by M C Beaton
‘Don’t tell her I gave you her name! She’s Dorothy Callant. Widow. Lives at Rose Cottage on the green. Worst gossip I ever came across.’
Dorothy Callant, a small sixtyish woman with a shock of dyed red hair and a withered face, declared she was delighted to meet them. When Agatha said she wanted to find out as much as she could about Piddlebury, Dorothy ushered them into a cluttered parlour, exclaiming as she swept newspapers and film magazines off chairs and dumped them on the floor, ‘How exciting! I watch Miss Marple on television. That series must be a help to you, dear.’
‘It’s fiction,’ said Agatha patiently.
‘But her age! People must be surprised to see someone of your age, dear, acting as a detective.’
‘Mrs Raisin has many years to go before she reaches anything like Miss Marple’s age,’ said Toni.
‘Really? Well, my eyesight is bad. Do sit down. May I offer you something?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Agatha. ‘We’ve just had lunch. Did you visit Piddlebury?’
‘Oh, yes. After the first murder, I drove over and called at the vicarage. But Mrs Enderbury was quite rude. She even told me to push off! Not a lady, if you ask me. Ladies do not tell ladies to push off. I remember . . .’
‘Let’s keep to Piddlebury,’ said Agatha. ‘Talk to anyone else?’
‘Yes, I talked to some people in the village shop. At first they were friendly, and then someone walked in and whispered something, and they all became quite hostile and told me if I didn’t want to buy anything, to get out.’
‘Who was it who turned them against you?’
‘Some woman called Sam. I mean, when women start using men’s names, it shows they can’t be very nice people, the sort of women who compete with men, which is folly, because the gentlemen always know better.’
‘How true,’ said Toni, much to Agatha’s amazement. ‘Is there one particular gentleman whose advice you rely on?’
‘Yes, indeed. Mr Albert Earle, next door. So wise! “Let it alone, Dorothy,” he said to me. “Let the police do their work.” But he did take a run over there to see for himself.’
‘When was that?’ asked Toni.
‘It would be after that poor poacher was found poisoned. He said the villagers all told him that it must have been some maniac from outside. He told me that must be the case. Such a wise man!’
‘Perhaps we had better speak to him,’ said Agatha.
‘I’ll come with you. Wait till I get my hat. This sun is so very bad for the complexion.’
They followed her into a small hall where she took down a large straw hat from a hook and clamped it on her head.
Albert Earle was a small stocky man in his sixties. When he heard the reason for their visit, he stood aside and ushered Toni and Agatha in and then barred the way to Dorothy. ‘Leave this to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ and he shut the door in Dorothy’s face.
They could hear Dorothy on the other side of the door, making faint twittering noises of distress, like a dying bird.
‘Come into the garden,’ said Albert. ‘It’s too good a day to sit indoors.’
Four chairs were arranged around an iron table on a small patio. The garden was ablaze with late roses and hollyhocks.
Toni thought that Albert needed a sun hat as much as the spurned Dorothy. His scalp showed scarlet under the thin wisps of hair combed over it and his face was fiery red as well.
He fixed the small watery eyes of the habitual drinker on Agatha and said pompously, ‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Piddlebury is an odd village,’ said Agatha. ‘The villagers appear to have closed ranks against outsiders. It’s hard to get any information.’
‘They’re an odd lot,’ said Albert. ‘I am on the parish council here and people respect me. But in Piddlebury, I was rather rudely told to mind my own business.’
Agatha repressed a sigh. Albert was the sort of man that a lot of people, outside Piddlebury and in, would enjoy telling to mind his own business. He exuded pomposity from every pore.
‘But if you are going back there,’ he said, ‘I will accompany you. Ladies should not go to such a dangerous place on their own.’
‘We’re fine,’ said Agatha, rising to leave. ‘We’re used to danger.’
‘That’s the problem with you modern women,’ he said huffily. ‘Always going about getting raped and murdered because you wouldn’t listen to sensible advice from some man.’
‘Well, it’s usually some man who rapes,’ retorted Agatha. ‘Come along, Toni.’
