by M C Beaton
“What sort of things?”
“Mrs. Carrie Brother was charged by him because her dog fouled the village green. Mr. and Mrs. Summer and Mr. and Mrs. Beagle. They usually decorate their cottages with Christmas lights but have been stopped this year. All those regulations.”
“Where were they seated?” asked Agatha.
“It’s so hard to remember. I think the Beagles were by the fire and the Summers over by the door. But it would need to be someone who left the room, wouldn’t it? There’s only Mrs. Courtney and Miss Simms. Perhaps Miss Simms?”
“Did she voice a dislike of Sunday?”
“Well, no, but I mean, she is not really quite what one would expect at a ladies society.”
Agatha bristled. “Miss Simms has been a very good secretary for some time.”
“I don’t think it can be Miriam,” said Charles with a sideways glinting smile at Agatha. “She seems such a jolly, straightforward sort of person.”
“Exactly,” said Penelope. “And she has done so much for the village. Such a generous contribution to the church restoration fund and she always makes the manor available for village parties and events.”
Again that stab of jealousy hit Agatha. Would anyone praise her in such a way? Sometimes she felt she was living on the Cotswolds rather than in the Cotswolds. Her work at the agency meant she was often out of the village for long periods of time. In the past she had raised funds for various charities but certainly not of late. And the recession meant that people were always arriving to take up the houses the new impoverished were leaving, so few people would remember her actually doing anything to help the village of Carsely. Agatha wished she had paid more attention to the people in the room the previous night.
“Did John Sunday have a love life?” asked Charles.
Penelope removed one pink slipper and meditatively scratched a big toe. “Chilblains,” she said. “There was a rumour . . . oh, but I never pay attention to gossip.”
“Try to remember,” said Agatha eagerly.
“I shouldn’t . . . and Giles would be furious if he knew I had been passing on malicious gossip, but I did hear that Tilly Glossop and he seemed to be close.”
“And where does this Tilly Glossop live?”
“On the other side of the green. It’s a little cottage called Happenstance.”
“That’s an odd name,” said Charles.
“She is rather an odd woman. Quite gypsy-like. I don’t think she has any gypsy blood in her, but she wears bangles and shawls and thingies.”
Agatha got to her feet. “No time like the present. We’ll go and talk to her.”
“Dear me,” fluttered Penlope. “You won’t say I—”
“No, no. Won’t breathe a word. Was she here last night?”
“No, she wasn’t. She doesn’t go to church, either.”
“Does anyone these days?” asked Agatha cynically.
“My dear Mrs. Raisin. Most of this village attends on Sundays.”
As Agatha and Charles, hanging on to each other, staggered through the snow to the other side of the green, Charles said, “You’re slipping, Agatha.”
“I know I am. These boots were not made for walking.”
“I don’t mean that. There was one person out of that room last night surely?”
“Who?”
“Was the vicar there?”
“Well, no.”
“And he’s got a bad temper and he threatened to kill the little twat.”
“I thought of him,” lied Agatha huffily, “but I thought I would explore that avenue later.”
“Says you!”
“Says I. Here we are,” said Agatha.
Happenstance was a very old cottage which leaned towards the garden under a heavy snow-covered thatched roof. Two front windows looked like eyes.
“The air’s suddenly turned warmer,” said Charles. “Everything’s beginning to drip. And the sun’s coming out.”
Agatha rang the bell. No one answered. “Maybe the bell doesn’t work,” said Charles. “Give the door a good bang.”
Agatha hammered on the door. But her banging precipitated a small avalanche of snow from the roof which cascaded down on them.
“Snakes and bastards,” howled Agatha.
“Let’s give up,” said Charles. “Damn, I’ve got snow down the back of my neck.”
“What do you want?” demanded a voice behind them.
They both swung round. The round figure of a woman muffled up in a coat and two shawls with a woolly cap pulled down over her face stood glaring at them.
