A Spoonful of Poison

by M C Beaton

  “Come along,” said Charles. “The two witches haven’t got anything important to say.”

  Maggie’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “You don’t like us, do you?”

  “Who would?” said Charles.

  ____________________

  Two days later, as the monsoon-like rain still continued to pour down, Agatha phoned her office. “I’ll be a bit late,” she said to Mrs. Freedman. “I’m going into Evesham to get my hair done.”

  “You can’t, in this rain. Evesham’ll be drowned.”

  “That’s down in the town. My hairdresser is in Bridge Street and it never gets flooded. I’ll go in by the ring road.”

  “You’d better watch your village doesn’t flood.”

  “Carsely never floods.”

  “It might this time.”

  Agatha noticed as she drove over the Simon de Montfort Bridge on the ring road that the river Avon had already flooded and was spreading rapidly out over the farmland on either side.

  Although the traffic was moving easily on her side of the road, the other side seemed to be grid-locked.

  She parked in the Aldi supermarket car park and walked through to Bridge Street. Outside Achille, the hairdresser’s, she turned and looked down towards the bridge. Police barriers were up. She walked down and joined the crowed of sightseers on the bridge. Waterside on the other side of the bridge was flooded. A large mobile home came hurtling down the river and smashed into the bridge. Bits of it appeared on the other side as if it had been through a giant shredder.

  Agatha debated whether to return home while there was still time, but without her hair done she felt insecure.

  Jeanelle, her hairdresser, greeted her with surprise. “We’ve been phoning up clients telling them not to come,” she said.

  Agatha’s mobile rang. It was Toni. “We’re evacuating the office,” she said. “The police have been round telling us the water’s rising. The street below is flooded. We’re on the first floor, so with luck the water won’t come this high. But Phil’s found a man with a tractor and we’ve all been loading up the files and computers. The car park’s still dry, so once the tractor gets the stuff there, we can load it into our cars and take it to a storage unit we’ve rented on high ground.”

  “It’s really bad, isn’t it?” said Agatha.

  “Nobody’s seen anything like it.”

  “Phone you later,” said Agatha.

  But she insisted on getting her hair done.

  As she joined the queue inching out of Evesham, she wished she had never come. She had complained about the rap music playing in the hairdressing salon. It had crashed around her ears sounding like “Ugh, hunna hunna mudda fudda bitch, ugh.”

  “Who likes that awful music?” she had asked Jeanelle. “Young people,” said the hairdresser. “It’s our music, if you know what I mean.”

  I feel on the outside looking in, mourned Agatha. I feel trapped in an age group that’s out of touch with every other age group.

  It took her three hours to reach the Carsely turn-off on the A44 by managing to plough through areas of flooding on the road.

  When she got down to just before the centre of the village, she was met by a flood. Groaning, she parked the car, took off her shoes and began to wade through the swirling water. A dead cat floated past and a spasm of fear clutched her as she thought of her own cats.

  The rain was still falling in torrents. She slipped and stumbled, several times nearly falling, until at last she reached dry ground on the other side. Agatha put on her shoes and hurried to Lilac Lane. Water was swirling down the lane. She rushed to her cottage. Charles had barricaded the front door with sandbags.

  Agatha let herself in. He had left her a note on the kitchen table.

  “Gone to check my own place. Keep dry! Love, Charles.”

  Agatha checked her cats were safely indoors before going upstairs to change into dry clothes.

  “It can’t get any worse,” she muttered.

  But it did. Gloucestershire and the counties round about went under water. Her cottage stayed dry, but she had to house three elderly couples from the village who complained constantly that all the food she seemed to have were microwave curries.

  Just when Agatha felt like committing murder herself, the sun came out and the waters receded. With great relief she saw her unwanted house guests leave. But then she was drafted in by Mrs. Bloxby to help clean out flooded cottages and to make frequent trips to the supermarket in Stow to bring back supplies of bread and milk.

  At last she was free to go to her office in Mircester. Her staff were all there, unloading computers and other office equipment.

