Something Borrowed, Someone Dead: An Agatha Raisin Mystery (Agatha Raisin Mysteries)

by M C Beaton

“Naughty. Look! I think there’s someone over there.”

  Charles ran off and Agatha stumbled after him, caught her foot in a tree root and fell flat.

  When she got up, Charles was coming back to join her. “It was Summer,” he said. “He took off at a great pace when he saw me. Now what? Do we go back to the farmhouse and see if he turns up?”

  “Let’s go and see Jerry Tarrant, the head of the parish council. I want to know more about this secretive little village. The reason we can’t get a lead on anything is because I feel everyone is ganging up on us.”

  * * *

  Jerry Tarrant was so neat and barbered, and with the knife-edged crease in his jeans and his highly polished shoes, he made the immaculate Charles Fraith look almost casual.

  “Is there witchcraft practised in this village?” demanded Agatha.

  “Not since the eighteenth century,” said Jerry. “What makes you ask?”

  “We were up in the glade in the woods and there was a stone like an altar and it had dried blood on it.”

  “Oh, that stone. Maybe children.”

  “That’s an odd thing,” commented Charles. “I haven’t seen any children in this village.”

  “We have some during the holidays. Ada White’s grandchildren were here on a visit.”

  “Before or after the murders?”

  “Before.”

  “It’s been raining since,” said Charles.

  “I can’t think of any reason. Perhaps someone tripped over it.”

  “I’m doing my best,” said Agatha, exasperated. “But the village seems to be closing ranks against me.”

  “Well, they do seem to cling to the idea that the murders must have been committed by some outsider.”

  “What outsider would know that the back door of Gloria’s cottage was usually open? What outsider would have any reason for such an elaborate murder? And for what reason would an outsider hang around to try to murder me?”

  Jerry Tarrant clasped his well-manicured hands together. He did not look at them but addressed his remarks to the head of a stuffed fox on the wall to his left.

  “I really think you should just leave things alone, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “You want me to stop working?”

  Jerry stared at the fox, which looked glassily back.

  “I think it would be best. I do not have unlimited funds. The murders were unfortunate…”

  “Unfortunate!” howled Agatha.

  “… but I feel if you stopped interrogating people, then the village would settle down again.”

  “The whole idea of me being employed,” said Agatha, “was to stop the bad feeling in the village, everyone suspecting everyone else.”

  “But that was early days. The consensus of opinion is that it was some madman who happened to be passing through.”

  “Stop looking at that damned fox and look at me,” said Charles. “You’re frightened. Who frightened you?”

  “No one. Please leave. Send me your bill. I am sorry I cannot be of further help.”

  Agatha stood up and leaned over the desk, her bearlike eyes boring into him. “I will not be defeated. I will stay until I’ve got to the bottom of this.”

  Jerry sat with his head bowed while they left.

  * * *

  Outside, Agatha said to Charles, “Are you sure he was frightened?”

  “Yes. He was sweating. I could smell him.”

  “I couldn’t smell anything.”

  “You smoke.”

  “So do you!”

  “Not as much as you.”

  “Talking about cigarettes, I need another packet,” said Agatha. “Let’s drop into the village shop.”

  The woman behind the counter shook her head when she heard Agatha’s request. “Don’t have no cigarettes no more,” she said.

  “Look, as you know, I am Agatha Raisin, I am a detective and I know you keep the cigarettes in the cupboards under the counter.”

  “Don’t no more,” said the woman stubbornly. She had a thin, wrinkled face with a large nose shadowing a small pursed mouth.

  “Here! What you doing?” she yelled, because Agatha had darted around the counter, opened a cupboard and selected a packet of cigarettes. She took out her purse, found the exact money and slammed it on the counter.

  As she and Charles turned away, the woman shouted, “Get out of our village. No one wants you here!”

  “This is mediaeval,” said Agatha. “They’ll be stoning us next.” She stopped short in the entrance to the Green Man. Their suitcases were packed and standing in the hall. Agatha stormed into the bar. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “How dare you pack our things without our permission?”

