by M C Beaton
"Still waiting, but now we've got Amy, I suppose it won't be long."
Bill's phone rang. He walked out of the room, shouting over his shoulder, "Keep quiet, all of you. If Wilkes knew I was here, he would have a fit."
He came back after only a few moments, saying, "I've got to go. Full enquiry. They're dead."
"Who?" asked a chorus of voices.
"Both of them, Amy and her husband. Took poison."
"How did they get poison?" asked Agatha.
"They had cyanide in a button on each of their jackets. I'm off."
"Snakes and bastards," said Agatha. "That wipes me out of the headlines."
"Cheer up," said Patrick. "It's too late for the morning editions."
"So it is! Champagne anyone?"
On the following Sunday, Toni decided to go to church in Odley Cruesis. She could not understand why Agatha appeared to have lost interest in the case. She thought that a visit to the church when everyone thought things had all settled down might give her a feel of the place. But remembering the attack on Roy Silver, she decided to go in disguise.
Agatha had a box of various disguises in the office. Toni let herself into the office with her key, found the box and selected a black wig and fitted it over her short blond hair. The black wig transformed her appearance. She was wearing a conservative blue linen suit and flat heels. Toni surveyed herself in the mirror above the filing cabinets and thought she looked the very picture of a churchgoer.
It was a perfect day with the beauty of the rural Cotswolds stretched out under a large sky. Because of all the recent rain and the humid heat, the vegetation around was thicker than ever, turning the country lanes into green tunnels.
She was initially surprised to find the church was full but recognised what she considered to be a lot of visitors. No doubt the renewed publicity about Miriam's murder had bought out what Toni privately damned as "the rubberneckers," people who always flocked to the scene of a murder or car crash out of ghoulish interest.
She sat in a pew at the very back of the church, and as the sermon went on, said a silent prayer for the soul of Sharon. Toni was not sure that she really believed in anything, but there was something tranquil about the old church, despite the influx of visitors, as if the very stones held memories of the peace they had brought to the worried and suffering over the centuries.
She stood up when the service ended and went out into the churchyard. Toni watched people leaving. She recognised Mrs. Carrie Brother as she stopped to talk to the vicar. Then out came the two elderly couples, the Summers and the Beagles, followed after a short while by Tilly Glossop. Now hadn't Tilly Glossop been the one who had been photographed having sex with the mayor? She could do with some more investigating. And then came May Dinwoody, leaning on the arm of . . . Simon Black!
Then Penelope Timson appeared and spoke to Simon and May and led them off towards the vicarage. Simon said something and turned and ran back into the church. He came out a few moments later, passed close to Toni and dropped a piece of paper and then ran towards the vicarage.
Toni picked up the paper. "Meet me on Dover's Hill at three this afternoon."
Toni had visited Dover's Hill before to watch the annual Cotswold Olimpicks. The hill is a natural amphitheatre about one mile away from Chipping Campden. She remembered being particularly amused by the ancient sport of shin kicking, practised in Britain since the early seventeenth century. It was considered too painful a sport and was banished early in the twentieth century but brought back in 1951. Unlike the older games, where competitors used to harden their shins with hammers and wear iron-capped boots, the modern contestants wear long trousers with straw padding underneath. The trick is to wrestle your opponent to the ground while kicking him in the shins. Other sports include an obstacle race, falconry and morris dancing before the final torchlight procession to the square in Chipping Campden where everyone dances the night away.
That year's games had already been held in May. There were only a few tourists in the parking area at the top of Dover's Hill when Toni drove up, the world recession and a combination of the swine flu outbreak and the strong pound keeping most of them away.
She walked to the top of the amphitheatre and admired the view. Some people were having picnics on the grass. A very English smell of hot tea wafted up the hill.
She walked back to the car park and saw Simon driving up in an old Morris Minor. He signalled to her and she went to join him, climbing into the passenger seat.
"What are you doing in Odley?" asked Toni.
"I'm working undercover," said Simon.