  Gradually everything got back to normal and Agatha was just considering one evening whether to pursue the Comfrey Magna poisoning when she received a visit from Bill Wong.

  “Survived the floods, Bill?”

  “Just about. Agatha, this isn’t a social call.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Someone masquerading as Arnold Birntweather, the accountant, and with all his identification called at the bank with the safe deposit key. He said the money needed to be counted again. He put it all in a large holdall and disappeared. In appearance, he seemed to be like the accountant, elderly and stooped.”

  “But did the police hand this impostor the key?”

  “They seem to have handed it over to the genuine man just after the flooding was over. He was accompanied by the vicar. When the vicar did not hear from him, he called at his house. Mr. Birntwweather had been killed by a savage blow to the head.”

  “But they had seen Mr. Birntweather at the bank before.”

  “Mr. Birntweather was old, with a dowager’s hump, thick glasses and dyed brown hair. The impostor looked exactly like that.”

  “But how did the impostor get the number of the safe deposit box?” asked Agatha.

  “Arnold Birntweather had a card inside his wallet with the number of the box on it. It was conveniently marked, ‘Safe deposit box number eleven.’”

  “Snakes and bastards! When I went to see that precious pair, Tolling and Tubby, they told me that everyone in the village knew I had the safe deposit key, which probably explains the break-in at my cottage.”

  “Do be careful, Agatha. I’d better get back to work.”

  “Wait a bit. What about fingerprints?”

  “Everyone knows about fingerprints these days.”

  “CCTV cameras at the bank?”

  “There’s a thought. You’d better come to headquarters with me and look at the film. See if you can penetrate that disguise somehow and recognize someone from that village.”

  At police headquarters, Agatha studied the security tape film. Bill waited impatiently.

  “Well?” he demanded at last.

  “It’s odd,” said Agatha. “But I really do think that’s Arnold.”

  “Mr. Birntweather?”

  “Yes. I don’t think any impostor could be that good. Have you any footage of the street outside the bank?”

  “I’ll run it for you. Why?”

  “Maybe someone was waiting for him-someone who had threatened him.”

  Bill slotted in another tape. Agatha saw Arnold climbing stiffly out of his old Morris Minor. “Look!” said Agatha.

  “What?”

  “Run that again. A car with tinted windows pulled in right behind him.”

  “This is a very long shot, Agatha. I’ll check the number plate. Wait there.”

  Agatha continued to study the tapes.

  Then the door opened and Bill, Wilkes and Collins came in. Bill said, “You’re on to something. That car was stolen during the floods. It belongs to a respectable shopkeeper in Badsey.”

  “You can go now,” said Collins.

  “No ‘thank you’?” demanded Agatha. “I thought you had gone to Scotland Yard. Did they send you back?”

  “Just get out of here!” snapped Collins.

  Bill escorted Agatha out. “I thought she’d gone,�
�� said Agatha.

  “She did. But for some reason she came back and now we’re stuck with her. Thanks, Agatha. You’re a great help.”

  Before she drove off, Agatha phoned Charles on his mobile, but as usual, it was switched off. She couldn’t text him a message because, even though she had a state-of-the-art mobile, not only did she not know how to text, she did not know how to take photographs or send e-mails. She phoned his home and for once she was in luck. Charles himself answered, rather than his man, Gustav, or his aunt. Agatha told him about the latest development.

  “Where are you?” asked Charles.

  “Just about to leave Mircester.”

  “I’ll meet you at your cottage.”

  “Thank goodness it’s dry at last,” said Charles. “But it’s cold. Mind if I light the fire?”

  “Go ahead,” said Agatha. “Doris has it all set and ready.” Doris was Agatha’s cleaner and about the only person in the village who called Agatha by her first name. “I’ll fix the drinks.”

  When Charles was comfortably settled in an armchair, cradling a glass of whisky and watching the flames leap up the chimney, he asked, “Any ideas?”

  “My money’s on Trixie.”

  “Come on! The vicar’s wife? Can you see her stealing a car and threatening poor Arnold?”

