by M C Beaton
“It’s seems no one’s getting anywhere,” said Paul. He turned to Bill. “Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”
“Not my case. I’ve no doubt Runcorn, who’s in charge of it, will be there.” Paul flashed a warning look at Agatha. How could they steal the house key and not be observed?
“I’d better get on,” said Bill. “If I hear anything interesting I’ll let you know.”
“That’s odd,” said Agatha after he had left.
“What’s odd?”
“Usually he warns me to stay clear and leave it to the police.”
“Then take it as a compliment to your detective abilities.”
“My detective abilities are not doing much for me in this case.”
“What can we get that the police can’t?” said Paul. “I’ll tell you. Gossip. I think we should drive over and see the neighbours again.”
“You mean Greta and Percy?”
“Yes, them.”
“Worth a try, I suppose.” She raised her voice. “I’m going out for a little, Doris.”
“Don’t forget to get food for the cats.”
“I won’t. Come on, Paul.”
As they drove into Hebberdon, Agatha said, “We should remember that Greta threatened to stick a bread knife into Mrs. Witherspoon.”
“You’ve met Mrs. Witherspoon. Seems just the sort of thing a lot of people must have said to her. But saying and doing are two different things. Oh, look at the roses!” He pointed to where rambling roses in pink and white tumbled over the doorways of two cottages. “It’s almost as if God is compensating us for the dreadful autumn, winter and spring of rain and more rain.”
Agatha grunted. She always felt uneasy when people mentioned the God word. But she had to admit to herself that she became so used to the beauty of the Cotswolds that she was apt to take it all for granted-except two days after a visit to London.
“Well, here’s Pear Cottage. Let’s start off with Greta.”
Greta answered the door to them, wearing trousers and a sleeveless shirt. Agatha was struck anew at how muscular Greta was. Although small and round, there seemed to be no spare fat on her figure.
“Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “So it’s murder. Not surprised. Could have murdered the old bird myself. Come in.”
They followed her into her living-room and sat down.
“The police seem to think that her son Harry did it,” said Paul.
“That little pussy-cat! Know why he kept away from her? She terrified him. Old folks round here say she beat him when he was a boy. That’s why he turned out the way he is.”
“What way?” asked Agatha.
“Well, he’s a poof, isn’t he?”
“Do you mean he is homosexual?” said Agatha.
“Stands to reason. Not married.”
Agatha suddenly thought of James, who had remained a bachelor until his middle age, when he had married her.
“The fact that he is not married,” said Agatha in a cold voice, “does not mean that he is homosexual. Furthermore, if he is, it does not mean that he is either lacking in brains or courage.”
Greta snorted with contempt. “You’re one of those bleeding-heart liberals.”
Paul suppressed a grin. He wondered if Agatha had ever been accused of such a thing before. But seeing that Agatha was about to renew the attack, he said quickly, “Did you happen to hear any stories about a secret passage to Ivy Cottage?”
“Not that I ’member. Why?”
“Someone was trying to frighten her. I mean, we spent the night there and there was carbon dioxide gas coming under the door.”
“Did that herself to get the attention.”
“Maybe,” said Paul. “On the other hand, if someone else was doing it, there may be a secret way in. And what about this old story about treasure being hidden in the house?”
“That’s all it is. Just an old story.”
“On the night she was killed,” Agatha put in, masking her dislike for Greta, “you didn’t see or hear anyone around? Any strangers reported in the village?”
“You should leave detecting to the police. Don’t you think they’ve asked around? They’ve had men going from door to door.”
Agatha had had enough. She stood up. “Thank you for your time. Come along, Paul.”
Paul meekly followed her out.
“Bitch!” said Agatha loudly.
“Shut up. She’ll hear you and we might need her again.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Agatha. “Anyway, I’ve got a good idea.”
“Like what?”
“Like Harry is now prime suspect, alibi or not. I bet the police still think he might have sneaked over to Hebberdon when no one was looking.”
“What? Dressed as a citizen of Titipu?”
“Say the show finished at ten. He’d still have time to get his make-up off and drive over and then nip back again in time for the party.”
“What’s all this about, Agatha?”
“He might be glad of our help. If he wanted our help, he might let us search the house.”
“Long shot.”
“Maybe. But I’ll ask him at the funeral tomorrow.”
“I think your timing’s wrong.”
“Why? He must have hated his mother after the way she brought him up.”
“Not necessarily. Mothers are mothers.”
“And by all accounts, this one was a right mother, as they say in New York.”
“Tut, Agatha. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Why not? I’m just joining the legions who haven’t a good word to say for the old bat. Let’s see if Percy is in his shed.”
Percy Fleming was delighted to see them. “A real-live murder and practically on one’s doorstep,” he said cheerfully. “Are you sleuthing? The police have been round but I couldn’t really tell them anything.”
“We were wondering whether you knew of any hidden passage in Ivy Cottage,” said Paul.
“I’ve heard about the treasure but never a word about a secret passage.”
“And you didn’t hear or see anything or anyone around on the night of the murder?”
“Not a thing. But I have a Theory.”
“That being?” asked Agatha.
