by M C Beaton
“So what did she say when you told her?” asked Charles.
Jerry flushed slightly. “Truth to tell, I hadn’t the courage. She was very bossy and she frightened me. When I met her again, she went on as if nothing had happened. I feel so ashamed now. If I had reported the loss to the police and she had been found guilty, people would have stopped lending her things and they would have watched their belongings. And she had got herself elected to the parish council. But there was worse to come.”
“Go on,” urged Agatha.
“There was a party in the church hall to celebrate the repair of the church roof. Of course, it was all to congratulate Gloria on her work. The vicar made a moving speech and his wife looked as if she didn’t know whether to throttle him or Gloria. Well, Gloria drank a lot.
“I had just got home and was about to open my door when I heard her calling me. She came right up to me, stinking of scent. ‘Let’s have a bit of fun, Jerry,’ she said, and she pressed herself up against me.”
“And what happened then?” asked Charles.
“I thrust her away and screamed for help. She turned round and tottered off.”
“Her murder may not have anything to do with her taking things,” said Agatha. “If she was that hot, maybe she was having an affair with someone—or in her case, anyone. Can you think of anyone?”
“It can’t be our vicar, Guy Enderbury.”
“Why?” asked Agatha.
“His wife would gouge her eyes out. I think Clarice was the very first to get wise to her. There is Peter Suncliff. She really did chase after him. I find middle-aged women who pursue men disgusting!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Charles, flicking an amused look at Agatha.
“But poison is supposed to be a woman’s choice of weapon,” said Agatha.
“Usually, I believe,” said Jerry. “But if someone wanted her dead by slipping a bottle of poisoned wine among the others she had, then they would have an alibi for the time of death. And how would anyone know that she would drink that particular bottle on that particular day and so be on hand to remove the evidence? And what about substituting the wine in your car for the poisoned one?”
“It would only take a moment,” said Agatha. “So many of the villagers seem to use the pub and like a fool I left my car unlocked. What about Samantha Framington? She leant Gloria her pearls and had to fight to get them back. If only the damn woman had reported that to the police.”
“Just like me,” said Jerry gloomily.
* * *
“What now?” asked Charles. Agatha’s phone rang. She turned away to answer the call, walking a bit away from him. He could hear from the cooing note in Agatha’s usually robust voice that something was pleasing her. When she rang off and joined him, she said excitedly, “That was Cambridge TV. They want to do an interview with me tomorrow on their morning show. Of course, they’re not in Cambridge. That’s the name of the owner. Have you seen the show? It’s called Good Morning, Britain.”
“No, but I’ve read the reviews. It’s supposed to be pretty awful.”
“I can kill two birds with one stone. I’ll get Patrick to dig up Gloria’s former address in London and interview some of her old neighbours. Are you coming with me?”
Charles grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for worlds. What about young Simon?”
“I think I’ll send him back to the office until things quieten down here. I don’t want to come back and find him poisoned.”
* * *
The studios of Good Morning, Britain were situated in Canary Wharf. Agatha and Charles had to go through many irritating security checks by guards in the vast car park underneath the building.
At last Agatha was seated, getting her make-up done. A man rushed into the room. “I’m the producer, Tristram Guise,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a cock-up. Before your interview, we’d scheduled an Indian cooking lesson, but the chef refused to come.”
“Why?” demanded Agatha.
“The cheapskate wanted us to pay his taxi fare to the studio.”
“Was he coming from Birmingham?” Birmingham is the home of the best curries.
“No, Fulham.”
“Wouldn’t it have been a good idea just to pay his fare?” asked Agatha.
“Well, the damage is done. The thing is, we’ve rented all this kitchen equipment and we’ve got to cover the cost. Can you cook up a curry?”
“Only if it comes in a plastic container and I can put it in the microwave,” said Agatha.
“Look, you’ve got to cook something. It’s too late to get anyone else. What about an omelette?”
“I suppose I can do that.”
“Robin, our researcher, will help you. Right, let’s get to it. Oh, here’s someone to mike you up. Just give the viewers a speech about simple dishes being the best and yaddy-ya.”
Agatha was not about to tell anyone that she had never cooked an omelette in her life before, but she had watched Mrs. Bloxby doing it. What could go wrong?
She was escorted along to the studio, where she was wrapped in a striped apron and told to stand behind a stove. Robin, a small dark-haired girl, smiled at her.
“Isn’t there a smell of gas?” asked Agatha.
“We fixed up a butane gas canister. It’s fine. Here we go. You’ve got the frying pan, butter and a box of eggs.”
The lights went down in the studio. The presenter, a willowy blonde, sat on a red sofa, practising her smile. The floor manager began the countdown. Agatha suddenly experienced a feeling of pure panic.
The lights went up. “We are honoured to have with us, this morning, our favourite private eye, Agatha Raisin,” said the presenter. “But as she’s also by way of being a village lady, she’s first going to show you lucky viewers how to cook an omelette. Sorry we couldn’t bring your Aga, Agatha. That’s what you village dames use. Over to you, Agatha.”
