by M C Beaton
She then set about cleaning up the kitchen, clearing and washing the remains of the meal, her mind carefully sorting things out. Gustav would tell the police she had been invited. But she had been incredibly lucky so far. It was Gustav's word against her own. All she had to do was to stick to her story. She pulled Sir Charles over to the oven and turned on the gas. She frowned. Wasn't there something about North Sea gas not doing the job the way the old coal gas used to? Perhaps she was worrying over too much. She heaved his head into the oven, then looked around. She picked up two dishcloths and got out various cleaning rags. She went out and shut the kitchen door behind her and stuffed the cloths and rags under the space at the bottom of the door.
She went into Sir Charles's study, where she remembered seeing a typewriter. All she had to do was find some documents with his signature on them, and forge his signature to a typed suicide note, in which he also confessed to the murders of Jeffrey and Jessica. But a handwriting expert would no doubt find the signature to be a forgery. Oh, well, she thought on a sigh, she would just need to leave an unsigned note. It was such a pity about handwriting experts; without their interference it might have been possible to make out a will supposed to be from Sir Charles, leaving everything to her. Everything.
For one moment, her eyes filled with weak tears. All her dreams. Everything. She had imagined holding fetes and garden parties at Barfield, with her in a wide shady straw hat greeting the guests, maybe making the opening speech. She blinked her tears away. She sat down at Sir Charles's desk and began to type.
Agatha and James ran up the drive of Barfield House. Behind them in the distance they could hear the wail of police sirens. "Something must have happened," panted Agatha.
"I think we might be what's happened," said James. "Angry farmers phoning in with reports about trespassers. God, this is beginning to seem ridiculous." He grabbed Agatha's arm, forcing her to stop. "We can't go bursting into Barfield House, shouting, "We know you did it because your father was mad.""
"Deborah's car's there," said Agatha stubbornly. "You can do what you like, but I'm just going to walk in and say I knocked and no one answered."
She heaved the handle of the massive door and let out a sigh of relief when it swung open. James followed her into the hall. He was beginning to think the only person who was mad was Agatha. How on earth were they going to explain themselves?
And then Agatha said, "Gas. There's a smell of gas. Where's the kitchen?"
"The smell seems to be coming from there," said James pointing off the hall and down the corridor. They ran along and immediately saw the rags under the door. They pulled open the door. Agatha rushed across to the oven, turned off the gas, and flung open the kitchen windows.
"I'll call the police," said James.
Approaching sirens wailed from outside.
"They're here," said James. "I'll go and meet them. Oh, God, it was Deborah all the time, unless Gustav has murdered both of them."
He went back out, but as he was approaching the door, he heard the sound of a typewriter coming from the study. He pushed open the study door. Deborah was sitting typing, her back to him. He took off his belt and crept up behind her, then whipped it round her to pin her arms to her side.
The loud screams of invective that burst from Deborah's lips drowned out the sound of the sirens.
James and Agatha sat in the flat in Sheep Street that evening, sharing a bottle of wine and waiting for Bill Wong to call on them as he had promised. Both felt that it was unfair that the reason for the convenient police presence at Barfield House had been because both of them had been charged with trespass, some irate farmer reporting how two hooligans had driven their car right through his crop, dumped their car in the ditch, and taken off across the fields to trample down more crops on foot.
"Deborah! I just don't understand it," said Agatha, for seemingly the umpteenth time. "Oh, there's the doorbell. That must be Bill."
James rose and went to let him in. Bill looked weary. He accepted James's offer of a glass of wine, saying he was off duty, and then turned to Agatha. "How did you suss out it was Deborah?"
Agatha flashed James a little warning look and said airily, "Woman's intuition. But we'd rather hear all about it from you, Bill." She did not want to lose face by admitting to Bill Wong that they had thought the murderer was Sir Charles.
