by M C Beaton
Gemma walked in. She gave Agatha a sidelong smile.
"What have you got there?" asked Agatha, looking at a couple of videos that Gemma was carrying.
"I thought we might watch these tonight," said Gemma. "I've got Mad Maniac and Serial Passion."
Alice sighed. "I'm not going to watch that American rubbish."
"Suit yourself," said Gemma. "Any chocky biccies?"
"In the tin over there," said Alice with a weak, indulgent smile. "Such a child," she whispered to Agatha.
Gemma caught Agatha's eye and winked. Agatha began to wonder about Gemma. Who exactly was this little shop-girl who went in for a lesbian affair and liked watching videos about serial killers? She remembered from the reviews that the two films Gemma had chosen to watch were particularly nasty.
But Alice had caught that wink and she suddenly stood up and loomed over Agatha. "I don't want to hurry you off," she said, "but I've got a lot to do."
"Of course." Agatha got to her feet as well. "See you Saturday."
Agatha was glad to get out of there. On reflection, she decided that there was something quite frightening about Alice and Gemma.
Agatha and James were just having a cup of coffee and sharing notes when there was a ring at the doorbell. James went to open the door and found Bill Wong standing there. He came in and looked thoughtfully about him.
"What are you two up to?" he demanded. "And don't tell me it's because you've decided to shack up together. You could have done that in Carsely."
"Sit down, Bill," said Agatha. "We were going to phone you. I told you Deborah Camden had asked me to investigate the case on behalf of Sir Charles. Wait till you hear what we found out."
He listened, his face growing grim as they reeled off the new evidence they had found: Kelvin had had a row with Jessica; Deborah had been seen driving out of Dembley on the Saturday afternoon in the direction of the Barfield estate; Peter and Terry never usually worked on Saturday afternoons and yet had opted to work the Saturday of the murder; and Jeffrey Benson appeared to be an IRA sympathizer.
"And how long were you going to sit on this evidence if I hadn't called round?" demanded Bill furiously. "We'll need to pull Deborah and Kelvin in again. And what of this Irish business? There was a bomb went off in the High Street here two years ago and a child was killed. I thought I had heard Jeffrey's name before. Two Irishmen were reported to have been staying in his flat the night before the bombing. He denied the whole thing and we had no evidence to hold him. But this time he's really going to sweat."
"We were going to phone you this evening," said James. "It's no use being angry with us, Bill, and telling us to keep out of it. You'd never have found all this out without our help. How did you find us?"
"Sir Charles told me where you were. He appeared to think that the hiring of you showed him to be innocent. I'd better get down to police headquarters right away, and you two are coming with me!"
Later that evening Jeffrey Benson was returning from the Grapes. As he turned the corner of the street where he lived, he saw two men standing and looking up at his block of flats. There was something familiar about them, about the grey suits and grey faces. He recognized one of them. It was the man who had questioned him after the bombing. The man from MI5. He walked quickly away and went to a phone box. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and found a number and dialled. When a voice answered, he said, "Benson here, Dembley. They're waiting to question me again about that business two years ago."
"Then do what you did two years ago and keep your mouth shut," said the voice.
"But they'll keep me in for days and grill me," said Jeffrey, his voice sounding weak and frightened and not at all like his usual robust tones.
"You know what to do." The voice was cold. "Keep your mouth shut or we'll shut it for you."
"If that's all the help you are," shouted Jeffrey, "I've a good mind to tell them the lot and ask for protection."
"Just remember, there's no protection from us," said the voice.
Jeffrey walked out into a shifting world full of death and violence. For the first time in years, he thought of his mother. Like a lost child, he walked back to his street and approached the two men.
"Looking for me?" he said.
Deborah had all her clothes spread out on the bed when the police came for her. She had been trying to think what to wear on Saturday. She had studied society magazines, but all they showed were pictures of people at balls and parties. They did not show any pictures of people at a country-house dinner.
And when they started to question her about that Saturday, she was terrified that they might arrest her and that she might never get to Barfield House for dinner.
