Hiss and Hers: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  Agatha, guiltily, had two glasses of wine to accompany the roast chicken and sandwiches. She began to feel sleepy. The stream chuckled past and the long branches of the willow swayed in the breeze. She turned to say something to Charles, but he had fallen neatly asleep. What did he really think of her? she wondered for the umpteenth time. What about that fling they had had in the South of France? It seemed so very long ago and, since then, he had reverted to a casual friendship. Her eyelids drooped and soon she was asleep as well.

  She awoke with a start as a large drop of warm rain fell through the willow branches and landed on her nose. ‘Wake up, Charles,’ she said, shaking him. ‘It’s beginning to rain.’ A bright flash of lightning lit up their startled faces and then an enormous crack of thunder seemed to split the sky overhead.

  ‘The sooner we get to the car and away from this tree, the better,’ said Charles. They hurriedly packed the detritus of their picnic and scrambled into the shelter of the car.

  ‘Home?’ asked Charles.

  ‘I don’t want to leave here without finding a bit more about Fiona.’

  ‘You should leave it to Toni,’ said Charles lazily. ‘If she gets the job as barmaid, she’ll soon find out more than we could.’

  Agatha reluctantly agreed. She drove home through the crashing storm and flooded roads. By the time she turned down into the road to Carsely, the rain had stopped and a pale green evening sky was appearing to the west.

  She suddenly did not want to spend the rest of the day on her own, but outside her door, Charles said, ‘Good hunting. Keep me posted,’ and headed for his car.

  Agatha went indoors, petted her cats and checked her phone for messages. There were five from Roy Silver, a former employee of Agatha’s, complaining that there was so much publicity about the murder and she might have got him in on it. Roy was a public relations officer who loved, above all, publicity for himself. Agatha phoned him and invited him down for the weekend. Roy was slightly camp, often irritating, but she decided that any company was better than none. Then she wondered what had happened to her former independence, she who had once been, she thought, satisfied with her own company.

  Charles was about to drive off when someone knocked on the car window. He looked out and saw James Lacey and lowered the window. ‘I’d like to speak to you,’ said James. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Okay.’ Charles climbed out of the car and followed James’s tall figure into his cottage.

  ‘Drink?’ asked James.

  ‘Spit it out,’ said Charles. ‘The way you are looking at me reminds me of being up before the headmaster.’

  ‘It’s just . . . well, what are your intentions as regards to Agatha?’

  Charles stared at James’s tall, handsome figure in amazement. ‘Are you joking, or are you really as Victorian as you sound?’

  ‘I care for Agatha,’ said James. ‘I don’t want her hurt.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Charles patiently, ‘have you not realized that until our Agatha grows up, she’s going to continue to fall for weirdos like super-Lothario Marston? And take you? If you hadn’t been such a confirmed bachelor with “Unavailable, do not touch” written all over you, she wouldn’t have pursued you in the first place.’

  ‘I did marry her,’ said James.

  ‘And what a mess that turned out to be,’ said Charles ruthlessly. ‘All we can do is what we have done before and stand on the sidelines of Agatha’s life ready to pick up the pieces. You could help her with her detecting like you did before.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said James. ‘I’ve got to go abroad.’

  ‘I thought you’d given up the travel book business.’

  ‘It pays the bills. I’ve been working on a life of Nelson. But that doesn’t. Look after Agatha.’

  ‘Look, I’m off. I won’t hurt Aggie, I promise. So pack your bags and stop worrying.’

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, Toni was ensconced behind the bar of the pub in Lower Sithby, pulling pints. She could hardly believe how easy it had been to get the job. The landlord, Bob Brackett, was certainly only offering the minimum wage, but the job came with a room above the pub. He had not even asked to see Toni’s references, which she had faked. He was a thickset, surly man with a slattern of a wife and a squalling baby. He confided in Toni that his wife wouldn’t work in the bar anymore.

  A friendly barman in Mircester had given Toni a crash course in pulling pints. She had been worried in case anyone would ask for some kind of cocktail, but the regulars were mostly agricultural workers or farmers and all they wanted was pints of beer.

