by M C Beaton
“Make it an auction,” said Roy. “Announce that because there are valuable items on the stall, you will start the auction at eleven o’clock. Take that big card which says WHITE ELEPHANT STALL, turn it over and write AUCTION in big letters.”
Agatha did as she was told and then waited and waited. Buyers circled around, trying to purchase things, but Agatha remained adamant. They would just need to wait until the auction started. She got Mrs. Bloxby to organize a microphone for her.
When the press arrived, she tipped them off – hopefully – that she meant to gain thousands from the auction and then introduced them to Roy, describing him as a top London executive.
Dewey arrived just before eleven o’clock. “Where’s the doll?” he asked.
“You’ll need to wait for the auction,” said Agatha.
“Just let me see it!” There was a light film of sweat over his face and his eyes were glittering.
Agatha held it up. He drew in a sharp breath. “I’ll give you two hundred for it.”
“You’ll need to wait with the others,” said Agatha firmly.
On the stroke of eleven, Agatha started the auction with the oil painting. She felt like an amateur. She did not even know the name of the painter because the painting was so dirty, the signature was obscured. But she bravely spoke up. “Who’ll give me one hundred pounds? Starting the bidding at one hundred.”
The large crowd shifted and swayed. A man scratched his eyebrow. Was that a bid?
“As we have professionals here as well as non-professionals,” called Agatha, “instead of signalling, I must ask you to shout out your bids.”
Silence. Then the man who had scratched his eyebrow called out, “One hundred and fifty.”
Silence again. Wasn’t bad for a ratty old painting, thought Agatha, picking up her hammer, a kitchen hammer, as no auctioneer’s gavel had been available. “Going, going…”
“Two hundred,” called another voice.
The crowd around the white elephant stand began to get thicker. The bidding rose and rose. The painting was finally sold for twelve hundred pounds. Agatha guiltily hoped that the people who had given her the painting were not in the crowd.
And so it went on. Auction fever was gripping the crowd. Some of the villagers were bidding wildly for the rubbish they had ignored the year before.
At last, Agatha held up the doll. The bidding went up and up until Dewey suddenly called out shrilly, “Two thousand pounds!”
There was a startled silence. Dewey stared at Agatha, his eyes mad with longing. Agatha took pity on him. “Going, going, gone. Sold to Mr. Dewey,” she said quickly.
After that, the excitement died down. Dewey wrote out a cheque and tenderly took the doll in his arms. “The money is going to a very good cause,” said Agatha. Roy, who had persuaded Miss Simms to take over the tombola stall, came hurrying up. Agatha introduced him. “I’m ever so interested in antique dolls,” gushed Roy. “Can we have a chat?”
“No,” said Dewey harshly, “I shut up my shop to come to this auction. Got to get back.”
“I’ll come with you. I’m ever so madly keen on antique dolls and I must say, that one you got is the most fascinating and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Dewey’s eyes darted suspiciously from Agatha’s face to Roy’s. Then he said reluctantly, “All right.”
Roy trotted off after him. Agatha longed to follow as well, but the remaining items which no one had seemed interested in bidding for might still be sold. New visitors were arriving. So she put price cards on the remainder and stood there patiently, her feet beginning to ache dreadfully. Where had the days gone when she could run around all day in very high heels and not even feel a twinge? Agatha felt the autumn of her life stretching in front of her.
She looked around the crowd, searching for a victim to take over the stand for her so that she could give in and find a pair of flat shoes. She saw Mrs. Allan, Carsely’s battered wife, and called to her. Mrs. Allan came up to Agatha. Although she was only in her thirties, she had stooped shoulders, as if from a lifetime of warding off blows. “Could you take over for me?” asked Agatha.
“I dunno. I ain’t never auctioned nothing.”
“The auction’s over. I’ve put the price tickets on everything. I’ll give Mrs. Bloxby the cheques.”
