The Witches' Tree--An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  Muttering under his breath, Simon started to wash dishes while the wail of a siren drew nearer. Then two paramedics rushed in, followed by the fire brigade.

  Simon turned round and glared at Rory. “Shouldn’t we be helping?”

  “Relax. This is God’s waiting room. We’re used to it.”

  Simon gloomily washed and stacked dishes on racks. Then he heard Molly calling, “Going to the hospital, dear.”

  “Okay. Call me when you’re finished.”

  “I’m off,” said Simon.

  Rory swung round. “What? Oh, yes, well, thanks.”

  * * *

  When he was not determined to fall in love, Simon was a good detective because he was as tenacious as a bulldog. He planned to wait outside the hospital. He had noticed that Molly’s little car was still outside the vicarage. So she would need a run home and he would be on hand to give her a lift. His sex life was healthy because there always seemed to be girls willing to go to bed with him. But Simon was a romantic and craved a great passion.

  After an hour of waiting outside the hospital, Molly emerged, looking to the left and right. Simon bounded from his car and then stopped still. For Rory was hugging his wife and she was looking into his eyes and smiling. Simon suddenly felt very young and silly.

  He decided to go and call on Agatha in Carsely. But when he got there it was to find there was no one at home.

  He retreated to the shelter of his car. It had stopped raining but it was very cold, red and gold autumn leaves dancing down on a brisk northeaster. He got into his car and switched on the engine and the heater and then promptly fell asleep. He had gone to a disco the night before and had picked up an energetic girl who was training to be an Olympic runner. She had turned out to be as energetic in bed as she had been on the dance floor.

  Agatha rapping on his car window woke him up. “I want to talk to you,” said Simon, struggling out of his car.

  “If it has anything to do about your pure and noble love for Molly Harris, I’m too tired to hear it.”

  “I thought you might like to talk about the murders, but if you’re tired…”

  “No, come in.”

  “I’m like you. I could always do with a drink,” Simon said.

  Agatha bit her lip in vexation. Now Simon was hinting she might have a drinking problem as well as Charles.

  The hell with both of them, she thought, as she settled down in front of the fire in her cottage with a large gin and tonic in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  Simon grinned. “You are an insult to political correctness.”

  “Sod political correctness. What did it ever do for anybody?”

  “Well, for a start,” said Simon, “it stopped a lot of people from dying earlier than they should have by shaming them into giving up smoking.”

  “And closing down the village pubs and damaging the economy and having loads of old people cluttering up the wards when, if they had let them smoke, would have been dead by now. I thought you wanted to talk about the murders.”

  Simon looked from the newly lit log fire to the colourful bookshelves and to a large vase filled with bronze-coloured chrysanthemums. “It’s homey here,” he said. “I mean, no one would ever think of you as a homemaker. I mean they think of someone good like Mrs. Bloxby.”

  “And I am not good, you insulting little twat?”

  “Sorry, Agatha. It started off as a compliment. Okay, the murders. I read your notes. That voice that came down the chimney, any more threats?”

  Agatha shook her head. The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Simon.

  He opened the door. A man handed him a bunch of flowers and a large box of chocolates. “Sign here,” he said. Simon signed and carried the flowers and chocolates indoors to Agatha.

  “That’s odd,” said Agatha. “There doesn’t seem to be a card.”

  “I’d better get rid of these chocolates,” said Simon. “They could be poisoned. And there could be something poisonous among the flowers. Remember that case where people died of wolf bane poisoning, something that can grow innocently in anyone’s garden?”

  “I’ve got a dustbin I use for burning rubbish down at the bottom of the garden. Throw the lot in there and set fire to it.”

  Simon went off with the flowers and chocolates. Agatha was just about to light another cigarette when the doorbell rang. She went into her little hall and looked through the spyhole on the door.

  “Charles,” she said. “What brings you?”

  “I wondered if you had found out anything more. Oh, this was lying on your doorstep.” He handed her a card. It said, “Just little tokens of my admiration. Guy.”

