by M C Beaton
“Finding out where she went. May I also speak to your housekeeper?”
“She resigned.”
“Did she, now. Where does she live?”
“Wait a minute and I’ll find her address.” Agatha waited impatiently. At last he came back on the line. “Here it is. Bertha Jones, 201A Mill Hill East High Street.”
* * *
I must stop wearing such high heels, thought Agatha, as she strode along the High Street an hour later, feeling her ankles beginning to swell in the heat. She located the housekeeper’s address, which was in a basement flat under a betting shop.
“Bertha Jones?” she demanded, as a plump, grey-haired woman answered the door.
“I ain’t talking to no press,” she said, and began to close the door.
Agatha shoved her foot in it. “I’m not the press. I am representing Sir Bryce Teller. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she shouted.
“I got nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Yes, you have. Walking out on your boss when he needed you most.”
The door opened again. “It was my Bert, my husband,” said Bertha. “He made me leave. ‘You’ll be next,’ he kept saying.”
“Well, he was wrong. If you look in this morning’s newspapers, you’ll find that Sir Bryce took sleeping pills and so didn’t hear a thing.”
“You’d better come in. I’m that shook up.”
Agatha followed her into a living room which was chilly and damp as if summer had shunned it. It was neat and comfortably furnished, though. “What I really want to know,” said Agatha, “is what Lady Teller was like.”
“I don’t like to speak ill of my employers,” said Bertha primly.
“They’re not your employers anymore and you damned poor Sir Bryce by walking out on him. Come on. Let’s have it. Warts and all.”
“Sit down,” said Bertha, collapsing into an armchair. “She was a slut, that’s what. Threw her dirty clothes on the floor for me to pick up and launder. Never gave me nothing for Christmas except insults.”
“Do you know if she was having an affair?”
“I don’t. But she went out on her own a lot and didn’t come back till the small hours. You make me feel that ashamed. I wish I’d never left.”
“Want your job back?”
“I would. I told Bert he’d made me go and I’d never forgive him.”
“Got a phone?”
“Over by the window.”
Agatha phoned Bryce and said, “I am sending you your housekeeper.”
“Well, I’m not employing her again.”
“Yes, you are,” said Agatha. “I’ve got to have something to tell the press. Ashamed housekeeper returned to the best boss she ever had. ‘I am that ashamed,’ she said yesterday.”
“Oh, all right.”
Agatha rang off and turned to Bertha. “Get your things. It’s too hot. I’m damned if I’ll getting on that train to King’s Cross again. We’ll take a cab.”
* * *
Having deposited Bertha and ordered a delivery from Selfridges, Agatha returned to the office and began to phone round the newspapers about the return of Bertha, finishing with “‘Mrs. Teller was a slut,’ she sobbed.”
“Now, for that garage. Go home, Freda.”
“I’ll stay on if you like.”
“No, I’ll see you in the morning. You look tired.” Agatha opened the petty cash and fished out some notes. “Here. It’s too hot for the tube. Take a cab.”
Ignoring Freda’s gratitude, Agatha said good-bye and went downstairs.
* * *
She was in luck at the garage. Peter Black had just come in for a job. At first, he curtly told Agatha that he did not discuss clients, but then she let her handbag fall open to reveal it was stuffed with notes. “Let’s go for a drink,” she said. “What about the Ritz?”
Peter Black was tall and rangy, with a foxy face and thick brown hair. He was never to know the courage Agatha had to sum up to walk into the bar of the Ritz without any apparent qualm. He ordered whisky and soda and Agatha collected a gin and tonic for herself and guided them to a small table.
“I’ll pay you for information,” she said. “I represent Sir Bryce Teller. So, where did Lady Teller go?”
“The Pink Lady.”
“What’s that?”
“A club in Charlotte Street.”
Agatha thought quickly. The colour pink was often a favourite of homosexuals. “A lesbian club, by any chance?”
“Yeah. You going to give me the money or what?”
