by M C Beaton
“So?”
“They didn’t have any straps. They were patent leather pumps. She was high up in the slippery branches and the branches were gleaming with wet. She couldn’t possibly have climbed up in those shoes.”
“There’s a song about that,” mumbled Rory sleepily, “something like ‘What? In these shoes?’”
“But Rory…”
“Look, if she’s been murdered, the police will find out who did it. That is not our job. Don’t interfere.”
* * *
And neither the vicar nor his wife would have dreamt for a moment of interfering in police work had it not been for the fact that their statements were brought to them the next day by Police Constable Turret. Molly thought he had a clever interesting face, although critics might find something ratlike about it. He had small brown eyes.
After they had signed their statements, he asked, “Any chance of a cup of coffee, love?”
“If you are talking to me,” said Molly, frost in her voice, “ask properly.”
“Oh, Gawd!” said Turret, giving what he fancied as a jolly laugh. “One of them women libbers, hey!”
Molly shrugged, suddenly wanting him to go, but she left the room to fetch coffee.
“Have you anything to ask me or are you waiting to patronise my wife again?” asked Rory.
“Sorry about that,” said Turret, making a mental note to make the vicar’s life miserable in some way. “Now, you and the missus are like the first suspects.”
“Like how?” demanded Rory. “Twenty minutes before we found the body we were taking our leave of Sir Edward. We’ve signed our statements to that effect.” He got to his feet to open the door for Molly because he had heard the creaking approach of the old trolley.
“I had it all ready in the hope that nice detective would come back,” said Molly.
Turret leapt to his feet. “Can I help, gorgeous?”
Rory said evenly, “We can help ourselves. Molly, why don’t you find out if Miss Darby had any relatives?”
“Good idea,” said Molly, thankful of the chance to escape. It wasn’t Turret’s comments that upset her: it was the way his eyes seemed to crawl over her body, and, yes, there was something frightening about him. She decided to go over to Carsely and call on the vicar’s wife there, Sarah Bloxby. Sarah seemed to know about everyone for miles around and might know the dead Margaret’s relatives.
As soon as she drove out of Sumpton Harcourt she could feel a weight of anxiety lift from her shoulders. The day was dark and misty and drenched fields stretched from side to side.
To her disappointment, when she was ushered into the vicarage drawing room in Carsely she found another visitor there, a fashionably dressed woman with a good figure, long legs and small bearlike eyes.
Mrs. Bloxby performed the introductions. She served coffee and said, “It must have been very upsetting for you, finding the body.”
“I wish someone would upset me with a dead body,” grumbled her other visitor. “I’ve got nothing but lost cats and divorces on the books.”
“Oh, you’re that Agatha Raisin,” exclaimed Molly. “You know, if we had the money, I would be tempted to employ you.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Raisin might be interested in a few facts,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha laughed. “Mrs. Bloxby knows I am always interested in dead bodies.”
“You use second names?” asked Molly.
“A bad habit,” said Agatha, “developed when we had a genteel Ladies’ Society here. It’s hard to break.”
Molly leaned her back against the feathered cushions on the old sofa and told them about the dinner party and how they had found the body. The wood fire crackled on the hearth and from outside came the sweet sound of the tenor bell in the church tower. “The wind must have got up,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
At first Molly talked about the dinner party and then how she had found the body. She went on to describe the two detectives and then the visit from Turret. Suddenly, she found herself crying and hiccupping and gasping out how horrible the vicarage was and how beastly the bloody Cotswolds had turned out to be. A box of tissues was placed on her lap and Mrs. Bloxby’s quiet voice said, “Drink this.” Molly dried her eyes and took a gulp. It was sweet and warming. “What is this?” she asked.
“It’s dandelion wine,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Early in the day for alcohol but it contains a lot of sugar.”
“I don’t know what came over me,” said Molly. “I’m pretty tough. It’s the village. It’s creepy.”