Bill shook his head in bewilderment. "She must be crazy. She told us the whole thing in this little-girl voice, on and on and on. She had always driven herself on to get away from her background, aided and abetted by her doting mother. The reason she had an affair with Jessica was not because Deborah is lesbian but, would you believe it, because she thought Jessica was 'good class'. Jessica had been to Oxford, you see. Deborah had adopted the politics of Jessica and her friends as a passport to a better society. I think it was on the fatal day Sir Charles invited her for tea that something in her snapped. Even over the first cup of tea, she saw a chance of becoming Lady Fraith. "Jessica was in my way," she kept saying over and over again. She was terrified Jessica might tell Sir Charles about that lesbian affair, terrified that Jessica would spoil her chances by creating a scene. Can I have some more wine?"
James filled his glass. Bill took a sip of wine and went on. "She was amazingly lucky. She drove to the Barfield estate. She said she wanted to catch up with Jessica before she did any damage. She found Jessica at the edge of that field. When she let out that she was keen on Sir Charles, how Jessica had laughed! It seems Jessica, once the gloves were off, was a middle-class snob of the worst kind. She sneered at Deborah for her accent, background and clothes, said she hadn't a hope in hell, said she would let Sir Charles know about Deborah's lesbianism. Then Jessica started stamping her way across that field. Deborah saw the spade and saw red at the same time. She ran up behind Jessica, keeping in her tracks, and brought the spade down on her head. When she found Jessica was dead, she scraped and dug that shallow grave - when you think of all those plant roots, it must have taken manic strength - buried the body, wiped the shovel and took off."
"But she asked Mrs Mason for my help," cried Agatha. "Why would she do that?"
Bill looked rueful. "You're not going to like this. Evidently Mrs Mason had given Deborah the impression that you were an inept amateur, taking credit for police work, and so she thought that by hiring you, she would look innocent and yet be in no danger of being found out."
"I will never speak to Mrs Mason again," said Agatha wrathfully. "Old toad. I never liked her anyway."
Bill smiled at her and took up his story. "As I say, she was amazingly lucky. Her car had been seen on the road out of Dembley, but no one had actually seen her going into the estate. Then the waters were muddied by Sir Charles's lying about what he had been doing and by the others' lying as well."
"But why Jeffrey?" asked James.
"Ah, well, she had let slip in the pub that she was going to dinner at Barfield House. Jeffrey, who had got a bit tipsy after his confrontation with Ratcliffe, phoned her up just as she was leaving for Barfield House and asked her to come round, saying he was a better bet any day than Sir Charles. Deborah told him to get lost. He then told her, maliciously, that he had a good mind to tell Sir Charles about her affair with Jessica. Deborah said, still in that awful little voice, that she didn't take it really seriously until she was on her way back from the dinner at Barfield House. She decided to 'silence' him. So she changed and went round to his flat. She suggested they should get even with Ratcliffe. She and Jeffrey should drive out and cut the chain that held that padlocked gate and then both return to Jeffrey's flat for a bit of whoopee. So Jeffrey went like a lamb, cut the chain, and got struck on the head by Deborah, who had searched around while he was doing it and found that rock.
"She had somehow persuaded herself when Sir Charles asked her for that lunch he was all set for marriage. When he told her he had no intention of marrying her, she went right round the twist. That was why she was still working on that fake suicide note when you
found her, James, even though she heard the police sirens outside. She was bewildered. All her life, she said, she had been driving towards the top. Do you know, in the beginning, getting to be a schoolteacher, for Deborah, was like an actor winning an Oscar. For a while, I think that was enough."
"It was the mad father who set us off to Barfield House," said James, and then stifled a yelp as Agatha kicked him. Agatha was determined that Bill should think they had guessed that Deborah was the one who had committed the murders.
"Oh, yes, Deborah's father," said Bill to Agatha's surprise. "Yes, we found he's in that prison for the criminally insane, Tadmartin. He'd murdered a woman he was living with, the one he left Mrs Camden for."
