by M C Beaton
“You never did!” exclaimed Agatha, smelling fish.
“Oh, yes I did. I paid for it and I wasn’t going to let a plate of turbot go to waste.”
They arrived at the manor just in time to see the roof fall in from their vantage point on top of a wall bordering the grounds of the manor.
They couldn’t get any nearer because of police and firemen. “She told me she knew something,” said Charles. “She told me she had something. She said it seemed impossible, and then she said she was going to cancel your services.”
“I wonder if she escaped the fire. And what about the maid?”
“She’s gone,” said a voice below them. Agatha got down from the wall, registering that her hip felt fine although she had been warned that she could not have any more injections and would soon need to have an operation on her arthritic hip.
The vicar’s wife, Penelope, stood there, huddled in an old tweed coat. “I was coming along the road when her car went past me speeding in the opposite direction. I’ve told the police. They’ve set up roadblocks. But I told them she couldn’t have anything to do with the fire because as I was walking along, I saw her drive up before she turned around and drove away again.”
“I wonder who benefits from her death, if she’s dead,” said Charles. “She’d been married three times.”
“I think she mentioned a son and daughter.”
“That’s right,” said Carrie Brother, joining them. “Said they were both in America.”
Charles stifled a yawn. “Come on, Aggie. They’re not going to let us get nearer or give us any information tonight.”
Chapter Four
Agatha, who liked watching fictional forensic programmes on the television, was often amazed at how slow the real-life forensic process was. Christmas came and went. She spent a solitary Christmas persuading herself that it was just another day. Then came a blustery January, an icy February and so into March and the timid beginning of the English spring.
In January, she had endured that long overdue hip operation. Thanks to her active life, she made a speedy recovery, but then put the whole business of the operation out of her mind. She did not want to admit, even to herself, that she had needed it. The very words “hip operation” screamed old.
Patrick Mulligan reported from his sources that Miriam had been killed by a blow to the head with something like a hammer. The fire investigators found that the electricity had been switched off. The fire had started at the Aga cooker in the kitchen.
There was no sign of forced entry. The maid had been found, questioned, cleared of suspicion and deported. Agatha had been very busy with other cases and her interest in the case had died, mainly for monetary reasons. No one was paying her to investigate, Britain was in a recession, and the agency needed all the paying cases it could get.
On a blustery Sunday in late March when the Cotswolds were full of more daffodils than anyone could remember having seen before, she opened her door and found a tall, handsome man standing on her doorstep. Agatha was immediately aware of the fact that she hadn’t a bit of make-up on.
“Mrs. Raisin?”
“Yes. You are . . . ?”
“I’m Tom Courtney, Miriam’s son.”
“Do come in.” Agatha stood aside to let him past. “Go straight through to the kitchen.” Agatha did not want to put her guest in the living room because the chairs were soft and she found it awkward to struggle out of them.
“You have a charming cottage,” he said.
He was tall with a lightly tanned face, black hair and brown eyes. Agatha guessed his age to be somewhere in his early forties.
“Do sit down,” said Agatha. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t be. I was very close to my father, but I didn’t see much of my mother.”
“You live in the States now?”
“Yes, in New York.”
“I believe you have a sister.”
“Amy. She’s still in the States. She’s married to a doctor in Philadelphia.”
“I didn’t see either of you at the funeral,” said Agatha.
“I couldn’t bring myself to come over. I paid for it, of course, and made the arrangements long distance.”
“Dear me. Why did you dislike your mother so much?”
He shrugged. “She bitched my poor father to hell and gone. He died of a heart attack when we were small. Amy and I were brought up by a succession of nannies and then we were both sent to schools in Switzerland. Then universities in the States. We went home as little as possible. Believe me, it was a relief when she moved over here. I work as a lawyer.”
“So why have you come to see me?”
