by M C Beaton
The only genuine antique here is you, thought Agatha. This manor is jammed with fakes.
They all sat down in front of the fire. “Want a drink?” asked Miriam.
“Coffee would be nice,” said Agatha.
Miriam stood up and pulled on an embroidered bell rope by the fireplace. “Isn’t this fun?” she said. “The old bell rope was frayed and a little woman in the village made up a new one.”
“Do you have a large staff?” asked Agatha.
“No. Some of the village women come in to clean, but I keep a Ukrainian girl to act as a sort of maid.”
The door opened and a small, neat girl came in dressed in black with a white apron and cap.
“Coffee, Natasha,” ordered Miriam.
“Doesn’t she object to looking like a Victorian servant?” asked Agatha when the maid had left.
“How should I know?” said Miriam rudely. “I didn’t ask her. It impresses the tourists. I advertise in America and often get coach tours descending on me. Now, let’s get down to business. I don’t like being suspected of this murder.”
“There seem to be so many people who might have wanted John Sunday dead,” said Agatha. “All we can do is ferret around.”
“I can do that as well,” said Miriam brightly. “I know everyone in this village.”
“So far,” said Agatha, “all we have learned is that Tilly Glossop was close to Sunday and may have been having an affair with him. Carrie Brother confessed to doing the murder by telekinesis as a joke and is being charged by the police for wasting their time. The vicar threatened to kill Sunday for banning candles in the church. Anyone else?”
“There are the Summers and the Beagles,” said Miriam. “They decorated their cottages each year with masses of Christmas lights and illuminated plastic Santas in the gardens. Yuck! We were all rather pleased when Sunday put a stop to that. Let down the tone of the place no end.”
“What reasons did he give?”
“Oh, you know . . . Thank you, Natasha, leave the tray on the table and we will help ourselves. Light bulbs had to be subjected to a ‘pull’ test, their carbon footprint was the size of a hobnailed boot, dangerous electrical wiring, you name it.”
“Can you see any of them murdering someone?” asked Toni.
“Go and see them. They’re all old and frail.”
“If they are that old and frail,” said Agatha, “how did they get all the decorations up?”
“Old Fred Summer did most of the work. He’s a retired builder. Charlie Beagle is a retired electrician. Both of them competed a bit to see who could get the most lights up but it was a friendly competition.”
“Where do they live?” asked Agatha.
“The last two cottages out on the Badsey road.”
Miriam poured coffee. Agatha noticed the coffee was served in earthenware mugs. She began to wonder if Miriam was as wealthy as she was reputed to be or someone who had turned an old manor house into a Disneyfied attraction for tourists.
“You seem to have a very good track record as a detective,” said Miriam. “One wouldn’t think it to look at you. Charles told me you were a whiz at ferreting things out.”
“I have had a lot of success,” said Agatha, repressing a sudden impulse to throw her coffee cup at Miriam’s head.
“I bet I’d make a pretty good detective. I’ll ask Charles when I see him.”
“I doubt if you will,” said Agatha.
“Oh, he’s taking me for dinner tonight. We arranged it earlier.”
He’s my friend, not yours, thought Agatha savagely. She wished she’d never taken Miriam on as a client. She felt that this woman was going to move into her life and friends and take over.
Aloud she said, “Can you think of anyone else in this village before I get back to Mircester? I really must call in at the office.”
“Let me think.” Miriam scowled down into her coffee cup. Then her face cleared. “Of course. I’d forgotten. May Dinwoody. She makes toys and sells them at the markets. Sunday damned them as unsafe for children and quite ruined her business. God, was she ever furious.”
“Where will I find her?”
“In the old mill house at the back of the shop, down that lane that runs at the side.”
“We’ll try her. Come along, Toni.” Agatha rose to her feet.
“I’ll call on you later,” said Miriam.
“Don’t bother. I’ve got other work to do,” said Agatha, heading for the door. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha as they got back into her car. “I really don’t like her.”
