by M C Beaton
Two policemen listened as Agatha gabbled that Laura was dead. “Wait there,” one of them ordered.
Agatha shivered, her arms wrapped round herself. Then to her horror, she heard a scream coming from upstairs in the house. One of the policemen came out, eyeing the broken pane of glass.
“Miss Darby is alive. She had a face mask on. She looked down at you from the window a minute ago. At first she referred to you as Madame Clouseau, but then said you were some sort of private detective called Agatha Raisin. She says she will not press charges but she will send you a bill for repairing the door and replacing the stained glass. Now I must ask you to accompany us to the station where we will take down your statement.”
* * *
By the time Agatha got back to Carsely, her rage against Charles had returned and burst out into open fury when she found him asleep on her sofa with the cats lying across him.
She went into the kitchen and collected a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, went back to the sitting room and poured the cold water over his face. He sat up spluttering while the cats fled.
He took out a handkerchief and fastidiously dried his face and mopped up water spilled on his clothes. “Bitch,” he remarked.
“Selfish, self-centred bastard,” howled Agatha.
“Got something.” Charles fished down the side of the sofa and produced a magnum of champagne with a pink silk bow tied round the neck of the bottle. “Deepest thanks, Aggie. Arranged with my accountant to pay your Spanish expenses so send him a bill and stop scowling at me and get out a couple of glasses.”
“Why weren’t you at the meeting?”
“Went to buy this for you. Met an old school chum and got talking. Pour us some champers, Aggie.”
“Pour it yourself,” said Agatha. “I’m weary and I’m in disgrace. I’ll light the fire.”
The fire had been set by her cleaner so Agatha put a match to the kindling and sat back on her heels to watch the blaze. Then she moved to an armchair and kicked off her shoes.
Charles handed her a glass of champagne and sat on the floor at her feet. “Out with it,” he said.
So Agatha told him how she had thought Laura was dead and Charles laughed and spluttered.
“I’m glad you find it funny,” she said.
“Well, it is. So PR of the ages, what’s your big idea?”
“Got a damn good mind not to tell you,” mumbled Agatha.
“Have some more champagne and start the day all over again.”
“You’ve got Cater Thompson in your attic.”
“And you’ve got bats in yours. What are you talking about?”
“There was this Hell Fire Club member, Cater, used to live in the old Tudor building and get up to all sorts of nasties. So you start by throwing a candlelit fund-raiser for the Red Cross.”
“I do something for the Red Cross every year, so what’s new?”
“The party’s in the ballroom, is it?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve got that pseudo-medieaval minstrels gallery up above?”
“So?”
“There’s a portrait of the old rip in the attics. You hang it prominently in the ballroom. Don’t spend money on too many candles. Lots of shadows needed. No light except from an electric light over Cater’s portrait. Know any actresses?”
“I know Bethany Cross. She’s sort of third maiden on the left at the Royal Shakespeare Company.”
“Anyway, someone like that. You get a hologram of Cater. She points up and shrieks. At first sight a transparent flickering impression. Get the press there. Make it wine and cheese. You wait until the fame of the ghost spreads out over the countryside and then you advertise tours of your house at ten pounds a head.
“Let me think,” Agatha went on. “Before that actress sees the ghost, you get a fan set up somewhere so that people can claim the room went suddenly cold. If it catches on, we get a gift shop with postcards of Cater and mugs and dishcloths. But I want four percent, not one.”
“Greedy cow!”
“Cheapskate.”
“Your glass is empty, Aggie.”
“Tell me, Charles, what question haven’t I asked?”
“Will you marry me?”
“Don’t be frivolous. The murders. A detective said to me you had to think of that all-important question you should have asked.”
“I’ll get a piece of paper and we’ll start,” said Charles. “Least I can do when you’ll be slaving away for one percent.”
“Four. And don’t try to pull a fast one.”
“Right. Have paper, have pen. Let’s start with Sir Edward.”
“Is he mad? What happened to you in the jungle?”
