by M C Beaton
‘Maybe this new government . . .’ began Hazel, that hand still hovering.
‘Oh, get on with it!’ shouted Agatha loudly.
There was a sudden silence. Agatha turned to Roy for back-up but he had disappeared. The people in the line behind her avoided eye contact.
‘Well, really,’ said Gladys. But Hazel began to slide her groceries over the scanner at great speed while Gladys began to pack, darting angry little looks at Agatha.
Gladys was at last packed and served. She threw a fulminating look at Agatha and said in a high shrill voice, ‘I’m sorry for you, Hazel. If I had to deal with some people I would go mad.’
‘Bye, Glad. Love to Bert.’
And then Hazel proceeded to open the till and change the roll of paper.
Agatha was incandescent with rage by the time she had packed up the trolley and wheeled it out to the car park as it veered crazily to the left.
Roy was waiting at the car.
‘Where the hell were you?’ shouted Agatha.
‘I went to get cigarettes,’ said Roy shiftily.
‘You chickened out. Oh, help me get this stuff in the boot.’
They drove round Evesham’s new one-way system, so hated by the traders in Bridge Street, who felt they had been left high and dry ever since it had been turned into a shopping precinct.
At last Roy said meekly, ‘Are we going to Ancombe?’
‘We’ll take this stuff home first,’ said Agatha grimly. Oh, where was James?
As they unpacked, Roy felt he could not bear the angry silence any longer and said, ‘It’s not my fault James has left.’
‘What?’
‘Well, that’s why you got so shirty with that woman in the supermarket.’
‘Let me tell you this. I would have got shirty with that woman in the supermarket at any time.’
‘Then why take it out on me?’
‘Because you’re a wimp!’
‘I think I may as well go back to London,’ said Roy in a small voice.
‘Do that!’
‘I’ll go and pack.’
Agatha sat down at the kitchen table and buried her face in her hands. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. Why on earth should she still get so upset over a man who showed signs of actual dislike? Perhaps, she thought, brushing the tears away, it was because of her age, because after James there might be no one left out there to love.
She got to her feet and called up the stairs. ‘I’m sorry I got ratty. Want a drink?’
Roy came down the stairs, all smiles. He was an ambitious young man and did not want to offend this prickly woman whose PR skills were so admired by his boss.
‘Like a drink?’ repeated Agatha.
‘I’ve given up alcohol,’ said Roy, who had only drunk mineral water in the pub.
‘Why?’
Roy hesitated a moment. The real reason was that it seemed to be becoming awfully fashionable not to drink, and Roy did not want to be out of fashion.
‘Rots the brain cells, sweetie.’
‘I’m going to have a stiff brandy before I go out.’
‘I’d hate to see you drink alone . . .’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Just a teensy one, then.’
One brandy led to three and it was an amiable couple who set out for Ancombe. Agatha parked on the main road a little way along from the spring, where a group of tourists were standing staring at it and pointing. The barrier of blue-and-white police tape which had guarded the spring had been taken away.
The entrance to Robina Toynbee’s cottage was by a gate in a lane which ran up the side of the cottage from the main road. ‘We should have phoned first,’ said Roy.
‘It’s all right, she’s at home. She’s watching us from the window.’
As Agatha raised her hand to knock at the door, Robina opened it. ‘I’m delighted to see you, Mrs Raisin,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of phoning you to thank you. Please come in.’
The cottage was old, might even be seventeenth century, thought Agatha. The living-room was pleasant: large fireplace, low beams on the ceiling, vases of flowers, pictures and books and a cat asleep on top of the television set.
Outside the small leaded windows, a long narrow garden led down to the road, an artistic jumble of pansies, begonias, wisteria, clematis, and lobelia. There was a green lawn with a sundial next to where the spring bubbled up and then was channelled between rocks and flowers to where it disappeared through the old garden wall.
Above the fireplace was a dark oil painting of a grim old lady in an enormous cap.
‘Your ancestor?’ asked Agatha.
