by M C Beaton
‘Sod off!’ yelled Agatha, her face flaming.
‘What’s this about, Agatha?’ asked Jimmy.
‘I only went to the toilet to make a phone call, Jimmy. About the case. I thought you might think it rude that I was still working on the murder. She was hammering on the door. I only said I had AIDS to get rid of her.’
Jimmy fished in his pocket, took out his warrant card and flashed it at the woman. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Go away.’
When the woman had retreated, he said, ‘How could you, Agatha? This is a small, gossipy town and I have my reputation to consider.’
‘I didn’t know they still lived in the dark ages here,’ protested Agatha. ‘What if I did have AIDS? Think of the sheer cruelty.’
‘One would think your attitude to the poor people cursed with a dreadful illness is a bit callous.’
‘I am not callous. I just didn’t think,’ said Agatha, near to tears. ‘I’d like to get out of here before they decide to stone me.’ Jimmy paid the bill and they left the restaurant. They walked in silence to the car.
‘Let’s go for a drink,’ said Agatha.
‘I would rather go home, if you don’t mind.’
Agatha tried to think of something, anything, to say to lighten the atmosphere, but Jimmy’s disapproval filled the car like a dark cloud.
Once in the bungalow, he said stiffly, ‘I would like an early night.’
‘Look, Jimmy, I—’
‘Agatha, I am a respected member of the Rotary Club and a verger at the church. I am in line to be made superintendent. My reputation is precious. Please go to bed and leave me alone.’
Agatha trailed off miserably to the spare room and sat on the bed. She had to admit to herself that she had nourished a dream of maybe marrying Jimmy and settling down. No more fears of being left alone in old age. No more frights and serpents. She felt ashamed of her remark about AIDS. She felt lonely.
She longed to phone Charles to come and rescue her, but that would be adding insult to injury as far as Jimmy was concerned. The room was stifling. Agatha wanted a cigarette. She looked around, but there was no ashtray in sight. She quietly left the room and made her way to the kitchen. Agatha could hear Jimmy leaving the bathroom and going to his own room.
The kitchen was intimidating in its housewifely cleanliness and décor. Gingham curtains hung from the windows. Appliances of every kind gleamed and glittered. There was a pot of geraniums on the table. Agatha felt one of the leaves. Fake! That cheered her up a bit.
She took a saucer down from a cupboard, sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. With a sigh of relief, she took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a smoke ring up to the ceiling. Too late, she saw the smoke alarm. It went off with a shrill sound.
The kitchen door was wrenched open and Jimmy, in striped pyjamas, glared at her. ‘No smoking, Agatha.’
Agatha sighed and stubbed out the cigarette. Jimmy went out and slammed the door behind him.
Returning to her room, Agatha packed her suitcase. There was no point in staying on. But then it dawned on her that Jimmy had probably set a burglar alarm. She tiptoed quietly to the front door. There it was.
But beside it was the fuse box. She tiptoed back. She listened. Snores were coming from Jimmy’s room. He can’t be that upset, thought Agatha sourly.
Returning to her room, she scribbled out a note for Jimmy. ‘Something’s come up. Got to go. Didn’t want to wake you. Agatha,’ and left it on her pillow.
Quietly she lifted her suitcase and crept along to the front door. She reached up to the fuse box and cut the electricity, unlocked and unbolted the front door and went out to her car.
The moon was riding high above. She saw to her dismay that Jimmy’s car was blocking her own.
But she felt she could not bear a night in his house. Agatha cautiously made her way back indoors. She followed the sound of snoring and crept into Jimmy’s room. He was lying on his back, large snores reverberating round the room. The curtains were drawn back and Agatha could see his car keys on the bedside table. She picked them up.
Back outside, she moved Jimmy’s car by releasing the handbrake and letting it slide down into the road. She loaded her suitcase into the boot of her own car. The night seemed to have brought no relief from the heat.
The clock on the dashboard said ten-thirty. Agatha could hardly believe it was still so early. A lifetime seemed to have gone past since she had first arrived. She crept back into the house and left the car keys on the kitchen table.