“The daughter did it. Yes, she found the body. But what was she doing on the night of the murder? I asked one of the coppers. He said she was home all evening. Neighbours say her lights were on and heard her television going on until late. But I say, what’s to stop her from leaving the lights on and the telly on and nipping over to Hebberdon?”
“I didn’t see a car,” said Agatha. “How did she normally get over here?”
His face fell. “She took the bus, which arrives here in the morning, stayed with her mother and then took it back again at two in the afternoon.”
“But the buses don’t run in the evening, do they?”
“No. But she could have hired a car.”
“So she could,” said Agatha, suddenly weary. It was hot inside the shed and Percy was wearing a very strong aftershave. “Well, thanks for your help.”
“Waste of space,” grumbled Agatha as they walked back to the car. “What now?”
“Nothing till the funeral tomorrow.”
Six
A light drizzle was smearing the window-panes when Agatha woke up the next morning. She struggled out of bed and began to rummage through her wardrobe to find something suitable to wear for the funeral. Church of England meant all black was not necessary, but bright colours might be regarded as offensive. Then she had to wear suitable gear for any nimble action, such as stealing the key and rushing off to get it copied. She opted finally for a dark brown silk trouser suit and a white blouse. She could wear heels with it but carry flat shoes with her in a bag.
She peered anxiously at her hair. A line of grey was showing at the roots. Agatha let out a squawk of dismay. A picture of Juanita with her long black hair rose unbidden in her mind.
She went into the
bathroom and rummaged along a shelf of hair conditioners, shampoos and dyes. Forgetting that she had found in the past that to colour her own hair instead of going to the hairdresser was often a mistake, she found a packet of brunette colour shampoo rinse and began to apply it.
Agatha was just reaching for the hairdrier when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch and found the time was ten-thirty. Must be Paul. Rats! She wrapped a towel around her head and put a dressing-gown on over her underwear and ran down and opened the door.
“Won’t be a minute,” she said to Paul.
“You look like more than a minute. Hurry up.”
Agatha ran back upstairs and dried her hair and brushed it into a smooth bob, scrambled into the trouser suit and blouse and surveyed herself in the mirror. The rain had stopped and a watery shaft of sunlight shone in and lit up her hair. She now had red roots.
“Agatha!” shouted Paul impatiently from the bottom of the stairs. Agatha seized a brown suede hat with a floppy brim, jammed it on her head and ran downstairs.
“You look like an agitated mushroom,” commented Paul. “I assume you’re somewhere under that hat. Let’s go.”
As he drove them towards Towdey, he glanced sideways at her. “The sun’s out and it’s quite warm. Women don’t really need to wear hats to funerals any more.”
“I like this hat,” said Agatha truculently. “It’s the height of fashion.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Are you always this rude?”
“No, but you’re a good teacher.”
They both relapsed into silence until they reached the church.
Paul parked beside the church wall and they got out and walked through the graveyard. “Don’t suppose she’ll be buried here,” said Paul, looking around.
“Why?”
“No room left. Have you noticed when anyone’s buried on television it’s usually in some old English churchyard? Doesn’t happen these days. The places are fairly walled up with the English dead.”
A mischievous breeze danced across the churchyard and whipped Agatha’s hat from her head and sent it flying. “I’ll get it,” said Paul and set off in pursuit. He returned with a sodden hat. “You can’t wear it. It ended up in a puddle.” He looked at her hair. “Quite fetching, you know. Brown hair with red roots.”
Agatha angrily took the wet hat from him and placed it on top of a gravestone.
“There’s Runcorn just going into the church,” hissed Paul.
“And Carol,” said Agatha in surprise. “She looks quite smart and cheerful. Let’s see who else has turned up.”
They entered the gloom of the church. It was quite full. Agatha saw Greta Handy and Percy Fleming sitting side by side. She assumed the rest were curious villagers.
“Peter Frampton has just come in with that peculiar girl, Zena,” whispered Paul.
Agatha and Paul had selected a pew at the back of the small church so that they would have a good view of everyone present. Peter walked up the aisle with Zena on his arm. She was wearing a dull red dress of Indian cotton and long wooden beads with clumpy boots. Her hair was worn down and brushed straight and nearly reached to her bottom. She turned her head and looked back down the church. Her make-up was brown with purple eye-shadow and purple lips.
“Odd couple,” murmured Agatha. “Could be his daughter.”
“Doubt it,” said Paul. “Hey, what if there isn’t any reception?”
“Drive to Ivy Cottage afterwards and hope there is.”
“I wonder whether they still begin with ‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together…’ and so on. Probably not. I hate these modern translations of the Bible. They lack the beauty of language in the King James’s Version and the absolute faith that underlies the words.”
Solemn music from the organ sounded out in the church. The coffin was carried in. Harry was one of the pallbearers. The others looked as if they had been supplied by the undertaker.
The service began. It was simple and dignified. The vicar gave a short sermon. Old-fashioned hymns were sung. No one read a eulogy. There was no one evidently hypocritical enough to praise the dear departed.
Everyone stood while the coffin was carried out and loaded into a hearse.