“Oh, all right, then,” said Mrs. Allan. “Ain’t it hot?” She removed a limp white cardigan and draped it over the edge of the stall. Underneath the cardigan, she was wearing a skimpy blouse. Agatha’s eyes sharpened. There was a nasty bruise on one of Mrs. Allan’s thin arms. “What happened there?” she asked, pointing to the bruise.
“Oh, that? Ever so clumsy, I am. Hit it on the door.”
Agatha headed off to find Mrs. Bloxby and handed her a pile of cheques and notes. “There must be a fortune here, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. She turned to her husband, the vicar. “Alf, isn’t she marvellous? Don’t you just feel like giving Mrs. Raisin a great big hug?”
The vicar shied like a startled horse. “Good heavens, is that the time?” he exclaimed. “Got to see someone,” and ran off as fast as he could.
“I’ve got to get home,” said Agatha. “My feet are killing me.”
“Such a pity. Those shoes look really glamorous.”
Agatha smiled. Mrs. Bloxby had a knack of saying the right thing. A lesser woman would have said, “Why don’t you wear sensible shoes?”
“I’ve left Mrs. Allan in charge. She’s got a terrible bruise on one arm. Can it be the husband? He’s out of the picture, isn’t he?”
“As far as I know. But the trouble with that kind of woman – I don’t mean to sound patronizing, but sometimes I despair – is that they get rid of one villain and pick up another.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been told that women who don’t think much of themselves gravitate to people who’ll make them feel even worse about themselves. It’s amazing how they get rid of one and then marry again, the same type.”
“Has she got anyone?”
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Not that I know of, and if she has, there is nothing I can do about it but sit and wait until it gets too bad again and then step in and try to pick up the pieces. Off you go. You’ve done splendidly. The doll! What an enormous amount of money.”
“That was Melissa’s ex-husband, the one before Sheppard.”
“Really? He looks quite mad. I hope he does not regret spending such a vast amount of money. But these antique dolls can be really valuable.”
“I only hope that the people who donated the doll don’t come after me and demand the money,” said Agatha.
“Who was it?”
“Big manor-house. Over by Longborough. Big cedar tree outside.”
“Oh, Lord Freme. I wouldn’t worry. He’s got millions.”
“I’ll be off then.”
“Where’s your young friend?”
“Gone off with Dewey to do a bit of detective work.”
“Is that wise? He may be your murderer.”
Agatha looked worried. “I’ll wait a bit and then go after him.”
She went home and massaged her aching feet after she had taken her shoes off. Her cats jumped, purring, onto her lap and she lay back in the armchair and stroked their fur, reluctant to return to the fête. But at last she let them out into the garden, put on flat shoes and walked back to the church hall.
“Sold anything?” she asked Mrs. Allan.
“A riddle jug thing. I put the money in the box.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Allan. Why don’t you go and get a cup of tea? I’ll take over now.”
Mrs. Allan slouched off. At the next stand, Miss Simms turned the tombola drum and called over, “Your young man not coming back?”
“Don’t think so,” said Agatha. “There’s nobody interested in what I’ve got left, so I can take over for you.”
“Ta. Where’s Charles?”
“Gone home.”
“All your fellows left you?”
> “Looks like that,” said Agatha sourly.
The day wore on. The morris dancers jumped up and down energetically, tourists took pictures, the cake-and-jam stall had sold out and the cafeteria was doing a roaring trade. Clouds were piling up over to the west and Agatha could feel the beginnings of a headache. Where was Roy? She began to worry so much that even when Mrs. Bloxby rounded off the day by making a speech of thanks to everyone who had helped in general and one, Agatha Raisin, in particular, she barely listened. As soon as the applause had died down, she ran home and got into her car and headed for Worcester.
When she arrived in Worcester, she realized she should just have waited at home for Roy to call. She had forgotten, he didn’t have a car. He might even now be on the train, heading back to Moreton-in-Marsh. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Six o’clock! Dewey would have shut up shop, so she would have no way of finding out when Roy had left.
