by M C Beaton
“I’ve been here all the time,” said Moses. “My wife’s been making rabbit pie for lunch. You should stay for that.”
“May as well,” said Agatha. “I’ll need to pass the time until a forensic team has gone over my car.”
She went into the pub garden. To her surprise, Ada White was sitting at one of the tables, accompanied by a heavyset man.
Agatha approached her. “How’s things?”
“Awful,” said Ada. “They’ve taken away all the homemade wine out of my cellar to the lab. It’ll be ruined. Oh, this is my husband, Ken.”
Ken had thick grey hair and a truculent face. “Leave us alone,” he said. “The missus has had enough of questions.”
Normally, Agatha would have persisted, but the discovery of the rats had shaken her. She went to another table and sat down.
She brightened when Brian walked in. She waved him over but he smiled, waved back and went to sit at another table, as far away from Agatha as possible.
To pass the time, she phoned Toni, who gave her a brisk rundown on all the cases. Agatha told her about the rats and said she would be returning as soon as her car had been checked.
“And everything all right with you?”
“Why not?” demanded Toni curtly. “See you soon.”
* * *
Toni was seriously thinking of going for counselling. Luke had not been her first mistake. Was there something wrong with her that she gravitated to much older men with violent tendencies?
The office door opened and James Lacey, Agatha’s ex-husband, walked in.
“Agatha is due back from Piddlebury today,” said Toni. “She’s been on this poisoning case.”
“Like to come for lunch?”
Toni hesitated only a moment. Here was one older man who was as safe as houses.
They walked to a Chinese restaurant. Toni told James as much as she knew about Agatha’s detecting in Piddlebury, but as she talked, James noticed she looked unhappy.
Over a pot of green tea, he asked gently, “Now, tell me what’s upsetting you, Toni.”
Toni looked at him. She often thought that Agatha was mad to have let this one get away. James was as handsome as ever with his thick black hair only going a little grey at the temples and his intense blue eyes.
“It’s just that I’ve made another bad mistake,” she said slowly.
“A man?”
“Yes.”
“A much older man?”
“Yes, again. What’s up with me? He turned out to be a wife beater. Do you think I need a psychiatrist?”
“I think that’s for you to decide. There are two things to consider. The first is that there are a lot of predatory men around who zoom in on pretty, young girls. Then there are the girls who really want a sort of father figure to admire them, care for them and protect them from this nasty world. What was your own father like?”
“Didn’t know him.”
“In this wicked world,” said James, “the sad fact is that women have to be sure they can take care of themselves. No one else is really going to do it for them. It’s best really not to depend on anyone else. There are unfortunates in old folks’ homes who believed to the last moment that their sons and daughters would look after them in their old age. If you expect nothing from anybody, you could wake up one day and find yourself in the middle of a genuine and splendid romance.” His blue eyes were shining.
“Oh, James,” said Toni. “You’ve found someone.”
He grinned. “I think I have.”
“Who is she?”
“Mary Gotobed.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I think poor Mary has heard all the jokes there are about her name. It’s a good old name.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“In Carsely. She’s just moved into the village.”
“Divorced? Widowed?”
“What a lot of questions you do ask, young Toni. Mary is a widow.”
“Got a photo?”
James fished out his wallet and extracted a small photograph. Toni studied the woman in it with surprise. Mary was plain and motherly looking with curly brown hair, a round face and a plump figure.
“What will Agatha think?” asked Toni.
“It’s got nothing to do with Agatha. She’s always too busy chasing some man or other to bother about what I am doing.”
* * *
By the time Agatha had retrieved her car, she felt too tired to go to the office and so she drove straight home.
After she had collected her cats from her cleaner, Doris Simpson, she decided to walk up to the vicarage.
“Come in, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “What’s been happening in Piddlebury?”
“Two murders and I haven’t a clue who did them,” said Agatha. “I’ve not given up. I just can’t do anything with so many police around. How are things in the village. Anyone new?”
“Just a widow. Rather pleasant. Mary Gotobed.”
“Odd name.”
“Good old English one. Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
While Mrs. Bloxby poured coffee, she wondered whether to tell Agatha about James’s interest in Mary. But Agatha, she knew, was very competitive. With any luck, her work would keep her away from the village.
“Is James back?” asked Agatha when Mrs. Bloxby returned carrying a tray.
“Do have an Eccles cake, Mrs. Raisin. I baked them this morning.”
“Maybe just the one.”
“I want to hear all about the murders,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
So Agatha told her while Mrs. Bloxby listened, grateful that she had diverted her friend’s mind from James.
When she had finished, Mrs. Bloxby said, “I am surprised Brian Summer would opt to stay on in the village with so many press around. You would think he would be frightened that someone would dig up that poisoning case in Oxford.”
“I think he’s a bit odd,” said Agatha. “I’d better phone Patrick. The police must have questioned him along with everyone else in the village. Has James come back?”
“Have another Eccles cake.”
