by M C Beaton
* * *
The taxi bearing Agatha and Hetty stopped at a block of flats in Victoria. Hetty led the way into a spacious flat decorated in the minimalist style with everything in black-and-white except for two large rubber plants in the sitting room and a large abstract painting on one wall.
Agatha had suffered a tongue down her throat in the cab. Her knowledge of sex was pretty limited, Jimmy Raisin belonging to the fumble, fumble, and pass out school unless sober, when it was wham, bang, snore. What did lesbians do? Maybe with any luck, just kiss and cuddle.
“I’m going to watch telly in the lounge,” said Hetty. “The kitchen’s on the right. Fix me a brandy, there’s a darling. The bottle’s on the counter.”
I thought she would have a bar in her sitting room. And to think, I was told that “lounge” was common. Wonder where her money comes from. With all this swirling in her head, Agatha reached for the brandy bottle and then stopped short. Lying on the counter was a round of cheese and beside it, a cheese cutter, a thin wire with two wooden handles.
“What’s keeping you?” called Hetty.
“Can’t find the glasses.”
“Bring the bottle. The glasses are in here.”
Agatha froze on the threshold. The room was dominated by a large television set, and, there on the screen was herself, facing the press.
Hetty bounded from the couch and snatched the wig from Agatha’s head. Then she slapped her across the face. “Get out! You dirty little sneak!” she yelled.
Agatha dropped the brandy on the floor and fled. She rushed down the stairs and was nearly at the bottom when she was met by the porter. “It’s something to do with you, miss,” he said, “Two men tried to get in, saying they were police. I asked them if they had a warrant and when they said no, I asked them to wait outside. Actually, they don’t need a warrant to get in and knock on the door, but they said to call them when you were leaving. They wanted to go up to Mrs. Clarkson’s apartment. There is a back way out of here.” He discreetly held out his hand. Agatha stuffed notes from her bag into it.
“Show me,” said Agatha.
He led her along a corridor and out into a yard filled with garbage bins. He took out a ring of keys and unlocked a high back gate. Agatha found herself out in a side road and by some miracle, a cab with its light on came cruising along. She hailed it and gave directions to her new flat. Agatha knew she should not avoid the police, but the days of her upbringing had made her terrified of them. Her father had been arrested many times for drunk and disorderly and her mother for shoplifting.
Before going to sleep, she phoned the Associated Press and dictated a statement that a Mrs. Hetty Clarkson had been the last person to see Lady Teller alive after leaving the Pink Lady club with her. It would be too late for the morning papers but radio and television would broadcast it.
* * *
In the morning, she pulled the clean clothes she had worn the day before out of the washer dryer and put them on. The soles of her feet throbbed, the result of wearing high heels the previous evening.
Freda came into the kitchen while Agatha was drinking coffee. Agatha thanked her for stocking up on groceries and told her to take the money out of the petty cash in the office and then wearily told her of her adventures.
“You must go straight to the police!” exclaimed Freda.
“Not yet. I think I’ll go round to Bryce and tell him.”
“If the police call at the office, what will I tell them?”
“Oh, tell them where I am. I might need Bryce to find me a lawyer. They might try to charge me with withholding evidence or something like that.”
* * *
What a summer! When Agatha left it was still early in the morning but the sun was already very hot. She hailed a taxi and leaned back in the seat, feeling tired and nervous and again, completely out of her depth. It had all happened so quickly. It seemed as if one minute she was dogsbody, Agatha Raisin, and the next with her own company and in the middle of a murder investigation. At Wigmore Street, she paid off the cab. Agatha’s thrift did not run to economising on cabs in a hot summer.
Bliss answered the door and said that the master was in the hospital for tests. “What is really up with him?” demanded Agatha.
“He won’t say,” said Bliss. “Mrs. Jones is out at the moment. I would like a word with you. We could have a coffee in the kitchen.”
Seated over mugs of coffee, Bliss began. “It was kind of you to get Mrs. Jones her job back, but that could be a mistake. She could be insolent and the boss was thinking of firing her, but Lady Teller always defended Bertha.”
