by M C Beaton
‘Bung Ho?’
‘A joke of my husband’s and the name stuck.’
‘And you’re sure you’ve got the right cat?’
‘I know. I got Bung Ho microchipped. Come in and I’ll check.’
Once inside, Mrs Finney prodded round the neck of the cat Simon had given her. ‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘No microchip. Let’s have a look at the one you’ve got. Where did you find it?’
‘Someone handed it in to the Animal Rescue Centre.’
Mrs Finney tenderly lifted out the cat that Toni had brought. ‘This one has a microchip,’ she said. ‘Oh, and here’s one little black dot behind the left ear. Good heavens! This is Bung Ho. What do I do with the other one?’
‘Do you mind keeping it for the moment?’ asked Toni. ‘I’ve got to check where it came from.’
* * *
She stood outside the house, thinking hard. Simon had money and Simon detested being demoted to looking for lost animals. Toni drove to the pet shop in Mircester.
Before going into the shop, she flicked through her camera until she found a group photo of the detective agency’s staff. Then she went in. She showed the salesman the photograph, pointing to Simon. ‘Did he come in here recently and buy a cat?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. He bought a lilac point. Lovely beast.’
‘Thank you. That’s all I want to know.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Toni.
She drove back to Mrs Finney’s home. ‘I wonder if you would mind keeping the extra cat,’ she said. ‘Animal Rescue really likes to find good homes for their animals.’
‘I’d love to keep it. But it’s very expensive. Shouldn’t I pay them something?’
‘Oh, no. They’ll just be glad the cat’s found a good home.’
With Mrs Finney’s thanks ringing in her ears, Toni made her way back to the office.
‘Well?’ demanded Agatha.
‘Simon found the cat and returned it,’ said Toni.
‘Thank goodness for that.’
Simon came in. ‘I’m glad you found that cat,’ said Agatha, ‘but there is other work here. Do not go off to Carsely again without telling me. I’ll find you something else in the morning.’
‘Great!’ said Simon.
‘I’m leaving as well,’ said Toni. ‘Wait for me, Simon.’
‘We have to talk,’ said Toni. ‘What the hell were you about buying an expensive cat? I found the real one and took it back.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Simon. ‘Agatha’ll be furious.’
‘I didn’t tell her. The real cat had just been handed in at the centre. I told Mrs Finney she could keep your cat as well. What on earth are you playing at?’
‘Come for a drink,’ said Simon, ‘and I’ll tell you.’
Chapter Eight
Simon was longing for an excuse – any excuse – to talk about his idol. Toni listened with all the growing irritation of any woman listening to a young man lauding the beauties of another female.
When he had finally finished, Toni said, ‘Look, if this goes on, you’ll find yourself out of a job. Your heroine is one of the suspects – that is, if Agatha is right and the Frasers aren’t murderers.’
‘Don’t be silly. She’s got cast-iron alibis. You’re jealous!’
‘Spare me,’ said Toni. ‘Your vanity is getting the better of you. Okay, if you want to shine in her eyes, why not try to be the detective who broke the case?’
Simon’s odd, sometimes clownlike face lit up as he saw in his mind’s eye himself standing beside Jessica, in front of the press, describing how he had found the real murderer.
‘That’s a great idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on it right away.’
‘No, you won’t,’ exclaimed Toni. ‘Do your work for Agatha or you won’t have a job. If you must ferret around, do it in your own time.’
Agatha Raisin drove home under a lowering sky. It looked as if the suffocating weather was about to break at last. She longed for a dramatic thunderstorm to match her racing mind. Somehow, she could feel in her very bones that the threat had not left Carsely although everyone she had talked to seemed to believe the danger was over. And the better-off villagers liked the idea of some criminal lowlifes from the estate being the villains.
Something told her Mrs Glossop knew something. And what about the battered Mrs Freemantle? Her husband was vicious enough.
She thought about the listening device in the office safe. It was tempting to think of using it. But listening illegally to people’s private conversations was a dirty game.