‘Yes, that is Miss Jakes,’ said Robina. She was wearing a soft-green velvet trouser suit. Agatha herself possessed several velvet trouser suits. She realized, looking at Robina, that velvet trouser suits were something favoured particularly by middle-aged women and decided to pack hers up and give them away to some charity shop. Although it was only late afternoon, Robina’s dress was more suitable for evening. With the trouser suit, she wore sparkling ear-rings and a paste diamond necklace, and on her feet, high-heeled black satin shoes.
In the same way that some lonely women will keep a Christmas tree still lit up long after Christmas, so will they favour evening clothes during the day, as if the very sparkle and glitter could keep youth alive a little longer.
‘So,’ said Robina with a gentle smile, ‘what will we all drink?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ began Roy.
‘Come now. That is a brandy smell, is it not? I would like to join you in a brandy.’
Agatha blinked away a picture of herself, Roy and Robina standing chatting inside a large goblet of brandy and said, yes, that would be nice.
‘Here’s to success,’ said Robina when the drinks were served. ‘I hope that is an end of the matter. So silly of them to complain about a little bit of water. I think it was all fuelled by jealousy because I am being paid by the water company. Not much, you know, but it all helps. I mean, as you must be well aware, Mrs Raisin . . .’
‘Agatha.’
‘Agatha. You must be aware that we have to think of our old age. These nursing homes cost a fortune.’
‘I haven’t begun to worry about my old age yet,’ said Agatha.
‘Oh, but you should. We can all live so dreadfully long these days.’
‘I believe if you think young, you stay young.’
‘So right,’ said Robina, casting a flirtatious glance at Roy. ‘And I am not one of those women who think having a toy boy shocking.’
‘Roy is not my toy boy,’ said Agatha, wondering if this gentle woman could actually be bitching her. ‘So have there been any repercussions about the water deal?’
‘Some very nasty threatening letters. “I’ll kill you, bitch” was the last message. Anonymous, of course.’
‘Did you give them to the police?’
‘No, I think it is some of those environmental cranks. Do you remember when words were so simple and people talked about the countryside? There is something so threatening in the word “environment”.’
‘I do think you ought to tell the police about the letters,’ said Agatha.
‘I gather you have gained the reputation of being a bit of a sleuth,’ said Robina. ‘But there is really nothing to worry about. So much better to leave things to the experts.’
Agatha was beginning to dislike Robina.
The living-room, so pleasant when they arrived, seemed to have become claustrophobic. The day outside had suddenly darkened. Robina was wearing a very sweet, very powerful scent which mingled with the scent of some air freshener and the smell of brandy. Miss Jakes glared down at them as if to say she would not have given such people house-room in her day.
‘If a murdered man had been found at the bottom of my garden and I was receiving threatening letters,’ said Agatha, ‘I would be very worried indeed.’
‘Ah, that’s because you are an incomer. Incomers never really belong. Us cou
ntry people are so close to the soil and the violence of nature that we become tougher.’
‘Us city people are so close to the violence of the streets that we have a healthy wariness,’ said Agatha.
Robina waved her brandy glass and looked at Roy and raised her eyebrows. ‘She doesn’t understand.’
‘What about the man who was murdered?’ said Roy. ‘Who do you think killed him?’
‘That would be the Buckleys.’
‘Because of the paddock?’ asked Agatha.
‘Oh, you’ve heard about that. Angela and her father are really quite coarse and brutal people.’
‘So you don’t think it had anything to do with the water?’ asked Roy.
She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘No, nothing at all. More brandy?’
‘No, we must be on our way,’ said Agatha, standing up. ‘But please, let the police know about those letters.’
‘Where to now?’ asked Roy as they scampered to the car through a heavy shower of rain.
‘We may as well call at the electrician’s shop. We might catch Fred Shaw before he leaves.’
‘Is he for or against?’
‘For,’ said Agatha. ‘Although, after Robina, Jane Cutler and Angela, I’m beginning to think the ones against couldn’t turn out to be any nastier.’
