Agatha Raisin Kissing Christmas Goodbye ar-18

by M C Beaton

  There was a long silence and then Alison said reluctantly, "All right. But it means you can't go near the manor."

  "Then I'll have to rely on you to keep me informed," said Agatha. "Will you do that?"

  "Very well."

  When Alison left, Agatha went to the window and looked down. Bert was waiting on the other side of the road for her. Agatha could see Alison talking rapidly and then Bert smiled, patted her back and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  "I'll find out who murdered that damn woman if it's the last thing I do," muttered Agatha.

  But she was too busy in the following days, filling in for Phil whom she had ordered to take more rest, and for Toni who was not expected back at work until the following week. Charles had disappeared again and so Agatha was glad of Roy Silver's company when that young man arrived for the weekend. She had forgotten what a good listener he was. On Saturday morning at the breakfast table, she told him all about the case from beginning to end and it was over an hour before she had finished.

  He had listened carefully and then brightened when she told him about the visit to the retired psychiatrist. "Ooh! I would like to see him," said Roy. "He might find me a fascinating subject."

  "And he might die of boredom."

  "Claws in, Aggie."

  "Don't call me Aggie!"

  "So are we sleuthing this weekend?"

  "Actually I thought I'd make some plans for my Christmas dinner."

  "Don't talk about Christmas," complained Roy. "I hate the whole business. Crowded shops. Sound of Music and Miracle on 34th Street, all running for the umpteenth time. People get so cross and worried and spend too much money and begin to hate their families. Some relatives always disgrace themselves by getting drunk."

  "Roy, my Christmas is going to be one you'll never forget."

  "I haven't quite forgotten the last one. Do you remember when you incinerated the Christmas pudding and lost your eyebrows?"

  "I have learned from my mistakes. Alison has begged me to drop the case. I can't go near the manor."

  "That Toni's an awfully pretty girl," said Roy. "She looked lovely on television. Wouldn't surprise me if some television people didn't snatch her up."

  "Over my dead body," said Agatha.

  "You've got all these suspects," said Roy. "In fact, it's beginning to look like the local phone directory. You've told me all about them and which one could have maybe murdered Phyllis, but you've left one out."

  "Who's that?"

  "George Pyson."

  "He's only the factor," said Agatha. "He had only been working for her for four years. Why should he, of all people, want to kill her?"

  "He runs the estate. He does the books. He could have been creaming off money and Phyllis could have found out and threatened to go to the police."

  "So why was the gardener poisoned?"

  "To cover up his first crime."

  "No. The gardener was killed after he put his head round the drawing-room door and told them he knew which one of them had done it. Not one of them had time to doctor that bottle of wine. Now I come to think of it, it may point to someone outside the family who didn't know that none of them liked the wine. Mind you, I don't really want to think of that because it would mean that all of them are at risk. It could have been one of those awful villagers. They're in a time warp. They believe in witchcraft and probably know an awful lot about poisonous plants. I'd like to go back to that village, but I doubt if any one of them would speak to us.

  "Then there are those two sisters from the village who helped at lunch. Maybe they did it. But why should they? With Phyllis gone and the family planning to sell, they'd risk losing their cheap rent. I wish I could take another look round Phyllis's bedroom."

  "I'm sure the police turned it over thoroughly."

  "Maybe not. I'll phone Alison and ask if there's any hope that the lot of them could all be out of the place sometime."

  Agatha came back from phoning. "What luck! I phoned Alison on her mobile and she said they were all at Sir Henry's to get away from the press. She says Jill, the groom, will let us in. This letter's just arrived. The address on the back says it's from that psychiatrist."

  "Do open it," begged Roy. "Maybe he'll have solved the murder for us."

  Agatha opened the envelope and began to read. Roy waited impatiently. At last he said, "Well, come on. What does he say?"

  "Load of bollocks."

  "Tell me!"

  "The sum total is that he believes Phyllis was a megalomaniac and poisoned herself in order to get revenge on the children she never really wanted to have."