“But Bertha trashed her at the press conference! And Bertha seems so genuine and motherly.”
“I think that’s one big act. Also, she had lost her protector. No need to be nice about her. There’s another thing. Lady Teller lost a diamond brooch and the police were called. They found it in Bertha’s room but Lady Teller said she had forgotten she had given it to Bertha.”
Agatha bearlike eyes stared at his face. “Blackmail,” she said. “Bertha knew all about Nigella being a lesbian, and she may have known all about her lovers.”
They both heard a key turning in the front door. “She’s back,” said Bliss. “I’ve got to get the newspapers for the boss.”
Agatha remembered the tape recorder was still in her bag. She hurried through to the sitting room, switched it on, and put it behind the sofa. Bertha came in with two heavy shopping bags and headed for the kitchen. “Morning,” she said. “Get you a coffee?”
“I’ve just had one,” said Agatha. “Why don’t you get one yourself and join me?”
“Wouldn’t mind taking the weight off me feet, duckie. The heat’s right crool.”
Agatha waited nervously. She had always prided herself on her intuition, her ability to sum people up. How on earth had she not seen through Bertha’s act? Or maybe Bliss was the guilty one and dishing the dirt on the housekeeper as a smoke screen.
At last Bertha returned bearing a tray with coffee and cakes. She sank down in an armchair opposite Agatha. “That’s better. You found out anything else?”
“I went to the Pink Lady and met Hetty Clarkson.”
“I know that trollop. My lady sneaked her back here one night when Sir Bryce was away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Told you. Loyalty is the thing.”
Agatha took a deep breath. Why not just plunge in? “I happen to know you were blackmailing Lady Teller,” she said.
“Who told you that?”
“No one. An educated guess. I am going round to New Scotland Yard and tell them of my suspicions and they will dig and dig until they get to the truth.”
“You are a silly little girl,” said Bertha. “You can smear my name all you like. I’ve got nothing to hide. You’ve outstayed your welcome. Push off. I got an alibi. I was with me sister in Dorset.”
Agatha got to her feet. No chance of retrieving her tape recorder. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” she said.
She walked to the door of the sitting room. Agatha realised a strap of her sandals was coming loose and bent down to fix it. The coffee jug which had been about to smash down on her head struck her on the shoulder instead.
Agatha screamed, “Help!” at the top of her voice as she turned round to grapple with the housekeeper. That was her mistake. This time the coffeepot struck her full on the forehead. She collapsed, unconscious, on the floor.
* * *
Outside, Chief Detective Inspector Jim Macdonald was raising his hand to ring the bell.
He paused. “I heard someone scream.” Behind him crowded the press.
Bliss appeared behind him with a pile of newspapers. “Open the door,” ordered Macdonald.
Bliss and Macdonald rushed in to where Agatha was lying on the floor. Macdonald felt for a pulse. “She’ll live. What’s going on here? Bliss, get an ambulance, quick.”
Bertha appeared, stuffing something in her apron po
cket. “I was protecting meself,” she said. “She went mad and attacked me. I had to hit her with the coffeepot.”
Agatha’s eyes fluttered open. Bliss bent down and put and ice-cold compress on her forehead. “The tape recorder,” she whispered. “Behind the sofa.”
“What’s she saying?” shouted Bertha. “All lies. How can you believe a stupid girl like that?”
“Miss Raisin says there’s a tape recorder hidden behind the sofa,” said Bliss.
Bertha let out a squawk and made a run for the front door but was borne back by the press, who had decided to follow the police in.
Detective Sergeant Fred seized her and put her in handcuffs.
The ambulance arrived as Bliss was helping Agatha to sit up. “No,” said Agatha to the paramedics. “I must hear what was on that tape.”
It was switched on. The detectives listened grimly to Agatha’s accusations. Then there was a long silence after she had been hit on the head. Just as they had decided there was nothing more, they heard Bertha’s voice again. “Got a nice bit of cheese wire for you, duckie. I’ll hide your body in my room until I decide where to dump you. Pin it on the boss somehow.” Then came the noises of Macdonald and Fred bursting in.
