by M C Beaton
‘I haven’t time to pamper you,’ said Agatha. ‘Try to eat the stuff.’ And avoiding her cats’ accusing eyes, she went up to prepare to go to bed.
She had just put on her nightdress when she heard her cats begin to howl and hiss.
‘Snakes and bastards,’ shouted Agatha. ‘It’s cat food, not poison.’
She decided to go downstairs to see if she could calm them down. Hodge and Boswell were sitting staring at the door, their cries rending the air.
‘What?’ began Agatha, and then she became aware of an evil smell. She looked down and noticed a pile of what looked like excrement that had been shoved through her letterbox. All of it had fortunately landed on the doormat. Agatha got a strong rubbish bag and tipped the doormat into it and then got spray cleaner and cleaned the letterbox and what was smeared inside of her front door.
She dumped the rubbish bag in the bin at the bottom of her back garden. When she returned to the house, she found her hands were shaking. Agatha phoned the police and sat down and waited.
Bill Wong was just about to go off duty when he heard of Agatha’s call. ‘I’ll see her,’ he said, and set out for Carsely.
Agatha let him in. ‘There’s something going on, Bill,’ she cried. ‘I was at the store earlier and you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. I can’t phone Mrs Bloxby because it’s too late.’
‘Normally, we wouldn’t do anything about this,’ said Bill, ‘as we haven’t the resources. But as this is a murder enquiry, I’ll send forensics along in the morning to see if they can get any fingerprints off your front door. Was the shit human or animal?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Agatha. ‘Smelled dire.’
‘Where did you dump it?’
‘It was practically all on the doormat so I scooped up the doormat, put it in a rubbish bag and dumped it in the bin.’
‘Show me.’
Agatha unlocked the kitchen door and led him down the garden to the bin. The garden was fragrant with all the flowers George had planted. She had a sudden vivid picture of him working away.
Bill opened the bin, shone his torch into it and sniffed.
‘Pooh! That’s pig manure, Agatha. Someone could get it anywhere around here. Lock up and go to bed and we’ll see what we can do for you tomorrow.’
After an uneasy night’s sleep, Agatha phoned Mrs Bloxby and explained what had happened. ‘I’ll be round right away,’ said the vicar’s wife.
While she waited for her, Agatha phoned the office and told them why she would be late that day.
When Mrs Bloxby arrived, Agatha said, ‘Who on earth would do such a thing?’
‘I sometimes think when something riles the villagers up, they go back mentally two hundred years,’ said Mrs Bloxby.
‘Let’s sit in the garden so I can smoke,’ said Agatha. ‘Tell me what you mean. I was down in the village store yesterday and was treated like Typhoid Mary.’
‘There are nasty rumours,’ said Mrs Bloxby cautiously.
‘About me?’
‘Do you know Mrs Arnold, an elderly lady who does the flowers in the church?’
‘I’ve seen her around. What about her?’
‘I met her in church yesterday and she told me I ought to keep clear of you. She said she had it on good authority that you had killed George Marston yourself. I said that was ridiculous. Mrs Arnold said that everyone in the village knew that even if you hadn’t killed Mr Marston, you had brought evil to the village because of your record of hunting down murderers.
‘The trouble about these Cotswold villages, even though they are full of newcomers, I swear there is something in the very stones that make people revert to witch-hunting.’
‘Did she say who the good authority was?’ Agatha asked.
‘She said she had never been one to gossip.’
‘Typical,’ snorted Agatha. ‘How do I counteract this? It’s going to make interviewing people in the village almost impossible.’
‘You are the public relations expert. If you were advising a client, what would you tell them to do?’
Agatha scowled in thought. Then her face cleared. ‘The press, of course. They’ll be interested in anything to do with the murders.’
‘That might make it worse,’ said Mrs Bloxby cautiously.
‘How?’
‘Naturally reporters will want to interview the villagers. You might be handing some nasty people a free platform.’
‘Damn! I’ll face them down myself. I’ll run off flyers on my printer and call a meeting in the village hall this evening.’
