by M C Beaton
She went to the door, where Toni and Simon were putting coins into bags. “Nearly finished,” said Toni cheerfully.
“I’m going outside for a smoke,” said Agatha.
She sat down in a bench outside and lit up a cigarette. Must give these wretched things up, she thought for the umpteenth time. From inside she could hear the chatter of voices rising above the noise of the band. Charles came out and joined her. He was wearing a deep blue cotton shirt, open at the neck, and blue chinos and yet somehow looked as neat and composed as if he were in suit, collar and tie.
“Give me one of those.”
“A cigarette, Charles? Bad for you.”
“Too right. Hand one over.”
He lit it and settled back on the bench. “Hasn’t something struck you as funny?”
“No. What?”
“Look at it this way. We know they’re a sour lot and Carrie Brother, for example, is hardly the flavour of the month in that village, and yet they’re all wolfing down cream teas, gulping back sloe gin, and going on like a love-in.”
Agatha sat up straight. “You mean, they’re all putting on an act?”
“Looks like it to me.”
“But why? I mean, they must think there’s a murderer amongst them.”
“Maybe they have a good idea who it is. They feel safe. Look at it from their point of view. John Sunday was an interfering pest, Dan Palmer was just asking for it, Simon was a cheat and a spy and so on. I should think every man jack of them has guessed why this sudden burst of generosity on your part and they’re playing up to the hilt.”
“Well, thank goodness the proceeds are going to the Alzheimer’s Society,” said Agatha gloomily. “I may need their help soon. Should I stir things up? Should I go in there and say I know the identity of the murderer?”
“And like Roy, the same thing could happen to you. Forget it. Enjoy the day.”
“Got over Sharon?” Simon asked Toni as they finally finished bagging up and recording all the money.
“Not quite,” said Toni. “I keep thinking I see her. I’ll see someone ahead of me in the street, some girl with multicoloured hair wearing a boob tube and torn jeans and I want to run after her. I keep wondering if I could have done anything. I shouldn’t have let Agatha turn her out of my flat.”
“And then you might have been dead as well. She’d have started inviting her biker friends back to the flat. Would you like to go to a movie with me tonight?”
“Fine. Which one?”
“I don’t know. I’d just thought of the idea.”
The day was finally over. Not one scone or bit of strawberry jam or bowl of whipped cream was left. Mrs. Trooly had taken away the remainder of her drinks after handing Agatha a bill. The men came to take away the portaloos and complained bitterly at the state of them. “Some of them just peed on the floor,” complained one of the men. “Dirty old hicks.” He was a Birmingham man and considered the countryside outside the city to be peopled with inbred imbeciles.
Agatha helped the caterers and village ladies to clean up the mess before she and Charles wearily trudged back to her cottage.
“I’m going back to study my notes,” said Agatha. “I swear there’s something there.”
“I’ll be off, then,” said Charles.
Agatha suddenly did not want to be left alone. “Charles, please . . .”
He swung round and looked at her seriously. “Please what?”
“Nothing,” said Agatha gruffly. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
She fed her cats and let them out into the garden and then collected her folders of notes and took them out to the garden table.
She began to read. She found Simon’s account of his trip to Cheltenham particularly amusing, as she remembered the days when she had to ferry around a horrible old couple called Boggle. Then she suddenly put the folders down on the table. Elderly . . . toilets . . . the portaloo man’s complaints.
She phoned Penelope Timson. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Thank you again for such a fine day.”
“I just wanted to ask you,” said Agatha. “Do you have a downstairs toilet?”
“Yes, just as you come in the front door, on the left.”
“I must come over and see you. It’s terribly important.”
“Well, really . . . All right, but I plan to go to bed early.”
In the vicarage parlour, Agatha fixed Penelope with an intense gaze and said, “Now, you said that no one left the room during the evening John Sunday was murdered, except Miriam and Miss Simms. Right?”
“Yes, and I told the police so as well. I don’t see—”
“Think! Did no one leave briefly to use the toilet?”
“Yes, but it’s just outside the door.”
“Who?”
“This really is so embarrassing. I mean, one doesn’t talk about such things. I was brought up to—”
“Who?” shouted Agatha.
“Let me see, I suppose Mr. Beagle and maybe Mr. Summer.”
“Right!” Agatha got to her feet and the next thing Penelope heard was the outside door slam.
Chapter Eleven
Agatha called an emergency meeting of her staff for eight o’ clock the following morning.
She described what she had learned and then said, “So you see it could either have been Charlie Beagle or Fred Summer.”
“But they’re so old,” protested Toni.
“They’re fit enough to put up all those Christmas decorations each year. One of them tips John Sunday off that there’s going to be a meeting about him at the vicarage. He’s a snoop, so he creeps up. Either Charlie or Fred nips out as if to go to the loo, gets in the garden, Grudge Sunday is moving up to the vicarage windows, so one of them stabs him and dives back into the house.”
Simon looked excited. “Wait a bit. Whoever it was wouldn’t like to be sitting around with a bloody knife, knowing the police would be called the minute the body was found.”