Cameras clicked as Bertha was charged with the attempted murder of Agatha Raisin and Agatha was put on a stretcher and borne off to hospital.
* * *
Later that day, Macdonald and Baxter were summoned to the office of Chief Superintendent Baxter.
“Bertha Jones has finally admitted to murdering Lady Teller,” said Macdonald. “We are waiting until Agatha Raisin is fully recovered and we will charge her with impeding a police investigation and perverting the course of justice.”
“You idiots! She’s the heroine of the day. The press office will issue a statement expressing their gratitude. Have you realised if Sir Bryce Teller had not had such a high standing and a good lawyer, you would have charged him? On what? We’ll slant the press statement to take most of the credit, which you pair don’t deserve. This Bertha was supposed to be in Dorset. Didn’t you check her alibi?”
“Yes,” said Macdonald. “But her sister swore she was there all the time. Bertha’s cracked. She said Lady Teller was very drunk the evening before and she had kept a couple of Bertha’s blackmailing notes and was going to show them to her husband who had been complaining about her extravagance. Lady Teller said she would be fired. Bertha claimed that she had kept all the money and jewellery and would give it all back when she returned from Dorset so Lady Teller agreed to wait. So Bertha bought another cheese wire, planning to pin the murder on the husband. She phoned her sister and got her to agree to say she was with her the whole time. She waited across the road until she saw Lady Teller returning, let herself in, and killed her. So we’ve wrapped up the case.”
“You mean, Agatha Raisin’s wrapped it up. Get out of here!”
“I hate that Raisin girl,” muttered Macdonald in the corridor outside, not knowing then that he was only echoing what in later years a lot of detectives and police officers would feel as they wondered how Agatha Raisin could solve cases by apparently blundering about like some demented wasp.
* * *
Agatha was told later that day by a neurosurgeon that she had, luckily, a very hard head and she was to be allowed visitors. Agatha had been interviewed all that morning by the police but the surgeon did not classify them as visitors, only as some sort of necessary evil. The first was Freda, bearing a bunch of grapes.
“So exciting,” she said. “George South said you were obviously not ready to hire staff so he’s hired a couple of PR assistants for you. Some firms are already showing interest.”
Agatha suddenly felt young and weak and lost. How could she cope with running a Mayfair PR company?
She was on the verge of tears when Jill Butterfrick sailed into the room behind a large bouquet of roses. “Darling, Agatha,” she cooed. “Quite the heroine! I have great news for you. You are to come back to us as our top PR.”
Agatha could feel somewhere inside her a healthy glow of rage. She remembered all the bullying. Loudly and clearly, Agatha said, “As we used to say back at the buildings, take a hike.”
“What did you say?” Jill looked around the room as if hoping someone else had said that.
“Sod off, you dreary cow!” roared Agatha.
Jill flushed scarlet. “Why, you cheeky bitch. I’ll ruin you.”
She grabbed her roses and stormed off.
When she had gone, Agatha grinned and said, “I enjoyed that. I’m a bit tired, Freda. I have had such a long morning giving statements to the police.”
“I’ll get back to the office,” said Freda.
“Wait a bit. I thought Bryce would call.”
Freda hesitated and then said, “It’s bad news. I was going to tell you when you were better.”
“Out with it.”
“He’s got pancreatic cancer and he isn’t expected to live long.”
Agatha’s first selfish thought was that she could see the end of her dream. But that was followed by a surge of grief for the first person in her life who had been kind to her. Then she rallied. She would get out of this hospital and start work and try to make a profit while the money lasted. Somehow, she had to make it work. She owed it to Bryce.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Harley Medical. It’s a private hospital in Harley Street.”
“Stay with me, Freda, and help me check out and we’ll get over there.”
“Oh, I brought your makeup,” said Freda. “The press are waiting outside.”
* * *
Although being carefully made up, Agatha looked frail and strained as she gave a statement to the press. Despite her new pugnacious manner, she was also learning diplomacy and said she wished to thank Chief Detective Inspector Macdonald and Detective Sergeant Fred Baxter for saving her life.