Bill Wong called on Agatha and James the following morning. He looked weary.
"We can't hold Deborah," he said. "She said she had started to drive out in the hope of stopping Jessica making a scene, but then had turned back to Dembley before she got to the estate. She's stuck to her story, although we questioned her over and over again. She said she turned back because she was frightened of Jessica, then she said she had lied to us because she was frightened of being accused of the murder.
"Kelvin has admitted to the row with Jessica. After intensive questioning it appears that he was so ashamed of his inability to lay her that he lied to us. Believe that if you want. Peter and Terry said they had volunteered for the extra work at the restaurant and changed shifts with two of the other waiters because no one was going out on that Saturday walk but Jessica. Now we get to Benson.
"He did house two Irishmen the night before the bombing. He swears blind he didn't know what they were going to do, that is if they did it. He's so terrified, he's told us all he knows and it's not much. We traced a phone number he gave us, but when we got there the four men who had been living in this house in Stratford had packed up and disappeared. They must have known he would sing. False names, rent paid cash, no contact with the neighbours. The usual dead end."
"I suppose he's under protective custody," said James.
"Not worth it. He's just one of those naive liberals who get sucked in. He'll never hear from them again, and more's the pity. But that's all MI5's pigeon. We're still working on the murder."
"I suppose the walk on Saturday is off," said Agatha.
"Oh, no, you may as well go along and keep your ears open. I can't stop you. But go carefully. Sir Charles is still under suspicion, but it could well be one of your rambling companions. Make sure they don't suspect you. Jeffrey talks to you about Ireland in a pub, James, and the next day MI5 comes calling. He might put two and two together."
When he had left, James and Agatha looked at each other for a long moment.
"I think you had better go home, Agatha," said James finally. "I don't like this."
But all in that moment the idea of giving up her precious role of Mrs Lacey was more frightening to Agatha than the idea of being murdered.
"I've got you to protect me," she said. "We haven't even had any breakfast. I'll make it."
She hummed to herself in the kitchen as she prepared a cheese omelette for both of them, so engrossed in her wifely role that she quite forgot that she had never really made an omelette.
James came into the kitchen in time to smell burning cheese and swipe the pan off the stove. "Go and sit down, Agatha," he said in a kindly voice. "You're obviously too worried to cook."
And so Agatha had all the humiliation of sitting there feeling useless while James whipped up two light cheese omelettes. He doesn't need a wife, mourned Agatha. If the road to a man's heart is through his stomach, then I haven't got a hope in hell.
"What about Mary Trapp?" asked James.
"Oh, her? Maybe we'll talk to her on the walk," said Agatha. "I mean, it'll begin to look odd if we call on another one of them."
"We didn't exactly call on Deborah or Kelvin," James pointed out. "Still, maybe you're right. We'll have a day off. Tell you what, we'll go to the movies and forget about the whole
thing."
Agatha had quite decided the pursuit of James was hopeless and was so quiet and subdued for the rest of that day and evening that James enjoyed her company immensely. And that night he didn't even bother to put a chair under the handle of his bedroom door.
It was a subdued group of ramblers who set out from the Grapes that Saturday. Agatha was still without any romantic hopes and was wearing the trainers recommended by Alice. She felt they made her feet look enormous, but what did it all matter anyway? There was nothing to look forward to now at her age but an early grave.
Jeffrey Benson was suffering from total loss of ego. When he remembered the way he had cringed before his interrogators, he felt like bursting into tears. Then, when he had begged them for protection and they had told him in an almost fatherly way that he was of no account to anyone, he was just one of the saps the IRA had used, he had felt totally demoralized.