"With Agatha's permission?"
"Yes. She doesn't want anyone to know. I'm staying with May Dinwoody as a lodger. Don't tell Agatha you've seen me or I'll get my first black mark."
"I won't, but what's your cover?"
"I'm taking time off after my parents' deaths and I am interested in early English church architecture. I told the vicar I couldn't stay for lunch as I had an urgent appointment and got out of there before he could ask what the appointment was."
"How are you getting on?"
"Fine. Fortunately, Giles, the vicar, likes to hear the sound of his own voice. He preaches on and on so all I have to do is listen. Then May Dinwoody makes toys to sell at the markets so I'm helping her. We'll be at Morton market on Tuesday."
"Does anyone in the office know what you are doing?"
"No."
"Then you'd better be careful. Sometimes, if it's quiet at the office, Phil Marshall goes shopping at the market. If I were you, I'd wear a hat and sunglasses, just in case. And talking of disguises, how one earth did you recognise me under this wig?"
Simon laughed. "Once seen, never forgotten. Any hope of seeing you again?"
"I wouldn't like to at the moment. I just hope I haven't risked anything by meeting up with you."
Simon glanced around. "Nothing but tourists. Don't worry. I know--I might take next Sunday off, say I'm visiting relatives and meet you in Mircester."
"I'll give you my phone number," said Toni.
"I've already got it. I took it off the files in the office along with your mobile number."
"So why didn't you just ring my mobile when you saw me in the graveyard?"
"Think about it, Toni. Everyone would have turned and had a look at you when your sacrilegious phone started ringing amongst the gravestones."
"See you." Toni got out of Simon's elderly car and got into her own car. It was hot from the sun beating down on it. She opened the windows, took off the black wig and put it on the seat beside her. As she started up the engine and twisted her neck to reverse out, she had a funny feeling of being watched. She got out of the car again and looked around. Nothing but the usual tourists and a busload of pensioners on a day out from Wales. Evans Luxury Tours, Cardiff was emblazoned on the side of a bus that looked as decrepit as the passengers stiffly climbing back on board.
Toni was just about to drive off again when her mobile phone rang. It was Simon. "In all the excitement of meeting you," he said, "I forgot to tell you about an awful article in the Sunday Cable about Agatha."
Stopping at a newsagent's in Chipping Campden, Toni bought a copy of the Sunday Cable.
She skimmed through it until she came to a large head-and-shoulders photo of Agatha. The headline read: ENGLAND'S ANSWER TO INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU.
It was a cruelly funny article that started with Agatha's first attempt to marry James Lacey, which was aborted when her husband, whom she had presumed dead, turned up to stop the ceremony. Then followed details about how many times the police had had to rescue Agatha at great cost to the taxpayer. She was damned as an amateur who bumbled about from case to case, smoking, drinking and bullying until she frightened someone into attacking her. The author was a reporter called Dan Palmer.
Toni decided to go and see how Agatha was coping with this thunderbolt.
She met Charles on the doorstep. "I am here to do a bit of hand-holding," he said. "Seen the
article?"
Toni nodded. Charles rang the bell. There was no reply. Charles opened the letter box and shouted through it, "It's me, Charles, with Toni."
They waited and then the door opened. "Come in," said Agatha abruptly. "I suppose you've both seen the Cable. Come through to the garden."
Charles and Toni sat down in garden chairs. Agatha was wearing an old housedress and her face was not made-up.
"Are you going to sue?" asked Charles.
"I can't. Every occasion when the police came to my rescue is correct, including that last one which involved Scotland Yard and the River Thames Police and the Coast Guard."
"But the names he called you!" exclaimed Toni.
"You will note, he says, 'In my opinion. . . .' Can't sue someone over an opinion."
"What did you ever do to him?" asked Charles. "No. Don't turn your head away. Out with it!"