“That vicarage is pretty awful,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “So big and nothing changed since Queen Victoria. I’ll drive over and see if I can do something to help.”
“We’ll go now,” said Agatha. “Saturday, and not even a date.”
How old was she? Molly began to worry. This Raisin woman was middle-aged but she carried an aura of sensuality. The trouble with being a vicar’s wife was one often had to deal with women getting crushes on your husband. So far, not one had been anything to worry about, but Agatha Raisin might be another matter.
Chapter Two
Agatha Raisin was glad of this unexpected event. She was completely out of dreams and obsessions. When she was obsessing about some man, Agatha could forget about how little she valued herself and wrap herself up in a cosy package of rainbow fantasies. She was also lonely. Her ex-husband, James Lacey, a travel writer, was somewhere abroad and her friend, Sir Charles Fraith, was away somewhere as well, and she missed him. Of course, the steady friendship of Mrs. Bloxby was always there, but she was good, and Agatha did want to kick up her heels and be bad, preferably in bed with some gorgeous man. Not that she would quite admit that to herself because she regarded herself as a feminist.
Agatha had never before visited Sumpton Harcourt. It was one of those many Cotswold villages hidden in a fold of the wolds, off the tourist route. The day had become darker. They were travelling in Molly’s car. Agatha wondered whether Molly was a genuine redhead. She was certainly very glamourous to be a vicar’s wife. Molly stopped the car suddenly and said, “There is the witches’ tree.”
It was taped off, the tape fluttering in a strong wind. Black clouds streamed across the sky above it. Two branches rubbed together giving out an odd creaking sound.
Agatha Raisin experienced a frisson of excitement.
Surely that sinister tree was a setting for murder.
* * *
The Church of England parish of St. Edmund was late Norman. A two-storey extension was added in the thirteenth century and the north aisle was added in the fourteenth century. It had a ring of ten bells and a square Norman tower. Beside it stood the vicarage, dating from the reign of George the Third.
Eighteenth-century Georgian buildings are usually beautiful, but the vicarage was so covered with ivy, it was hard to make out any lines of architecture. A vicar’s wife in the late nineteenth century had become so enamoured with all things mediaeval that she had replaced the plain glass in the windows with mullioned ones that cut out even more of the daylight.
Molly opened the door and led the way into the study. “Do take a seat,” she said. “They are uncomfortable but this is the only warm room in the house. In fact the whole place is one shitty igloo.” She glanced at Mrs. Bloxby’s face and said, “Sorry about my language.”
“It is one of the perils of being married to a vicar,” said Mrs. Bloxby placidly. “One often wants to shout and swear and get drunk.”
“How understanding of you! Oh, here’s my husband, Rory.” Molly made the introductions.
Rory looked at Agatha curiously. “I thought private detectives were … well … rather seedy.”
“As seedy as seed cake,” said Agatha cheerfully. “Do you think Miss Darby committed suicide?”
“Yes, I do,” said Rory. “I would like it to be murder to ease my conscience, because I keep feeling we should have noticed something.”
“The reason I called on Sarah—I may call you Sarah?”
“
Yes. Mrs. Raisin and I have become stuck in the old ways.”
“I wondered if Miss Darby had any relatives?”
“Oh, yes. I believe she has a sister, Laura. Twins, I think. It was at the Ancombe sale of work earlier this year. Someone said something about Miss Darby and her sister having a tremendous row in front of the white elephant stall.”
“Do you knows where she lives?” asked Agatha.
“No, but I am sure I can find out,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“Mrs. Raisin…” began Rory.
“Agatha, please.”
“Well, Agatha, it’s a bit premature to go digging around at that stage.”
“Oh, let her dig, darling,” wailed his wife. “I want to know what drove her to suicide.”
“We cannot afford a private detective and…”
“No charge,” said Agatha. “Just curiosity.”
“Coo-ee! It’s only me,” carolled a voice from the hall, outside.
