by M C Beaton
They opened the gate quietly and made their way along a brick path at the side of the house which led to the back garden. Agatha risked flicking the thin beam of light from a pencil torch round the small area of garden. There was an unkempt lawn, several laurel bushes and the black silhouette of a small shed in the far right-hand corner.
Agatha flicked her torch on again and shone it on the door. “There’s a padlock,” whispered Toni.
“I thought there might be,” said Agatha, opening up a carrier bag and hauling out a pair of wire cutters. “Soon get this open.”
“But what if the sister finds the broken padlock and reports the shed has been broken into?”
“I brought another padlock,” said Agatha cheerfully. “No one will know the difference.”
She cut through the padlock and opened the door. The shed had a wooden floor. Agatha handed Toni the torch and said, “Your eyes are better than mine. Crouch down there and see if you can find any marks where something might have been hidden. We don’t want to smash up the whole floor.”
Toni crawled around and then shook her head. “Nothing.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Agatha gloomily. “We’re going to have to try and lift all the planks up.”
“Wait a bit.” Toni sat back on her knees. “This shed is raised up a bit from the ground. What if all we have to do is go outside and have a look underneath?”
“Great! Let’s try it. I’ll put this new padlock on just in case anyone comes after us and we have to make a quick getaway.”
Toni lay down on the wet grass and shone the torch under the shed. “There’s something here,” she said.
A voice sounded from next door. “I assure you, Officer, I heard voices coming from Mr. Sunday’s garden.”
“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha. “Grab whatever it is and we’ll run.”
Toni pulled out a small metal box. They ran to the end of the small garden, Toni vaulted over the gate clutching the box, and Agatha threw her carrier bag over and heaved herself over the wooden gate and fell in a heap in the lane outside.
“Quietly,” hissed Toni, feeling that Agatha charging off down the lane was making as much noise as a stampeding elephant.
With relief, they reached the safety of Agatha’s car and drove off.
Once back at the cottage, Toni put the metal box on the kitchen table. “It’s locked,” she said. “Now, what do we do?”
Agatha opened a kitchen drawer by the sink and took out a chisel. She also handed Toni a thin pair of latex gloves and put a pair on herself. She wedged the end in the slit by the lock and prised down hard. There was a loud snap and the lid flew back.
There was a package wrapped in tough white plastic. Agatha took the kitchen scissors and cut it open. There were photographs and letters. “Look at this!” exclaimed Agatha. “That’s a naked Tilly Glossop on top of some man, but who’s the man?”
“It’s hard to see his face, all contorted like it is. But it looks suspiciously like the mayor of Cirencester. I’ll look him up on your computer and get a photograph.”
“You go ahead. I’ll look at these others. Oh, my!”
Toni paused in the doorway. “Oh, what?”
“It’s a photo of Penelope Timson necking passionately with some fellow who isn’t the vicar. The dirty little man must have been blackmailing people.” As Toni went through to the computer, Agatha studied the few letters. They were passionate love letters from people she did not know and written to people she did not know, either.
She lit a cigarette and wondered what to do. Toni came back in. “Yes, it’s the mayor all right. Shall we go and confront him tomorrow?”
“No,” said Agatha. “He’ll call his lawyer. The police will be called in. Where did we get this? Why were we withholding evidence? Penelope Timson is a friend of Mrs. Bloxby. I’ll keep that photo back. We’ll wipe everything we’ve touched carefully and send the package to the police. No, that won’t do. They’ve got to find it themselves. Damn, we’ve got to put it back.”
“What about the broken lock?”
“I’ve got a metal box just like it. I used to keep jewellery in it until I got a proper jewel case. I’ll get it, we’ll pop the stuff in and back under the shed it goes.”
“And how do the police find it?”
“I’ll call them from a phone box. I’ve got this nifty little machine. It’s a portable voice distorter.”