“Possible,” said Charles. “Molly?”
Agatha took the bottle and helped herself to more champagne. “What about this? Are you just a whore or do you murder people as well?”
“Too blunt,” said Charles.
“Laura Darby. Did you murder your sister?”
“I like that one,” commented Charles.
“Can’t use it, she’ll sue.”
“Garage chap. Margaret wasn’t your type so it must have been the money. Were you so angry with her when she told you she wasn’t leaving you any that you killed her?”
“I think,” said Agatha, “that we are looking at this the wrong way. I think what that detective meant was: what question have you not asked yourself?”
“Let’s sleep on it,” said Charles. “If I slept with you, a bright idea might hit me.”
“What would hit you would be my fist,” said Agatha, fighting down a longing to be held.
* * *
Agatha awoke to the sound of the vacuum. She struggled awake, cursing that she had forgotten to set the alarm and then remembered it was Saturday, the day that she and Toni usually turned up to go over a few cases, but usually only for an hour. The vacuum was switched off and Agatha could hear Doris and Charles talking but couldn’t make out the words. She got up, showered and dressed and went downstairs and then remembered she hadn’t any makeup on.
Agatha fished what she called her emergency repair kit from a cupboard and started to make up her face. “Bit unhygienic,” said Charles. “A little cloud of blusher has floated into my croissant.”
“Then blow it off,” said Agatha. “Got a croissant for me?”
“In the bag on the table.”
“Ta.”
“We could have some fun today,” said Charles.
“And I’m not up for it, sweetie.”
“Who’s asking, you raddled old bag. Joke. Don’t throw the coffeepot at me. I phoned Gustav last night about your idea and for a start, he’s bringing a magician over. I want to use the magician for something else. I want him to frighten the witches of Sumpton Harcourt into spilling what they know about the murders. Surely you want some revenge. Did they ever get charged for shoving a syringe in your neck?”
“No. No proof. Worth a try, this haunting idea.”
“He should be here soon.”
“Have you ever considered, Charles, that if you ever did get married that your wife might not like Gustav glooming around the place?”
The doorbell rang. Charles answered it and came back with only Gustav.
“Where’s the magician?” asked Agatha.
“Jock’s following on.”
“Jock doesn’t sound very magician-like,” complained Agatha.
“He was billed as The Great Magico. Still is but he has to get gigs on the continent, vaudeville having died,” said Gustav. “Mrs. Raisin, you have lipstick on your cheek.”
Agatha gave a squawk of dismay and decided to go upstairs and change her whole makeup. Who knows? This Jock might be attractive.
Once in her bedroom, she sat down at her dressing table mirror. It was an old Victorian one, Agatha having given up using the magnifying mirror in the bathroom. Too depressing and sort of self-punishing. She looked in the mirror and a white face, twisted and sneering slowly smiled b
ack at her.
Agatha screamed and screamed. Charles pounded up the stairs and opened the door and Agatha flew into his arms, babbling about the mirror. Putting her firmly aside, Charles looked in the mirror and saw nothing but his own face. The mirror was on top of a dresser. Charles suddenly leaned over the dresser and found himself looked into the ghastly face of a small man.
“Can I be of assistance?” came Gustav’s voice.
“Get the police,” yelled Charles.
“That’s Jock,” said Gustav. “He wanted to show Mrs. Raisin just how good he could be.”
“You could have given me a heart attack,” screamed Agatha. “Take your precious Jock and f—”
“Wait a bit, Aggie,” said Charles. “If he frightened you, think of the effect on a pair of silly witches.”
Agatha stood with her head bowed.
“Can I come out now?” asked a plaintive voice from behind the dresser.
“Oh, come on,” said Agatha. “But don’t ever scare me again.”
Jock, when he emerged, turned out to be a small, very thin man. “Okay,” said Agatha, “how did you do it?”
“Charles left the door open when he let Gustav in,” said Jock. “I nipped up the stairs, saw the mirror, done that trick before, took the glass out, and Bob’s your uncle.”