  "Isn't that possible?"

  "When the poison began to take effect she looked startled and worried."

  "But she was found clutching that hemlock root, wasn't she?"

  "She was wearing a dress with pockets. She might have popped the root in one of the pockets after making up the salads. She might have taken the root out of her pocket before she became totally paralysed to give us a clue. And why did she think she was going to be murdered, and by one of her family?"

  "Aggie, the man's an expert. Why don't you just take his word for it?"

  "I'm going to investigate further. Wait! I've got to phone Alison again."

  Alison answered, saying in an urgent whisper, "You've got to stop phoning me. Wait. I'll go into the other room. Now, what is it?"

  "The will divided everything equally amongst the four of you?"

  "Yes."

  "No mention of the technical college getting all the money?"

  "No, but the lawyer said she had told him that she meant to visit him a week after her death to change her will. We all knew that."

  "Talk to you later," said Agatha and rang off.

  She turned to Roy, her eyes gleaming. "There you are. I'm slipping. I'd forgotten the one most important fact. Phyllis was going to change her will and if she hadn't been murdered, there's a good chance her family might have ended up with very little. Let's get going and hope there are no police up there."

  After opening a few wrong doors, Agatha found Phyllis's room. The mattress and box spring had been removed, no doubt for forensic examination.

  "Where do we start?" asked Roy.

  "You poke around under the carpet and see if she could have hidden anything under the floorboards. I'll look through the bookshelves. Weird that she liked nothing but children's books."

  Agatha began to take the books out of the shelves, shaking each one. "Why are you shaking the books?" asked Roy.

  "Because there might be a draft of a will or a letter."

  "You've been reading too many detective stories," said Roy. "I can't do anything with this carpet. It's nasty fitted haircord and nailed down."

  "Well, just sit there."

  Agatha at last straightened up. She gave a yelp of pain and clutched her hip.

  "You should do something about that," said Roy.

  "Shut up and let me think. I've been muddled up with all these suspects. I've a feeling the obvious is staring me in the face. Let me go back to that final, dreadful high tea. Fran made a scene and threw her salad into the fireplace. Wait a minute! Before Charles and I went off to the pub, Charles wanted to look in on Phyllis, but Fran stopped him! Said she was just sleeping."

  "It might have looked like that."

  "The salads would be laid out in the kitchen before tea. Fran could have nipped in and grated hemlock into Phyllis's salad."

  "How would she know which salad Phyllis would take?"

  "Got to phone Alison."

  "Oh," wailed Alison, "they're already getting suspicious. You're lucky I'm in my room. What is it now?"

  "Did Phyllis have a favourite bowl for salad?"

  "Yes, it was the blue one. Blue with yellow flowers."

  "But I remember the others were blue with yellow flowers."

  "The bowl Phyllis had was a deep blue. She got the set cheap because they were supposed to be matching in colour but one of the bowls had come out a darker blue
than the others. So she knocked the price down. What's this about?"

  "Talk to you later."

  Agatha said to Roy, "She did have a favourite bowl."

  "Yes, but Fran didn't have time to get back into the kitchen and look for a hemlock root," said Roy.

  "She might have been in the habit of carrying bits of vegetables round in her pocket with her. Don't spoil my theory," snapped Agatha.

  "But how on earth are you going to prove it?"

  "I'll confront her. Help me to put these books back."

  "Aggie, tell the police."

  "Won't do. Fran knows there's no proof but she might drop her guard to me. I'll wait until they get back here and phone. I mean, I didn't see any press around."

  "So if you can't get her now," pleaded Roy, "why don't we just spend the rest of the time having a lazy weekend?"

  "After I see how Toni is getting on. I don't even know when the funeral is or was. I shouldn't have left everything to George Pyson. He's got designs on that young girl and he's too old."

  "How old?"

  "Early thirties."

  "That's not old. Why interfere?"

  The answer to that was, "Because I don't want to lose a very good detective," but Agatha said instead, "Hurry up with these books."

