Something Borrowed, Someone Dead

by M C Beaton

  ‘Just bloody coming.’

  The butler retreated. ‘Ever watch Poirot?’ asked Lady Framington.

  ‘Yes,’ said Agatha.

  ‘I always know whodunit. I bet I can find out who this murderer is. Whether I would tell you is another matter. Here’s the tea at last.’

  There were no biscuits or cakes. Just a brown china pot of tea, milk and sugar and three mugs.

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Lady Framington.

  ‘Lady Framington . . .’

  ‘Sam, please.’

  ‘Well, Sam,’ said Agatha, ‘if you go detecting and get too close, the murderer might want to remove you.’

  Sam gave a great braying laugh. ‘I can take care of myself. Drink up.’

  The tea was awful: dark brown and stewed, but Sam drank hers with relish. ‘Fred does make a good cup of tea.’

  ‘Isn’t that someone at the bottom of your garden?’ cried Agatha.

  ‘What? Where?’

  Agatha quickly poured her tea under the table.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ said Sam.

  ‘Must have been mistaken. If you think of anyone, please let me know,’ said Agatha. ‘Come along, Toni.’

  When Agatha and Toni had gone, Sam rang the bell. ‘What now?’ asked Fred, answering its summons.

  ‘Clear the table.’

  ‘Look at that!’ said Fred, pointing to a damp patch under the chair where Agatha had been sitting. ‘She pissed herself. Dirty old cow.’

  Back in her car, Agatha said, ‘Let’s go back to the Green Man.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Toni.

  ‘They’ve got rooms. I think I should book one and move in tomorrow. You handle the office while I’m away. Simon can join me.’

  The following day, Simon and Toni went out for lunch. ‘I don’t want to go,’ said Simon. ‘I don’t want to be stuck in some village in this heat.’

  ‘It is a murder inquiry,’ said Toni.

  ‘The thought of Agatha’s company, staying at a pub without air-conditioning, depresses me no end. Got a boyfriend, Toni?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Toni, ‘and don’t say a word to Agatha. You know she always interferes.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘So no hope for me?’

  ‘Cut it out, Simon.’

  Simon laughed to cover up the yearning he always felt in Toni’s company. He was small in stature with a jester’s mobile face and a thick thatch of black hair. He wondered who Toni’s new beau was and whether he was tall and handsome.

  ‘And what about Agatha?’ asked Simon. ‘Fallen in love again?’

  ‘No, our boss is obsession free for once in her life, and, believe me, there’s no one in Piddlebury to attract her.’

  Later that day, Agatha was shown up to a low-raftered room in the pub. At least a tree outside the window provided some shade. She turned to the landlord, Moses Green. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  ‘Turn left as you go out of your room. It’s at the end of the corridor.’

  After he had left, Agatha unpacked. Then picking up her sponge bag and towel, she decided to have a wash because she felt hot and sticky. But the bathroom door was locked.

  ‘Anyone in there?’ called Agatha.

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ called a masculine voice.

  Agatha waited patiently. Then the door opened and a tall man stood there. He was naked apart from a towel wrapped round his waist. His bare chest was hairless, white and muscled. Agatha felt a small surge of lust. Welcome back, she said mentally to her hormones. I thought you had died.

  He held out a hand. ‘I’m Brian Summer.’

  ‘Agatha Raisin,’ said Agatha, feeling an electric tingle going up her arm. He had a thick shock of white hair, intelligent grey eyes and an interesting face. Agatha estimated that he was the same age as she was herself.

  ‘Are you on holiday?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Yes. I need a bit of relaxation. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

  I didn’t get his name, thought Agatha. He’s very attractive. Snakes and bastards! My make-up must have melted.

  There was no shower, only a deep bath standing on claw feet, a relic of the Edwardian era. It seemed to take ages to run.

  At last Agatha was bathed, made up and dressed in a short white linen skirt, red linen blouse and very high heels. Simon had the room next door. She shouted to him that she would be in the pub garden.

  She made her way to the bar where the landlord was polishing glasses. ‘I met your other visitor,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Ah, that would be Brian Summer.’

