by M C Beaton
Toni was sitting in her flat with her friend Maggie when Agatha and Roy arrived. She thanked them for coming, struggling with her accent, which had reverted to the local speech, so that when speaking to Agatha it was her new ‘posh’ one and to Maggie, the sing-song voice of Mircester.
“The funeral is tomorrow,” said Toni. “George has been a saint. The house is all scrubbed and cleaned and my mother is putting it up for sale.”
“And he’s ever so handsome,” breathed Maggie.
She was a plump friendly girl with her black hair gelled into spikes, large chocolate-brown eyes, and a snub nose.
“You must regard him as a sort of father figure by now,” Agatha said hopefully to Toni.
“No, just as a good friend.”
“How are you coping?”
“Now I’ve got over the shock, all I feel is a sort of guilty relief. Is that terrible?”
“No, just human,” said Agatha. “Where is your mother?”
“Showing people the house. Her friend is with her. I’ll be back at the office on Tuesday afternoon. I want to start working again. Oh, Charles was very kind. He sent the most beautiful wreath.”
“I forgot about flowers. I am so sorry,” said Agatha, narrowing her small eyes and wondering whether it was Toni’s looks which had prompted the normally mean Charles to open his wallet.
She felt old as she left with Roy, after promising to attend the funeral.
Agatha tried to phone Charles but got the usual rebuff from his butler, who seemed to delight in telling her that Charles was ‘not at home’.
She did not want to subject Phil to any more danger, and Patrick, good and solid though he was, could be intimidating, as he looked like the policeman he used to be before he retired.
Agatha also felt she could no longer enlist Alison’s help. After the funeral of Toni’s brother, Agatha wrote to Fran saying that she was sure she had discovered the identity of the murderer and would Fran please get in touch to make an appointment. Agatha suggested that Fran should not communicate this news to any of the others as it might unnecessarily upset them.
Feeling lonely and depressed by the funeral, which had taken place in a cold driving rain, Agatha decided that evening to call in on Mrs Bloxby. She felt she should really break the habit of calling at the vicarage any time she felt like it, just as if the vicar’s wife did not have a life of her own. But if she phoned and the vicar answered, he would put her off because he did not like her.
Hoping the vicar would not answer the door, she made her way to the vicarage, comforting herself with the thought of the glorious Christmas dinner she meant to arrange, for the days were dark and dreary and the trouble with living in the countryside, thought Agatha, was that one was terribly aware of everything dying or settling down for a winter hibernation. In the city, with its lights and bustle, it was hard to notice the changing of the seasons.
To her relief, Mrs Bloxby answered the door. “Am I interrupting anything?” asked Agatha.
“No, come in, Mrs Raisin, and take off your wet coat. Alf has gone to a meeting over in Evesham. Would you like coffee or a sherry?”
“A sherry would be nice,” said Agatha. Sherry was the only alcoholic drink served in the vicarage.
When they were settled, Mrs Bloxby said, “You look worried.”
“I’ve just thought of something,” said Agatha. “I thought I had found out who murdered Phyllis Tamworthy and it seemed as clear as day. Now, I have doubts.”
“Tell me about it.”
So Agatha outlined all the facts that made her suspicious of Fran.
“I really don’t like the idea of you asking her to call on you,” said Mrs Bloxby. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to tell the police?”
“Do you think they’d listen to my suppositions?”
“Maybe not. But I am sure Bill Wong would.”
“He’d feel duty-bound to pass it on. Oh, well, it’ll work or it won’t.”
“Don’t drink anything when she’s around!”
“No, I won’t. I wish this case was all solved and I could get back to the more pedestrian work of the agency. Still, I’ve got Christmas to look forward to.”
Mrs Bloxby sighed. “It should be a happy festival, but no one these days looks forward to Christmas. So many people going bankrupt with those wretched shop credit cards. They hand them out to people who can’t possibly afford the sums they run up.” She clasped her hands nervously. “Mrs Raisin, please do not build up too many expectations of Christmas.”
