by M C Beaton
“What’ll we do with her?” horrified Patrick and Charles heard Bengy say. They were parked some way away, not wanting to be noticed.
Toni opened the door a crack and then switched on a powerful recording.
Bengy and Brenda stood transfixed as a great voice roared, “Come out with your hands up. You are surrounded.”
“What are we going to do?” wailed Brenda.
“We’ll bluff our way out of this. They won’t have any forensic proof and who on earth is going to believe Josie and Tracy?”
Patrick at first could not believe how calm and accommodating the pair were as they came out with their hands up and meekly allowed him to handcuff them. While they waited for the police to arrive, Rory came over from the vicarage and Simon suggested instead of waiting for the ambulance, perhaps Rory might rush Agatha to hospital.
Then Brenda began to cry and said she had to go to the toilet. Toni came out of the house, holding up a forensic bag through which the syringe could be clearly seen.
“Won’t work, Brenda,” said Toni. “I’ve got it.”
Brenda began to cry in earnest.
The police arrived, squads of them, headed by Wilkes. To Toni’s relief, the ambulance arrived just as Rory and Simon were carrying Agatha from the house. To Toni’s fury, she was not allowed to go with Agatha, and neither was Charles. They were to stay and give their statements. Charles saw Bengy’s white face at the police car window and picked up the nearest gnome and hurled it against the house. His last sight of Bengy Gentry was that of a face contorted with grief.
* * *
In some parts of the police force, snobbery exists and so when Bengy hired the services of a top criminal barrister, he was treated carefully and not watched as assiduously as he should have been. He hanged himself in his cell. Brenda, on hearing the news, died of a massive stroke. Bengy had not confessed to anything during the police interview but Brenda had and Josie and Tracy were arrested as aiding and abetting a murderer and their pleas that they thought it was the devil who was commanding them did not stop them being locked up for a year in a remand prison.
Epilogue
Agatha took a long time to recover. At first they thought her brain might have been affected because she barely spoke. It was only when Toni sneaked her two cats in and let them out on her bed that Agatha petted them and fussed and her face slowly came to life.
As the days of recovery passed into weeks and spring returned to the Cotswolds, Agatha found she could not bear the idea of going back to work. In her little front garden, the lilac tree which gave its name to the lane, was bent down under a heavy load of blossom. James’s cottage had been repaired but he was rumoured to be still travelling abroad.
One sunny day, Agatha was lying in a lounge chair in her garden when Charles breezed in. “It’s alive! It’s alive!” he cried. “I thought you had turned into a zombie. I called at the office but was told you were still convalescent. Why aren’t you at work?”
“I’m thinking of not going back,” said Agatha.
“Why?”
“My spirit is broken.”
“You sound like a trashy novel. Fortunately Jock is dead and the horrible Fawkeses are not going to talk about any missing money as they ought to have been paying the taxman. Anyway, they’re in the cooler. The reason I have called, is this afternoon sees the birth of my ghost. You’ve got to come along. Didn’t Gustav call?”
“Yes, he came chattering about how he wanted me to call the media and I told him to get lost and do it himself. I gave him a list of contacts.”
“You’ve got to come because if it isn’t a success, you’ve got to tell us what we got wrong. And put some damn makeup on. I feel I’ve lost you. I want the old Agatha back.”
Agatha went upstairs and looked in the mirror. Her face had a tired, lost look. She was wearing a washed-out housedress and flat sandals. Her legs were hairy.
She shaved her legs and put on a short skirt over black tights and comfortable knickers. Then a white cotton blouse. Next came the high-heeled sandals. She winced, wondering how on earth she had managed to wear heels like this, day in and day out.
She applied makeup, bright pink lipstick and gave her reflection a reluctant smile. “Welcome back, Agatha,” she said, and went down to join Charles.
* * *
When Agatha arrived at Charles’s mansion an hour before the doors were due to open, she went from room to room and then demanded more candles. “You’ve made it too gloomy. They’ll be wandering off or bumping into the furniture. Where is the bar for the press?”
“Didn’t think we needed one. We’re supposed to be making money, not giving it away.”