“Unfinished business. My mother left everything to Amy and me. Quite a lot. She was a bit of a miser. Not on the big things like expensive schools for us and so on but on niggling things like cheap meals or eating at other people’s expense as much as possible, things like that. But I really want to know who killed her, and then I can get on with my life. I heard that she had hired you to find out who murdered John Sunday. I would like to hire you to find out who killed my mother.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Agatha. “I feel if I could find out who murdered John Sunday, then I would find out who murdered your mother. She said to a friend of mine the night she was murdered that she knew something.”
He smiled at her, a charming smile that lit up his handsome face. Agatha was even more painfully aware of the fact that not only did she have no make-up on but that she was wearing a tent-like blouse, a cotton skirt and slippers.
“Would you excuse me a moment?” she said hurriedly. She eased herself to her feet, always dimly afraid that the terrible hip pain would come back.
“Hip replacement?” he asked sympathetically.
“No!” lied Agatha. “Just took a tumble.” Hip replacement, indeed. So aging.
Upstairs, she carefully made up her face and brushed her hair until it shone. She was just struggling into a trouser suit when her doorbell rang. Tom shouted from downstairs, “Don’t worry. I’ll get it.”
As she finally made her way downstairs, she could hear laughter from the kitchen. She opened the kitchen door and went in. Toni was sitting at the table facing Tom. Her blond hair was been newly cut in a short elfin style, making her eyes look large. She was wearing jeans and half boots with a black sweater. A scarlet Puffa jacket hung over the back of her chair.
“Can I help you?” Toni jumped to her feet. “How’s the hip replacement? Healing up okay?”
“What hip replacement?” said Agatha repressively. “Let’s talk about something else. I gather you’ve introduced yourselves.”
“Indeed,” said Tom in his almost accentless English. “I didn’t know detectives were that pretty off the television screen.”
“You don’t have an American accent,” said Toni.
“As I was explaining to Mrs. Raisin here, I was schooled in Switzerland so I missed out on the American accent.”
“Mr. Courtney,” began Agatha.
“Tom, please.”
“Right. I’m Agatha. Here’s my card. If you call at the office on Monday morning, we’ll draw up a contract for you. I’ll tell you how far we’d got.”
Agatha succinctly outlined all the interviews. When she had finished, Toni said, “You’ve forgotten the Beagles and the Summers. You sent me to interview them.”
“Right. But as I remember you didn’t get much.”
“They were all so old and creaky.”
Tom smiled. “Are you very sure? I remember at your age that people like me and Agatha here would seem creaky.”
I’d like to throw something, thought Agatha savagely.
“Oh, no,” said Toni, charmingly flustered. “I mean, neither you nor Agatha are old.”
“Bless the girl,” laughed Tom.
“Had they put the Christmas lights up?” asked Agatha. She turned to Tom. “You see, each Christmas their cottages were blazing with Christmas lights and John Sunday s
topped them last Christmas. They were furious. Did they put the lights up after he was murdered, Toni?”
“They hadn’t done when I called on them and then I never went back to Odley Cruesis.”
“Will you rebuild the manor?” Agatha asked Tom.
“No, I’m selling the wreck to a builder. He’s going to bulldoze the ruin and then build houses on the land.”
“Was the place insured?”
“Yes, heavily.”
Agatha asked, “Have the police enquired where you were the night your mother was murdered?”
“Of course. I was in the Cayman Islands on holiday. Plenty of witnesses.”
The doorbell rang again. “You’re a busy lady,” commented Tom.
“I’ll get it,” said Toni. She came back followed by Roy Silver. Roy had once worked for Agatha when she had run her own public relations firm. He was still in PR. As a concession to a visit to the countryside, Roy was wearing a sports jacket, but underneath he sported a T-shirt with the logo Ready To Kill. He was a rather weedy young man with a weak, pale face and fine hair, cut short and gelled into small spikes all over his narrow head.
“Aggie, darling,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll just pop my bag in the spare room.”
Agatha caught an amused look in Tom’s eyes and said hurriedly, “My young friend used to work for me. You might have phoned, Roy.”
“Came on an impulse. Read about all the Cotswolds mayhem in the papers and then nothing. I thought you might have asked me for Christmas. There I was on my little lone.”
