by M C Beaton
Agatha would have gone with them, but Mrs. Bloxby stopped her with a little warning shake of the head.
Doris Simpson was still looking after Agatha’s cats. “I wish I had someone to look after me,” said Agatha.
“My shoulders aren’t very broad,” said a familiar voice. “But you could try and lean.”
“Charles!” Agatha burst into tears.
“Good heavens! What’s happened to old iron-knickers Raisin? Come on, girl. Up on your feet. We’ll move into the sitting room, get ourselves a drink and you can tell me all about it.”
Charles listened while Agatha talked on and on about Sharon’s death and then about her trip to Philadelphia. “You did well,” he said when she had finished talking. “I thought Courtney was weird. As for Sharon? Well, that was always going to be a disaster, but you couldn’t seem to see it.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Would you have listened?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Did you tell her to go undercover and find out about these bikers?”
“No.”
“Well, there you are. It’s a damned shame. There’s nothing we can do tonight. Let’s get some sleep. I’ll just get my bag out of the car.”
But when Charles returned, Agatha was fast asleep. He lifted her legs up and stretched her out on the sofa, went upstairs and came back with a duvet to cover her, and then took himself off to bed in the spare room.
Agatha was awakened early the next morning by the shrilling of the doorbell. She struggled up from the sofa and went to answer it.
A policewoman stood there. “Mrs. Raisin, I’m to take you to headquarters to go over your statement.”
“Give me a few minutes to wash and change,” groaned Agatha. “Don’t you want to come in?”
“I’ll wait in the car.”
Agatha had a quick shower and change of clothes. Then she went into the spare room, where Charles lay peacefully sleeping. She shook him awake. “I’ve got to go to headquarters. Are you coming?”
He yawned and turned on his side. “You’ll do fine all by yourself.”
“Story of my life,” muttered Agatha, stomping down the stairs.
Chapter Six
Agatha learned that the American police were currently hunting for both Tom Courtney and his sister. Tom had left the United Kingdom the day after Agatha had taken her flight to the States. Harriet Temple had cracked and said that Amy had initially told her she needed an excuse because she was having an affair. After the murder, when Harriet read about it and phoned her, Amy had threatened to kill her if she ever breathed a word. Dr. Bairns was crying and bewildered, saying he did not know where his wife was. The Courtneys had cleared out their bank accounts and disappeared.
Agatha thought they must have moved very fast indeed. It seemed likely that Tom had fled just after Amy had telephoned him to report Agatha’s visit.
“So when we get them and have them extradited, Courtney will be charged with the murder of his mother and also of John Sunday.”
“But why on earth would he kill John Sunday?”
“He knew where his mother lived. The killing of Sunday was just setting the scene.”
“But is there any record of him entering the country at that time?”
“No, but we’re working on it. He may have played the same trick on someone that his sister played on Harriet and got another passport. He was setting the stage. It turns out that both he and his sister have at various times been hospitalised for drugs and depression. There are psychiatric reports claiming they both suffered from a form of narcissistic psychopathy. They were the children of Mrs. Courtney’s first marriage. He thought with one murder already in that village, we wouldn’t look at him.”
“Why employ me?”
“Because he felt perfectly sure you wouldn’t find anything. He told Bill Wong that perhaps he had made a mistake employing what he called ‘a mere village sleuth’ but that he was willing to try anything.”
“I don’t think the murder of John Sunday had anything to do with it,” said Agatha. “It’s just one elaborate step too far.”
“So you say. But as far as we’re concerned, that murder is solved. The American police will get a confession out of him.”
“If they ever catch him,” said Agatha cynically. “At the moment, I’m going all out to get the bastard who killed Sharon.”
“You needn’t bother. It was Jazz Belter. Real name Fred Belter. We’ve got him in the cells.”
“How did you get him so quickly?”
“Detective Wong interviewed an old lady who lived in the flats overlooking where the dead girl was found. She doesn’t sleep much. She saw Belter drag Sharon out of the boot of a car, stuff her mouth with grass, sling a rope over the lamp post—it’s one of those old-fashioned kind—and string her up. He was so high on drugs when we picked him up, it took four officers to hold him down and handcuff him.”
Agatha left police headquarters feeling very low. Somehow, if finding out the murderer of poor Sharon had turned out to be a complicated affair, it might have made the girl’s death seem less useless, less of such a complete waste of a young life.
She had a sudden vivid memory of looking down from the office window and watching Sharon and Toni going off for the evening, laughing and with their arms around each other.
She went round to the office. Patrick and Toni were out on jobs. Mrs. Freedman had gone off to do some shopping and Phil Marshall was manning the phones. Phil was in his seventies, a quiet man with a shock of white hair. He had retained a good figure. He was an expert cameraman.
“Bad business about Sharon,” said Phil. “Mrs. Freedman won’t be long. Do you want me to give you a run-down on what we are all doing?”
“Not at the moment. I need to get back to thinking about the murder of John Sunday to take my mind off Sharon’s death.”
“So you don’t think the Courtneys did it?”