“A liquored press is a happy press: a grumpy, thirsty press, highly dangerous.”
“Oh, all right. Gustav, set it up in the morning room.”
* * *
I wonder why I used to be so keen on PR, thought Agatha as the doors were finally opened.
Her feet ached and she wandered off through the cool rooms to find a quiet corner in which to sit down. She decided to try the library. It was Charles’s favourite room and he would not let any of the day’s visitors near it. She sank down into an armchair. Charles! He had done it again. He had made love to her and yet he had said not one word of love. Why did they call it making love? Rutting would be a better description, she thought sourly. The windows were open, letting in a fresh breeze.
Agatha eased off her sandals and wiggled her toes. She was just drifting off to sleep when she heard a whispering, whistling sort of chant from somewhere behind her, saying something like, “Doom to you, Agatha. Doom and the wrath of hell.” And then some incomprehensible mutterings.
“Oh, fun’s over.” With a groan, she bent down and put her sandals on again. “Charles,” said Agatha. “I’m tired and I’m going home.”
She stood up and let out a gasp. Josie and Tracy in long black robes decorated with suns, moons and stars and their faces painted green were leering at her.
“Well, well,” said Agatha. “Who let the dogs out?”
“We’re gonna kill yer,” moaned Tracy. “We’re gonna call on the Master.”
“Your Master turned out to be Benjamin Gentry who hanged himself in his cell.”
“’Tis Satan himself we done a-calling,” crooned Josie.
They were between Agatha and the door. She saw an old-fashioned bell rope by the fireplace and wondered if it worked. But even if it did, there would be no one in the servants’ hall to hear it. Or maybe there might be some sort of cook-housekeeper. She gave the bell pull a hearty tug.
* * *
In the kitchen, Mrs. Jordan, cook and housekeeper, was enjoying a bottle of beer while entertaining her daughter, Bella.
The bell jangled on its wire and Mrs. Jordan stared in amazement. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s Sir Charles. Bound to be. He’s got a damn cheek. They goes on as if we’re in the Dark Ages. I tell you, I’m going up there to give him a piece of my mind. He’s got that Gustav creature to fetch and carry for him.”
* * *
Agatha was beginning to become frightened. Josie had produced a wicked-looking knife from her robes and was carving signs in the air.
The door suddenly crashed open and the thin, wiry figure of Mrs. Jordan stood there. She stared at Josie open-mouthed and then began to laugh. “Oh, you’re part of the act,” she said, and before Agatha could stop her, she went back out and slammed the door. But Mrs. Jordan’s arrival had managed to distract Josie and Tracy. Agatha dived through the open window, kicked off her sandals and ran as fast as she could until she saw a gardener and shouted at him to call the police.
* * *
It was all better than Charles had hoped. He had expected only the local papers to write about the ghost, but the nationals came out with the attempted attack on Agatha. The Fawkes’s trial had been brought forward and a well-meaning but naïve psychiatrist had pleaded that Josie and Tracy had been led astray and so they had got off with only l
ight sentences of community service.
When all the police questioning and questions from the press and television were over, Agatha and Charles retreated to her cottage.
“Let’s get the six o’clock news,” said Charles, turning on the television.
There was only a brief report on the national news. “Local news coming up next,” said Agatha. “Bound to be something there. I hope this hasn’t taken any chance of publicity for our house away, Charles. Oh, damn. It’s all about Josie and Tracy.”
“Look, here’s Gustav,” cried Charles.
He was introduced as Sir Charles’s butler and then asked for his views on the attempt on Agatha.
“Oh, that lady is always getting attacked,” said Gustav dismissively.
“Bastard!” howled Agatha.
“But this house is cursed,” said Gustav. “I’m telling you, and the visitors behind me will bear me out, the very ghost of Cater Thomson appeared this afternoon. The legend is that should he appear, murder will be done.”
He went on to describe the wicked life of Cater in a deep and gloomy voice worthy of Lurch in The Addams Family.
“He ought to be on the stage,” said Agatha. “Well, after his performance, you can start to charge visitors. You’ll be coining it.”