“Maybe the murderer didn’t expect Sunday to be found until after the confab was over,” pointed out Patrick. “Whoever it was might not have expected Sunday to stagger up to the windows and die in front of everyone.”
“Yes, but even so. Where would the murderer hide a knife?”
“In the cistern in the toilet?” suggested Phil. “But the police must have done a thorough search for the weapon.”
“But,” said Agatha, practically jumping up and down with excitement, “when they were assured that no one apart from Miriam and Miss Simms had left the room, they didn’t search any of us. The murderer might not have depended on that. The police were searching outside the vicarage for a weapon.”
“So we just tell the police,” said Patrick, “and start them off on a new search.”
“I found this out,” said Agatha stubbornly. “And I’m going to find out the rest of it. I’ll get Mrs. Bloxby to go over to the vicarage with me to report on the takings from the teas. I’ll go to the loo and look around and search the hall as well.”
“Who is this Miss Simms?” asked Simon. “Are you sure she couldn’t have done it?”
“Not the type. Besides, she left with Miriam and was with her the whole time.”
“You know,” said Phil uneasily, “it was quite a time ago now. Our murderer has had plenty of opportunity to go back to the vicarage and get the knife back.”
Agatha’s face fell. Then she said stubbornly, “I’m going to try.”
“I think you should let us know the time you’re going to be in the vicarage,” said Patrick, “and we’ll all park somewhere nearby so you can call us if there’s any danger. Remember, the vicar left for his study and the vicar is reputed to have a violent temper.”
“And I can’t imagine two oldies murdering anyone over Christmas tree lights,” said Simon.
“I can,” said Agatha defiantly. “Those lights were the highlight of their miserable lives.”
Agatha drove back to Carsely and told her startled friend, Mrs. Bloxby, of her plan.
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“But the police . . . ,” began the vicar’s wife in protest.
“Sod the police. They’d descend in droves and clump around, alerting everybody. One of those villagers might have a nephew or a cousin in police headquarters for all we know.”
“Very well. I’ll just get the record of the money we took at the teas to make it all look respectable.”
Penelope welcomed them effusively. “Such a success! I do think good works give one a positive glow. Now, let’s have a nice cup of tea in the garden. They say the weather is going to break, so this will be our last chance for a while to get some sunshine.”
Agatha waited impatiently until they were settled in their garden chairs and Penelope had brought out the tea tray, and then said, “Do excuse me.”
“It’s on the first landing, if you want to powder your nose,” said Penelope.
“Haven’t you got one in the hall?”
“So dark. You’d be much better upstairs.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Agatha, and made her escape.
The toilet off the hall was small and dark. It was old-fashioned with a high cistern and a long chain. There was a tiny window at the back which looked as if it had not been opened in ages. Beside the toilet was a small shelf of books of an improving nature—Is God in Your Life? Meetings with Jesus, and so on.
Agatha carefully removed all the books but found nothing behind them. She put them back. Then the door handle of the toilet rattled. “Who’s in there?” called Giles’s voice.
“Agatha Raisin. Sorry, I’m a bit constipated.”
She stood with her heart thumping until she heard him go up the stairs. Now, where else? There was a high shelf with spare toilet rolls. She stood on the seat of the lavatory pan and began to search behind them. Nothing.
She got back down and sat down wearily on top of the lavatory. Then she studied the floor. It was covered in old green linoleum, some of it warped with damp and age. She got down on her knees and began to pull up pieces of it.
Agatha could hardly believe her eyes when she finally ripped a lump clear from one corner and found herself looking down at a kitchen knife.
She pulled out her phone and called Patrick. “I’ve found the weapon. Get the police!”
There came a timid knock at the door. Penelope. “Are you all right, Mrs. Raisin?”
Should she tell her? No.
“Badly constipated,” she shouted. “Won’t be long.”
“Oh, dear. I have some Seneca. If you slide open the door a crack I can slip it in with a glass of water.”
“I’ll be all right,” roared Agatha.
What was keeping the police so long? Then to her horror she heard a voice she recognised as that of Fred Summer. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Mr. Summer,” she heard Penelope say. “Mrs. Raisin is using our toilet.” Penlope raised her voice. “All right now, Mrs. Raisin?” Agatha stood up and pulled the plug and then washed her hands at the hand basin. Then she shouted, “The door’s stuck.”
“That’s all right,” came Fred’s voice. “Charlie’s here with his hammer.”
“I did a silly thing,” called Agatha. “I called the police!”
“You what?” screeched Penelope.
“You don’t want your door knocked down with a hammer. I’m sure the police have lock picks.”
Giles, the vicar, joined the group outside. Then Carrie Brother. Agatha began to feel like Alice in Wonderland when she had her foot stuck up the chimney. Then Charlie Beagle shouted, “Stand back all. I’ll ’ave ’er out!”
The heavy blow of a hammer struck the door. Then Agatha heard the wail of a police siren.
Then Bill’s voice. “Put that hammer down. Are you all right, Mrs. Raisin?”
Agatha opened the door and pointed mutely to the torn linoleum and the knife. “I haven’t touched it,” she said.
“Right,” said Bill. “Out you come. I’ll seal off this door until the forensics team arrives.”