It was obvious that Alice and Gemma had had some sort of row because Gemma, wearing a brief pair of shorts and unsuitable, thin sandals, was talking animatedly to Mary Trapp while Alice lumbered behind, scowling. Peter and Terry were whispering together. James wondered how soon it would be before the ramblers connected him and Agatha with the sudden renewal of police interest and how the police had come by the new information. The one thing, he thought, that might save himself and Agatha from discovery was the walkers' lack of interest in anything other than their own immediate affairs. He looked down at Agatha, who was glooming along beside him, and decided it was time they reinforced the marital couple bit and said sharply to her, "What's the matter with you, dear? You look as if you've lost your last penny"
"Oh, shut up, pillock," snapped Agatha, correctly guessing what he was up to and glad of a way to release her pent-up frustrations. "It's a wonder you didn't ask that little tart from the library along."
"How dare you speak to me like that," said James. "Jeffrey's right. You need a punch in the mouth."
"What's that?" Mary Trapp swung around. "How dare you advocate violence against women, Jeffrey!"
"Ah'm sick o' this bickering," said Kelvin. He looked stonily at Agatha and James. "You two should keep your quarrels out o' public. There's nothing mair sickening than a marital row."
"How would you know, Kelvin?" jeered Alice. "You can't even get a girlfriend."
Kelvin stood stock-still, his face flaming. "Ah'm sick o' the lot of ye. Ah'm going home."
"Now, then," said Peter. "Birds in their little nests agree. Are we out for a nice walk, or aren't we?"
They all walked on in silence. But as they reached the outskirts of Dembley, rusting recession-hit factories on either side of them, the grey clouds above parted and the sun shone down. Spirits began to lift. Gemma began to sing 'One Man Went to Mow', and they all joined in.
By the time they reached the edge of the land across which they were to walk, they were all in a fairly good mood.
They consulted the map and the old book Jeffrey had found. "There should be signs," said Jeffrey. "But this is the way. Let's go."
They all climbed over a stile and along the edge of one field, but then they came up against a padlocked gate. Leaning on the other side of the gate was a large, brutal-looking man with a shotgun.
"Get off my land," he shouted. "Poxy ramblers. I'd shoot the lot of you."
"Who are you?" demanded Jeffrey, moving to the front of the group.
"My name is Harry Ratcliffe," said the farmer, "and you're on my land."
"You've got no right to order us off," said Jeffrey wrathfully. He brandished the map. "This is a legitimate right of way"
"Ah, to hell with you," said Ratcliffe. "Left-wing buggers. Why don't you go and get a job and cut your hair?"
Jeffrey could not bear one more humiliation. He thrust the map into Agatha's hands, vaulted over the gate, and aimed a punch at the farmer. The farmer blocked his arm and swung his fist, which landed with a smack on Jeffrey's nose.
"Let that be a lesson to you," shouted Ratcliffe. "I'm going for my dogs."
He strode off. James climbed over the gate and knelt beside Jeffrey. He mopped at the blood with his handkerchief and felt gingerly along the bridge of Jeffrey's nose. "You're lucky," he said. "Nothing broken. We'd best get you back before he turns the dogs on us. You'll feel better after a drink and then we'll go to the police." The injured Jeffrey was tenderly helped back over the gate. Fussing over him, they led their injured leader from the field.
They have a point, thought Agatha in surprise; some of these landowners are right bastards. She almost forgot about the murder. The attack on Jeffrey had drawn them all together wonderfully. By the time they were seated in the Grapes, the old Agatha had surfaced and was explaining how she would consult a lawyer and make sure the right of way was opened up.
Jeffrey, recovered after James had bought him two double brandies, said he did not want to go to the police, but he was grateful to Agatha for volunteering to make life hot for Ratcliffe. They all proceeded to drink quite a lot and everything was going merrily until Deborah was overheard asking Agatha what she should wear to dinner at Barfield House.
Mary Trapp rounded on her. "Never tell me you're going there! That's the enemy."
Deborah blushed painfully. "Sir Charles is all right," she said defensively. "He's not like Ratcliffe!"
"You are betraying your class," said Alice ponderously.
"Wear a pretty blouse and skirt," said James, addressing Deborah.
She looked at him in surprise. "But I bought a black velvet dinner gown from the thrift shop."
"Too overdressed," said James. "When in doubt, dress down, not up."
