by M C Beaton
Agatha passed over her card. “I wanted to ask him about the time he worked with Samantha Wilkes. I need the background of everyone connected with a murder case I am investigating.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in letting you talk to him. Poor old soul is always hanging around hoping for work. Sad.”
“Where can I find him?”
He looked at his watch. “He’ll be in the pub on the corner on your left as you go out.”
“How will I recognise him?”
He laughed. “Can’t miss him. He had a thick head of grey hair and he’s just dyed it blond.”
Agatha thanked him and made her way to the pub. Jack Kyncaid was sitting at a table under a wall light which shone off his bright yellow head of hair. But Agatha noted that he was perhaps only a little older than she was herself. He was a small man, dressed casually in a suede jacket and jeans over a faded black T-shirt. He had small black eyes in a pale face, a long thin mouth and a large nose.
Again, Agatha handed over a card and explained what she wanted to know. “Sit down,” he said. “It’s quite a time ago.”
“May I get you a drink?” said Agatha.
“A double Scotch, please.”
Agatha went to the bar and ordered it and a gin and tonic for herself and then returned to join him.
“Now,” said Agatha, “what do you remember about Samantha Wilkes, now Lady Framington?”
“She was playing the part of a parlour maid who gets seduced by his lordship,” said Jack. “That was a right joke. She was pretty much seduced by most of the male cast. Mind you, she was a looker. I saw a photo of her when she got married and I could hardly recognise her. Gone all county. But she got her title at last.”
“At last?” prompted Agatha.
“Mind if I have another one of these?”
Agatha hurried to the bar and elbowed her way through the lunchtime crowd. She returned with his drink and fastened her bearlike eyes on him.
“You were saying something about she got her title at last.”
“When we were on location at this mansion, she set her cap at his lordship, who was pretty ancient. Her ladyship stepped in and threatened to turn us all out if we didn’t get rid of her so she was written out.”
“Where was this?”
“Big sprawling place in the Cotswolds, near Broadway.”
“What was the name of the family?”
“Crighton? No, that’s not it. Ah, I remember. Craton.”
With a jolt, Agatha remembered that Mrs. Tripp had been cook at Lady Craton’s.
“I must say I was sorry for Sam,” said Jack. “She wept buckets. But she went on to get a few parts here and there. It’s a wicked business, the media. Here am I with all my years of experience, out on the scrap heap.”
“Maybe you could retrain in some other field,” suggested Agatha.
He gave her a sour look. “See. It’s like the joke of a couple watching a man shovelling elephant shit at a circus. They ask him, ‘Why don’t you get a decent job?’ And he says, ‘What! And leave show business?’”
* * *
Agatha drove back to Carsely, stopping only at Beaconsfield for a sandwich and a cup of coffee.
She found Charles ensconced in her living room, watching television, with her cats on his lap.
“Listen to this!” cried Agatha, dumping herself down on the sofa next to him and easing her feet out of her high heels. She told him all Jack Kyncaid had said.
“So she’s probably a blackmailer,” said Charles. “But a murderer? And why Gloria French?”
“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I mean she’s old. She can’t exactly nip about the place unseen.”
“Is there a road at the back of Gloria’s cottage?”
“I remember, there’s a lane.”
“She’s got a mobility scooter.”
“What! I never saw her on it.”
“I noticed it one day we were down there. It was parked at the side of her cottage. She could nip around the place on that.”
“I wonder what Lady Craton died of,” said Agatha. She went to her computer and switched it on. After a few minutes, she said, “Got it. A heart attack. Just like Jerry. Oh God, maybe she bumped her off in order to benefit in the will.”
“What’s the name of the Craton place?”
“Five Trees Manor. Been there?”
“No. I wonder if it still exists. Let’s go down there tomorrow morning and have a look.”
* * *
Five Trees Manor turned out to be now the headquarters of the Golden Age Insurance Company. It lay on the road between Snows Hill and Broadway. A good part of what had once been the estate was now a housing complex.
Farther down the road towards Broadway were two cottages. Agatha knocked at the door of the first one and asked the woman who answered if she knew of anyone still alive who had once worked for the Craton family.
The woman’s round, rosy country face creased in thought. “Wait there,” she said finally. “I’ll ask Mother.”
Only an occasional car passed on the road behind them. A beautiful yellow rosebush stood beside the door.
At last she came back. “Mother’s bedridden and can’t come down the stairs. She says old Mrs. Grey next door used to work at the manor ages ago.”
They rang the bell at the door of the next cottage. A small, bent, elderly woman opened it up and peered up at them. Agatha explained they wanted to talk to someone who had once worked at the manor.
“I did,” she said. “Come in. I’m Rose Grey.” She led the way into a small, hot parlour, cluttered with odds and ends of furniture. She eased herself painfully into an armchair and motioned to them to sit down.
“It must be twenty-five years ago when the old lady died,” she said. “I was working as a cleaner, going in daily with some other women to do the rough work.”
“Do you remember the cook, Mrs. Tripp?”
