by M C Beaton
Agatha was in a state of sheer terror. For a long time she was unable to think. Then she remembered that paper-knife she had bought and put in the pocket of her coat. She twisted her bound hands, trying to get her fingers inside her coat pocket.
Then the cellar door opened again. This is it, thought Agatha. Miss Partle came down the stairs carrying a hammer. “I’ll just put an end to you,” she said, “and then worry about getting rid of the body later.”
She hefted the hammer and Agatha closed her eyes. Then, above their heads, the doorbell shrilled.
Miss Partle lowered the hammer. Should she answer it or wait for them to go away? But sometimes Mr. Binser sent important documents to her home for her to study. She dropped the hammer on the floor beside Agatha and went back up the stairs.
She opened the street door. Two policemen stood there. “Miss Partle?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if you would accompany us to the police station. Just a few more questions concerning the murder of Tristan Delon.”
“But I have already answered all your questions. Mr. Binser will be most displeased.”
“It won’t take long.”
The desire to get them away from the house prompted Miss Partle to say, “I’ll fetch my handbag.”
Agatha heard the voices but could not make out what they were saying. She heard Miss Partle go back into the kitchen, and then back to the front door. Agatha began to bang her feet on the floor. But the door slammed shut behind Miss Partle and the house was quiet.
Bill and Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes were speeding for London, siren blaring. “I told them to hold this Miss Partle until we got there,” said Wilkes.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Bill, “what if Agatha’s gone to her house?”
“They say she seemed to be alone.”
“Might be an idea to call at the house first and ask the neighbours if they saw anyone like Agatha call at the door. Only take a minute,” he pleaded.
Wilkes sighed. “Well, all right. But I’ve got a feeling we’ll have Binser’s lawyers on top of us by the end of the day. Agatha Raisin. Pah! Why can’t she mind her own business?”
“She’s often blundered onto something in the past.”
“If there’s nothing in this, I’ll charge that damn woman with interfering in police business and I really will do it this time!”
Down in the cellar, Agatha rolled onto her back again with a groan. Why wasn’t real life like the movies? In a movie, the heroine would have been able to get her hands on that knife and free her bonds.
She lay still for a moment and tried again. Her pockets were deep. She got a finger on the edge of the tissue paper and gently tugged. Bit by bit the knife began to emerge from her pocket. She gave a final tug and the knife in its tissue-paper wrapping popped out and fell on the floor. She rolled on her side and felt for it. But the tissue-paper wrapping had been Sellotaped around the knife and she could not get enough movement in her fingers to tear it off. Tears began to roll down her cheeks.
John Armitage was caught up in a traffic jam. He heard the sound of a police siren and saw the cars in front twist to the side of the road. A police car roared past. He got a glimpse of Bill Wong’s face. He suddenly felt that Agatha had made a terrible mistake and the police would never forgive her.
“This is the house,” said Bill. “Let’s try next door and find out if Agatha’s been seen.”
A young woman with two children hanging on her skirts opened the door. Bill described Agatha. She shook her head. “I’ve been busy with the children. Ask old Mrs. Wirtle across the street. She never misses anything.”
Mrs. Wirtle took ages to answer the door. She was leaning on a zimmer frame, peering up at them from under a bird’s nest of uncombed grey hair. Once more, Bill described Agatha.
“Yes, I saw a woman like that go in with Miss Partle,” said Mrs. Wirtle. “Then Miss Partle was taken away by the police. What’s going on?”
“And you did not see the other woman come out?” demanded Bill in a loud voice.
“No need to shout. I’m not deaf. No, I didn’t see her.”
They thanked her and went and stood in front of Miss Partle’s house. “Might take too long to get a search warrant,” said Wilkes.
“Try the door,” suggested Bill.
Wilkes turned the handle. “It’s open.”
“Then we can go in,” said Bill. “Responsible policemen checking unlocked premises.”
Agatha heard men’s voices. Had Miss Partle associates? But she was desperate. She made choking noises behind her gag and banged her feet on the floor.
“You hear something?” asked Bill, as they stood in the narrow entrance corridor.
They stood and listened. Again a faint banging sound followed by a moan.
They walked down to the kitchen. “Agatha!” called Bill sharply.
A stifled gurgling moan.
“That door over there is open,” said Bill.
He fumbled inside the door and located the light switch and pressed down.
There down on the cellar floor lay Agatha Raisin, her face blotched with tears.
The two men hurried down. Bill ripped the gag from her mouth and then, producing a clasp knife, cut the ropes that bound her.
“She was going to kill me,” gasped Agatha. “She’s coming back to kill me.”
Bill helped her to her feet. Agatha staggered and winced at the pain in her feet and hands, for the ropes had nearly cut off her circulation.
“Get her upstairs and give her some tea,” said Wilkes. “I’ll phone Kensington. They’ve got Miss Partle there.”
The Kensington police were becoming increasingly worried. This Miss Partle was formidable and business-like. She seemed to have powerful friends and her boss was a tycoon.