"You never were one of us, Deborah," said Jeffrey. "Trust you to go over to the other side."
Deborah did not say anything. She simply walked out of the pub. She was not going to let anything take the gloss off the forthcoming evening.
They watched her go and then fell to berating Ratcliffe over again until cheerfulness was restored.
James and Agatha walked companionably home. "We'll get changed and go out for dinner," said James, and all Agatha's hopes flooded back into her tipsy brain and she startled James by accompanying him out to the hotel dining-room in a short black dress with a very low neckline indeed, very high heels, and very much make-up.
It was a good thing, thought James, that he had not advised Agatha to dress down. Dressing down for the evening was obviously a foreign idea to Agatha Raisin!
Seven
Deborah drove out to Barfield House wearing the black velvet dinner gown. She had consulted the buyer in Dembley's most expensive dress shop and the buyer had said a dinner gown was de rigueur. The stultifying gentility of the buyer had impressed Deborah no end.
She was also clutching a silver sequinned evening bag.
Deborah was unlucky. It could easily have been formal dress and then her dinner gown, although a bit over the top for a young woman and more suitable for a dowager, would have fitted in with the scenery, but as the guests were simply some old friends Sir Charles had staying for the weekend, the dress was informal. She found that out as soon as she entered the drawing-room. Certainly the men were wearing collar and tie, but the women were in summer dresses. Deborah stood awkwardly in the doorway, feeling like a child widow.
Sir Charles sailed up and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. "You're looking very slinky," he said, and just when Deborah was beginning to feel better, he added, "Like that woman in The Addams Family."
Although his aunt should have introduced Deborah all round, as she acted as hostess for Sir Charles, Mrs Tassy had not even looked up when Deborah entered, so Sir Charles did the honours. There were a Colonel and Mrs Devereaux and their daughter, Sarah. Then a thin young man called Peter Hailey and his friend, small, chubby and noisy, a Henry Barr-Derrington; and a heavy-set, brooding type of girl, Arabella Tierney. They all stared at Deborah when she was introduced. She said to each, "Pleased to meet you." Deborah would normally have said, "Pleased ter meet you," but she h
ad been refining her accent.
It was not that anyone was precisely rude to her but more slightly surprised and then dismissive. That was it. She felt she had been summed up and dismissed. She thought she heard Henry murmur, "That must be Charles's latest aberration," but decided, as she had done in the past, that nervousness was making her hear insults that had never existed.
Mrs Tassy then bore down on Deborah with the weary air of one recollecting her duties. "My dear child," she said, "such a warm frock. Aren't you too hot in that?"
"No, thank you, I'm fine," said Deborah, catching a malicious smile on the face of Gustav.
Gustav announced dinner, and Deborah was relieved to learn she was sitting next to Sir Charles.
The table looked pretty with candles and flowers, and as the meal progressed, Deborah could not help noticing that it was a much simpler affair than the heavy lunch that had been inflicted on her when she came with Agatha. But, oh, she wished she had not come. They were all such dreadful snobs...
And then conversation turned to the murder and Sir Charles said that Deborah was one of the Dembley Walkers and Deborah immediately found herself the focus of attention. She was asked to tell them all about it. She did so, at first shyly, but then gaining confidence from their rapt attention, and when she finished up with a description of that day's walk and the confrontation with Farmer Ratcliffe, she had the table's sympathy.
"That man is a boor," said the colonel roundly. "It's a pity your friend Jeffrey didn't manage to punch him." And so the conversation went on about the iniquities of Ratcliffe until Mrs Tassy rose to indicate the ladies should follow her to the drawing-room.
In the drawing-room Mrs Devereaux sat down next to Deborah and asked her what subject she taught, and having learned it was physics asked her advice about helping a young nephew who was deficient in the subject, and that took up the time until the men joined them.
Deborah found that, by ignoring the very presence of Gustav, she was able to relax. Everyone was nice, after all. She became elated and quite pretty and when Peter and Henry began to tease her and flirt with her, she positively glowed.