Outside, they decided to split up and knock on doors and try to find someone who knew something. No use keeping their visit secret any more. Besides, Dorothy, the village gossip, had probably phoned up several people already. They arranged to meet in the pub that evening.
But it was a tired and defeated pair who finally met in the bar of the Jolly Farmer to compare notes.
Few of the people they had interviewed had visited Piddlebury. Those that had confessed they had gone out of curiosity, mostly visiting the village shop, but not one had anything interesting to say.
‘We’ll have some sleep after dinner and get over to that damned village for midnight,’ said Agatha.
Wearing dark clothes, they set out at half past eleven for Piddlebury. Agatha parked at the edge of the woods, farthest away from the village.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to find this glade with the altar stone in the darkness?’ asked Toni.
‘It’s somewhere in the middle. Bound to find it,’ said Agatha hopefully.
They walked on through the silent wood. The branches of the trees met above them, cutting out the light from the moon. ‘I’m going to risk using a torch,’ said Agatha.
At last, after twenty minutes, Agatha whispered, ‘This is hopeless.’
‘Shh!’ hissed Toni.
‘What?’
‘Listen!’
Agatha strained her ears. She could hear the faint sound of chanting.
‘It’s coming from over that direction,’ said Toni.
They made their way cautiously, hearing the weird voice getting louder, and then stopped suddenly when they found themselves on the edge of the glade, which was flooded with silver moonlight.
Brian Summer stood by the altar, a struggling hen in one hand. In the other, he held an open cutthroat razor.
Agatha Raisin had never considered herself particularly sentimental about birds and animals, but the sight of that hen was too much for her.
She strode into the clearing, shouting, ‘Leave that bird alone, you nut case!’
‘Get away!’ yelled Brian. ‘I must make this sacrifice.’
As Agatha approached him, he waved the razor at her, shouting, ‘Get back!’
The bird struggled and gave a screech like a rusty gate.
Agatha slammed her torch hard down on his wrist, the one holding the bird. He screamed in pain and dropped the hen, which flapped off into the trees. Agatha backed off as he brandished the razor in her face.
Then his eyes seemed to roll back in his head and he fell to the ground, his feet hammering against the turf.
‘He’s having some sort of epileptic fit,’ said Toni. ‘Lay him on his side and make sure he doesn’t swallow his tongue.’
‘You do it,’ said Agatha shakily. ‘I’m phoning for help.’
It took half an hour for help to arrive and by that time Brian’s fit was over but he was unconscious. Moses Green arrived in the glade, leading the police and an ambulance.
Brian was borne off and after preliminary questioning by police and then by Inspector Wilkes and a detective Agatha did not know, they were told to go immediately to police headquarters in Mircester.
When Agatha and Toni were waiting in reception to be interviewed again, Ada White arrived. ‘Is this your fault?’ she demanded, glaring at Agatha.
‘Brian Summer was in the glade in the woods with a razor about to sacrifice one of your hens,’ said Agatha.
; ‘He what?’
Agatha patiently repeated what she had said. Ada looked shocked. ‘I’ve recently lost two geese and three hens. If this is true, he can pack his bags and leave. Oh, dear, he seemed such a nice quiet man.’
Agatha was tired of being questioned. She had been taken to one of the newly refurbished interview rooms, boasting deep armchairs, and had to fight against falling asleep. When it was at last over and she signed a statement, she said, ‘About Jerry Tarrant’s death. Did you ever think someone might have given him a shot of digitalis so that it would look like a heart attack?’
‘An autopsy was carried out,’ said Wilkes, gathering up his notes and getting to his feet.
‘And what was the result of the tox examination?’ asked Agatha.
Wilkes stared at the desk. Then he said curtly, ‘I forget.’
‘No you don’t,’ said Agatha with one of her flashes of intuition. ‘One wasn’t carried out.’
‘There appeared to be no need for it,’ said Wilkes. ‘Several of the villagers confirmed that Mr Tarrant had a weak heart.’
Agatha gave a contemptuous snort. ‘And you believed them?’