‘Will they come?’
‘When I say on the flyer it’s about the murder of George Marston, they’ll come, all right.’
The village hall was packed that evening as Agatha stood up before the microphone. She had been disappointed the police had not found any fingerprints on her door. Whoever had put the pig manure through her letterbox had worn gloves.
To make sure of a big audience, she had also advertised a free wine bar.
She cleared her throat and looked down at the sea of faces. She noticed that Joyce Hemingway, Sarah Freemantle and Harriet Glossop were seated together in the front row.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she began, ‘someone in this village has murdered George Marston.’
There was a shocked silence.
‘And to turn the blame away from themselves, they have tried to blacken my name and, also, to intimidate me. Someone shoved pig manure through my letterbox, a silly, spiteful thing to do. If you listen to these rumours and give them credence, then you are protecting a murderer or’ – she glared down at the front row – ‘a murderess. I am employed by Mr Marston’s sister to discover the identity of this vicious killer.
‘I want anyone in this hall who knows anything that might help my investigation to come and tell me. Listening to these rumours and starting a sort of witch hunt against me is playing into someone’s hands. Do any of you know, for example, someone who was trying to get hold of pig manure? Does anyone know of anyone who might know how to handle snakes?
‘Someone is blaming me for bringing this evil into Carsely. I did not bring it. The murderer did. All this vendetta against me is doing is delaying me finding out the identity of the murderer.
‘The bar is now open.’
Chairs were scraped back. The villagers headed for a long table at the rear of the hall where there was a buffet of wine and cheese.
Agatha stepped down from the platform and went to the toilet to repair her make-up. When she emerged, Phil Marshall was waiting for her.
‘I’ve been asking around,’ he said, ‘but I’m blessed if I can find out the source of the nasty gossip. Someone’ll say something like it was Jim Bloggs who told me and Jim Bloggs will say he got it from Old Uncle Tom Cobbley and so it goes.’
Agatha’s eyes raked the crowd. ‘Where have Freemantle, Hemingway and Glossop gone?’
‘I was watching them for their reactions. They were very subdued and left the hall immediately after your speech was over.’
‘My money’s on Joyce Hemingway,’ said Agatha.
Various villagers came up to her to explain they had nothing to do with the malicious gossip and then settled down to enjoy the free booze and have a party.
Agatha was tired when the evening was at last over but felt she had at least achieved her aim.
She had just let herself into her cottage when her phone rang. It was Simon.
‘How long do I have to go on with this?’ he asked plaintively.
Agatha had been so busy startling the villagers by saying the murderer was one of them that she had almost forgotten about Fiona Morton.
‘Why? Nothing useful?’
‘No, and she seems to be transferring her obsession for George to me. I took her to that posh restaurant. All nouvelle cuisine. I tell you, I could have put the pudding in my eye and used it as a monocle, it was so small. Fiona tried to get me to come into her cottage for a nightcap. I said I was tired. She deman
ded a good-night kiss. You’d never think a woman with such a small mouth would have such a large tongue. Yuk!’
‘How’s Toni getting on?’
‘I managed to meet up with her to compare notes. All she’s found out is that our Fiona is considered a bit of a nutcase. But one good bit of info. George was supposed to have been murdered at least twenty-four hours before the ball. Right?’
‘So the police say.’
‘Well, Fiona was on the committee of the local fête and she was working on the arrangements the day before and on the day of the murder. Her car never left the village.’
Agatha sighed. ‘You’d better both get out of there. Is Toni sure there is no way she could have sneaked off?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘You’d better both get out of there,’ she repeated.
‘Toni will be glad to go. The landlord’s been paying her off the books, so she didn’t need to give her correct name. Also, she said the vet, Summers, has taken to dropping in and keeps saying he’s sure he’s seen her somewhere before. Her photo has been in the newspapers in the past.’
‘Pack up and leave this evening,’ said Agatha. ‘What about George romancing any other women in that village?’
‘It seems to have been wishful thinking. Can you imagine such stupidity?’