Agatha and Paul followed the congregation out to the church door, where Harry and Carol stood side by side.
Agatha nervously expected an outburst but Harry said, “Thank you for coming. Carol and I would appreciate it if you would join us at Ivy Cottage for some refreshments. We would like a word in private with you.”
“Do we go to the graveside first?” asked Agatha.
“No, Mother is being cremated. The funeral people see to that.”
“This sounds hopeful,” said Agatha as they walked back to the car.
“Could be. Or maybe they just wanted to warn us off. Don’t you want your hat?”
“Leave it,” said Agatha. “Did you notice how friendly Carol and Harry seemed?”
“Could be an act,” said Paul.
“But Carol was looking almost happy. And smartly dressed.”
“Well, we’ll find out what it is they want to talk to us about.”
“If they’re friendly,” said Agatha, “we can just ask for permission to search the house.”
“Better not leave it to chance.”
They waited in the car until all the guests and finally Carol and Harry had left and then drove to Ivy Cottage.
The refreshments consisted of sherry and sandwiches. Agatha eyed them hungrily. But Paul whispered, “Get the key.”
“Then give me your car keys. I’ll need to find a key-cutting place. There’s one in Moreton.”
“Or there’s the cobbler in Blockley,” said Paul. “That would be quicker.”
Why they had imagined the key would simply be there, dangling in the lock, was beyond Agatha. Furthermore, there were four locks on the front door. She went through to the kitchen in the back premises but found two women cutting sandwiches and arranging them on plates and retreated.
Paul looked at her in surprise when she rejoined him. “That was quick.”
“I haven’t been anywhere,” said Agatha crossly. “We should have realized they wouldn’t just leave the keys in the door and the front door has four locks.”
“We’ll need to rely on their goodwill. Have a sandwich and I’ll see if there’s a simpler way in from the back.”
“I tried that. There’s women in the kitchen.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll look around.”
Paul left and Agatha was joined by Percy Fleming. “I’m surprised to see you here,” said Agatha.
“I like attending funerals,” he fluted. “I bring the sombre note and ritual into my books.”
“I don’t see Peter Frampton here,” said Agatha, looking around.
“Oh, the historical-society man. He goes to events in Towdey Church because he’s from Towdey.”
“Who’s that girl with him, Zena something?”
“Zena Saxon. She just appeared, so to speak. Wonderful wardrobe, don’t you think? Today’s outfit was pure sixties commune.”
“But where’s she from?”
“She’s got a cottage in Towdey, left to her last year by an aunt. Where she was before, I don’t know. She and Peter are an item. Quite shocking, considering the age difference.”
“He’s a handsome fellow.”
“But Stagey-looking, don’t you think?” Percy often seemed to put capital letters on some of his words. “Quite obsessed with the seventeenth century. Oh, here’s that dreary copper.” He moved away and his place was taken by Detective Inspector Runcorn.
“I hope you’re not doing anything to interfere with our investigations,” he said.
“Simply paying our respects.”
“A word of warning to you, Mrs. Raisin. It’s only in books that old biddies from villages can help the police. In real life, they’re a pain in the arse.”
“Just like you,” said Agatha savagely. “Bog o
ff.”
“I’m warning you.”
Agatha turned and walked away. She went up to Carol, who had just said goodbye to Greta Handy, and whispered, “You wanted to see us?”
“Could you wait a moment? The others will be leaving soon.”
But it was an hour before everyone left and Agatha was just thinking she would have to deal with Harry and Carol on her own when Paul reappeared.
“Right,” said Harry after he had said goodbye to the last guest. “Please sit down.”
Agatha, tired of standing, sank gratefully into an armchair.
“It’s like this,” said Harry. “Although I have an alibi, the police still suspect me. Neither Carol nor I can get any money until we’re totally cleared.”
“I thought Carol didn’t inherit anything.”
Carol threw her brother a radiant smile. “Dear Harry’s arranged with the lawyers that I get half of everything. We got talking, you see, and found out how Mother had deliberately turned us against each other.”
“If you do get the money,” said Agatha, looking at Harry, “will you keep on your business?”
“No, I’ll sell it. I was pretty successful until the last two years. Rising business rates and falling sales have crippled me. I spent too much money at auctions buying antiques that no one seems to want.”
“So what did you want to see us about?” asked Paul.
“The police aren’t trying hard enough because they think it’s me or Carol. I remember reading about you, Mrs. Raisin. So we want you to find out who killed Mother. When we get the money, we’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Agatha with the airy unconcern of the new rich, “we’ve been investigating anyway. What we did wonder is if you could let us explore the house. You see, whoever was trying to frighten your mother must have found a way of getting in here. Might be a secret passage or something like that.”
“Perhaps later,” said Harry, after a glance at his sister. “We need to finish up here.”
“Then if we borrowed the keys from you, we could come back when no one’s around,” said Paul.
“I don’t think you need to do that,” said Carol. “I mean, the question is, who murdered her?”
“But don’t you see,” said Agatha, exasperated, “if it wasn’t you or Harry, then someone else must have had a way of getting inside the house.”
