by M C Beaton
“She must be a nymphomaniac,” said Agatha. “Does her husband know? I can hardly ask him. I’ll sound out Bengy tonight.”
Agatha suddenly wondered about Charles’s visits to the vicarage. Would he? Could he? Did he? She rose and went to the ladies’ room and dialled his mobile number. He hardly ever answered it but this time he did and listened carefully while she told him of Simon’s experience.
“Any time I was there,” said Charles, “the husband was in his study or coming or going, but not by one flicker of an eyelash did she indicate any come-hither desires. Must be losing my touch.”
“Tcha,” said Agatha and rang off.
* * *
Agatha dressed warmly, rather than fashionably for her dinner with Bengy as the evening had turned biting cold. It was rare for it to be so cold in November. Frost was glittering on Lilac Lane as she drove off past the black shell of James’s cottage.
She hadn’t been eating much lately and her waistband felt comfortably loose and so she was looking forward to a great plate of pasta. Let the more sophisticated explore the delights of Italian cuisine: all Agatha wanted was a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.
Bengy was already waiting for her. He was wearing a blue and white gingham shirt, strawberry-coloured cords and a blue cashmere sweater. He had a rather camp voice and mannerisms but Agatha’s sharp intuition told her he was not gay. There was a strong masculine streak there to counteract what he paraded as his feminine side.
After they had selected their meals and wine, Agatha started by asking him about the dinner party before the murder.
“It was pretty grim,” said Bengy. “I mean, Tiffany seemed good fun but the wine was awful. It wasn’t because it was box wine. I’m not a wine snob and some of the New Zealand stuff is okay but that stuff was sour and I think she’d added water to the decanter. Fact was, me and sis went for a laugh. They were so determined to be the squire and his lady, but it went past a joke. Edward definitely had a slate loose. You know, the Cotswolds are becoming like a theme park. ‘Find the Real Villager’ should be a new board game.”
“I think the witches of Sumpton Harcourt could be classed as real villagers,” said Agatha.
“They’re all bonkers as well. I mean they could get a small fortune selling off their cottages but they make a good bit in drugs as far as I know. Peddle them round the discos of Mircester and Birmingham. They make up potions and sell magic mushrooms, stuff like that. Charge a lot, too. I saw them selling their wares at a Mircester folk festival, all dressed up like the three in Macbeth and people thought they were buying a legitimate trip bit of Olde Englande. I’m telling you, Agatha, in this day and age when the downtrodden middle classes are being taxed out of existence and you cannot make funny jokes about the Irish anymore and watch what you say and political correctness rules, you can sell a lot of people the myth of this green and pleasant land. Give us back our country. Send the immigrants home.”
“God help us all if all the immigrants went home,” said Agatha. “There would hardly be a medical expert left in the country. You were joking, of course.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Are your menu choices usually so unadventurous? Spag Bol?”
“Love it,” said Agatha. “Now tell me all about Margaret Darby.”
“What’s to tell? Spinster of the parish. Almost on the point of getting wed to a bit of rough over at Ancombe but sister visited him and he cried off.”
“Wait a bit. He said she dumped him.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire. I swear, sweetie, it was that sister of hers. I know, because I happened to ask him.”
“Why did you happen to ask him?” said Agatha, her bearlike eyes suddenly shrewd.
“Was over there one day and ran into him and asked him when the wedding was to be. That’s what he told me. Wedding’s off.
“Asked him why and he said that Laura Darby had told him something and he wasn’t going to go ahead. I asked him what it was but he wouldn’t tell me. Let’s talk about you. Tell me all about your adventures.”
Usually, Agatha loved to brag, but she talked only automatically about a few of her cases while inside her mind was turning over implications of what he had said. Laura did not want her sister to marry the garage man. Laura had plenty of money but when had that ever stopped a greedy person from wanting more? Laura said she had inherited but she hadn’t. It had all been left to the dog’s trust. But had she known that?
They had reached the coffee stage. When Agatha finally finished talking, he said, “What a fascinating woman you are. But you are going to be so, so mad at me because…”
“You’ve forgotten your wallet,” said Agatha.
“Oh, my dear, how too, too understanding. I must go to the loo.”
Agatha called for the bill. She noticed he had left his jacket over his chair because the restaurant was warm and was tempted to search his pockets, but decided suddenly to phone Patrick instead.
When the ex-copper came on the phone, Agatha asked, “You heard the autopsy result, didn’t you?”
“Which one?”
“Margaret Darby.”
“Told you. Strangled.”
“They didn’t tell you by any chance that she was a virgin?”
“Funny that. They was making jokes about it at the morgue, calling her the Last Chance Saloon, you know, the last virgin in Gloucestershire. Anything else?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Agatha settled the bill as Bengy came bounding back, still babbling apologies. Charles was always claiming to have left his wallet, thought Agatha, and she experienced a strong flash of dislike for Bengy because he had made her think nasty thoughts about Charles.