Miss Partle sensed their unease and was becoming increasingly confident. All she had to do was sit tight and sooner or later they would release her. She was not under arrest. All she had to do was answer the questions put to her by the clowns from Mircester police, go home, and decide what to do with Agatha Raisin’s body. If she and Agatha had been spotted together at the market, then she might have more questions to answer, but so long as there was no body to be found, there was not much they could do. It might be an idea to put the body in the boot of her car and dump it somewhere in Carsely.
A policewoman had been sitting with her. But the door of the interview room opened and two detectives came in. They looked at her grimly. One said, “We’ll start the questioning when Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes of the Mircester CID arrives.”
It was then that Miss Partle realized she could not remember locking her front door.
John Armitage arrived just as Bill and Wilkes were ushering Agatha into their police car.
“Come with us,” said Bill, “and look after your fiancée. She was nearly killed.”
As they drove to the police station, Agatha told her story.
“I wonder why she attacked you?” said John when Agatha had finished. “I mean, you didn’t say anything that might lead her to think you had any proof at all, did you?”
Agatha shook her head. “Mind you, I did tell her about the mobile phone and I did say I would never give up trying to find out who did it.” She was beginning to recover. The old Agatha Raisin was coming back. And the old Agatha Raisin was thinking what a pill John was. No glad hugs or kisses. No cries of “Darling, are you all right?” Sod him.
At the police station, John was told to wait while Agatha was led off by a detective to give her statement.
Bill and Wilkes entered the interview room where Miss Partle was sitting.
Wilkes said, “I am charging you with the attempted murder of Mrs. Agatha Raisin…”
And Miss Partle began to scream.
∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧
11
Bill began to think she had gone mad and that they were never going to get a coherent statement out of her, but at last she calm
ed and it all came out.
“I am devoted to my boss,” she said in a flat, even voice. “I did everything for him, more than his wife. I made him the best coffee, I put his shirts in the laundry, I bought the Christmas and birthday presents for his children as well as dealing with his business affairs. Then I received a message one day to say there was a Mr. Tristan Delon in reception. He wished to see Mr. Binser with a view to getting a charitable donation towards a boys’ club. I sent down a message that he should put his request in writing.”
Wilkes occasionally interrupted to ask for times and dates.
“He must have somehow got a description of me from one of the receptionists, for when I left that evening, he was waiting for me. He invited me for dinner. He was very charming and I knew that Mr. Binser would never love me the way I wanted him to, and it was like a perpetual ache at my heart. Tristan made me feel attractive. I found myself promising him an interview with my boss. And then suddenly Mr. Binser and Tristan seemed to be going everywhere, but Tristan was still careful to take me out as well from time to time.
“Then Mr. Binser came to me and told me how he had been cheated out of ten thousand pounds. I told Tristan to visit me at my home. I took a cricket bat to him and said that was only a taste of what he would get if he didn’t return the money, and I thought that was the end of it. I checked with his vicar and found he had moved to the country.
“And then, when I had all but forgotten about him, he phoned me. He said he and Mr. Binser had gone to a gay bar and a friend who worked there had sent pictures of Tristan and Mr. Binser. Tristan said to tell Mr. Binser that if he did not pay up two hundred and fifty thousand, the photographs would go to his wife. Much as I thought Mr. Binser’s wife was not worthy of him, I knew he would be devastated. I hated Tristan Delon. He had fooled me. He had let me think he cared for me. I went down to Carsely in disguise, dressed as a rambler. I saw a group of ramblers and tagged on to them until I got a plan of the village in my head. I was still thinking what to do. You see, I told him I had money saved and I would pay him the money myself. I watched and waited. I saw that Raisin woman leave his house around midnight. And then I wondered if I could frighten him into leaving. So I phoned him and told him I would call on him the following day and I would shoot him. You see, I was beginning to wonder if there really were any photographs. Because I’d asked my boss if he’d ever been to a gay bar and he said he hadn’t, and Mr. Binser,” she said, all mad pride, “never lies.
“Tristan did sound frightened. But I waited. I saw him slip out and walk to the vicarage. He entered by the French windows. I slipped in after him. I saw him open a box and take money out and at the same time I saw the paper-knife, gleaming in the moonlight. I seized it and stabbed him and left. I had parked my car among woods at the top of the hill and I made my way across the fields to it.”
She fell silent.
“Miss Jellop?” prompted Wilkes. “Why her?”
“Tristan had told her. She said he had left the photos with a Mrs. Slither but that she, Miss Jellop, knew all about it. She said he had got drunk one day and told her. She said she was going to the police. She said she was up in London and calling from a phone-box. I couldn’t have that. I said I would call on her and give her a full explanation. I was so lucky to get to her first. But would it never end? Then I had that Slither woman saying she was sure Tristan had told her that he had enough evidence to ruin Mr. Binser. I hoped it was over but then I began to worry about Peggy Slither. Getting rid of her would make sure there would be an end to it. I carefully looked through her house after I had killed her without disturbing anything, but could not see any photographs. I waited and prayed, but it became evident that the police had not found any either. You won’t tell Mr. Binser about any of this? I would not want to lose his respect.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to,” said Wilkes and Miss Partle began to cry.
