by M C Beaton
‘How did it happen?’ asked Agatha.
‘It was one evening. He said he was tired and he would like to cuddle up to a nice warm woman. I said, “What about me?” I was only joking but he smiled that lovely smile of his and he said, “Why not?”‘
‘The police will no doubt ask you this,’ said Agatha, ‘because someone is going to gossip about you sooner or later. What were you doing the day of the ball?’
‘I was down at my sister Edie’s in Moreton. She was helping to prepare me for the ball. When I was dressed, she drove me up to the village hall and left me there. I was at the ball right until the end.’ She began to cry, great gulping sobs shaking her body.
‘There, now,’ said Agatha awkwardly. And feeling like a coward, she added, getting to her feet, ‘I’ll leave you with your grief.’
Agatha was annoyed with herself as she walked away. Her detective abilities were slipping. George had been killed at least twenty-four hours before the ball.
Agatha got no reply at Jessica’s cottage. A neighbour said she had come down from London just for the ball and had left early the next morning.
Joyce Hemingway lived quite near Jessica, and Agatha found her working in her front garden. Surely George couldn’t have had an affair with her, was Agatha’s first thought. Joyce was tall, thin and flat-chested, dressed in a pair of old jeans and a man’s checked shirt. She had an angular face and grey eyes under heavy lids and a mean little mouth.
Joyce rose from a flowerbed she had been weeding and stood up with her hands on her hips. ‘What does our local snoop want with me?’ she demanded.
‘I am investigating George’s murder on behalf of his sister and—’ began Agatha, but that was as far as she got.
‘Shove off!’ shouted Joyce. ‘I’ll speak to the police but not to you.’
‘Don’t you want to find out who murdered George?’ demanded Agatha.
‘I’d rather rely on the skills of the police than on one silly village woman who fancies herself to be a detective. How George and I used to laugh about you!’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Agatha, her face flaming.
‘Oh, yes, he used to tell me how you were pursuing him. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with that one,” he said. “She’d eat me alive.”‘
‘Bitch!’ howled Agatha, and stumbled off. She walked a little way from Joyce’s cottage and leaned against a garden wall to compose herself. How awful if George had really said those things about her. She felt quite tearful and very, very silly.
She should have told the police about George’s affairs, but somehow had felt she could not. She had not really wanted to believe the gossip. There was still Mrs Freemantle to visit. Agatha realized that she would at least have to tell Bill Wong. The police had the resources to find out where, say, Mrs Glossop’s husband had been on the night of the murder and also the whereabouts of Mr Freemantle.
She miserably took out her mobile phone. Agatha had always prided herself on being a clever, intuitive woman. But she had not recognized a philanderer in George.
Bill listened to her, and then said sharply, ‘I’ll be right over to take a statement. This could be important.’
* * *
Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, was working away when Agatha returned to her cottage to await the arrival of Bill.
‘Isn’t it awful,’ said Doris. ‘I’ve made you some nice lemonade. It’s in the fridge.’
‘I’m waiting for the police,’ said Agatha. ‘Pour us a couple of glasses and we’ll take a break in the garden.’
Doris settled comfortably into a garden chair after she had served the lemonade. The two cats jumped on Doris’s lap and began to purr loudly. Agatha surveyed her cats with a jaundiced eye. She rarely had any sign of affection from the beasts, she thought.
‘Why are the police coming?’ asked Doris.
‘I found out about George’s affairs. They’ll need to know. Did you know?’
‘Heard rumours,’ said Doris. ‘Bit of a lad, that one was. But no one deserved a nasty death like that. It’s so hot. Your garden needs watering.’
‘Sod the garden,’ said Agatha passionately. ‘Let it rot.’
The sunlight glittered on Doris’s thick glasses, hiding her expression. But she said, ‘I’ll send my man round to do it for you. I’d better get back to work.’ The cats followed her into the cottage.
Agatha lit a cigarette. It tasted awful. Maybe smoking is giving up me instead of the other way round, she thought, stubbing out the cigarette.
