by M C Beaton
For the first time, Agatha really warmed to him as she slipped off her high heels and put on her comfortable shoes. They left the car and slid down the bank and began searching among the bushes at the bottom. They’d gone at least a mile away from the car when Agatha panted, “It’s no good. This is mad.”
“Let’s sit down. I’ve got the coffee.”
Restored by two cups of black coffee, a chicken sandwich and a cigarette, Agatha looked around. Behind her, up on the dual carriageway, the traffic whizzed past. Round about them, the ground was dotted with litter thrown from cars. She looked idly to left and right and then exclaimed, “Knickers!”
“Yes, it is very hot,” said Phil amiably.
“No, I mean I think that’s a pair of knickers over there.”
She got to her feet and went a little way to her left and stooped down. A brief torn pair of lace knickers was hanging on the twig of a stunted bush. “Could be anyone’s,” she muttered. “Let’s look around here.”
“Here’s a shoe!” said Phil. “What was she wearing when she disappeared?”
“Let me think. A pink cropped top with sequins, jeans and highheeled black sandals. No coat because the night was warm, and one of those things called bumbags although women usually wear them round the front.”
“This is a black sandal. Should we call the police?”
“No, let’s look further. If she had her knickers torn off and if it’s Jessica, the jeans must be here somewhere.”
Phil nipped back up the grass bank.
“Where are you going?” shouted Agatha.
“Get a better look from the top.”
Agatha continued to move slowly along the ditch, parting the bushes, impervious to thorns catching at her tights.
“Someone’s dumped an old fridge there,” called Phil.
Agatha moved forward. The fridge, a large one, was lying on its side. Taking out a handkerchief, she opened the door. “Nothing!” she called.
“Let’s keep trying.”
“Maybe the police have been all over here.”
“They missed the shoe and the knickers.”
Agatha suppressed a groan. Then she decided instead of searching away from where the shoe had been found and keeping to the ditch, she should go back to the shoe and move forwards, away from the dual carriageway where the ground rose up again towards a wooded area.
She entered the trees, glad to get out of the sun. She was suddenly tired. The whole thing was useless. What could she find that teams of searchers could not? She turned to go back and the sun shone into her eyes, momentarily blinding her. She tripped over something and fell headlong.
“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha, heaving herself up on one elbow and twisting round to see what had tripped her. She found herself looking into a pair of staring dead eyes and flung herself backwards.
Jessica Bradley, naked from the waist down, and half covered with branches which had been torn out of the ground and put over the body to conceal it, lay sprawled like a broken doll. Agatha knew it was Jessica from the pink sequinned crop top, which had a huge bloodstain over most of the front. The body had probably been completely concealed, but predators had been at work and most of a leg had been chewed off.
“Phil!” screamed Agatha. She tottered right out of the woods and then sat down and put her head between her knees.
Phil came running to join her. “She’s in there. It’s horrible, horrible,” babbled Agatha.
“I’ll phone the police,” he said. “I’ll photograph everything while we wait. Where is she?”
“In there,” said Agatha, pointing.
Phil went into the woods and then, to her amazement, she could hear the busy click-click of his camera.
He came out and said, “I’ll phone the police now.”
Agatha felt some courage seeping back. “I’ll phone the press. Don’t want the police taking credit for this.”
Soon they heard the wail of sirens in the distance. Police arrived first, then detectives, Agatha’s friend Bill Wong amongst them, and then a forensic team.
Agatha and Phil told their stories over and over again and then were told to follow a police car to Mircester Police Headquarters to make their statements.
Agatha was interviewed by Detective Inspector Wilkes and Bill Wong. “Now, let’s go over it again,” said Wilkes.
And Agatha did, over and over.
When she was finished, she said, “Now I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Haven’t got the time,” said Wilkes. “Wong, see her out.”
“I’ll nip over to your place sometime when I can get away,” whispered Bill as he led her out.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin!” Wilkes’s voice sounded behind them in the corridor.