“And so will you,” said Charles. “‘Agatha Raisin Solves Another Case that Has Baffled the Police.’”
“And I swear that the police are welcome to any future murders,” said Agatha. “I am turning the agency over to Toni.”
“My dear girl, you’ll die of boredom! What on earth will you do?”
“Maybe I’ll get married.”
“Who is this fellow you’ve been keeping a secret?”
“His name is Arthur Allen and he’s a banker. My age, but very fit.”
“So why have I never met this suitor?”
“I’ve been making sure you didn’t. You’ve spoiled romances for me in the past.”
“Usually just before the fellow succeeded in murdering you. What’s up with this one?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Married before?”
“No.”
“Aggie! If the chap’s fit and healthy and your age and hasn’t been married before, he’s gay.”
“Anything but.”
“I’m off,” said Charles abruptly. “Don’t get up.”
Agatha wandered into the garden followed by her cats. She slumped down on a lounge chair. It was a pity, she reflected, that Arthur was only a figment of her imagination. Charles was supposed to say, “Marry me!” I hate Charles, she thought fiercely.
The cordless phone on the garden table in front of her rang shrilly. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I am actually giving a little dinner party tonight to welcome a newcomer to the village,” she said. “He might get a chilly welcome because of his job.”
“What’s that? Reporter? Politician?”
“No, he’s a banker with Midland and West. Do say you’ll come.”
“All right. What’s his name?”
“Mr. Arthur Andrews.”
Agatha laughed. “You couldn’t make him a Mr. Allen, could you?”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. What time?”
“Come for drinks at seven.”
* * *
Agatha had told Toni of her plans to turn the running of the agency over to her, and, as it was, she only spent one or two days a week at work. As she dressed carefully for Mrs. Bloxby’s dinner party, she felt a pleasurable feeling of anticipation. What would this Arthur be like? She put on a long scarlet silk evening coat embroidered with golden dragons, wondering if it was too much, and then deciding it was all right. Under it she wore a simple black silk chiffon dress. Sheer black stockings and high-heeled shoes completed the ensemble. Carefully applied makeup and a spray of Givenchy’s Hot Couture and Agatha felt she was looking her best.
Because of her very high heels, she drove the short distance to the vicarage, not wanting to risk breaking a heel on the cobbled streets. The spring air held a touch of warmth. Forsythia gleamed golden in gardens already shining with a bright show of daffodils.
Agatha experienced a rare feeling of peace. No more murders. As she got out of the car, a blackbird sang from the vicarage rooftop, and Agatha stood transfixed by the beauty of the sound.
As she entered the vicarage and was led into the drawing room by Mrs. Bloxby, Agatha surveyed the guests and muttered, “Well, from the sublime to the gorblimey.”
For one of the men rising to meet her was new to her and must be the banker. He was small and squat with a blue chin and thick black eyebrows. “May I introduce Mr. Halburton,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha heaved a sigh of relief. “Where is your newcomer?”
“Not here yet. The rest I think you know.” Two sets of husbands and wives.
The doorbell rang again. Agatha sat down and crossed her long legs in their sheer black stockings and let her evening coat fall open.
Charles walked in. He raised his eyebrows at the look of disappointment on Agatha’s face. He had been sure on reflection that she had made this banker up. As Charles went round shaking hands with the other guests, the doorbell rang again.
Mrs. Bloxby led a middle-aged man into the room. He had a pleasant square face and thick grey hair.
Before Mrs. Bloxby could introduce him, Agatha said, “Just make it first names. So difficult anyway trying to remember who’s who.”
So Charles only heard “Arthur.” Agatha was seated next to the banker at the dinner table and heaved a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Bloxby announced that dinner was ready now that everyone was present. Agatha suddenly wondered where the vicar was. But, she thought, as she found to her relief that she was to sit next to Arthur and that Charles was at the other end of the table, it was just as well because Alf the vicar did not like her and might have been a drawback to her trying to charm this banker.
Agatha fidgeted while Arthur talked to a Mrs. Dawson on his other side. A crumpled old gentleman like a tortoise was on the other side. Agatha tried to engage him in conversation, but he was very deaf.
