folk meet up at the community centre. The woman in there says it’s at the eastern end of the village.”
“What’s the eastern end?” asked Toni.
Agatha scowled horribly. Then she admitted, “Blessed if I know.” She got out and went back into the shop, returning after a few minutes to say, “It’s along on the left. We may as well wait outside until they all turn up.”
The community centre was in what had once been a villa. A pokerwork sign with the legend ‘The Heights’ swung in the wind.
“I wonder why they call it that?” mused Toni. “The countryside around here is as flat as a pancake.”
“Who cares?” snapped Agatha and Toni gave her a hurt look of surprise.
The fact was that Agatha was uncomfortable in Toni’s company, the glowing youth of the young girl making her feel ancient.
To make matters worse, when the elderly began to arrive and Agatha made to get out of the car, she stifled a groan and clutched her hip. “I’ll help you out,” said Toni.
“Leave me alone,” howled Agatha.
She rubbed her hip furiously while she watched the old folks totter up the short drive to the centre.
“Is something up with your hip?” asked Toni nervously.
“There is nothing up with me,” raged Agatha. “It was that long drive.”
“I can do some of the driving,” said Toni. “I got my licence first time off.”
“I may let you.” Toni as a novice driver might give Agatha something to feel superior about.
When they entered the community centre, a stout matron was ushering men and women—mostly women—to seats at a long table where cakes and sandwiches had been laid out.
Agatha approached her. “I am a private detective,” she said. “I am investigating the death of Phyllis Tamworthy, whose name when she was brought up in this village was Phyllis Wright.”
“I think you should wait until they have had their tea,” said the woman. “For some of them it’s the only food they get. Pensions don’t go far these days. I’m Gladys.”
“I’m Agatha and this is Toni.”
“If you and your daughter would like to sit over in the corner, I’ll ask them when they’ve settled down.”
“She’s not my…” began Agatha, but Gladys had walked away.
Agatha watched the elderly ladies. She watched the wrinkled hands, some of them trembling as they reached for sandwiches. Is this what we all must come to? she wondered sadly.
Toni covertly watched Agatha. Had she offended her in some way? She owed Agatha so much. Gratitude did weigh heavily, like a physical load.
“I’m sorry,” said Agatha suddenly. “I’m feeling a bit off-colour. I think if we find anything worthwhile here, we’ll check into a hotel somewhere.”
Toni was about to say she would not mind driving back, but stopped herself. She had a feeling that the ferociously independent Agatha Raisin wouldn’t like that suggestion.
There was very little conversation amongst the elderly. For long periods, the only sounds were the clinking of cups and the chewing of jaws.
At last Gladys strode into the centre of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “these ladies want to know if anyone remembers…who was it?”
“Phyllis Wright,” said Agatha.
There was a gentle murmuring and then a very old lady croaked out. “I ‘member her. She were at t’school same time as me.”
Another one said, “War she the fatty in Miss Gilchrist’s class?”
“Aye, that be her,” said the first woman. “Teacher’s pet. Allus sucking up to teacher and putting on airs but she warn’t nobody.”
“I don’t suppose Miss Gilchrist is still alive,” said Agatha.
“Her died…when was it?” said the first woman.
“Right after her gave Phyllis a right bollocking. Said her had cheated.”
“What did she die of?” asked Agatha.
“What’s your name?”
“Agatha.”
“I’m Joan and this here is Rose. Her died o’ a heart attack and her so young. Course she seemed old to us then but she was about thirty or so.”
“When did Phyllis leave the village?”
Joan sighed. “Good thing you’re asking us about them old days. Can’t right remember yesterday, but the old days are as clear as clear. Let me see. Her was working over at Bessop’s Factory. Sauce makers they were. Now Hugh Tamworthy, he war a brickie and he war engaged to Carrie Shufflebottom. Then he won the pools. Next thing we know, Phyllis had got her hands on him and they disappeared for a bit and came back married. The brickworks over at Rumton was going under and Hugh bought it. They took a bungalow out o’ the village in the country cos no one in the village would speak to them cos o’ Carrie.”