As she drove down into Carsely, she could almost sense the overarching trees waiting for rain. There was a breathless stillness about the countryside. Agatha let herself into her cottage and patted her cats. She was just cooking liver for them when she realized she had never found out who inherited George’s money. ‘What kind of detective am I?’ she said to her indifferent cats.
When the liver was cooked, she set it aside to cool and phoned George’s sister, Janet Ilston.
‘What do you want?’ demanded Janet.
‘Who did George leave everything to?’ asked Agatha.
‘I don’t know why you are still asking questions. I’m contesting his will. He left everything, including his cottage, to some female called Harriet Glossop.’
‘When did you find this out?’ demanded Agatha.
‘Yesterday.’
‘Why did you only find this out now?’
‘An old army friend of his just back from Afghanistan turned up with the will. He had met George when he was last on leave and for some reason George gave him the will for safekeeping. It is one of those do-it-yourself wills you get from W. H. Smith.’
‘What is the name of this friend?’
‘I don’t see what it has to do with you.’
‘Because I think George may not have been murdered by the Frasers.’
There was a long silence. ‘Hello, hello!’ said Agatha.
‘I’m here. This is interesting. What if that Glossop woman murdered George for his money? Look, I’ll rehire you.’
‘Okay. I’ll send you the paperwork.’
Agatha felt a surge of excitement after she had rung off. She decided to go and have a talk with Harriet Glossop.
The rain was coming down in sheets as she drove the short distance through the village to Harriet’s cottage. The evening was very dark, the clouds above so low, they looked as if they were resting on the hills above Carsely.
As she got out of the car, she noticed a light was on in the living room. Agatha rang the doorbell and waited.
No reply.
She tilted her umbrella to get a view of the road. Harriet’s Ford was parked next to the kerb. Agatha rang again.
The rain drummed on her umbrella and chuckled in the guttering of the cottage above her head. Agatha took out her mobile phone and scrolled through the logged numbers until she found Harriet’s. She rang the number and then bent down and opened the letterbox. She could hear a phone ringing inside the house and then it switched over to voice mail.
Agatha experienced a frisson of unease. She carefully tried the door handle. The door was unlocked.
She swung the door open and called out, ‘Harriet! Are you there?’
Only the sound of the rain met her ears.
Then there was a sudden flash of lightning, so bright that for one awful moment Agatha thought the cottage had been struck. A light shone under the living-room door.
Harriet will walk in any moment and demand to know what the hell I am doing in her house, thought Agatha uneasily. Still . . . just a little look. She opened the living-room door.
It was a typical cottage living room with a chintz-covered sofa and two armchairs. A rather bad oil painting of a tabby cat hung over the fireplace. A display cabinet with pieces of china ornamented one corner. The round table by the window held the remains of a meal.
A glass of wine beside a dinner plate had been knocke
d over, spreading a red stain like blood over the white tablecloth.
A monumental crash of thunder made Agatha jump. Agatha took out her phone again and called Phil Marshall. ‘Phil,’ she said, ‘I’m at Harriet Glossop’s cottage. I let myself in. She doesn’t seem to be home, but I’ve got a bad feeling. Before I search any further, could you come along here and join me?’
Phil said he would be along in a few minutes. Agatha sat down on the sofa and hugged her knees as the thunder rolled and crashed around the cottage.
It seemed to take an age until Phil arrived, although it was only five minutes.
‘Are you sure she’s not going to come back and find us trespassing?’ asked Phil anxiously.
‘We can always say we were worried about her,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s look around. I’ll take the upstairs if you search the rest of the downstairs.’
With a fast-beating heart, Agatha mounted the carpeted stairs. The first door she opened revealed what looked like the spare bedroom. She tried the next door and drew in a short, sharp, shocked breath before calling, ‘Phil!’
Phil Marshall came up the stairs with an agility that belied his years.
Harriet Glossop lay on her bed. A lamp burned on a bedside table. Her face was white and glistening with a deathly pallor in the light.
