by M C Beaton
“Let’s follow the path round the edge of the fields,” said Toni.
Farther on, they again found the footprints in a muddy patch. “Keep going,” urged Toni.
“Look at that,” said Simon. A watery sunlight had broken through the clouds and was gilding the fields. “There’s the roof of something away ahead.”
They hurried on along the fields until they came to a dilapidated stone building. The door was fastened with a new padlock.
“Agatha!” called Toni.
A voice from somewhere above their heads said, “Up here!”
They both stood back and looked up at the roof. There was a hole in the slates and Agatha’s head was poking through.
“Don’t try to get out that way,” called Toni. “The rest of the roof might be rotten. We’ll try to break the door.”
Simon found a loose stone and began to hammer at the padlock until Toni said, “The hinges are pretty rotten and rusty. Try them.”
Simon hammered at the hinges until two of them on the left splintered. Together, they heaved open the door.
Agatha was gingerly climbing down from the top of two old cabin trunks balanced on two beer crates.
They rushed to help her down.
“Snakes and bastards!” howled Agatha. “I’ll kill that monster.”
“Luke?” asked Toni, brushing cobwebs off Agatha’s coat.
“That’s him. How did you guess? Did he confess?”
“No, he left a note, supposed to come from you,” said Simon, “saying you didn’t want to go through with the marriage.”
Agatha sat down suddenly on an upturned beer crate.
“Did you really want to be a farmer’s wife?” asked Toni.
The rain came down again and some drops fell through the hole in the roof and a rising wind howled round the building.
“I made a mistake,” said Agatha sadly. She slowly drew off her engagement ring.
“Should I call the police?” asked Toni.
“No, leave it,” said Agatha. “I want to forget about the whole sorry thing.”
Toni helped her to her feet and together, with heads bowed against the driving rain, they walked back to the farmhouse.
“Blast! He’s hidden my car,” said Agatha. “It can’t be far. I’ve got the keys. Try round the side of the house or the barn or something.”
Simon finally called from the barn. “It’s round the side here covered in bales of hay.”
Then Agatha marched into the farmhouse where Paul was sitting at the kitchen table going over some accounts.
She put the ring on the table and told him in a weary voice what had happened.
“He’s gone out,” said Paul. “Are you going to charge him?”
“No, I’m sick of the whole thing,” said Agatha. “He’s hidden my car by the barn. Go and help Simon get it out.”
Paul got to his feet, looking sad and defeated. “Has this happened before?” asked Agatha.
“Once,” he said miserably. “Luke blames me for the breakup of our marriage.”
“I never asked you,” said Agatha, “what happened to your marriage?”
“She said she found the work too hard.”
“Work!” Agatha’s rosy dreams of being a sort of Marie Antoinette and playing at farming suddenly seemed stupid. She had assumed Paul would have plenty of help inside and outside the farmhouse.
“Why didn’t you hire help for her?” she asked.
“The farm was going through a bad patch. I just couldn’t afford the help.”
“So was my money the attraction?”
“No, no. Darling, don’t say that.”
“It’s over,” said Agatha. “Get my car and let me get out of here!”
* * *
When Agatha curled up in bed that night, she found to her surprise that she was not grieving or upset. When love got a blow, it was heart-wrenching, but when sex left, nothing remained but rather distasteful memories as if she had eaten too many chocolates.
Something was tugging at the back of her mind about the Winter Parva murders, but she was too tired to stay awake to try to figure out what it was.
* * *
On the following Saturday, she paid a visit to Mrs. Bloxby to tell her what had happened.
“I think you mixed up rich landowner with farmer,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “After a divorce, it is difficult for the children. We once had an unpleasant incident at a wedding. A woman was marrying again, and they were having the old-fashioned wedding service. It got to the bit about anyone objecting to the marriage or forever holding their peace, when the daughter, one of the bridesmaids, started shouting her mother was a whore. She read out the names of five men she claimed her mother had enjoyed affairs with. The bridegroom just turned round and fled out of the church.”
“And was it true? About the lovers, I mean?” asked Agatha.
“It seems to have been, and the bride was all in virginal white, too.”
“I didn’t think your husband would want to marry her anyway.”
“He didn’t know, you see,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “She had only recently moved into the village. Are you very upset about the end of your engagement?”
“No, but I do feel a bit sorry for Paul although I am sure my money was some of the attraction. I should never have agreed to marry him.”
“Have you seen Charles?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “I saw the announcement of his engagement.”
“Haven’t seen him at all or heard from him,” said Agatha.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Bill Wong called on her. Agatha made him coffee and asked him for the latest news.
“There isn’t any,” said Bill. “Jed has been remanded in custody, still claiming to be responsible for all the murders. Mrs. Crosswith is off the hook. I feel bad about it. Wilkes pressured him into the confession. But there’s no proof. That’s what worries me. I’m sure a murderer is still out there. I still suspect John Hale. He needs money. He could have bumped off Bert Simple, George Southern could have known about it and so got murdered as well. Now Hale is free to marry the widow.”
