Hiss and Hers: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Wilkes hopes I will get bumped off,’ said Agatha. ‘Has anyone heard anything of the estranged Mr Glossop?’

  ‘Yes, he arrived yesterday.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Agatha, putting the coffeepot down on the table.

  ‘Now, Mrs Raisin, I know Mr Glossop and he seems a very respectable man.’

  ‘Why did they break up?’

  ‘I am not sure. I think I remember hearing it was an amicable separation.’

  ‘I think I should go and see him. Biscuits?’

  Mrs Bloxby sighed. She feared for her friend.

  After Mrs Bloxby had left, Agatha set off to the Glossops’ home, driving her car, because she was nervous of walking, feeling there were adders lurking everywhere. The sky above was bright blue and the sun shone remorselessly down on the drooping flowers in the gardens. I’d better hire a gardener to water mine, thought Agatha. Doris’s promised gardener has not turned up. I sometimes wish I had only a window box to bother about. That’s the problem of living in a cottagey countryside. Everyone expected you to have a garden stuffed with flowers.

  She parked her Mercedes Smart Car in a small space outside the Glossops’ cottage, blessing the tiny car, not for the first time, because Agatha could not parallel-park.

  She got out from the air-conditioned car and the heat engulfed her. A tall, thin, wiry man was working in the front garden, watering the plants. Obviously Mr Glossop had decided to ignore the hosepipe ban.

  ‘Mr Glossop.’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I am Agatha Raisin . . .’

  ‘The village’s nosey parker? Get lost.’

  ‘Just a few questions.’

  ‘Shove off!’

  Agatha retreated. She was just about to get into her car when she saw the dumpy figure of Harriet Glossop at the end of the road. She moved quickly to meet her, hoping to have a few words with her out of sight of her husband.

  Harriet was wearing a brief pair of shorts. Her legs were very hairy and, as she stopped in front of Agatha and raised a hand to wipe her brow, she revealed a bunch of thick brown hair under her armpit.

  Goodness, thought Agatha, to think of all the time I’ve spent getting waxed and de-werewolfed, and yet George would not even consider an affair with me!

  Harriet short-sightedly blinked in the sunlight. She took a pair of glasses out of the pocket of her sleeveless blouse and focused on Agatha. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Where were you late yesterday afternoon?’ said Agatha.

  ‘I’ve already told the police. Round and about the village. Now, if you don’t mind . . .’

  She sprinted past Agatha, running with nimble ease.

  Our Harriet’s athletic, thought Agatha. She could have scaled my fence.

  She got into her car and wondered whether to see Joyce Hemingway and Sarah Freemantle. But the police would have already checked on their alibis. Better to let Patrick Mulligan try to find out something from his police contacts.

  Agatha drove to her office in Mircester. Toni was typing out a report while Simon sat beside her drinking coffee. Two electric fans whirred busily.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Freedman?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘She was feeling faint with the heat,’ said Toni. ‘She’s gone home. Simon and I have just had a good result on the Bramley divorce case. How are you bearing up?’

  ‘All right, but not getting anywhere fast.’

  ‘Do you want Simon and me to have a go at it?’ asked Toni.

  ‘That might be an idea, but do be careful. I’ll give you the file and photographs. Phil was able to sneak photos of the suspects. Maybe the murder of Fiona has nothing to do with George’s murder. Maybe the killer didn’t think it was me after all. Maybe it was someone out of her past she had messed up. I mean, the woman was a crazy obsessive. I’ll take over your cases and let you go ahead. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes is what I need.’

  ‘There’s a real nasty one just come in,’ said Simon. ‘A missing ten-year-old.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Charlie Devon. Was supposed to get on the school bus but never did. Parents are frantic.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘This afternoon. Mother doesn’t want to wait for the police. Wants us to investigate as well.’

  ‘You pair seem to be working in tandem,’ said Agatha suspiciously.

  ‘That way, we get results,’ said Toni, giving Agatha a hard look, which seemed to say, ‘Don’t interfere in my life again.’

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘St George’s, Church of England, on the Evesham Road.’

