by M C Beaton
“Drink that,” said Mrs. Essex. “You must forgive me for saying so, but you are drunk.”
Shock sobered Agatha somewhat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Alcohol’s what came over you. It looks as if that stuff’s pretty lethal. Do you still want it?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll get John at the pub to collect it and we can stack it somewhere in the church hall. I’ll ask Mrs. Bloxby where it should be stored.” Agatha rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll just be on my way.”
Mrs. Essex scribbled something on a piece of paper and held it out. “That’s my phone number. Give me a ring when they’re coming to collect the wine.”
Agatha looked at her helplessly. “Shorry.”
“It’s all right. I think you should go home and sleep it off.”
Agatha was sure the fresh air would restore her, but she had to walk home very slowly and carefully as her legs were showing an alarming tendency to give way.
With a sigh of relief she opened her front door and went into the sitting-room. She would just lie down on the sofa until her head cleared.
When she awoke, the room was in darkness. Her cats were sitting on her stomach looking down at her, their eyes gleaming.
Agatha straightened up and they jumped down on the floor and headed for the kitchen, mewing crossly.
What time is it? wondered Agatha. She stumbled to the door and switched on the light and stared in amazement at her watch. Eight o’clock in the evening. She hurried into the kitchen and opened cans of cat food. Once the cats were fed, she made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. With the first puff, memory came flooding back. With dreadful clarity she remembered telling Mrs. Essex everything about her life. Her face flooded with colour and she let out a groan. She wondered what proof that wine was. It had seemed such a good idea for the duck races. She picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialled the vicarage number. When Mrs. Bloxby answered, Agatha told her all about the wine. “It’s heady stuff. Do you know I gave Mrs. Essex my life story after only a couple of glasses? Do you think it would be safe to serve it?”
“It’s in a good cause,” said the vicar’s wife. “And she is giving it away. We’ll sell it by the small glass and warn everyone it’s very strong.”
“I feel such a fool,” wailed Agatha.
There was a long silence.
“Are you still there?” asked Agatha anxiously.
“Yes. I’m thinking. Something just struck me. If it loosened your tongue so effectively, it might have done the same to Tristan Delon’s.”
“So it might,” said Agatha slowly. “I’ve never behaved like that before. He might have been blackmailing someone we don’t know about. John was going to see Peggy Slither again, but he’s gone off to London. I might try her myself. I’m going to phone John Fletcher and ask him if he can pick up the wine tomorrow. Where do you want it stored?”
“In the church hall. I’ll leave it open tomorrow morning. We could really do with a proper church hall. That one is too small for events and we always have to use the school hall.”
“Maybe the duck races could be used to raise money for a new one.”
“Tempting. But Save the Children comes first.”
“Okay. Can you think of any excuse I could use to talk to Peggy Slither again?”
Mrs. Bloxby sat in thought. Then she said, “We could involve the Ancombe lot in the duck races. Old Mrs. Green is the chairwoman of the Ancombe Ladies’ Society, but she is poorly at the moment. Peggy is the secretary. You could call on her as my emissary and propose to her that we join forces.”
“Excellent. I’ll do that.”
“I’ll phone John Fletcher at the pub and ask him if he’ll send the truck round to pick up the wine,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “If the wine is as powerful as you say, perhaps we should mix it with fruit juice and serve a punch.”
“Might be safer,” conceded Agatha. “Tell John to call Mrs. Essex and tell her what time the truck will be there. I’ll try Peggy Slither tomorrow. I’m still feeling shaky.”
After Mrs. Bloxby rang off, Agatha put a frozen shepherd’s pie in the microwave. It never struck her as odd that she should be prepared to spend time cooking for her cats and yet be content with microwave meals for herself.
Agatha had tried to get interested in cooking. The Sunday supplements for the newspapers were full of recipes and coloured photos of delicious meals. Everyone who was anyone knew how to cook exotic dishes these days.
But it was very hard to plan exotic meals for one. She poked at the microwaved mess on her plate, forcing herself to eat some of it so that she would not wake up hungry during the night.
It’s just as well I’m not in love with John, she thought, as she finally settled down for the night. I wish him well with that tart, Charlotte Bellinge. But as if to give the lie to this thought, her cats sidled into the bedroom and leaped onto the bed, something they only did when they sensed she was upset.
Agatha drove reluctantly to Ancombe the next morning to face Peggy Slither. She now wished she had waited for John’s return and sent him instead. After all, he was the one who had promised to go. She found herself hoping that Peggy was not at home. But as she parked, got out, and approached the garden gate of the bungalow, she saw Peggy stooped over a flower-bed. “Hi!” said Agatha.
Peggy straightened up from her task of planting winter pansies and surveyed Agatha with disfavour. “Why do British people keep saying hi, as if they were Americans? I blame television.”
“Oh, really. Well, a good day to you and how do you do,” said Agatha acidly, forgetting that she had meant to be nice to Peggy and so encourage her to talk.
“So what do you want?” demanded Peggy.
Agatha outlined the idea for the duck races and Peggy visibly thawed. “I’ll make the decision to join forces with Carsely,” she said. “Mrs. Green should never have been made chairwoman. Come inside and let’s discuss dates and arrangements.”