  “It’s like this,” said Moses awkwardly. “My trade depends on the villagers and they say unless you leave, they’re not going to come here anymore.”

  “It’s against the law!” howled Agatha.

  Moses leaned on the bar and looked at them sadly. “This is my place and if I say you’ve got to go, then that’s it.”

  “Come on, Agatha,” said Charles. “Let’s get out of here. Get back to your office and study your notes in peace.”

  Agatha reluctantly left with him. As they stood by their respective cars, Charles said, “I’ll call on you in the next week or so and see how you are getting on.”

  Feeling bewildered and defeated, Agatha drove off. She suddenly remembered the idea of witchcraft, but the thought of hiding in the woods on her own no longer seemed like such a good idea.

  * * *

  In the month that followed, an unexpected rush of work kept Agatha and her staff busy. Toni was quiet and subdued. Agatha longed to ask her what had happened but felt sure Toni would be furious with her and besides, she had promised herself she would not interfere in the girl’s private life again. Roy, fully recovered, was back at work. Charles had not called and Agatha felt hurt, despite the fact that he had a habit of disappearing from her life for long periods at a time.

  Agatha felt that when things died down, she would somehow find a way to return to Piddlebury. She did not like the feeling of being defeated.

  Then one morning, she received a letter from a firm of lawyers, Desy, Swinge and Tollent, in Oxford. It said she should call on them to learn something of interest to her.

  She drove immediately to Oxford and to the lawyers’ offices on Beaumont Street. A secretary offered her coffee and said Mr. Swinge would only be a few moments.

  Pale sunlight flooded the Dickensian premises where the only modern thing seemed to be the blond secretary. Behind her rose boxes and boxes of files to the high Georgian ceiling.

  The phone on her desk rang. She answered it and then stood up. “Mr. Swinge will see you now.”

  She pushed open the door to an inner office and ushered Agatha in. Mr. Swinge was a small round fat youngish man with a broad smile creasing his cheeks.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Raisin,” he said. “You were working this year for a Mr. Jeremy Tarrant of Piddlebury?”

  “Yes, what’s happened to him?”

  “He died two weeks ago.”

  “I never heard a thing about it!” exclaimed Agatha. “Was he murdered?”

  “No, no. A heart attack. I have a letter here he lodged with us just before his death, to be opened on his death. In it he writes that he wishes the sum of five thousand pounds to be paid out of his estate to Mrs. Agatha Raisin of the Agatha Raisin agency in Mircester so that she may use the funds to continue her investigations into the murders in Piddlebury.”

  “He must have expected something to happen to him,” said Agatha. “Was there a police investigation?”

  “Yes, there was an autopsy. It was, indeed, a heart attack.”

  “Who is the main beneficiary?”

  “I don’t know that I should…”

  “My dear man, if he wants me to solve those murders, I need to know as much as possible.”

  “He had no relatives. He was an adopted child. His adopted parents
were wealthy manufacturers of tourist souvenirs. On their death, they left their fortune to Mr. Tarrant. The bulk of his estate, apart from twenty thousand pounds to the church in Piddlebury and his bequest to you, goes to the Animal Rescue Park in Mircester. I can give you a cheque now.”

  Agatha hesitated. This was one case that she would have dearly loved to abandon. She cringed at the idea of going back to that odd and sinister village. But Agatha’s whole belligerent life had been filled with facing up to small and large fears.

  “I’ll take the cheque. But I am going to begin by investigating the death of Jerry Tarrant!”

  * * *

  On her return to Mircester, late in the day, Agatha asked Toni to join her for dinner. “I’ve got something to discuss with you,” said Agatha.

  I may as well get it over with, thought Toni. I’ve known by her manner that she wants to ask me about James.

  But when they were seated in the dining room of the George, Agatha surprised Toni by telling her about Jerry’s bequest and ended by saying, “I don’t know where to start. If I try to book into the pub, Moses will refuse to have me.”