  ‘I’ll get on it right away.’

  Agatha stopped her car before she got to the school because she could see a mobile police unit being set up in front of it.

  She could hardly go into the school and start to interview people with the police around. Police would be at the parents’ home as well.

  She sat and scowled horribly in thought. The road shimmered in the heat in front of her.

  Agatha felt suddenly helpless. The police would be scanning the CCTV cameras that festooned Mircester.

  Think! she commanded herself.

  Suppose the kid hadn’t been snatched by some paedo-phile. The day was scorching. What would I have done at his age? What if he had a bad report card and wanted to put off the moment of going home?

  Agatha drove round to the back of the school and pulled out an ordnance survey map and studied it closely.

  Then she phoned Mrs Freedman. After asking her secretary how she was, Agatha demanded, ‘Where would your little grandchildren go for a swim on a hot day near St George’s School on the Evesham Road?’

  ‘My daughter’s with me. Hang on a moment.’

  Agatha waited impatiently, listening to the faint murmur of voices at the other end of the line.

  At last Mrs Freedman came back on the line. ‘There is one place, Wikley Hole. It’s a disused quarry filled with water. It’s pretty dangerous and children are warned not to go there.’

  Agatha took out a notebook and pen, and asked for directions.

  Finally she rang off and drove in the direction of the quarry. She parked on a road near the quarry and set off in the heat. At last she stood on the lip of the quarry and looked down into the sinister black water. Nothing moved. She saw a sort of rabbit track leading precipitously down to the water.

  Agatha hesitated. The heat was suffocating and she had a longing to return to her air-conditioned car, but something drove her on. She slithered down the track, getting her hands full of thorns as she had to grab on to various gorse bushes to stop herself from sliding.

  At last she found herself on a grassy ledge beside the water. She was about to turn away when she heard a sob.

  ‘Charlie,’ she said gently, ‘come out. I am a friend of your parents and I’ve come to take you home.’

  ‘C-can’t,’ choked a little voice from the bushes next to her. ‘I ain’t got no clothes. The big boys took ’em.’

  ‘All you’ve got to do is come out and follow me up to my car. I won’t peek. I’ve got a rug in the car you can cover yourself with.’

  ‘You won’t look! Promise!’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. Just follow me.’

  Agatha set off slowly back up the track. She could hear the boy coming up behind her by the occasional sobs that racked his body. Once at the car, she fished a travel rug out of the back and closed her eyes.

  The rug was finally snatched from her, and Charlie said, ‘You can look now, missus.’

  He was small for his age with a mop of red curls and a freckled face. At Agatha’s urging, he got into the passenger seat.

  Agatha took out the file on him with his parents’ address, located it on the town map and set off.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  It all came pouring out. He was in trouble at school. He had cheeked the maths teacher, Miss Water, and had been told to take a letter to his parents. He had wan
ted to put off going home and so he had nipped out the back of the school. It was so hot he had decided to go for a swim. He had just got into the water when some boys came down. They snatched his clothes and ran off laughing.

  ‘There’s an ice-cream van,’ said Agatha, stopping. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Yes, please. Chocolate.’

  While Agatha waited for a cone with two scoops of chocolate ice cream, she phoned the boy’s parents and then the Associated Press with a message that private detective Agatha Raisin had found the missing boy and was returning him to his parents.

  A much-recovered Charlie thanked her for the ice cream and then asked cautiously, ‘You ain’t one of them weirdos, are you?’

  ‘I am a private detective, Agatha Raisin.’

  ‘Gosh! Cool!’

  Agatha drove very slowly and was relieved to see several members of the press outside Charlie’s home. Bill would be furious with her, but the agency could do with publicity.

  As Agatha and Charlie got out of the car, cameras clicked, the house door opened, and Charlie’s mother came flying down the path, tears of relief streaming down her face.

  Agatha introduced herself and had the satisfaction of seeing reporters taking down Mrs Devon’s impassioned thanks. Once in the house, Agatha was grilled by the police, who almost seemed to think she had staged the whole thing.