“It’ll be fun,” said Agatha. “Just you wait and see.”
Agatha returned to her cottage, deciding to go through her notes on the case. She always wrote up each of her cases and put them on disk in the fond hope that after she was dead, someone would write a book from them.
She found a missing capital A in the middle of a sentence and decided to add it. But instead of pressing the cap key, by mistake she pressed the control button, capital A, and, for some mad reason, delete. She watched in horror as all her notes disappeared, leaving her with a blank page. In the panic induced in someone who suffered from techno fear, she scrolled through the computer in a desperate bid to find the missing file. The phone rang. Agatha switched off her computer and went to answer it. There was nothing but silence at the other end and then the sound of a receiver being replaced. I hope that wasn’t mad Jimmy, thought Agatha uneasily. She phoned Roy and asked for help with her computer.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Just press the undo button at the top of the page. You didn’t switch off the computer, did you?”
“Yes. Does that make a difference?”
“I don’t think you’re going to find that file. Sorry.”
Agatha felt dismally it was a bad omen.
Chapter Eleven
Agatha checked the post in increasing frustration over the following days and had almost given up on Fran, when she received a phone call at the office.
It was Fran. She said, “I will see you privately to protect the family from your imaginings. I do not want to see you at the office. Where do you live? I will call on you this evening.”
Agatha gave her the address and directions. They settled on the time of eight o’clock.
Plunging herself into the detective agency’s cases, glad to see that Toni was once more on top form and Phil was looking his usual healthy self, Agatha tried to put the evening’s appointment out of her head.
As eight o’clock approached, Agatha began to feel nervous. The phone rang, but it was Mrs Bloxby. “I can’t talk long,” said Agatha. “I’m expecting Fran.”
“Oh, Mrs Raisin, do be careful.”
“Don’t tell anyone, mind. I have a feeling I am about to make a fool of myself.”
“Do one thing for me. When you let her in, do not shut the front door entirely.”
“Why?”
“You might want to escape quickly.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Please! Do it for me!”
“All right. I promise. Now, I’d better hang up. She’ll be here any minute.”
Mrs Bloxby replaced the receiver and sat looking at it. Mrs Raisin may never speak to me again, she thought. But this is something I feel I must do.
She picked up the receiver again, dialled Mircester police headquarters and asked to speak to Bill Wong.
By ten past eight, Agatha was beginning to wonder whether Fran had changed her mind. By half past eight, she was sure of it. At twenty to nine the doorbell rang. Fran stood on the step, unfurling a large golf umbrella.
“Come in,” said Agatha. “Let me take your coat.”
Agatha left her front door very slightly ajar. “I have only come to stop you from troubling the family further,” said Fran.
Agatha took her coat and umbrella for her. “Sit down for a moment and I’ll tell you what is troubling me,” said Agatha. In Agatha’s cosy sitting room with a log fire blazing on the hearth, Fran sat on the edge of an armchair.
&
nbsp; Looking at her, Agatha felt sure that such a weak-looking woman with her tightly curled hair and indeterminate features could not be capable of murder. But she surreptitiously switched on a tiny powerful tape recorder in her open handbag under the pretext of finding her cigarettes and decided to plunge in anyway. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the murder of your mother,” said Agatha.
“Did you bring me down here to tell me that?” asked Fran. “We all think about nothing else. I could do with a drink.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Gin and tonic.”
Agatha, who longed for a drink herself, decided it would be safer not to have anything that Fran might be able to poison. She sliced lemon, dropped ice in a glass, put in a strong measure of gin and added tonic.
“There you are,” said Agatha. “Now, where was I?”
Fran stared at her coldly over her glass. “You were about to explain the reason for my visit. You don’t seem to have told the others about asking me to come here.”
“I didn’t tell anyone…yet,” lied Agatha. “So what’s the reason?”
“Well,” said Agatha, “it’s just that I think you murdered your mother.”
