The Witches' Tree--An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  “Wait till I scroll down. Ah, here he is.”

  Agatha peered at the screen. “Yes, that’s my Edward.”

  “Most odd. Educated Stow School and Sandhurst Military Academy. Five years in the Household Cavalry. No mention of the Foreign Office but next he appears as a lowly information officer in Gambia.”

  “I’ve an idea,” said Agatha slowly. “Go back to the other Edward Chumble. I wonder. Look! That Chumble was found wounded and has a wife and two kids. It would not surprise me if the Foreign Office got their Chumbles mixed up. I think the ambassador job was a compensation.

  “I think it’s a bureaucratic muddle,” said Agatha excitedly. “I mean who would think of two Chumbles from different families and different backgrounds ending up in the same type of job? They hear a Chumble is there and want to make it up to him for the shooting. Something like that.”

  “I’ve a pal at the Foreign Office. I’ll ring him and find out.” James, after a long talk on the phone, rang off and explained.

  The real truth as it emerged some time later was that there was another Edward Chumble, a military attaché in Copenhagen. When oil was discovered in the middle of Africa, that Edward was considered a suitable person to oversee British interests and the appointment was so quickly made that it was after Sir Edward was jerked from a rather lowly desk job at the Foreign Office that the mistake was discovered. To cover up the mistake, Sir Edward was promised a new appointment while the Foreign Office ploughed through the faraway places where an embassy was about to be closed and hit on Carperijag on the far side of Moldavia.

  They ignored reports that Sir Edward had gone slightly bonkers after having been lost in the jungle, because who cared about a dump like Carperijag, and lately even Putin had lost interest.

  “You’re making my head ache. Let’s go and see the old boy.”

  * * *

  Agatha had forgotten that a man like James would immediately be the focus of Tiffany Chumble’s attentions. James travelled a lot. His travel guides to different places had climbed up the bestseller lists. So his face was always lightly tanned, emphasising the blue of his eyes.

  “Edward will be with us in a minute,” gushed Tiffany, all thrusting silicone bosoms and trout pout. “Are you related?”

  “We were married.”

  “R-e-aaally!” Drawling the word out and looking Agatha up and down in astonishment, Tiffany then smiled at James. “So you’re available.”

  James studied her for a moment and then said, “Ever since Agatha divorced me, I can’t look at another woman.”

  God bless the man, thought Agatha, as Tiffany visibly wilted.

  Sir Edward came in and was introduced. “How is progress?” he said, rubbing his thick hands.

  “I think Margaret Darby had a new beau and that person is desperate to stop us finding out who he is.” Agatha reported on the garage owner in Ancombe and the suspicious death of Mrs. Smellie.

  He sat down and pulled out a notebook. “I’d better write this down. Old memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “You can say that again,” muttered Tiffany.

  “It really would be nice if someone asked us to sit down,” said James.

  “Oh, poor sweetie. Is diddums legs failing him?” Tiffany had not forgiven James for that put-down, because, I mean, just look at Agatha Raisin. Fifty if she were a day.

  She found Agatha’s bearlike eyes boring into her as if that lady had just read her thoughts and began to gush nervously. “Oh, please sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee?”

  “Black, please. No sugar,” said Agatha.

  “White for me and one spoon of sugar,” said James.

  “Do come into the kitchen and help me, James, and leave the sleuths alone.”

  “Sorry. You see, I’m one of the sleuths,” said James.

  Tiffany pouted her way out of the room. She’ll probably take the opportunity to have a drink, thought Agatha. I could murder one. I could also murder Edward, pompous idiot.

  She said, “Edward, wasn’t it confusing when you were in Africa to have someone of the same name also employed by the Foreign Office also working in Africa?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

  James joined in. “But you must remember. When I was at Sandhurst, there was this chap called James Lacey. I’ve never forgotten him because I once got punished for one of his bits of insolence. Surely you must remember the other Edward Chumble.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. Got it. Him. Yes. Well, weedy chap. Probably pinched the name. Spook. I mean I’m from the Somerset Chumbles.”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t he have changed to something else if that were the case?” pursued James.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, what does this have to do with these murders? Good work, Agatha. Keep at it. Yes, yes. Nose to the grindstone, hey.”