"Did either Mrs Camden or Deborah know this?" asked James.
"I don't think so," said Bill.
"Lots of madness in this," said James, drawing his legs out of Agatha's reach. "There was something in the back of my mind that Sir Charles's father died mad."
"No, he died drunk," said Bill. "Terrible old sot, he was. It's a pity you two are going to have to appear in court yourselves for trespass and damage to crops after all your hard work."
"Yes, I think you might have overlooked that," commented Agatha.
"Can't," said Bill. "The irate farmer won't let us."
"How's Sir Charles?" asked James.
"Lucky to be alive," said Bill. "He's in Dembley Central Hospital suffering from a bad concussion and cracked ribs. He got his ribs cracked when she dragged him down the stairs. She hit him on the head with a bottle of bath salts and then dragged him down the stairs to the kitchen. Well, I'd best be off. Thanks a lot, you two. We'd have got Deborah all right in the end. There was no way she could really cover up the murder of Sir Charles. We wouldn't have believed that suicide note for a moment. But it's thanks to you two that Sir Charles is alive. I suppose you'll be heading back to Carsely?"
"There's nothing to keep us here," said James. "I never want to see any of those walkers again."
When Bill had gone, Agatha said, "I suppose we ought to have something to eat. I don't feel like going out, do you?"
The doorbell sounded again. "Now, who can that be?" asked James. "I wish this door had a spyhole. If it's one of those ramblers, I swear I'll slam the door in their face."
He stepped back in surprise when he saw Gustav. The manservant entered. He handed James two bottles of old port. "The best in the cellars," he said. "Sir Charles has just recovered consciousness."
Gustav smiled directly at Agatha for the first time. "I understand from the police that Sir Charles would not be alive were it not for the pair of you. I am deeply grateful."
A gratified Agatha promptly forgot all her dislike of Gustav and begged him to sit down, but he shook his head. "My place is with Sir Charles. Do call and see him tomorrow. He will wish to thank you himself."
"He's quite human after all," said Agatha in surprise when Gustav had left. "Do we sample that port or do we save it for a special occasion?"
"I think this is a special occasion," said James with a smile. "I'll look out some biscuits and cheese and perhaps that will do instead of dinner."
Agatha had, in the past, in the PR days, been offered and had drunk what had merely passed for vintage port. After James had decanted a bottle, she accepted a glass, amazed that with her depraved palate, educated through the years with gin and tonics and microwave meals, she should appreciate it so much. It went down like silk. It was also very heady and somehow it seemed to disappear very quickly, and it seemed only right to decant and sample the second bottle.
And then, as they mulled over the case, in increasingly tipsy accents, it suddenly struck James as terribly funny that Agatha had driven across that farmer's field. He began to laugh and soon Agatha was giggling helplessly and that was when James suddenly stopped laughing and took her face between his hands and kissed her on the lips. All the pent-up passion in Agatha rose to meet his lips and then his wandering hands, and soon there was a trail of discarded clothing lying on the floor reaching all the way to Agatha's bed.
Agatha awoke in the grey light of dawn. Memory came flooding back immediately. Her mouth was dry with a raging thirst and her head ached.
She felt lax and immeasurably sad. She had achieved her ambition, her dreams, and got James to take her to bed, but she had not wanted it to be like this, when they were both drunk and hardly knew what they were doing. A tear rolled down one cheek and plopped on the sheet. She twisted round and looked at him. He was sleeping neatly and quietly, his face looking younger in repose.
The worst thing she could now do, she reflected, was to make anything of what had happened. She was old enough and experienced enough to know that James would never even have dreamt of kissing her had he not been extremely drunk. She would need to treat it as everyday, as lightly as she could.
If only she could reach out to him and continue the love-making of the night before. But he might reject her and she could not bear that. She got up, feeling stiff and sore after so much unaccustomed sexual exercise, and went and ran a bath and stayed soaking in it for a long time.