  Toni was sitting in her flat with her friend Maggie when Agatha and Roy arrived. She thanked them for coming, struggling with her accent, which had reverted to the local speech, so that when speaking to Agatha it was her new 'posh' one and to Maggie, the sing-song voice of Mircester.

  "The funeral is tomorrow," said Toni. "George has been a saint. The house is all scrubbed and cleaned and my mother is putting it up for sale."

  "And he's ever so handsome," breathed Maggie.

  She was a plump friendly girl with her black hair gelled into spikes, large chocolate-brown eyes, and a snub nose.

  "You must regard him as a sort of father figure by now," Agatha said hopefully to Toni.

  "No, just as a good friend."

  "How are you coping?"

  "Now I've got over the shock, all I feel is a sort of guilty relief. Is that terrible?"

  "No, just human," said Agatha. "Where is your mother?"

  "Showing people the house. Her friend is with her. I'll be back at the office on Tuesday afternoon. I want to start working again. Oh, Charles was very kind. He sent the most beautiful wreath."

  "I forgot about flowers. I am so sorry," said Agatha, narrowing her small eyes and wondering whether it was Toni's looks which had prompted the normally mean Charles to open his wallet.

  She felt old as she left with Roy, after promising to attend the funeral.

  Agatha tried to phone Charles but got the usual rebuff from his butler, who seemed to delight in telling her that Charles was 'not at home'.

  She did not want to subject Phil to any more danger, and Patrick, good and solid though he was, could be intimidating, as he looked like the policeman he used to be before he retired.

  Agatha also felt she could no longer enlist Alison's help. After the funeral of Toni's brother, Agatha wrote to Fran saying that she was sure she had discovered the identity of the murderer and would Fran please get in touch to make an appointment. Agatha suggested that Fran should not communicate this news to any of the others as it might unnecessarily upset them.

  Feeling lonely and depressed by the funeral, which had taken place in a cold driving rain, Agatha decided that evening to call in on Mrs Bloxby. She felt she should really break the habit of calling at the vicarage any time she felt like it, just as if the vicar's wife did not have a life of her own. But if she phoned and the vicar answered, he would put her off because he did not like her.

  Hoping the vicar would not answer the door, she made her way to the vicarage, comforting herself with the thought of the glorious Christmas dinner she meant to arrange, for the days were dark and dreary and the trouble with living in the countryside, thought Agatha, was that one was terribly aware of everything dying or settling down for a winter hibernation. In the city, with its lights and bustle, it was hard to notice the changing of the seasons.

  To her relief, Mrs Bloxby answered the door. "Am I interrupting anything?" asked Agatha.

  "No, come in, Mrs Raisin, and take off your wet coat. Alf has gone to a meeting over in Evesham. Would you like coffee or a sherry?"

  "A sherry would be nice," said Agatha. Sherry was the only alcoholic drink served in the vicarage.

  When they were settled, Mrs Bloxby said, "You look worried."

  "I've just thought of something," said Agatha. "I thought I had found out who murdered Phyllis Tamworthy and it seemed as clear as day. Now, I have doubts."

  "Tell me about it."

  So Agatha outlined all the facts that made her suspicious of Fran.

  "I really don't like the idea of you asking her to call on you," said Mrs Bloxby. "Wouldn't it be a good idea to tell the police?"

  "Do you think they'd listen to my suppositions?"

  "Maybe not. But I am sure Bill Wong would."

  "He'd feel duty-bound to pass it on. Oh, well, it'll work or it won't."

  "Don't drink anything when she's around!"

  "No, I won't. I wish this case was all solved and I could get back to the more pedestrian work of the agency. Still, I've got Christmas to look forward to."

  Mrs Bloxby sighed. "It should be a happy festival, but no one these days looks forward to Christmas. So many people going bankrupt with those wretched shop credit cards. They hand them out to people who can't possibly afford the sums they run up." She clasped her hands nervously. "Mrs Raisin, please do not build up too many expectations of Christmas."