At last, she heard Arthur addressing her. “So I get to meet the famous detective,” he said.
“And I get to meet a handsome banker,” said Agatha, fluttering her long eyelashes at him. But the eyelashes were false and Agatha could sense that the right one was coming loose. She muttered a hurried excuse and fled the room, but not to the bathroom but to the kitchen where Mrs. Bloxby was just taking the roast out of the oven.
“Glue,” panted Agatha, “quick.” Mrs. Bloxby slid open a drawer and handed Agatha the tube. Agatha retreated to the bathroom and put a dab of the stuff to moor the sliding false eyelash in place. It was only then she noticed the glue was a kind that was super adhesive and supposed to be able to lift iron bars. She wondered frantically if she would have to report to the hospital later to get her eyelashs removed.
She returned to the table. Charles was carving a large leg of lamb, deftly putting slices on plates and passing them down the table.
“Are you all right?” Agatha realised Arthur was asking. “Your right eye is all red.”
Agatha decided that charming Arthur and trying to make Charles jealous were not worth losing the sight of an eye, so she told him what had happened.
“Do you think Mrs. Bloxby has nail varnish remover?” he asked.
“Unlikely,” said Agatha.
But Arthur got up and bent over Mrs. Bloxby and whispered. Mrs. Bloxby nodded and left the room, returning with a bottle of nail varnish remover. Arthur pocketed it, went back to Agatha and said, “Let’s go to the bathroom. I’ll have you right in no time at all.”
Charles watched them exit. He raised his voice. “What’s up with Aggie?” he asked.
“Mrs. Raisin has something in her eye. Please pass the mint sauce, Sir Charles.”
Charles half-rose to his feet but Mrs. Bloxby said severely, “I would like another slice of lamb.”
In the bathroom, Agatha, free of her false eyelashes and free of the glue, smiled at Arthur and joked, “My hero.”
“Glad to help a little lady.” He grabbed hold of her and deposited a wet kiss on her mouth and shoved a great fat tongue between her lips while lifting her skirt.
Agatha shoved his head away, slapped down his hand and said, “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Not my fault,” said Arthur sulkily. “Went for a tour of that haunted house out in Warwickshire. Chap there told me you were hot stuff and liked a bit of rough.”
“What chap?”
“The one who runs the show. The owner.”
“Then it’s a load of bollocks,” said Agatha, saying to herself, oh, Charles, how could you?
“Give my apologies,” said Agatha stiffly. “No! Get off.”
* * *
Agatha drove home where she buried her face in her cats’ fur and cried and cried. It was no use indulging in silly dreams of retirement and two pairs of slippers on the hearth. She had thought she meant more to Charles than a few one-night stands.
At last she dried her eyes and told the cats, “I’m back to work full-time tomorrow.”
* * *
When Mrs. Bloxby’s guests moved to the drawing room for coffee, Charles approached Arthur. “Why did Agatha leave?”
“It’s not my fault,” said Arthur, turning red. “She had this false eyelash that had come unstuck and she had tried to stick it back on with Super Glue. I told her nail varnish remover would do the trick and it did and she was flirting a lot so I grabbed her and she went all Lady Muck on me. But that chap at Barfield House, he told me she was the easiest lay in the Cotswolds and panting for it. I mean he was the owner of the place.”
“I am the owner,” said Charles. “Describe this man.”
Arthur said, “Tall, grizzled hair, slight accent and—”
“Enough,” said Charles. “Mrs. Bloxby, lovely evening but I must rush. People to see. Heads to punch.”
* * *
Charles let himself into Agatha’s cottage at six in the morning. His knuckles were sore under their bandages. He wished he hadn’t punched Gustav so hard because Gustav wouldn’t fight and simply sat there, hunched up, and saying Agatha was not suitable to be Charles’s wife. Charles told him to pack his bags and leave. He was fired. But when Gustav left to collect his belongings, Charles thought wearily of all the work that Gustav did and what a success they were making of the haunted house and went and rehired him.