‘Goodbye,’ said Agatha abruptly.
Simon heaved a sigh of relief as he rang off. He pulled his suitcase out from under the bed and began to pack. When he was finished packing, he looked down from his window and drew back quickly. Fiona was standing in the street, looking up at his window.
Simon retreated from the window and switched off the light. He sat on the bed and waited for half an hour before cautiously looking out again. Fiona had gone.
He telephoned Toni on her mobile and asked her how quickly she could leave. ‘When are you going?’ Toni asked.
‘As soon as possible,’ said Simon. ‘That Fiona is beginning to terrify me.’
‘I just have a backpack. I can drop it out of the window and then climb down after it. My car’s in the car park, but the ground is on a slope, so I can let out the brake and cruise quietly on to the road. See you in the office tomorrow.’
‘Wait a bit,’ protested Simon. ‘Don’t you think we deserve a day off? We could go somewhere nice.’
‘No. See you at work.’
* * *
Agatha slept well that night, feeling that she had scotched all the animosity towards her. But she awoke the next morning feeling heavy and sweaty. She looked out of the window. The sky was the colour of pewter. Not a leaf moved in the garden. The air was sticky and close. She showered and put on a cotton blouse and a cotton skirt with an elasticated waist. Just for one day, she thought, I do not want to be reminded about my waistline every time I eat.
After her usual breakfast of two cups of black coffee and two cigarettes, she unlocked her front door, ready to go to the office. There was a parcel on her doorstep. It was a plain brown paper parcel with her name printed on it in block capitals. She stared down at it. Then she went back indoors and phoned the police.
Bill Wong and Alice Peterson arrived three-quarters of an hour later. They examined the parcel while Agatha described the recent hate campaign against her in the village. ‘I thought it was all over,’ she wailed.
‘It might be something innocent,’ said Bill.
‘Well, you open it!’ said Agatha.
‘I’m going to go ahead,’ said Bill. ‘You and Alice had better leave the kitchen. I really don’t think it’s a bomb.’
‘We’ll be in the garden,’ said Agatha, shooing her cats outside to safety.
She and Alice waited anxiously while the cats chased each other over the grass. I wonder if there is such a thing as reincarnation, thought Agatha. I wouldn’t mind coming back as a cat. But what if I ended up in a home with ghastly children who would torture me?
Bill opened the kitchen door. ‘You can come in now. It’s safe.’
Alice and Agatha walked into the kitchen. Bill had removed the brown paper wrapping to reveal a box of Belgian chocolates. A pink card was on top of the box. It read, ‘Best wishes from Carsely.’
‘There you are,’ said Bill. ‘False alarm.’
‘I still don’t like it,’ said Agatha. ‘Look! The box has been sealed on either side with bits of Scotch tape. I don’t think it was like that in the shop.’
Bill took out a penknife and slit the tape. He lifted the lid of the box and then removed the quilted white paper that covered the top of the chocolates.
He let out a cry of alarm. An adder slid out of the box, and, in front of their horrified eyes, slid rapidly across the table, dropped to the floor and sped out into the garden.
‘My cats!’ shrieked Agatha, running into the garden.
‘Come back!’ yelled Bill as Agatha frantically chased her cats around the garden, trying to catch them. But Hodge and Boswell thought it was a new game and kept racing away from her.
Bill and Alice seized Agatha and marched her back into the kitchen. ‘Sit down, you silly woman,’ roared Bill. ‘I’ll get on to headquarters. We need a snake handler and a forensic team.’
Agatha tempted her cats indoors with a packet of pâté and sat shivering with shock despite the heat of the day. She retreated to her living room with her cats as the house filled up with men in white suits and a snake handler who began to search the garden.
Alice Peterson followed her in and took down a statement. Agatha had just finished speaking when they heard a cry: ‘Got it!’
Agatha went through to the kitchen, where the snake handler was holding a bag. ‘Your adder is nearly dead,’ he said. ‘Might have been fed something to tranquillize it and get it into the box and been given too much. Of course, adders are in trouble. There’s been a lot of inbreeding and some of them are dying off. Pity.’
