by M C Beaton
“Bound to,” said Gustav. “He’ll want his money.”
“I’m not waiting,” said Agatha. “I’m going to that rock at midnight and see who this Master is.”
Charles stifled a yawn. “Do it the easy way, Agatha. Phone the police.”
“No! Why should I do all the groundwork and let them take the praise? Gustav, you wait here and see if he has the nerve to turn up. Where is this prayer rock anyway?”
“Everything’s on the internet now,” said Simon. “I’ll look it up.”
He fiddled about on his iPad and then said, “Got it! It was used by Protestants for services during the reign of Bloody Mary.”
“And how do we get there?” asked Agatha.
“There’s a map here. A mile outside the village to the north, along a footpath through the woods and it is only a few yards off the road.”
“Right. I’m going to put flat shoes and trousers on,” said Agatha. “Master, indeed!”
“Could be Mistress,” said Charles. “You know, a woman masquerading as a man.”
“We’ll see.”
* * *
But it was just after midnight when they reached the rock because Charles had said as he had a big car they should use his and had run out of petrol. So Simon had to walk back to Agatha’s where he had left his motorbike, get a spare can of petrol from the shed at the bottom of Agatha’s garden and ride back with it. Agatha had shouted at Charles and called him a cheapskate so when Simon returned it transpired that Charles had simply got out of the car and walked away.
So Agatha and Simon located the footpath and made their way to the rock. There was no sign of Josie and Tracy. “It’s thanks to bloody Charles putting half a cup of petrol in his tank that we’ve lost a chance to maybe find the murderer,” grumbled Agatha.
The footpath turned sharply and a wedge-shaped rock rose up black against a moonlit sky.
Behind Agatha whispered Charles’s voice, “There’s something on the rock.”
Stifling a scream, Agatha swung round. “Where the hell have you been?” she hissed.
“Oh, do shut up! I don’t work for you, you tiresome bad-tempered bitch. Are you going up there to see what’s on top of the rock or do I have to do it?”
“I’ll go,” said Simon.
They waited impatiently. “Are you sure you saw something on the rock?” demanded Agatha.
“Looked like black on blackness,” said Charles. “Just an impression.”
Simon came back. “It’s Jock. He’s dead. It’s awful.”
“How did he die?”
“I don’t know,” wailed Simon. “His head’s covered in blood. Get the police.”
“Wait a minute. We’d better get our stories straight,” said Agatha. “We’ll have to admit that Jock whatever-his-name-is is a magician we hired to entertain people at Charles’s home. Nothing about to play a ghost. We don’t want to ruin that idea before it’s off the ground. But we’ll say we were talking about the case while we were engaging him.”
“So what are we doing here?” asked Simon.
“Let me think. I know. I sent you to detect. You were asking about the witches and were told that Josie and her daughter often went to the praying rock. You told me and I came running.”
“I’d better phone my lawyer,” said Charles. “Wilkes is going to have a field day. I can hear him now. ‘How does it come about, Sir Charles, that you just happen to be at the prayer rock and just happen to find the dead man, who, by some amazing coincidence, is a magician you were about to hire for a fete?’”
“Wait a bit,” said Agatha. “We could save ourselves a lot of trouble if we just cleared off and made sure we didn’t leave a trace. Anonymous phone call.”
“Sounds great to me.” said Charles. “Anyone got a torch?”
“I have,” said Simon.
“Shine it along the path and wipe out any footprints as we leave,” said Charles. “You didn’t leave your fingerprints anywhere, Simon?”
“No, I wore gloves.”
“We’ll call in at the vicarage,” said Charles. “Give us an excuse for being in the village.”
“After midnight? Forget it,” said Agatha. “Oh, how frustrating this all is! Somehow we’ve got to find the identity of this Master for Josie and Tracy don’t seem to know. Simon, before you roar off on your bike, phone from a box in Mircester. Oh, and make sure when I pull out, I haven’t left any tracks or if I have, get rid of them.”
“It is my car and my driver’s seat, Aggie,” said Charles, “so get out of the driver’s seat both literally and metaphorically.”
They drove home to find a note from Gustav on the kitchen table saying that Jock hadn’t turned up. He had also left Jock’s name and address and telephone number.
“I’m off,” said Charles. “What a night!”
“Charles. Could you stay?”
“Beg.”
“I’m begging.”
“All right. One goodnight kiss and … What’s up? You look as if you’ve just been struck by lightning.”
“I’ve remembered the one question I should have asked!”
Chapter Eleven
“What question?” asked Charles. “What are you talking about?”
Agatha hurriedly reminded him about that detective saying there was always one question you forgot to ask.
“So what is the question?”
“Who inherits?”
“Your wits are wandering. The dog’s trust inherits. Before that Laura, before her Guy.”
“But who came before Guy?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Listen! I feel money is the cause of the murder. I think the whole attraction Margaret Darby had was her money and I think she knew it and used it. Guy was right about Molly as it turns out; John Hardcotte really did believe Laura’s malice. There’s an unknown somewhere. I’ll phone Patrick.”
“It’s the middle of the night!”