“You’re mad! What is it, dear? The menopause? Or did you forget to take your pills today?”
“Why wouldn’t you let Charles look at your mother after she had been taken up to her bedroom? You said she was asleep, but if you had taken a good look at her, you surely would have seen from her colouring that there was something seriously wrong with her. I think your mother had hemlock root in her pocket and with her last bit of strength she took it out and clutched it. I think she knew what had happened to her. You cold-bloodedly went away and waited for her to die.”
“What absolute tosh. How on earth could anyone prove that?”
Agatha was struck with one of her rare intuitive flashes of insight. “The police have not really been looking closely at you, Fran. You’re not really a countrywoman. You must have been out before the murder, searching for hemlock. Someone must have seen you. I bet the police did not search your house thoroughly. I bet you’ve got a little hemlock factory there, just in case you needed to get rid of anyone else. You’d have cleaned the place up after your mother’s murder, but I bet once the coast was clear you went back to your old tricks. No, I haven’t told anyone…yet. But as soon as you leave, I’m calling the police. You attacked me viciously when I said I was sure your mother’s death was murder.” There was a brief glitter of panic in Fran’s eyes. She took a strong pull of her drink. Then she said, “lf that’s all the rubbish you’ve got to say, I’m leaving. But I would like to use your toilet first. The police can search until doomsday, but they won’t find anything because I had nothing to do with it.”
“Upstairs, on the left,” said Agatha, feeling suddenly depressed. She must have imagined seeing that flash of panic.
Fran picked up her handbag and went up the stairs. Agatha waited a minute and then followed, her feet making no sound on the thickcarpeted stairs. The bathroom door did not have a lock, because Charles on one of his visits had broken it and Agatha had not yet had it repaired. She pushed the bathroom door open a crack. Fran had a syringe in her hand and was inserting the contents into a tube of toothpaste. Agatha retreated to the sitting room, her heart beating hard. When Fran eventually returned, Agatha said, “And how were you planning to explain how you poisoned me?”
Fran turned a muddy colour.
“I followed you upstairs. You put something in my toothpaste. I’m calling the police,” said Agatha.
Fran flew at Agatha, clawing at her neck. She seemed to have amazing strength. Agatha kicked and struggled, tearing at the hands around her neck.
Then suddenly she was free, and Bill Wong, who had rushed in, forced Fran down on to the carpet and handcuffed her.
Fran lay still and silent. Bill phoned headquarters. He turned to Agatha. “You’ve put your life at risk again. What happened?”
Agatha explained. She finished by saying, “I don’t know what you’ll find in that toothpaste, but I bet it’s lethal.”
“It’s a damn good thing Mrs Bloxby phoned me.” Agatha sank down on the sofa, her legs weak.
Then she got up again. “I need a pee.”
“Then go in the garden or a neighbour’s house,” said Bill. “You are not to go near your bathroom until a forensic team have taken everything out of it.”
Agatha retreated to the garden. It was bucketing with rain and she felt sick and miserable. By the time she returned, Bill had lifted Fran up and thrust her into a chair.
“I had to do it,” said Fran suddenly. “You must see that. After Father died, she was awful. She said she never wanted to have us anyway and started tightening the purse strings. It’s her fault my daughter is a lesbian. Mother made our lives hell. All that money and she was not going to leave us anything. She had to be stopped”
“What about poor old Fred Instick?” asked Agatha.
“I poisoned one of those bottles in the hope that one of the village people would steal it. Then it would look as if someone outside the family had it in for all of us. It was a justified crime. Fred was old, anyway.”
“Did any of the others know you murdered your mother?” asked Agatha.
“Them? Rabbits, all of them. I suggested it and they all bleated, “Don’t even think about it.” Fools. She had made them suffer and yet they wouldn’t do anything about it. Do you know why she kept having children? Father wanted to leave her. Every time he made a move, she’d contrive to get pregnant again. Wouldn’t surprise me if at least one of us is a bastard.”
