Something Borrowed, Someone Dead

by M C Beaton

  ‘Surely they must have had something more on him than the fact he was a chemistry teacher?’

  ‘He was the only adult there. It was a bit of a drunken rave, so what was a teacher doing at such a party?’

  ‘And what was his explanation?’

  ‘Don’t know. Seems he is popular, particularly with the girls. He had promised to drop in. Actually, it turned out he was only there ten minutes.’

  When Agatha rang off, she told Charles the latest news. He gave her a mocking look. ‘You’re too old for him, I think. Maybe he fancies the young ones.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Agatha. ‘He did not strike me as being like that at all.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Drop it!’ snarled Agatha.

  ‘Oh, well, back to the village of the damned.’

  As they sat in the pub garden that evening, Agatha hoping that Brian would turn up, and avoiding the amused looks of the villagers who appeared to have seen, or heard about, her disaster in the studio kitchen, Charles asked, ‘Who’s the Framington female married to? You didn’t say anything about him.’

  ‘If there was one, I didn’t see him,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s go and see her. I’ve a feeling she knows something.’

  ‘What! Before dinner?’

  ‘Won’t take long.’

  On the road out, Agatha asked Moses about Sam’s husband.

  ‘That would be Lord Cyril Framington. Died last year.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘A stroke.’

  ‘Old title?’

  ‘No, a Labour peer. Died in the House of Lords, he did.’

  ‘Where have all the press gone?’

  ‘The police are keeping them out of the village,’ said Moses. ‘Pity. Great drinkers, the press.’

  Outside the pub, they met Brian Summer. Agatha hailed him. ‘Have a drink with us later?’

  Brian smiled. ‘Kind of you but I think I’ll have an early night.’

  ‘Exit first murderer,’ whispered Charles as they walked off.

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ snapped Agatha, ‘and if you and Samantha know people in common, forget it. I don’t want to sit there while you yap on about people I’ve never heard of. It’s still so hot. I wish we had taken my car.’

  ‘Can’t be far,’ said Charles. ‘This is one tiny village.’

  ‘We’re here,’ said Agatha.

  They walked up the drive and rang the bell. Fred answered the door. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is indeed,’ said Agatha. ‘So hop to it.’

  ‘Cheeky!’ Fred slammed the door on them.

  ‘I do so hate characters,’ said Charles. ‘Will he return?’

  ‘Oh, sure, just playing one of his nasty little power games.’

  The door opened again and Fred jerked his head. They followed him in. He flung open a door and said, ‘She’s back.’

  Sam rose to her feet. ‘Who is this with you?’

  ‘Charles Fraith,’ said Agatha, who was determined not to use Charles’s title in case it unleashed a flood of the ‘Do you know the Wilkinson-Sword-Blades? How is old Buffy?’ type of reminiscence in which she could have no part.

  They found themselves in a pleasant sitting room with long French windows overlooking the garden at the back.

  The furnishings were, Charles decided, of a style he damned as country-house-to-order. Everything looked as if it had been delivered from the shop all on the same day. Family portraits on the walls were actually photographs treated to look like oil paintings. The furniture was fake Louis XV. Maybe they spent all their money contributing to the Labour Party for that title, thought Charles.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ asked Sam.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Agatha. ‘How long have you lived in this village?’

  ‘A year. I moved here when my poor husband died.’

  ‘Only a year!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘I was hoping you had been here longer. You can’t have had all that much time to get to know the people here very well.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. In a place as small as this, you get to know everyone very quickly. What is it that they say? An outsider sees most of the game. I’ll surprise you yet. I’ve got my eye on someone.’

  ‘Then you should tell us or the police,’ said Agatha. ‘If the murderer hears of your suspicions, you won’t last long.’

  ‘Oh, no one would dream of touching me. As a matter of fact, they’re all rather in awe of me.’

  ‘Why on earth should they be?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Very feudal here. Yes, my lady, no, my lady.’ She gave a modest smile.