“I can’t wait.” Agatha dialled Patrick’s number. When the detective answered, Agatha could hear the sound of clinking glasses and boozy voices in the background.
“Are you in a lockdown?” asked Agatha, meaning a pub that allowed the favoured few to drink on into the small hours.
“No, it’s a wake for an old friend of mine. Killed on duty.”
“Shot?”
“Overactive girlfriend wore him out. Died on the job.”
“Patrick, you wouldn’t happen to know if anyone was due to inherit Margaret Darby’s money before, say, Guy Harris?”
“Can you wait till I dig up my notes on my phone? I’ll call you back.”
“I would like to go to bed,” pleaded Charles.
“Don’t you want to hear what he says?”
“No. And I think you should get some sleep as well.”
But Agatha’s eyes were glittering. “I feel it’s the answer. Oh, stop yawning in my face and go to bed.”
Charles ambled off. Agatha waited and waited. Finally her phone rang. At first she could barely hear Patrick because of male voices roaring out some filthy song until he shouted he would take his phone outside.
While she waited, Agatha felt suddenly flat. What had seemed like a great leap of intuition, now seemed like grasping at straws.
Patrick’s voice came back on the phone. “Right, let’s see. The damn woman changed her will as often as her knickers. The one before Guy? Someone called Benjamin Gentry.”
Bengy, by all that’s holy, thought Agatha. Let’s think this through. Neither Bengy nor his sister works for a living. Probably money from one of those family trusts. Money stays the same over the years but the economy doesn’t and so a life of luxury becomes a good middle-class income and then austerity. She suddenly realised Patrick was saying plaintively, “I’d like to go back to the party.”
“Oh, sure, go ahead.”
Agatha ran up the stairs and into the spare room where Charles was now lying asleep. “Wake up!” shouted Agatha, jumping on the bed.
But when she had showered and dressed and rushed downstairs it was to find he had really gone. He had not even left a note. To Agatha, it was all like a slap in the face. It seemed as if Charles had helped himself to her body in the same way as he helped himself to her cigarettes. She put on her coat and went off to the comfort of Mrs. Bloxby.
She had only been gone ten minutes when Charles came back carrying a bouquet of flowers and a bag of fresh croissants. He ran upstairs to wake Agatha and found that she had gone. He felt just as if she had slapped him in the face. So he went home and gave the flowers to his aunt and moodily ate the croissants himself.
The vicar told Agatha sharply that his wife was not at home. He then retreated to his study where his wife found him a few moments later. “Who was at the door, dear?”
“Jehovah’s,” said the vicar.
He didn’t like lying to his wife but he felt Agatha was a bad influence. He thought she had few morals and might corrupt his wife.
* * *
Agatha walked back through the steel-grey morning, feeling suddenly afraid. The police would question everyone in the village and get to Josie and Tracy who might say they had been robbed. Maybe the police would start asking Jock’s girlfriends or relatives and one of them might say that Jock had talked about being paid to frighten Josie and her daughter. Some weirdo playing at being the devil was bumping off people like a psychopath. Maybe he would come after her next. Then Charles would be sorry! Damn Charles. No, he wasn’t going to get away with it. She had a right to demand an explanation. So she got into her car and drove out to his mansion. As she motored up the long drive, a voice on the radio was talking about global warming as one small pellet of snow bounced off the windscreen to be followed by another and another.
By the time she hammered on the front door, the snow was blowing in white sheets.
Gustav answered the door and barred her way. “We are not at home,” he said.
Agatha gave him an enormous push. “Oh, yes we are,” she snarled. “How dare you try to leave me out in a blizzard.”
The library door opened and Charles said in a cold voice, “What the hell do you want?”
“It’s private.”
“Like hell.”
“Okay, if you want Gustav to hear the intimate details of last night, I’ll begin.”
“Oh, shut up. Come into the library.”
Agatha followed him in and then turned and slammed the door. “You bed me for the night and clear off in the morning without even leaving a note as if I were some tart you’d rented for the night. Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”
“Listen, Aggie. I came back bearing flowers and croissants and I thought you had cleared off, casting me off like a worn-out glove as my great-granny would have put it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Agatha in a small voice. “I’m so hungry. I’d love a croissant.”
“Well, I’m sorry. Because I ate them all and gave the flowers to my aunt. I’ll take you out for a full English at the nearest greasy spoon.”
“Lovely thought,” said Agatha. “But it’s snowing a blizzard.”
“Sun’s shining,” said Charles, looking out of the window. “Nothing more than a shower.”
* * *
An hour later after a plate of ham, sausage, eggs, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans and chips and two slices of toast, Agatha felt her waistband was about to cut off her circulation.
“You’ve got a business to run,” said Charles.
“Oh, Toni goes ahead and runs it. I’m often tempted to turn the whole thing over to the girl and be a lady of leisure. No more murders. No more frights.”
“I think you’d better solve this one or the killer may come after you. For example, say it is someone like Bengy. What would you do? Accuse him?”
“That might be an idea,” said Agatha slowly. “He’d come after me. But if I had you and all my detectives, then I’d be safe and we’d have got him.”
“I’ll come with you to the office and see what they all think.”