“I’ve lost touch,” said Agatha. “When’s the wedding?”
“Next month.”
“I might just pay him a call.”
“Now, that’s silly. If you suspect him of being a murderer and confront him, you may be next.”
“I’ll call on him at the school.”
“And he may do nothing there, but try to catch you later. Don’t.”
“Just an idea,” said Agatha.
“So you’re getting married,” said Bill, changing the subject.
“Not anymore. I made a mistake. What about you?”
“Nothing yet,” said Bill. “I live in hope.”
* * *
Agatha found herself restless that evening. The whole business of the Winter Parva murders nagged at her mind. She looked up the local paper. There was a performance of The Pirates of Penzance on at the Mircester theatre. Should she go there? Why not? Maybe she could catch him before the show. She fished in the blue bag supplied by the council for cardboard and took out an old FedEx envelope and sealed it up again. She changed into a black sweater and trousers and pulled a baseball cap down over her eyes, hoping that she looked like a FedEx messenger.
At the stage door, Agatha said to the stage doorkeeper, “Special delivery for John Hale.”
“Hand it over,” he said.
“Got to sign for it personally,” said Agatha.
“Oh, go on up. Door with the star on.”
Agatha hurried up the stairs until she found the right door and walked straight in. John Hale, wearing a pirate’s costume, was seated in front of a mirror. He glared at Agatha’s reflection and said, “What do you want?”
“I want to know why you are marrying Gwen.”
“Get out! That’s none of your business.”
“It is, in a way,” said Agatha. “If you are in love with Gwen, what were you doing romancing me?”
>
“Look at yourself in the mirror, dear. Money, that’s what.”
“And so that is the attraction of Gwen?”
“No, I’ve always loved her. I never thought I would have a chance, and then I found out she loved me. So, shove off.”
“Did you kill Bert Simple?”
He picked up a pot of cleansing cream and hurled it at her. Agatha ducked and then beat a hasty retreat.
* * *
Well, that didn’t really get me anywhere, thought Agatha as she turned into the lane leading to her cottage. In her headlamps, she saw to her dismay that Paul and Luke were standing on her doorstep. She was about to make a U-turn but Paul saw her and waved. Agatha drove up slowly, parked and got out of the car.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Luke wants to apologise to you. Go on, Luke.”
“I’m ever so sorry,” he said. “Dad’s all cut up and he really loves you. Forgive me?”
“Oh, all right,” said Agatha grumpily. “Now, if you’ll both stand aside, I’d—”
“Oh, do talk to me, Agatha,” pleaded Paul. “Run along, Luke.”
Luke got on a motorbike and roared off. “Come in for a drink, Paul,” said Agatha. “But I can’t change my mind.”
Once they were seated in Agatha’s living room, Paul said quietly, “Did our night together mean nothing to you, Agatha?”
Agatha cringed inside. But she said, “Let’s forget about it. I made a mistake.”
“I don’t go in for one-night stands,” said Paul, “and Luke is really sorry.”
“I don’t go in for one-night stands either,” said Agatha. “I really thought it would work out. But I am afraid we don’t have much in common. I want to go on being a detective, married or not, and that wouldn’t be much use to you in a wife.”
“I’ve a damn good mind to sue you for breach of promise,” said Paul, becoming angry.
“And part of my defence could well be the attack on me by your son,” said Agatha.
Paul stood up and glared down at her. “You are a bitch!”
“Think what a lucky escape you’ve had,” said Agatha.
He stomped out and then to her relief, she heard the front door slam.
Agatha felt miserable and grubby. After all, she had led him on and she had gone to bed with him. She felt like crying. But she roused herself to make a sandwich for supper. She didn’t feel like cooking a meal.
She tossed and turned in bed and then fell into deep sleep. Agatha awoke with the sound of her cats mewing and jumping on her bed.
She struggled up. “What’s up?” she asked. Her cats looked frantic. And then she smelled petrol. She pulled on her dressing down and ran downstairs. Someone was pouring petrol through the letterbox.
Agatha ran into the kitchen and seized a large fire extinguisher. She covered the small tide of petrol with foam and yelled, “I’ve called the police!”
A lighted wad of cotton was shoved through the letterbox. But the flames fizzled out in the carpet of foam.
Trembling all over but frightened to open the door, she called the police, having only pretended to before. Her legs seemed to have turned to jelly. She sat down on the kitchen floor and hugged her knees while her cats circled around her.
At last, she heard the blessed sound of a siren.
* * *
First there were the uniformed police and then shortly afterwards Bill Wong and Alice arrived.
“Any idea who’s behind this?” asked Bill.
Agatha had already been asked this question by the uniformed police and had said she did not know. But now she said, “I went to see John Hale at the theatre.”
“I told you not to,” said Bill. “So what happened?”
Agatha told him about her visit.
“We’ll check up on his movements. Any other suspect? See anyone else this evening?”
“No,” lied Agatha. She felt she had hurt Paul enough without throwing suspicion on Luke. She could only hope no one in the village had seen them. James Lacey’s cottage was next to hers but he was not at home.