Fred Summer, Charlie Beagle and Carrie Brother had disappeared.
“Will someone please tell me what is going on in my house?” demanded Giles, his high, thin, reedy voice almost cracking with outrage.
“Mrs. Raisin has found what looks like the weapon that murdered John Sunday under the linoleum in your toilet,” said Bill. “Now, Agatha, just come out into the garden and I’ll take your initial statement.”
“You’d better send some police to bring in Charlie Beagle and Fred Summer,” said Agatha. “Then I’ll tell you.”
Bill barked orders. “Wait here, Agatha. I’ve got to phone Wilkes.” He turned away and began talking rapidly into his mobile phone. Then he turned back to Agatha.
“Right! Let’s have it.”
Agatha explained how she had guessed that perhaps one of the old people might have gone out to use the toilet and that the vicar’s wife would not think it decent to say so.
“You’ll need to get taken off to headquarters and make a full statement.” He signalled to a policewoman. “Take Mrs. Raisin to headquarters and get a full statement from her.”
“I’ll follow you in my own car,” said Agatha.
A policeman came running back. “Can’t find them,” he gasped.
“What kind of car have they got?”
“The neighbours say they haven’t got a car.”
“Off you go, Agatha. I need more men out here to check the fields.”
“Wait!” cried Agatha. “Dan Palmer’s car.” She scrabbled in her bag and brought out her notebook and flipped through the pages. “Here it is.” She gave Bill the make and registration. “That car was never found. They could be using that.”
Bill went back to his car and frantically radioed instructions for roadblocks to be set up.
As she drove, Agatha phoned Toni and Simon and told them to start searching for the missing Beagles and Summers.
Agatha waited impatiently at police headquarters for someone to interview her. After an hour, she was shown into the old interview room she remembered so well—scarred table, institutional green walls and hard chairs.
A woman detective Agatha had not met before came in, flanked by a police sergeant. “I am Detective Sergeant Annie Plack and this is Police Sergeant Peter Lynn,” she began.
Annie Plack had shiny black hair and clear blue eyes. Agatha wondered vaguely if Bill had fallen for her yet.
The tape was switched on and Agatha began her statement. Annie had heard stories about Agatha, how she never did any real detective work, just blundered about and stirred things up until something had cracked. But she had to admit that no detective or police officer could have hit on the idea that the vicar’s wife would consider it not genteel to mention anyone leaving to use the loo.
When Agatha had signed her statement, she was told to wait in the reception area.
At last, Annie came out and sat down next to her. “It has been suggested that we put you up in a safe flat for the next few days. A policewoman will go to your home and wait until you pack up.”
Agatha thought of her cats. “I’ll be all right,” she said mutinously. “I’ve got a burglar alarm. They’re old people.”
“They may have committed two murders, Mrs. Raisin, the last one being particularly nasty.”
“No, I absolutely refuse. I’ll be all right.”
Simon, accompanied by Toni, decided to call on May Dinwoody. No one in the village was talking to either them or the police. Simon hoped it might still be possible that May would talk to him.
May was about to close the door in his face when Simon said urgently, “We can pay for information.”
The door opened a few inches.
“How much?” asked May, thinking of her straitened circumstances.
“Two hundred pounds.”
“Come in, then. But what can I tell you that could possibly be worth two hundred pounds?”
“Fred and Charlie have disappeared along with their wives. They may have the car that belonged to
that reporter. You know the countryside around here. Where could they possibly go that the police would not think of looking?”
May sat in silence, her brow wrinkled up in thought. Then she said, “There’s just the one place.”
“Where’s that?” asked Toni.
“Thirley Grange. It belonged to Sir Mark Thirley, who died last year. Terrible death duties. But it’s a Georgian gem and his nephew has managed to get the National Trust to agree to take it over. They haven’t started work yet, but they’ve put a man at the lodge and repaired the walls and fences, and they’ve got a night watchman to patrol the place. There are a lot of outbuildings and stables and things and an old folly in the grounds.”
“Is there any way they could get in past the man at the lodge?” asked Simon.
“I used to wander round there last year before the Trust began work. It was so quiet and the grounds, although badly in need of upkeep, are still pretty. There is a back road . . . Wait. I’ve got an ordnance survey map. I bought it when I first moved here, so it might be out of date.”
She left the room. Simon walked to the window and looked down at the millpond. The day had turned grey and chilly. He swung round as May came back into the room. “Here we are,” she said, spreading the map on the table. “That is the Grange and just there, that dotted line, that’s a back road. It was used in the old days by tradesmen, but I don’t think it’s been used since the middle of the last century. After the war, the old habits died away and people couldn’t find staff and so the tradesmen just went up the main drive.”
“Why do you think they did it?” asked Toni.
“If they did,” said May severely. “Oh, dear, it was those Christmas lights. They were photographed in Cotswold Life and then they were filmed on Midlands TV. They were so proud. Then John Sunday turned up to ruin it all. Money, please.”
Simon took out his chequebook and wrote out a cheque for two hundred pounds.
May blushed. “I shouldn’t be taking this, but times are hard.”