  ‘Does he usually holiday here?’

  ‘First time. He says he’s a chemistry teacher.’

  That’s a non-starter, thought Agatha gloomily. What I know of chemistry couldn’t even fill the back of a postage stamp. She collected a gin and tonic and made her way out into the garden.

  Brian was sitting at a table, reading. He did not look up as Agatha made her entrance. She decided it would be too pushy to go and join him.

  Simon appeared carrying a glass of lager. ‘Oh, look, Agatha,’ he said. ‘One big glass ashtray. You can smoke yourself silly.’

  But Agatha was frightened her new quarry might be anti-smoking. ‘I’ve given up,’ she said crossly, fighting down a longing to light up.

  And then her heart began to beat, because Brian Summer rose and came to their table. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, please do. This is Simon Black, one of my detectives.’

  ‘It’s all over the village that you’re here to solve the murder,’ said Brian. He was wearing a grey shirt and grey trousers.

  ‘How far have you got?’ asked Brian.

  Agatha told him about her interviews. When she had finished, he asked, ‘And now what do you do?’

  ‘Just keep asking,’ said Agatha. ‘Believe me, someone in this village knows something.’

  ‘I’ve never tasted elderberry wine,’ said Brian. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘You can try some now if you like. Simon, I’ve got a bottle in the car. Bring it in and get Moses to give you three glasses. The car’s not locked.’

  When Simon had gone, Agatha rested her chin on her hands and smiled at Brian in what she hoped was a winsome way. ‘Tell me all about yourself.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said. ‘I am simply here for a quiet holiday.’

  ‘Won’t your family miss you?’

  ‘I haven’t got a family.’

  Simon came rushing back. Agatha scowled at him. ‘The bottle’s gone,’ said Simon. ‘Are you sure it was there?’

  ‘I haven’t touched it since Ada White gave it to me,’ said Agatha. ‘It was still there when we arrived at this pub.’

  ‘Someone must have pinched it,’ said Simon. ‘Shall I tell the police?’

  ‘They’re not going to bother about a bottle of wine,’ said Agatha. ‘Not with a murder case to solve. Brian, you were just telling me about yourself.’

  He rose abruptly. ‘I’ve got to go. Excuse me.’

  Agatha sadly watched his tall figure hurrying away.

  Later that night, a full moon rose over the village. Up in the woods, full-time layabout and part-time poacher Craig Upton took the bottle of elderberry wine he had thieved from Agatha’s car from one of the capacious pockets in his smelly coat, which he wore despite the warmth of the night. He settled his back against the trunk of a large oak tree and unscrewed the top. Craig’s arthritis had been getting worse lately. He was in his eighties and dreaded the day when he would have to give up his country life and move into some nursing home. He fished a tumbler out of another pocket. He prided himself on never drinking anything straight from the bottle. He filled the glass and held it up. The liquid glinted black in the moonlight. He liked to drink the first glass of any alcohol straight down and then drink the rest in more modest gulps.

  ‘Here’s health,’ he said. He poured the liquid down his throat.

>   Chapter Three

  Moses Green woke early and took his Labrador dog, Jess, for a walk in the woods. He liked to get away from the pub and into the cool shade of the trees. Jess ran ahead of him, the flickering sunlight shining down through the leaves glinting on her glossy black coat. She had run a good bit ahead of Moses when he heard her let out a great howl. Fearing she had got caught in some trap, Moses raced towards the sound of that horrible howl.

  He stopped short and looked at the dreadful scene that met his eyes. Craig Upton lay twisted up at the foot of an oak tree, his eyes staring upwards. His clothes were covered in foul-smelling vomit. Flies buzzed around him. Moses put his dog on the leash and pulled her back and tied the leash to a branch. He felt for a pulse but found none. He saw the bottle of elderberry wine lying beside the body.

  He unhitched Jess’s leash from the branch and began to run.

  Agatha awoke to the sound of wailing sirens. She scrambled into her clothes and then banged on Simon’s door, shouting, ‘Something’s happened. I’m going outside.’