Agatha, for the next few weeks, was frightened into domesticity. Doris Simpson, her cleaner, had gone on holiday to Spain, leaving Agatha to look after her cat, Scrabble. Agatha had brought back Scrabble from one of her cases, had rescued Scrabble, but the ungrateful cat seemed to be pining for the missing Doris, and did not appear to remember Agatha at all. Agatha polished and cleaned and had a brave try at making apple jelly from a basket of windfall apples which Farmer Brent had given her but it would not set, so she gave the jars of runny liquid to Mrs. Bloxby, who miraculously did something to them to turn them into golden jelly.
The vicar, Alf Bloxby, had called in person to thank Agatha for her help. He made such a polite and formal speech that Agatha wryly thought that his wife had coached him in what to say.
John Armitage was often up in London and she saw little of him.
Then Bill Wong called round to tell Agatha that Miss Partle had gone completely mad and it was doubtful if she would ever stand trial.
“It was a visit from Binser that seems to have sent her over the edge,” said Bill. “He’d got her the best lawyer, but she kept asking to see him. I don’t know what was said, but after his visit, they had to put her in a strait-jacket. One always thinks of romantic people as suffering from undying passion, not plain, middle-aged secretaries.”
“Those gay photographs that Wilkes told me about, had Binser known anything about them?”
“No, evidently all he remembers is her asking him if he’d ever gone to a gay bar, and he was surprised, said no, and asked her why. She had responded with something non-committal. As for Jellop and Slither, their end was partly your fault, Agatha.”
“How come?”
“I think both of them were jealous of you and wanted to show they could be detectives as well. It’s very dangerous to keep things from the police. You should have told me about your suspicions, not gone to see her yourself. I mean, what on earth were you thinking of, going back with her to her house?”
“It was when I met her in the Portobello Market,” said Agatha. “She seemed so normal that I decided I must have been fantasizing.”
“But it was a leap in the dark to suspect her.”
“It was this secretary business,” said Agatha. “I was a secretary once. People think because of women’s lib that secretaries no longer make the coffee or things like that. But the top-flight go on more like wives. Some of them even choose schools for the boss’s children. There’s an intimacy springs up. Often boss and secretary work together late. Men like to talk about their work and secretaries make good listeners while wives at home get bored with it all. He probably saw Miss Partle as a cross between mother and helper. And she probably lived on romantic dreams of him. Tristan must have provided a brief holiday from her obsession until she found out that he had been using her. Then all her passion for Binser would return and engulf her.”
Bill’s eyes were shrewd. “You sound as if you’re speaking from personal experience.”
“No, just speculation. How’s Alice?”
“She’s fine.”
“I thought after that scene at the duck races that it would all be over.”
“She was drunk. She cried so hard and apologized so sincerely that I was quite touched.”
“You’re touched in the head,” said Agatha acidly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Bill, trust me, Alice is one cast-iron bitch. She wants to get married and with that mouth of hers, I doubt if anyone else would have her.”
Bill stood up and jerked on his coat. “Just because you’ve been crossed in love, Agatha, you see the worst in anyone else’s romance. You should be ashamed of yourself. Who I see or what I do is none of your business.”
“But, Bill…” wailed Agatha.
“I’m off.”
After he had gone, Agatha sat feeling miserable. If she wanted to retain his friendship, she would need to apologize to him. But what on earth did he see in the awful Alice?
Restless, she looked around her gleaming cottage. Better to get started on the old folks’ club and take her min
d off things.
She walked along to the vicarage. Mrs. Bloxby was out in the garden planting winter pansies.
“You look upset, Mrs. Raisin,” she said, straightening up from a flower-bed. “It’s not too cold today. I’ll bring some coffee out into the garden so you can have a cigarette and you can tell me what’s been going on.”
When they were seated at the garden table with mugs of coffee, Mrs. Bloxby asked, “What’s up?”
“It’s Bill,” said Agatha. “You’ll never believe this. He’s still devoted to Alice.”
“And what’s that got to do with you?”
“He’s my friend and he’s making a terrible mistake. I told him she was a cast-iron bitch.”
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin, you cannot interfere in a relationship.”
“Really? It was you who told me my marriage to James would be a disaster.”
The vicar’s wife looked rueful. “So I did. But I was so worried about you.”
“As I am about Bill.”
“True. But you’d better apologize. He is too good a friend to lose.”
Agatha sighed. “I’m tired of blundering around other people’s lives. I thought I would sound out some builders about getting the church-hall roof repaired for a start.”
“I am so glad you are still going to go on with that. John Fletcher, at the pub, is going to take the wine and label it as a liqueur. He says half of the price of each glass sold will go to the new club.”
“That’s handsome of him. I’ll make a push and try to get it all ready by Christmas. Have some sort of party.”
“When is the trial?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
“It seems as if there isn’t going to be one. Miss Partle has lost her marbles and will be considered unfit to stand trial. You know, I had one thought when I was lying in that cellar – I haven’t made a will. Maybe I’ll leave it all to the church and go straight to heaven.”
“You’ll want to leave it to your husband.”
“What husband?”
“I cannot imagine you staying single for the rest of your life.”