This time they were able to enter and exit the garden without being heard. Agatha made the phone call to police headquarters and then they drove to an all-night restaurant out on the motorway for an early breakfast.
After a breakfast of sausage, bacon, egg and chips and two cups of black coffee, Agatha said, “First, we should both get some sleep. I think I’ll talk to Mrs. Bloxby about Penelope and suggest we both approach her. Now, the big question is Tilly Glossop. She and Sunday may have been blackmailing the mayor together. I mean, someone had to be on hand to take that photograph.”
“Do you want me to try Tilly?”
“I think maybe Patrick might be a better idea. He still looks like a cop and he might frighten her into some sort of confession or slip-up.”
Agatha snatched a few hours’ sleep and turned up in the office at nine in the morning to brief Patrick. Then she told Mrs. Freedman to put in an advertisement for another detective. “A trainee, mind,” cautioned Agatha. “Some student in his or her gap year would do. I’m off to see Mrs. Bloxby about something. Seems a quiet morning. Want to come, Toni?”
Toni agreed. She still mourned her lost friend, Sharon, and felt the vicarage and Mrs. Bloxby’s quiet presence very soothing.
Despite the loud protests from the study from the vicar, shouting, “This place is getting like Piccadilly Circus,” Mrs. Bloxby settled them in the vicarage drawing room. Rain was falling steadily outside. “They said it was going to be a barbecue summer,” said Agatha. “Such a shame for all the families who booked their holidays in Britain this year.”
“Amazing thing, British tourism,” remarked Mrs. Bloxby when she returned from the kitchen with a laden tray. “People flit by air to countries and never really understand other races or cultures, like dragonflies flitting over a pond. Can’t see the murky depth underneath. You are looking unusually serious, Mrs. Raisin.”
Agatha opened her capacious handbag and drew out a white envelope and handed it to the vicar’s wife. “Before you look at that, I’ll tell you how we came by it.”
She described how they had found the box under Sunday’s shed. “I extracted the one photo in that envelope, which is withholding evidence from the police, but I wanted to consult you first.”
Mrs. Bloxby took out the photo and slowly sat down. “Oh, dear. What shall we do?”
“I thought as you knew her, we might go over there and have a quiet word. I cannot for a moment think that Mrs. Timson was ever involved with anyone capable of murder. If you think for one moment she might have got involved with some sort of villain, I can post this anonymously to the police.”
“Have some tea and scones,” urged Mrs. Bloxby. “Tea and scones are very mind settling.”
“Have you ever heard any gossip about Mrs. Timson?” asked Toni.
“Nothing at all,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Oh, dear, perhaps it might have been better if you had both left the matter to the police. They would probably send along a policewoman and . . .”
“They would probably send along Detective Sergeant Collins, who would frighten her to death and no doubt lead her off in handcuffs in front of the whole village,” said Agatha harshly.
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “I might as well go with you. Dear me, what sinks of iniquity these little villages can be.”
The rain had stopped as they drove in Agatha’s car to Odley Cruesis. Sunlight gilded the puddles of water on the road and glittering raindrops plopped from the branches of the overhead trees. As they climbed out of the car in front of the vicarage, the air smelled sweet and fresh.
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p; Penelope answered the door and smiled when she saw them. “Please come in. My husband is over at the church.”
“Good,” said Agatha. “It’s you we want to see.”
“Come through. Coffee?”
“No, we’ve just had some,” said Agatha. She opened her handbag, took out the envelope and extracted the photograph, which she handed to Penelope. Penelope sank down onto a corner of the sofa and hunched herself up and wrapped her arms around her thin body. Mrs. Bloxby sat beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Mrs. Timson, Mrs. Raisin has taken a great risk in not showing this photo to the police. Was Mr. Sunday blackmailing you?”
Penelope gulped and burst into tears. Toni fetched a box of tissues from a side table and handed it to her. Agatha waited impatiently, hoping the vicar would not walk in on the scene. At last Penelope gave a shuddering sigh. “Yes, he was.”