“We can’t like all our clients,” commented Toni reasonably. “We’ve had some horrors.”
“Look at how fast the snow is melting,” said Agatha. “That’s all the hopes of a white Christmas gone.” Night had fallen and a large moon was shining down.
“Are you having a party this Christmas?” asked Toni.
“Never again. What are you doing for Christmas?”
“Going to my mother’s in Southampton.”
“Right. Here we are at the shop. Let’s park here and walk.”
The old mill house had been divided into flats. It loomed over a weedy pond.
Agatha studied the names beside the front door and pressed a bell marked Flat 3, Dinwoody. A tinny voice came over the intercom. Agatha explained who she was. There was a long silence and then the front door buzzed.
They entered and walked up carpeted stairs to the flat, which was on the first floor. A woman was waiting by the open door. Agatha’s heart sank. May Dinwoody certainly did not look the type of lady to plunge a knife into anyone. She was possibly in her sixties, slightly stooped, with grey hair and thick glasses through which pale grey eyes stared at them myopically. She was wearing a pink T-shirt emblazoned in sequins with the slogan Born To Party over which she wore a man’s brown cardigan. She was also wearing black leggings and pixie boots. Agatha wondered whether she was a thrift-shop junkie or wearing a younger relative’s clothes.
“Come in,” said May. “I hear you are investigating this murder for Miriam.”
She stood back to let them pass and then led them into a dimly lit room, filled with flowers and pictures. A square window looked over the pond. Moonlight sparkling on the water threw flickers of wavering light into the room.
“Take your coats off,” urged May. Her voice held a Scottish burr. “The central heating here is excellent. Now, coffee?”
“I think we’ve had enough coffee for one day,” said Agatha. She saw a large glass ashtray on a coffee table. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead,” said May. “I smoke myself. We are a persecuted race. First the smoking ban closed down the village pub and now they don’t allow smoking on aircraft, the air is no longer changed and we all have to get slowly poisoned with gunk leaking from the engines. Pilots are trying to sue for brain damage but it keeps getting hushed up. I hate this politically correct nanny state.”
Agatha sat down in an armchair and lit a cigarette after offering one to May.
Soon smoke lay in bands across the room. Toni took a chair by the window, longing to open it because the room was hot and stuffy and she did not want to suffer from passive smoking.
“Now,” said Agatha, “I hear you had a row with Sunday.”
“I did so. Horrible wee man. Ruining my business, claiming my toys were unsafe. But I won! I took him to court and proved all my toys were well made and there was no danger of children choking on bits of them. The Health and Safety Board had to pay me compensation.”
“There’s a thing,” said Agatha. “Why on earth did they keep him on after that?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I can’t remember seeing you at the protest meeting.”
“Having got satisfaction, I couldn’t be bothered going. Penelope organised it and ineffectual is her middle name. I knew they’d all sit and talk and nothing would come out of it.”
“Can you think of
anyone in this village who could get so riled up they might murder him?”
“To be honest, no. I think you should check out Mircester. Big towns are more likely places to find murderers than in this wee village.”
“It’s late,” mourned Agatha as she drove off. “I’ll drop you at my place and you can pick up your car. I’m starving. Would you like something to eat?”
“Don’t bother,” said Toni, who had experienced Agatha’s cooking in the past.
“Right. I’ll call on you later and see what we can do about Sharon.”
“I can cope myself.”
“No, you can’t. I’ll see you later.”
Charles had invited Miriam to dinner, partly to play detective and partly to annoy Agatha. The restaurant was a French one in the centre of Mircester.
To his surprise, Miriam had not dressed up in any way. She was wearing a much-washed sweater and droopy skirt. “Don’t let’s speak yet,” said Miriam, gazing at Charles over the menu. “I love my food and want to concentrate on ordering.”