Agatha glared at Charles. “All this get the police rubbish. You were in on this, Charles. All I want is to be free of this case and … and…” With that, Agatha burst into tears.
“You won’t be free of it blubbing like a baby,” snapped Charles. “Pull yourself together.”
Agatha socked him on the nose and he let out a yell of pain.
* * *
It was a sorry group who gathered in the kitchen. Gustav was serving out coffees laced with brandy. Agatha was sullen, Charles angry and nursing a sore nose and Jock was mentally doubling his fee.
As the brandy in the coffee began to warm her, Agatha reflected that if Jock’s magic had caused her such an upset, what would it do to a couple of gullible witches?
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “You’re on. You will be paid a basic fee but only get a bonus if they’re really scared.”
She opened up her laptop and showed Jock her notes on the mother and daughter who ran the café in Sumpton Harcourt. “Their names are Josie and Tracy Fawkes, as in Guy. Previously charged for growing cannabis. Josie’s mother was one of the coven ridiculed in the Picture Post all those years ago. There are three other witches that we know of in the coven because they were all arrested after I was attacked. When are you going to start work?”
“Right away. I need to case the café and living quarters.”
“Phil Marshal, one of my detectives, took a series of photographs,” said Agatha, bringing them up on her laptop.
After he had studied the photographs and made notes, Agatha made him sign a statement that he would only get a modest sum unless he was successful and then the amount would be generous and Charles witnessed it.
Jock went up to the bathroom to clean the greenish-white greasepaint from his face that he had used in the haunting of Agatha.
Agatha began to pace up and down her kitchen. “I hope he doesn’t frighten one of them literally to death. Horrible pair but if they’re innocent, I don’t want a death on my conscience.”
Gustav covertly watched Agatha. He certainly did not want his boss to marry such as Agatha Raisin and had made sure it didn’t happen in the past. But there was certainly something between the pair. They finished each other’s sentences. Charles was looking over Agatha’s shoulder at something on her computer and at one point he gave her a swift kiss on the cheek and Agatha smiled up at him.
“‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’” said Gustav.
“Quite the little Jeeves, aren’t you?” said Charles. “Why are you quoting the Bible?”
“I was thinking of the witches,” said Gustav, who was actually thinking he would deal with a possible Charles-Agatha situation later.
“What’s been bothering me is that stuff that knocked you out. What was it?”
“Some sort of date-rape drug. People used it to clean car tyres or something. I think it’s been taken off the market.”
“GHB. It’s one of the date-rape drugs. Can kill if too much is administered. So what’s bothering me is this. I would have expected them to use one of their own plant drugs or bop you on the head. Margaret Darby was strangled and that policeman was hit on the head and smothered. I somehow can’t see the witches being involved.”
“Well, I can,” said Agatha. “You’ve changed your tune. This is all your idea.”
* * *
Josie and Tracy Fawkes brought down the steel shutters over the shop-cum-café front window and ran indoors, shivering. “If anyone else talks about global warming. I’ll put a curse on them,” said Tracy.
Her mother poured out two glasses of port. “Bottoms up, lass. Should us have a go at that Raisin woman again?”
“Naw. Them police were something nasty. What’s for dinner, ma?”
“Told you. Your wits are wandering. Nicked one o’ the vicarage chickens. That daft Molly woman started trying to keep them. Nice bit o’ roast chicken although in my mind, it still do seem stupid calling ’em chickens when in my day they was hens and if fer cooking, you asked for a boiling fowl or roasting fowl.”
“Oh, yawn, ma. Who the hell cares what happened in your day. Who … What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Thought I heard something upstairs.”
“Tell you what, my lass. Let’s go to the pub for one afore supper. Jem Thatchell’s keen on you and he’s got a tidy farm. Put a bit o’ makeup on.”
“Right, ma.”
