by M C Beaton
"All right. Give it a try and report to me every evening. We'll keep it secret. Don't come near the office. I'll tell everyone you've decided not to take the job. Have you enough money to put down a deposit?"
"Yes. I'm not going to rush into things so it could take some time. Can you remember exactly where she lives?"
"She lives in the old mill house. There's a track leads down the far side of the shop and you reach it that way."
Simon glanced at the village shop as he passed. It looked a gloomy place with a tattered banner hanging over the door emblazoned with the legend: YOUR VILLAGE SHOP--USE IT OR LOSE IT. I'd better shop there, he thought. Probably think in this place that a visit to a supermarket amounts to treason. Funny. It doesn't feel calm and peaceful. I feel as if hundreds of eyes are watching me.
He made his way down a damp, weedy track to where the old mill house brooded over a weedy pond. He pressed the bell to Flat 3 and a voice told him over the intercom to enter.
May Dinwoody's first words when she saw him sounded disappointed. "I was hoping for someone older," she said in her reedy voice. "Maybe an elderly gentleman. There have been murders in this village and one feels so very frightened."
Simon smiled. "Maybe a young man would be better protection."
"Oh, well, you'd best come in. Take a seat."
Grey-haired May Dinwoody was wearing an odd assortment of clothes: a ratty brown cardigan over a red sequinned evening top, harem trousers and trainers.
"You had better give me references," she said.
"I have with me," said Simon, "my school certificates and my driving licence. I do not have job references because I have never worked. My parents were killed in a car crash last year and it has taken me a long time to sort out their affairs with the lawyers. My home is in 22, Blackberry Avenue, Mircester, but it is up for sale. I want to stay somewhere very quiet for a little while until I decide what I am going to do. I am seriously thinking of entering the church."
"I think you'll do very well," said May. "We'll have some coffee and go across to the vicarage so that you may meet the vicar. But first, I shall show you your room. It's a bittie small. I'm afraid it doesn't overlook the pond. It really was the pond view that persuaded me to move here."
How such a dank and murky pond could attract anyone was beyond Simon's imaginings, but he followed through to a room at the back. The room, although small, had a large window overlooking the village green. "The previous tenant was an artist and he got that large window put in," said May. "Such desecration. He'd never have got planning permission these days."
The room was simply furnished with a single bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a desk at the window and three hard chairs.
"Now, I'll show you the bathroom. I'm afraid I shall ask you to supply your own sheets and towels."
"That's all right," said Simon. "Can manage that."
"Now follow me. Off to the right of the living room is the kitchen. We'll need to share the fridge and shelves. I will keep my groceries on the bottom two shelves and you may have to the top two shelves and one freezer drawer. The cupboard up here on the left is yours also."
"Looks fine."
"There is another room here but I use that as my workshop. I make toys."
"How clever of you!"
May's voice began to tremble. "There is now the question of the rent and the deposit."
"How much?"
"Seventy-five pounds a week and three months in advance."
"Okay. Cash or cheque?"
May blinked at him.
"If you said I was a nephew or something like that," said Simon, "I could pay you the cash and then you would not have to pay any taxes."
"That would be criminal!"
Simon grinned. "Yes, wouldn't it just."
"Isn't it, well, a wee bit naughty?"
"Just a bit."
"Oh, all right then," said May. "It's a good thing that John Sunday is dead. He'd soon have found something out."
"I read about that. Perhaps before I meet the vicar I should go back to my place and collect my belongings and get you the money from the bank?"
"Yes, yes, of course," twittered May.
"Am I supposed to be Scottish, like you?"
"I wouldn't bother. My poor sister, now dead, was married to an Englishman. They did not have any children, but nobody in the village knows that."
Simon said goodbye and May sat down and stared out at the rippling waters of the millpond. She gained a little money from selling her toys at various fairs, but her pension did not stretch to much. Her last luxury was smoking and she thought day in and day out about giving it up. What if this odd-looking young man didn't come back?