“Who was the man?” asked Agatha.
“He was a visiting American preacher. Giles asked me to show him around the Cotswolds. We became friendly. He was a widower. He told a lot of very funny jokes. Giles never tells jokes. Jokes can be very seductive,” she said plaintively.
“So you had an affair!”
“Oh, no!” Penelope looked shocked. “It was the morning before he left. We were in the churchyard and he thanked me for taking care of him and he swept me into his arms and kissed me. Then he laughed and said, ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ I said, ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ and he patted me on the shoulder and went in to say goodbye to Giles.”
“And did Sunday start to blackmail you?”
“Not exactly. He came round one morning three days later when Giles was over in a neighbouring parish and showed me the photograph. I explained it was just a kiss, but he said my husband would never believe that if he saw the photograph. I asked him what he wanted. He laughed nastily and said he’d get back to me.”
“And when was this?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
“Three days before he was murdered,” whispered Penelope. “He phoned me the day before the protest meeting and said I had to get it stopped or he would send the photo to Giles. I couldn’t bear it any longer. They always say that blackmailers never go away. So I told Giles.”
Mrs. Bloxby said sympathetically, “Giles must have been furious.”
“It was worse than that,” said Penelope. “He laughed and laughed. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘I mean, just look in the mirror. Everyone knows Americans are overaffectionate. I’ll go and see Sunday and we’ll never hear another word.’
“After the murder, I asked him if he had said anything to the police or if he had gone to see Sunday, and he said he hadn’t had the time to see Sunday and he had no intention of mentioning the silly photo to the police.”
What have I done now? wondered Agatha miserably. I should have left the photo for the police to find. I believe Penelope. But they would have grilled Giles and checked on his movements. He wasn’t with the party when John was stabbed.
“We’ll leave it for the moment,” said Agatha.
When they left the vicarage, Mrs. Bloxby said, “Let’s go somewhere quiet. I’m beginning to remember things.”
“My kitchen is the quietest place around here,” said Agatha, setting off in the direction of home.
Once seated in Agatha’s kitchen, Mrs. Bloxby began. “I remember it was last autumn and I remember the visiting preacher. His name was Silas Cuttler. American from some Episcopal church somewhere. He was a round, jolly man. Around that time, Mrs. Timson smartened her appearance and even wore make-up.”
“Is Penelope Timson verbally abused?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, just the usual married stuff. ‘What’s that muck on your face? You are silly.’ Usual things like that. Giles is rather a cold, impatient sort of man.”
“I think I ought to ask him some questions,” said Agatha.
“My dear Mrs. Raisin, he would coldly accuse you of withholding police evidence, take it to the police himself and then you would really be in trouble. I am sure Mr. Timson can’t for one moment think his wife is capable of having an adulterous affair.”
“And I can’t interview the mayor because the police would wonder how I got on to him. Perhaps I’ll just leave it for a few days and then get Patrick to find out from his police contacts what’s been happening.”
Agatha asked Toni if she would like to go through the applications for the job of trainee detective and pick out a few suitable candidates, but Toni was still mourning the loss of her friend and so Agatha took a bundle of letters home one evening.
The advertisement had said that applicants must include copies of school certificates and a photograph.
Patrick called at her cottage and followed her through to the kitchen, where letters and photographs were spread across the kitchen table. “I’m looking for a trainee,” said Agatha. “But they seem to be a hopeless lot. What brings you?”
“Good news. Tom Courtney has been arrested outside Washington and has been charged with the murder of his mother. He was living with a woman in Mount Vernon and she turned him in to the police. She didn’t know he was wanted for murder. She became afraid when he started scrubbing out all her closets and shelves and making her take a shower about five times a day. She asked him to leave and when he wouldn’t, she called the police. They thought it was just a domestic, but some sharp-eyed trooper recognised Tom from a photo pinned up in the precinct.”
“When are they going to extradite him?”
