The Witches' Tree--An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  “I suppose so,” said Agatha. “I never really thought about it. I’ll see if Patrick can find out.”

  “Maybe the people at that dinner party know something about her. Lord Thurkettle collects stamps. I found what I think might be a rare one. Could use that as an excuse to consult him.”

  “I didn’t know you collected stamps.”

  “I did as a boy. I was going to throw them away but a friend of mine said one of them might be rare. It’s a one-penny stamp with Queen Victoria’s head on it.”

  “I’m not being paid anymore to investigate the murders,” said Agatha. “On the other hand, it would be nice to hand all the grubby divorces and shoplifting and so on to the others for a day. So let’s talk about something else. Where have you been?”

  Agatha had not seen Guy dining on the other side of the dining room because he was half hidden by a potted palm. But he saw her and noticed she was with an attractive man. The light shone on Agatha’s glossy hair and her face was animated. Feisty, thought Guy. Very feisty. He was dining with a male friend, having been turned down by Toni earlier. He had waited for Toni outside the agency and had asked her for dinner. “Sorry,” she had said briefly and had rushed to join a very young man of her own age, making him feel like an ancient satyr. But if he bedded the boss and gave Agatha a right rogering, she might tell Toni and Toni would realise what she had missed. So ran his—very sadly—usual male-type thoughts. An amazing amount of men think a long night of Viagra-fuelled passion will make them seem giants of the bedchamber when in fact they leave the women feeling bruised and used.

  * * *

  James and Agatha set off to see Lord Thurkettle in their separate cars because Agatha said she might drive to the office afterwards. Above the bare branches of the trees, Agatha could see the pale disk of the sun. The village of Cuckleton looked pleasant compared to Sumpton Harcourt. There was a shop-cum–post office, a pub, a couple of gift shops and a restaurant called You Name It. Agatha supposed the cutesy name meant they could supply anything you cared to name. “Turn right,” said the governess voice of Agatha’s brand new sat-nav.

  Lord Thurkettle’s house looked as if it had been plucked off the old airport road and put down in the village. The architecture was what was once described as Stockbroker Tudor in that it was all fake, having been built in the thirties. The frontage was gleaming white with fake black beams. No thatch, noticed Agatha. Clever man stopped short at thatch. Might get rid of my own and get slate.

  “What are you dreaming about?” asked James who had got out of his car behind her.

  “A slate roof.”

  “Wouldn’t that be great? I am sick and tired of the upkeep and the expense,” said James. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Lord Thurkettle looked as if he had been kept away from the sun for too long. His skin was white and powdery and his eyes weak.

  James introduced them and said, “I’ve brought you the stamp to look at. Very good of you to see us.”

  “Why did you bring her? Oh, never mind. Come in. Mary! Coffee in the drawing room.”

  “Is that your wife?” asked Agatha.

  “No, it is my daughter. You’re that detective woman. Poking and prying. Sit down! Not you, Lacey. Bring the stamp over to the light. Mmm. Victorian penny stamp with postmark and envelope. Not bad. Won’t get you a fortune. About three hundred and fifty pounds at best. That’s all. Let me show you some of my best ones.”

  They both sat down at a large mahogany desk while Agatha sat, forgotten.

  In these DNA days when so many crimes were being solved by forensics, Agatha often felt like a dinosaur. But a lot of her success was due to her sharp intuition. Governments had experienced intelligence failures in the past due to overreliance on satellites and forgetting a man on the ground could be much more useful. And so, while the police often concentrated too much on technology and waiting months for DNA results, Agatha ferreted, looked and assessed. So instead of trying to butt in as she would have done not so long ago, Agatha sat quietly and studied Lord Thurkettle. She had read up on him before leaving her home. He had spent some time in the army before studying for the law. Wife deceased. One daughter. No scandal. No bad vibes.

  Lord Thurkettle suddenly looked round. “The Irish would call you a mind fecker, Mrs. Raisin. I can almost feel you scrabbling about in my brain. Stop it. I have not murdered anyone. Read a magazine.”