She decided to try the shop anyway. She parked the car and hurried over to The Shambles. To her relief, she saw the shutters had not been put up. She cupped her hand and peered in the window. Roy was sitting in a chair, looking like a scared rabbit. Dewey was talking forcibly and standing over Roy, brandishing a pair of scissors. Agatha was about to burst in, but then she thought that might urge Dewey to violence. She moved away from the window and took out her mobile phone and called the police, and waited, trembling and anxious, until a squad car roared up. “My friend is in there,” she babbled to the first policeman, “being threatened with a pair of scissors.” There were three policemen in all. They walked into the shop and Agatha followed them, glad to see that Roy was still unharmed.
“We have a report that you have been threatening this gentleman with a pair of scissors,” said the leading policeman ponderously.
Dewey, whose face had been contorted with rage when Agatha had seen him through the window, immediately became transformed into a meek and bewildered shopkeeper.
“I do not know what you mean!” he said, putting the scissors down on the desk. He looked at Agatha. “It’s that trouble-making woman again. I was merely giving this gentleman a lecture on antique dolls.”
“Is that true, sir?” The policeman looked at Roy.
“Yes, I suppose he was,” said Roy. “But he scared me. I’ve been here for hours and hours. He said I was checking up on him. He said I didn’t know the first thing about dolls and he stood over me with the scissors in my face and went on and on.”
“Do you wish to lay charges?”
“No,” said Roy. “I just want to get out of here.”
“If he threatened you with a pair of scissors, you should lay charges against him.”
“I was defending myself, officer,” said Dewey. “You will find that this woman and another man entered my home recently and said they had a gun.”
Now the policeman looked at Agatha suspiciously. “You pestering this man?”
“No,” said Agatha, and “Yes,” said Dewey.
“Could we just let the matter drop?” pleaded Roy.
Dewey suddenly agreed. “Yes, let’s just forget about the whole thing.”
The police driver came into the shop. “Smash and grab out on The Walls, sir.”
“Right.” The policeman glared all around. “I’ll let it go this time.”
“Come on,” hissed Roy, grabbing Agatha’s arm. He obviously didn’t want to be left with Dewey again.
“Phew!” said Roy as they hurried along the street. “Let’s find a pub. I could do with a drink.”
“Now,” said Agatha when they had found a table in a quiet pub, “what happened?”
“At first it all seemed pretty matey,” said Roy. “That was when we drove to Worcester. He was torn between joy at getting the doll and wondering whether he had paid too much over the top for it. He did all the talking. Things were fine until we got to the shop. He seemed to have taken a liking to me. He got us coffee and we sat down by the desk. I said I was a friend of yours and wasn’t it dreadful about the murder of his ex-wife. He said, yes, it was terrible and then he grew cold and began to question me on my knowledge of antique dolls, of which I know zilch. He began then to accuse me of merely wanting to poke my nose into his affairs. I protested. I said I may not know much, but I was eager to learn as I was thinking of starting a collection.
“His eyes were all funny and glittery. He said I was just like Melissa, pretending to a knowledge I didn’t have to ingratiate myself with him and do him harm. By this time he was waving the scissors around.”
Roy took a gulp of his drink and went on. “That’s when I said, all haughty-like, that he had hurt my feelings and I was leaving. ‘Oh, no, you’re not,’ he says, pointing the scissors at my face and standing over me. ‘You say you came here to learn, and learn you will.’ Then two customers came in. He said to them, as pleasant and calm as anything, ‘Excuse us a minute,’ and digging those damn scissors into my side, he ushered me into the back room. ‘Sit there quietly until I’m ready for you,’ he said. ‘Call for help and I’ll kill you and say it was self-defence.’ He went back into the shop and locked the door.
“There was no way out. The back door was locked and there was only a little barred window. I shook with terror. And I was surrounded by all those dolls, all those little staring eyes. I was in there so long, I thought he’d gone for the night, and I was just about to risk calling out when he opened the door and, still brandishing those damn scissors, told me to go and sit down in the shop. Then he started this long lecture. Don’t ask me what it was about. I was so terrified I couldn’t take in a word. Then you came. Agatha, he’s certifiable, sweetie. Bonkers, a picnic short of a sandwich, raving. He did it, mark my words. The intensity of his rage was something awful.”