Tracy went up to her bedroom under the thatched eaves. She sat down at her dressing table and took out her box of cosmetics. Her mirror had two sides: one magnified, the other plain. Tracy didn’t feel like facing her magnified image and so she twisted the mirror round to the ordinary side. She searched her makeup collection for her precious bottle of Dior foundation cream which she had stolen from Harvey’s in Mircester. She got up and opened her bedroom door. “Ma!” she yelled. “You bin pinching my makeup?”
“Wouldn’t be seen dead in it,” came her mother’s reply.
Tracy turned to go back to her seat when she saw that bottle of Dior. It appeared to have rolled into a far corner of the room. Clucking impatiently, she picked it up and returned to the dressing table.
She unscrewed the top of the bottle, put a little on one hand and leaned forward to study her reflection. A neighbour was to say that the wail Tracy let out was like the wail of one of those American trains you saw on television, racing through the Midwest.
For to Tracy, that face looked like a demon from hell with glaring red eyes. Her mother came pounding up the stairs. It took quite a time for Mrs. Fawkes to calm her shaking, incoherent daughter down. But when she heard what had happened, she walked to the mirror and whispered, “Is that you, my lord?” But only her own reflection stared back at her.
“There’s nothing there,” she grumbled. “You bin seeing things.”
“Oh, ma. I’m frit. Do you think the master is punishing us? We should never ha’ called on him.”
“We’ll call on him tomorrow as usual. You’ll see. It’ll be all right, lass. Come on. Forget the pub. Chicken looks great.”
But when they returned to the kitchen, it was to find that the chicken had gone.
“You silly cow!” raged Mrs. Fawkes. “Devils be damned. That was someone playing tricks on you, Trace-girl, in order to get their hands on my … Check the money. Quick!”
Tracy went to a low cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and brought out a large white enamel tin bearing the legend FLOUR. She opened it and fell back with a great scream. For a jack-in-the box had sprung up and now hung over the edge of the tin. Of the money, they discovered, there was no sign.
* * *
Agatha and Char
les waited for Jock to return to see if he had scared some sort of confession out of them.
“After Jock left, you were away for some time,” said Charles suspiciously. “Where did you go?”
“Well, if you must know, I wanted to be sure Jock was playing fair. I tell you, Charles, I feel sure that one has done time in prison. Phil said in his report that they spent all their free time in their kitchen. I stuck a powerful tape recorder on their kitchen window just below the extractor fan. I told Simon to go and pick it up while you were in the bathroom.”
The doorbell rang. “That’s either Jock or Simon.” Charles went to answer it and came back with Simon.
He handed Agatha her tape recorder. “Listen to it?” asked Agatha.
“Haven’t had time,” said Simon.
Agatha switched it on. They heard shrieks and yells coming from the kitchen as the missing chicken was discovered along with their money. And then Josie Fawkes’s terrified voice. “It’s the Master,” she said in an anguished voice. “We done displeased him, that’s what. We was ever so careful. Told that daft bitch, Darby, there was a handsome man waiting for her in the woods by the praying rock like he asked.”
“What’ll we do?” wailed Tracy. “We didn’t tell the others in the coven. He says as how we were special.”
“We’ll go up to the prayer rock tonight at midnight and call on him,” said Josie. “He’ll know what to do.”
Then a scream and cries of, “Who the hell are you?”
“Evening, ladies,” came Jock’s voice. “Now that was an interesting conversation you just had. So you helped our murderer. The police would be interested, but if you report the loss of your money, then I will tell them what I heard. It’s no use creeping behind me with that rolling pin, Mrs. Fawkes. I have a gun and I can easily shoot you both dead. Now good evening to you both. It’s been fun. Only a pair of silly bitches like you would go on about this Master. You’ve helped a very human murderer.”
There came a scraping sound as Simon detached the tape recorder.
“Gustav,” said Charles. “Where did you find this magician?”
“I employed him at the last fete,” said Gustav defensively. “He told fortunes. Great success.”
“And do you think he’ll turn up here?”