  When she got back to her cottage, Agatha felt weary and suddenly frightened. The unrelenting heat seemed to hold a brooding menace. Old houses like Agatha’s thatched cottage seemed to come alive as they settled down for the night with creaks and rustles in the thatch. She found she was jumping at every sound.

  She thought of Wyckhadden. She could almost see waves breaking on the shore and feel fresh sea breezes on her cheeks. Agatha made a sudden decision. One weekend away would not hurt.

  She phoned Jimmy Jessop and told him she would drive down on the following day, Friday, and spend the weekend with him.

  Jimmy was delighted. He said crime was quiet and he would be able to spend the whole weekend with her. Agatha then phoned Toni and told her she would be away for the weekend.

  As soon as Agatha had rung off, Toni phoned Simon with the news. ‘It would be great if we had a break and solved the murders before she came back,’ said Toni.

  Simon brightened at the prospect of spending the weekend with Toni. ‘I can tackle Jessica Fordyce on Saturday,’ he said. ‘Your photograph has been in too many newspapers. I’ll pose as a fan. You can tackle some of the others. I’ll book us two rooms in a bed and breakfast. There might be someone in the village who takes paying guests. I’ll look it up.’

  * * *

  Early the following morning, Agatha heaved a heavy suitcase into the boot of her small car. She had nervously packed clothes for every occasion. Doris picked up the cats, saying, ‘I’ll water the garden for you while you’re away. The poor flowers are dying in this dreadful heat.’ Agatha had largely ignored the flowers. They reminded her too much of George and her own stupid folly in chasing after him.

  She drove off under a glaring sun along roads where pools of silicon shone like lakes in the heat.

  At last, by late afternoon, she topped a rise and saw beneath her the town of Wyckhadden, seeming to crouch before an endless flat sea.

  Agatha had a good memory and remembered the road to Jimmy’s bungalow. She recalled how vandals ripped up her mink coat. Jimmy had given it to his late wife, who had had it repaired. I wonder if he’s got it, thought Agatha. I wouldn’t mind having it back.

  Jimmy had been watching for her and came out to meet her. ‘Let me,’ he said, taking her heavy case from her. He pecked her on the cheek. He still had a lugubrious face and large pale eyes under heavy lids. There were a few grey hairs in his black hair, but that was the only change Agatha could see in him.

  He dumped Agatha’s case in the hall. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Just stopped for a bacon sandwich on the road.’

  ‘Then I’ll take you out for dinner. There’s a new place in town. Do you need to freshen up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll show you where your room is, through here at the back. I’m proud of our guest room. My late wife had a bathroom en suite put in.’

  The double bed was covered in one of those slippery silk covers that Agatha loathed. It was bright pink, as were the curtains at the window. The bathroom boasted a pink bathmat, and the toilet was covered in pink chenille. Agatha wondered if the late Mrs Jessop had been a Barbara Cartland fan.

  She decided to hang up her clothes later. She washed her face and reapplied her make-up.

  When she joined Jimmy again, she said, ‘I haven’t changed. I’m just too hungry.’

  ‘You’ll do. It’s not a dressy place.’

  Obviously, thought Agatha uneasily. Jimmy was wearing a tropical shirt over grey flannels and grey socks with brown sandals.

  ‘Things haven’t changed much since your last visit,’ said Jimmy as he drove competently into the centre of the town. ‘The sea wall is ugly and blots out the view of the beach, but it’s better than being flooded. Here we are. The great thing about this place is that they have a large car park.’

  Agatha’s heart sank. The restaurant was called Chicky Chicken. A large neon chicken reared up against the paling night sky.

  They entered the restaurant. ‘I booked a table,’ said Jimmy. ‘This place is awfully popular.’

  There was no air-conditioning and Agatha could feel little rivulets of sweat running down her back as they were ushered into a booth with plastic seating. The menu was on a tablemat. Agatha gloomily surveyed the menu. There was every kind of chicken dish: roast chicken, barbecued chicken, southern fried, chicken in a basket and chicken wings.

