by M C Beaton
“James Stanton.”
“And what’s your business here?”
“Minding my own. Sorry to desert you, but I’ve had a long walk.”
“Rambling, are you?”
“I’m perfectly coherent,” said James, wondering why he was antagonising her. He reminded himself severely that he was supposed to be a detective. “I can wait a bit,” he said. “May I get you a drink?”
“Moses knows what I like.” The owner was already approaching with a glass of dark liquid.
“How much do I owe you?” asked James.
“On the house,” said Moses.
“This is pretty good port,” said Mrs. Tripp. “You look like an army man.”
“Not me,” said James. “I am just a walker trying to have a relaxing walk through Gloucestershire. Have you lived here all your life?”
“Was brought up here. Went into service for Lady Craton over at Broadway. Worked for her right into my seventies, I did. I was her cook.”
“You had two murders in this village, I’ve heard.”
Her black eyes suddenly seemed to bore into him. “Hard to miss. Was all over the papers and the telly, too.”
“I was abroad,” said James. “I didn’t read the newspapers. I only heard about the murders when I got here.”
She finished her drink with one gulp. Then she rose to her feet and farted loudly. “Help me to my cottage,” she ordered.
She handed James one of her sticks and then grabbed his arm. She smelled awful. This is like Night of the Living Dead, thought James, fighting down a feeling of revulsion.
* * *
Sam was on the phone to Clarice. “He’s a most divine man,” she was saying, “but Ma Tripp came tottering in so I fled. You must meet him. He might be at the service tomorrow. If he is, grab him and bring him to the manor for a drink afterwards.”
* * *
James phoned Agatha before he went to bed. “I saw a mobility scooter beside her cottage so she could certainly zip around in that. She wanted me to go into her cottage with her, but the smell of her was making me feel sick.”
“I don’t remember her smelling all that bad,” said Agatha.
“She farted in the pub and the smell seemed to hang about.”
“I wonder if she took an overdose of laxative herself,” said Agatha. “Some people think they’re cleaning out their systems with the stuff. You’d better get along to the church tomorrow and have a look at everyone.”
* * *
When James attended the morning service, he was relieved to see Mrs. Tripp was not among the congregation and then felt like a bad detective. He thought a lot of the women were dressed up as if for a wedding, not knowing that they had put on their best finery having heard about the handsome newcomer.
Agatha had described the vicar’s wife as having red hair. James noticed her sitting in one of the front pews next to Sam.
Sun slanted through the stained-glass windows, sending harlequins of light dancing over the interior of the church. James’s mind started to wander during the service. The vicar, clutching the spread wings of the brass eagle which held the Bible, was ranting on about something from Revelation. Then he said something which caught James’s attention. From the notes, he remembered the vicar was waiting for God to tell him the identity of the murderer. “God has at last spoken to me,” said Guy Enderbury. “This village will soon be cleansed of evil.”
There was a sort of communal gasp, then a shuffling of feet as the congregation rose to sing the final hymn.
James remained seated at the end of the service. He wanted to have a quiet word with the vicar when everyone had gone. Sam stopped and smiled down at him. “Do come to the manor for a drink.”
“I’ll follow you,” said James. “I like churches. I would like to sit here for a bit.”
* * *
“I hope he’s not religious,” said Clarice as she walked in the direction of the manor with Sam. “I get enough of that from my husband.”
“Do you think he really knows the identity of the murderer?” said Sam.
“Not for a moment. If you ask me, he’s going weird,” said Clarice.
* * *
James was the last to leave the church. He shook hands with Guy and said, “That was a very startling statement you made.”
“I am surprised you should find a sermon on Revelation startling.”
“I meant about knowing the identity of the murderer. And shouldn’t you tell the police?”
“What would they say?” Guy shrugged. “When I tell them that God revealed the identity of the murderer to me, all they would do is suggest psychiatric help.”
James was puzzled. The vicar did seem perfectly sane. “But aren’t you worried that the murderer might now target you?”
“That is what I am hoping,” said the vicar calmly.
“I think, you know, that God did not talk to you at all,” said James. “I think you are hoping that the murderer will come after you and then you will really know who it is.”
“Another unbeliever,” said Guy with a laugh. “You must come to the vicarage one evening.”
“You are very kind. I do not know how long I’ll be staying.”
James walked off in the direction of the manor house. Thanks to Agatha’s copious notes, he knew exactly where it was.
* * *
That afternoon, Agatha was sitting in Carsely’s vicarage garden, drinking tea. She had been summoned by Mrs. Bloxby. “So what did you really want to see me about?” she asked after Mrs. Bloxby had finished describing various events in the parish.
“I really try to avoid gossip,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “but on your behalf, I made some enquiries about the time Mr. Enderbury was vicar in Broadway. There is something there in his history.”
“Let’s have it.” Agatha looked at a scone brimming with fresh cream and strawberry jam. She gave a little sigh and decided to leave it alone.