Agatha’s eyes sharpened. For the first time in their friendship, she thought the vicar’s wife looked shifty.
“I asked if James was back.”
“I believe so.”
“You’re trying not to tell me something. Out with it. I may as well hear it from you.”
“It’s just that James has formed a … well, a friendship with Mary Gotobed.”
“Is she blond and beautiful?”
“No, sort of comfortable and ordinary in a way, but a thoroughly nice woman.”
Agatha scowled horribly.
“Now, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “You don’t want him so why not let someone else have him?”
“Of course,” said Agatha. “You don’t think I would interfere, do you?” Her bearlike eyes bored into the mild eyes of Mrs. Bloxby.
“Heaven forbid!” said Mrs. Bloxby, but it sounded more like a prayer than an exclamation.
* * *
When Agatha walked back to her cottage, her brain was in turmoil. It was the thought that James might marry someone and be happy with that someone when he had been unhappy with her that riled her.
But Charles arrived that evening. His first remark was, “Heard about James and Mary?”
“Yes,” said Agatha curtly.
“Nose out of joint?”
“Don’t be silly, Charles. I wish them well.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re back here. Given up on Piddlebury?”
“I’m waiting until the police give up and I can get a free hand. It’s not like the usual Cotswold village these days—full of newcomers. And everyone bitches that it’s people like me that have taken the homes away from young villagers. For some reason, there is this myth that newlyweds should be able to walk into a new home. It used to be they lived with one set of parents and saved up and then moved into a bedsit, saved some more, got finally a
ccepted for a council house, or saved up enough for a mortgage. But it’s all instant gratification. Besides, either their parents sold their houses to incomers, or, I believe, a good while back, some of the cottages were near ruins, people preferring to move to the cities. Builders bought them up, did them up, started off letting them out as holiday cottages and finally sold them off as homes.
“But Piddlebury is different. It’s very small, well off the tourist route. There’s a secretive feel to it. Apart from Jerry Tarrant, I’m sure someone knows something and is not telling. Sam Framington claims she knows who did it, but she’s one of the few incomers, and I don’t believe she has a clue.”
“Dangerous thing to do,” commented Charles.
“Unless our murderer thinks she’s as silly as I do,” said Agatha.
* * *
Next door, James Lacey was pacing up and down.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mary.
“Charles Fraith has just gone in next door with an overnight bag.”
“So?”
James sat down suddenly. “I just don’t want Agatha getting hurt.”
Mary suppressed a flash of irritation. “I’m sure Agatha Raisin is old enough to take care of herself.”
“You’re right as usual, Mary,” said James with a sigh. How relaxing Mary was compared to Agatha. She didn’t plaster her face with make-up, or wear ridiculously short skirts and crippling high heels. She didn’t smoke like a chimney or run around chasing murderers.
* * *
To James’s amazement—and the amazement of everyone else in the village—Agatha Raisin left him strictly alone.
Agatha took a brief holiday in the South of France for a week in early August. On her return at the end of the month, she reread her notes on the Piddlebury murders and decided the time had come to get back there. She was also glad of an excuse to leave Carsely, where the romance between James and Mary seemed to be blossoming. Or rather that was what many of the villagers seemed to take delight in telling her.
Agatha decided this time to take Phil Marshall with her. Phil was in his seventies and with his white hair and gentle face he had a knack of getting people to confide in him. She had not seen or heard anything of Charles since his last brief visit.
August had been a dreadful month of pouring rain. But when Agatha and Phil drove up to the pub, each in their separate cars, at the beginning of September, the weather was mellow, sunny and warm.
“What a pretty little gem of a place,” said Phil. “Where do we start?”
“We’ll dump out suitcases in our rooms,” said Agatha, “have a bite of lunch and work out who to interview.”
Moses looked surprised and then wary when they walked in, Agatha demanding two rooms.
“I didn’t think you’d be back,” he said.
“I gather the police aren’t around anymore,” said Agatha.
“No, we’re all settling down again just fine.”
“How on earth can you settle down when there’s a murderer still on the loose?” exclaimed Agatha.
“The way we look at it is this,” said Moses, handing over two brass keys. “It must have been some mad psycho from outside.”
Phil saw that Agatha was prepared for a long argument and gave a gentle cough. “I’m sure we can discuss all this later, Agatha.”
* * *
“Why did you interrupt me?” asked Agatha when they were finally seated in the pub garden.
“Because,” said Phil patiently, “you would have been wasting your breath. You were about to point out that a stranger wouldn’t have known about the elderberry wine in the cellar or that it was possible to sneak down there and put a bottle of the poisoned stuff in the crate, or that for some reason she would pick that precise time to drink it. Moses had a stubborn look on his face. Where do you want me to start?”
“Try Mrs. Ada White first. And see if you can winkle out of her what Brian Summer was like when he was staying with her. I’ll go to the vicarage after I’ve seen Jerry. I’ll phone you if there are any developments.”
Jerry welcomed Agatha. “You are going to have a very difficult time,” he said.