‘I’d better check for a pulse,’ said Phil nervously. He approached the bed and put a finger on Harriet’s neck.
Harriet’s eyes flew open and she let out a scream of pure terror.
‘It’s me, Agatha.’ Agatha moved forward into the light. ‘We rang the doorbell and phoned. We thought something awful had happened to you.’
Harriet struggled up against the pillows and glared at them. ‘You’re trespassing. I’ll call the police.’
‘Don’t do that,’ pleaded Agatha. ‘You must see how it looks. I learned that George had left everything in his will to you and . . . and . . . your face looks so white.’
‘It’s anti-wrinkle cream,’ said Harriet, taking a tissue from a box on the bedside table and wiping her face. ‘And I take sleeping pills. I haven’t been able to sleep properly since poor George’s death.’
Above their heads, the retreating storm was grumbling off into the distance.
‘I’m going back to sleep,’ said Harriet. ‘Just get out of here.’
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ said Agatha. ‘I’m sorry we gave you such a shock.’
‘Go away!’ screamed Harriet.
Agatha and Phil retreated to Agatha’s cottage. ‘Now I’ve done it,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘I don’t think she’s going to want to speak to me ever again.’
‘Are you really sure the Frasers aren’t the murderers?’ asked Phil. ‘There’s really no proof it was anyone else.’
‘I just have this feeling,’ said Agatha stubbornly. ‘I think this murderer is someone too clever and vicious to have been one of the Frasers. Why would someone want to murder Fiona, for example? I can imagine one of George’s ex-lovers doing it in a jealous rage. But why the Frasers? This is only a village. Not a city. Who can creep about here, murdering Fiona in broad daylight in my garden—’
‘You forget,’ interrupted Phil. ‘We believed, remember, that the murderer may have thought Fiona was you. And if the Frasers are not the murderers, then there may be someone out there who still wants to kill you.’
‘Not as long as the Frasers are suspects. Whoever it is won’t want the case opened again.’
‘Unless that someone is mad,’ said Phil.
‘Let me think,’ said Agatha. ‘At first it seems impossible that someone could have dug up that rockery and put the snake books in that box without the neighbours, who initially reported the suspicious activities that led to the cannabis farm being discovered, noticing anything. On the other hand, what if the books were planted there before the murders as a safeguard? If the murderer felt the police were closing in, then an anonymous tip-off would have let them find that box. Which one of our few suspects could have known the Frasers?’
‘Someone who smokes pot?’ suggested Phil.
‘If only I could interview the Frasers,’ wailed Agatha.
‘They’ll have a lawyer,’ said Phil. ‘Get his name and get him to ask them.’
‘Good idea. I’ll do that tomorrow. Meantime, I’ll see if Patrick can call on Harriet. He might have better luck.’
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ said Phil. ‘You’ll probably need to wait till Monday to interview the lawyer.’
‘His name’s probably on the Internet,’ said Agatha. ‘He’s maybe quoted as making some sort of a statement.’
Followed by Phil, she went through to her computer and switched it on. She scrolled through reports of the arrest of the Frasers. ‘Ah, here we are. Lawyer for the defence, Terence Ogilvie, said to the press, “I cannot discuss the case at the moment.” I’ll see if I can get his home number. Here is his office: ten Market Street, Mircester. So with any luck he lives in Mircester. Pass me the Gloucestershire phone book.’
She riffled quickly through the pages. ‘There’s a T. Ogilvie at Fir Cottage, Harvey Road, Mircester. Good. I’ll call on him tomorrow. Look at it this way. If planting those books was done before the murder, it could have been done when the husband was on the run and the wife was on remand.’
‘That can’t be it,’ said Phil. ‘Mrs Fraser dug the rockery after she was free.’
‘Rats! So she did. But wait a bit! That was still before the murders.’
‘It’s all very far-fetched,’ said Phil.
‘Have you ever known my intuition to be wrong before?’ demanded Agatha.
‘Yes.’