She drove down to the Garden Hotel, where she had stayed before, booked into a smoking room and then made her way down to the bar, where a large gin and tonic soothed her rattled nerves.
Chapter Six
Simon, clutching an autograph book in which he had scrawled the forged signatures of various celebrities, rang the bell outside Jessica Fordyce’s door. He still had hopes of getting close to Toni and wished she were with him.
A young man answered the door. He was barefooted and wearing only a pair of ragged jeans slung low on his hips. He had the face of a dissolute fawn shadowed by a mop of glossy black curls.
‘I was hoping to get Miss Fordyce’s autograph,’ said Simon.
‘Give me your book and I’ll see what I can do.’ He held out his hand.
‘Is it possible I could have a minute with her? I’m such a fan.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ The door began to close.
‘Who is it?’ called a female voice from behind him.
‘Some fan wanting an autograph. I’ll get rid of him.’
‘Don’t do that, Rex. Musn’t be rude to the fans. Let him come in.’
‘She’s through that door,’ said Rex, and walked off.
Simon walked into the kitchen. ‘I’m just making coffee,’ said Jessica. ‘Take a seat.’ Jessica helped herself to a mug of coffee and sat down opposite Simon in front of a laptop. ‘Just a moment,’ she said.
She was wearing a gingham blouse, brief denim shorts and wedge-heeled sandals. ‘Aha!’ she said at last. ‘Here we have the website of the Agatha Raisin Detective Agency and here is a photograph of Agatha with her staff. And here’s you.’
‘Doesn’t stop me from being a fan,’ said Simon gamely. ‘I’d still like an autograph.’ He pushed the book across the table to her. She pushed it back.
‘Let’s stop the charade,’ she said. ‘You’re detecting and for some reason I seem to be on the list of suspects.’ She smiled at him. Simon felt blinded by that smile.
‘Now I’ve met you,’ he said, ‘it does seem silly. You’re just too beautiful to murder anyone.’
She rose from the table. ‘I think that deserves a coffee. Milk and sugar?’
‘Yes, please.’ Simon admired her long legs. All thoughts of Toni were forgotten. He could feel himself being pulled into Jessica’s aura, and then began wondering who the young man was.
As if by telepathy, the young man appeared in the kitchen. ‘He still here?’ he complained.
‘Don’t be a grump. Rex, this is Simon Black, a private detective. Simon, Rex Dangerfield acts the part of one of my lovers in the soap.’
‘Lucky Rex,’ said Simon fervently.
‘You should only talk to the police,’ complained Rex. ‘You said that Raisin female was a pain in the fundament.’
‘Run along, darling, and see if you can learn your lines for once.’
Rex went out, slamming the kitchen door behind him.
‘Luvvies,’ sighed Jessica. ‘They all think they’re Laurence Olivier. I wanted rid of him but he gets bags of fan mail. So, Simon, how can I help you?’
‘George Marston had affairs with at least two women in this village, Joyce Hemingway and Harriet Glossop,’ said Simon. ‘Have you heard anything about them?’
‘There’s a Mrs Arnold in Carsely, a vindictive gossip. But she swears she heard Joyce Hemingway one night screaming at George that she would kill him.’
‘Did you tell the police that?’
Jessica shrugged. ‘Only heard it the other day and I’m too busy to want to make statements. Look, are you sure Agatha had nothing to do with it? The whole village knows she was crazy about George.’
‘Agatha wouldn’t dream of so vicious a murder,’ said Simon. ‘Besides, I know she’s terrified of snakes.’
‘In that case, try Joyce Hemingway, and good luck, too. Now there’s someone with a vicious temper. And furthermore, she worked once at London Zoo.’
‘In the snake house?’
‘No, as a secretary, I believe.’
‘Where does she get her money from?’
‘Don’t know. Ask her – and then duck! I must get on and take Rex through his lines.’
‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ gabbled Simon. ‘Perhaps I could see you again?’
‘I’m very busy, but here’s my card. Phone and ask.’
Simon stood outside her cottage, feeling dazed. Could this be love, or was he acting like a starstruck teenager?