  “Oh, hell! The chocolates!” Agatha ran straight through her house and into the back garden where Simon’s jester’s face was illuminated by the blazing bonfire.

  Agatha mutely handed Simon the card which he read by the light of the fire.

  “Well, we’ve saved your figure,” said Simon.

  “How did you manage to get such an enormous blaze?”

  “You’ve a can of petrol in your shed. I poured it over everything.”

  When they returned to the sitting room, Charles was stretched out on the sofa with the cats on his stomach.

  “Weren’t you even curious?” asked Agatha. “I run screaming through the house to a bonfire in my garden and you show not the least bit of interest.”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson. I hand you a gift card, you run off screaming about chocolates. So I deduce that you didn’t get a card and assumed the chocs were poisoned. So where are we on our murders?”

  “Guy is the number one suspect because Margaret Darby planned to leave him her money before it went to the dear doggies.”

  “Told the police?”

  “They know. That’s where Patrick got it from.”

  “And where was Tiffany going when she said she was going to London?”

  “Not found that out yet.”

  “Isn’t it time you did?”

  “Don’t get cheeky with me, Charles. I’ve got plenty of work and no one is paying me for this lot.”

  Charles lifted the cats onto the floor as he rose and went to pour himself a brandy. He pinched one of Agatha’s cigarettes and sank back onto the sofa. “Have you tried asking Patrick?”

  “I’m sure he would have told me.”

  “He didn’t think to tell you about Guy. Bit of a Lone Ranger.”

  “Oh, I’ll ask him.” Agatha rang Patrick and then looked triumphantly at Charles after she had listened and rung off. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Bill Wong might know.”

  “He’ll never tell you,” said Simon.

  “Listen and learn, my child. Throw me the phone, Agatha.”

  Charles flicked open her mobile phone and scrolled down the numbers. “Why not use your own phone?” said Agatha.

  “Because mobile phones are expensive.”

  He dialled a number. “Ah, Bill, Charles here. Yes, Agatha is all right, or rather I hope she is. She shot off to see that person that Tiffany was visiting before she got murdered. I’m worried she might be in danger. What? Oh, I see. That’s funny. Sorry to bother you. No, I don’t know how she found out. Bye.”

  “So you didn’t get anywhere,” said Agatha.

  “Oh, but I did. She was going to see one of the fairy folk in Kynance Mews off the Gloucester Road. I know that mews. Not all that long. Let’s go tomorrow.”

  “I should be working,” said Agatha.

  “I’ll go,” said Simon.

  “No, I’ve got lots for you to do. I should tell James.”

  “What’s James got to do with it?” asked Charles, an edge of irritation in his voice.

  “He helped me out yesterday. I think he should hear about the latest.”

  “Suit yourself. You don’t need to go there. Phone him.”

  “It’s just next door.”

  * * *

  The fact was that Agatha was beginning to wonder if marriage
again to James might not be a bad idea. She would not even admit to herself that she dreaded the idea of living the rest of her days on her own.

  She sniffed the air. Smoke. Must be from the bonfire in her garden. But as she approached James’s front door, she saw to her horror that it was in flames. She ran back to her own cottage and dialled 999, gabbling that James was going to burn to death.

  “We need buckets of earth,” said Charles to Simon as they stood outside James’s house. Look, there’s a spade there. You start digging and I’ll go round the back and throw things at his bedroom window. Oh, Agatha, get buckets. Chuck as much earth on the door as you can.”

  Charles ran round the back of the house. He tore up clumps of sod from the back lawn and began to hurl them up at the window. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the approaching fire brigade. He saw a half brick lying by the back door and smashed a pane of glass, put his hand in and unlocked the door. He went in and ran up the stairs and into the main bedroom. James was lying, fast asleep. It was only when Charles shook him and yelled at him that he realised James had been drugged. James was over six feet tall and a dead weight. Charles tried to give him a fireman’s lift but fell on the floor, cursing. He extricated himself and dumped James’s body on top of a duvet and began to slide it towards the stairs. He figured if they could get out before the blaze from the front door ignited inside the house, they could be safe. Thank goodness there had been so much rain or the thatch would have gone up as it hung over the door. To his horror he heard a roaring, crackling sound from above his head. The thatch was on fire.