  “There are surely villages nearby,” said Toni. “You could stay in one of those. And you might get some gossip about Piddlebury.”

  “Good idea. I’ve got Patrick trying to find out more about Jerry Tarrant’s death.”

  “You think it was murder?”

  “It does seem strange. Roy was nearly killed with a dose of digitalis. If the same thing happened to Jerry, then it might look just like a heart attack. I think you should come with me … unless it interferes with your social life.”

  “You want to ask me about James,” said Toni.

  “Not any of my business,” said Agatha.

  “No, it isn’t. But I’d like to clear the air before we start working together. I am always attracted to older men. James seemed such fun and we had a good time together. Somehow, it all seemed so innocent. I went to Barcelona with him. He was going to write about budget hotels so we ended up in one where the owner thought I was James’s daughter. That hurt his pride. He went all cold and formal. I met this girl in a café and we became friends and I moved into her apartment. End of story.”

  “Oh, well,” said Agatha. “You’d be better off with someone of your own age. Simon seems pretty keen.”

  “I think Simon is stalking me and that’s just not healthy. I’ve given up looking. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. I’ve got some ordnance survey maps here. Now, about twelve miles from Piddlebury, there’s a village called Under Pleasance.”

  “I’ll check it on my phone for a hotel or an inn,” said Toni.

  “Better order our food first,” said Agatha, indicating the hovering waiter.

  Neither felt like being adventurous so they both ordered steaks and chips and a bottle of Merlot.

  Toni took out her phone. “There is an inn at Under Pleasance,” she said. “There’s nothing about rooms. I’ll phone them up.”

  As Toni phoned and found out that she could book two rooms, Agatha covertly studied the girl. Toni’s fair skin was lightly tanned and she always seemed to carry a glowing aura of good health. How could any man resist that, thought Agatha sourly. When she had been Toni’s age, she remembered having a lumpy figure and a spotty face from bad eating habits.

  “When do we start?” asked Toni.

  “We’ll meet up at the office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Agatha. “You take your car as well in case we have to split up for any reason. It’s Saturday tomorrow, but you can claim the overtime.”

  * * *

  Agatha went back to her cottage after dinner. She looked at James’s cottage before she let herself in but it was dark and silent. She noticed his thatch was in need of repair—an expensive job. Perhaps she might get it done for him for Christmas. Perhaps he might smile at her and say, “You are the only woman in my life, Agatha.” Perhaps … She gave herself a shake. All that obsession had gone.

  She got a rare welcome from her cats. Before she drifted off to sleep that night, she had a sudden sharp desire to leave the whole horrible case alone. Piddlebury frightened her, but that was something Agatha would not admit to herself.

  * * *

  With Toni leading the way and Agatha following, they arrived the next morning at the village of Under Pleasance. It was quite a large, prosperous-looking village, a mixture of old and new buildings. The inn was called the Jolly Farmer. A painting of an old-fashioned farmer with a rubicund face and wearing a white smock hung over the low door, surrounded by late-flowering rambling roses. The day was sunny and there was an autumnal smell of bonfires in the air.

  The inn was well-appointed, and, as Toni had discovered, fairly expensive. It even boasted a receptionist who showed them to their rooms. Agatha’s room had a four-poster, and gaily coloured chintz curtains at the latticed window. On a table by the window was a presentation bowl of fruit and a bottle of wine. Agatha’s spirits rose. The very comfort of the place seemed to restore her confidence in her detective abilities.

  She unpacked and knocked at Toni’s door. When Toni answered, Agatha said, “I’ll be downstairs in the bar.”

  The bar was low and beamed and decorated with hunting scenes. Only a few people were in the bar, but they smiled and said, “Good morning” when Agatha entered. Agatha ordered a gin and tonic and then took her glass out to a bench outside the inn and lit a cigarette.

  It was peaceful. Two women rode past, the sunlight gleaming on the flanks of their well-groomed-looking horses. The houses on either side of the village street had expensive cars parked outside. The street opened out onto a village green with a duck pond and then continued on the other side. Agatha, leaning forward, could just see a general store by the pond.