But two hours later, Simon came back driving his father's old vintage Morris Minor. He felt it was more suitable than a motorbike to his image of a young man interested in the church. He carried in a box of sheets and towels and pillowslips and then gave May an envelope full of money.
Simon went back to bring in a suitcase and while he was hanging his clothes away, he briefly regretting that he would not be seeing Toni for some time. Agatha Raisin appeared to be rather a formidable woman. Still, she was reported to have solved a lot of cases and it took an intelligent woman to do that.
_______
Mircester market happened once a week in the little square in front of the abbey. Agatha loved poking around it, often buying tempting fresh fruit and vegetables which she never got around to eating and ended up giving away.
Then as she looked across the stalls, she saw Tom Courtney's sister, Amy Bairns. Her stomach gave a lurch. She was in no doubt as to what Amy was doing in the area. Hadn't escaped murderers, or in Amy's case, assistant murderers historically come back to wreak vengeance?
She edged her way round the stalls until she was behind the woman and grasped her firmly and began to scream, "Police! Help!"
Two policemen on duty at the market rushed up. "Leave me alone," shouted Amy in an American accent. "This woman's mad."
"And this woman," panted Agatha, "is the sister of that murderer, Tom Courtney."
The policemen took over. They handcuffed her and led her off with Agatha following.
Agatha was told to wait in the reception area of police headquarters. She felt elated with triumph.
After half an hour, a tall man strode up to the desk sergeant and demanded, "What are you doing with my wife?"
"What is the name of your wife?"
"Maisie Berger. We're here on holiday and they tell me at the market that some woman started screaming at poor Maisie and Maisie was taken in here."
The desk sergeant pressed the buzzer. "If you will just come through, sir."
A little lump of ice began to form in Agatha's stomach. She couldn't be wrong. Of course--they must have fake passports.
Another half hour dragged past. The plastic palm which decorated the waiting area was dusty. The cheerful noises from the market filtered in from the street. Several members of the press started to come in, demanding to know who had been arrested. They swung round and saw Agatha and were bearing down on her when Inspector Wilkes called, "Mrs. Raisin, if you will just come this way."
Agatha was buzzed through and led into an interview room. As she sat down opposite Wilkes, she noticed first that he was alone, and second that the tape wasn't running.
"The woman you grabbed is exactly who she says she is," said Wilkes. "What on earth made you think she was Amy Bairns?"
"It was that California face-lift look, you know, they all look as if they came off the same alien planet."
"We have given them full apologies and we are paying their hotel bill, plus a set of golfing clubs for the husband and a week at a health spa for both of them so that they will not press charges. We will send you the bill for all this in return for us not arresting you for wasting police time. You will leave by the back door and you will not, repeat not, speak to the press. Get it?"
"Got it," said Agatha miserably.
W
ilkes's expression softened slightly. He had to admit that he too had received a shock when he had first seen Mrs. Berger. She did look almost identical to the missing Amy Bairns.
"Go back to your usual run-of-the-mill detecting, Mrs. Raisin. That will be all."
He rang a bell and told the policewoman who answered the summons, "Show Mrs. Raisin out by the back way."
When Agatha got back to the office, she said to Mrs. Freedman, "If there are any calls from the press, I'm not available."
"There've been quite a few already," said Mrs. Freedman.
Patrick was helping himself to a cup of coffee. "What's up?" he asked.
Agatha told him. She ending by exclaiming, "How could I have been so stupid?"
Patrick looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, "Did you ever see a photo of Dr. Bairns?"
"No, why? Well, maybe I must have. I think there was a grainy photo in one of the newspapers I saw."
"Let me check my computer," said Patrick. "I made contact with a chap in the Philadelphia police and he sent me some stuff over."
"They must be who they say they are," protested Agatha. "They had passports and everything, I suppose."
"Give me a few minutes. Have a cigarette and relax."