He took out his phone and called Toni. ‘I’m in the pub,’ she said. ‘Fred Glossop chased me off, Mrs Glossop was nice but unhelpful, and Joyce Hemingway isn’t at home. How did you get on?’
‘I could do with a drink. Wait there and I’ll join you.’
Slim, fair-haired and beautiful, the sight of Toni usually made Simon’s heart lurch, but for the first time, all he could think about was Jessica.
Jimmy Jessop struggled awake. Someone was hammering at the front door. He hauled himself out of bed and went to answer it.
‘Why, Joe!’ he exclaimed, recognizing a fellow Rotary Club member. ‘What’s up?’
‘I nearly ran into your car,’ said Joe. ‘Do you usually park it in the middle of the road?’
Jimmy looked past him. His precious BMW was slewed at an angle across the road. Then he saw that Agatha’s car had gone.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll move it right away. I had a guest and she must have moved my car to get her own out.’
Jimmy got his car keys and in striped pyjamas and tartan slippers shuffled out to move his precious vehicle. His face tightened as he realized Agatha had not even put the handbrake on.
He parked it again in his short drive and hurried indoors to dress. On his way out, he noticed the burglar alarm was switched off and cursed Agatha under his breath. He drove straight to the Garden Hotel, guessing that Agatha had probably gone there, only to find out she had checked out.
Jimmy thought, almost tearfully, of his late wife, who had never caused him a moment’s anxiety. Why on earth had he invited that hellcat back into his ordered life?
Toni listened impatiently as Simon went on and on about Jessica Fordyce, what she had said and how she had looked. No wonder I’ve got into trouble in the past with older men, thought Toni. Young men are so damned emotionally immature. Just listen to him burbling on.
At last she interrupted him with ‘Yes, all very well. The only interesting bit is about Joyce Hemingway. How are we going to get to her? I wish Agatha wasn’t so keen on publicity. As Jessica found out, our photos are on the agency website.’
‘We could listen in on her,’ said Simon.
‘How?’
‘I bought a gadget. One of those listening devices. It’s a through-the-wall one. It’s got a special ceramic microphone. The unit can turn the surface of any wall into a microphone and let me hear conversations made on the other side of the wall. It can listen through thirty centimetres of concrete.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Toni. ‘It seems a dirty business, listening in on people in their homes.’
‘We’re in a dirty business. If we don’t get a break in this case, then Agatha might end up bitten to death by adders.’
Toni hesitated. ‘Have we thought of everything? I mean, are we sure Fiona was the only one in Lower Sithby who might have wished to kill George? Yes, of course I know she didn’t, but there might be another female we’re missing.’
‘Yes, but we’re in Carsely, so let’s get on with it here,’ said Simon. ‘I thought we’d wait until after dark.’
‘Look, you do what you must, but I don’t want to be part of it,’ said Toni. ‘I’m off to see Mrs Bloxby. She knows most of what goes on in this village.’
Simon watched her retreating back, and then shrugged. He would wait until it got dark and set up his listening device outside Joyce’s cottage.
Agatha drove to George’s ex-wife’s home in Jericho in Oxford, parked and got out into the dusty heat. A parking sign said, ‘Residents only.’ She hoped the meter men had finished their checking for the day.
Mrs Trixie Tragent lived in a neat terraced house with a blue door. Agatha rang the bell. At first she thought the slim beauty facing her must be Trixie’s daughter, until her sharp eyes recognized the signs of surgical lifting on the face and the silicone of the splendid breasts revealed by a low-cut green linen top. Masses of cleverly dyed blonde hair tumbled down on her shoulders. Agatha wondered if she had hair extensions.
‘Who are you, and are you going to stare at me all day?’ demanded Trixie.
Her voice was harsh.
‘Sorry,’ said Agatha. ‘Here’s my card. I’m investigating the death of your ex-husband.’
‘You’d better come in, although I’ve already spoken to one of your officers.’