  Creepy, thought Agatha. But Patrick had told her that some detectives and policemen developed a sort of radar that could zoom into some villain’s head and tell whether he was lying or not. She picked up a copy of Cotswold Life from the coffee table in front of her and began to read a soothing article about a lavender farm.

  Both men joined her as Mary entered pushing a trolley laded with coffeepot, cups and biscuits.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Raisin. I hope I did not offend you.”

  “No, because I’m curious. If you have developed a sort of sixth sense, perhaps you have an idea about who killed Margaret Darby?”

  “It might be an idea to start at the middle,” he said.

  “The middle of what?”

  “I heard you had been concentrating on poor Margaret Darby. What about concentrating on Tiffany? She bragged about knowing the identity of the murderer and I am sure you, like me, thought she was lying. But the murderer didn’t. So who? Start asking her husband about her friends. She was supposed to go to London to visit friends, was she not? What friends? Did she say anything to them? She obviously did not leave but she may have said something if she phoned them to put off her visit.”

  “The sad fact is that I have to work for a living,” said Agatha, “and Edward has cancelled his contract with me.”

  “Don’t look hopefully at me,” said the old judge. “Aging is frightfully expensive. I shall soon need nurses to wipe the drool from my senile lips.”

  * * *

  After they had left and were standing outside, Agatha said, “Let’s find a pub and I’ll phone Patrick. I’m sure the police have the name of the friend that Tiffany was staying with.”

  “What about the one in Sumpton Harcourt?”

  “No, I’d rather try the one here. Maybe if we went to that damned witches’ village someone would stick a needle in my neck again.”

  The village pub was called the King Charles and outside there was a bad painting swinging in the wind of His Majesty.

  The brewery which owned the pub had attempted to make it cosy but a thick carpet of yellow and red geometrical design covering the floor did not quite complement the Regency striped wallpaper, or paintings which were so amateur, James guessed they must have been painted by the villagers. Worse, there was piped Muzak.

  “‘I walked into the nightclub in the morning, there was Kummel on the handle of the door…’”

  “James, what are you mumbling about?” demanded Agatha, sensing rather than recognising a literary quotation with all the irritation of the half-educated.

  “I was quoting John Betjeman.”

  “What’s he got to do with anything?” demanded Agatha.

  “Because I was prompted into quotation by the sight of that squashed tomato sandwich in the middle of the floor. Let’s try somewhere else.”

  But Agatha could scent gin, gorgeous soothing gin, sending out come-hither tentacles in her direction.

  “No, let’s stay. It’s a good place to make calls. It’s quiet.”

  “Have it your way. Your usual?”

  “Make it a double.”

  “You’re driving, remember? Only if I can run you home.”

  “I’d forgotten it was still early in the day,” lied Agatha, but God forbid anyone would think she craved the stuff. “I’ll have a black coffee instead.”

  Once they had settled into what the landlady proudly described as “one of our new bonkettes,” Agatha called Patrick to ask him if any more had been discovered about Margaret Darby’s will. “I gather she kept changing her will,” said Patrick. “But she
left it all to the dog’s trust.”

  When Agatha had rung off, James said, “I thought Thurkettle’s idea of concentrating on Tiffany was a good suggestion.”

  “Yes, but I’ve got this nagging feeling that someone might not have known that Margaret Darby had changed her will. I mean the sister seemed to think she got the lot.”

  Agatha phoned Patrick again and asked him to try to find out who the beneficiary before the dog’s trust had been.

  This sort of pub is why people take to booze, she thought. What a dump! What filthy coffee.

  “You forgot something,” said James.

  “Like what?”

  “Like who was Tiffany visiting in London.”

  “If you are going to sit there and lecture me on how to do my job,” snapped Agatha, “you’d be better off at home with your books.”

  “You are only bitchy because you want a drink. You’d better be careful. You—”

  Agatha’s mobile rang. She listened and then said slowly, “Are you sure?” James heard her say. She had half-risen to her feet, but she suddenly sat down again.