Mrs. Freedman gave a loud sigh as Agatha lit up a cigarette, and pointedly opened the window next to her desk as far as it would go.
"I'll lock the door," said Agatha. "I can hear the clump of press footsteps on the stairs."
Patrick tapped away at the keys while Agatha ignored the ringing of the doorbell and the shouts through the letter box.
"Got it," he said at last. "Come and have a look."
Agatha went over and studied the photograph on his computer. "It's him!" she shouted. "The man who said he was Berger. Which means he's Dr. Bairns and she's Amy! Come on, Patrick. Print that off and we'll take it to Wilkes."
"What is she up to now?" asked Wilkes when the desk sergeant phoned through to say Mrs. Raisin and Patrick Mulligan were back with vital information and if he didn't see them quick, a murderer would get away. He had shut the press outside, but Mrs. Raisin had promised them a statement after she saw Wilkes.
"I'll send someone to fetch her," said Wilkes. "But I think she's finally cracked."
Detective Sergeant Collins appeared, her eyes gleaming with malice and her hair as usual pulled back so tightly into a bun that it made Agatha wonder why she didn't suffer from permanent headaches.
"You've done it this time, you silly old trout," said Collins. "The press will have a field day."
"Oh, they will indeed," said Agatha sweetly.
Wilkes met her in the corridor. "Come in," he snapped. "What mad idea have you had now?"
Patrick and Agatha followed him into the interview room. "Show him that photo, Patrick," said Agatha.
Patrick put the printed-out photo on the desk in front of Wilkes. "That," said Agatha, "is a photo of Dr. Bairns, Amy Bairns's husband. Recognise the face?"
Wilkes shouted, "Wait there!" and rushed from the room. They could hear him frantically shouting instructions. Agatha went to the window. Police were erupting out of the police station and heading off in the direction of The George Hotel. Other police cars were racing off. Patrick joined her.
"Just look at them," he said. "There's a funny quotation I heard once about a knight who jumped on his horse and rode off madly in all directions."
"Why did Amy come here, of all places?" wondered Agatha.
"Probably thought it would be the last place anyone would expect to see her. Maybe she wanted revenge on you. She seems to be very close to her brother. Twins are usually close. They're probably long gone by now."
"Did they never suspect the husband of having been in on it?"
"Not for a moment. Good Republican, contributes annually to the Philadelphia police fund. Model citizen."
"I wonder why Tom Courtney wanted me to find out the murderer. Did he think I was such an amateur I'd never guess it was him?"
"Maybe he had such a high opinion of himself he thought you would fall for him."
"Then he must be mad," said Agatha, feeling a guilty flush rising to her cheeks.
"By God! Look! They've got them," said Patrick. Amy and her husband were being marched across the square by a posse of police officers and detectives.
"It's time the agency got a bit of publicity." Agatha grinned. "Let's go out and meet the press."
Patrick walked to the door and then turned round in surprise. "It's locked!"
"They can't do this!" protested Agatha. "They don't want me out there explaining what a fool the police made of themselves."
She began to hammer on the door. It was finally unlocked and opened by Wilkes.
"I want you to leave again by the back door, Mrs. Raisin," he said. "I will talk to the press."
"If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have got them," howled Agatha.
"Look, unless you leave quietly," said Wilkes, "I will make sure that you do not get any further help from us."
"What! When have you ever helped me?"
"Do as you're told. Just go. Detective Sergeant Wong will escort you out."
At the back exit, Agatha said furiously to Bill, "I'm surprised at you, going along with this."
"What do you expect me to do?" asked Bill. "Disobey orders? Look, as soon as I can get away, I'll come to your home and tell you as much as I can."
"I'm not going to creep away," said Agatha when Bill had left. "It's a free country. Let's go round the front and stand at the back of the crowd. I'd like to hear what Wilkes is going to say."
The press were gathering outside. Wilkes was taking his time. More and more press began to arrive and a television van hurtled into the square and parked.