  His wife entered carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee. “Help yourself,” she said.

  “Darling,” said Edward. “Did you know of anyone romancing Miss Darby?”

  “I didn’t even know Miss Darby. She was probably one of those sticklike creatures who haunt the church with their droopy hems and red noses, and God, I hate this dump!”

  Tiffany rushed from the room.

  “Poor old girl. Must forgive. Very sensitive, yes.”

  Agatha sniffed her coffee cautiously. There was an odd smell coming from it. James did the same thing and they both replaced their cups on the tray.

  “I will get back to you, Edward, in a few days’ time with a further report,” said Agatha. She wanted all at once to get into the fresh air. She began to wonder whether the Chumbles were mad.

  Chapter Five

  “What do you think she put in our coffee?” asked Agatha. “It smelled odd.”

  “I think she peed in it,” said James. “Mine smelled of urine.”

  “Oh, James, that’s going too far. She wouldn’t, would she?”

  “She might. Agatha, the things women get up to. Why, last time I was in Barcelona, Maria … Oh, never mind. Boring story.”

  “Who’s Maria?”

  “I said, never mind. Look, about this vicar. I wonder what happened during his stay at that last parish. You said in was in the East End of London. It’s not easy for vicars to end up with a cushy number like a Cotswold church. Let’s find out where the parish was and go there tomorrow.”

  I hope Charles comes looking for me and finds me gone, thought Agatha.

  * * *

  Agatha’s heart sank as she saw James warming to Molly’s beauty. They told her about Mrs. Smellie and Agatha said had Molly heard anything about Margaret Darby having a beau.

  “I’ve asked around but nobody seems to know.”

  “She was engaged to some chap in Ancombe but ditched him.”

  “Goodness! Margaret!”

  “Tell me,” said James. “Which church did your husband have in London?”

  “Saint Everild. Down by the old East India dock.”

  “Was it difficult to get a transfer?”

  “No. Amazingly easy. Look, I would like to talk to you but parish work is never ending.”

  They said their goodbyes. “Do you think she made that up?” asked Agatha.

  “I’ll look it up.” James took out a smartphone. “Here we are. Seventh-century lady saint. But Yorkshire! What’s a church in the south and in London doing being named after her? Oh, here we are. Ship called St. Everild caught in a huge storm but by some miracle all the crew and cargo managed to ride it out. Ship’s owner, Merchant Josiah Symes, built a church as a way of thanks. Pennyfarthing Lane.”

  “Molly said it was a rough area,” said Agatha.

  “I didn’t think they had rough areas in the East End anymore what with the Chinese and Russians buying up London.”

  “What time shall we set out?”

  “Just after nine. Miss the rush hour.”

  * * *

  After saying goodbye to James, Agatha drove to her office t
o tell her staff what she was doing. They usually gathered together at the end of the day. To her dismay, Patrick Mulligan was standing over a large cardboard box of jam doughnuts. Toni of the perfect figure was perched on a desk. She waved a half-eaten doughnut at Agatha and said, “This is my third. They’re from a new bakery in town.”

  “I had some earlier,” said Agatha. She told them of the suspicious death of Mrs. Smellie and how she and James were going to London in the morning. Perhaps Toni was the only person who suspected that Agatha was often lonely and insecure. If only she and James would remarry. Charles was too fickle. If some deb with money crossed his horizon, he’d jilt Agatha like a shot.

  Simon was angry. Agatha was always taking James or Charles with her on the interesting jobs and he was left with dreary divorces or missing teenagers. Patrick was in his sixties and Phil in his seventies and both were glad just to be employed.