‘Mrs Raisin, this interview is over. I would like to remind you for the hundredth time not to interfere in a police investigation.’
Back at their inn, Agatha said to Toni, ‘We’ll get some sleep and then I’m going over to see Ada White.’
Toni hesitated in the doorway of her room. ‘I wonder if someone in Piddlebury is blackmailing people into silence. I mean, you said Jerry was frightened, and yet he cancelled your services. Then he leaves a will wanting you to carry on.’
Agatha longed to contradict her out of petty jealousy. She thought the gods had given Toni enough gifts in a beautiful appearance without also endowing her with a sharp brain. But Agatha forced herself to say gruffly, ‘Good idea. We’ll work on it tomorrow.’
They drove towards Piddlebury on a perfect Indian summer’s day. The fields were golden with stubble and cottage gardens ablaze with roses. They drove down deep lanes where trees arched over the road to form green tunnels, and then out into the mellow sunshine again. It was like driving through a series of English landscape paintings.
Agatha stopped just outside the village. She phoned Patrick. ‘See if you can find out from your police contacts if Brian Summer gives any reason for his odd behaviour. Who was he sacrificing poultry to? Or has his brain just snapped altogether?’
Patrick said he would look into it. Agatha reluctantly drove into the village. ‘We’ll start with Clarice, the vicar’s wife.’
‘Why? I thought we were going to see Ada White.’
‘Later. Clarice is in the best position to find out secrets that the villagers might not want exposed. From the smells of incense in the church, it means her husband is High Church of England and that can mean he takes confessions.’
‘Isn’t there such a thing as the secrets of the confessional?’ asked Toni.
‘He might have blabbed to his wife. Here goes.’
When Agatha and Toni got out of Agatha’s car outside the vicarage, Agatha turned and looked down the main street. There was the faint noise of a hay baler up on the hill above the village, someone’s television was playing, otherwise it was still and quiet. And yet Agatha could swear she felt menace emanating from somewhere. She shrugged off the feeling, and, followed by Toni, went up to the vicarage door and rang the bell.
The door was answered by the vicar, Guy Enderbury. He scowled down at them from his greater height. ‘Yes?’
‘Has God told you who the murderer is?’ asked Agatha.
‘Not yet. I am still working on it,’ he said mildly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me . . .’
‘We actually called to speak to your wife.’
‘If you go round the side of the vicarage, you will find her in the garden. My wife is a devoted gardener.’
They followed the path around the side of the house. The ‘devoted gardener’ was lying on a sun lounger, a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other.
She blinked up at them as they stood over her. ‘I thought you had got the message and decided to leave us alone,’ said Clarice. She swung her bare legs over the sun lounger and struggled to her feet.
‘Is someone blackmailing you?’ asked Agatha bluntly.
Clarice sat down again suddenly on the edge of the lounger. ‘What a ridiculous idea,’ she said faintly. ‘I haven’t any money. I do wish there was something exciting enough about me to prompt someone to want to blackmail me. Now, just go away.’
‘Blackmailers never give up,’ said Toni. ‘At first, you might have been blackmailed into silence, but they always come back for more.’
‘Listen to me, you amateur freaks. If anyone was blackmailing me, I’d tell the police. Now, you are trespassing. Go! Or do I have to call the police?’
Her green eyes suddenly glittered with tears.
Outside, Agatha said, ‘She was frightened. I swear we frightened her. Let’s get to Ada’s farm.’
But as they approached Ada’s farm, they could see police cars parked outside. ‘We’d better leave it until later,’ said Agatha.
They drove back into the village. Agatha called Patrick and asked if he had any news. Patrick said, ‘Brian Summer was sent an old book. He is subject to epileptic fits. The book was about old country remedies. Sort of white witchcraft. In it, the sufferer of epilepsy is told to sacrifice a bird at the full moon.’
‘How does a schoolteacher believe such tripe?’
‘A schoolteacher with a belly full of magic mushrooms. Mrs White said he had the use of a shed as a workshop. It was full of the things. She says she never went in there.’
‘Who sent him the book?’ asked Agatha.