“It’ll take ages, if ever.”
“At least I don’t need to be afraid of him turning up here. What about sister Amy?”
“Nothing, and he swears blind he doesn’t know where she is. Husband hasn’t heard from her. Complains she emptied their joint bank account before she cleared off. Anyway, Tom Courtney says he had nothing to do with the death of Sunday. Of course, at first the police here wanted that tied up, so they didn’t believe him. But when I heard from my contacts that they found letters and a naughty photo of the mayor under the shed in his garden, they wearily decided to open the investigation again. Tilly Glossop and the mayor say it was a one-night fling after a boozy party at the town hall and that they weren’t being blackmailed. The e-mails he seems to have stolen out of people’s computers at the office. He used them for power, not money. Seems to be why he kept his job when there were so many complaints against him.”
“Sit down, Patrick. A cold beer?”
“Great. I’m driving but one wouldn’t hurt.”
Although retired from the force, Patrick always looked somehow like a policeman, with his neatly cropped brown hair, lugubrious face, well-pressed clothes and shiny black shoes.
“Apart from Tilly Glossop, no one else is connected to Odley Cruesis,” said Patrick. “Tilly is still in for questioning and has had to surrender her passport.”
Agatha thought guiltily of the evidence she had suppressed.
She handed Patrick a glass of beer and then sat down at the table beside him and lit a cigarette. “Look at these applications,” she said, sending a haze of cigarette smoke over the table. “Most of them don’t even seem able to write and a lot of them use text messaging language.”
“There’s one fallen under the table,” said Patrick, bending down to retrieve it. “Oh, look at this. Do you think he escaped from a production of Il Pagliacci?”
“Pally who?” demanded Agatha crossly, suspecting a dreaded intellectual reference that would show the gaping gaps in her knowledge of the arts.
“The clown in opera. The one who sings ‘On with the Motley.’ ”
“Let me see.”
Patrick handed her a photograph. It was a head and shoulders picture of a teenager. He had a mop of thick curly black hair, large hooded eyes, a prominent curved beak of a nose and a long mobile mouth. “Four A-levels,” said Patrick. “Doesn’t wanted to be landed with a university loan and would like to find work right away. Says he’s intuitive, hardworking and gets on with people. Eighteen years old.�
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“I’ll have him in for an interview,” said Agatha. “Toni needs someone young to cheer her up.”
“What’s his name?”
“Simon Black.”
Simon entered Agatha’s office at seven o’clock the following evening. He turned out to be quite small, perhaps just about five feet and two inches. He was very slim and slight so that his head looked disproportionately large. His eyes under their hooded lids were very large and black and glittered with a combination of humour and intelligence. Agatha thought that he looked like something that had escaped from Lord of the Rings.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Agatha.
“I think you’ll find it’s all in my CV.”
“Look, dear boy, if you want this job, try to sell yourself.”
“May I sit down?”
“Do.”
Simon pulled forward a chair and sat facing Agatha. He was dressed in black: black T-shirt, black trousers, socks and shoes. “I’m clever about people,” said Simon. He had a slight Gloucestershire accent. “I instinctively know when people are lying. I am above average intelligence and—”
“And you’ve got a very high opinion of yourself,” snapped Agatha.
“So you find listening to me selling myself offensive?” asked Simon. He sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know.
Agatha gave a reluctant smile. “I’ve had a bad day. Do you live with your parents?”
“No, I live by myself. My parents are dead. They died last year in a car crash. I wasn’t left much but debts even after the house was sold, so I decided it would be better to go out to work than have the burden of a university loan hanging over me. I’ve had enough of debts.”
The door of the office opened and Toni came in. “I left something in my desk,” she said.
Agatha felt a pang as she looked at Toni’s sad face. She had a sudden idea. “Toni, this is Simon Black, who will be starting work with us tomorrow. Simon, Toni Gilmour. Are you busy at the moment, Toni?”