  When Agatha rang off, she said in a shocked voice, “In the will before sister and doggies, Margaret left the whole lot to Guy Harris.”

  Chapter Eight

  Agatha and James stared at each other. “Let’s think about this,” said James. “If the man is that mercenary, then surely he would be chasing someone like you and not Toni, although Toni is gorgeous enough to make any man behave stupidly.”

  “Like you once did,” Agatha pointed out, remembering the time James had made a fool of himself over the girl.

  James got to his feet. “And you are never, ever going to let me forget it!”

  “Oh, sit down. I was merely retaliating. You pointed out that the only interest a man like Guy would have in me is my money.”

  James stood on one foot, looking down his nose, thinking hard.

  “You look like an infuriated stork,” said Agatha.

  James sat down. “So where were we?” said Agatha. “If it’s Guy, he may not have known about the change in the will. Maybe he needs the money. Or maybe she told him and he killed her in a fury. Oh, dear.”

  “Oh, dear, what?”

  “Do you think that Molly and Rory are all they seem?”

  “They surely haven’t been here that long. I mean for Guy to court Margaret enough to get her to change her will in the first place, he’d need to have been down here longer than them. Anyway, Patrick’s coming to join us. He was on a job in Moreton so he’ll be here soon.”

  Agatha finished her coffee and looked at the plastic clock on the wall which told her it was eleven-thirty in the morning. That had always been the trouble with James, that puritanical streak. It had driven her in the past to say awful things to him. She gloomily ordered more coffee and flipped open her iPad. “Let’s see if Guy is here. Got him! He lives in Mircester. He’s an author! I wonder why Charles didn’t know that.”

  “What’s he written?” asked James. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “That’s because he writes as Jane Wither. They look like bodice rippers. This Savage Knight and about twelve others. But they’re not in fashion, are they? Can’t remember any on the bestseller lists. Oh, here’s one and bless me I read it on holiday two years ago. It’s a three-part family saga called The Lancasters. They had piles of it at the airport. So why would he need money?”

  “Because he’d been published before. If he had been a newcomer up for auction at the Frankfurt Book Fair, he’d probably have made a mint.”

  “Maybe he got writer’s block. So he arrives in Sumpton Harcourt before his brother. Maybe went to a village fete. He meets Margaret and sees easy prey. Oh, dear, I do like Molly. I hope they’re not in on it.”

  “Let’s just go and ask him how he knew Margaret and see his reaction,” said James. “Here’s Patrick. Let’s see what he has to say first. Drink, Patrick?”

  “Thanks. I’ll have a half of Hook Norton.”

  They waited impatiently until he had been served and taken a sip. He took out a fat notebook and thumbed the pages. “Let’s see. Miss Darby changed her will to favour Guy Harris just about a year ago.”

  “That’s odd,” said Agatha. “Rory wasn’t vicar here then.”

  “As I said before,” said James. “Let’s just go and ask them.”

  * * *

  Before they entered the vicarage, Agatha was again seized by that odd desire to leave the whole thing to the police. In recent cases there had been attempts on her life and she was beginning to fear death.

  Molly looked as happy and cheerful as usual. “I made scones!” she cried. “I’m getting Cotswoldified. You should see with what an expert hand I twitch the lace curtains. Well, we don’t have lace curtains but I mentally do it. Come into the kitchen. Guy is here.”

  Agatha’s heart sank. She had hoped Molly would be on her own so she could broach the subject. A direct confrontation with Guy might mean losing Molly’s friendship.

  Agatha introduced James and sat down at the kitchen table beside Guy.

  “This is a sort of morning-afternoon tea. Help yourself to a hot scone, Agatha. You, too, James. There’s whipped cream and strawberry jam.”

  Agatha twisted her chair round so that she was looking directly at Guy. “I could do with your help,” she began. “You see, when someone has been murdered, I try to find out as much as I can about the character of the murderee.”