Fred Shaw was just closing up when they arrived. He hailed Agatha like an old friend and invited them into his back shop, where he opened a bottle of whisky and started to pour a strong measure in each glass.
‘Here’s to success,’ said Fred, raising his glass. ‘You sorted them out, Mrs Raisin.’
Agatha murmured, ‘Success.’ She covertly studied Fred Shaw. Although sixty years old, he was a powerful man with a thick neck and broad shoulders and hands.
‘I only wish old Struthers was still alive,’ Fred was saying.
‘Why?’
‘Because he was pissing about like a shy virgin over the decision. “I will give you my considered opinion all in good time.” Old fart!’
‘You didn’t like him?’
‘I should be chairman,’ said Fred. ‘I’d have put a bomb under this lot. Couldn’t make a decision about anything to save themselves.’
‘But at least Angela Buckley and Jane Cutler were on your side over the business of the water company.’
‘Them! Let me tell you, Mrs Raisin, just between us, that precious pair didn’t give a damn about the water company one way or t’other. They were just tired of being bossed around by Mary Owen.’
‘You don’t seem to like each other much in this village,’ volunteered Roy.
‘I’ve got good mates here,’ said Fred, ‘but none of ’em are on the council.’
‘Why is that?’ Roy took a good swig of whisky and mentally said goodbye to a few more brain cells. He wished he’d never been told that about dying brain cells. He could almost see the little buggers choking and gasping and expiring on a sea of whisky.
‘Because this is a snobby village and we’ve all been councillors for yonks. Nobody stands against us. You know why? Because no one wants to take responsibility for anything these days. Why do you think we’ve got a Labour government in this country?’
‘Because the majority of the British people voted for them,’ said Agatha.
‘Naw. It was because the majority of Conservative voters sat at home on their bums and didn’t vote.’
‘Have you any idea who might have killed Mr Struthers?’ asked Roy.
Fred tapped the side of his nose. ‘Let’s have another.’
‘I don’t think . . .’ Agatha began, but he was already refilling their glasses.
‘Now,’ said Agatha. ‘Yes, cheers, Mr Shaw. You were saying?’
‘There’s things go on here that I know. I keep my ear to the ground. Get me?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Roy, wriggling with excitement.
Fred gave him a suspicious look. ‘It’s a good thing I’ve got a dishwasher. Sterilizes things,’ he said obscurely. ‘Yes. Let me tell you, Peyton Place has nothing on Ancombe. Now, Mary Owen had an eye on Mr Struthers –’
‘But Mr Struthers was eighty-two!’
‘But Mary Owen is sixty-five, and when you get as old as that,’ said Fred, just as if he weren’t nearly that age himself, ‘you look for security.’
‘Everyone says that Mary Owen is independently wealthy!’
‘Ah, but she prides herself on being a wheeler and dealer on the stock market. Believed to have lost a packet, and recently, too. So she sets her sights on old Robert Struthers. That’s when our Jane Cutler moves in. Our Jane specializes in rich men who haven’t long to live. It’s a wonder Robert Struthers didn’t die of overeating. If one of them wasn’t making him meals or taking him out to dinner, the other was.’
‘And who looked like winning?’
‘I had my money on our Jane and Mary was fit to be tied. Council meeting two months ago, she called Jane a harlot.’
‘Are you suggesting that Mary Owen murdered Mr Struthers?’ asked Roy. ‘Why not murder Jane Cutler?’
‘Ah, that was because at that council meeting where Mary called Jane a harlot, our Robert upped and made Mary apologize. Mary said to me afterwards that Robert Struthers was a decent man who had been corrupted by Jane.’
‘But murder!’ protested Agatha.
‘Our Mary’s a powerful woman and she doesn’t like anyone to get in her way.’
‘All this is fascinating,’ said Agatha. She could feel her head beginning to swim with all she had drunk. ‘Have you told the police any of this?’
‘Naw! Got no time for the police. Do you know they arrested me for drunk driving last year after I’d only had a couple of pints? Bastards. The countryside’s crawling with murderers and rapists and all they can do is persecute innocent citizens. Another?’