  He dragged James’s unconscious body into the bathroom and slammed the door. Stuffing the duvet under the bottom of the door, he picked up a jug and soaked them both in water. Then to his relief, he heard voices outside and the room was lit up with the lights from the fire truck. He sat down on the floor beside James, feeling tired and sick. He leaned his back against the bath and fell asleep.

  He awoke and struggled as he felt himself being lifted up. “I can walk,” he said crossly, and then smiled instead for it was a firewoman, a tall amazon with beautiful eyes. He remembered vaguely that there was some sort of health facility at the Fire College in Moreton-in-Marsh. Might be worth joining.

  Then the dreary work of the evening began. Charles refused to go to hospital but James was borne off. Statements to be made to the ambulance men, the fire brigade, the police and then Bill Wong and Alice.

  * * *

  At last, Charles and Agatha were left alone. Simon had finally taken himself off, as had Mrs. Bloxby and the villagers who had anxiously gathered at Agatha’s cottage, reassured that no one was dead.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Agatha anxiously. “That firewoman said she thought you were unconscious.”

  “I fell asleep,” said Charles. “It has always been my reaction to the thought of death. Look, Agatha, why burn James’s cottage? Someone thought it was yours.”

  “So who was up on the roof of my cottage that time, trying to scare me?”

  “That could be one of the inbred morons from that hellish village and nothing to do with the murder.”

  “But James went with me to interview Lord Thurkettle. Did you forget?”

  “Never forget anything. Look, Aggie, why don’t we bugger off to some hotel en route to London, get some sleep and then try to run this fairy creature to earth? Don’t lose your nerve. Either we nail this bastard or your life is going to be in perpetual danger. Let’s go now!”

  * * *

  Charles said he would drive Agatha’s car. They stopped at a motel outside London. Thrifty as ever, Charles said they would share a room, but with twin beds, and Agatha was too tired to argue. She fell asleep almost immediately and was awakened hours later by Charles shaking her and saying, “It’s five o’clock. We’ve practically slept the whole day. Better chance of finding people at home in the evening.”

  When they got to the Gloucester Road, a car slid out of a parking place and so Charles drove into it with a triumphant cry of “See, there is a God!”

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Agatha. “Don’t you dare start asking for fairies or even homosexuals or you’ll have the thought police down on us like a ton of bricks.”

  “I bet he used to be an airline steward when she was a trolley dolly.”

  “Honestly, Charles, no one could accuse you of bowing to the pressure of political correctness. So we know he’s gay. That usually means he looked after himself. He may even be married so we’ll go carefully. Remember, a good idea would be to simply ask if anyone knew anyone who used to work for an airline.”

  Despite her day’s sleep, Agatha was feeling weary again and her stomach was rumbling with hunger.

  They were about to give up when, at the far end of the mews, the door was opened by a well-dressed woman in her forties. To Agatha’s tired query of did she know anyone who had worked on an airline, to her surprise, the woman said, “My husband. Is this about Tiffany? You’d better come in.”

  Agatha made the introductions. “I am Geraldine Green. My husband, Clive, used to be a colleague of Tiffany’s. Wait a minute. Take a seat. I’ll get Clive.”

  They sat down in a small living room, decorated with exquisite taste. Clive came bouncing in and Agatha wondered how on earth the police should think him effeminate in any way. He was powerfully built with grey hair and a clever face.

  But when he spoke, his voice had a very camp Australian accent. Well, hullo, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, thought Agatha.