  After Toni’s first day, the pub began to become crowded as news of the pretty barmaid spread around the village. Wives began to appear to size her up as well as a few of the unmarried village women. The day before she had started work, Phil Marshall had driven down to the village and had snapped a covert photograph of Fiona Morton. Toni kept it in her handbag behind the bar so that she would recognize Fiona if she walked in.

  Toni had not seen Simon Black, who, to her annoyance, Agatha had insisted on sending after her to keep an eye on her. She was surprised he had not visited the pub, but was, on the other hand, glad he was keeping away from her. Toni had so far been unable to hear any gossip about Fiona. On Saturday, Toni wondered how Agatha was getting on, interviewing Jessica Fordyce.

  Agatha was at that moment wishing with all her heart that she had not invited Roy. That young man refused to leave Agatha to interview Jessica on her own. Jessica was a television star and Roy hoped the press would still be around.

  Nothing Agatha could say would persuade him not to wear a pair of emerald-green leather shorts and a green open-necked shirt with ballooning sleeves. He had distressingly thin legs ending in green leather ankle boots. He had a fake-bake tan and his hair was highlighted with green and blond stripes. Roy parried every thrust by saying that Agatha was out of touch with fashion.

  To Agatha’s amazement, she received a friendly welcome from Jessica.

  Jessica led them into her kitchen, a miracle of granite tops, copper pans and gleaming gadgets. Agatha looked around. She had not bothered doing much to her own kitchen, as almost the only appliances in daily use were the microwave and the coffeepot. She remembered when butcher’s block kitchen tables had been all the rage and had bought one. But it had a dip in the side to let the blood run down and coffee cups had a habit of sliding down there on to the floor, so she had got rid of it and had bought a conventional one instead. Besides, it had taken a lot of scrubbing to get it clean and Doris Simpson had complained bitterly.

  Jessica was wearing a sky-blue cotton smock. She was bare-legged. She was not wearing any make-up and Agatha noticed there was not a single wrinkle on the beauty of her glowing face. Roy was in raptures. ‘You’re even more gorgeous than you are on the telly,’ he breathed.

  Jessica laughed. ‘I don’t think Agatha came here to worship at my shrine. You’re trying to find out who killed George, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, his sister has retained me,’ said Agatha. ‘Have you any idea who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Roy.

  Jessica ground beans in an electric grinder and then put the grounds into a coffee machine. ‘It’ll take a few minutes,’ she said. ‘Have a seat.’

  Her hair must be genuine red, thought Agatha, feeling diminished before so much beauty.

  They sat round the coffee table. ‘If you want suspects, you’ll need to start with all those village women he was sleeping with,’ said Jessica.

  ‘You knew about that?’ asked Agatha.

  Jessica shrugged. ‘Didn’t everyone?’

  Except me, thought Agatha bitterly. Jessica, with her open friendly air, was not what Agatha had expected.

  ‘Did you have an affair with him?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘No, I recognized his type a mile off.’

  ‘And what type is that?’

  ‘I don’t think George
liked women. I think he liked the power. I think he liked easy conquests. I was out of his league.’ She smiled at Agatha. ‘I would suppose you were, too.’

  Agatha warmed to Jessica in that moment. She exuded such a friendly warmth that it was hard not to like her. Roy was gazing at Jessica, his mouth hanging open. Agatha resisted an impulse to lean across and close it for him.

  ‘He mentioned to me that he was afraid of someone who might turn out to be a psychopath. Did he say anything about that to you?’ asked Agatha.

  Jessica stood up and went to the counter and filled porcelain mugs with coffee. When the coffee was served, she placed a plate of chocolate-chip cookies on the table, saying, ‘Do try them. I baked them.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Roy said, gasping. ‘You really are a household goddess.’

  ‘About the psychopath,’ said Agatha impatiently. ‘Roy, you’re getting biscuit crumbs down the inside of your shirt!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Roy. ‘But they’re so utterly devoon that—’

  ‘Psychopath,’ prompted Agatha impatiently.