  “I’m sure she deliberately tried to spoil the accounts.”

  “What’s all this?”

  Agatha lit a cigarette, scowled at it and put it out. Cigarettes in the morning tasted great, but later in the day, they’d lost their magic.

  “I was with Roy, and Arnold and the vicar were sorting through the accounts at a table in the garden. Trixie arrived with a jug of lemonade and I swear she deliberately tipped it over the papers.”

  “And were they ruined?”

  “Well, no. It was sunny. Remember sunshine? I suggested we pin them up to dry. Arnold told me they were okay. Now, if Trixie had been squirrelling some of the money away and doctoring the accounts, Arnold might have known about it, but straightened it out with the vicar, not wanting any scandal.”

  “I can’t believe it. Look, there were a lot of unsavoury things going on during the floods. Cars left on dry ground were being stolen. The gossip about the safe deposit box could have spread out from beyond the village. Put on the news and see if there’s anything.”

  “Let’s see if they’ve done better than their coverage of the floods. Hopeless. I had to turn on the radio to get any proper news. All there was on TV was some reporter’s great face blocking off the screen talking to the man in the studio. And they were all in Tewksbury. It’s the herd instinct. They’ve always had it. One reporter puts on his waders and stands in a flooded street in Tewksbury and the other reporters promptly head for Tewksbury to do the same, along with their cameramen. I’ll try the BBC 24 Hour News.”

  They waited patiently through the usual dismal round of international news until suddenly the announcer said, “The village of Comfrey Magna is in shock tonight.” A brief summary of the disastrous fête and the theft of the money. “And now to our reporter, Alan Freeze, in Comfrey Magna, who interviewed the vicar, Mr. Arthur Chance, early this morning.”

  “I am here with the vicar, Mr. Arthur Chance, and Mrs. Chance. This must be a sad blow, Mr. Chance.”

  “It’s a disaster,” said Arthur Chance. Trixie stood beside him dressed in a long black gown with a low neck.

  “I bet those breasts aren’t real,” muttered Agatha.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Arthur went on, his voice trembling. “The church roof is leaking and there is no longer any money for the repairs.” He burst into tears. Trixie pressed his head into her bosom and stared nobly into the camera.

  “Mrs. Chance?” pursued the reporter.

  “I must take my poor husband indoors,” said Trixie. “It is not only the church roof that the money was needed for but for the families of the two ladies who were killed during the fête.” She tossed back her blonde hair but still managed to clutch her sobbing husband to her chest.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she said with a little break in her voice, “Please help us.”

  Then she escorted her husband into the vicarage.

  “And now to the Middle East,” said the presenter.

  “Switch it off,” said Agatha. “What a performance!”

  “It was pretty moving,” said Charles.

  “Oh, the vicar was genuine. But did you see how Trixie said ‘Help us’? Not ‘Help us find who did this terrible murder.’ She’s hoping for donations, and she’ll get them.”

  Charles finished his drink. “You’re too cynical. We’ll pop over to Comfrey Magna in the morning.” He stood up and stretched and yawned. “I’m off to bed.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Coming with me?”

  “My days of casual sex are over,” said Agatha.

  “Didn’t know they’d ever started. Good night.”

  After he had gone, Agatha sat looking into the flames, her cats beside her on the sofa. She felt strangely empty and purposeless. For so long, her obsession for James, her ex-husband, had fuelled all her actions. She missed the roller coaster of emotions. She even missed the pain.

  “At least I felt alive,” she whispered to her uncaring cats.

  The morning was cold, damp and misty as Agatha drove herself and Charles to Comfrey Magna. At one point she said to Charles, “I forgot to find out about Jimmy Wilson.”

  “What about him?” asked Charles.

  “There’s something unsavoury about him. I asked Patrick to find out why he took early retirement from the police force. He made a pass at Toni.”

  “Most men would. She gets prettier by the minute.”