“No. It’s nagging at the back of my mind that it was someone in that village. You see the trouble with being a town person and not a village person and meeting so many other incomers these days,” said Agatha. “I can’t help feeling that people like me don’t really know village life, what really goes on in the minds of the genuine villagers. It’s not even like some of those television series you see based on supposed village life. All so politically correct. If the local retired major was in the army, then he’s either a fascist or a closet gay. Gypsies are always good people and not understood. I saw one with eight murders and not a pressman in sight.”
“No. I suspect there are undercurrents in an off-the-tourist-map sort of place like Odley Cruesis. Unless it was someone at John’s work . . . Oh, Mrs. Freedman, you’re back. Would you please look me up the files on John Sunday?”
“No need for that,” said Phil. “I’ve got it all on the computer.”
Agatha fetched herself a strong cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. Mrs. Freedman stifled a sigh and opened a window. Agatha sat down in front of the computer and began to read all the reports along with Phil’s photographs. Then she said, “Something’s missing.”
“What?” asked Phil.
“Where did John Sunday live?”
“I remember that. A terraced house. Oxford Lane in Mircester. Patrick said the police could not find anything that related to the murder.”
“And who got the house?”
“Wait and I’ll get my notebook.”
“Phil, it should be in here with the rest.”
Agatha bit her lip in vexation. What with the murder of Miriam and then her own hip replacement operation, she felt she had often too easily assumed that both murders were connected.
“Let me see.” Phil came back with a notebook and flicked the pages. “Ah, here we are. I went with Patrick. Number seven, Oxford Lane. Two up, two down terraced house. Small front garden. Neighbourhood slightly run-down. He was never married. His sister inherited. A Mrs. Parker. Probably sold the house.”
>
“Maybe not. I’d love a look inside, just in case there’s anything left. Let’s drive round there.”
The house had a small, weedy front garden. As Agatha pushed open the front gate, a neighbour opened her door and called out, “Are you the house clearance people?”
“Yes,” said Agatha on the spur of the moment.
“Wait and I’ll get the key,” said the neighbour. “Mrs. Parker’s still up north but she’ll be here tomorrow. She’s been right poorly and hasn’t been able to get round to doing anything about her brother’s house before this. She got in touch with you lot to sell off everything. She and her brother had a quarrel a long time ago and she didn’t want to have anything to do with his stuff. She came down after his murder—poor man—and took away a few things, but she didn’t want the rest.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” muttered Phil.
“Shh! This is a great opportunity.”
When the neighbour came back with the key, Agatha said, “I’m surprised Mrs. Parker took so long to call us in and put the house up for sale.”
“Well, like I said, she’s poorly and she couldn’t find the time before. Let me have the key when you’ve finished.”
Once inside, Phil said angrily, “And what do we do if the real people turn up?”
“We’ll leave the front door open,” said Agatha. “If we hear them arriving, we’ll just nip out the back way.”
The downstairs consisted of a living room and kitchen on one side of the dark passage and a study on the other. Upstairs were two bedrooms and one bathroom.
“I suppose the study’s the place to start,” said Agatha, “although the police are sure to be still hanging on to all his paperwork until his sister claims it.”
“I’ll try the other rooms,” said Phil. “Have you considered, Agatha, that when the real clearance people turn up, that neighbour is going to report us to the police and give our descriptions?”
“She seemed to be very shortsighted,” said Agatha hopefully.
Phil went off and Agatha began to search diligently, but it all too soon appeared that the police had taken away every bit of paper they could get their hands on. She took out the desk drawers in case anything was taped to the undersides, but there was nothing, except on the bottom of one drawer was “A119X” written in felt-tipped pen. Agatha wrote it down.
They spent more than an hour searching for secret hiding places but finding none. It was bleakly furnished with the bare essentials. It seemed as if John Sunday had liked puzzles and jigsaws. One of the few human touches in the living room was a bookshelf containing boxes of jigsaw puzzles and crossword books. There were no photographs. A mirror hung over the fireplace reflecting the gloomy room. Phil thought that maybe the house had been built for workers at one time because the terrace faced north and didn’t get much sunlight and he had noticed the building bricks were of poor quality.
They even searched under the cushions of the shabby brown corduroy sofa and down the sides of two armchairs. Phil reported that only one of the upstairs bedrooms had been used and that the other was completely empty.
When they left and locked up, Agatha had an idea. She took the key back to the neighbour and, reverting to the Birmingham accent of her youth, she said, “Made an awful mistake, love. Should’ve been round the corner in Oxford Terrace. Please don’t tell Mrs. Parker or we’ll get in awful trouble.”
The neighbour peered at her. “Don’t you be worrying yourself, m’dear. We all get like that when we get older. Didn’t I put the kettle on yesterday and clean forgot till it nearly burned dry?”
“That woman can hardly see a thing,” muttered Agatha crossly to Phil. “I’m hungry. I need something to eat.”