“But how can we prove anything?” wailed Agatha.
“There must be something in his past. We’d best go and see that copper friend of yours. We need help.”
“We’ll go tomorrow. Let’s hope Bill Wong’s on duty. You wouldn’t want to meet his parents. If you’ve finished your drink, let’s go.”
As they walked to the car-park, Roy kept casting nervous glances all around, as if expecting to see Dewey leap out at him.
♦
When they got back to the cottage, Agatha phoned Bill. She told him briefly what had happened and asked if they could call on him the following day, but Bill said he would come over right away.
“We’d better eat something before he arrives,” said Agatha. “Bill will already have had something.”
“I’ll fix it,” said Roy. “I’m still nervous and I feel like doing something. Have you got eggs and cheese? I’ll make a cheese omelette.”
“I have both. I’ll leave you to it.”
While Roy worked in the kitchen, Agatha phoned Mrs. Bloxby and apologized for having run away from the fête.
“Did you catch up with Roy?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Well, thanks again for a splendid effort. We raised a great deal of money. I told Alf we owe it all to you.”
“And what did the vicar say?” asked Agatha, who knew Alf did not like her, but craved his good opinion.
“Oh, he agreed with me,” said Mrs. Bloxby, although what the vicar had actually said was, “God moves in mysterious ways.”
Agatha rang off. She poured herself a stiff gin and tonic and lit a cigarette. She had just finished both when Roy called her from the kitchen. As Agatha rose out of the deep armchair in which she had been sitting, she felt a slight stiff pain in her knee joints and her chest gave a distinct wheeze. She stood, alarmed. She took a deep breath, but the wheeze had gone. She remembered when she was in Wyckhadden that she had managed to give up cigarettes. It had felt good. Then she remembered Jimmy Jessop, the police inspector in Wyckhadden who had proposed marriage to her. She remembered him as safe and decent. She could have been Mrs. Jessop by now had Jimmy not found her in bed with Charles. Damn Charles. She would never, ever have g
one to bed with him had not that fortune-teller told her that she would never have sex again. Now Jimmy was married. Was he happy? Maybe he was divorced.
“Agatha!” called Roy. “Your food’s on the table.”
She banished thoughts of what might have been from her mind and joined Roy in the kitchen.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Roy, “about what we could do tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You said this chap Sheppard lives in Blockley, which isn’t far from here. We could drop over there tomorrow – ”
“Are you mad? He’d be furious.”
“Ah, but if we told him we’re pretty sure it was Dewey, he might open up a bit.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Agatha thought of that sinister pain in her joints. “Tell you what,” she said. “I need exercise. If it’s a fine day, we could walk over.”
“All right. I could do with a bit of exercise myself.”
Bill arrived just after they had finished their meal. He listened carefully while Roy described his adventures with Dewey and made several notes. When Roy had finished, Agatha said, “You see, we wondered if you had been digging into Dewey’s past, if there was anything there.”
“Nothing sinister that we’ve been able to find,” said Bill. “He’s the son of fairly wealthy middle-class parents. The father died young and he was very close to his mother. When she died, he had just finished at university. With the money she left, he; bought that shop and started up in business. He really knows his stuff. He doesn’t seem to have any friends. When he married Melissa, they didn’t seem to socialize. I’ll dig a bit deeper. I’ll I pull him in and have another go at him.”
“Is there any news of James?” asked Agatha.
“Not a whisper. I would have told you if I had heard anything.”
♦
The following day dawned sunny and fresh. They set out to walk to Blockley, which meant climbing up the steep road out of Carsely, walking along the A-44 and then down the hill into Blockley. When they reached the village, Agatha felt that longing for a cigarette and fought it down. She had not yet lit up one that day.