“We just wanted a word with you,” said Agatha. “I am a private detective working for Miriam Courtney. This is Sir Charles Fraith.”
“Oh, if you’re working for Miriam, you’d best come indoors. But leave your coats in the hall. You’re covered with snow.”
She pushed past them and opened the door. The “hall” was a tiny space cluttered up with Wellington boots and coats on pegs on the wall. Agatha looked for a spare peg but could find none. She took off her coat and rammed it over a hanging oilskin. Charles dropped his on the floor.
Tilly had disappeared somewhere. They stood irresolute until they heard her call, “In here.”
The sound of her voice came from the left. They pushed open the door and entered a cluttered cottage parlour. A fire smouldered in the grate. The mantelpiece above it was crowded with china ornaments. One wall was covered with bookshelves full of paperbacks. A computer and printer were set up on a table at the window. The three-piece suite so beloved by English households was missing. Instead three hard-backed chairs fronted a low coffee table.
Divested of her outer garments—where had she put them, wondered Agatha—Tilly was revealed as a stocky middle-aged woman with a swarthy face and large black eyes. She had a small curved nose like a beak and a thin mouth. She was dressed in a lumpy wool cardigan and a black T-shirt over a baggy skirt.
“So what do you want to know?” asked Tilly. “Sit down.”
Agatha and Charles sat down on two of the hard chairs and Tilly stood in front of them with her back to the fire.
“We heard you were a friend of John Sunday,” said Agatha, miserably aware that her boots were now full of melting snow.
“I knew him. So what?”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Of course he had, you stupid woman. Anyone trying to bring a little law and order always has enemies.”
“Anyone more threatening than the others?”
“Well, there was Carrie.”
“Carrie Brother?” asked Agatha. “The one whose dog fouled the village green?”
“That’s the one. Great hulking brute of a woman. Swore at poor John like a trooper.”
“Were you having an affair with John Sunday?”
“We were friends, that’s all.”
“May I ask what you had in common?”
“I’ll tell you what we had in common,” snarled Tilly. “A hatred of all the mealy-mouthed parochial little insects called villagers.”
Charles found his voice. He asked mildly, “If you dislike the people in the village so much, why do you live here?”
“They’re the incomers, not me. This was my parents’ cottage and my grandparents’ before them. They come and they go, trying to fit into village life, or some Merchant-Ivory view of village life. House prices rise so they sell up and off they go back to their cities. I liked seeing John making them sweat.”
“Did you see him on the evening of the murder?” asked Agatha.
Something flickered in those obsidian eyes of hers but she said curtly, “No.”
“Are you interested in finding out who murdered him?” asked Charles.
She shrugged her meaty shoulders. “I would be if I thought the police would ever find the culprit, but they won’t.”
“Why?” asked Agatha.
She grinned, revealing very white dentures. “Too many suspects. Now, why don’t you push off?”
“I don’t like her and I’m freezing,” moaned Agatha when they drove off. “Let’s get home and change. Then we’ll go back and tackle Carrie Brother.”
“We, Paleface?”
“You mean you’re leaving?”
“People to see, places to go,” said Charles.
Agatha would have liked to protest but realised she had no claim on him. He didn’t work for her.
Outside her cottage, Charles got into his own car and sped off. Agatha felt rather bereft. He had not said if he would be back.
Inside, Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, was hard at work. She switched off the vacuum when she saw Agatha and said, “Terrible, that murder. Not that he didn’t deserve it, though.”
“I must get changed,” said Agatha, heading for the stairs.
“I’ll make you a nice strong cup of coffee,” Doris called after her.
Agatha had a hot shower and put on dry clothes. Back in the kitchen, Doris put a mug of coffee down on the kitchen table. “Have you heard of anyone who might have wanted to kill Sunday?” asked Agatha.
“Lots of people,” said Doris. “But not the kind that’d actually do it. Like our vicar. They’re putting the tree up on the church and the lights up in the village street.”