“Yes?”
“No talking to the press.”
“If they ask me questions, then I will answer them,” said Agatha.
“Bet you’ve phoned them already,” murmured Bill.
Agatha found Phil waiting for her in reception and they left the police station together and straight into a crowd of reporters and photographers and television crews.
“I promised we wouldn’t say anything to the press,” whispered Phil urgently.
“Bollocks to that,” said Agatha. “I have a business to run.”
She faced up to the press. “I’ll make one statement and then I’m off. It was a shocking discovery.”
She was just about to brag that the discovery had been because of her brilliant intuition when she became sharply aware of Phil standing beside her. Mrs. Bloxby’s mild face rose before her eyes.
“It was the idea of my new photographer and, er, detective,” said Agatha. She told them about Phil’s idea but then bragged about how it was her idea to search in the woods.
She finished by saying, “That’s all, folks.”
As they were pushing their way through the press to get to Phil’s car, one reporter shouted, “How old are you, Mr. Witherspoon?”
“Seventy-six,” said Phil cheerfully.
“Oh, get in the car and drive off,” snarled Agatha.
She had dealt with the press for a long time and knew that the innocent Phil had just stolen her moment of glory. There would be headlines in the tabloids about Grandpa Sleuth. Geriatric Sherlock. Pah.
Sir Charles Fraith had gone back to his own home to collect a few more things. He let himself in with a set of keys Agatha had given him a few years ago. He shooed her cats out into the garden after dumping his bag in the hall. Then he went into the sitting room, fixed himself a drink and turned on the television news.
He raised his glass to take a first sip and then froze as the announcer said, “A seventy-six-year-old grandfather, Phil Witherspoon, has discovered the body of the missing teenager, Jessica Bradley.” There was a shot of Agatha and Phil leaving police headquarters and then the scene moved to outside Phil’s cottage in Carsely. He looked flustered. “Really, it was all Mrs. Raisin’s doing. I just made a few suggestions.”
“How long have you been employed by the detective agency?”
“Today was my first day. I did suggest we go back and follow her route home and when we got to the dual carriageway, I did suggest she might have got into a car instead of crossing the road. It was then Mrs. Raisin took over and with a marvellous piece of detective work guessed where the body might be.”
Like Agatha, Charles knew that Phil would turn out to be the hero of the day in the morning papers. He was seventy-six and at his first day of work. Poor Agatha.
Charles heard the front door crash open and hurriedly switched off the television set.
Agatha came in and stood glowering at him. “Bad day at the office, dear?” asked Charles.
She marched over to the drinks trolley and helped herself to a large gin and tonic, lit a cigarette and then slumped down on the sofa next to him.
“I employ some geriatric out of the kindness of my heart,” she raged. “I find a body that the police couldn’
t find and he gets all the credit. I met Miss Simms on the road and she stopped my car and told me she had seen all the television cameras up at Phil’s cottage. Have any of them been here?”
“Don’t know. I’ve just arrived. But I hear the rumble of approaching vehicles. Probably them.”
Agatha darted to the mirror and, opening her handbag, took out a lipstick and compact and began to make quick repairs to her make-up.
The doorbell rang. “I’ll put them straight,” she muttered.
“Aggie, if you do Phil down and contradict his story, you’ll look ungracious and mean.”
“Mind your own business.”
The doorbell rang.
But Agatha was a shrewd operator. Charles heard her praising Phil and saying how lucky she was to have him. “I am tired of ageism,” he heard Agatha say. “People should be employed because of their brains and talents irrespective of age.” She then went on to credit Phil with the idea of retracing Jessica’s journey home and then carefully went on to explain how her own brilliance and intuition had been instrumental in finding the body.
When she had finished, she came back in and sat down again on the sofa beside Charles. “Look at it this way,” said Charles, “and be fair. If it hadn’t been for Phil’s idea you wouldn’t have found the body.”