"Okay. It's like this. When I was doing PR for a swimwear company, I invited the press to the launch of the new line. For swimwear you get male reporters as well as female for obvious reasons. He was one of them. I caught him hiding behind a screen in the dressing rooms, holding a camera over the top and taking pictures of the models undressing. I knocked back the screen and got one of my own photographers to snap him. I sent the photo with a complaint to his editor. He was on the Express at the time and lost his job."
"Was he supposed to take pictures like that?" asked Toni.
"No, it was for his own salacious amusement. He had a good photographer in the audience whose job was to get some pretty pictures for the paper's colour supplement. This could ruin me."
"He seems like a perv," said Toni. "I know. Let's get something on him."
"How?"
"We're detectives, aren't we?" said Toni eagerly. "Give me a few days in London, Agatha."
"He'd recognise you," said Agatha.
"I could go in disguise."
"I'll go," said Charles.
"But you're not a detective!" exclaimed Toni.
"I'm hurt. His photo's on the article. I'll recognise him. Anyway, I know more about the underside of London than can be dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio."
"Why are you calling her Horatio?" asked Agatha.
_______
Charles went up to London on the following day, left his bag at his club and went to a less salubrious club in Beecham Place. The club for gentlemen was actually a cross between a hard-drinking club and a brothel.
He asked the barman if his friend, Tuppy, had been in. "He usually calls in around now," said the barman. Charles ordered a drink and waited. After ten minutes, Lord Patrick Dinovan, who was known to his friends as Tuppy, came in. He was a small grey man with a crumpled face. Charles always thought that Tuppy had the most forgettable appearance of anyone he knew.
He hailed Charles with delight. "Take a pew, Tuppy," said Charles. "I want you to do something criminal for me."
"Why not do it yourself?"
"I might be recognised."
"What's in it for me?"
"Free shooting. The pheasant season will be here before you know it."
Dan Palmer was drinking alone in the Horse Tavern, a riverside pub frequented by the staff of the Cable. He had a bad reputation of turning nasty after a few drinks and so his colleagues were giving him a wide berth. At last the fact that no one wanted to speak to him seeped into his drunken brain and with a snarl he tossed off his drink and walked outside. He had only lurched a few steps when he bumped into a small man.
"I say, I am sorry," said the man. "Let me make it up to you. Drink?"
"Not in there," said Dan, jerking a thumb back at the pub.
"I've a room in a hotel near here and a good bottle of malt if you care to join me," said Tuppy.
Dan's little eyes narrowed into slits. "Not gay, are you?"
"Bite your tongue. Oh, forget it."
But Dan thought of a free drink. He longed for more. "Okay," he said. "What's your name?"
"John Danver."
"Lead on."
The hotel was small but expensive looking. Dan sank down in an armchair in Tuppy's suite and gratefully accepted a large glass of malt.
"You're that famous reporter Dan Palmer, aren't you?" asked Tuppy.
"That's me."
"Tell me some of your best stories. I'm fascinated."
Dan almost forgot to drink in his eagerness to brag. When he had finished, Tuppy said, "Is that detective female, Raisin, really that stupid?"
Dan made to tap the side of his nose but drunkenly stuck his finger in his eye by mistake. "Ouch!" he yelped. "Oh, her, Aggie Raisin. No, that one's as cunning as a fox."
"So why wreck her reputation?"
"I had an old score to pay back. Did that hatchet job pretty nicely, hey? There's nothing in there she can sue me about."
"So she really is good?"
"Sure she is. That's what makes it funnier."
"I don't understand . . . Your glass is empty, let me top it up. Do you mean if one of you reporters on the Cable wants revenge, they can write a piece to get it?"
"Only if they're as clever as me."
"So your editor never guessed you were paying off an old score?"
"Him? He wouldn't know his arse from a hole in the ground."
"He must be pretty good at his job to become editor, don't you think?"
"Hopeless. I could do the job better with both hands tied behind my back. He married the proprietor's niece. Shee! Thash how he got the post. You have to be as shmart as me to keep on top. Ish a jungle out there. Jungle."