‘What do you mean, “pity”?’ raged Agatha. ‘It would relieve my mind if the whole lot perished.’
‘Now, now,’ admonished the snake handler. ‘They’re God’s creatures.’
‘I don’t care if it’s dead,’ said Agatha. ‘Just get it out of here!’
The snake handler had a freckled face and sandy hair. His wide blue eyes looked at Agatha with disapproval. ‘This is Britain’s last venomous snake and we will do all we can to preserve it. We are taking DNA swabs of adders and moving them to different locations to stop inbreeding. So many of their natural habitats have been destroyed.’
‘I repeat,’ said Agatha through gritted teeth, ‘get it out of here.’ She retreated to the sitting room and asked Alice if she might go to the local pub and leave the police to do their work. ‘You have my mobile number,’ said Agatha. ‘You can phone me when you are finished.’
Alice checked with Bill and then returned to give Agatha permission.
In the garden of the Red Lion, Agatha phoned the newspapers and television and gave them the story and said she was at the Red Lion and would be available for interviews.
No point in forgoing good publicity for her agency.
It was late afternoon by the time all the interviews were over. As Agatha was walking back to her cottage, she received a phone call from Alice to say that they were all leaving.
Bill was waiting on the doorstep. ‘We might get something off the package. I’ll let you know. Can’t get any footprints off the path.’
‘What have you been doing all day?’ asked Agatha.
‘Questioning people in the village. Dead loss. No one saw anything and James is away. It might be a good idea if you moved out for a bit.’
‘I won’t be driven out of my home,’ said Agatha stubbornly.
Chapter Five
Fiona Morton was very upset when she found out that Simon had disappeared in the middle of the night, and what made matters worse in her mind was that the pretty barmaid had disappeared at the same time.
She was engulfed with fury. She convinced herself that he had been leading her on and thirsted for revenge.<
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Simon had been gone for two days when retired policeman Jeff Lindsey opened the door of his cottage in Lower Sithby and found Fiona on the doorstep.
‘What do you want, Fee?’ he demanded ungraciously. He was an elderly man with thick grey hair and a rather weak face. He had been the village policeman in Lower Sithby for years but had been forcibly retired when the previous government had started to sell off village police stations.
‘Let me in,’ ordered Fiona. ‘I need your help.’
Jeff stood aside reluctantly and Fiona strode past him into his cluttered living room and sat down on a sofa.
‘It’s like this, Jeff. I want to sue someone for breach of promise.’
‘You mean that young fellow you’ve been seen around with?’
‘Yes, him. I have the registration of his car and I want you to find out who he is.’
‘I’m retired,’ protested Jeff.
‘But you have contacts. When Josh Barton up at the farm wanted you to check on a couple who were renting his holiday cottage, you did that for him.’
Jeff sighed. He knew unless he did what Fiona wanted, she would never leave him in peace.
‘Give me a couple of hours,’ he said.
Fiona left him and went back to her cottage, where she sat and fretted. How could Simon have treated her so shabbily?
She drank vodka and stared at the clock, willing it to move faster. When two hours were up, she made her way back to Jeff’s cottage.
He handed her a slip of paper. ‘That car is registered to a Simon Black. That’s his address. He lives in Mircester.’
Fiona wasted no time. She got into her car and drove to Mircester, where she bought a street map and then consulted the address again – 5 Mill Lane.
Mill Lane was a winding narrow street at the back of the abbey. Number 5 was a former mews house, trim and expensive-looking. So Simon must have money.
He’ll need all of it by the time the courts and I have finished with him, thought Fiona grimly.
But first, she was determined to find out more about him. She parked outside his house and waited. A thin drizzle was falling, smearing the windscreen of her car. The long day dragged on until evening. The street lamps came on. Her eyes were just beginning to droop and she was feeling very hungry when, glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw the familiar figure of Simon, lit by a street lamp, approaching his front door.