“I assumed everyone I knew would be booked up for Christmas,” said Agatha defensively.
Roy went off upstairs. Agatha said, “I’d like to get back to Odley Cruesis and begin again. I don’t like the idea of asking you to work on your day off, Toni. I’ll let you know on Monday how I get on.”
“Oh, I’m free,” said Toni blithely.
Agatha silently cursed both Roy and Toni. No chance of being alone with Tom.
When Roy came back downstairs, Agatha said, “We’re going detecting. You can stay here if you like.”
“Dear Aggie, remember all the times I’ve spent ferreting around with you. Are we going to start today?”
“I’ll get my notes,” said Agatha, “and then we can split up.”
When she returned, she said, “First of all, Tom, do you want to go back to where you are staying and wait results? Where are you staying?”
“At The George in Mircester. But I’d like to come with you.”
Agatha brightened. She consulted her notes. “Right. Toni, if you and Roy could go and see Tilly Glossop again, she might open up to you. Tom and I will go and see the Beagles and the Summers. Probably a waste of time but I would like to see them for myself.” The doorbell shrilled.
“Don’t move. I’ll get it.” Toni ran to the door.
She came back with Mrs. Bloxby. “I hadn’t seen you for a while,” said the vicar’s wife, “and wondered how you were getting on.”
Agatha, who did not want another remark about her hip, flashed her friend a warning look. Mrs. Bloxby focussed on Tom for the first time. Agatha introduced them.
She’s off again, thought Mrs. Bloxby. I should be worried about her, but she needed some man to bring the sparkle back.
“We’re all going detecting,” said Agatha.
“In that case, I won’t keep you,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “But why don’t you all call at the vicarage for tea later and let me know how you get on?”
_______
Agatha elected to drive after a look at Tom’s vehicle. It was a Range Rover and she cringed at the thought of climbing up into it. The day was still fine: blue sky, yellow daffodils, pink cherry blossoms and some purple stuff that Agatha didn’t know the name of growing out of the old Cotswold walls.
“Young Roy seems a close friend of yours,” said Tom.
“I suppose he is.”
“Aren’t you frightened of getting AIDS?”
Agatha nearly swerved into a ditch. She stopped the car and said in a thin voice, “I am not having an affair with Roy. I do not know whether he is homosexual or not. I never asked, it being none of my business, but it wouldn’t matter if he were.”
“But the close contact,” said Tom.
Agatha glared at him. “Are you one of those freaks who think you can get it from lavatory seats?”
“Sorry,” mumbled Tom. “I didn’t take you for a liberal.”
“You see before you,” said Agatha, “an apolitical woman with a lot of common sense who doesn’t listen to folk stories or ill-informed scares. Now, can we get on?”
They drove on in silence, Agatha’s interest in Tom extinguished. As they were driving into Odley Cruesis, Tom said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I lost a good friend to AIDS.”
“What happened?” asked Agatha acidly. “Did her boyfriend breathe on her?”
“Him. He died. It was awful. I’ve been frightened of that horrible disease ever since.”
“Ah, that explains it,” said Agatha, suddenly cheerful again. “Here we are. I think the Beagles are in the first cottage.”
The cottage had probably once been a farm labourer’s cottage. It was made of red brick with a slate roof. The path up to the front door was of red brick as well. A glorious magnolia tree was just coming into flower in the little front garden.
Agatha rang the bell. An elderly man answered the door. He was small and round-shouldered and wearing two pullovers over a frayed shirt and baggy stained trousers. His face was wrinkled. Spare lines of greased hair covered a freckled scalp. His faded blue eyes looked at Agatha “So it’s you. Nosy parker.”
“This is Thomas Courtney, Miriam’s son,” said Agatha.
“Oh, I do be right sorry. Come along in. The missus is poorly today.”
“What is up with her?” asked Tom sharply.
“Her do have a bit of a cold.”
“I might wait in the car,” said Tom nervously.
