by M C Beaton
She must find out more about him. Surely Mrs. Bloxby knew something.
Later that evening, Mrs. Bloxby listened in alarm to Agatha’s plans. She felt that as Agatha had bulldozed ahead, there was now little point in making any protest. And when Agatha left, commenting on the incredible beauty of the Cotswolds spring, Mrs. Bloxby repressed a sigh. Agatha’s perception of beauty, she felt, was prompted by her hormones. If only Agatha hadn’t seen that handsome man in the graveyard. She knew her friend of old. Agatha was heading for another obsession, and while it lasted, the Cotswolds would be beautiful and every pop tune would have a special meaning.
Agatha sustained a visit from a very angry Bill Wong on Friday evening. “You might have told me first what your plans were,” he complained, “and I would have done my best to stop you. Betsy Wilson! It’s as bad as hiring Celine Dion for the occasion.”
He was only slightly mollified by the news that Agatha had engaged a security firm that had promised to put as many of their men as possible on the ground.
Bill was the product of a Chinese father and a Gloucestershire mother. He had inherited his father’s almond-shaped eyes, those eyes which were looking suspiciously at Agatha. “Who is he?” asked Bill.
“He? Who?”
“You’ve fallen for someone.”
“Bill, can you not for once believe something good about me? I’m doing this for charity.”
“So you say. I’ll be there myself on Saturday.”
“How’s your love life?” countered Agatha. “Still dating my young detective, Toni Gilmour?”
“We go around together when we both get some free time, but…”
“But what?”
“Agatha, could you try to find out what she thinks of me? Toni is very affectionate and likes me, but there’s no spark there, no hint of passion. Mother and father like her a lot.”
Agatha eyed him shrewdly. “You know, Bill, you can’t go after a girl just because your mother and father like her. Do you yearn for her?”
“Don’t be embarrassing.”
“All right. I’ll find out what her intentions are.”
“I’d better go. See you tomorrow.”
Agatha, who had been sitting on a kitchen chair, rose with one fluid movement to show him out.
“You’ve had a hip replacement!” exclaimed Bill.
“Nonsense. It wasn’t arthritis after all. A pulled muscle.”
Agatha had no intention of telling Bill or anybody else that she had paid one thousand pounds at the Nuffield Hospital in Cheltenham for a hip injection. The surgeon had warned her that she would soon have to have a hip replacement, but now, free of pain, Agatha forgot his words. Arthritis was so ageing. She was sure it had been a pulled muscle.
George Selby had to admit to himself that it looked as if the day was going to be a success. Betsy Wilson was a rare pop singer in that she appealed to families as well as teenagers. He also had to admit that had she not arrived to open the fête, only a few people would have attended. What was considered the height of the fête was the tasting to find the best home-made jam. Little dishes of jam were laid out, and people tasted each and then dropped a note of their favourite in a ballot box.
The sun shone from a cloudless sky on the beauty of spring. It had been a cold, damp early spring, and now, with the sudden heat and good weather, it seemed as if everything had blossomed at once: cherry and lilac, wisteria and hawthorn and all the glory of the fruit trees in the orchards around the village.
Betsy Wilson, in a gauzy dress decorated with roses, made a short speech, clasped her hands and sang her latest hit, “Every Other Sunday.” It was a haunting ballad. Her clear young voice floated up to the Cotswold hills. Even the hardened pressmen stood silently.
She sang two more ballads, finished by singing “Amazing Grace,” and then was hustled into a stretch limo by her personal security guard. The band which had accompanied her packed up and left, to be replaced by the village band.
Then Toni, who was with Agatha, tugged her sleeve and said, “That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” asked Agatha.
“Look at all those teenagers queuing outside the jam tent.”
“Really? If I thought it was going to be such a popular event, I’d have charged an extra admission fee.”
“Could someone be peddling drugs inside that tent?” asked Toni.
“Why?”
“Some of the people coming out look stoned.”