Agatha’s mind flew to all the mistakes she had made with men, and said hurriedly, ‘It won’t do any harm just to see this lawyer. Phil, if you don’t mind working at the weekend – you know I always pay overtime – could you ask the Frasers’ neighbours if they saw anyone?’
‘All right. Must get my beauty sleep.’
Phil was in his late seventies but his thick white hair looked healthy and he had few lines on his face. Hope for me yet, thought Agatha. Mind you, Phil doesn’t smoke.
Simon awoke on Saturday morning with a feeling of anticipation. Jessica would be in Carsely and he must think up a way of approaching her. But when he looked out of his window, he saw that it was a damp, drizzly day. He had hoped to be, say, strolling past her cottage and seeing her working in her front garden.
But Carsely drew him like a magnet. He set off in his car rather than on his motorbike, for the radio weather report in the morning had said that a lot of the roads were flooded.
He did not know that Toni was following him. Toni was worried about Simon. His obsession with Jessica had led him to being attacked outside the soap star’s cottage.
Simon parked some distance away from Jessica’s cottage. He began to wish he had put on some sort of disguise. What if Agatha should come across him?
He decided to stroll past Jessica’s cottage. If her car was there, then perhaps he could pluck up courage to ring the doorbell. Unlike Agatha, he believed the murders were solved so he couldn’t even use the excuse of detecting.
Simon got out and began to walk. Toni, with a hood pulled down over her head and her face shielded by a large umbrella, set out in pursuit, but at some distance behind.
With a fast-beating heart, Simon saw that Jessica’s car was there. He slowed his pace. Then an idea came to him. If he interviewed one of the women who had been involved with George, he might pick up a bit of gossip that would give him an excuse to call on Jessica.
He took out his BlackBerry and flicked through to notes on the case. Phil had also covertly snapped photos of suspects. Joyce Hemingway was described as acidulous and impossible to talk to. Harriet Glossop seemed approachable and her cottage was nearby.
Why is he going there? wondered Toni, watching him turn in at Harriet’s gate. Like Simon had done, she flicked through her BlackBerry until she found the address. Harriet Glossop! He must have ta
ken Agatha’s theory seriously that the Frasers had not committed the murders.
Harriet’s door was standing slightly open. Simon rang the bell. Water dripped mournfully from the thatch above his head and a hollyhock, crushed by last night’s downpour, lay at his feet.
Determined to get some nugget of gossip to take to Jessica, he eased himself in the door. ‘Anybody home?’ he called.
He thought he heard a movement from the kitchen at the back and moved slowly forward.
He stopped just before the kitchen and let out a gasp of horror. A woman lay prone on the floor, half in and half out of the kitchen, with blood pouring from a wound on the back of her head.
Simon was crouched down beside her, feeling for a pulse, when he was struck a massive blow.
* * *
Toni stood outside, wondering what to do. Then she decided to go and join him. If Simon had simply decided to go detecting, then she could as well.
Like Simon, she rang the bell. No reply. Surely they weren’t out in the back garden on such a miserable day. She cautiously walked in, calling, ‘Simon!’ as she went.
She thought she heard a faint groan coming from the back of the cottage and hurried forward.
Simon was lying prone over the body of a woman. Toni knelt down beside him. He made a choked sound. His pulse was weak and fluttering.
Toni called desperately for help. Then she phoned Agatha, stammering out the bad news. Agatha had been on her way to interview the lawyer when Toni rang.
Toni was frightened to move Simon in case she did more damage but did not want to leave him lying like that over the body of the woman. She gently eased him off and then ran upstairs to the bedroom and came back down with blankets to wrap around him. She soaked a clean dishtowel in the kitchen sink and held it to the bleeding wound on his head.
She heard Agatha arrive, and called, ‘Don’t come any nearer. It’s a crime scene and Simon has been badly hurt.’
Agatha retreated to the road and paced up and down. She wished she had not told her staff that she did not believe the Frasers to be murderers. Simon must have decided to see what he could find out.