  Phil was the agency photographer. “Phil,” said Agatha, “it would help if you could sneak some photographs of various people who might be a concern in this murder. I’ll type out their names and descriptions for you. Still a lot of press around so you won’t be much noticed. You can go with him, Simon. Don’t say you’re a detective. Chat up some of the local women and find out what you can about Margaret Darby. If we can solve that one murder, we’ll find out about the others.”

  With her usual intuition, Agatha sensed Simon’s anger at being left out and had hurried to bring him in, forgetting that with someone as beautiful as the vicar’s wife around Simon and previous disasters caused by becoming obsessed with attractive women that there might be trouble.

  She sat at her computer and typed names and descriptions and then ran off several copies.

  “You haven’t put in your expenses,” admonished Mrs. Freedman.

  “Tomorrow. Promise,” said Agatha. She was hungry again but told herself it was nothing but gas. She must make amends for those doughnuts. No dinner tonight.

  * * *

  She and James had decided to travel by train from Moreton-in-Marsh as driving in London consisted of sitting in one traffic jam after another.

  James had found the name of the parish. “It’s in Hanthall Green,” he said.

  “Never heard of it,” complained Agatha, “and I know London end to end.”

  “It’s small area near Lewisham,” said James. “A mixture of African immigrants and white adults on benefits and white youth either robbing someone or in prison.”

  “Can’t blame them from wanting to get out.”

  “Yes, but right down to the Cotswolds? That is odd.”

  “What’s this church called?”

  “You’ve forgotten. Saint Everild.”

  “Not worth remembering,” said Agatha with all the authority of the ignorant.

  They got off at Paddington. James gave way to Agatha’s insistence that they take a taxi, although he did try to point out that they would end up sitting in a series of traffic jams. This proved to be the case. The fact that Agatha was paying for the cab did not mollify James, despite the fact that it was Agatha’s case and Agatha’s expenses. He felt men should be in charge and pay for everything.

  The taxi finally drew up in a narrow street where half the buildings had been knocked down. “Going to clean up this dump,” remarked the taxi driver. “Want me to wait, missus? Bad neighbourhood.”

  “No, thank you,” said James firmly and before Agatha could open her mouth.

  The church stood between the demolished houses on one side and boarded-up tenements on the other. No modern cleaning had touched its soot-stained walls. It looked as if it had grown out of the ground, rather than being built by man. It had a square tower from which it looked as if someone had been stripping lead. The old oak door of the church was firmly locked.

  “I don’t see any sign of a vicarage,” said James. “We’d better scout around.”

  Nasty dark ragged clouds raced over the sky above. The wind whistled down the street, hurling a newspaper to stick to James’s trousers. He tore it off, and then, looking ahead, said, “I think there’s a little shop on the corner. We’ll try there.”

  The shop had iron mesh over the windows and a video camera slowly swivelling above the door. A very fat woman in a brightly coloured sari was behind the counter. They asked where they could find the vicar.

  “Rand the corner, duckie,” she said in broad cockney. “Number five. You gettin’ married or sumpthin’?”

  “No,” said James. “Let’s go, Agatha.”

  “Did you know the previous vicar?” asked Agatha, ignoring James.

  “His missus used ter come in here, pore lamb. I coulda killed them bastards what did it to her.”

  “What happened?” asked Agatha.

  Shrewd brown eyes looked Agatha up and down. “I gotta living ter make.”

  “It is your civic duty…,” James was beginning, but Agatha said firmly, “Fifty quid.”

  “You’re a lady. ’And it over.” She tucked the note somewhere in her capacious bosom. “It were last year. The Gorley Street gang caught ’er on ’er road ’ome. Raped the pore girl. Stabbed ’er. Left ’er for dead. But ’er was seen by a chap in a motor. Called the ambulance and the perlice. They rounded up the gang. Judge threw the book at them.”

  “I found nothing about this on the internet,” said James.

  “’Er ’usband ’ad some powerful friends, or so I ’eard and they gets onto the newspapers and makes sure the wife’s name isn’t mentioned.”

  Agatha thanked her and was about to leave the amazingly well-stocked shop when she saw a refrigerator case with jam doughnuts on offer.