Agatha was about to walk towards the tent when she heard screams and commotion coming from over by the church. People were pointing upwards. A woman was standing at the top of the square Norman tower, her arms outstretched. As Agatha ran over to the church, followed by Toni, she heard someone say, “It’s old Mrs. Andrews. Her said something about how her could fly.”
Agatha saw George running into the church and ran after him, with Toni pounding after her. George was disappearing through a door at the back of the church where stairs led to the tower. Agatha ran up the stairs, panting and gasping as she neared the top. She staggered out onto the roof.
Mrs. Andrews was standing up on the parapet. “I can fly,” she said dreamily. “Just like Superman.”
George made a lunge for her-but too late.
With an odd little laugh, Mrs. Andrew sailed straight off into space. George, Agatha and Toni craned their heads over the parapet. Mrs. Andrew lay smashed on a table tombstone, a pool of dark blood spreading from her head.
George was white-faced. “What on earth came over her? She was a perfectly sane woman.”
“The jam,” said Toni suddenly. “I think someone’s put something in the jam.”
“Get down there,” said Agatha, “and tell the security guards to seal off that damned tent.”
She was about to run after Toni when George caught her arm. “What’s this about the jam?”
“Toni noticed that an awful lot of teenagers were queuing up outside the jam tent and coming out looking stoned. I’ve got to get down there.”
When they arrived outside the church, a woman came up to them looking distraught. “Get an ambulance. Old Mrs. Jessop’s jumped into the river.”
Police were beginning to shout through loudhailers that everyone was to stay exactly where they were until interviewed.
“Thousands of them,” gasped Toni. “I told Bill there was something wrong with the jam.”
Chapter Two
SIR CHARLES FRAITH, a friend of Agatha’s, placed his slippered feet on a footstool in his drawing room and switched on the television to BBC news.
Agatha’s frantic face seemed to leap at him out of the screen. “I don’t know what happened,” she was saying to the interviewer. “I think some maniac put something in the jam.”
The interviewer went on to describe the events at Agatha’s disastrous church fête. Apart from Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop, two villagers had suffered heart attacks.
The camera panned out over the village. It looked as if the whole of the county’s police force were on the scene, busy taking down names and addresses. They’ll never forgive Agatha for the expense of all this manpower, thought Charles. I’ll get over there this evening and pick up the pieces.
____________________
As dusk settled down over the Cotswolds and blossoms glimmered whitely in the fading light, all was peace and quiet except at Comfrey Magna.
Inside the tent, lit by the harsh glare of halogen lights, the two organizers of the jam tasting, a Mrs. Glarely and a Mrs. Cranton, sat weeping quietly.
Agatha and Toni were being interviewed inside the tent for what seemed to Agatha like the hundredth time.
Facing her was Detective Inspector Wilkes, flanked by Detective Sergeant Collins. Bill Wong had been sidelined by Collins, a nasty, pushy woman, who had pointed out to Wilkes that Bill was tainted by his friendship with Agatha and should be kept out of the interview. Collins had said she was transferring to the Metropolitan Police, but Bill had a sinking feeling that she’d
been turned down. Behind Agatha, waiting to be interviewed again, were the vicar, his wife and George.
“Now this Betsy Wilson,” said Wilkes, “she was involved in some drug scandal a few years ago.”
“She’s clean,” said Agatha, “and she didn’t go near the jam tent. Betsy went straight to the platform. Her band had arrived earlier and set up. She sang her songs and left.”
“What about the members of the band?” rasped Collins. Her hair was pulled back so severely that Agatha was amazed her eyes didn’t water. “That lot are always into drugs. Assuming it was drugs and not some nasty local herb in the preserves.”
“I think it was LSD,” said Toni suddenly. “I’ve been thinking about it. It’s a hallucinogen.”
“And how come you know about it, young lady?” demanded Wilkes.