  People were appearing outside their cottages, some still in their nightwear. Agatha saw Peter Suncliff and went to join him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Something up in the woods.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up there. Behind the pub.’

  Agatha set off at a run. She saw the white suits of a forensic team up ahead as she entered the woods and followed them. An area around an oak tree had been taped off and a tent erected.

  Bill Wong was standing talking to another detective. ‘Bill!’ shouted Agatha. ‘What’s happened?’

  He came to join her. ‘Get out of here, Agatha. Wilkes is on his way and he’ll be furious if he finds you poking around.’

  ‘But what’s going on?’

  ‘Another case of poisoning and it looks like elderberry wine.’

  Agatha suddenly looked stricken. ‘Bill, I had a bottle of elderberry wine in my car. Someone pinched it yesterday evening. Mrs White gave it to me the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Here comes Inspector Wilkes,’ said Bill. ‘You’d better tell him about this.’

  ‘But who’s dead?’

  ‘Some local poacher.’

  ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ demanded Wilkes.

  Bill told him.

  ‘There’s a mobile police unit just arrived,’ said Wilkes. ‘I want you to go down there, Mrs Raisin, and wait until I can take your statement.’

  On the road back, Agatha met Simon and told him what had happened. ‘Don’t you see?’ she exclaimed. ‘Someone was trying to poison me. We could all have been poisoned – you, me and Brian. I’ve got to go to the mobile police unit and wait for Wilkes.’

  They walked together down into the village. It was another glorious day: a day for village fetes, not for murder.

  ‘I suppose the press will be all over this,’ said Agatha.

  ‘The police have already blocked off entrances to the village to keep them out,’ said Simon. ‘Some have arrived. Lots more will probably come later.’

  They walked into the mobile police unit, which was parked in front of the church.

  There were two policemen and Detective Sergeant Alice Peterson. ‘Why, Mrs Raisin,’ said Alice. ‘Got news for me?’

  Agatha sat down opposite her. ‘I’ve got to make a statement to Wilkes.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Simon. ‘It’s hot as hell in here.’

  Agatha told Alice about the theft of the wine from her car. ‘So,’ said Alice when she had finished, ‘the poisoned wine may have been meant for you.’

  Agatha stared at her. Although she had told Bill that might be the case, the full horror of it struck her.

  Despite the heat in the mobile unit, she felt suddenly cold.

  A policeman came in carrying an electric fan, which he plugged in. It blew the hot air around and sent papers fluttering on desks.

  Agatha sat slowly down on a hard plastic chair. It seemed ages before Wilkes arrived, but glancing at her watch, Agatha realized she had only been waiting ten minutes.

  Wilkes pulled a chair forward and sat down opposite Agatha, his thin grey face a mask of disapproval. Why, he wondered, were most of his cases cluttered up by this bossy woman getting underfoot?

  ‘Now, Mrs Raisin,’ he began, ‘tell me about this bottle of elderberry wine.’

  ‘Mrs Ada White gave me a bottle. I was in the pub last night with Simon Black and Brian Summer, a guest staying at the pub. He said he had never tasted elderberry wine before. I remembered the bottle Mrs White had given me and sent Simon out to get it. He came back and said it had gone.’

  ‘Had you locked your car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Forget?’

  ‘I didn’t think it mattered in a village like this.’

  ‘With a murderer around, everything matters, Mrs Raisin. We will check the bottle for fingerprints. We have yours on record. But as Mrs White seems to be an upstanding member of the community, we must assume that someone substituted that bottle for another. Wong has gone to see her. Now, Mrs Raisin, you are adding to our difficulties. It would be safer for you to leave the village.’

  ‘I have been employed to find out who murdered Gloria French,’ said Agatha, ‘and I intend to go on searching.’

  Wilkes questioned her about who she had interviewed, making her go over it again and again. When she had finished, he said, ‘Don’t do anything to interfere in our inquiries or I’ll have you locked up for obstructing the police. Now, wait until your statement is ready, sign it and get out of my sight! But first, tell Simon Black to get in here.’