‘Mrs White doesn’t know. She said it arrived for him in the post and he threw the wrapper away.’
‘Did she know he was prone to epileptic fits?’
‘Yes, but he made her promise not to tell anyone.’
After Agatha had rung off, she told Toni what Patrick had said.
‘Someone knew about his fits,’ said Toni, ‘and someone evil decided to mess with his brain.’
‘Let’s get back to concentrating on the blackmail idea,’ said Agatha. ‘Now, the vicar’s wife would be terrified of scandal. But what about our lady of the manor, Sam Framington? She was an actress. Maybe someone found out something about her past.’
‘Shall we go and see her?’
‘I think it would be a waste of time,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve got contacts in the media in London. I’ll go up there for a few days and see what I can dig up.’
‘Will I stay on here?’ asked Toni.
‘No, better not. Just not safe.’
Agatha went back home that evening. Before she let herself into her cottage, she looked across at James’s home. But it was all in darkness and his car was not parked outside.
She patted her cats and then switched on her computer and typed in the name Samantha Wilkes. Sam, when she had worked as an actress, had enjoyed only one steady run of work, a part in a television soap called Yesterday’s Family where she played the role of a village femme fatale. The soap had been produced by Zetlik Television. Agatha looked them up, took a note of their address and decided to visit them on the following day.
She had a sudden longing to see Mrs Bloxby and listen to her calm voice. The vicar’s wife was about the only person Agatha trusted. She had once seen a card in a shop over the till stating ‘In God we trust. Others pay cash’, and Agatha thought that summed up her philosophy. It never dawned on her that she expected too much of herself and therefore expected high standards from everyone else and so was bound to be disappointed.
She did not phone the vicarage first because she knew the vicar might answer and tell her his wife was not at home because Agatha knew he did not like her.
To her relief, Mrs Bloxby herself answered the door and invited her in. The evening had turned chilly. A log fire crackled in the grate. A standard
lamp cast a golden glow over the shabby but comfortable room. Agatha sank gratefully down into the feather-stuffed cushions of the sofa, accepted a gin and tonic, and began to tell Mrs Bloxby about all the latest developments.
‘Poor Mr Summer,’ exclaimed Mrs Bloxby. ‘I am sure he did not start taking those wretched mushrooms by chance. I am sure someone persuaded him that they would help his epilepsy. What a dangerous, callous and evil person.’
‘I think that someone might be blackmailing people in the village,’ said Agatha.
‘Out of the people you have interviewed, who might it be?’
‘It would need to be someone people had confided in at one time,’ said Agatha. ‘The only person I can think of is the vicar. There is confession in the Church of England, isn’t there? I didn’t see a confession box in the church.’
‘It is not like the Roman Catholic Church, but, yes, if someone feels burdened with a sin they can talk to a member of the clergy. But what about the landlord of the pub? That seems to be the village meeting place. He might know a lot about everyone. People gossip in pubs. And in village shops.’
Agatha suddenly remembered the bitter old woman in the village shop.
‘You’ve given me a lot to think about,’ she said. ‘I suppose James is still on his travels.’
‘I believe so. Poor Miss Gilmour. Such a shame.’
‘She really must get over this penchant for older men,’ said Agatha huffily.
‘Miss Gilmour has had a difficult time in her young life,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I suppose all women at one time or another look for a sort of father figure.’
‘I don’t fancy much older men,’ said Agatha.
Mrs Bloxby repressed a smile. At Agatha’s age, much older men would really have passed the bounds of being sexually attractive.
‘I must go,’ said Agatha. ‘Thanks for listening.’
Agatha presented herself at the Soho offices of Zetlik Television the next day and asked where she could find the producer of Yesterday’s Family. The receptionist told her to wait. Agatha sat down and skimmed through a magazine, reflecting that it was surely a sign of age when you did not know who half the celebrities were.
At last, the receptionist returned with a small, portly man who introduced himself as the personnel manager. ‘You want Jack Kyncaid,’ he said. ‘But he retired five years ago. What do you want him for?’