“Not yet. So, did she go there on the night of her murder?”
“Yes. I dropped her off, but she never rung for me, see? Must ha’ got a cab.”
“So, let’s say she was a lesbian. Ever see her with a woman?”
“Naw. She’d take the limo there but never got me to pick her up. I think she switched both ways. Drunk one night and come on to me. Didn’t bite. I like Sir Bryce Teller. Real gent. Sorry for him. Money?”
“Another minute. Did the police interview you?”
“Naw.”
Agatha handed over a bundle of notes and sent him on his way.
She looked dreamily about her. Here she was. In the Ritz! Blimey.
Agatha became aware that a tall, handsome man at the next table was smiling at her. He was about six feet tall with thick black hair and intense blue eyes. She smiled cautiously back.
He came over to her table and sat down. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing on her own?” he asked.
“I am a public relations executive,” said Agatha proudly. “I have just been dealing with some business.”
“I’m Colin Fitzwilliam. Hullo.”
“And what do you do?” asked Agatha, feeling she had walked through the looking glass into this strange world where it seemed natural to chat in the Ritz with a handsome man with an Etonian accent.
“I’m in the Household Cavalry. Off-duty. Look, why don’t we get together later? Have a drink and chat? I feel like a night out.”
“All right,” said Agatha cautiously. “Where?”
“What about Jules Bar in Jermyn Street at eight o’clock?”
Agatha grinned. “See you there.”
She dreamily watched as he was leaving. A porter waylaid him and said something. He looked startled, glanced back at Agatha, and then hurriedly left.
* * *
When she returned to her office, Freda was still there. “Why haven’t you gone home?” asked Agatha.
“I thought I would wait for you because just as I was leaving, that big parcel arrived. You’ve got a delivery from Selfridges. And you said something about a press conference tomorrow and I wondered if you wanted me to go with you?”
“Yes. Fine. Now, off you go!”
After she had left, Agatha unwrapped the large package. It contained an airbed, duvet, pillows, and bed linen. She hauled them into a small room at the back of the office where she had placed two suitcases containing all her belongings from Acton. It never dawned on Agatha that Bryce and his business manager expected her to spend lavishly with the funds at her disposal and that would include a flat in central London. She pumped up the airbed, arranged the bed linens. With Agatha, the habits of thriftiness died hard. Then she checked Freda’s computer. All the press were invited to a conference at Bryce’s at ten-thirty in the morning. Agatha did not want them round at her office until she had a full staff.
A little voice of caution was telling her not to be a fool and to phone Jules Bar at eight and say she could not make it. She had allowed herself to be picked up. But Agatha was easily seduced by what she considered as posh.
So, at eight o’ clock on the dot, she entered Jules Bar, found a table, and sat nervously waiting … and waiting.
Over in his home in Kensington, Colin cursed himself for having nearly forgotten his wife’s dinner party. That little girl would be waiting in Jules Bar. Oh, well. Hard luck.
* * *
Agatha left the bar at eight-thirty feeling very
young and vulnerable. She bought herself a sandwich and coffee before returning to the office and preparing for bed. She had found, to her relief, that the offices boasted a shower as well as a toilet. She fished two towels and a bar of soap out of one of her suitcases, showered, and finally rolled into bed. The airbed let out a sound like a loud fart. Agatha hoped the gods were not pronouncing judgement on one overambitious girl and then fell asleep.
II
The room in Wigmore Street set aside for the press conference was full to overflowing. Bertha sat nervously in an armchair facing them, her plump face lit up by the lights from the television cameras.
Bertha tried to speak and then burst into tears. Agatha handed her a box of tissues and hissed, “Pull yourself together!”
Bertha gulped and said in a weak voice, “I’m that ashamed. How I could believe that a fine man like my boss could murder anyone? He’s forgiven me, and God bless him.”
“What was your opinion of the late Lady Teller?” asked a reporter.
Bertha popped on her glasses and peered down at a piece of paper on which Agatha had written out what she must say.