Back into that horrible living-room. Agatha said that the twenty-third of October, a Saturday, would be a good day.
“What if it rains?” asked Peggy.
“I’ll get a marquee set up in the field for refreshments. If it rains, the races will just need to take place all the same.”
“Will Farmer Brent agree to let us hold it on his land?”
“I’ll go and see him,” said Agatha. “I only know him slightly. I was introduced to him in the pub. He seems a friendly sort. Mrs. Essex, Miss Jellop’s sister, is contributing home-made wine.”
“Is she living in her sister’s house already?”
“She’s just clearing up. I think she and her husband plan to use it for weekends.”
“Must say it’s pretty insensitive of her, her sister being recently murdered and all. I think the Jellop woman was slightly off her head.”
“Did you know her?”
“Not very well. Sort of in the way I know the rest of you women from Carsely.”
“Tristan knew her well. Did he talk about her?”
“Had a giggle with me about several of the old biddies in the parish. I can’t remember him saying anything about her in particular. You detecting again?”
Agatha was suddenly sure that she was lying. She was sure that Tristan had said something about Miss Jellop.
“I’m curious,” she said. “There’s a murderer on the loose.”
“You’ve done this sort of thing before, if I remember.”
“Yes.”
“Is this how you go about it? Ask questions? Any questions?”
“Something like that,” said Agatha. “People sometimes remember things they haven’t told the police.”
“I could do that.”
“Why should you?” demanded Agatha crossly.
“Because I’d probably be better at it than you.” Peggy’s eyes gleamed with a competitive light.
God, I really do hate this woman, thought Agatha
.
“I have a lot of experience in these cases,” said Agatha stiffly.
“Yes, but I knew Tristan very well.”
“Not well enough to find out anything that might relate to his murder,” said Agatha, hoping to goad her into some revelation.
“That’s what you think. If you can find out things, so can I. I remember, you even got your picture in the newspapers a couple of times.”
“I didn’t do it for fame or glory. As a matter of fact, the police took the credit in nearly every case.”
“So you say,” jeered Peggy.
Agatha had had enough. She stood up. “The police don’t like amateurs interfering in their investigation.”
“Oh, really? So what about you? You have no professional status.”
“I am discreet.”
“Agatha Raisin discreet!” Peggy gave a great horse laugh and that braying laugh followed Agatha as she marched out of the door. She gave a fishing gnome a savage kick as she passed and it tumbled into a small pool.
“I’ll show her,” muttered Agatha as she got into her car. “But how? I’m at a dead end.”
Once home again, she sat down at her computer and began to type out everything she had learned. As she typed, the engagement ring on her finger winked and flashed. She took it off and put it in the desk drawer.
The doorbell rang. She saved what she had typed and went to answer it.
Bill Wong said, “I think it’s time we had a chat, Agatha.”
“Come in,” said Agatha reluctantly. “I’ll make coffee.”
“Instant will do.”
Agatha switched on the kettle. Her cats jumped up on Bill, purring loudly. He patted them and then removed Hodge from his shoulder and Boswell from his knee and placed them gently on the floor.
Agatha made two cups of coffee and placed them on the table along with milk and sugar. “I think I’ve some cake left,” she said.
“Never mind the cake. Sit down. I want to talk to you. I see you’re not wearing your ring.”
“I was typing on the computer and it kept flashing in the light and distracting me. What do you want to talk to me about?”
“I’ve never known you before to let things lie in a murder case,” said Bill. “I feel damn sure you’ve been ferreting around. Is there anything you haven’t been telling me?”
“You know about Binser. Yes, I’ve been asking a few questions but not getting anywhere. Someone Tristan knew, like Miss Jellop, learned something about the murderer.”
“I should think that’s pretty obvious.”
“Unless it wasn’t related. Unless maybe her sister bumped her off.”
“Mrs. Essex has a cast-iron alibi. Now out with it. Who have you been talking to?”
“You may as well know. I went to see a Mrs. Peggy Slither this morning.”
“Why her?”
“That repulsive woman was friendly with Tristan. But she won’t tell me anything. The silly cow has decided to turn detective herself.”
“I’d better see her. If she’s holding anything back, she might tell me. Where does she live?”
Agatha gave him directions. Then she said, “There was Mrs. Tremp.”
“We spoke to her. Apart from the fact she was about to give Tristan money and was saved by his murder is all we know. Think, Agatha. Has anyone else in this village got enough money to have attracted Tristan’s attentions?”
“There are a good few around. I can’t bring anyone to mind. I mean, sometimes in the Cotswolds, people with a good amount put by for their retirement live in quite modest homes. People are living so long these days and they all dread the inevitable high fees of a nursing home.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Bloxby,” said Bill. “She might be able to think of someone. Where’s John Armitage?”
“He’s up in London.” Agatha coloured faintly. Had she told Bill about Charlotte Bellinge? Better keep some bits of the investigation to herself. Pride would not let her confess to Bill that John had gone up to London to see an attractive woman.
“There’s a favour I want to ask you,” said Bill. “You know I told you about my girl-friend, Alice.”