  Fred walked in. ‘Going to the pub.’

  ‘Don’t you have things to do?’

  ‘Like drinking, yes.’

  Fred turned and walked out. Sam gave a deprecating little smile and then sighed. ‘My dears, the help these days!’

  They questioned her further, but she kept saying she had nothing really to tell them. Agatha had a strong feeling she was holding something back.

  As she and Charles walked back to the pub, Agatha said, ‘I don’t know how Sam can bear to have someone like Fred around.’

  ‘Maybe he’s a relative,’ said Charles.

  ‘What!’

  ‘That accent of Sam’s is more Royal College of Dramatic Art than upper class. Bet she was an actress.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty pounds.’

  ‘You’re on,’ said Agatha. ‘I think she’s the real thing.’

  Agatha went up to her room in the pub, seized her notebook computer and carried it down to the garden to join Charles. She switched on the computer, went to Google and typed in Sam’s name. She stared at the result on the screen.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Charles.

  ‘Okay. You win. Was an actress, Samantha Wilkes, before she married. Parts on various television shows including Morse. Snakes and bastards.’ Agatha opened her wallet and reluctantly paid over fifty pounds. ‘Buy me a drink at least,’ she said. ‘How did you guess? I mean, to look at her now, you’d never think she’d once been attractive.’

  ‘Just instinct,’ said Charles, not wanting to explain that in these dying days of the class system, the county had a fine ear tuned for fakes, knowing that such an explanation would appear as snobbish as it actually was.

  That evening, Sam was performing one of what she considered her more tiresome duties as lady of the manor. She was reading to old Mrs Tripp. She sighed as she picked up the book. Like a lot of people of low self-worth, Sam was only happy when playing a role, but this act, she thought, was wearing thin. She missed London, the noise and the bustle. Fred was her late husband’s cousin. Fred had been devoted to her husband. They had both been members of the Communist Party in their youth, but Cyril had changed to the Labour Party, saying that was the road to power. Fred had always acted as a sort of valet-cum-butler. When Cyril took his seat in the Lords, Fred told Sam that he was shocked. Where had all their principles gone? On Cyril’s death, he had reluctantly agreed to go to Piddlebury with Sam, and, thought Sam, she wished now she had never agreed to the arrangement.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Mrs Tripp’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘I was thinking about the murders and I’m pretty sure I know who the murderer is.’

  ‘And who would that be?’

  ‘I shall make an announcement when I have more evidence,’ said Sam.

  ‘Fiddlesticks. You going to read or what? It’s a new one.’

  Sam picked up a copy of The Duke’s Desire and began to read.

  ‘Courtney Winter was a saucy wench, or that is how everyone in the top ten thousand described her. She had a heart-shaped face . . .’ Sam raised her eyes from the page. ‘Why do they always have heart-shaped faces?’

  ‘Blessed if I know. Go on.’

  After she had gone, Mrs Tripp picked up the book and began to read. She had good eyesight but liked the idea of people thinking they were doing the
ir community duty by reading to her.

  After a time, Mrs Tripp decided to take a short walk before going to bed. She met Mrs Pound, the vicarage cleaner, a short distance from her cottage.

  ‘Got a bit o’ gossip for you,’ said Mrs Tripp.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Mrs Pound.

  ‘Lady Sam says she knows the name of the murderer.’

  ‘Go on with you!’

  ‘Fact.’

  ‘Well, I never.’

  Mrs Pound ‘did’ for several other houses in the village apart from the vicarage. By the end of the following day, the news that Sam was going to expose the murderer was all over the village.

  The news reached Agatha and Charles after a long day interviewing several people and not getting any further.

  ‘Silly woman,’ said Agatha angrily. ‘I don’t suppose she has the slightest idea. I only hope the murderer doesn’t believe her or it will be goodbye Sam.’

  ‘Do you think we ought to warn her?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Waste of time. She’s not going to listen to us and she’s not going to admit she hasn’t a clue.’