  Agatha felt a stab of jealousy. She had promised Toni to hold a dinner party to further the girl’s hopes with Harry Beam. Now she meanly decided not to do anything about it.

  Agatha parked at the entrance to the village, just before the vicarage. A great lake of water lay across the road, fed by angry little streams rushing down from the hills.

  “We’ll need to paddle,” said Charles. “I wouldn’t risk driving through that if I were you.”

  “I’ll see if I can see the ground underneath the water.” Agatha got out of the car. She stared down at the water gloomily and then returned to Charles.

  “We’ll need to paddle.”

  “Right.” Charles got out of the car, took off his socks and shoes and then his trousers. Agatha took off her shoes and hitched up her skirt.

  Charles, holding his trousers, socks and shoes above his head, walked into the water. “Not too bad,” he said. “It’s only just up past my knees.”

  “There’s the postal van outside the vicarage,” said Agatha, fighting to keep her balance in the swirling water. “I’ve always come this way. The road in from the other end must be clear.”

  “He’s unloading sacks of mail. The vicar’s distress must have caused a lot of people to send money. Dry ground at last,” said Charles. “We’ll nip into the church and I’ll put my trousers on. Don’t want to shock the vicar’s wife.”

  “You’re kidding. Nothing could shock that one.”

  The church was cold and damp. Buckets full of rainwater lay on the floor and balanced on the altar and the pews.

  Agatha shivered as she pulled on her shoes. “This is misery,” she moaned.

  “Never mind,” said Charles. “Think of those poor bastards in Cheltenham and Tewksbury. No drinking water and up to their armpits in sewage.”

  “I can never feel grateful because of other people’s misery,” said Agatha piously. “Let’s go. Hope the police aren’t there or it’ll be a wasted journey.”

  They were just about to emerge from the church when Agatha saw Wilkes and Collins leaving the vicarage. She retreated, colliding into Charles. “The police are just leaving,” she hissed. “Wait a minute. I wonder where their car is. I didn’t see a police car.” She peered round the church porch. A police car and driver drove in from the other end
of the village. Wilkes and Collins got in and the car drove off.

  “All clear,” said Agatha. “Let’s go.”

  It was George Selby who opened the door to them. Does he never work? wondered Agatha.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said George. “This is hardly a good time. Everyone is grieving.”

  A merry peal of laughter sounded from the study.

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” said Agatha. “Let us in.”

  George reluctantly stood aside. Agatha felt a little sexual tremor as she brushed past him and opened the door of the study. Arthur Chance and Trixie were slicing open envelopes, their faces radiant.

  “Come in!” called Arthur when he saw them. “People are amazingly generous.”

  “I’m happy for you,” said Agatha. “But I really want to find out who murdered poor Arnold Birntweather.”

  “The police are looking into that,” said Trixie, slicing open another envelope and extracting a cheque. “Oh, George, darling, come and help me.”

  “I’ve got work to do. Mrs. Raisin…”

  “Agatha, please.”

  “Agatha, may I have a word with you in private?”

  Agatha followed him outside.

  “They really are upset and grieving,” said George, fastening those hypnotic eyes of his on Agatha’s face.

  “Doesn’t sound like it. What can I do for you, George?”

  “If you start asking them questions about Arnold’s murder, it will really distress them.”

  “But the police have just left and they don’t seem a bit distressed.”

  “Look, let’s go for dinner tonight and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Agatha brightened. “All right. Where and when?”

  “The Cantonese restaurant in Mircester? Say at eight o’ clock?”

  “Right.”

  He suddenly smiled down at her and Agatha felt weak at the knees. Must get rid of Charles, she thought frantically.

  Toni had invited a former school friend, Sharon, round to her flat that evening. She felt uneasily that she had been blackmailed into the invitation by Sharon complaining that Toni never saw any of her old friends.

  Thanks to Agatha’s generous salary, Toni had been at work on her flat since Harry had seen it. She had ripped up the carpet and polished the boards until they shone. They were now covered in brightly covered rugs she had bought at Mircester market. A new set of bookshelves ornamented one wall.