Agatha realized that Trixie had bad eyesight and had been unable to read her card, but had assumed she was from the police. She followed her into a small front room. Green linen blinds covered the windows. The walls were green and the three-piece suite was also covered in green linen. There was a large oil painting of Trixie over the fireplace, wearing a green dress.
‘Like I already said to the police, I haven’t seen George this age. Poor George. Never could keep it in his pants. That’s why we broke up.’
‘Has your husband met him?’
‘Rory? Naw. We’re divorced. George came to our wedding, but that was fifteen years ago.’
‘Do you have any children by George?’
‘Naw. He wanted brats, but I said I wasn’t going to spoil my figure.’
‘I wonder if he had any illegitimate children,’ said Agatha.
‘Hardly likely.’
‘But all his affairs . . .’
‘Usually went for old birds. He had one of those complexes. Some Greek. Forget. Well, the sun is over the poop deck or whatever. Fancy a drinkie?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m driving, but one wouldn’t hurt.’
‘What’ll it be?’
‘Gin and tonic, if you’ve got it. May I smoke?’
‘Sure, knock yourself out.’
Agatha prowled around the room until she found a small glass ashtray on the mantelpiece.
Trixie came back in after a few minutes, carrying a tray with the drinks. Her eyes had changed from a muddy brown to bright green. Contact lenses, thought Agatha.
‘It’s a funny thing, though,’ said Trixie. ‘I just remembered. If there was one thing in this world that George was afraid of, it was snakes. He was posted somewhere – can’t remember where – but he’d been bitten by some snake and rushed to hospital. He wrote me, saying he had nightmares about the beasts. Pretty awful if the murderer knew that.’
Agatha took a strong gulp of her drink. The murder of George was becoming even more frightening. The sheer viciousness of it was practically beyond belief. She was tired after her long drive. The little room was hot and stuffy.
‘Can I have one of your cancer sticks?’ asked Trixie.
‘Go ahead.’ Agatha offered her a packet of Bensons.
‘I shouldn’t really,’ said Trixie. ‘Have you noticed that women smokers get those nasty wrinkles on their upper lips?’
‘No, I hadn’t,’ lied Agatha, privately vowing again to try to give up the habit. ‘So you hadn’t heard from George in a long time?’
‘That’s right. Apart from one odd message. Forgot all about it. I didn’t ring him because I suppose I still feel nasty about the way he cheated
on me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He sounded a bit drunk. He said something about needing a lawyer and could he have the name of my one who handled our divorce. I thought, the silly bugger’s gone and got married again and got himself into trouble as usual.’
I wonder if he married someone, thought Agatha with a rising feeling of excitement. Must check.
‘You don’t have a tape of the message?’
‘I use the British Telecom answering service – you know, the one that deletes messages after thirty days. I didn’t even save it for the thirty days but wiped it out. God, I hated George. Funny the effect he had.’
Mrs Bloxby told Toni that Sarah Freemantle’s husband had arrived home. Toni would rather have tackled Sarah without the presence of her husband, but decided to try to see her anyway.
Sarah answered the door. ‘May I help you?’
‘I’m from the Agatha Raisin Detective Agency,’ said Toni. ‘And—’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
The door began to close.
A tall man loomed up behind Sarah. ‘Who is it?’
‘Just someone selling something,’ said Sarah, and slammed the door.
Toni walked back to her car. It was the weekend, so Phil would be home. Perhaps he had heard something. She was just about to get into her car when the man she had glimpsed behind Sarah came hurrying out of the house. ‘Hey, you!’ he called.
Toni waited. He came up to her. ‘What are you selling?’
‘I’m not selling anything,’ said Toni. ‘I’m a detective, investigating the murder of George Marston.’
He was a well-built middle-aged man with a deeply tanned round face, heavy eyebrows and a small pursed mouth. His eyes looked mean. ‘And what’s that got to do with my wife?’
‘I’m asking everyone that Marston worked for,’ said Toni.
‘So why did Sarah say you were selling something? Are you trying to lie your way into houses?’
He was now standing very close to her, emanating threat.
Toni moved to one side. ‘You’ll need to ask her. I told her who I was,’ she said.