She and Freda hailed a cab and went to Harley Street. Agatha forgot about her ambitions as she looked dismally at the now shrunken figure of Bryce in the hospital bed. He conjured up a smile. “You’re a wonder, Agatha. The best PR in the world.”
“I swear I’ll work hard and try to pay back every penny,” said Agatha, swallowing hard to try to get rid of the lump in her throat.
“That won’t be necessary. The lot goes to my nephew, apart from a sum I have left you to cover your expenses for the next five years, and the flat and the office are yours. George will arrange the whole thing.”
Agatha blurted out her thanks, but he waved a hand to dismiss them. “The thanks are all mine. Off you go. I’d like to sleep now.”
Agatha finally reached her office and met her two new PRs, a woman called Jessie Rich and a young man named Sean Fitzgerald. George South was also waiting for her. Offers from clients were pouring in, he said. He would hire two more staff for her and after everything was set up, he would recommend a good accountant and a business manager.
“What about you working for me?” asked Agatha.
“Too expensive and plenty of clients on my books. I didn’t only work for Bryce.”
“I wish he could be cured,” said Agatha. “Can nothing be done?”
“I’m afraid not.”
* * *
Bryce died during the night. Agatha cried and cried when she got the news. At last Freda said bracingly, “The best thing you can do for his memory is to make a success of the business and you’ll never do that if you fall apart.”
So after the funeral, Agatha worked around the clock, representing a perfume manufacturer, a pop group, and various fashion houses. The sensitive girl she had once been became buried under a hard shell. Journalists, particularly those from the glossy magazines, had never come across a PR like Agatha before. She seemed to ferret out their weak spots and then play on them ruthlessly to get publicity for her clients.
Then one evening Freda said, “I think I should find a flat of my own.”
“Why?” demanded Agatha.
Wel
l, dear, you’re young and it’s time you had a boyfriend. You’ll need a bit of space. Can’t bring anyone back for a romantic evening with old me sitting here.”
“Forget it. I’m through with men.”
But that night, before she went to sleep, Agatha dreamed of a tall, handsome man who would take over her heart and her life. Then her thoughts turned to Jimmy Raisin. Where was he now? She should do something about finding him so that she could get a divorce. She had been terrified that all the publicity about her would cause Jimmy to surface again.
Agatha would not admit to herself that she had become frightened of Jimmy’s drunken rages. It had been a whirlwind romance until reality had set in when Jimmy stopped his work as a plumber and took to drinking all day, expecting her to be the breadwinner. The first time he had used his fists on her, she had cried. The second time, she had hit him with a frying pan, packed up her belongings, flung the pile of Alcoholics Anonymous literature she had hopefully collected at him, and walked out of his life. Then she began to relax. If Jimmy had not put in an appearance, it stood to reason he was dead.
Perhaps Freda was right. She should find somewhere for Freda to live. Agatha was already beginning to make a lot of money over and above the large sum left to her by Bryce in his will.
* * *
In the morning, a new office boy with a white spotty face and his hair in a Mohawk dumped the mail on her desk. “There you are!” he said. He had a cockney voice and looked like a child.
“How old are you?” demanded Agatha. I don’t hire child labour.”
“I’m fifteen.”
What’s your name?”
“Roy Silver.”
“Well, Roy, you are now working in Mayfair, so look the part. See Freda and get some money. Take yourself to a hairdresser and get rid of that Mohawk.”
“But I’m just the office boy.”
Agatha’s eyes bored into him.
“Okay, boss. I’ll do it now.”
* * *
One Sunday, Agatha was strolling along the King’s Road. For once, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and low-heeled sandals. She looked uneasily up at the darkening sky and wished she had brought an umbrella. Freda had said something about the good weather being about to break. Near The World’s End, she stopped short in front of a shop with paintings displayed in the window. The one that caught her eye was of a thatched Cotswold cottage with tall hollyhocks at the gate. The sign on the door read CLOSED, but she could see someone moving about inside. Agatha rapped on the door.