“Won’t they get into trouble?”
“No, John was disliked at the Health and Safety. Insisted on shoving everything through and making work for his colleagues they didn’t want.”
“There’s an idea,” said Agatha slowly. “Of course. I was thinking they were all bastards on that safety board. Maybe he really wound someone up. But who would follow him in a blizzard to a small village?”
“Drink your coffee, love. I’ll just get on.” Doris left the kitchen. Agatha’s cats, who adored the cleaner, scampered after her. Agatha watched them sourly. Charles, who was like a cat, had been smarming all over Miriam, and her treacherous cats seemed to always prefer Doris to herself.
She felt lonely. She suddenly did not want to go back to Odley Cruesis and detect on her own.
Agatha phoned Toni. Mrs. Freedman said Toni was out of the office. Agatha told her to draw up a contract for Miriam Courtney, gave her the address and told her to express post it. Then Agatha called Toni on her mobile. “I’m heading in your direction,” said Toni cheerfully. “It’s quiet here today. I think everyone’s saving their money for Christmas and the recession has been hitting us a bit. Be with you in about ten minutes.”
Agatha brightened up. Although she was occasionally jealous of young Toni’s good looks and successful detecting, she was fond of the girl.
Toni duly arrived, her face glowing with health. She was a slim girl in her late teens with natural blond hair, good skin and a perfect figure. “It’s getting slushy really fast,” said Toni cheerfully. “Phil has gone round to Sunday’s office to see if he can find out if anyone there hated him enough to kill him. So what exactly happened?”
Agatha told her about the protest meeting and about the horror of seeing the dying Sunday at the window. “Only Miss Simms and Miriam Courtney left the room. I was so bored my mind kept drifting. I wasn’t paying much attention. Do you want a coffee or something or shall we go?”
“Let’s go,” said Toni. “I’ll have a coffee later. Does the village have a pub?”
“I didn’t notice one. Why?”
“Could be a good source of gossip.”
Odley Cruesis glittered under a yellow sun. The air was full of the sound of running water. Agatha parked by the village green. Wearing Wellington boots this time, she stumbled through the slush and stopped a villager to ask directions to the pub.
“Can’t rightly be doing that, m’dear,” said a gnarled old man.
“And why is that?”
“Pub closed down last year.”
“There you are!” exclaimed Agatha, as she and Toni looked around. “Another centre of village life gone and all because of that ridiculous smoking ban.”
“But the papers say it’s because of all the cheap booze in supermarkets,” protested Toni.
“The newspapers are so politically correct, they make me sick,” said Agatha. “The minute the smoking ban came in, pubs started closing down all over the place. Move on. There’s that horrible Collins woman glaring at us.”
The detective was standing on the steps of the mobile police unit, staring at them.
“Move on where?” asked Toni.
“There’s the village shop. I want to speak to someone called Carrie Brother.”
The little shop was a dark, depressing place. The woman behind the counter told Agatha that Mrs. Brother lived at number nine, a cottage just to their left. “Her don’t hold with giving names to liddle cottages,” said the woman.
Number nine was a two-storied Queen Anne building with a lintel over the door. Agatha rang the bell and cringed at the sound of a volley of barking. “I thought the wretched woman had only one dog,” muttered Agatha. The barking stopped abruptly as a heavyset woman answered the door, clutching a small Yorkshire terrier.
“You’re that detective who’s investigating for Miriam,” said Carrie. “Come in.”
“How did you hear?” asked Agatha as Carrie ushered them into a pleasant room on the ground floor.
“News travels fast here. Now, what can I do for you?”
“It’s about John Sunday.”
Carrie grinned.
“It’s fair cop. I did it.”
Chapter Three
Agatha eyed her warily. Carrie was a big strong woman, possibly in her late forties. Everything about her was big, from her large head topped with a thick mane of brown curly hair to her large hands and feet.
“I’ve left something in the car,” said Toni, and ran out of the house.