“Clarice Phelps, as she was then, was waitress in a pub which did bar lunches. By all accounts, she chased after the vicar. She lived in a room above the pub which was accessed by a back stair. On several evenings, the vicar was spotted going up those stairs and tongues began to wag. Then the couple were seen one day having a scene outside the church. Clarice was crying. Two days later she was taken off to hospital. A nurse gossiped. Clarice had taken some potion which had caused an abortion. Whatever it was caused such damage that she was told she would not be able to bear children. Mr. Enderbury married her when she got out of hospital and shortly afterwards moved out of Broadway.”
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the connection. She probably went to Mrs. Tripp for something to help her abort. But would she succumb to blackmail? I mean, if it had all been gossiped about before?”
“But no one in Piddlebury would know about it—except Mrs. Tripp—and believe me, a vicar’s wife is supposed to be above reproach. Are you sure James is safe?”
“I hope so. Why do you ask?”
“What if someone in Piddlebury wonders if there is any connection to you and looks up your history on the Internet? They will find reports of your marriage to James and a photograph of him.”
Agatha groaned. “I never thought of that. I’d better phone him and get him out of there.”
* * *
James was in his room in the pub when Agatha rang him. He listened to her news and then Mrs. Bloxby’s suggestion that anyone with a computer could find out his real identity.
“I’ll be safe as long as I don’t drink or eat anything out of the way,” said James. “The vicar made an announcement in the church that God had told him the identity of the murderer.”
“That man’s as daft as a brush.”
“I don’t think so,” said James. “I think he’s hoping to lure the murderer. I’m going to be watching him. Clarice and Sam have been flirting with me like mad. I had drinks at the manor after the service.”
“Oh, I do wish you’d leave.”
“I’ll
give it a couple of days.”
* * *
After Agatha had rung off, her phone rang again. It was Roy Silver. “Any news?” he asked.
“About the murders? Strange as it seems, the prime suspect is old Mrs. Tripp.”
“Can’t be,” jeered Roy. “She couldn’t keep awake long enough.”
“What if that falling asleep is all an act?” asked Agatha.
“She’s ancient. I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on some of her furniture.”
“I hardly noticed. Everything is covered in framed photos.”
“Well, there’s a desk which looks like Sheraton. My friend, Tristram, told me lots about antique furniture. There’s a console table in her little hall to die for. There’s a fortune hidden under all those photos and bits and pieces.”
Agatha suddenly remembered the chest of drawers in Gloria’s cottage. Had Gloria borrowed it and not given it back? And what excuse would she give for having borrowed it? The whole village would have seen it being transported.
“Got to go,” said Agatha hurriedly.
She phoned James back and told him about the furniture and the chest of drawers she had seen in Gloria’s home. “Gloria used Henry Bruce for odd jobs,” said Agatha. “Get along there and ask him if he ever moved a chest of drawers from Mrs. Tripp’s house to Gloria’s.”
* * *
James checked his notes again and set off for Henry’s cottage. The leaves on the trees in the wood above the village were turning red and gold. The Indian summer was drawing to an end. There was a chill in the air and the sun above was a pale disk.
Henry was tinkering with the engine of an old Ford when James arrived outside his cottage.
“Mr. Bruce?” Henry straightened up, wiping his hands on an oily rag. In that moment, James realised that direct questioning would blow his cover.
“I’m looking for an old banger,” he said. “Someone in the shop said you might have something.”
Henry grinned. “I should have this here finished by the end of the day.”
“How many miles on the clock?”
“One hundred and twenty-seven.”
“It’ll go all right?”
“Tired of walking?”
“It’s a long road home,” said James.
“And where’s home?”
James stopped himself just in time from saying “Carsely.”
“Evesham,” he said.
“Whereabouts in Evesham?”
“What a lot of questions,” said James. “If you must know, it’s one of those villas round from the Regal Cinema.”
“Come inside,” said Henry. “We’ll have a beer.”
James followed him into the kitchen, wondering all the while how to bring the subject round to Mrs. Tripp.
They sat at the kitchen table. “How much for the car?” asked James as Henry brought two bottles of beer from the fridge.
“Five hundred—cash.”
“How old is it?”
“Nine years.”
“Give me a couple of days to think about it.”
Henry shrugged. “Suit yourself. Do you do a lot of these walking tours?”
“This is like being interrogated by the police,” said James testily. “Why all these damn questions?”
“It’s like this,” said Henry. “There’s been two murders in this village and we’re sure it was done by some stranger. Stands to reason we’re nervous about strangers.”
“Why a stranger?” asked James. “Aren’t there any weird people in this village? There was an old woman came into the pub last night and the way people reacted you’d think she’d arrived straight out of hell.”
“That’d be Mrs. Tripp. She’s harmless.”
“Really? Do any work for her?”
“I keep clear, see. She likes people to read to her. I mind when she wanted me to move something to Gloria’s…”
“Wasn’t one of the murdered people called Gloria?”
“Right. Anyway, I’d just got it on the trolley, when she says, ‘Read to me.’ I told her right out I was being paid to move the drawers, not read.”
“Why on earth would Gloria want to borrow a chest of drawers of all things?”