They decided on a pub lunch at The George in Mircester. “I wish I knew what A119X stood for,” said Agatha, “and why it was written on the underside of the drawer. He liked puzzles. Nasty, devious mind, he probably had. He was probably the sort who would go to endless lengths to hide something somewhere difficult instead of just renting a safe deposit box.”
“Library!” said Phil suddenly.
“What library?” asked Agatha.
“I mean A119X looks like a number on the back of one of the Mircester Public Library books. They send a mobile library van round the villages and I borrow books from them. The library still uses the old card system.”
At the library, by asking at the desk, they discovered that A119X was a book entitled Go to the Ant by Percival Bright-Simmel. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been returned,” said the librarian. “We meant to send out the usual letter reminding the borrower that the book was overdue, but when we found out it was that John Sunday who was murdered, well, we just needed to give it up for lost. We would have got rid of it pretty soon as we’re due for an overhaul. No one else had taken that book out for a long time.”
“What kind of book was it?” asked Phil.
“It was in the nonfiction religious section.”
_______
Outside the library, Agatha said, “We’ve got to get back into Sunday’s house and search the bookshelves. What was so important about that book?”
But when they arrived back at Sunday’s house, it was to find a van outside the door bearing the legend Pyrson’s House Clearance. The door was standing open. Agatha looked cautiously towards the house next door but there was no sign of the neighbour who had given them the key.
“What are you doing?” hissed Phil as Agatha strode up towards the open door.
“I know what I’m doing,” said Agatha. She walked inside. Two men were crating up furniture.
“I’m from Mircester Library,” said Agatha. “The previous owner failed to return one of our books. Do you mind if I take a quick look for it?”
“Go ahead,” said one of the men. “We ain’t got around to them yet.”
Phil had tentatively followed Agatha in. They both began to search the bookshelves. “Puzzles and more puzzles,” muttered Agatha. “Maybe there’s something behind the books.” She began to pull them out. Phil was standing on a chair searching the top shelves when he said, “Got something here. Yes, this is it. It was down behind the others along with this.”
“This” was a full bottle of whisky. “Hey!” shouted one of the removal men. “That there bottle’s part o’ the house contents.”
“You’re welcome to it,” said Agatha. “All we want is the book.”
They handed over the bottle of whisky and, clutching the book, made their way out of the house.
“What if that neighbour sees us?” fretted Phil. “You told her we should have been round the corner at another house.”
“Oh, she’ll just think we’re part of the same business,” said Agatha airily. “Let’s get back to the office and have a good look, although it’s not much of a book.” Go to the Ant was a thin, shabby book with an illustration on the front of a blond and blue-eyed Jesus Christ pointing accusingly, rather in the manner of the First World War posters, saying, “Your Country Needs You.”
Toni was sitting at her computer typing up notes when they went into the office. Agatha noticed that the girl looked pale and listless. Must hire another young person, she thought. Maybe that will cheer her up. Agatha knew that the murder of Sharon had hit Toni hard.
“Stop typing, Toni,” she said, “and help us with this.” She told Toni about how and why they had found the book.
The book turned out to be a sort of extended religious tract, written in 1926. It was a series of moral tales about unfortunate people who had behaved like the grasshopper and ended up starving to death or living in the workhouse.
“You wouldn’t think he was a religious sort of person,” said Phil. “I mean, he made trouble for two churches that we know of. There are no clues here. No words underlined.”
“Let me see.” Toni took the thin book and began to riffle through the pages. “I think I’ve got something.” She ran her hand lightly over one of the pages. “There are some pinpricks under some lett
ers.”
“Good girl!” Agatha seized a pen. “Read them out.”
“This page has a u and then an n. Nothing next page. Wait a bit. Other page a d and an e.” She steadily worked her way through the book until she had one whole message. It read, “Under the garden shed.”
“I’d better get back there tonight,” said Agatha. “But why a secret message to himself? If he buried something under the garden shed, then why bother to go through this elaborate business? Are you game for another visit, Phil?”
Toni saw the reluctant look on Phil’s face and said to Agatha, “I’ll come with you.”
“Go and get some rest,” said Agatha. “I’ll call for you around midnight.”
When she got back to her cottage, there was no sign of Charles. She felt suddenly bereft. Surely she should be used to him dropping in and out of her life? She petted her faithless cats, who wriggled away from her and stood by the garden door waiting to be let out.
She microwaved herself a dish of lasagne and moodily ate it at the kitchen table. Agatha decided to put an advertisement in the papers for a trainee detective. If Toni had a young person to train, it might take her mind off Sharon. What if, she wondered guiltily, I hadn’t told Sharon to leave Toni’s flat? Would she still be alive? No, she decided, she might even have started to bring the bikers to Toni’s place and there might have been two dead bodies instead of one.
Agatha changed into dark clothes, set the alarm for eleven thirty and lay down on the sofa. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered why she had never put a cat flap on the garden door.
Agatha parked her car round the corner from where John Sunday’s house lay and she and Toni made their way quietly along the deserted street. A thin drizzle was falling, and water was beginning to drip down from the trees that lined the street.