‘No, really thank you.’ Agatha got to her feet. Roy was holding out his glass and she plucked it from his fingers and set it firmly on the table.
‘About that fête,’ said Fred. ‘I’m a fine speaker.’
‘I’m sure we’ll find something for you,’ said Agatha, now desperate to get out in the fresh air.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Fred. ‘I’ll call on you nearer the time and we can go over my speech.’
‘We can’t drive, either of us,’ said Agatha when they got outside. The rain had stopped and a pale washed-out evening sky stretched overhead. It had turned cold.
‘Oh, come on. I’ll drive,’ said Roy ‘It’s not far.’
‘No,’ said Agatha firmly. ‘I’ve got a clean licence and it’s going to stay that way and my insurance doesn’t cover you driving.’
‘We didn’t have much to drink.’
‘We did. Those glasses of whisky were enormous.’
‘What about having a bash at Mary Owen?’
‘Not till my head clears up. We need food. Come along, a walk will do us both good.’
They were half-way to Carsely when, against the sky pricked by the first stars, black clouds started streaming overhead.
They quickened their steps but soon the first drops began to fall and then the deluge came. By the time they finally reached Agatha’s cottage, they were soaked to the skin but stone-cold sober.
After they had dried themselves and changed their clothes, Roy said he would set about making dinner, but Agatha, fearing that Roy would fuss about the kitchen, using every pot, and that they would probably end up eating at midnight, insisted on going to the pub.
When they arrived back again, she realized she had not checked her British Telecom Call Minder to see if there were any messages. The lady whose voice is on the Call Minder always seemed to Agatha an irritating relic of the days when women took elocution lessons. It was a governessy sort of eat-your-porridge-or-you-won’t-go-to-the-circus sort of voice. ‘Two messages,’ said this voice. ‘Would you like to hear them?’ Did anyone not want to hear messages? thought Agatha crossly.
The first was from Guy Freemont. ‘Been trying to get h
old of you. Call me.’
The second was from Mary Owen. ‘I think it is time we had a talk, Mrs Raisin. Please call me.’
Agatha looked at the clock. It was midnight. Too late to call. They had to walk back to Ancombe in the morning to pick up the car. She would see Mary Owen then.
As she fell asleep that night, her last thoughts as usual were about James. Where was he?
James, a very different-looking James, had earlier that week joined a meeting of Save Our Foxes in the back room of an Irish pub in Rugby. His black hair had been dyed blond, he had three ear-rings in one ear, and he was wearing a camouflage jacket, dirty jeans and large ex-army boots. Frightened that his accent might prove him to be an impostor, he had mostly communicated with his new companions in grunts.
He felt that if he could find out who had been paying the protesters for that demonstration at the spring, he might have a clue to the identity of the murderer.
The chairperson – stupid, stupid word, thought James with true Agatha savagery: there was either a chairman or a chairwoman, and what was wrong with that? – the chairthing, then, was a thin, neurotic woman with tangled locks, a sallow, hungry face, and large, rather beautiful eyes. She was called Sybil. No one used second names. James himself had become Jim.
The purpose of this meeting was because one of the members had noticed in the local newspaper that a car salesman in Coventry was to hold a barbecue in his garden on his fortieth birthday. To celebrate his ‘gypsy’ heritage, he planned to serve his guests barbecued hedgehogs. A man called Trevor pointed out that hedgehogs were not a protected species, to which Sybil shouted, ‘He’ll find out they are now!’ and got a round of applause. James covertly studied the group. They all looked militant. There was no sign of the mild-looking ones who had fronted the procession to the spring. Probably got frightened off. Nor, fortunately, was there any sign of the man who had tried to attack Agatha.
His own presence had been accepted after only one question from Sybil. How had he learned of them? Someone up in Birmingham, James had grunted.
The whole meeting was rather like a political rant. Sybil became very emotional over the plight of the hedgehogs. Why was it, James wondered, that nursery-book animals were always singled out for protection while things like spiders could be slaughtered with a free conscience?