“Where is Carrie now?” asked Agatha.
“You’ll find her at Sun Cottage, right at the end. Go back past the post office and out that way. The last one you come to.”
Outside, Toni said, “Phyllis is beginning to sound like one copper-bottomed bitch.”
“Let’s hope this Carrie has all her marbles,” said Agatha. “Seems a shame. Those two we were talking to must be the same age as Phyllis was and yet Phyllis seemed pretty hail and hearty. Oh, God,” said Agatha passionately, “I hope I don’t end up like those poor old souls.”
Sun Cottage belied its name. It faced north and was built of red brick, still sooty from the days of coal.
“I wonder if Carrie ever married?” Agatha pushed open a rickety wooden gate and led the way through a small weedy front garden. She rang the bell. A dingy lace curtain at a window to the right of the door twitched. Then the door opened.
Carrie Shufflebottom was proof that even the tremendously obese can live to old age. She was a massive woman with a large round rosy face and faded blue eyes. Her iron-grey hair was still thick.
“What?” she demanded.
Agatha patiently explained what they were doing and what they wanted to know.
“You’d best come in,” she said, turning away, her large hips brushing against each wall of a narrow passage.
They followed her into a dark front parlour. The room was cold and sparsely furnished. Carrie sank down into a large battered armchair. Agatha and Toni sat on an equally battered sofa. A canary in a cage by the window chirped dismally and a rising wind moaned in the chimney. A grandfather clock in the corner gave a genteel cough before chiming out the hour.
“I’m not offering you tea,” said Carrie. “I’ve just had mine.” Cake crumbs were strewn across her bosom. She was wearing a man’s shirt and tracksuit bottoms and trainers.
“So you want to know if anyone from around here might have wanted to murder Phyllis?” said Carrie. Her voice was surprisingly light and pleasant and not marred by the strong local accent of the villagers they had met. “I could have murdered her myself. Hugh Tamworthy was a good man. But innocent. The minute he won that pools money, she th
rew herself at him. She made my life a misery when we were both at school, poking fun at my name. I only saw Hugh one more time after his wedding. About two years after they were married he called round here, right out of the blue. He was that upset. I hoped for one mad moment that he’d come back to me.” She gave a wry smile. “Men can be so insensitive. He came to tell me he’d fallen in love with a girl who worked in the office at the brickworks. He said he was going to ask Phyllis for a divorce. He said Phyllis didn’t want children and he’d always wanted children. The girl’s name was Susan Mason. I’m afraid I lost my temper and told him to get out. I said he’d jilted me and hurt me badly.”
“But he didn’t divorce Phyllis,” said Agatha.
“I heard later two things had happened. Phyllis was pregnant with her first child and Susan had disappeared. She left the office one night and no one saw her again. The search went on and on but they never found her. Phyllis had a hell of a temper. She probably threatened the girl. Soon afterwards, they sold the brickworks and bought another one down south somewhere.”
“Did you ever marry?” asked Toni.
“I decided to get an education. I went to university and ended up teaching at the village school until the government closed it down. Not a very adventurous life. No, I never married.”
“Are any of Susan’s family still alive?”
“There’s a younger sister over in Stoke. Wanda. She married quite well. Married an accountant. What was his name? I know. Mark Nicholson. Hand me that phone book over there.”
‘Over there’ was the floor under the table. Toni handed her the phone book and she riffled through the pages. “Here we are. This must be him. Take a note.” Agatha fished a notebook out of her handbag. “Mark Nicholson, 5, Cherry Tree Close, Stafford Road, Stoke-on-Trent.”
Toni drove Agatha in the direction of Stoke. Agatha, feeling the pain in her hip was getting worse, let her take over. To Agatha’s irritation, Toni drove easily and well. “We’d better stop somewhere and get a street map,” said Agatha. “There’s a newsagent’s.”
Toni parked neatly between two cars. Agatha scowled. She herself still needed the length of a truck to park properly.