“More than last time?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone seems to have seized hold of the idea that it must have been someone from outside. There’s no longer inbreeding in this village but they all seem to have grabbed hold of the same idea.”
“I would have thought someone like, say, Peter Suncliff wouldn’t have gone along with the herd.”
“I don’t know. He’s just back from holiday.”
“What about our lady of the manor who claims she knows whodunit?”
“As a matter of fact, our Lady Sam is the most vociferous of the outsider psycho solution.”
“Odd that. I wonder if she’s been got at.”
“You don’t know this village. If she had been got at, as you put it, everyone would soon know who and why. Also, they are so pleased that they can settle back into their usual ways without suspecting each other and causing a poisonous atmosphere. You will not be popular.”
“Do you want me to go on?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“I will only bill you for the hours I work.”
Jerry put his well-manicured hands together, almost as if praying. “I feel uneasy, nonetheless. I am afraid that when you begin to question everyone all over again, there might be another murder, and I just hope you are not going to be the next victim.”
* * *
As Agatha made her way to the village, everything seemed to be almost asleep in a rural calm. A pale disk of a sun shone down on the golden stone of the cottages. She was about to pass Gloria’s cottage when she noticed the For Sale sign outside and heard sounds of activity. Agatha walked up and rang the bell.
A woman answered the door. “Yes?” she demanded.
“I am Agatha Raisin and I have been employed to find out who killed Gloria French.”
“I’m her daughter, Tracey. Come in.”
Tracey did not look very much like her mother, being very slim and with a narrow head and small mouth.
“I’m trying to sell off the furniture but one villager or another keeps dropping in to claim back things they say my mother took and didn’t give back. Knowing my mother’s reputation, I have to believe them. The house clearance people are coming tomorrow. At first I was going to leave everything as it was before I sold the house but villagers seemed to be turning up the whole time to claim things so I decided to get rid of everything.”
“Was the house left to you?”
“To me and my brother. We share everything according to the will. The police appear to have given up.”
“Oh, they never do and neither do I,” said Agatha. “Perhaps you can help me. How could someone know that on that particular morning and at that particular time, your mother would go down to the cellar to look for a drink?”
“She had a bad drinking problem. She was a binge drinker. She could go quite a bit without any and then if something upset her, she would head straight for the bottle.”
“I wonder what it was that upset her that particular morning?” said Agatha.
“The vicar called. He said my mother had invited him and his wife for drinks but he made an excuse and before he put the phone down, his wife said, ‘Have you managed to put her off?’ The vicar was upset about that because he said Mother had done so much for the church and it was awful that the last thing she heard from the vicarage was a snub.”
I wonder if Clarice Enderbury knew about Gloria’s drinking habits, thought Agatha.
Agatha looked round the room. Her eye fell on a chest of drawers against the wall. Although she knew very little about antiques, Agatha was blessed with a rare instinct for recognising good-quality furniture.
“You’re surely never going to let the house clearance people take that chest of drawers away,” she said.
“Why? Is it valuable?”
“I think so. I’m no expert.”
&nb
sp; Agatha went over and examined it. It was of a mellow shade of mahogany with a rectangular top, oval-shaped brass handles and bracket feet.
“I saw something like that last year in an antique shop in Stow-on-the-Wold,” said Agatha. “They said it was George the Third and they were asking over a thousand pounds for it. Take a photo of it and show it to Suther’s auctioneers in Mircester, but don’t let the clearance people get it.”
“That is odd,” said Tracey. “I mean, Mother never had any taste at all.”
“She can’t have borrowed it from anyone,” said Agatha, “or they would have been around trying to get it back. You took some time to decide to sell the house.”
“The police were all over it and I decided to keep out of the way until things were quiet. Wayne, my brother, said he’d leave the arrangements to me.”
“Did your mother give you any idea who might have hated her enough to kill her?”
“We didn’t speak. She tried to interfere in my marriage. That was five years ago. I told her I never wanted to see her again. Also, she did the dirty on Wayne, selling the business from under him, so he refused to have anything more to do with her.”
“And have you and your brother alibis for the day of your mother’s death?”
“Of course. I was at the farm and seen by the neighbours. Wayne was at the factory and seen by hundreds of employees during the day. I just wish the murderer could be caught. I won’t feel easy until I’ve got rid of the furniture and then be able to leave this village.”
* * *
Phil was seated in Ada White’s kitchen, drinking coffee and eating sponge cake. Her husband, Ken, had joined them when Phil arrived but had gone back to work.
“It must have been a terrible time for you,” said Phil.
Her eyes filled with tears. Phil handed her a clean handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes. “All those questions from the police! They took away every bottle of my homemade wine and ruined it all in their forensic lab. I’m still waiting for compensation. The police were bad enough but the press were worse. They practically found me guilty. A lawyer from London came to see me and said he would sue the newspapers for me but I just wanted the whole thing to go away.”
“I think it might be a good idea to sue them,” said Phil. “Did you keep the offending reports?”