“Oh, I suppose so. I suppose that case is over. I was charging the parents a modest fee. They don’t have much, so I’d better leave the rest to the police.”
“What’s happened to your wits? You volunteer to find out who killed their daughter for nothing. Good publicity. And down under that hard shell of yours, there must be a decent human being who wants to find out who murdered a young girl.”
A picture of Jessica’s dead body rose up in Agatha’s mind. “Excuse me,” she gasped. She darted up to the bathroom and was violently sick.
After she had bathed her face and reapplied her make-up, she went shakily back downstairs.
“You’re right,” she said. “Publicity or not, I’ll do it.”
“Good. Let’s walk up to Phil’s cottage. The fresh air will do you good.”
On the road there, they met Patrick Mulligan, a retired detective who had left Agatha’s employ to live with Miss Simms. Miss Simms had been the unmarried mother of Carsely, her scandalous affairs with various married men delighting and shocking the village. People were almost disappointed that she had settled down.
“Saw that business on the news,” said Patrick. “Funny, I’ve been getting bored and I was going to ask you for my old job back.”
“Well, you’re a day too late,” said Agatha. But she stopped short, thinking that all the publicity would surely bring in new cases and Patrick still had ties to the police and was efficient at getting information out of them. “Oh, you can start again tomorrow, Patrick. Come with us to Phil’s and we’ll have a council of war.”
When Phil let them in, Agatha was glad she had re-employed Patrick. Phil was looking older and quite frail.
“It’s the shock,” he said weakly. “It hits you afterwards. For years I ran my own photographic shop in Evesham, nice quiet existence, chatting to the customers, and then this.”
“It’ll pass,” said Agatha. “I’ve just been sick myself. By the way, are you a grandfather?”
“Never got married.”
“The papers’ll ignore that. Patrick, Phil came up with the idea that Jessica might have stopped on the dual carriageway, waiting to cross because it’s a steep climb up to the bridge. He suggests she might have got into a car driven by someone she knew. We’ll all start from there.
“Phil had better come with me to Ancombe tomorrow because we’ve got another case, but if you, Patrick, could start asking about uncles or friends or boyfriends, anyone the poor girl might have had the bad luck to trust.” She glanced at her watch. “We’re still in time to make the morning editions. Charles, could you phone the Associated Press and whomever and say I’m going to solve the murder for nothing?”
“Have you got numbers?”
“Right here.” Agatha opened her capacious handbag and took out a thick notebook. “All the press numbers are here.”
Charles retreated to the garden with his mobile phone and Agatha’s book of numbers.
“I heard some bits and pieces,” said Patrick. “Nothing really to help you. In these cases, the police look very hard at the family and relatives first. Then they search around for boyfriends. No particular boyfriend.”
“I bet there was someone.”
“Did you find out who she went clubbing with?” asked Patrick. “Girls of that age won’t want to go to a disco alone.”
“Her friends Fairy Tennant and Trixie Sommers. I’ve talked to them. I thought they were a bit cagey, but their parents kept interrupting.”
“Okay. I’ll try them both again. Why are you going to Ancombe?”
“Some businessman thinks his wife is cheating on him. She’s going to be at a sale of work in Ancombe tomorrow. I want to have a really good look at her.”
Agatha went to the office late in the morning after buying all the newspapers. As she had expected, Phil was prominently featured, but there was a paragraph in each newspaper saying that she was determined to solve the case and would not be charging the parents a fee.
“More cases, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Freedman. “A missing husband, a missing teenager and two more cats.”
“Give me the stuff on the missing people. I could really do with an animal detective.”
“You need someone young and energetic who wouldn’t charge much.”
“Sounds as if you’ve got someone in mind.”
“There’s my nephew, Harry Beam. He’s taking his gap year before starting university. I’m sure he’d do it just for expenses.”