The doorbell rang and she could hear Doris saying, ‘Agatha’s in the garden.’
Bill Wong came into the garden, followed by Alice Peterson. They sat down at the table. Bill said, ‘Have you been holding back information?’
‘I only just found out about it,’ lied Agatha.
Bill put a tape recorder on the table and switched it on while Alice produced her notebook.
Agatha described what she knew about George’s affairs, averting her eyes from Bill’s sympathetic expression. Had her obsession been so obvious?
‘Before George Marston moved here,’ said Agatha, ‘he lived in Lower Sithby in Oxfordshire. A woman called Fiona Morton was involved with him. Apart from the others, that’s all I know. Mrs Ilston, George’s sister, has asked me to investigate.’
Bill switched off the tape recorder. ‘I’ll get this typed up and I want you to drop into headquarters this afternoon and sign it.’
‘Okay,’ said Agatha bleakly. ‘Like some lemonade?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Bill. ‘I’d better get back with this. A word of warning. This was a particularly nasty murder. Yes, people can collect adders, but someone would really have to know what they were doing to collect three of them. It’s a hot summer and that’s what brings them out.’
After Bill and Alice had left, Agatha wriggled her bare toes in her sandals and wondered what to do next. The clammy heat of the day was making her feel lethargic. But she felt the only way she could restore her battered self-esteem was to solve the murder. She still felt humiliated by Joyce Hemingway’s attack on her. She gave herself a mental shake. She was never going to solve anything sitting in her cottage. Agatha set off to interview Mrs Freemantle.
Another cottage garden, heavy with the scent of flowers. Agatha rang the bell and waited. She was just about to turn away when Mrs Freemantle answered the door. She was a small trim woman with a pleasant face and brown hair. But her brown eyes were red with crying.
‘Is it about George?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Agatha, acidly noticing the plain hairstyle and the fine wrinkles on Mrs Freemantle’s face and wondering why she, Agatha, had wasted so much money on hairdressing and nonsurgical facelifts, not to mention a whole new wardrobe, all to lure George. ‘His sister has hired me to investigate his murder.’
‘Come in,’ said Mrs Freemantle. ‘We’ll sit in the garden.’
She led the way to the back garden. Red rambling roses tumbled in glorious profusion round the back door.
When they were seated, Agatha asked, ‘Did George give you any clue as to who could hate him so much?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Freemantle. ‘It’s all so awful. He chatted away about the army, the weather, the garden – things like that.’ Her voice broke. ‘He was a lovely man.’
‘Nonetheless,’ said Agatha harshly, ‘it appears he was a philanderer.’
‘That cannot be true! He was always the perfect gentleman.’
‘So you were not aware that he was having affairs with women in the village?’
‘No!’
‘Did he have an affair with you?’
‘No, he did not. I am a married woman!’
‘He had an affair with at least one married woman. There may be others.’
‘It never crossed my mind,’ she said plaintively. ‘I mean, what one of us could compete with Jessica Fordyce?’
‘Did he say he was keen on her?’
‘He did say one day that
she was very beautiful and he wished he didn’t have a metal leg and that he was younger.’
‘I’ll have a word with her when she comes down for the weekend.’
Almost timidly, Mrs Freemantle asked, ‘Are you sure he was having these affairs?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘He was so handsome. But he treated me like a dear friend, nothing more.’
‘Mrs Freemantle . . .’
‘Sarah, please.’
‘Sarah, then. Here is my card. If you can think of anything at all, let me know. Is your husband away?’
‘Yes, he’s in charge of a rig up in Aberdeen. It gets rather lonely. That’s why I enjoyed George’s company so much. It seems so silly now, but I used to make work for him.’
Agatha thought bitterly of how she had sabotaged a perfectly good set of bookshelves in order to see more of him.
She said goodbye to Sarah and walked through the stifling heat back to her cottage.
Her friend Sir Charles Fraith was waiting on the doorstep. ‘Been out sleuthing?’
‘Yes,’ said Agatha. ‘Come in and I’ll tell you all about it.’
When she had finished, Charles said, ‘Poor you.’