“Oh, yes. That still on?”
“Very much so,” said Bill, beaming.
“Been to meet your parents yet?”
“No.”
Obviously not, thought Agatha, or it wouldn’t still be on. “You see,” continued Bill, “I feel I’ve made mistakes in the past by introducing my girl-friends to my parents too early on. Makes them think I’m getting too heavy. But I would like Alice to meet my friends. I’ve got the evening off. May I bring her over?”
“I’d be honoured,” said Agatha. “Bring her for dinner.”
“Maybe not. She’s a vegan.”
“Oh dear. But I think I can cope.”
“No need to do that. What if I bring her for drinks, say, for an hour about seven o’clock and then I can take her for dinner somewhere.”
“Right you are.”
When Bill had left, Agatha returned to her computer and ran over what she had already written.
If Miss Jellop had learned something from Tristan, something dangerous, then it must be about someone in Carsely or one of the other nearby villages.
And what of Mrs. Tremp? Perhaps it would be a good idea to try that lady again. She decided to walk. Too much driving everywhere meant she wasn’t getting enough exercise. But as she trudged up out of the village, she was assailed again by the old longing to just let herself go, stop chasing after men, give up the battle against age. John Armitage, whom she had almost come to think of as asexual, had fled off to London, apparently smitten by Charlotte Bellinge. There was a faint hope that he might be trying to find out something relevant to the case, but Agatha doubted it. And how could a stocky, middle-aged woman compete with a porcelain blonde? Not that I want to, thought Agatha. I mean, I’m not at all interested in John. I wonder if I should go blonde. Do blondes really have more fun? Why not try? She tugged her mobile phone out of her handbag and called her hairdresser. Yes, they had a cancellation and could fit her in at three that afternoon.
Mrs. Tremp was at home and not at all pleased to see Agatha. “If you’ve called to ask me about the murders, I don’t know anything,” she said.
“I actually called to see if you could help with the duck races,” lied Angela.
Mrs. Tremp looked diverted. “Duck races? What on earth are they?”
Agatha explained.
“That does sound a good idea and I do like to help in charity work. Come in. What is it you would like me to do?”
“Last time I was here you said you were making jam,” said Agatha. “I wondered if you would consider setting up a table at the races and selling some of your home-made jam? You need not contribute what you make for any sales to the charity if you do not want to. It’s just that stands with homemade jams and cakes lend a country air to the proceedings.”
“Oh, no, I’ll be glad to contribute. Who is making the cakes?”
“I thought I might ask the members of the ladies’ society.”
“No need for that. Do sit down, Mrs. Raisin. I will bake cakes as well. To be honest, time does lie heavily on my hands. The colonel when he was alive kept me so busy. As a matter of fact, I’ve just made some carrot cake. Would you like some?”
“That would be very nice.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
When Mrs. Tremp retreated to the kitchen, Agatha wondered how to broach the subject of Tristan. Perhaps just talk about the races and village matters and see if Mrs. Tremp herself volunteered anything.
The carrot cake proved to be delicious. Agatha ate two large slices, comforting herself with the thought that the walk home might counteract the calories. She talked further about the plans for the races and then volunteered the information that Mrs. Essex was contributing a cellar-full of home-made wine.
“Who is this Mrs. Essex?” asked Mrs. Tremp.
“Miss Jellop�
�s sister.”
“How odd! She is staying at her sister’s home?”
“Only, I think, to clear up. I believe she and her husband plan to use it for weekends and holidays.”
“Sad, that. I mean, the life is draining out of the villages. I mean, the community life. Soon the whole of the Cotswolds will be some sort of theme park full of tourists, incomers and weekenders. There are few like you, Mrs. Raisin, who are prepared to do their bit. I am sorry I was so cross with you, but the murder of poor Tristan upset me. He had a way of making me feel good about myself. I suppose the secret is to feel good about oneself without relying on other people, but that is a very hard thing to do. Of course, I have wondered and wondered what could have brought about his death. He was extremely attractive. Perhaps it was a crime of passion.”
“Could be. Somehow I think it was to do with money and somehow I get a feeling that after I left him on his last night something happened to make him want to run for it. Has anyone said anything about anyone strange being seen in the village?”
“I only usually speak to people in church or people in the general stores. They are all mystified.”
“If you can think of anything, let me know.” Agatha tactfully turned the conversation back to village matters and then took her leave.
When she returned home, she checked her supply of drinks to see if she had a good-enough selection, ate a hurried lunch of microwaved lasagne and got into her car and drove to the hairdresser’s in Evesham, all the while telling herself that she did not really need to go blonde, she could always change her mind at the last minute.
Early that evening, she rushed up to the fright magnifying mirror in the bathroom for yet another look. Her thick hair was a warm honey-blonde…and yet…and yet…she did not feel like Agatha Raisin. Agatha went into the bedroom for a look in the wardrobe mirror. A stranger looked back at her. She was wearing a plain black georgette dress, cleverly cut to make her look slimmer than she was. Perhaps some eye-shadow? She went back to the bathroom. She carefully applied beige eyeshadow, then liner and mascara, and had just finished when the doorbell rang.