“Oh, dear, it’s the vamp of Sumpton Harcourt, Felicity Weir. I’ll get rid of her.”
But the study door opened and a tall thin woman with very large feet and hands stood there. Her hair was brassy blonde and her drooping face was heavily made-up. Her sticklike legs ended in stiletto shoes.
“You naughty, naughty man,” she said. “Killing off the ladies of the parish.”
Rory took her arm and propelled her back out into the hall. “You really must excuse us. My poor wife has had a bad shock. No, really, call some other time and ring the bell. What if I should mistake you for a burglar and kill you?”
Felicity tottered off down the short drive. She bumped into P.C. Turret who was just outside the vicarage gates. Always wanting to play centre stage, Felicity seized his arm and said, “I am so afraid. The vicar has threatened to kill me!”
“Stay right there!” said Turret. He would drag that uppity vicar in for questioning. A night in the cells would bring him down a peg.
* * *
The normally shrewd Turret was to realise he had made a dreadful mistake. That bitch of a woman, Agatha Raisin, conjured up a criminal lawyer. Then he had underestimated what he considered the fusty, hassocky, old Church of England, not realising they would not let one of their own be abused in this way, and so the bishop and his canon told Inspector Wilkes in no uncertain terms, as over the Bishop of Mircester’s purple shoulder, the inspector could see the press marshalling outside and was sure Agatha had summoned them, as indeed she had.
So Rory was released with full and humble apologies and Turret was given such a dressing down that he could feel all his ambitious dreams slipping away. He was suspended for two weeks.
He hated Rory more than ever and he felt like strangling Agatha. He was just leaving the station when he saw Bill Wong heading for Wilkes’s office. Turret thought Bill was too close to Alice. Jealousy prompted him to wait until Bill had gone into the office and then listen at the door.
“It’s a bad business,” he heard Wilkes say. “From the preliminary autopsy, it seems as if she was dead already when that suicide was staged. Yes. It does look now as if someone murdered her and tried to make it look like suicide. The sister’s coming in to identify the body. Have a word with her. Ask about enemies. Has she always lived in the village or did she come from somewhere else.”
Turret heard someone coming and moved quickly away. If only he could solve the murder. He would wait in his car outside until the sister left and then see if he could take her for a drink or something.
After he had been waiting ten minutes, a police car arrived. Alice Peterson got out of the back and went round and opened the other back passenger door. A thin middle-aged woman got out. Must be the sister, thought Turret. She’ll be getting the same car back. I’ll wait and follow it.
After what seemed an age, Alice came out with the woman and they drove off. Glad that he was driving his own car, Turret kept a few cars behind. Alice pulled into the front of the George Hotel. In the bright entrance lights, he got a good look at the sister as he cruised slowly past and round to the hotel car park. She was wearing an old-fashioned musquash coat and a felt hat. Looked as if she had walked out of an episode of Foyle’s War.
Turret walked slowly round to the front to see Alice’s car disappearing round the corner. He went up to the reception desk and was about to demand the name of the woman in the fur coat when he looked to the right and saw her in the bar.
When he loomed over where she was sitting, she said with a little gasp, “I have just talked to the police. What do you want?”
“Just a chat.” Turret sat down facing her and waved to the waiter. “What’ll you have?” he asked.
She ordered a double brandy. Turret said he would have the same. His crafty policeman’s eyes studied her sheeplike face and then dropped to her hands. No wedding ring.
Waft of expensive scent. She shrugged off the fur coat to reveal a simple black dress adorned with a large, sparkling diamond brooch. Turret blinked. She could have sold that and bought at least a couple of mink coats.
He introduced himself, commiserated her on her loss, and asked her name. “I am Laura Darby.”
“And not married?”
“I have no intention of ever getting married again.”
“How many times?”
“Three.”
The drinks arrived. Women with money had the edge on any of their more beautiful sisters, thought Turret. Fat, ugly little tycoons had dazzling blondes. Rich women could take their pick.
He raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said. “To happier times.” He had a sudden inspiration. If Margaret Darby had been equally rich then it followed that someone might have been trying to get money out of her. Or already had! And wouldn’t pay back.
“Was you sister comfortably off?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So was anyone after her money?”
“I don’t know. We had quarrelled. She said this brooch had been left to her by Mummy but she left it to me and I told Margaret, you are not getting it.”
“Had she been married?”
“No, but she phoned me up last week and hinted that she was going to be married soon and unless I handed over the brooch, she wouldn’t invite me to her wedding.”
The trouble with being a common copper, thought Turret sourly, was that one was always kept out of the loop. But if he could get into Margaret Darby’s house, he might find evidence of this man that the detectives and forensics might have missed.
Laura stood up, hitching her coat over her arm. “I am very tired. Goodnight!”
“Will you be here tomorrow?” asked Turret.
“No, I shall be returning to my home until such time as I can look at poor Margaret’s house and its contents.”
“You inherit?”
“Goodnight!”
Turret stood up as well and grasped her arm. “Just a few more questions.”
Her pale eyes were suddenly shrewd. They fastened on his number. “As soon as I get to my room, I will telephone headquarters and ask them why you are here and under what authority.”
Turret crumpled. “It was just a chat,” he said.
“You will hear about this further.” She swept off. Turret cursed under his breath.
Then he thought that he could always say that he had dropped into the George for a drink, had recognised her and had decided to see if she had any useful information. She did not have to answer his questions, did she? And so he rehearsed it all in his mind until he began to relax. That hoity-toity air of hers would put Wilkes’s back up.
He was determined to go to Margaret Darby’s house. As he was leaving the bar, the waiter stopped him and said, “Your bill, sir.”
“Not my bill, old son,” said Turret. “Put it on Miss Laura Darby’s room.”
* * *
Strangely enough, a lot of policemen are sensitive creatures. Many of them don’t know it and bury it under a layer of aggression. But in order to suss out which person is lying or which person might be
covering something up, a policeman needs his own radar system.
And so it was that when Turret left his car and walked towards Margaret Darby’s thatched cottage he felt an air of menace. Margaret’s cottage was called IAMHOME, picked out in poker work on a sign by the gate. Turret cursed under his breath when he saw the red light of a cigarette in the darkness. “Who’s there?” he called.
“Who are you?”
“P.C. Turret.”
“Oh, it’s you, me old ferret.” P.C. Clapper hove into view.
“Want a break?”
“Do I ever, matey,” said Clapper. “Tell you something. This place gives me the creeps.”
“I’ll look after things for an hour, if you like.”
“Great!” said Clapper. “I owe you one.”
Turret waited until Clapper had roared off in his car and made his way up the garden path, dimly lit by a streetlight outside the garden gate. The front door was crisscrossed with police tape. Turret made his way round the back of the thatched cottage. He decided he hated thatched cottages. They were like brooding animals. The kitchen door was taped but the window beside it was not. He took out his knife and sprang the catch, listening nervously for any burglar alarm. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and climbed into the kitchen, knocking a glass off the draining board as he did so. He cursed and sweated and listened but there was nothing but the sound of the wind.
Taking out a pencil torch, he let the light flicker round the kitchen as he eased himself onto the floor. He went out into a narrow passage which led into a square hall. He switched off his torch because there was enough light from the streetlamp outside, shining through the panes of glass in the front door. He tried a door on the left. It appeared to be full of clutter: photographs in silver frames, china ornaments, all on spindly tables. But in the dark recesses of the room, he could just make out an old-fashioned rolltop desk.
“Now,” he muttered, “let’s see what we can find out.”
He bent over the desk. He suddenly sensed a presence behind him and swung round. A cup of ammonia was thrown in his face. He screamed, thinking it was some sort of corrosive acid. Then something heavy struck him on the forehead and he collapsed to the floor.