  ‘No,’ said Jessica, giving Roy such a dazzling smile that he dropped a biscuit on the floor.

  ‘Sorry, so sorry. I’ll get it,’ babbled Roy.

  ‘Throw it out the back door into the garden for the birds,’ said Jessica. ‘Agatha didn’t introduce you but I know you. You’re Roy Silver. You promoted that band, Get Quick.’

  ‘Psychopath!’ howled Agatha.

  They both stared at her. ‘I just want to find out who murdered poor George,’ said Agatha.

  Roy gave her a hurt look and made for the kitchen door with the pieces of biscuit.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said Jessica. ‘Did he say whether it was a man or a woman?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he didn’t,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Then it could be one of the men in the village. George must have caused a lot of jealousy.’

  ‘I don’t really think so, somehow,’ said Agatha. ‘The murder was so vindictive.’

  ‘You don’t think much of women,’ commented Jessica.

  ‘Our Aggie is always in competition with the lot of them,’ said Roy, returning to the table.

  Agatha threw him a nasty I’ll-speak-to-you-later look from her bearlike eyes.

  ‘I am not,’ she said. ‘It’s just that one would expect a man to kill him with a shotgun or a blow to the head.’

  ‘What are the names of the women he was having affairs with?’ asked Jessica.

  Agatha hesitated, and then said, ‘I can’t really tell you that at the moment, but if anything breaks, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Jessica laughed. ‘At least I’m in the clear. I went straight to the ball and left when it was over.’

  ‘They think he was killed more than a whole day before,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Ah! Where was I? I know. I was on location. I’m supposed to be having an affair with one of the doctors.’

  ‘I know,’ breathed Roy. ‘Giles Deveraux.’

  ‘That’s the one. And I was facing up to a dirty weekend with him at his cottage in Broadwell – you know, the village with the watersplash, just off the Stow road. We were there all day.’

  ‘But you didn’t have the affair,’ said Roy, wriggling with excitement. ‘You found out he was married.’

  ‘You really are a fan,’ said Jessica.

  ‘You were practically drooling,’ said Agatha crossly as they walked away from Jessica’s cottage some ten minutes later.

  ‘Well, she’s gorgeous, and you can rule her out,’ said Roy.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She could have any man she wanted. Only an idiot would want to have an affair with the gardener.’

  ‘George Marston was a very attractive man,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m not writing her off yet. Let’s go to Broadwell and ask around.’

  But in Broadwell, they found out that the cast of the hospital soap had been there for the whole day, but had packed up in the early evening. ‘That still gives her time,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Use your head,’ snapped Roy waspishly. ‘She would need to be carrying a bag of snakes around with her. Anyway, they all drove off back to London. You’re letting jealousy blind you, Aggie.’

  ‘I am not!’ raged Agatha, and they quarrelled all the way back to her cottage and they were still quarrelling by the time Roy took his leave.

  * * *

  Simon had found a cheap room in a bed and breakfast in the village. He said he was spending time in the Oxford-shire villages, claiming London as his home and saying he needed some fresh air. His landlady, a Mrs Greta James, was a cheerful gossipy woman so Simon soon heard all about the pretty new barmaid at the pub. He did not want to ask outright about Fiona Morton, but he had a copy of one of Phil’s photographs of her. He was just wondering whether he would ever manage a chance meeting when one morning, he saw Fiona leave her cottage and head for the village store. Simon raced past her, bought a loaf in the store and managed to ‘accidentally’ collide with her as she was about to enter.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he said, ‘but it’s not every day I bump into an attractive lady.’

  ‘Watch where you’re going next time,’ said Fiona, and made to move past him.

  ‘Look!’ said Simon. ‘I really am most awfully sorry. May I buy you a drink?’

  He gazed at her with adoring eyes, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick. She appeared to survey him properly for the first time, from his thatch of thick black hair to his jester’s face and sturdy body.

  ‘Well,’ she said, suddenly coy, ‘I suppose one little drink would start the day. I don’t usually go there. Full of rough types. Everyone’s talking about some new barmaid.’