‘Why, “poor me”?’ snapped Agatha.
‘All that titivating and all to be upstaged by the village frumps, except for the beautiful Jessica, of course.’
‘I was not interested in him,’ said Agatha furiously.
‘Oh, pull the other one, sweetheart. I tell you what. I’m bored. Let’s drive down to this Lower Sithby and see this Fiona Morton.’
‘Have to do a detour to Mircester first. I’ve got to sign a statement. I’ll get changed.’
‘Don’t. You look human for the first time in ages.’
As they drove off, Agatha glanced at James’s cottage. ‘I think he’s away,’ said Charles. ‘When I found you were out, I rang his doorbell.’
Odd, thought Agatha. Usually James would have called to see how the murder case was progressing. ‘I wonder where he’s gone?’
‘We’ll ask him next time we see him. Thank goodness your car’s got good air-conditioning.’
After Agatha had signed her statement, they drove off towards Oxfordshire.
‘I’ll need to sleep in it if this heat goes on,’ said Agatha. ‘Rats! I forgot to look up Lower Sithby on the map. There’s an ordnance survey map of Oxfordshire in the glove compartment. Look up Lower Sithby and guide me there.’
* * *
Lower Sithby was a small village of grey stone houses nestling round the long curve of an old drove road. ‘That’s a jolly-looking pub,’ said Charles. ‘I’m hungry. Let’s get a bite to eat and find out where this Fiona lives.’
‘Can’t we just get on with it? I have her address.’
‘Food first. Never interview on an empty stomach.’
The inside of the pub belied the charming exterior. It was dark and shabby. There was a glass case on the counter holding some tired-looking sausage rolls and sandwiches.
To Charles’s query about food, the landlord, who looked like a troll, said they only did snacks. Charles ordered two halves of lager and a couple of sausage rolls. ‘Not much,’ he said, carrying the lot back to a table near the door where Agatha was seated. ‘We’ll find something better on the road home.’
They ate in silence. ‘I’ll ask the landlord where she lives,’ said Charles. ‘Give me her address and I’ll find out. Those sausage rolls were disgusting. I wish I hadn’t been so hungry.’ He went to the bar and came back after a few moments. ‘That was easy. Third cottage on the left.’
‘I hope she’s at home,’ said Agatha.
The cottage was part of a long terrace with no gardens at the front. They rang the bell and waited. The village seemed strangely silent under the suffocating heat of the day.
At last the door was opened by a tall, thin woman with long black hair. She was wearing a faded print dress. She had a large curved nose shadowing a small mouth. But her large green eyes framed by thick lashes were beautiful.
Agatha introduced herself and Charles and stated the reason for her visit. Fiona invited them into a front parlour cluttered with framed photographs of Fiona in every stage of her life. There was a large gilt-framed mirror over the empty fireplace. A sofa and two armchairs were covered in slippery leather.
Fiona sat down. She did not tuck her dress under her and it rode up, exposing the black lace tops of her stockings and a white frilly edge of knickers.
‘Poor George.’ She sighed. ‘He was so devoted to me.’
‘I am sure he was,’ said Charles smoothly.
‘Before he died,’ said Agatha, ‘he told me he was frightened of some psychopath. Did he say anything to you about being frightened of anyone?’
‘No. Everybody loved him.’
‘And he seems to have loved everybody,’ said Agatha sourly. ‘Why did he leave this village?’
‘He did it to spare me,’ said Fiona, throwing her head back in a theatrical gesture.
‘From what?’
‘A lot of women in the village were silly about him and terribly jealous of me. Some of them were beginning to send me nasty letters. I even had dog shit shoved through my letterbox.’
Not more suspects, thought Agatha wearily. She took out a notebook. ‘Could you please give me their names and addresses?’
‘I dare not.’
‘Give me the name of the worst one,’ pleaded Agatha.
She chewed her bottom lip. Then she said, ‘Well, just the one. She was really the worst. Jane Summer. She lives in a cottage along on the right on the other side of the pub. Her cottage is called Tranquillity.’
