by M C Beaton
“I think what we should do,” said Agatha, “is accept Mrs. Bloxby’s offer of tea and go through what we’ve got. We’ll need to dig up all we can about Tilly.”
Mrs. Bloxby suggested they should take their tea in the garden as the day was fine and it would give Mrs. Raisin a chance to smoke.
“You smoke!” exclaimed Tom. “Don’t you know what you are doing to your lungs? And what about other people? Have you never heard of passive smoking?”
“We are out in the open air,” said Agatha huffily as they helped Mrs. Bloxby to arrange chairs round the table in the garden.
Mrs. Bloxby watched the emotions chasing each other across Agatha’s face as she looked at Tom: an odd mixture of exasperation, disappointment and lust. Odd, thought Mrs. Bloxby. I never thought of Mrs. Raisin as a lustful person. More of a romantic. Does she not realise that inside that handsome exterior is probably a very prissy man? Just look at the way he is polishing that already clean seat with his handkerchief.
Toni and Roy arrived to join them, saying they had not been able to find Tilly Glossop, and all the other villagers had shunned them as if they had the plague.
After tea and cakes had been served, Mrs. Bloxby asked how they were getting on. Agatha outlined the little they had found. When she had finished, she said, “I don’t know what’s happened to Bill Wong. He usually calls round. I thought that after the death of Sunday he would come to see me. I tried phoning but he is always busy.”
“Oh, I quite forgot to tell you!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby. “He called me on the telephone some time ago, saying that Detective Sergeant Collins watches him like a hawk and Wilkes said he was to give you no help whatsoever because he did not want outsiders meddling in police work.”
“Considering the crimes I’ve solved for the police in the past, I do think that’s a bit thick,” said Agatha. “I might drive over later and see if he’s at home. Have you heard any gossip about Tilly Glossop?”
“Only that she is not very well liked. There are remarkably few newcomers in Odley Cruesis, compared to the other villages, but such as they are complain that she is very rude to them. May Dinwoody and Carrie Brother are quite popular. Miss Brother is considered an eccentric. What makes you think that the death of Mrs. Courtney and the death of Mr. Sunday are connected?”
“It stands to reason,” said Agatha. “She told Charles she had remembered something. Miriam probably told whoever it was and they decided to kill her.”
“But the killing of Mrs. Courtney was quite elaborate,” said Toni, “whereas the killing of John Sunday looks more as if someone just stabbed him in a rage.”
Tom gave a laugh. “It’s a good thing I have a solid alibi or I would be number one suspect.” He took a packet of moist disinfectant tissues out of his pocket and began to clean his hands.
Agatha gave a little sigh. There he sat, the epitome of manhood with his handsome face, his strong throat and his strong figure, fussing away like an old woman.
“Where are you staying, Mr. Courtney?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
“At The George in Mircester.”
“Do you plan to stay long?”
“Just until all the legal business is settled. Pretty nearly finished. I should be off back to the States in a week or two.”
“I heard you have a sister,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“Yes, Amy. She’s leaving all the business side of things to me. Mother left everything equally to the two of us.”
“Her death must have come as a terrible shock to you both.”
“Well, ma’am, it did and then it didn’t. Mother had a bad knack of rubbing people up the wrong way.”
“But surely she cannot have been the type of lady to drive anyone to murder!”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve been racking my brains and cannot really think of anyone,” said Tom ruefully.
Agatha wondered why Roy, usually a chatterbox, was so silent. She looked across at him and saw he had fallen asleep, the spring sunlight bathing his thin face. For the first time, Agatha wondered why he had come on a visit without phoning first. He had done only that before when he was in some sort of trouble.
“Roy!” she said sharply.
“Eh, what?”
“I’m going to drive into Mircester to try to have a word with Bill. Want to come?”
Roy straightened up and rubbed his eyes. “Right you are.”
“Perhaps we could all meet at my hotel for dinner tonight. Eight o’clock?” said Tom.
“I can’t,” said Toni. “I promised Sharon I’d go to a disco with her.”
“And I, alas, have parish duties,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“We’d love to,” said Agatha, wondering if she could persuade Roy to stay in for the evening. Tom was a bit fussy, that was all.
On the road to Mircester, Agatha said to Roy, “Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“I feel something’s bothering you.”
“Oh, that,” said Roy bleakly. “I suppose it’s no big deal. It’s just that I’ve lost all interest in the job.”
“Who are you handling at the moment?”
“Paper Panties.”
“I thought those things went out with the sixties.”
“They want them back and I’ve got to get the media interested.”
“So? You just do your job as usual. You know what it’s like, Roy. Remember all the lousy accounts I had to cope with.”
“I don’t get on well with foreigners.”
“What kind of foreigners?”
“Bulgarian. The girls are pretty, the ones they get to model the panties. But the people who run the company treat me like dirt. In fact, they’re pretty threatening. In fact, they give me the impression that if they don’t get maximum coverage, I’ll end up off Westminster Bridge.”
“I’m surprised at your boss taking them on.”
“They sent an English rep to the office to set it up. Very correct, upper-class twit type. I want out of it.”