Charles, who had hoped to get away with one dish each and coffee, decided to say—as he had done so many times with Agatha—that he had forgotten his wallet. He became even more determined on this course of action when he heard Miriam ordering a dozen large snails to begin followed by turbot and asparagus. The turbot was criminally expensive.
Charles ordered a modest salad followed by a pepper steak. Miriam insisted on choosing the wine—“I’m by way of being an expert.”
She scanned the wine list and then said brightly, “I know, let’s celebrate the beginning of our friendship, Charles.” She ordered a bottle of vintage champagne.
“When did your husband die?” asked Charles.
“He didn’t. He’s still alive. Widow sounds much more respectable. I got him in bed with the help. Never had much luck. The one before him was a rat as well and the one before that.”
“How many times have you been married?”
“Just the three times. What about you?”
“Once. Didn’t work out.”
“What about Agatha?”
“Two times.”
“Tell me about her.”
“If you want to know anything about Agatha Raisin, ask her yourself. I don’t discuss my friends.”
Miriam’s snails arrived. They were very large snails. She winkled each one out of its shell, popped it in her mouth and chewed, making mmm mmm sounds.
“What about this murder?” asked Charles. “Did you do it?”
“My dear man! No, but I’ve been thinking hard and I’ve a pretty good idea who did it.”
“Who?”
She waved her two-pronged snail fork at him roguishly and a tiny drop of garlic butter flew across the table and landed on Charles’s silk tie. “Wouldn’t you just like to know? But I’ll tell you this. Tomorrow I’m cancelling the services of Agatha Raisin and going to the police. When I was getting the brandy, I saw something. Didn’t think much of it at the time. It seemed so impossible. I—”
But Miriam had made the mistake of talking while she was eating and a snail lodged in her throat.
Charles stared as she made frantic noises. An efficient waiter rushed up, dragged Miriam to her feet and performed the Heimlich manoeuvre. The snail shot out and landed in Charles’s lap.
Miriam thanked the waiter profusely, took a gulp of champagne and said, “Sorry, Charles. I think I’d better go home. Remember to give that waiter a good tip.”
Charles tried to protest but Miriam exited the dining room at a remarkable speed.
He wondered whether they had a doggy bag for turbot.
Agatha entered Toni’s little flat and looked narrowly at Sharon, who was sprawled on the sofa. Sharon was a bright, bouncy girl with large breasts, always displayed, no matter what the weather, in low-cut tops. Her hair changed colour weekly. That evening, it was flaming red. An empty pizza box was on the table in front of her along with two crushed beer cans.
“I thought I’d make a brief call on you to discuss the case,” said Agatha. “Don’t bother leaving, Sharon. As my employee, this concerns you as well.”
“Don’t need to leave,” said Sharon. “I live here now.”
“But Toni hasn’t got room for you!”
“Oh, Tone doesn’t mind. Me and Tone are friends.”
“But why did you move out of your family home?”
“Big stinking row with me dad.”
“Why?”
“Caught me smoking a spliff.”
“Sharon! The junk on the streets is dangerous.” Agatha’s bearlike eyes bored into her. “Do you like your job, Sharon?”
“Sure.”
“No drugs and pack up your stuff and get back home. Look at this place! It’s a tip. Toni hasn’t said anything but I can see you are causing her stress.”
“Don’t want to go home,” wailed Sharon.
“I pay you enough to rent a flat,” said Agatha. “Come along. Out of here tonight or out of a job tomorrow.”
“Toni!” begged Sharon.
“Don’t say a word,” said Agatha. “Get your things—now!”
Agatha felt weary by the time she had dealt with Sharon’s parents. She did not want to fire Sharon as the girl had a natural bent when it came to detecting. She was just getting back into her car when her phone rang. It was Charles. Agatha listened in amusement to his description of the aborted dinner, but her amusement died when he told her that Miriam was sure she knew the identity of the murderer.
“I’ll get over there in the morning and choke it out of her,” said Agatha.