  Toni joined her, carrying a glass of lager. “This is a great place,” said Toni. “Have you seen the menu?”

  Agatha shook her head.

  “Good English food,” said Toni. “Steak and kidney pie, rack of lamb, things like that.”

  “Do they have any salads?” asked Agatha. “I’m on a diet.”

  “I think so. What a lovely place. Makes me wish we were on holiday. Where do we start? Oh, I looked through the notes again last night. There’s a full moon tonight. We could go over to the Piddlebury Woods and see if there is any sign of witchcraft.”

  “We could do that,” said Agatha reluctantly. “I suppose if they’re crazy enough to practise witchcraft, then they might all be in on the murders. I can’t imagine why Gloria was murdered. I mean she took things and didn’t give them back. Hardly a fault to promote murder.”

  “The people who own this inn took it over six months ago,” said Toni. “I found that out from the barman. So they may not know much about Piddlebury. Where should we start? Do you think there’s some vicar’s wife like Mrs. Bloxby?”

  “Mrs. Bloxby is a one-off,” said Agatha. “Still, is there a church here? I can’t see one.”

  “It’s just out of sight behind the houses on the green,” said Toni. “I asked. There’s also a petrol station, just outside the village on the other side.”

  “How does a petrol station help?”

  “Was there one in Piddlebury?”

  “No.”

  “So maybe the villagers get their petrol here. There must have been a lot of gossip over the murders.”

  My brain seems to have stopped working, thought Agatha, suddenly feeling outclassed by her young assistant.

  She looked at her watch. “Let’s have lunch first.”

  * * *

  Lunch was a mistake, thought Agatha, as an hour and a half later, they walked along the village street. Why on earth had she eaten stuffed garlic mushrooms, followed by steak and kidney pie and ending up with a large portion of icky-sticky pudding? She could feel the waistband of her skirt uncomfortably tight. Toni, in a blue cotton sheath dress and flat sandals, looked as slim as ever.

  The sun was quite warm and there was a lazy
, rich feel about the place. It was quite near the Oxford motorway, which explained the open feel of the place compared to Piddlebury.

  “Do you want to start questioning people in the shop?” asked Toni.

  “I don’t want to alert a lot of people as to why we’re here at the moment,” said Agatha. “We’ll start with the vicarage.”

  The vicarage was a large, rather ugly Victorian building next to an old church with a squat Norman tower.

  A brick path divided two small patches of lawn. The only flowers were two pots of geraniums on either side of the door. Toni rang the bell.

  The door was flung open by a large muscular woman wearing a faded housedress.

  “Yes?” she demanded.

  “I am Agatha Raisin, a private detective,” said Agatha, “and I am investigating the murders at Piddlebury.”

  “So what’s that got to do with me?” She had a large round head topped with unruly wisps of grey hair and her small mouth was pursed in disapproval. Then she suddenly smiled. “You’re that woman with the omelette on her head. Best laugh I’ve had in ages. Come in.”

  For once, Agatha was glad of that clowning episode on television.

  The woman led the way into a gleaming modern kitchen. Agatha reflected that the vicar must have private means.

  “I am Margaret Swithin,” said the vicar’s wife, sitting down at a kitchen table and indicating that they should do the same. “Was that a real omelette?”

  “Yes,” said Agatha, trying to smile and failing miserably. “Look, these murders…”

  “And is this your daughter?”

  “Sorry, I forgot to introduce her. My assistant, Toni Gilmour. Now, about Piddlebury?”

  “Never go near the place. My husband, Colin, now, he has to preach at several churches around here, but not Piddlebury.”

  “But didn’t the murders cause a lot of gossip in this village?”

  “Of course! Some of them went over to rubberneck. So vulgar. I mean, nothing to do with us.”

  “I think I would like to meet one of these vulgar people,” said Agatha.

  “Don’t tell her I gave you her name! She’s Dorothy Callant. Widow. Lives at Rose Cottage on the green. Worst gossip I ever came across.”

  * * *