  “We haven’t time for that,” snapped James as Agatha opened the door and appeared to fall into a trance-like state. “Shut up,” said Agatha. She selected six and put them in a cardboard box and then paid for them.

  The wind seemed to have increased in ferocity and moaned through the deserted building like some banshee heralding death. The vicarage was standing alone in a vacant lot, the houses on either side having been cleared. They rang the bell and waited. A small microphone on the wall next to the bell asked them to state their business.

  Agatha introduced them and then waited. There came the sound of several locks being opened and bolts drawn back and then a tall, muscular, brutish-looking man appeared on the doorstep.

  “Are you the vicar?” asked Agatha.

  “His minder. Come in. Ian and I were in the army together. Thanks for the doughnuts. I’ll just put them in the kitchen.” And to Agatha’s dismay, he firmly took the box from her.

  He led the way along a corridor and opened a door. The vicar was seated behind a desk. As they entered, he rose to meet them. “I am Ian Ferguson,” he said. He had a light Scottish accent. “And what brings a private detective here?” He was a middle-aged man with a thick head of white hair and what Agatha thought of as an ordinary face.

  Agatha explained about the murders and how they wondered why the recent vicar had left and why he had managed to secure a living in the Cotswolds.

  “I don’t think I want to talk about that,” he said in a cold voice. Johnny will show you out.”

  “We know about the rape,” said Agatha.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Shove off,” said the vicar.

  “Yes,” said Johnny, walking into the room. “And I am here to shove you if you don’t go nicely.”

  There was nothing they could do except let him usher them out into the windy street.

  “Look, Agatha,” said James, “we got what we came for. Let’s find a cab, bus or tube.”

  “Maybe just ask that nice Indian lady…”

  “No, you are not getting any more doughnuts,” said James.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, you’re not my boss,” snarled Agatha. She swung round and headed for the shop. “Find your own way back,” yelled James. He stalked off in the opposite direction. He suddenly turned around, feeling he should not have left her alone in such a neighbourhood and saw to his horror
that a youth was holding a knife in front of Agatha while another looked on.

  Agatha said wearily, “Let me get my handbag open.” She whipped out a can of Mace and sprayed both their faces just as James came pounding up. He took out his phone. “I’ll get the police.”

  “No, you don’t!” shouted Agatha. “Run for it.”

  She hared off down the street in her high-heeled boots with James running after her. To Agatha’s relief, she found herself in a busy thoroughfare and across this main road was the entrance to a tube station. James caught up with her and seized her arm. “Why not call the police?”

  “I used Mace,” panted Agatha. “I don’t think it’s legal. Oh, poor Molly. I can’t see it’s got anything to do with the murders. There’s a cab. Hoy! Taxi!”

  “You are the only person I know,” James grumbled as the taxi moved off, “who would hail a taxi to go and get jammed in London traffic when there was a perfectly good tube station there.”

  “Stop complaining,” said Agatha. “I’m thinking. Look, would you say that Rory was the sort of have powerful friends?”

  “His grandfather was the Bishop of York, his uncle owns the Morning Herald, and his mother is the Member of Parliament for Harrington. His father is a brigadier, Blues and Royals and his sister, Penelope, is married to the Duke of Hadshire.”

  “But the establishment doesn’t have any power these days,” protested Agatha.

  “Just try crossing them,” said James. “Look, no one, even in our slimy press wants to be the bastard that wrote about Molly being raped.”

  “Not then. But what about now when they’re all reporting the murders and frightened the foreign press might get the story first?”

  “You’re too cynical. This cab must be doing two miles an hour. We should have taken the tube. Oh, God!” James leapt from the cab, bought a magazine at a kiosk and caught up with the cab at the red lights and jumped in.

  “How’s your French?” he asked.

  “Menu French, that’s pretty much all.”

  “Look!” James held out a magazine. Molly’s anguished face stared out at them under a headline. “What does it say?” asked Agatha.