A crowd of onlookers crowded in along with the press. "We'll just stand at the back," said Agatha.
Agatha's feet were beginning to hurt as an hour passed and then another half hour before Wilkes appeared in front of police headquarters, flanked by Chief Superintendent Jack Petrie on one side, and a beaming Detective Sergeant Collins on the other.
"This is only a brief statement," said Wilkes. "A man and woman have been arrested in connection with the murder of Miriam Courtney. There will be a further statement tomorrow. That is all. Thank you for waiting."
"Just a minute!" cried a loud voice. Agatha stood on tiptoe and recognised local reporter, Jimmy Torrance, pushing his way to the front. "Detective Sergeant Collins told me earlier that private detective Agatha Raisin had made a right fool of herself by getting the wrong woman arrested. Was it the wrong woman or was she right all along?"
"I was right!" shouted Agatha.
The press turned round and began to surround her. Wilkes turned to Collins and said grimly, "Follow me."
Agatha, feeling that she had a legitimate reason to defend herself, gave the assembled press her version, carefully leaving out anything that might be regarded later as sub judice. She simply stated that she had recognised a woman who she believed was a suspect in a murder case and had called on the police for help. She, Agatha, had subsequently been told she had made a terrible mistake. But her detective, Patrick Mulligan, had found a photograph that proved she had been right all along. Agatha ended tactfully by saying they would need to contact the police for further details.
Chapter Eight
It was late that evening before Bill Wong arrived at Agatha's cottage. In her kitchen, he found waiting Toni, Patrick and Phil, all eager to hear his news.
"This is outside the call of duty," said Bill wearily, "but you have done me a great favour, Agatha. Collins has been suspended from duty. I hate that awful woman."
"She'll get away with it," said Agatha. "She won't be the first detective to be caught off guard by a reporter."
"Oh, it gets worse. Let me sit down, get me a coffee and I'll tell you what I can."
Once he was settled at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee, Bill began.
"Amy confessed to everything. She com
pletely broke down. Her husband's alibi was false. Dressed as a man, she flew to the Cayman Islands as her brother while he, in the guise of a woman, and under Mrs. Temple's name, flew to London. He did the murder, flew back, and then flew again under his own name."
"But why so elaborate a plot?" asked Agatha. "I mean, they could have waited patiently until she visited the States and somehow made it look like a mugging."
"Both brother and sister have records of mental breakdowns. Tom Courtney was believed to be a schizophrenic."
"But if Tom Courtney's the murderer, why did he hire me?"
"He called at police headquarters and talked to Collins at one point. She did not report it. He told her he had received a phone call from his mother before her death, saying she had employed a private detective to look into Sunday's murder and who was this private detective? Collins had said that you were some sort of local menace who did more to impede the police in their enquiries than anything else. So he thought it would look good if he hired you as well, and yet not put himself at any risk."
Agatha blushed. She had nearly gone to bed with a madman and murderer who thought she was a failure at her job.
"I know you're furious," said Bill, taking her high colour for anger, "but it was just another nail in Collins's coffin, I think. Still, it does seem certain that the Courtneys had nothing to do with the murder of Sunday, so we're back to square one on that case. Anyway, Amy considered the face change a good investment."
"There are no plastic surgeons in prison," said Toni. "I wonder what she'll look like by the time the case gets to court. Oh, do you want me to start showing Simon the ropes? I haven't seen him today."
"I've decided not to employ him," lied Agatha, and then felt conscience-stricken as Toni gave a sad little "Oh."
"Why?" asked Phil. "He seemed keen."
"I don't feel like going into it at the moment," said Agatha.
"Do you want me to start ferreting around Odley Cruesis?" asked Phil.
"No!" said Agatha, and seeing the looks of surprise said, "Sorry I shouted at you. But we've cases to clear up, and with this latest publicity we'll probably get a lot more. Has Tom Courtney been extradited yet?"