“Yes, she was about to be pensioned off when Lady Craton died. His lordship died the year before and they had no children. A cousin inherited and sold the lot. Gladys Tripp was making a song and dance about losing her job, saying she was still fit. But the fact was that Lady Craton said she could get caterers in when she had people to stay and couldn’t afford to keep on any full-time staff.”
“Do you remember when a television company used the manor as a location?”
“Of course. Right excited everyone was.”
“Do you remember an actress called Samantha Wilkes?”
“Oh, yes,” said Rose with a smile. “She chased anything in trousers and then set her cap at old Lord Craton. He got quite dotty about her and my lady was flaming mad and got rid of her. Then there was a big scandal when it turned out my lord had given this actress his wife’s pearls as a present. Lady Craton tried but couldn’t get them back.”
“Did Mrs. Tripp inherit anything in Lady Craton’s will?”
“She got twenty thousand pounds and a few pieces of antique furniture. The cousin said the furniture wasn’t mentioned in the will, but Gladys had a letter signed by Lady Craton, promising her the pieces.”
“Did you like her?”
“Not a bit. At first she was all cosy and friendly. Liked to get people to talk about themselves. Then she went right off me. Always seemed to be standing over me, supervising my work. Now, that actress flirted disgracefully with his old lordship and he was so taken with her. And Gladys Tripp seemed to be encouraging her, passing notes from Samantha to his lordship. Then one day in the kitchen, Gladys and Samantha had this terrible row. Seems her ladyship got hold of one of those letters and was screaming blue murder. Next thing is Samantha is sent packing.
“Her ladyship was in such a state, we were frightened she’d have a heart attack. The vicar was sent for…”
“Vicar?” demanded Agatha. “What was his name?”
“Let me think. Tall, thin chap. Married a girl from Broadway. Some scandal there but I can’t bring it to mind.”
“What church was that?”
“St. Paul’s.”
“Did Lady Craton have a weak heart?” asked Charles.
“I would have said she was as strong as an ox. But some time after his lordship died, she suddenly had this heart attack.”
Agatha leaned forward. “Did Mrs. Tripp make home remedies in the kitchen, you know, country cures for illnesses?”
“That she did. Always out in the fields and woods looking for plants. I didn’t like her. I thought she was a bit creepy. Oily, like.”
They left after having decided that Rose Grey had told them as much as she knew. Agatha phoned Mrs. Bloxby and asked her to check if Guy Enderbury had ever been a vicar at St. Paul’s.
“Let’s go for lunch,” said Agatha. “I can’t believe all this. Old Mrs. Tripp. It’s not possible. She seems to sleep most of the time.”
They were just starting their lunch when Mrs. Bloxby phoned with the news that Guy Enderbury had indeed once been the vicar of St. Paul’s.
“Look at it this way,” said Agatha after she had told Charles the latest news. “She’s just not spry enough to nip round to Gloria’s, get down to the cellar and nip back again.”
“I think it’s time you told the police,” said Charles. “They’ll do a search of her home. Say she kept those notes from Sam to Lord Craton and was blackmailing her.”
“I found out all this,” said Agatha stubbornly. “And the police aren’t going to take the glory away from me.”
“It’s no good going back to watch her,” said Charles. “If it’s all an act, she’ll play it to the hilt. None of us can go. We’ve all been down there, apart from Patrick, and no matter what that man does to himself, he’ll always look like a policeman.”
Agatha stabbed her fork viciously into a steak and ale pie. A little fountain of gravy shot up into her face.
“Snakes and bastards!” shouted Agatha.
“Oh, wipe your face and shut up,” said Charles. “I can’t think.”
Agatha went off to the loo to repair her make-up. When she returned, Charles said, “I’ve just phoned James. He’s back. I said we would go and see him.”
“James?”
“Why not? He’s done some detective work for you before. He might jump at the chance of working for you to redeem his character in your eyes. Can you think of anything else?”
“As long as he keeps in touch,” said Agatha.
“You mean, you don’t want him solving the case before you get to take the credit?”
“No,” lied Agatha. “I just don’t want him getting poisoned.”
Chapter Seven
James looked at them nervously when he opened the door. Charles had said they just needed to talk to him and he was bracing himself for a lecture. He had broken off his researches abroad to return and give Mary a full apology.
Inside every man is a small boy. In James Lacey’s case it was hardly ever evident. But Agatha saw the pleading look in his eyes like a child waiting to be punished and said quickly, “I need your help on a case, James.”
His face cleared and he said heartily, “Come in! Come in! I’ll do anything I can to help.”
Agatha looked around the familiar book-lined living room. It was hard to believe she had ever been married to James. He had done practically nothing, she remembered, to change his bachelor ways.
He served them with coffee and then Agatha outlined what she had found out about the whole murder case, and how, as everyone she could think of had been to the village already, she was hoping James would go and see what he could find out.
James hesitated. “I really only came back for a couple of days to do something.”
“I hope you’re not too upset about Mary Gotobed getting married,” said Agatha.
Relief flooded James’s handsome face. “Really? That’s great. I mean … really? Who to?”
“Some farmer over in Ebrington.”
“Well, come to think of it, I suppose I could go down to Piddlebury and have a look around,” said James.