Agatha furrowed her brow in thought. Then she said, “Oh, I’ve got it. Sometime today we’ll stop off and get some cheap stationery, put on gloves and send a nice anonymous letter to the vice squad saying it’s a front for prostitution and the models are sex slaves.”
“Aggie!”
“Well, think about it. The police will feel compelled to investigate. You tell your boss that the reputation of his firm is in danger and you’ll be off the hook.”
“But forensics!” wailed Roy. “What if we even breathe on the paper!”
“You’ve been watching too much CSI on television. Have I ever let you down?”
“Well . . .”
“Leave it to me.”
They were in luck. Bill Wong’s formidable parents were out shopping. Bill’s mother was a Gloucestershire woman and his father was originally from Hong Kong. Agatha thought they were both horrible, but Bill adored his parents.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” accused Agatha when Bill opened the door to them.
“It’s Collins. Wilkes wants me to have nothing to do with you and she watches me all the time.”
“Well, she isn’t around now,” said Agatha cheerfully. “Let us in. We need to talk.”
Bill led them into the lounge. There was a new three-piece suite covered in plastic. “You’d better get that plastic off before the warm weather comes,” commented Agatha, “or it’ll stick like hell.”
“Oh, it’ll keep it clean for a bit,” said Bill. “What’s going on?”
“Miriam Courtney’s son has arrived. He wants me to find out who killed his mother.”
“Why now?” asked Bill in his soft Gloucestershire accent. He had a pleasant round face with almond-shaped eyes. “I mean, he didn’t even bother to turn up for the funeral. Neither did his sister.”
“It seems as if Miriam had as little to do with them as possible and they didn’t like her one little bit. He’s over to supervise the selling of the property. That’s why he’s suddenly turned up.�
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“But you would think he would call on the police first before hiring a private detective.”
“I am very good at my job,” said Agatha.
“But people normally only hire a private detective in such circumstances as a last resort. They question the police first.”
“Have you got anything?” asked Agatha.
“No, and we’ve tried and tried. It’s a very close-knit village. Take the case of John Sunday. He was so unpopular all round that any number of people could have wanted him dead.”
“Tilly Glossop in particular,” said Agatha, and told him Toni’s news.
“We’ve interrogated her several times,” said Bill. “Saying to someone, ‘You’ll be sorry,’ is hardly a reason to arrest them.”
“And Tom Courtney was definitely in the Cayman Islands?”
“Yes.”
“And the sister?”
“In Philadelphia. She’s married to a Dr. Bairns.”
“And the doctor vouches for her?”
“He was away at a medical conference in Seattle. But she was staying with a friend, Harriet Temple. Believe me, they were checked out. And Miriam did tell Charles that she was onto something. And before she went to bed on the night she was killed, she phoned the vicar’s wife and said she knew who had done it.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Agatha excitedly. “That could mean either Penelope or her husband did it.”
“Of course we thought of that. But Mrs. Timson’s cleaner was ill and she phoned her to see how she was getting on and told her what Miriam had said. The cleaner, a Mrs. Radley, promptly got on the phone to a lot of people in the village. We questioned them all. But the ones she called had in their turn called others. Everyone must have known.”
“It’s a puzzle.” Agatha sighed. “The two murders seem so different. The killing of John Sunday almost seems like a spur-of-the-moment thing, whereas the murder of Miriam looks like cold-blooded planning.”
“That’s a leap in the dark,” said Bill, “and it doesn’t add up. She tells Charles she’s onto something and the next thing, she’s dead. Sherry?”
“Please,” said Roy, who had been wondering whether to tell Bill about Agatha’s mad idea of how to get him away from the Bulgarians.
Bill went through to the kitchen and reappeared with a little silver tray holding three minuscule glasses of sherry. Roy’s face fell. He knew Agatha would not want him to tell Bill about her plans for the Bulgarians but felt that a stiff drink might have given him the necessary courage.
“I think Tom Courtney looks suspicious,” said Roy. “I mean, the motive is usually money, isn’t it?”
“The first thing we thought of, but, like I said, his alibi checks out. And the sister is vouched for by her friend.”
“It’s a pity,” mused Agatha, “that it couldn’t be either the son or daughter. I mean, how convenient to already have a murder in the village. The police were bound to think both murders were connected.”
“We still do,” said Bill. “You’re right, though; the murder of Miriam appears to have been carefully planned. Someone passing the manor saw the lights go out and then the flickering light of a candle, as if Miriam was going down the stairs to look at the fuse box. The fire was started because when she was struck down, the candle she might have been holding ended up in a pan of fat.”
“Can they tell all that? The house was a blazing inferno. I didn’t think there would be any evidence left.”
“They traced the source of the fire to the stove, analysed the remains of the pan and found evidence of candle grease. The fuse box was nearly intact, being protected by a heavy metal cover. The electricity had definitely been switched off.”
“Who was it who was just passing so late at night?”
“Carrie Brother.”
“And what’s her reason for being out so late?”
“She said her little doggie needed to go pee-pee, to quote her words.”
“I think she’s barmy,” said Agatha.