“It was a case we turned over to Worcester CID earlier this year,” said Toni. “Do you remember, Agatha? A mother thought her son was on drugs. I followed him to that club in Evesham and found they were giving out tabs quite openly. So I informed the police and the club was raided.”
“What are tabs?”
“LSD is usually found on little squares of blotting paper called tabs,” said Toni. “It’s also a clear liquid. All someone had to do was tip a few drops into each of the jam-testing dishes. I gather the show was set up early in the morning and then the organizers went home for breakfast. It might be an idea to trace the source of the drug. LSD isn’t all that common in the clubs these days. It’s all Ecstasy or crack cocaine or heroin.”
Toni was a pretty young girl aged eighteen. She had naturally fair hair. Collins threw her a look of dislike. “You seem to know a lot about drugs.”
“It’s my job,” said Toni. “I’m a detective. You see, that’s how I found out our two organizers had left the tent empty. Before the tent was opened to the public, the various jam dishes were covered with white cloths fastened with drawing pins. The tent was only opened to the public after Betsy had finished singing.”
“It wasn’t us,” wailed Mrs. Glarely.
“We’ll need the names of all the women who contributed jam,” said Wilkes. He sighed. “Are there many?”
“Only six,” said Toni, pulling out a notebook. “I have their names and addresses here.”
“Good girl,” said Wilkes, and Agatha felt a little stab of jealousy. She felt tired and jaded, and there was Toni looking as fresh as a daisy. Had George noticed Toni? That was the trouble with middle-aged men. They were allowed to fancy young girls. Middle-aged women fancying young men were called cradle snatchers.
“And,” went on Toni, “Mrs. Cranton said apart from these ladies, the only people who came into the tent before it was officially opened were Mr. George Selby, the vicar and his wife, and a pig farmer called Hal Bassett-”
“What was a pig farmer doing in the jam tent before it was opened?” interrupted Wilkes.
“He was trying to get an advance taste. He eats home-made jam by the spoonful. Then there was Miss Triast-Perkins from the manor. She claimed that she wanted to be sure of decorum at all the events. She said that Mrs. Raisin was out to ruin the village by running the fête like a three-ringed circus.”
Agatha hated being left out. “Could we continue all this in the morning?” she pleaded.
“And I need to let the marquee people come and collect the tents tomorrow,” said George.
“Just a few more questions,” snapped Collins.
And so it went on until nearly midnight, when they were all told they could go but to report to a mobile police unit which would be in place in the village in the morning.
As they all walked outside the tent, Agatha asked George, “Do you know how much we made?”
“The vicar is going to count the money. There must be thousands. Of course, any relatives of Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop must be compensated, not to mention any people who suffered ill health.”
Agatha had been about to suggest she should be compensated for hiring the security firm, but decided it might sound callous. She was desperately wondering how to set up a date with George when she heard the vicar calling her.
Reluctantly she turned back as George hurried away. “Mrs. Raisin,” said Arthur Chance, “this is a terrible business. I would like to hire your agency to find out who did this terrible thing.”
Trixie protested. “There are police all over the place.”
“Mrs. Raisin’s agency has a good reputation,” said the vicar firmly.
“I’ll do it,” said Agatha. “I feel responsible.”
“So you should,” said Trixie, tossing her long hair. “Where’s George?”
“I think he’s gone home,” said Agatha. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
She headed to where she had parked her car to find Toni waiting for her. “We’ve been employed,” said Agatha. “I think you and I should concentrate on this case and leave Phil and Patrick to cope with the rest.” Agatha suddenly remembered Bill’s request. “How are you and Bill getting along?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Madly in love?”
“We’re just friends. No fire lit. Not for me, not for him, but poor Bill thinks there should be something just because his mum and dad want it.” Toni had wanted to leave the agency and join the police force, but she owed Agatha a great deal. Agatha had rescued her from a brutal home. Perhaps when this case was over, she might find the courage to leave.
“See you at the office,” said Agatha, stifling a yawn. “Make it eight o’clock. I’ll phone Phil and Patrick and get them there early as well.”