Good, thought Agatha, she’s gone for the police.
“How did you do it?” asked Agatha in what she hoped was a gentle, coaxing voice.
“Sit down!” said Carrie.
“Where are the other dogs?” asked Agatha nervously.
“Here,” said Carrie. She pressed a button on a machine on a small table next to her and the air was suddenly full of barking. She switched it off.
“Great stuff. Good burglar repellent. You want to know how I did it? Telekinesis.”
Agatha blinked. “Tele-what?”
“I have a powerful mind. I hated that little toad. I saw him skulking around the village last night. I put my hands to my forehead, so. I transferred my thoughts to the big kitchen knife in the kitchen and caused it to rise up. I opened the front door and sent it towards the vicarage . . .”
The door crashed open and Toni, followed by Bill Wong, Collins and two policemen, rushed into the room.
“Leave this to us,” said Collins, glaring at Agatha.
“I’m staying right here,” said Agatha mutinously. “What were you saying, Mrs. Brother?”
“Miss, please.” Carrie began her tale of telekinesis again. When she had finished, she burst out laughing. “You should just see your faces,” she chortled. “Gotcha!”
Collins said in a thin voice to one of the policemen, “Take Mizz Brother over to the police unit and charge her with wasting police time.”
“Here, wait a bit. Can’t you take a joke?” protested Carrie as she was led off, still clutching her Yorkshire terrier to her massive bosom.
Collins then rounded on Agatha. “Just mind your own business in future or I’ll book you as well,” she said. “Come along, Wong.”
Agatha and Toni followed them out. Collins had just reached the doorstep, slippery with slush, when Agatha switched on the dog-barking recorder. Collins jumped nervously and slipped and sat down in a puddle of slush on the doorstep. Agatha switched off the machine and stepped neatly round Collins, followed by Toni.
“I really don’t know where that noise came from,” she said sweetly. “Bye.”
They hurried off to the car. “I wish I could have a word with Bill in private,” said Agatha.
“What now?” asked Toni.
“We’ll drive along to the manor and see Miriam. How’s your friend Sharon been getting on?”
“All right,” said Toni.
Agatha turned the car into the drive of the manor house. She switched off the engine and slewed round to look at Toni. “When I asked you about Sharon, that ‘all right’ sounded a bit muted. What’s going on?”
Toni sighed. “It’s just that she’s quarrelled with her parents and moved in with me. I’ve only got that small flat, as you know, and, well, it’s all a bit claustrophobic. She’s messy and I like things neat. She dyes her hair a lot, different colours, and there are streaks of dye on the hand basin and in the bath. I’ve started snapping and complaining a lot. I don’t want to lose her friendship, but things are very strained.”
“I pay her a good salary. She could afford a place of her own.”
“I didn’t like to suggest it. She’ll think I’m throwing her out.”
“I’ll speak to her.”
“Don’t do that! She’ll be hurt if she thinks I’ve been complaining about her.”
“I’m the soul of tact,” said Agatha. “I’ll call on the pair of you this evening.”
Toni groaned inwardly. Agatha’s idea of tact was anyone else’s idea of direct rudeness.
The door of the manor opened and Miriam stood on the step. “Are you coming in?” she called.
“Bet she did it,” muttered Agatha as they got out of the car.
Toni looked around the main hall in awe. “This is magnificent,” she said.
Miriam beamed. “What a nice girl you are. I do like your daughter, Agatha.”
“Toni is not my daughter. She is a detective who works for me.”
“She’s very young,” commented Miriam with a sly smile, “but very attractive.”
Is this bitch hinting I’m a lesbian? thought Agatha furiously.
Aloud, she said, “Is there somewhere less draughty and cold where we can talk?”
“Follow me,” said Miriam.
She led the way through a small door at the end of the hall and into a wood-panelled room with comfortable chairs where a fire burned brightly on the hearth. “I can’t have central heating,” said Miriam, “in case it warps the antiques.”