  Agatha went out into the heat of the day and told Simon that Wilkes wanted to see him. She stood outside, irresolute, looking at the policemen going door to door.

  Somewhere in this picture-postcard village was a murderer. Agatha trailed back to the pub. She wanted a cool drink under a tree in the garden.

  Agatha paused at the entrance to the pub garden. Seated under the shade of a cypress tree was Charles Fraith.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Agatha, walking up to him. Her voice was sharp because she did not want to betray how very glad she was to see him. He smiled up at her lazily. ‘Came to see how you were getting on. Sit down and tell me what’s been happening.’

  Agatha sat down opposite him. ‘How did you get into the village? The police are stopping anyone getting in.’

  ‘I came last night. Late. You’d gone to bed by that time.’

  Agatha wondered how it was that Charles never seemed to feel the heat. He was dressed in a pale blue cotton shirt, open at the neck, and darker blue chinos. His fair hair was as impeccably barbered as ever and his neat catlike features only portrayed amusement.

  I have slept with this man, thought Agatha, and yet, not by one flicker does he ever betray any intimacy. We go on like a couple of old bachelors. Moses came out and asked her what she would like to drink. Agatha ordered a gin and tonic, adding, ‘Do make sure this gentleman pays for it.’

  ‘That was rude,’ commented Charles.

  ‘I just couldn’t bear to hear you say you’d forgotten your wallet one more time. Anyway, here’s the latest.’

  Agatha told him about the dead poacher and the fact that the poisoned wine might have been meant for her.

  ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea to leave this village alone until things settle down?’ suggested Charles. ‘A dead detective isn’t much use.’

  Agatha accepted her drink from Moses and said with a sigh, ‘Whoever it is could just as well come after me in Mircester as here.’

  ‘So what’s your next move?’

  ‘I’ll finish my drink and then I’ll try to see Jerry Tarrant. He’s the head of the parish council who employed me. He might have some ideas. By the way, do you know the lady of the manor, Sam Framington?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘She wants to detect and might be putting herself at risk.’

  ‘Maybe we
’ll call on her after Jerry,’ said Charles. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Wait for me a moment. I’ve got to repair my make-up.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Charles. I won’t be long.’

  When Agatha returned to the pub garden, she saw to her dismay that Charles was deep in conversation with Brian Summer. Charles grinned when he saw her, taking in Agatha in all her glory of fresh make-up, green linen blouse and green linen shorts, showing her excellent legs. At least she hasn’t put high heels on, thought Charles.

  ‘Hello, Brian,’ said Agatha brightly. She was about to sit down but Charles stood up and said firmly, ‘We’d better go.’

  ‘No rush,’ said Agatha. ‘I could do with another drink.’

  ‘Better keep your brains sharp,’ said Charles. ‘Come along.’

  ‘See you later,’ said Agatha hopefully to Brian.

  ‘Really, Aggie,’ said Charles as they made their way out of the pub. ‘You never give up.’

  ‘I find him interesting,’ said Agatha haughtily. ‘Let’s take my car.’

  ‘Where does Jerry live?’

  Agatha consulted her notes. ‘The other side of the church. His house is called Stoneways.’

  ‘So it’s just along there. We can walk.’

  ‘Not while I’ve got air-conditioning in the car.’

  Unlike the other houses, Stoneways was set back from the road with a small driveway. It was a Georgian house of mellow stone covered in ivy.

  ‘It’s a wonder he lets that ivy stay,’ said Charles. ‘I’d cut it down. It’s nearly covering all the windows.’

  They got out of the car. Agatha rang the bell. While they waited, Charles said, ‘We should really be going to see Ada White.’

  ‘No use at the moment,’ said Agatha. ‘The police are probably all over her place.’

  The door opened and Jerry, looking flustered, said, ‘Oh, do come in. I thought it might be the police back again. I am so tired of answering questions.’

  ‘This is Charles Fraith,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Another of your detectives?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles quickly.

  They followed him into a gloomy study, which had a subterranean air caused by the green leaves of the ivy outside, practically blocking the window.