  "It'll be fun," said Agatha. "Just you wait and see."

  Agatha returned to her cottage, deciding to go through her notes on the case. She always wrote up each of her cases and put them on disk in the fond hope that after she was dead, someone would write a book from them.

  She found a missing capital A in the middle of a sentence and decided to add it. But instead of pressing the cap key, by mistake she pressed the control button, capital A, and, for some mad reason, delete. She watched in horror as all her notes disappeared, leaving her with a blank page. In the panic induced in someone who suffered from techno fear, she scrolled through the computer in a desperate bid to find the missing file. The phone rang. Agatha switched off her computer and went to answer it. There was nothing but silence at the other end and then the sound of a receiver being replaced. I hope that wasn't mad Jimmy, thought Agatha uneasily. She phoned Roy and asked for help with her computer.

  "It's all right," he said. "Just press the undo button at the top of the page. You didn't switch off the computer, did you?"

  "Yes. Does that make a difference?"

  "I don't think you're going to find that file. Sorry."

  Agatha felt dismally it was a bad omen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Agatha checked the post in increasing frustration over the following days and had almost given up on Fran, when she received a phone call at the office.

  It was Fran. She said, "I will see you privately to protect the family from your imaginings. I do not want to see you at the office. Where do you live? I will call on you this evening."

  Agatha gave her the address and directions. They settled on the time of eight o'clock.

  Plunging herself into the detective agency's cases, glad to see that Toni was once more on top form and Phil was looking his usual healthy self, Agatha tried to put the evening's appointment out of her head.

  As eight o'clock approached, Agatha began to feel nervous. The phone rang, but it was Mrs Bloxby. "I can't talk long," said Agatha. "I'm expecting Fran."

  "Oh, Mrs Raisin, do be careful."

  "Don't tell anyone, mind. I have a feeling I am about to make a fool of myself."

  "Do one thing for me. When you let her in, do not shut the front door entirely."

  "Why?"

  "You might want to escape quickly."

  "I'll
be all right."

  "Please! Do it for me!"

  "All right. I promise. Now, I'd better hang up. She'll be here any minute."

  Mrs Bloxby replaced the receiver and sat looking at it. Mrs Raisin may never speak to me again, she thought. But this is something I feel I must do.

  She picked up the receiver again, dialled Mircester police headquarters and asked to speak to Bill Wong.

  By ten past eight, Agatha was beginning to wonder whether Fran had changed her mind. By half past eight, she was sure of it. At twenty to nine the doorbell rang. Fran stood on the step, unfurling a large golf umbrella.

  "Come in," said Agatha. "Let me take your coat."

  Agatha left her front door very slightly ajar. "I have only come to stop you from troubling the family further," said Fran.

  Agatha took her coat and umbrella for her. "Sit down for a moment and I'll tell you what is troubling me," said Agatha. In Agatha's cosy sitting room with a log fire blazing on the hearth, Fran sat on the edge of an armchair.

  Looking at her, Agatha felt sure that such a weak-looking woman with her tightly curled hair and indeterminate features could not be capable of murder. But she surreptitiously switched on a tiny powerful tape recorder in her open handbag under the pretext of finding her cigarettes and decided to plunge in anyway. "I've been thinking a lot about the murder of your mother," said Agatha.

  "Did you bring me down here to tell me that?" asked Fran. "We all think about nothing else. I could do with a drink."

  "What'll you have?"

  "Gin and tonic."

  Agatha, who longed for a drink herself, decided it would be safer not to have anything that Fran might be able to poison. She sliced lemon, dropped ice in a glass, put in a strong measure of gin and added tonic.

  "There you are," said Agatha. "Now, where was I?"

  Fran stared at her coldly over her glass. "You were about to explain the reason for my visit. You don't seem to have told the others about asking me to come here."

  "I didn't tell anyone...yet," lied Agatha. "So what's the reason?"

  "Well," said Agatha, "it's just that I think you murdered your mother."