“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,” she said. “But she was something cruel. Always bitching and complaining and treating my boss like dirt. Hardly ever home in the evenings.”
Agatha immediately regretted writing that bit about “treating my boss like dirt.” Talk about broadcasting a motive!
Time to make the vultures really sit up and take notice.
“According to a reliable source,” she said, “Lady Teller frequented a lesbian club. But came on to men as well as women.”
“Which club?” shouted several voices.
“I will let you know when I have completed my enquiries,” said Agatha.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving that to the police?” demanded a woman reporter.
“Why?” demanded Agatha. “So far, they have tunnel vision. I have not. That will be all, ladies and gentlemen.”
Ignoring further questions, she ushered Bertha from the room, followed by Freda, and then escaped into the downstairs toilet and burst into tears. Agatha was beginning to feel the strain. Underneath was the sensitive girl trying to match up to the hard exterior. She washed her face and carefully made up her face.
Freda was waiting anxiously outside with the business manager, George South.
“I’ve been to your office, Agatha,” he said. “We cannot go on holding press conferences here. I found a makeshift bed in one of the rooms. Why haven’t you got a flat?”
“I was waiting until I earned enough to justify renting one near the office,” said Agatha.
“You could easily have drawn on the funds at your disposal. Anyway, here’s the key to a flat in a property Bryce owns in Chelsea. I suggest you move there as quickly as possible.”
Agatha stammered out her thanks and then asked, “May I see Bryce?”
“He is in hospital for a checkup.”
“What’s up with him?”
“That is for him to tell you.”
In New Scotland Yard, right after the midday news had broadcasted the press conference, Chief Superintendent Mike Topping summoned Chief Detective Inspector Jim Macdonald and Detective Sergeant Fred Baxter.
“What the hell have you two been playing at?” he roared. “You’re letting a slip of a girl no one’s ever heard of before run rings round you.”
Macdonald was a surly Scot. “It seemed a straightforward case,” he said. “We’re damn sure the husband did it.”
“Get over to that Raisin girl’s office and grill her. For a start, who is this source and what’s the name of this damned club?”
* * *
As Freda and Agatha finished lunch, Freda said, “I have a feeling the police will be waiting for you at the office, Agatha.”
“Why?”
“That conference will have been screened on the midday news. They’ll have a lot of questions for you.”
Agatha clutched her hair. “I never thought of that. I’d like to get to that club this evening first.”
“It might be a good time to look at your new flat,” said Freda.
“Good idea. I hope it’s furnished.”
* * *
The flat was in a block in Sloane Square. The porter was expecting Agatha and told her the flat was on the second floor. They took the lift up. Agatha inserted the keys in the two locks and swung the door open.
The thickly carpeted narrow passage had rooms off it to the right and left. Agatha wandered through them in a daze. There was a sitting room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, three bedrooms, and a toilet near the door for guests. It was fully furnished and fully equipped. Freda burst out laughing as Agatha executed three cartwheels down the corridor.
“I just hope all this doesn’t fade like fairy gold,” said Agatha. “Where do you live, Freda? I’ve forgotten.”
“Out at Edgeware.”
“Rented?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you move in here? Keep your own flat on in case you can’t bear living with me. If it works out, you can live here rent free.”
She then ignored Freda’s stammered thanks and said, “I daren’t go back to the office to get clothes for tonight. I’d better hit the thrift shops and hope they’ve something glamorous.”
“Agatha, George is puzzled at your thrift. Go to Bond Street and buy some Armani or something.”
“Maybe.”
At ten o’ clock that summer evening, Agatha paid off a cab in front of the Pink Lady. Two powerful-looking female bouncers were guarding the door. They looked Agatha up and down. She was wearing a very short, very low-cut gold spangled dress and high-heeled gold leather strapped sandals. She had shopped at a little boutique in Notting Hill, balking at the idea of wasting money. The one big expense was the shoulder-length blond wig on her head.