“What I really want to know,” said Agatha, “is how she could possibly get around. She walks with the aid of sticks.”
“What about a mobility scooter,” said James. “You know, one of those electric chair things. Some of them can go up to thirty miles per hour.”
“I didn’t see one,” said Agatha. “Mind you, I wasn’t looking for it. But Charles saw one parked at the side of her house.”
“Let me have a copy of your notes,” said James. “I’ll go over them tonight and get down there tomorrow. Who am I supposed to be?”
“A hearty rambler would be a good idea,” said Charles.
“What if I just go as myself and say I’m writing a travel book on the pubs of England?”
“Bad idea,” said Charles. “Book into the Green Man under another name. Mrs. Tripp may not be able to use a computer but someone curious about you in that village would only need to Google James Lacey to find out who you are and that at one time you were married to Aggie here.”
“Oh, all right. But I hate fake names.”
“What about keeping James and make your second name Laney?” suggested Agatha.
“Too close,” protested Charles. “What about James Stanton? You can think of the Cotswold village of Stanton Lacey and that’ll remind you of your alias.”
* * *
James did not relish the idea of hiking all the way to Piddlebury. Instead, he left his car at Mircester and set out from there. He suddenly saw Toni at the other side of the car park. She saw him, too. They both stood for a moment and then James waved and strode off. It’s not only age but sheer embarrassment that separates us now, he thought.
The day was unusually warm for mid-October. Newspapers reported records were being broken. People wrote to the Times about their roses having a second flowering. He was suitably tired and dusty looking by the time he arrived at the Green Man. Moses welcomed him and showed him to his room.
“You’ll have heard about the murders here,” he said.
“I’ve just come back from abroad and I hadn’t been reading the newspapers,” said James. “What murders?”
“Some maniac from outside the village killed a couple of people,” said Moses. “But it’s all nice and quiet now.”
“Get someone for it?” asked James, dumping his rucksack on the floor.
“No, but it’s all over and done with.”
James wanted to point out that unsolved murders in a small village like this could hardly be said to be over and done with, but did not want to betray too much curiosity.
And knowing the psychology of villagers, he was sure if he did not ask questions and continued to seem uninterested, then people might talk to him.
James had no vanity about his looks but the fact that a very handsome man was staying at the inn spread rapidly round the village. Despite the heat of the day, the evening was chilly and the bar was set out as a dining room. James cast a jaundiced eye over the usual pub grub offered on the blackboard menu behind the bar and ordered lasagne without chips, collected a glass of lager and sat down at a corner table near the window.
The room began to fill up. James ate his lasagne, ordered coffee and then barricaded himself behind a book. The waves of curiosity surrounding him felt almost tangible. At last, the bar, which had been pretty silent, became filled with conversation. Two farmers were complaining bitterly about the poor fruit harvest. A pretty girl with an older man were talking about a series on television. James guessed the pretty girl and her friend were Peter Suncliff and Jenny Soper. He heard several voices greet a newcomer. “Evening, Lady Framington,” and “Evening, Sam. You don’t eat here usually.”
“Felt I had to get out. Oh, there doesn’t seem to be a free table. No, don’t get up. I’m sure that nice man over there won’t mind if I join him.”
James looked up as Sam approached his table. “Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.
“Please do. Actually, I was just about to leave.”
“Oh, you can’t do that,” said Sam. “Stay for a little. We don’t get many visitors.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sam.”
“And I’m James,” said James, grateful for the use of first names because it had temporarily slipped his mind what his surname was supposed to be.
Amazing how some people’s looks change when they get older, thought James. No one would believe that Sam had once been an attractive actress. The cropped iron grey hair and tailored linen suit fitted the lady of the manor. The trout pout, painted pillar box red, hinted at the onetime vamp.
Moses came out from behind the bar. “Get you anything, Lady Framington?”
“I think I’ll just have a glass of wine. What are you having, James?”
“I’ve got coffee to finish, but thanks all the same.”
“So what brings you to our little village?” said Sam.
“Just doing a walking tour. A holiday.”
“And what do you do when you’re not on holiday?”
Silence had fallen in the pub as if everyone was waiting to hear James’s reply.
“I’m a computer programmer. I’m between contracts, actually.”
“Aren’t you nervous you won’t get any more work with everything being outsourced to India?”
James smiled. “No, I always get something.”
Moses put Sam’s drink down beside her. “Cheers,” she said. “Look, why don’t you come back to my place for a nightcap? My house is…”
Her voice trailed away. The bar had fallen silent except for the thump, thump, thump of two sticks.
James had his back to the room. He swung round. An elderly lady had stopped in the middle of the bar. He thought that she looked like the bad fairy turning up at the christening in Sleeping Beauty. She was wearing a long black dress and her black eyes peered maliciously round the room before settling on James.
As she shuffled forward, Sam let out a sort of squawk of alarm, rose abruptly, said, “I left something in the oven,” and fled out of the pub.
Mrs. Tripp eased herself down into Sam’s vacated chair, and said, “Welcome to Piddlebury. What’s your name?”