“I’ll give him a trial. Get him to come along tomorrow. Now, I’m off. When Patrick comes into the office, give him the file on the two new missing people. On second thoughts, I won’t take the files with me.”
“Do you want me to phone him?”
“No, he’s out checking on Jessica’s friends. He thought he would try them at their school. I saw them with their parents present and it was a washout. He’ll call in sometime or another.”
Agatha drove to Carsely and collected Charles.
“Where’s Phil?” he asked.
“Meeting us there.”
When they arrived at the church hall in Ancombe, it was to find Phil surrounded by admiring women, all praising him. Agatha scowled horribly but went up to Mrs. Bloxby.
“Is she here?”
“Over in the comer, selling jam. They won’t think it odd of Phil to take photographs. He always does. And he’s now a local celebrity.”
“And a bachelor,” said Agatha sourly. “Look at all those widows clustered round him.”
“It is so good of you to employ him, Agatha. He does need the money.”
Mrs. Bloxby fixed Agatha with her clear gaze. Agatha shifted uneasily, thinking of Phil’s low wage. She realized she would need to give him a raise, and fast, or Mrs. Bloxby would haunt her conscience.
At first, she wondered whether she should approach Mabel Smedley. Everyone knew she was a detective. But surely quiet Mabel would not suspect for a moment that her husband would hire a detective to check up on her. She approached the jam stall and smiled at Mabel. “I don’t think we’ve actually ever met,” said Agatha.
Charles came to join Agatha. “I’m Agatha Raisin and this is my friend, Sir Charles Fraith.”
Mabel Smedley was wearing a dreadful print dress, no make-up and her hair scraped back, but she turned out to have a beautiful smile which she directed at Charles.
“Did you make all this jam yourself?” asked Charles.
“Yes, I can recommend the strawberry.”
“Oh, I’ll buy a couple of pots of that. What about you, Agatha?”
“Eh? Oh, can you recommend anything else?”
“I think the quince jelly is all right. Rather nice with game.”
“I’ll have one of those, then.”
Charles claimed to have left his money behind, so after glaring at him, Agatha paid for the jam.
“Your feet must get tired standing here all day,” said Charles.
“I’m just about due for a break. Mrs. Henderson takes over for me. I see her coming.”
“Such a hot day,” said Charles. “Perhaps you might like to join me for a drink? Agatha can’t come. She’s supposed to be helping.”
Agatha opened her mouth and shut it again.
Mrs. Henderson, a plump, sweating woman with a round red face, came hurrying up. “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go to the school. Dwayne’s been playing up again, though if you ask me, that teacher’s got it in for him and so I’ll tell her.”
“It’s all right,” said Charles. “Mrs. Raisin will take over for a bit. Won’t you, Agatha?”
“Oh, all right,” mumbled Agatha ungraciously.
“You are so kind,” said Mrs. Smedley. “The prices are on all the jars.”
Agatha gloomily watched as Charles went off with Mabel. Charles had borrowed a twenty-pound note from her.
“Aren’t we going to the refreshment room?” asked Mabel.
“I saw a nice-looking pub across the road,” said Charles, steering her out of the hall.
“I don’t drink at this time of day.”
“They’ll have soft drinks or coffee.”
They crossed the road and entered the pub. Mabel ordered a tonic water and Charles got himself a whisky.
They sat down at a comer table. Charles smiled at Mabel. “Tell me about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell,” said Mabel. “The Ancombe Ladies’ Society keeps me busy. I make cakes and jam. I fund-raise for the homeless of Mircester. I drive the old folks on outings.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes, and a very lucky woman. Not many women these days are allowed to stay at home. The modem husband wants his wife to make money. What about you, Sir Charles?”
“Just Charles. Oh, I deal with the accounts for the home farm. Then there are the cricket matches and fetes and concerts. The village always thinks it has a right to use my house and grounds for everything. I do a lot of gardening,” lied Charles, who was beginning to feel, under her steady gaze, that he sounded like a dilettante.