They could hear the sound of approaching sirens. Fran lapsed into glassy-eyed silence. Fran was formally charged and led away while Agatha braced herself for a long night of questioning.
Bill Wong was waylaid the following day by Detective Sergeant Collins.
Agatha, in a rare burst of generosity because Bill had saved her, had credited him with helping her solve the mystery. “Getting kudos all round,” sneered Collins. “I heard that Raisin woman’s tape. Talk about gifted amateurs. You had sod all to do with it. I’m getting a transfer to the Met.”
“Don’t invite me to your farewell party,” said Bill over his shoulder as he walked off. He had tried to say that discovering the murderer had been all Agatha’s work, but his bosses, ever mindful of the press, preferred to give him the credit. Also they felt that Agatha’s mad guesswork would not be believed. They made it look as if Bill had arrived at the solution by methodical police work, particularly as a small bottle of distilled hemlock had been found in Fran’s kitchen, marked ‘Cough Syrup’.
Sir Charles Fraith learned about the solving of the murder on television and deeply regretted abandoning Agatha to go off chasing after Sasha, the psychiatrist’s carer.
He decided that for once it might be a good idea to give Agatha a really good Christmas present. He phoned Roy Silver. After listening to Roy excitedly chattering on about the murder case and saying that although Bill Wong got the credit, he was sure it was all Agatha’s doing, Charles asked him if he had any idea what Agatha might like for Christmas.
After various suggestions such as a new watch, an evening gown, lingerie, Charles said, “Look, I’ll take a trip up to London and maybe we can go round the shops together.”
“I was supposed to be out at a photo shoot this afternoon,” said Roy, “but it’s been cancelled, so I was going to sneak the afternoon off.”
“Where do you live?”
Roy gave Charles an address in Fulham. “I’ll set off now and pick you up.”
But seeing things in the shops did not seem to make a choice easier. They decided to go to a bar in Jermyn Street and think it over.
“I’m intimidated by this famous dinner of hers,” said Charles. “She wants it to be so perfect. Agatha’s going to such a lot of expense—new oven, chef, caterers. She’ll probably spend a fortune on decorations. She even thinks, I’m sure, that in the middle of global wa
rming, it’ll snow.”
“That’s it!” screeched Roy. “Brilliant!”
“What’s brilliant?”
“We’ll rent a snow machine, a real movie one. She plans to have tables from the dining room through to the sitting room. She’ll be at the head of the table in the dining room. I’ll nip out into the road just as the turkey is being brought in. You can blow a whistle,” said Roy, jiggling up and down in his seat with excitement. “You say, “Look out of the window,” and, bam, I’ll switch on the machine.”
“You mean give her a white Christmas?”
“Exactly. We’ll share the cost.”
“She’ll think we’re awfully mean when we arrive without presents. Oh, damn, I’ve just remembered something. We needn’t have bothered”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got my invitation already and it says, “No Presents.” What a waste of a day.”
Roy stared at Charles, an unusually militant gleam in his eye. “It doesn’t make any difference. She’s our friend. I drop in at weekends, you use her cottage like a hotel, so it’s payback time. Don’t be so mean. She’s going to have snow.”
“Oh, very well,” said Charles. “It can’t go wrong, can it!”
“It’ll be perfect.”
Alison called on Agatha at her office that afternoon, just as Agatha was thinking of closing up for the day.
“They are all devastated at the news about Fran,” she said. “Bert’s beginning to come round. I pointed out to him that if that clever detective hadn’t solved it, we’d all be under suspicion until the end of our days.”
Agatha Raisin could not allow that to pass. “I let Bill take the credit,” she said, “but it was me.”
“How did you suddenly decide it was Fran?”
Agatha told her.
“And it’s bound to come out in court that it was me,” said Agatha, “because they need to produce that toothpaste as evidence, among other things.”
“Haven’t you heard? There isn’t going to be a court case.”
“Why?”