They had only had one glass of wine each in the restaurant, neither wanting to risk being stopped by the police. Agatha was about to get into her car when she remembered she had run out of brandy and Charles liked brandy. She would not admit she wanted a drink when she got home. She walked to a small Asian corner store which sold liquor and there was Bengy, open wallet, paying for a bottle of wine.
“Evening,” cried Agatha.
Bengy swung round, his face flaming. “It must have fallen down the lining of my jacket. Next time it really is on me.” He darted out the shop.
Agatha bought a bottle of brandy and made her way home, thinking that women who had money should never flaunt it, wear cheap clothes, and choose their friends carefully. The only good thing was that she did not have any relatives that she knew about. You can dump your friends, but relatives stick like glue.
“And talking of cheapskates,” she muttered as she let herself in and smelled cigarette smoke. Sure enough, Charles was stretched out on the sofa.
But Agatha was too full of new discoveries to get cross with him. As Charles took the bottle of brandy from her and poured two glasses, she told him about the odd contradiction of what the garage man had told her and what Bengy had said.
“We’ll go tomorrow and ask him,” said Charles lazily. “I’m tired.”
“What have you been doing?” asked Agatha, but all Charles did was drain his glass, kiss her on the cheek and go off upstairs.
Agatha sat clutching her brandy goblet. There had been a faint smell of scent coming from Charles’s clothes. Who had he been with? She had no right to ask. She had no hold over any man on earth. And feeling almost pleasurably martyred, Agatha went to bed.
* * *
There was an awkward atmosphere at the breakfast table—and it isn’t coming from me, thought Agatha. He’s guilty about something.
“Stop it,” said Charles suddenly. “I have a mild hangover, that’s all.”
But Agatha sensed a woman. Mrs. Bloxby would tell her in her gentle roundabout way to mind her own business. But Agatha began to feel old and dowdy.
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Charles, “just in case there isn’t bubble, bubble, toil and trouble waiting for you.”
He came back bearing a large bouquet of red roses and li
lies. Agatha read the card. “Please forgive me and have dinner with me. Bengy.”
“How nice!” said Agatha. “Maybe he’s not a real cheapskate like you.”
“And maybe he’s a murderer. Stop drooling over those flowers and let’s go.”
He waited impatiently while Agatha arranged the flowers in a vase before driving them both to Ancombe and to John Hardcotte’s garage.
At first he stuck to his original story until Agatha said that unless he told them the truth, they would need to report him to the police and say they thought he had been making false statements. If he told them the truth, then they would not go to the police.
On the corrugated roof of the workshop where they had found him, they could hear the rain beginning to fall. John Hardcotte sat down on an upturned oil drum and nervously wiped his hands on an oily rag.
“I was trying to protect her good name, and that’s a fact,” he said. “It was that sister, Laura. Her come over one day and says as how Margaret can’t make our date ’cause she’s sick and I’d better get myself checked out. I says, says I, ‘What’s up, doc?’ Jokey like. But her didn’t laugh. Her says that Margaret has gonorrhea. I had to believe it. I mean, her own sister. So I told Laura to tell Margaret I didn’t want to see her again and Laura made me write it down so Margaret would believe it. Her must ha’ been right hurt.”
“Margaret Darby was a virgin,” said Agatha.
Agatha had read in books about people’s faces being contorted with rage but it was the first time she had seen such a thing. His face became dark red and his eyes narrow. Little specks of spit flew out from his mouth as he snarled, “I’ll kill the bitch. Everyone thinks I wanted Margaret for her money, but I loved her. I liked her being ladylike.”
“What do you think?” asked Agatha as they drove off. “Oh, I’ll drop you by your car and then I’d better go to the office.”
“I do think he was telling the truth. It’s beginning to look as if Laura could be the murderer.”
“I don’t think she would be strong enough to hoist two dead bodies up that tree.”
“Are you going to confront her?”
“No,” said Agatha. “I’m going to watch her. If she had anything to do with the murders, then she didn’t do it alone.”
“Right,” said Charles. “I’m off.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“I have a life of my own, Aggie. Off you go.”
“And as one goes, another arrives,” said Agatha, rolling down her window. “Hullo, Roy.”
“I got time off,” said Roy. “Thought I’d come and see you. Press around?”
“You’ll find some over at Sumpton Harcourt. I’ve got detecting to do.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Oh, get in the car. We’re off to Oxford. I’ll tell you about it on the road.”
* * *
Roy only half listened as Agatha told him why they were going to Oxford. His boss, Mr. Pedman, had wanted Agatha to sponsor a new miniature tape recorder in a series of television advertisements. Roy was sure Agatha would turn it down. He had suggested they get the lead actor from a popular spy series, but Pedman seemed determined to have Agatha. “Best public relations officer the world had ever seen,” he would say, and Roy would try not to feel hurt.
“So,” Agatha ended up saying, “you’ve got a boring day ahead of you, Roy. Why did you really come?”
“Ever heard the word ‘friendship’?”
“Out with it! What does old Pedman want?”
So Roy told her.
“Nope,” said Agatha. “People on the road down appear in advertisements and I am still on the road up.”