* * *
It’s never like books or the movies, thought Agatha later. Charles was supposed to say, “No, my precious, you must not put yourself at risk.” Nor had he said one word of love. And he had eaten all those croissants like the pig he was. Agatha looked across her office at him as he lay lounging on the sofa, barbered, impeccable and impregnable.
Simon finally came in. “So now that you are all here,” began Agatha. “I want you all to hear my plan to catch the murderer.” She went on to say that she would visit Bengy that very evening and they were all to lurk outside. She had collected a doorbell from the hardware. If she were in danger, she would press the doorbell, the receiver would be outside with the watchers and would emit a huge sound like a New York police car.
“Can’t you just go to the police?” asked Simon.
“And say what?” demanded Agatha. “They’d just laugh at me. No proof.”
“Don’t drink anything,” warned Toni. “All he needs to do is drug your drink. We won’t hear anything suspicious and by the time we decided to investigate, he’ll have cleared off.”
Patrick looked at Agatha speculatively. All she was suggesting offended his ex-cop soul. And yet none of them had the resources of the police. He gave a slow nod. “I can give you a Mace spray.”
Agatha had a moment of weakness. Surely someone, anyone, would volunteer to go in her place. At last, she gave a little sigh and said, “Let’s get it over with. If I wait until tomorrow, I’ll lose courage.”
* * *
Agatha was wired up by Patrick, explaining he would be listening in a van he had borrowed from some police station—“Don’t ask”—and assured Agatha that at the first sign of trouble, they would rush the place.
Toni had been told of the plan but she did not like it one bit. Someone had already shoved a syringe of a date-rape drug into her neck. What was to stop them doing it again? By the time they all crashed into the place it might be too late. She got out of her car and crept round the back of the house. The moon above was bright and showed there were gnomes in the back garden as well. They had little labels on each. Toni took out a pencil torch and read some of the labels. They were all puns: gnome from gnome; honey, I’m gnome; gnome is where the heart is; and so on. Toni began to be even more worried. Surely there must be a streak of madness in the Gentrys. She moved quietly up to the kitchen door and took out the latest in electronic lock picks, highly illegal, and bought on a visit to Germany. She quietly opened the kitchen door and crept in.
On the other side of the house, Bengy was welcoming Agatha. “Our favourite detective,” he cried. “I owe you dinner. So shaming to be caught out like that. Come in!”
He stood aside and Agatha walked past him into a tiny hall. “Door on your left,” he called. Brenda Gentry rose to her feet. “Hullo, detective,” she said. “Take a pew.”
Now, in most households, “take a pew,” is just a jokey way of saying, “have a seat.” But in this mad household, there were two church pews on either side of the fireplace. Agatha looked around. There was a round table by the window with four upright chairs. “I’ll take one of those,” she said. “Got a bad back.” She noticed that the window was stained glass, depicting some saint being pierced with spears.
“I see you’re admiring our window,” said Bengy’s voice behind her, making her jump. “Brenda and I found them demolishing some old church the other side of Mircester and rescued the pews and that window. Like a gin? That’s your tipple, isn’t it?”
“I’m driving. No thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“No, I’ve got something to say to you.”
“Wait till we sit down. Legs ain’t w
hat they used to be.”
Brother and sister pulled out a couple of hard chairs and sat on either side of Agatha.
This is ridiculous, thought Agatha. We’re sitting in a row. Oh, get it over with.
She tried to speak but nerves seemed to have choked her voice. “Sorry,” she said. “Frog in my throat.”
“As the Princess said when the frog French-kissed her,” said Bengy and his sister gave a great bellow of laughter.
“I think you murdered Margaret Darby,” said Agatha, her own voice sounding unnaturally loud in her ears.
“You are doing it the wrong way,” said Bengy amiably. “You are supposed to have a room full of people and go from one to the other, accusing each, until—aha!—you’re the one, matey, or whatever Poirot would say. I’m curious. Why would I kill the old trout?”
“Because she promised to leave you everything in her will,” said Agatha. “Then she changed her mind. Everyone seemed to want Margaret’s money and she played on that.”
“This is where I should do the outraged bit,” said Bengy. “How dare you come into my home and all that sort of stuff. I mean, what proof do you have?”
Agatha had a sudden flash of brilliance. “Oh, don’t be deceived. Josie and Tracy know the identity of the Master. The police are on their way but I want you to tell me why you did the murders.”
Out in the car, Patrick crossed his fingers.
“Well, let’s say I did do it. Brenda, darling, get me a Scotch. Ever so thirsty. Margaret started sniffing around and promising the money if I would only deflower her. She read romances, you know. So come the big night. Do you know, I couldn’t get it up. Maybe it was her false teeth grinning at me from a jar by the bed.”
“And that made you kill her?”
“Oh, no! She came back with a hammer that same night and she killed Cuthbert and Jeremy.”
“Who?”
“Our very best gnomes. So she had to go. Right, Brenda, darling?”
“Right!”
It happened so quickly that Agatha was taken completely by surprise. Brenda whipped a belt round Agatha, pinning her to her chair, and, as she opened her mouth to scream, Bengy shoved a handkerchief in it soaked in GHB. Agatha passed out almost immediately.