Agatha cleared her throat. “First, you melt some butter in a frying pan. That’s if you’ve switched on the gas. Is the gas switched on?”
“Sorry,” said Robin, turning a knob.
“And we wait for it to melt while we beat up the eggs.” Agatha felt her confidence growing. She whipped up four eggs in a bowl with a fork, added salt and put the mixture in the pan. “Now, while we wait for it to cook,” she said cheerfully, “let me tell you about my latest case. What?”
“The gas’s very high,” whispered Robin. “You’d better flip the omelette before it scorches.”
“Right!” All Agatha’s nervousness came rushing back. She seized a spatula, put it under the omelette and gave it a hearty toss. It went straight up and stuck on the studio ceiling.
“Cut,” said the producer. “Go to the ads. Robin, you do the omelette quickly.”
“I’ll try,” said Robin, “but the gas pressure’s dying. Are you sure there isn’t a leak?”
“Get on with it!”
Agatha felt suddenly dizzy. She walked over to the presenter. “Could we just get on with the interview?”
There came a crash behind her as Robin slumped to the floor.
“Get a doctor,” said the presenter.
“I think she’s gassed,” said Agatha. “I’m sure there’s a leak.”
“Just get back there,” shouted the producer as two men carried Robin out. “Wind it up as if nothing had happened. Say something about simple country cooking being the best. A studio hand has disconnected the gas cylinder. You’ll be all right.”
Agatha reluctantly took her place behind the stove. “And that, viewers, is how you make an omelette. I always think that…”
But that was as far as Agatha got. The omelette detached itself from the ceiling and landed on her head.
* * *
Charles, watching the whole scene on the monitor in the greenroom, could hardly stop laughing.
A flustered-looking man put his head round the door. “Mrs. Raisin is asking for you. She wants to leave.”
“Where is she?”
“Getting her hair washed.”
“Well, she won’t need me to help her with that. What’s happening about her interview? Who’s that warbling on the screen?”
“We’d got this Gaelic singer who was supposed to do a number to end the show. Now, she’s got the whole show.”
Charles settled back to wait. Agatha eventually joined him.
“How’s that girl doing who passed out?”
“Recovering in the sickbay demanding a lawyer. Oh, let’s get out of here, Charles. I feel so humiliated.”
“Agatha, it was the funniest thing you’ve ever seen. The press will be after you.”
“Let them try. I don’t want any more publicity. I just want away from this Mickey Mouse studio.”
“Cheer up. They did a nice job with your hair.”
* * *
Once they were driving away from Canary Wharf, Agatha said, “Patrick has texted me with Gloria’s former address. It’s a mews house, Southern Mews, off the Gloucester Road. Let’s just hope I can find a parking place.”
Agatha felt the gods had decided at last to be merciful as she slid her car into a parking place on the Gloucester Road near the entrance to the mews.
“She lived at number four,” said Agatha. “Let’s start at number five.”
They walked into the cobbled mews, a pretty lane of whitewashed houses, some decorated with hanging baskets of flowers.
Agatha rang the bell of number five. A tall grey-haired woman answered the door. She looked at Agatha in surprise and then burst out laughing. Then she called over her shoulder, “Come here, Paul. It’s that woman from the telly—you know, the one with the omelette on her head.”
Agatha angrily made to turn away but Charles seized her arm in a firm grip. Paul joined the woman at the door and grinned at Agatha. “You were a hoot,” he said.
“We’re actually investigating the murder of Gloria French,” said Charles quickly. “She used to live next door to you, didn’t she?”
“You’d better come in. I’m Debbie and this is Paul.”
“I’m Charles and this, as you know, is the famous Agatha Raisin,” said Charles, giving Agatha a little push in the back as she seemed reluctant to go into the mews house. As mews houses had once been for coaches with accommodation for the coachman abovestairs and faced north, the living room was dark. It was furnished with leather-and-chrome chairs and violent abstract paintings swearing down from white-painted walls. Like his wife, Paul was tall with grey hair. He urged them to sit down while he and his wife folded themselves into low chairs.
“Please do not talk about that television show,” said Agatha. “We really need to know all we can about Gloria. What was she like?”
“Pushy, common and grasping,” said Debbie. “We’re a quiet lot in this mews. The walls are thin. Gloria made a pass at Paul and was rejected. But she stopped me one morning and said, ‘Has Paul asked for a divorce yet?’ I asked her what she was talking about and she said, ‘Oh, you poor deluded woman,’ and just walked away.
“Fact is, I thought Paul was having it off with that new blond secretary of his and we had a terrible row. Now, Gloria had a best friend, Carrie James, at number ten. But Carrie went off her and told us that on the evening we were having that row, Gloria had a tumbler pressed to the wall, listening to as much as she could. She was a nasty troublemaker and I hope she died a horrible death. When’s the funeral? I’ve a good mind to send a wreath of rhubarb leaves.”
“Do you happen to know if any of your neighbours ever visited her in that village she moved to?” asked Charles.
“I think Carrie went there. She said Gloria had something of hers she wanted back.”
“We’d better see Carrie,” said Agatha.