“Are you a member?” asked one of the bouncers.
“No, but I’d like to join,” said Agatha.
“Fifty pounds, and pay at the desk inside.”
They opened the door and ushered Agatha in. The club was in a basement. Agatha paid for her membership and walked down the stairs. Eyes turned in her direction. Women were dancing with women. Most of them looked glamorous. Dear me, thought Agatha cynically. Homosexual men looked after their appearances and were often handsome. Does being heterosexual mean being frumpy? Agatha went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. “My friend, Nigella, the one that was murdered, told me about this place,” said Agatha. “Have one yourself.”
“Thanks,” said the woman behind the bar. She looked as tough as the bouncers.
Agatha began to hope no one would recognise her from the television news and was glad she was wearing a wig.
“Nigella was frightfully keen on someone. She here tonight?”
“Hetty Clarkson was her latest squeeze. Over there in the white dress.”
Agatha twisted round on her bar stool. Hetty was tall and slim with long dark hair. Agatha thought she might be in her thirties. She stared at Agatha, who flashed her a radiant smile.
Hetty said something to her companion and then rose and joined Agatha at the bar. A revolving crystal ball on the ceiling sent sparks of light shining from Agatha’s dress.
“Drink?” offered Agatha.
“I’ll have a daiquiri.”
Agatha ordered it but decided to nurse her gin and tonic. “New in town, are you?” asked Hetty.
Agatha reverted to her old Birmingham accent. “Not long arrived from Birmingham. It’s all so glamorous.”
“Which clubs did you go to in Birmingham?” Hetty asked.
“Didn’t,” said Agatha. “Too scared. I lived with mum and dad, see? That’s why I moved here.”
The music swung into “Strangers in the Night.” “Dance?” asked Hetty.
“In a mo,’” said Agatha.
“So, how did you hear about this club?”
“Advertisement in Time Out,” said Agatha, hoping desperat
ely that the club had advertised in the magazine.
“I’m Hetty Clarkson. “What’s your name?”
“Agatha Demer,” said Agatha, borrowing Freda’s second name.
To her horror, the woman behind the bar said to Hetty, “She’s a friend of Nigella’s.”
Hetty had black eyes, the sort of eyes that do not reflect the owner’s thoughts. “My, my,” she said, “and how did a little Brummie girl like you meet Nigella?”
Fear lent Agatha’s imagination wings. “It was one of her husband’s charity parties. I had an evening job as a waitress. Nigella and I got talking and she was so sympathetic and, after the party, she asked me to go to a bar with her for a drink. We ended up spending the night together. It was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me.”
“And the bitch never said a word to me,” hissed Hetty. “Said I was her one and only. Mind you, I found out that was a load of bollocks.”
“Are you sure?” asked Agatha, hoping the music would never stop because it was covering any noise that might be coming from the large tape recorder in her bag. “She was ever so sweet. A real lady.”
Hetty seemed to relax. “You are a little innocent, aren’t you?” She put her hand on Agatha’s knee. Agatha fought down a desire to run away.
“Now, we dance,” said Hetty.
But to Agatha’s relief, the smoochy music stopped and The Village People began to belt
out “Y.M.C.A.” So Agatha was able to bop, sway, and dance a foot away from Hetty.
Hetty eyed up that young body and those long, long legs. When the dance was over, she said, “Too noisy here. Let’s go back to my place.”
Agatha hesitated only a moment. “Okay.”
* * *
In an unmarked car outside the Pink Lady, detectives Macdonald and Baxter wondered what to do next. The bouncers had told them that they could not enter without a warrant. “We’ve been round three les clubs already,” moaned Macdonald.
“Here come a couple of them,” said Clarkson. “Hey, that blonde. Give me that photo of the Raisin girl.”
“Not good. We shot it off the telly.”
“I swear that’s her in a blonde wig. Let’s get her.”
“No,” said Clarkson. “Let’s follow and see what the bitch is up to now.”