  “So what’s that got to do with me?” asked Guy.

  “Well, you knew Margaret Darby very well.”

  There was a long silence.

  “What do you mean?” asked Guy finally.

  “She left you all her money in her will before she changed it and left the lot to the dog’s trust. It stands to reason you must have known her.”

  Shock was registered on Molly’s face. “I didn’t know you knew Margaret. You never said anything!”

  “I am writing another family saga, sort of Trollope, vicars and bishops and all. I came to the church here as well as several other churches. On one of these visits I met Margaret. She chattered on about parish gossip while I mentally took notes. I even took her out for lunch. Then I realised she had a crush on me and backed off. I was doing a book signing in Mircester and she turned up in the bookshop and accused me in front of everyone of spurning her. She was delusional and quite mad. I was the one that encouraged you and Rory to come here. The minute I heard about Margaret’s murder, I decided not to tell you because you had enough to worry you and that is honestly all there is to it.”

  Agatha suddenly wanted to believe him. He looked so normal. No one could call Charles normal. Too mercenary. James was a confirmed bachelor. But somehow there sat Guy like that sturdy, reassuring man of her dreams. She smiled at him, a blinding smile which lit up her face. Guy blinked.

  Then a cloud passed over Agatha’s face. He had been lusting after Toni and what sort of middle-aged man lusted after such a young girl? The whole damn lot of them, thought Agatha gloomily, not realising that Guy was becoming extremely attracted to her.

  Agatha’s glossy hair shone in the electric light which always had to be on in the vicarage kitchen because of the ivy blocking out the daylight. She had a good curvy figure and very long legs. She smelled of French perfume.

  “Let’s go,” said James abruptly.

  * * *

  Outside, they met Simon who was just getting out of his car. “You’re like a dog in heat,” exclaimed Agatha. “You’re supposed to be working on that divorce.”

  “All wound up,” said Simon.

  “There are other jobs to be done. Why didn’t Toni give you something?”

  “She’s not the boss!”

  “She is when I’m not there and you do know that because I’ve had to tell you enough times.”

  “Leave the boy alone,” said James. “Let’s find somewhere for lunch.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” said Agatha, but Simon was already ringin
g the doorbell.

  * * *

  Molly served Simon with a cup of coffee and a scone. “But you can’t stay long,” she cautioned. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “I could help you,” said Simon eagerly.

  “Women’s work. You can’t. In fact, you and Guy see yourselves out.”

  Guy looked sympathetically at Simon’s downcast face. “Molly’s always rushing here, there and everywhere,” he said. “What’s your boss like?”

  “Bit hard at times,” said Simon, “but mostly all right.”

  “Tied up with anyone? Is that James fellow her latest?”

  “That’s her ex.”

  “What happened to cause the breakup?”

  “I don’t know,” said Simon impatiently. “Why don’t you ask her? Where do you think Molly’s gone?”

  “Don’t know. She does so much already. Wait a bit. She’s showing a film to some old-age pensioners in the church hall. The Jungle Book, I believe.”

  * * *

  Simon, as he walked to the church hall, planned to slip into the back in the darkness, just to be near his goddess. But he walked into a brightly lit hall where Molly was dispensing tea and cakes. She scowled when she saw Simon and then her face cleared. “Would you like to help?” she asked.

  “I’ll do anything,” said Simon.

  “Take this tray of cakes round and see if anyone wants another one or if they want another cup of tea.”

  Simon set off on his rounds, looking forward to the first to do so that he could rejoin Molly. He was beginning to think no one was going to need anything when an elderly man said he would like another cup of tea. Simon bounded back to the table with the tea urn to find Rory, the vicar, presiding over it.

  “Where’s Molly?” asked Simon.

  “If you mean my wife, Mrs. Harris, she is in the ladies’ ministering to someone who had a dizzy turn.”

  “I was just helping out,” said Simon sulkily.

  “Oh, good. Would you mind washing up the cups and saucers and plates?”