The questioning went on while a forensic team checked outside.
When they had all finally left, Agatha went up to her bedroom, got dressed and packed a suitcase. She put her cats in their cat boxes and loaded them in her car along with her suitcase. She left the cats with her cleaner, Doris Simpson, after waking her to tell her what had happened.
Then she drove to the George Hotel in Mircester and checked herself into a room. In the morning, she phoned Paul and asked him if Luke had been with him all night.
“Of course,” he said stiffly. “Why?”
Agatha told him of the attempt to burn down her cottage.
“My son is a good boy,” said Paul. “If you send the police round here, I’ll never forgive you.”
“You’ll never forgive me anyway,” said Agatha sadly and hung up.
Chapter Eight
Two days later, Agatha was summoned to police headquarters. In an interrogation room, she was faced by Bill Wong and Alice Peterson.
“Mrs. Raisin,” began Bill formally, “do you know Luke Newton?”
“Yes, he’s the son of a man I was briefly dating. Why?”
“His fingerprints were on your door. The tyre marks on the wet muddy road outside your cottage match the tyres on his motorbike.”
“I forgot to tell you,” said Agatha desperately, “that he and his father called on me earlier in the evening, so that probably explains it.”
“And what was the reason for the visit?”
“Oh, just social,” said Agatha airily.
“You were engaged to Paul Newton, but broke off the engagement, is that correct?”
“Well, yes.”
“So why did they call on you?”
Agatha’s mind worked rapidly. If she told them about Luke’s apology, Bill would want to know what he was apologising for. He could go to court. His defence could well be that he was furious with her for breaking his father’s heart and that one-night stand would be brought out.
“It was a social call. We parted on good terms.”
Bill studied a sheet of paper. What had Paul said? wondered Agatha.
“Yes, Mr. Newton says he joined you in your cottage for a drink and his son went off to join his friends in Mircester. I don’t believe either him or you.
“Don’t you wonder why we have Luke Newton’s fingerprints? Two years ago, his father became engaged to a widow. Her name is Bertha Summerhayes. Luke sent her letters, threatening to kill her if she married his father. He finally met her in the street and punched her hard. He was arrested and brought to court. As it was a first offence, he was only given community service. So what are you not telling me?”
“Nothing,” said Agatha, studying the table in front of her. “What about John Hale?”
“Mr. Hale went to a party in Mircester after the show. It went on until three in the morning. There is no way he could have travelled to Carsely. So let’s get back to Paul Newton and his son.”
* * *
“You’d never have thought Bill was a friend of mine,” confided Agatha to Mrs. Bloxby that evening. “He just hammered on and on with the questions.”
“Don’t you feel it might have been wiser to tell him the truth?” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“And have me slated in court as a heartless man-eating harridan?”
“Better than being dead.”
“Oh, it won’t come to that. I phoned Paul and told him how I rescued his precious son from prison.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Well … not exactly.”
Mrs. Bloxby hesitated and then said gently, “Is it really so important to get married to … just, well, anyone?”
“I like the idea of having a man around the place,” said Agatha, “and not some sort of fly-by-night like Charles.”
“Perhaps Sir Charles is a good idea. You have occasional male company and yet you keep your independence.”
&nb
sp; “But he’s getting married and he never even bothered to tell me,” complained Agatha.
“Did you tell him about your engagement?”
“No. But I was angry with him about not telling me about his.”
“Of course, he may not go through with it,” said the vicar’s wife.
Agatha wondered at her own sudden surge of hope. “What makes you say that?”
“He has been engaged in the past and it has never worked out.”
* * *
When Agatha returned to her cottage, it was to find Charles sitting on her kitchen floor playing with her cats.
“What’s been going on?” he asked, smiling up at her. “I phoned your office but I was told you were being grilled at the police station because someone tried to set your cottage alight.”
“Oh, that.” Agatha took off her coat and slung it over the back of a kitchen chair. “My engagement’s off. It was my ex-fiancé’s son. Didn’t want me to marry Dad and that was after I had decided I didn’t want to marry him either. What about you?”
He grinned. “That’s why I’m here. Got an invitation for you to the wedding.”
“Thanks,” said Agatha bleakly. “When is it?”
“July tenth.”
“I might be abroad.”
“Try not to be.”
“Are you happy?” asked Agatha.
“As usual. Why?”
“Well, deeply in love.”
“You’ve been reading those romances again. She’s very suitable.”
“Rich?”
“Very.”
Agatha sighed. “You are mercenary, Charles.”
“I’ve got to be. That estate of mine drinks money. And I’ve got the threat that the government might bring in that mansion tax. As if I weren’t paying lots in tax already.” He got to his feet. “Feel like some dinner?”
“No thanks. I want an early night.”
When he had left, Agatha began to feel nervous. She had only spent one night at the hotel but felt sorely tempted to pack up again and seek refuge at the George.
“Don’t be a wimp,” she said out loud. She suddenly wished she had accepted Charles’s invitation to dinner. But somehow, she felt hurt that he was abandoning her. Had their time together meant nothing to him?