“It’s just a cold!” exclaimed Agatha. “Not the black plague.”
“Very well,” he said reluctantly.
Mrs. Beagle was crouched in an armchair beside the fire. The room smelled strongly of urine, coal smoke and wintergreen.
“Here’s Miriam’s boy,” said her husband.
Mrs. Beagle was as wrapped up as her husband and every bit as stooped and wrinkled. Agatha mentally removed them from her list of suspects. She estimated they would both have difficulty getting across the street, let alone murdering John Sunday.
Agatha looked around her, but there was nowhere in the small parlour to sit down. Charlie Beagle had sunk down into an armchair facing his wife. There was a battered sofa but two large somnolent dogs were stretched on it.
“Did you see anyone near the manor before it went alight?” asked Agatha.
“In the middle of the night!” said Charlie. “Us were asleep. Didn’t hear about it till morning.”
“About John Sunday,” pursued Agatha, “you were at that protest meeting.”
“And a fat lot of good that did,” said Mrs. Beagle. “Jabber, jabber, talk, talk. Nothing could be done about that horrible man.”
“Apart from Miriam and Miss Simms, did anyone else leave the room?”
“Not that I noticed,” said Charlie. “But me and the missus, our sight isn’t as good as it used to be. But good riddance to Sunday, I say. He was after stopping us putting up the Christmas lights. Such a display we had every year. We was in the Cotswold Journal. I’ll show you. They sent me a photo and Fred Summer got one as well.”
He shuffled over to a table by the window, piled high with magazines, newspapers and photos.
“Here we are. Just you look at that!”
Agatha studied a colour photograph showing the two cottages. The outsides were covered with Christmas lights. The Summers had a plastic Santa and plastic reindeer riding on the roof and the Beagles had a lit-up plastic crèche in their front garden. Perhaps the only thing John
Sunday did in his life that became it, thought Agatha, who had seen a performance of Macbeth once, was blacking out this monstrosity.
Then her bearlike eyes narrowed. Surely Charlie couldn’t be that infirm if he had got the plastic Santa up on the roof, not to mention wiring up all those lights.
“What a lot of work,” she said. “It must have taken you ages.”
“I starts around the end of October, yes. Bit by bit.”
“And did you get that Santa up on the roof all by yourself?”
“Easy. There’s a skylight. I just push it up through there.”
“Do you want to ask anything?” Agatha turned to Tom, who was standing with a handkerchief covering his mouth and nose.
He gave a muffled “No.”
They took their leave. “You really are terrified of infection,” said Agatha when they were outside.
“I hate colds.”
“I don’t think there’s much point in interviewing the Summers,” said Agatha. “On the other hand, they might have seen something.”
“Do you mind if I wait outside?”
“Not at all,” said Agatha, her interest in him dying by the minute.
The Summers seemed mirror images of the Beagles, expect that Fred Summer looked fitter. His wife also had a cold and was coughing miserably. Agatha felt the air was full of germs and began to sympathise with Tom.
Fred’s story was almost the same as that of Charles Beagle. They had visited the vicarage, more in the hope of some cakes and tea than out of any hope that something about Sunday might be resolved. There was one piece of additional information. Fred and Charlie used to compete to see which one of them could have the most dazzling display at Christmas, but as they both got older, they had begun to help each other.
Agatha thanked them and left. Tom was standing outside, a light breeze ruffling his hair. He looked so handsome that Agatha felt a lurch in her stomach. It suddenly seemed a long time since she had enjoyed any sex whatsoever, and she felt her hormones raging.
Toni and Roy came rushing up to join them. Toni looked excited. “Tilly Glossop was out,” she said, “but her neighbour, a Mrs. Crinch, came out to talk to us. She does not like Tilly. She said that Sunday was a frequent visitor but that the day before the murder, she heard Sunday and Tilly having a terrible row. When he left Tilly’s cottage, Sunday shouted, ‘Get it through your head, we’re finished.’ To which Tilly said, ‘You’ll be sorry.’ ”