When she returned at last to the bedroom, the bed was empty. James put his head round the door and said, "Just going to have a bath, darling," and went off whistling. He's taking it lightly, thought Agatha, and I must do the same.
She dressed in a blouse and skirt and made her face up carefully, her own face looking strange to her in the mirror.
She then went through to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette.
The newspapers plopped through the letterbox and she went to get them. Must cancel these, she thought, and the milk.
James came in as she was reading them. He stooped and kissed her cheek. "Anything about the murder?" he asked.
"Just a bit about Deborah being charged but not much more yet," said Agatha, suddenly shy, not able to look directly at him.
"We'll take the papers along with us and have breakfast outside," he said, "and then we'll get some grapes or something and go and visit Charles. Do you think he'll pay us?"
"I didn't think of that," said Agatha. "Should he?"
"Oh, I think so. I mean, we're going to have to pay that farmer for the damage, along with a fine and court costs. If Fraith doesn't offer anything, I'll bill him on behalf of both of us. Coming? You'd better put on a sweater or a jacket or something. It looks a bit chilly."
Agatha went to get a sweater, glad all at once that they were going to have breakfast outside, among people.
As they tucked into bacon and eggs in a hotel dining-room, James eyed Agatha across the table. She looked smaller, vulnerable and very withdrawn. She would not meet his eyes. They had been very drunk the night before, admittedly, and he should do the gentlemanly thing and not refer to it, but her passion and generosity had been amazing. Quite amazing. Who would have thought that Agatha, of all people...
The thought broke off as Agatha said, "Do you think there'll be anything in the newspapers about us?"
"Not unless the police tell them. We'll be present at the trial as witnesses, so our part in it will come out then."
"Should we phone the papers ourselves?" He laughed. "Maybe not. Better to keep a low profile. Perhaps we'll make a career of it - Raisin and Lacey, detectives, set up our own bureau of investigation." Agatha's face lit up. "Why not?"
"Are you serious? I was only joking."
"I don't see why not. We make a good team."
"We'll think about it. Now, if you're finished, let's go and see Charles."
Sir Charles was sitting up in bed at the end of a long ward. His head was bandaged and he looked very white. But he gave a wan smile when he saw them. "Nice to see my saviours," he said. "Isn't it odd that if Deborah hadn't called you in, I'd probably be dead?"
"Very odd," said James, depositing a bag of grapes on the bedside table. "Why aren't you in a private room?"
"Why pay out money when I've been paying taxes all these years?"
James decide
d in that moment that Charles would not think of giving them any money at all unless they asked for it, so he said, "You'll be getting our bill. Sorry, but it's going to be a bit steep. You see, in our race to rescue you, we damaged some of your neighbour's crops."
"It's all right," said Sir Charles. "Just send it in. The land agent will see to settling it."
"How are you feeling?" asked Agatha.
"I'm feeling more silly and stupid than anything," said Sir Charles. "Absolutely shiters, in fact.Gustav told me Deborah was creepy. She must have been totally deranged and I never even guessed it. Then my aunt said she was common and that put my back up. I don't like snobbery."
"And yet in a way, it was Deborah's snobbery and ambition that drove her to murder," said James.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sir Charles peered in the bag and plucked off a grape from the bunch and began to eat it.
"Only that Deborah was determined to be Lady Fraith and run Barfield House," explained James.
Sir Charles looked puzzled. "But it's a nasty building, hardly an architectural gem, more like a glorified farm in a way. Still, it's rather lowering to think it wasn't my delicious body she was after. God, I was stupid. Took her to bed, you know. Awful. Like necrophilia."
James had a sudden vivid memory of a fiery and passionate Agatha and blushed dark red.
"Sorry," said Sir Charles, mistaking the reason for the blush. "Always was a bit coarse." He leaned back and closed his eyes.
"Get better soon," said James.
"I will," he said faintly. "As soon as I can get up, I'm off to the south of France for a holiday."