  ‘Have you ever stopped to think you might be next on the murderer’s list, Aggie?’

  ‘Don’t call me Aggie! No, unfortunately, I feel sure our murderer realizes I haven’t a clue either.’

  ‘Look, Agatha,’ said Charles. ‘I think I’ll pack my bags and clear off. You’re used to these days of trekking around questioning people over and over again, but I find it a bit tedious.’

  They were sitting in the pub garden. To Charles’s surprise, Agatha said mildly, ‘Yes, it must be boring for you.’ Then he saw her face light up as Brian walked into the garden and realized Agatha wanted him out of the way.

  Charles’s road home on the following day took him through Mircester. On impulse, he parked in the square and went up to Agatha’s office. Only Simon was there, moodily typing out a report. ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Out on jobs,’ said Simon. ‘And Mrs Freedman’s gone home with a headache.’

  ‘I’ve been down at Piddlebury with Agatha,’ said Charles. ‘It might be a good idea if one of you were to suggest going down there. I don’t like the idea of her being on her own.’

  ‘I’ll suggest it to Patrick.’

  ‘Why not yourself?’

  ‘Well, this is in confidence, mind. I want to be around to keep an eye on Toni.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s got a new boyfriend – that is if you can call someone as old as him a boy.’

  ‘So what’s up with him?’

  ‘I haven’t found out yet. But she’s got into trouble dating older men before. Tell you what, I know she’s meeting him for lunch at the George. Why don’t you go along and take a look at him?’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I tried to join them two days ago and she accused me of spying on her.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose I could do with a bit of lunch.’

  Charles saw Toni as soon as he walked into the dining room. The man with her was seated with his back to the dining room entrance. Toni saw Charles and waved.

  Toni was not in her usual jeans and T-shirt. She was wearing a cotton dress as blue as her eyes. Her naturally blonde hair gleamed with health. Despite her detective job, thought Charles, she always looks so fresh and innocent. He walked up to her table.

  ‘Charles,’ said Toni. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Luke . . .’

  ‘Fairworth,’ said Charles. ‘How are you, Luke?’

  Luke Fairworth was a tall, good-looking man, impeccably tailored and barbered. He had black hair and black eyes, a prominent nose and a small mouth.

  ‘You know each other?’ exclaimed Toni.

  ‘Luke is the master of the Cheevely Hunt,’ said Charles. ‘They meet at my place once a year. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Please do,’ said Toni.

  Charles sat down and a waiter rushed forward to lay another place setting.

  ‘How’s the family?’ asked Charles. ‘Let me see, your daughter must be about Toni’s age by now.’ He guessed Luke must be in his early forties.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Luke crossly.

  ‘And the wife?’

  ‘I’m divorced.’

  ‘How sad. When did that happen?’

  ‘Last year. Can we talk about something else? How do you know Toni?’

  ‘I’m a friend of her boss and also a close friend of hers. I’ve just got back from Piddlebury, Toni.’

  ‘Oh, the poisoning case. What’s been happening?’

  Charles ordered a steak and baked potato, helped himself to wine, and began to tell Toni all about the murders while Luke scowled.

  At last, Luke glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to run. I’ll see you this evening, Toni.’ He called the waiter. ‘Separate bills,’ he said.

  When Luke had paid up and left, Charles asked curiously, ‘Does he never pay for your lunch?’

  ‘He’s a bit short at the moment,’ said Toni.

  ‘Of course his children’s schooling must take a bit,’ said Charles.

  ‘Children!’

  ‘Yes, there’s Mark, he must be sixteen by now. Nearly your age. Emma is twelve and Olivia, eight.’

  ‘You’re making this up!’ exclaimed Toni.

  ‘Not I. I remember his divorce now. Cruelty, wasn’t it?’

  ‘His wife’s?’

  ‘No, his.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You’d better apply your detective skills to the Internet,’ said Charles. ‘More wine?’