“Seems that our lady of the manor twigged Gloria for having a house full of cheap drek and Gloria wanted to show her she had something good.”
“That’s crazy,” said James. “I mean, don’t you find that odd?”
“Well, our Gloria was so pushy that people just did what she wanted to shut her up.”
“Anyway, did Mrs. Tripp get her chest of drawers back?”
“Don’t know.”
* * *
Sam and Clarice were deep in conversation. “I don’t think he looks like a rambler,” said Clarice. “He seemed keen to find out about our murders.”
“Well, anyone would,” said Sam. “But I’ll look up the Internet and see if there’s anything on him.” She went to her desk and powered up her computer. “Let me see … James Stanton. Several here.” She clicked away. “Not our man.”
“Look up Agatha Raisin,” said Clarice.
“Why?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Okay.” Sam’s fingers clicked busily across the keys. “She’s had quite a life. Married James Lacey.”
“Oh! Try James Lacey.”
The keys rattled. “Here we are. It’s our man! He’s a writer of military histories and travel books. He must be here snooping for the Raisin woman.”
* * *
James phoned Agatha with the latest news. When he had finished, Agatha said, “Don’t go near Mrs. Tripp.”
“You mean she might have bumped off Gloria because she couldn’t get her chest of drawers back?”
“She’s so sinister, she might have done it. James. I think you should leave now! It’s not safe.”
“But look at all I’ve found out. I’m sure I can crack this case for you.”
“James, please.”
“Another couple of days.”
* * *
James Lacey was usually a very pragmatic, level-headed man apart from a few occasions in his life, one of which had been his temporary infatuation with Toni. He still felt ashamed of his behaviour. It was this very shame that drove him on to want to solve the murders. He felt that would somehow be a way to redeem himself.
He decided to go out for a stroll before dinner. The main street of the little village was deserted. How odd, he thought, that such a beautiful little secluded place should harbour a murderer.
The first stars were appearing in a pale green sky. The air was redolent of a mixture of cooking smells and flowers. The evening air was pure and clean. He stopped in the street and took a deep breath.
That was when something struck him viciously in the back of the legs and sent him flying on his face onto the cobbles. He scrambled to his feet and turned round.
Mrs. Tripp was crouched over the controls of her mobility scooter. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Didn’t see you standing there.”
“You should be glad I don’t seem to have broken anything,” raged James, “or I would have sued you.”
“My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” said the old lady. “Follow me to my cottage. I can give you the very thing to soothe any hurts.”
Why not? thought James. Here we go, into the lioness’s den.
“I’ll follow you,” he said.
“I’ll get it ready,” said Mrs. Tripp. “I’ll leave the door open.”
She turned her scooter and sped off.
James followed. He spotted, out of the corner of his eye, several cottage curtains twitching as he walked past. In the sky above, thin fingers of dark cloud were beginning to trail across it and a chill little wind had sprung up.
Does she plan to poison me? he wondered. Surely not. What on earth would she do with the body? I’m a big man. Besides, my stuff is at the inn. Better just pretend to drink anything she offers me.
Her cottage door stood open but the cottag
e itself seemed to be in blackness.
“Are you in there?” he called.
“The lights have gone,” came the old lady’s voice. “The fuse box is in the kitchen over the sink. The kitchen’s at the back.”
James groped his way along a narrow, stone-flagged passage. The kitchen was faintly lit by the pale light of the dying day outside. A rising wind began to moan eerily around the old cottage. He stood on a rug on the middle of the floor and reached for the fuse box. The rug gave way and he plunged down into a hole. His hand caught an old iron handle at the side and he hung on and then felt the handle slowly begin to give way. He shouted for help. It must be an old well, he thought. He braced his legs on either side and tried to make his way up. It was then he heard the sound of two sets of footsteps. He looked up. The faint round of the hole above disappeared as something heavy was dragged across it with a scraping sound.
James decided to see if he could make his way down and hope the well was dry. Then all he could do was to sit at the bottom and hope that his absence would prompt Agatha to alert the police. He slithered down, trying to break a headlong fall by grabbing hold of worn bits of masonry. At last he touched bottom. At least it was dry. His phone! He had forgotten his phone. He took it out of his pocket and dialled nine-nine-nine but there was no signal.
He began to shout for help until he was hoarse.
Chapter Eight
Agatha had received a text message from James the previous night, which she read before going to bed. She was always glad when texts were written in clear English because she had difficulty managing to read text-type English. It said, “Going out for a walk to look around. Going to keep an eye on Mrs. Tripp.”
In the morning, again worried about James, Agatha tried to phone him without success. She phoned the Green Man. Moses said he hadn’t been down for breakfast. Agatha didn’t want to leave her name and blow his cover. Still worried, she went to the vicarage and asked Mrs. Bloxby to call.
Mrs. Bloxby got the same reply. Persevering, she asked Moses to go up to his room and tell him to call Mrs. Bloxby. Both women waited in anxious silence.
At last, Moses came back on the phone. “He’s gone,” he said crossly. “Took his rucksack with him and left without paying.”