Dan rambled on and then suddenly fell asleep.
Tuppy removed the whisky glass from his hand. He switched off the powerful little tape recorder he had hidden behind a bowl of flowers on the table between them.
He made his way downstairs, pulling a baseball cap with a long peak out of his pocket and jamming it down on his head so that the peak shielded his face. He had sent a messenger to book the room under the name of Dan Palmer and pay cash in advance, plus a deposit. The foyer was still busy with a party of guests who had just entered. When he had arrived with Dan, the desk clerk had been on the phone and had not taken any particular notice of either Tuppy or Dan, and Tuppy had taken the precaution of keeping his room key with him.
Dan awoke at six in the morning with a blinding hangover. He struggled to his feet and made his way downstairs and out into the street and hailed a taxi to take him to his digs, thanking his stars it was his day off.
He set out for the office on the following day, stopping at the local newsagent's to buy a copy of the Cable. A square box outlined in black and with the headline APOLOGY caught his eye.
He read, "The Cable offers a full and complete apology to private detective Miss Agatha Raisin of the Raisin Detective Agency in Mircester over a recently published and misleading article, and wishes to assure readers that Miss Raisin is one of the country's foremost private detectives."
What on earth . . . ? He hailed a cab, got to the office and rushed up to the editorial floor, to be met by the editor's secretary. "Mr. Dixon would like a word with you."
He trailed after her to the editor's office. Dixon was a thickset man with thinning hair and a pugnacious face. His office was flooded with the sunlight that was sparkling on the waters of the Thames outside the window.
"Listen to this," said Dixon, and switched on a tape recorder on his desk.
Dan listened in horror to that conversation he had with that man who had called himself John Danver.
"I was set up!" He gasped.
"We were lucky to get away with only an apology. That Raisin woman could have sued our socks off. Now, in the past we've allowed you to write the occasional feature, but I've checked back on your work. Your few features always seem to skim this side of libellous. You can go and clear your desk. You're finished."
"But . . ."
"Do you want me to call security?"
Dan went back to the hotel, only to be told that he had booked the ro
om himself. He had stopped off on the way to have several drinks. He was told firmly that the room had been booked under his name and they could not tell him anything further. They would pay his deposit back.
Dan hated Agatha Raisin as he had never hated anyone before.
_______
Charles regretted having offered Tuppy free shooting. After all, he depended on the pheasant season to raise money for his estate. Also, he had paid Tuppy for the hotel room and the malt whisky.
He interrupted Agatha's thanks by saying, "I'm afraid it cost a lot of money--bribes and things."
"How much?"
"Five thousand pounds."
"Good heavens! Oh, well." Agatha fished out her cheque-book, wrote him out a cheque for the amount and handed it over. "Are you staying at my place?"
"No, got things to do, people to see." Charles felt a bit grubby, but money was money and estates like his just seemed to drink it up. "Tell you what, I'll take you to lunch to celebrate."
"Can't," said Agatha. "Got an important date."
"You look shifty. Who with?"
"Mind your own business."
Agatha's lunch date was in Evesham with Simon Black. Because of the recession, Evesham looked more depressed than ever. They met in a Thai restaurant in the High Street.
When they had ordered, Agatha asked, "How are you getting on?"
"Slowly. You see," said Simon, "in a village like Odley Cruesis, unless you were born there, you'll always be an outsider. They're a secretive lot. The vicar loves his church more than God or his wife. I admire the perpendicular north doorway for the umpteenth time, not to mention the Norman pulpit."
"How are you getting on with May Dinwoody?"
"Pretty well. But she won't talk about John Sunday and neither will any of the other villagers. They're nice to me because I'm the vicar's pet. They talk about the weather and the crops mostly. I was in the store and I raised the subject of Sunday's murder. There was a little silence and then they began to talk about something else. Sometimes I think they could all have been in on it.
"I've been encouraging May to have some wine with her supper to see if that loosens her tongue."