  Toni stood up. ‘Agatha is always interfering in my personal life and I know she’s sent you to do just that. Sorry, Charles. Your very colourful lies just won’t work.’

  Toni stormed off. Blast Luke, thought Charles. Now I’m the one who’s got to pay for her lunch.

  Toni switched on her computer in the office and put in Luke’s name. Nothing there. Charles must be lying. But she could not leave it alone. She went round to the local newspaper’s offices to see a reporter friend, Jimmy Swift.

  ‘I want details of a divorce case that happened, oh, about a year ago.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Just his. Luke Fairworth.’

  ‘It’ll take a bit of time. Help yourself to coffee.’

  Toni collected a mug of coffee from a machine in the corner and then stood at the window overlooking Market Street. The market was busy, people clustered round the stalls. Striped awnings over the stalls moved lazily in the lightest of breezes.

  ‘Got it!’ called Jimmy.

  Toni went to join him.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’ll print it off.’

  She waited impatiently as the office’s old laser printer slowly churned out page after page.

  He handed her six pages. Toni snatched them, said a brief ‘thanks’ and hurried out of the office.

  She went to an open-air café in the main square, ordered an iced coffee and began to read.

  Her heart plummeted as she read the pages. The divorce was granted on the grounds of Luke’s cruelty. Mrs Sarah Fairworth had been granted custody of the children. There were reports of the police having been called to their home on several occasions to find Mrs Fairworth had suffered from a beating. She had refused to press charges. But evidence from her doctor and evidence from the local hospital where she had been admitted for a broken arm on one occasion and cracked ribs on another gave her lawyers the proof they needed. Nobody loves the messenger and Toni wondered whether she could ever speak to Charles again. She felt very young and very silly.

  Charles had phoned Agatha with the news. ‘I hope he doesn’t get violent when she dumps him,’ said Agatha. ‘She’s got holiday owing. I’ll see if I can get her to take it now.’

  But Toni refused. She was proud of the fact that Agatha left the running of the agency to her while she was away. She had already phoned Luke to say that she wouldn’t be seeing him again, to which he replied that he would like to break Charl
es Fraith’s neck. He went on trying to explain that his wife had made the whole thing up. Toni interrupted with a quiet and firm ‘goodbye’.

  Simon had entered the office while she was phoning. He stood quietly in the doorway listening, and then he grinned happily. There was hope for him yet.

  Chapter Four

  Agatha was thinking of returning to Mircester. She called on Jerry Tarrant to explain that there was little she could do with police and press all over the place but that she would return when things had quietened down.

  Her idea of departure was hastened by the fact that Brian Summer was no longer staying at the inn. He had decided to spend the school holidays in Piddlebury and so he had taken a room at Mrs Ada White’s farmhouse. She found it odd that he should want to stay with so many press around, one of whom might tie his name to that poisoning in Oxford.

  Besides, he had started to avoid her. She had seen him out walking and had hurried to join him but just when she had caught up with him, he had said, ‘Must rush’, and had fled into the woods like a startled deer.

  The glorious weather had broken at last, not in any dramatic thunderstorm but in a damp mist shrouding the countryside, turning Piddlebury into a sort of ghost village where shapes came and went in the mist like so many wraiths.

  Agatha made a last call on Sam and lectured her on the folly of saying she knew the identity of the murderer and therefore putting herself at risk.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ said Sam. She was wearing scarlet lipstick on her mouth surrounded by thin wrinkles. It gave her mouth the appearance of looking like a badly stitched wound. She smokes, thought Agatha. That’s the reason for all those nasty wrinkles. I must give up somehow.

  ‘Well, I’m leaving,’ said Agatha. ‘Not much I can do at the moment. I’ll give it a few weeks.’

  She returned to the inn, paid her bill, got into her car and drove off. Despite the mist, the day was muggy and warm. Agatha switched on the air-conditioning. She wrinkled her nose. A really nasty smell was coming through the air vents. She stopped the car, got out and raised the bonnet. Two very dead rats were lying on top of the engine.