“I should have driven myself,” said Roy. “I could have taken the train. What a waste of time.”
“Oh, do shut up, you creepy little thing. Laura lives over there. I want to watch where she goes and who she sees.”
“Maybe she’s not at home,” suggested Roy.
“Yes, she is. Saw her move across the upstairs window a minute ago. I’m hungry. Go and buy some sandwiches or something.”
“Okay. What do you want?”
“Ham on white. And if you can find some coffee as well, I’ll have a cup of black Americano.”
“Won’t be long,” said Roy. “At least it’s stopped raining.”
Agatha waited. And waited. She wondered what on earth had happened to Roy. But Roy had hit gold. He had found they were filming part of the latest James Bond film in Gloucester Green. During a break, he had managed to tell the producer about the new tape recorders and how the Chinese firm would pay a substantial amount to have them shown, even for a second, in a bit of the movie. Roy had hit the big time. Mr. Pedman was racing towards Oxford and the CEO of the Chinese company as well.
The result was that Agatha lost Laura. She saw her leave but did not want to abandon Roy in Oxford. She waited hours, hoping Laura would return and by late evening, she drove slowly home, finding to her fury that Roy had somehow got back and had taken his car.
She felt angry at having wasted a day. But if she waited for Laura to return home, the woman would probably just draw the curtains and go to bed.
It was at times like this that Agatha’s faith in her ability as a detective began to waver. She usually saw herself as a ruthless, independent, modern woman. But as she slowly drove home, all she wanted was some strong man to come along and take all the cares away. The feminists tried so hard. But was all this romantic nonsense hardwired into women? It’s because they have babies, you idiot, she thought. Babies! A son! If I hadn’t been faffing around trying to make a fortune and be top of the tree, I could be going home to my family. Hard on that cosy thought came a darker one of a nagging imperious husband, making her life hell. Look at James. What a crusty old bugger he had turned out to be.
In Carsely, Agatha went straight to the vicarage and, despite a sour welcome from the vicar, was soon settled in the vicarage drawing room with a glass of dry sherry in her hand and a soft armchair beside the log fire. “I’ve been feeling sorry for myself,” said Agatha.
“When there isn’t a man in your life, you are always sorry for yourself, Mrs. Raisin. You need a dream.”
“Talking of dreams, did you never want a career?” asked Agatha.
“Of course. I was very ambitious. I got a first from Oxford and felt the world was at my feet. But I met Alf at the May Ball in my last year. And that was that. He was already the vicar here having graduated some years before. Friends brought him along. We were married three months later.”
Agatha wanted to cry out, “What a waste!” but, unusually for her, remained silent.
But, then, the Mrs. Bloxbys of this world from genteel backgrounds knew nothing of frowsty digs and hunger and driving ambition to do something, anything that would get you out of one of life’s rat holes.
“Begin at the beginning,” Agatha realised Mrs. Bloxby was saying.
“What? Margaret Darby?”
“Yes. Why poor Miss Darby?”
Agatha talked and talked until she began to see Laura and some accomplice as being guilty of the murders. Laura had shown that she did not want her sister to marry, and greed was a great motivator.
She explained this to the vicar’s wife. “Don’t forget the witches,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“What? Bunch of silly menopausal women playing games?”
“They worship evil. Some man is probably using them. Or woman.”
“What do you know about Molly Harris?” asked Agatha.
“Only that she had a bad traumatic experience.”
“Guy met me for dinner and more or less said she had been asking for it and that’s when I tipped the spag Bol over his head.”
“Which probably means he made a pass at her and got turned down,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“No, as they say in Irish foreplay, brace yourself, Bridget, because this is shocking.”
She told Mrs. Bloxby about Simon’s adventure on the kitchen table.
“Why?”
“No one would have thought of having sex on the kitchen table—so very unhygienic—if that scene had not been shown so many times on television and films. I can imagine men who just wanted a bit of howsyourfather going on like that, but a woman would have to be some sort of nymphomaniac.”
Agatha gave a snort of laughter. She should have known that such as Mrs. Bloxby would have seen it all and heard it all, and would not be shocked. People told the vicar’s wife things they would not have dared tell anyone else. “Could she kill to stop her husband finding out about an episode?” asked Agatha.
“I don’t think so. Often they want to be found out and then abused.”
“This is the Cotswolds!” wailed Agatha. “In all my dreams of moving here, I saw only sober, decent people.”
“Of which there are many. Another sherry?”
“No, thanks. I’d better get home to my cats.”
* * *
Charles was sitting on the sofa, staring into space when she walked in. Agatha studied him, sniffed the air, caught that faint whiff of scent and said, “It’s always money with you. Who is she?”
“Patricia Brent-Arthurton.”
“Who is rich.”
“Very.”
“Beautiful?”
“No.”
“Sexy?
“No.”
“So it’s all about money?”
“Agatha, you don’t know what it means to have land. I’m damned if I’ll part with an acre. I’ve worked and worked to make it pay. But I can probably kiss goodbye to the European Union farm subsidies. Besides, it’s a business deal.”
“I don’t get you.”