  ‘I could murder a nice cold drink,’ said Agatha.

  ‘I’m afraid they haven’t got a licence,’ said Jimmy, ‘but they do a very good fruit squash.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Agatha bleakly. ‘I’ll have one of those and some roast chicken, maybe with roast potatoes.’

  ‘Just chips.’

  ‘Oh, well, go for it.’

  ‘My wife had her last meal out here,’ said Jimmy, ‘before she became too weak. It will always have a special place in my heart.’

  After Jimmy had given their order to an acned waiter, Agatha asked, ‘What kind of cancer did she have?’

  ‘Cancer of the breast.’

  ‘But I thought they could do wonders these days.’

  ‘Poor Margaret. She was so proud of her hair.’

  Agatha blinked, remembering Mrs Jessop’s tightly permed curls.

  ‘She refused chemo and tried every alternative you could think of.’

  I shouldn’t have come, thought Agatha. But I’ll need to stop being snobbish. I like chicken, but I would also have liked a drink. Oh, well, I may as well get something out of this trip.

  ‘Your late wife did enjoy that fur coat of mine,’ she said. ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Margaret loved it so much, she left instructions to be buried in it.’

  Oh, my mink, mourned Agatha. All those beautiful little vermin that were better on my back than depopulating the natural species of these islands.

  ‘Wasn’t that considered . . . well . . . a bit odd?’

  ‘Not at all. Margaret was much respected. Now, tell me about these horrible murders.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Agatha paused as their food arrived. ‘I’ll eat something and then I’ll tell you,’ she said.

  Her first bite of chicken removed much of her appetite. Even though Agatha’s palate was geared to junk food, she found the chicken dry and tasteless. She wondered if they had boiled it first for stock. She seized the bottle of ketchup on the table and doused it and put another helping on her chips.

  ‘You’ll ruin the taste,’ said Jimmy severely. ‘That chicken is free range.’

  With legs like this, the poor bird was probably jammed in a cage until it finally died a welcome and premature death, thought Agatha. S
he gloomily forced herself to eat some ketchup-doused bird and then began to talk about the murders. She finished by asking, ‘You have some experience of murderers. I’ve told you about my suspects. Who do you think it could be?’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘He seems to have been a serial philanderer. There could be other women in his past. Was he ever married?’

  ‘Snakes and bastards. He told me he had been married once but said he didn’t want to talk about it. Excuse me. I must powder my nose.’ Agatha headed for the ladies’ toilet. She had not wanted to make a phone call about the case in the noise of the restaurant.

  Ensconced in a stall in the toilet, Agatha took out her phone and dialled Janet Ilston’s number. ‘It’s Agatha here,’ she said urgently. ‘Your brother was married once. Who was she and how did the divorce come about?’

  ‘It was twenty years ago. Her name was Trixie DuVane. She was a young model. All legs and no brain. George wouldn’t talk about it. All he said was that it was an amicable divorce.’

  ‘Have you any sort of address for her?’

  ‘I do as a matter of fact. She wrote me a letter of condolence. Hang on a minute.’

  Agatha waited impatiently.

  A woman hammered on the door. ‘Are you going to be in there all day?’ she shouted.

  ‘I’ve got AIDS,’ yelled Agatha. ‘Leave me alone.’

  There came shocked exclamations and the shuffle of feet as the ladies’ toilet hurriedly emptied. Idiots still think you can get it from lavatory seats, thought Agatha.

  Janet came back on the line. ‘She’s now Mrs Tragent. Number twenty-two, River Lane, Jericho, Oxford.’

  Agatha thanked her and rang off. She hurried back to Jimmy.

  ‘You look stressed. You should forget about the murders and enjoy the weekend,’ said Jimmy severely. ‘I mean, here we are together again.’ He leaned across the table, and taking Agatha’s hand in his, gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  A woman marched up to their table and glared at Agatha. She had dyed blonde hair and a fake bake. ‘I waited outside the loo to see who it was. I wouldn’t touch her if I were you,’ she said to Jimmy. ‘I heard her loud and clear. She’s got AIDS.’