  ‘Let’s go anyway,’ urged Simon. ‘I’ll protect you.’

  She took his arm and smiled at him. They walked together into the pub. Behind the bar, Toni glowed in the dimness of the old pub. Fiona looked as if she had suddenly sucked several lemons. ‘So that’s the new barmaid,’ she said. ‘I believe she is considered beautiful. Can’t see it myself.’

  ‘No use asking me,’ said Simon cheerfully. ‘I prefer maturity. What’ll you have to drink?’

  ‘Vodka and tonic, please.’

  Simon held out a chair for her in a corner and then went to the bar. ‘A half pint of lager and a large vodka and tonic, miss,’ he ordered.

  ‘Right, sir, coming up,’ said Toni. She murmured, ‘That her?’

  ‘In the scrawny flesh.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Meet me later. We need to exchange notes.’

  ‘Don’t get off until eleven in the evening. Where?’

  ‘Have you seen that ruined church just outside the north of the village?’

  ‘I know the one.’

  ‘I’ll be there just after eleven.’

  During this conversation they had barely moved their lips. Simon returned with the drinks.

  ‘I’d better introduce myself. I’m Simon White.’

  ‘And I’m Fiona Morton, but my friends call me Fee.’

  ‘Fee it is,’ said Simon.

  ‘And what brings you to our little village?’

  Simon talked about wanting to get out of London for a break. ‘I’m in advertising,’ he lied. ‘Very stressful. Too many boozy lunches. I’m a copywriter. Are you a lady of leisure?’

  ‘For my sins. Dear Papa left me quite well off. But I am very involved in village activities.’

  A ray of sun penetrating through the dusty window sent prisms of light sparkling on Fiona’s diamond ring.

  ‘Oh, you’re engaged,’ said Simon. ‘Who’s the lucky fellow?’

  ‘It’s a great tragedy. He loved me so much and now he’s dead.’

  ‘I am so sorry. What did he die of?’

  ‘He was murdered!’

  ‘No! How ghastly. How did it happen?’

  ‘His name was George Marston. He had moved to a Cotswold village to prepare a home for us when he was struck down.’

  ‘You mean
a blow on the head?’

  ‘I do not know yet how he died.’

  Nothing about adders, thought Simon. But there had been nothing about that part of the murder in the newspapers.

  ‘You must be devastated,’ he said.

  ‘I am. I have cried and cried until I can cry no more.’

  Her eyes were really beautiful, thought Simon. Green like large emeralds. Pity about the rest of her.

  ‘Another drink,’ he offered.

  ‘Just a little one.’

  The pub was filling up. Toni had been joined behind the bar by the landlord and it was he who took Simon’s order.

  When he returned with the drinks, Fiona gave him a watery smile. ‘I’ve been having a teeny sob,’ she said. ‘So hard to get over.’

  ‘When did you last see George?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she demanded, her eyes suspicious.

  ‘My dear Fee,’ said Simon earnestly, ‘I have no desire to pry into your personal life. I know. Why don’t I take you out for dinner to cheer you up? Is there anywhere good near here?’

  ‘How very kind. There’s nothing in the village, of course, but Chez Henri is only twenty miles away. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Simon. Chez Henri was a restaurant run by two French chefs and set in an old manor house in the Oxford countryside. He had heard it was very expensive. Still, all in a good cause.

  He smiled at her. ‘I’ll book a table if I can get one. Eight o’clock?’

  ‘Wonderful. I’ll point out my cottage to you.’

  Simon phoned Toni as soon as Fiona had gone and cancelled their appointment for that evening.

  Agatha sat in her garden that evening before going to bed. Simon had phoned her earlier about his dinner engagement. She could only hope it would turn out to be worth the expense. She felt uneasy. She had gone to the village shop earlier that evening to buy some cat food and had been made aware of a hostile attitude towards her from the customers there. Nothing was said but she received some nasty looks.

  She stifled a yawn and decided to go to bed. She noticed her cats had not touched their bowls of cat food. They had been thoroughly spoilt and obviously expected their usual diet of fresh fish or liver.