Miriam was lying in bed reading a literary novel. She was not enjoying it at all, but it had been nominated for the Booker Prize and Miriam read only to impress people with her knowledge of the latest literary talent. She had phoned Penelope Timson before she had gone to bed and had told her she was sure she knew the identity of the murderer. Penelope had asked for a name but Miriam had told her to wait and see. Now, she felt a bit silly and was sure she had imagined the whole thing.
Her doorbell rang. She waited for Natasha to answer it and then remembered the girl had said something about going up clubbing in Birmingham. Then she grinned. Probably that Raisin female. Charles would have phoned her.
She got out of bed and put on her dressing gown and slippers and made her way down to the front door of the manor. The bell rang again. “I’m coming!” she shouted.
She switched off the burglar alarm and unlocked the door and slid back the bolts. The night had turned chilly and the slush was beginning to freeze. There was no one there. She stepped outside and looked down the drive and then to the right and left. Nothing moved in the stillness of the night.
“Probably kids,” she muttered. But she went back inside and picked up a powerful torch. She went out again and shone the torch round and about, in case any children were hiding in the bushes on either side of the drive. An owl hooted mournfully.
Miriam went back inside. She reset the alarm and made her way back to bed. She was about to pick up her book and resume her reading when the light went out. Miriam groped her way to the bedroom door and pressed down the switch of the overhead light. Nothing.
Odley Cruesis had suffered from occasional power cuts in the past. But she decided she’d better go downstairs to the fuse box and make sure the trip switch was on. Wishing she had brought her torch upstairs with her, she groped her way down to the hall where she had left the torch but could not find it. There were candles in the kitchen. She made her way there. Moonlight was flooding the kitchen. She opened the drawer where she kept candles and matches and lit one of the candles. Holding the candle in one hand, she reached up and opened the fuse box. A heavy blow struck her on the back of the head. The candle flew out of her hand and landed in a pan of fat on the stove.
The maid saw the glow in the sky as she drove down into Odley Cruesis. A fire engine raced past her and then another. When she turned into the manor drive, she could see the house was in flame
s from top to bottom. Natasha did a U-turn and sped off. She had planned to tell Miriam in the morning that she was leaving. She was an illegal alien from Albania and she knew the police would soon ferret out that fact. They had not seemed to be much interested in her after the murder of John Sunday, but she knew they would focus on her now. She had all her belongings packed up in the battered old Ford Miriam had bought for her. Her real name was Blerta, but Miriam had said, “I suppose you’re called Natasha,” and Blerta had agreed. As she was sure Miriam suspected her of being an illegal alien, she had agreed to low wages and to wearing a maid’s uniform. Blerta decided to head back to Birmingham to stay with friends.
In her panic, she did not realise that her running away would make her an arson suspect.
Toni worked at cleaning up her flat after Sharon had left. She guiltily wished Agatha had not been so high-handed. Toni was fond of Sharon. Sharon was everything Toni was not—bold and brassy and confident, moving gaily from one boyfriend to another while Toni read books and dreamed of romance.
She felt uneasy. She had visited a club a week before with Sharon, and Sharon had been flirting with a group of bikers. They swore a lot and drank a lot and Toni had left early. She hoped Sharon hadn’t been getting into bad company.
_______
Agatha was not pleased when she got home to find Charles waiting for her. She was tired and wanted to eat something and go to bed. She brightened up only when Charles told her the full story of his dinner. “Serves you right,” she said heartlessly. “You met your match in that cheapskate.”
“There’s another thing,” said Charles. “I’ve just let the cats out in the garden and there’s a glow in the sky from the direction of Odley Cruesis.”
Agatha opened the garden door and went out. Yes, there was a red glow in the sky.
She went back into the kitchen. “Something’s up. I’d better get over there.”
“I’ll drive,” said Charles.
As Agatha was about to get into his car, he removed a foil-covered package from the passenger seat.