* * *
As they emerged into the mews, a small boy ran up to Agatha waving an autograph book. “May I have your autograph?”
“Sure.” Agatha signed a page with a flourish and smiled indulgently at the little boy. “Want to be a detective when you grow up?”
“No, I want to be on telly. You were ace. My mum says the whole thing was staged, but it was funny all the same.”
“Run along, dear,” said Agatha through gritted teeth.
“Cheer up, Aggie,” said Charles. “If people think the whole thing was staged for a laugh, they’ll forget about it pretty quickly. Here’s number ten. Let’s hope she’s at home.”
* * *
When what turned out to be Carrie James opened the door to them, Agatha’s first impression of the woman was that she looked like a lizard. It was her eyes, which were long-shaped and bright green under heavy lids. She had straight fair hair and was wearing a Chinese kimono over a nightdress.
Agatha introduced herself and Charles and explained they wanted to talk to her about Gloria.
“I can’t help you,” said Carrie. Her voice was low and husky. “Horrible woman.”
“May we come in?” asked Agatha.
“No.”
“You visited her in Piddlebury. Why?”
“Went down to get my wineglasses back.”
“And did you get them?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How?”
“What do you mean ‘how’?”
“Well,” said Agatha, striving for patience, “I gather she had a way of holding on to things she had borrowed.”
“I threatened to sue her.”
“Did you kill her?”
“Get off my doorstep or I’ll kill you.” Carrie slammed the door in their faces.
* * *
They patiently worked their way along the mews, asking people who were at home about Gloria.
All the replies were unfavourable and terse.
Number eight: “Common as muck.”
Number seven: “Horrible grasping creature.”
Number two: “I’m glad she’s dead. Push off.”
“I don’t think we should hang around waiting for the rest to come home,” said Charles. “Don’t you feel that our murderer is in Piddlebury?”
“You’re probably right,” said Agatha. “I thought neighbours in London didn’t know each other but Gloria seems to have riled up everyone here.”
“Let’s have something to eat,” said Charles. “There’s a restaurant over there.”
When they were eating sandwiches and drinking coffee, Agatha said, “I wonder if she had a hold over someone in the village. Look at the way she left the vicarage dinner party to thieve a bit of china. What if she found love letters, something like that, in someone’s house. I think Gloria was the sort who would enjoy a bit of blackmail.”
“Could be. But if she was holding on to anything incriminating, the police would have found it when they searched the house.”
Agatha phoned Patrick. “You’ve got a list of people in that village. You’ll find it on my computer. See if anyone has a criminal record. Oh, and there’s a visitor at the inn, a chemistry teacher, Brian Summer. See what you can get on him.”
“Fancy him, do you?” asked Charles.
“What are you talking about?”
“This fellow, Brian Summer. You don’t really suspect him. You just want some leverage there.”
“Nonsense. In my book, everyone’s a suspect. Oh, do shut up and let me eat in peace.”
They were just finishing their meal when Agatha’s phone rang. It was Patrick. “Brian Summer was involved in a case a few months ago,” he said. “He dropped into a party some of his pupils were having to celebrate the end of term before the Easter holidays. A sixteen-year-old girl was found dead in one of the bedrooms in the morning. It was found at the autopsy that she had drunk GBL.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a substance called gamma-butyrolactone. Get it in paint stripper or stuff for cleaning alloy wheels. Known on the street as ‘coma in a bottle.’ I think it was banned last December but before that anyone could order it off the Internet. It’s tasteless and can be mixed, say, in orange juice. It gives a high
like ecstasy, and it’s very cheap. A small bottle costs around twenty-three pounds and contains enough for fifty shots. Because traces of it disappear after twelve hours, it may be responsible for a lot of unexplained deaths. It can be used as a date rape drug. Too much causes death.”
“And so what happened to Brian Summer?”
“When they didn’t know what had killed her and suspected poisoning, and with him being a chemistry teacher, he was pulled in for questioning. Nearly cost him his job. Then one of the boys told the police that they had brought along a bottle of this GBL. They were mixing it with fruit juice. But it’s easier to overdose on GBL than heroin. Get the concentration even slightly wrong and you can end up unconscious or dead.”
“Surely they must have had something more on him than the fact he was a chemistry teacher?”
“He was the only adult there. It was a bit of a drunken rave, so what was a teacher doing at such a party?”
“And what was his explanation?”
“Don’t know. Seems he is popular, particularly with the girls. He had promised to drop in. Actually, it turned out he was only there ten minutes.”
When Agatha rang off, she told Charles the latest news. He gave her a mocking look. “You’re too old for him, I think. Maybe he fancies the young ones.”
“Nonsense,” said Agatha. “He did not strike me as being like that at all.”
“But…”
“Drop it!” snarled Agatha.
“Oh, well, back to the village of the damned.”
* * *
As they sat in the pub garden that evening, Agatha hoping that Brian would turn up, and avoiding the amused looks of the villagers who appeared to have seen, or heard about, her disaster in the studio kitchen, Charles asked, “Who’s the Framington female married to? You didn’t say anything about him.”