Bill shook his head. “A bit eccentric, that’s all. Is it any use, Agatha, telling you yet again to keep out of it?”
“Not in the slightest. I’m employed by Tom Courtney and I need the money.”
“Do you know anything about Bulgarians in London?” asked Roy.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Agatha. “We’ve got to rush. Come along, Roy.”
Roy quailed before the gimlet gleam in Agatha’s bearlike eyes. “What Bulgarians?” asked Bill as Agatha hustled Roy out of the house.
“Never mind,” Agatha called back.
Back in Carsely, Roy wandered around the cottage moodily while Agatha composed an anonymous letter to the police. Finally she popped the letter in an envelope. “I’d better not mail this here,” she muttered. “If they see a Carsely postmark, they’ll track me down. Roy!” she called.
“What is it?” he asked nervously.
“I want you to mail this in London. I’ll put it in a bigger envelope so you don’t get your fingerprints on it. Just take it out and pop it in a pillar box.” She stripped off her gloves and then noticed the look of relief in Roy’s eyes. “And don’t think you can tear it up and chuck it away when you get to London. If I don’t see anything in the news about a raid, I’ll know you’ve weaselled out. It’s for your own good! Now, I would like to have dinner with Tom on my own this evening. I think he rather fancies me and I may get more out of him. He might remember something about his mother that he hasn’t told me.”
“He doesn’t fancy you a bit,” said Roy crossly. “I’m your friend. You should be looking after me.”
“Roy, it’s work. We’re in the middle of a recession and I need this job.”
“Oh, all right,” said Roy. “I’ll maybe go to the pub.”
That evening, after Agatha had departed in a wave of French perfume, Roy, restless, decided to drive over to Odley Cruesis. He fancied himself as a detective. Maybe if he found out something significant, Agatha would offer him a job and he could escape the PR business.
He drove off through the leafy lanes with the car window open, breathing in the scents of the country evening. He noticed there were lights on in the church hall, a square building next to the old Norman church. Roy parked the car and went into the hall. A bingo session was under way. Villagers were crouched over their cards while Penelope Timson read out the numbers in a high, strangulated voice.
Roy took a seat at the back on the hall. When Penelope finally called a break for refreshment and everyone rose to hurry over to a side table where there was a tea urn and plates piled high with sandwiches and cakes, Roy had a brilliant idea. He was addicted to watching the television series Poirot, based on the books of Agatha Christie. He particularly liked the bit where the great detective accused one after the other in the last scene before unmasking the murderer. He ran quickly up to the microphone and called out, “Your attention, please!”
Faces turned towards him. “I am Roy Silver,” he announced, “and I am investigating these murders. I know who did it. I shall wait outside. All the guilty person has to do is come to me and confess. I will intercede with the police to help ease the sentence. Thank you.”
Roy left the hall amid a startled silence. As he waited outside, he was very pleased with himself. Of course he didn’t expect the murderer to approach him. But he did expect the villagers to crowd round him and discuss the murders. Maybe he could pick up some information that Agatha had missed.
After half an hour, he could hear Penelope’s voice inside the hall once more raised as she called out the bingo numbers.
He was beginning to feel silly but decided to wait on. He stood beside his car in the darkness. The village had gone “green” by opting to have the street lights switched off. The silhouettes of the old cottages crouched around him in the dark, hunched and sinister.
Roy doggedly waited for the bingo session to finish. At last it was over and they all filed out. No one spoke. Not even to each other. They spread out towa
rds their various homes as if he didn’t exist. When the last one had gone and he saw Penelope locking up the hall, he approached her. “Mrs. Timson!” She started and swung round. Penelope looked at him severely. “That was a silly joke.”
“Wasn’t a joke,” protested Roy shrilly.
“Oh, just leave, young man,” said Penelope wearily.
Roy walked slowly back to his car. A small moon was riding high above, casting black shadows across the road in front of him. A breeze had risen and the sounds of it in the leaves of the trees sounded like whispering, menacing voices. He gave himself a shake. The country life was definitely not for him.
A savage blow from behind struck him on the back of the head. He fell forwards. As he fell, his fluorescent phone slipped out of his jacket pocket and lay on the road in front of his dimming eyes. With his last bit of strength, he pressed the number three, where he had Agatha’s phone number logged. “Get help,” he croaked. “Murdered.” And then he lost consciousness.
Tilly Glossop phoned Mrs. Timson. “That peculiar young man is lying on the road beside his car. Do you think there’s something up with him?”
“Drunk,” said the vicar’s wife succinctly. “Leave him to sleep it off.”
_______
Agatha was aglow with alcohol and lust. Tom had paid her many compliments so that she felt young and attractive again.
Over coffee, he said, “I have some very good brandy in my room. Why don’t we go up there?”
This is it, thought Agatha. Now or never. Just once, just once, before I’m very old. Take mental inventory. Legs shaved, armpits ditto. Should she have got a Brazilian? Too late now.
But when they entered his hotel room, she did wish he would take her in his arms and kiss her. He poured her a measure of brandy and then one for himself and sat next to her on a slippery sofa in the small sitting room of his suite. He smiled. “To us and to the night ahead.” They clinked glasses.