  “Gerry told me what you’re here about. But poor Tiffany never got here. She phoned from the sticks, quite too hysterical and said the press were chasing her. I said, ‘I wish they would chase me, darling,’ and she screamed that she had told a lot of them, she knew the identity of the murderer in that quaint village and she needed to disappear. Well, my dear, do but survey my mansion. Couldn’t swing a cat, let alone have a houseguest. So I said she could sleep in a cot bed in the living room for one night. But she never arrived. Next thing is Mr. Plod the copper on our doorstep telling us someone has killed her. We were great friends one time but she was one hell of a liar. I said to her, I said, ‘Now you listen to me. It’s no use going on about the family mansion when your accent is slipping into Manchester the whole time. You can’t even say Manchester. You pronounce it Munchester.’ But when she nailed Sir Edward, I thought she was set for life. I assume she was lying but the murderer didn’t think so.”

  Agatha realised that she was not going to get any further. Tiffany hadn’t even arrived. Someone must have waylaid her before she even left the village.

  They went for a snack lunch. “Aren’t the police supposed to watch their language?” asked Agatha. “I mean, ‘fairy’ is an insult, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it was said by one copper to an ex-copper. He might be lying, of course. But I can’t see what reason he would have to knock off Margret Darby. Unless there’s some old Cairo connection we don’t know about.”

  “Meaning, Edward hired me to baffle the police? No, he hired me to indulge in dreams of being the great detective. Some of the time, he’s not quite there. What a waste of a trip to London.”

  “Needn’t be. We could get a hotel room and make mad passionate love,” said Charles.

  But Agatha was gazing through the plate glass window of the café where the last of the autumn leaves swirled in a mini tornado on the pavement outside and was only dimly aware he had said something.

  “I suppose James will have to move in with me,” said Agatha.

  “Why? Surely his insurance covers temporary accommodation.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Look, Aggie, grow up and stop living in dreams that maybe you and James could work it out. It’s not going to happen. Come back to reality. Carpe diem!”

  “Oh, crappy diem!” shouted Agatha. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Back in Carsely, Agatha learned from Mrs. Bloxby when she called at the vicarage that
James had been given a temporary flat in Mircester.

  Agatha settled back against the soft cushions of the sofa in the vicarage and heaved a sigh. “Is the case getting to you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

  “It’s not that. It’s Charles. He’s starting to become edgy and he’s apt to sneer.”

  “Give me an example.”

  Agatha told the vicar’s wife about her remark about James moving in with her and Charles’s reaction.

  “He worries about you,” said Mrs. Bloxby diplomatically. She actually thought that there was a good chance Charles had been jealous, but to tell such a dreamer as Agatha that idea would ruin her friendship with Charles. “What about Guy? Are you sure he is innocent?”

  “I’m pretty sure. There was a message from him when I got home asking me to give him a ring.”

  “Why don’t you do that? He’s an attractive man. Yes, I’ve met him. If he is a murderer, that intuition of yours might suss something out. If not, you’ll have a nice evening with an attractive man.”

  “What makes you think he wants to ask me out?”

  “He said something about you being a very attractive woman.”

  Agatha glowed with pleasure. As soon as she got back to her cottage, she phoned him. He suggested she come to his flat on the following evening for dinner. Agatha agreed. But when she put the phone down, she regretted not having insisted meeting him in a restaurant.

  * * *

  On the following day, Agatha gave Toni Guy’s phone number and asked her to call in the middle of the evening to make sure nothing bad was happening.

  Unusually for Agatha, she did not dress up. She was wearing a dark blue trousers suit with a white blouse and half boots in black patent leather.

  Guy’s flat was within walking distance. It was situated above a small Indian shop, still open, light shining on a multitude of goods. To her surprise, there were four bells beside the entrance door in an alley beside the shop. She pressed the one marked HARRIS and waited. After a few moments, the door swung open. Guy stood there beaming and smelling of vodka. I hope he’s not a drunk, thought Agatha. How do you tell someone’s a drunk? The only people in the world who have convinced themselves that vodka doesn’t smell.