‘I gather you were having an affair with him,’ said Agatha bluntly.
Fiona held out a thin hand on which a diamond ring sparkled. ‘We were engaged to be married.’
‘So you must have been in constant contact with him,’ said Charles. ‘When did you last see him?’
Those large green eyes shifted away from their faces. ‘He said he was getting a cottage in Carsely ready for us. He said I should stay away until the fuss had died down.’
‘Would it surprise you to know that he had affairs with several women in Carsely?’ asked Agatha.
If she had hoped to rattle Fiona, she failed. Fiona gave her a tolerant smile. ‘Oh, the same old, same old. Liars all. It would amaze you to know how many of the women in this village claimed the same thing. He used to laugh with me. “I am devoted to you and you only, Fee,” that’s what he’d say.’
‘Where were you on the day before he was found dead?’ asked Charles.
Fiona stood up. ‘Enough!’ she shouted. ‘You are not the police. Get out of my home.’
‘Stark, staring bonkers,’ said Agatha outside. ‘She’s mad enough to have done it.’
‘She won’t see you again,’ said Charles.
‘No, but I’ll send someone else.’ They walked past the pub. Agatha noticed a small sign in the window that said, ‘Barmaid Wanted.’
‘I think I’ll send Toni to get a job in that pub.’
‘Wouldn’t that put her in danger?’
‘No. All she needs to do is pull pints and listen to the village gossip. Oh, here’s Jane Summer’s cottage. Let’s hope this one’s sane. I bet she looks awful. I cannot understand George’s taste in women.’
‘He didn’t have taste,’ said Charles brutally. ‘He would have screwed the cat.’
But ‘dainty’ was the word to describe Jane Summer. She was small and pretty with a heart-shaped face and large blue eyes, and her curls were genuine blonde. She was wearing a man’s blouse over denim shorts. Her feet were bare and her toenails painted pink. Agatha judged her to be in her middle thirties.
Agatha explained the reason for their visit and Jane invited them through the house and into her back garden.
‘Such a tragedy and so horrible,’ said Jane. ‘Have you spoken to Fee?’
‘Fiona Morton, yes,’ said Agatha.
&n
bsp; ‘Horrible woman. She drove him out of the village. She would not leave him alone.’
‘She said they were engaged and flashed a diamond ring at me,’ said Agatha.
‘I think she probably bought it herself. Fee was an ordinary sort of village lady until George came along and then she seemed to go mad. I hired George to do my garden and she appeared, having climbed over all the intervening fences. George looked terrified. I was so grateful when my husband came home and sent her off.’
‘Your husband? Where does he work?’
‘He’s a vet. He has a surgery at the other end of the village. He’s often called out to the surrounding farms.’
‘Where were you on the day before George’s body was found?’
‘I was here during the day and then, Jack – that’s my husband – and I went to a performance at the Playhouse in Oxford. Oh, am I a suspect? I suppose bitchy Fee suggested as much.’ She went to a desk in the corner of the room and rummaged in a drawer and retrieved a theatre programme and two ticket stubs. ‘Here’s the proof.’
‘Thank you,’ said Agatha. ‘No, I won’t take them. The police will be in the village soon, asking questions.’
When they left, Charles said, ‘I’m still hungry. I saw a general store as we drove in. Let’s buy some grub and drinks and have a picnic.’
The store not only sold sandwiches and hot roast chicken but had a liquor licence. Charles bought a bottle of chardonnay, a chicken, two ham sandwiches and a corkscrew. ‘We’re driving,’ cautioned Agatha.
‘“We”, paleface? You’re driving.’
‘We should eat it in the car with the air-conditioning on,’ said Agatha.
‘No. A nice breeze has got up. Let’s find a shady tree. This is the best summer ever. May as well enjoy it while it lasts.’
After the usual irritating search for the perfect place to picnic – ‘What about there? No, not there. Try farther on’ – and when they were on the point of seriously quarrelling, Charles cried, ‘Stop!’
A little way out of the village, a glassy stream flowed near to the road, and there was a grassy bank shaded by a willow tree.