As Agatha drove up to her cottage, she saw Charles’s car parked outside. She frowned in irritation. She didn’t feel like coping with Charles and she resented the way he used her cottage like a hotel.
She let herself in. Charles was asleep on the sofa, with the television still on. Agatha switched it off and went upstairs to bed without waking Charles. Sleep did not come easily. She tossed and turned, remembering the events of the catastrophic day. It had all started so well, good-natured crowds flooding into the village and over to a field where a stage had been set up for Betsy. How pretty she had looked with her filmy dress floating in the slightest of breezes. After Betsy had driven off, a great number of people had started to head away. Then the disaster of poor Mrs. Andrews’s flight from the tower. Who had put LSD, if that’s what it was, in the jam? She remembered Toni’s concise report. Her young detective had really shown her up. But she, Agatha, had been running here and there, trying to get the security guards to contain the scene. She fell down at last into a nightmare where Trixie and George were laughing at her because she had turned up at the fête without a stitch on.
In the morning she stumbled out of bed, feeling immeasurably tired. She showered and dressed and hurried downstairs. Charles was still asleep on the sofa, the cats beside him. She scribbled a note, telling him to feed the cats and let them out into the garden and then she drove off to Mircester where she had her office.
Phil Marshall and Patrick Mulligan, who had been called in by Agatha that Sunday for an emergency meeting, groaned when Agatha said that she and Toni were going to handle the Comfrey Magna case. Phil Marshall was in his seventies and Patrick was a retired police detective.
“You’ll need to hire someone else,” said Patrick. “Phil and I can’t cope on our own with the workload. I know a retired detective.”
“This is getting like the geriatric employment agency,” snapped Agatha, and then seeing the look of hurt on Phil’s face, said quickly, “Sorry about that. Yes. Hire him. Mrs. Freedman will set up a contract for him.” Mrs. Freedman, the secretary, gave a little smile. They had already discussed the idea of hiring someone extra before Agatha arrived, and the retired detective was one of her cousins. Agatha went through the files and allocated work for Monday morning and then turned to Toni. “We’d better be off to the scene of the crime. It’ll be crawling with press, although a lot of them will be doorstepping Betsy in Lond
on.” She bit her lip in vexation. She hadn’t had time to look at the Sunday morning’s papers, but she was sure they would have raked up all that old drug scandal about Betsy. Must get the vicar to say something about Betsy being a saint, she thought.
When Toni and Agatha arrived back at Comfrey Magna, they avoided the mobile police unit and went straight to the vicarage, battling their way through the press.
To Agatha’s delight, George answered the door.
“Mr. Chance is in the study with my accountant. We’re counting up the money.”
Agatha followed George into the study, looking dreamily at his back. He was wearing a shirt as blue as the sky above, chinos and shoes which looked as if they had been handmade.
“Ah, Mrs. Raisin!” cried the vicar, running around his desk to take Agatha’s hands in his. “We have a fortune here. Various charities will get a generous sum, the church roof will be repaired, and then we will compensate the families of the bereaved.”
“How much?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, let me introduce our accountant. Mrs. Raisin, or may I call you Agatha?”
“Please do.”
“Agatha, I would like to introduce Mr. Arnold Birntweather. He lives in our village and has kindly offered his services. Tell her how much we have.”
“We have thirty thousand pounds,” said Arnold.
He was a very small man, with a dowager’s hump and small eyes magnified by thick glasses. His hair was an improbable brown.
Again, Agatha was tempted to suggest that they pay her for the services of the security firm and then again decided it would look too mean. Also, any builder these days with the expertise to repair the church roof would take most if not all of the money.
“Where is Trixie?” asked Agatha, looking around for what she had privately damned as the “competition.”
“My poor wife has gone to the hairdresser. She has been so shocked by the events of yesterday. She felt like some type of beauty treatment to calm her nerves. Now I must get to the church for morning service.”
