by M C Beaton
‘You haven’t given me enough to get permission for a search warrant,’ said Bill. ‘But don’t worry. Anyone going missing in that village demands investigation. We’ll be down there right away.’
Agatha told Mrs Bloxby that the police were going to Piddlebury but said, ‘I’ll get there first. They must have found out who he was. I’ll get there before Bill cuts through the red tape.’
Breaking the speed limit, Agatha raced to Piddlebury and screeched to a halt outside Mrs Tripp’s cottage. She hammered on the door and rang the bell. She was just picking up a rock to break a glass panel on the door and force her way in when it opened.
Mrs Tripp stood leering up at her. ‘Back again?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Stanton.’
‘You’d best ask at the inn.’
The door began to close. Agatha stuck her foot in it. ‘I want to come in and look.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘Let me in!’
Mrs Tripp stood aside. ‘Very well. You can read to me.’
Agatha shoved past her. The noise from the television set was blaring throughout the house. She looked around the parlour. Mrs Tripp is not deaf, she thought suddenly. She switched off the television. That was when she thought she heard a faint cry. Mrs Tripp was standing in the doorway of the parlour.
‘That’s enough,’ said the old lady. ‘Get out.’
‘What’s up, old girl? I got your phone call.’ Henry Bruce had appeared behind her.
‘It’s that detective, that’s what. We need to get rid of her.’
‘I’ve done enough.’
‘You forget. If I go down, I’ll damn well take you with me.’
Henry moved into the parlour and advanced on Agatha.
Agatha looked wildly around for a weapon. She seized handfuls of photographs in silver frames and began to hurl them at him, screaming all the while for help at the top of her voice. Blood began to pour from a cut in Henry’s forehead where the edge of a silver frame had caught him. Temporarily blinded, he staggered back. Agatha darted round him for the doorway. That was when Mrs Tripp swung one of her sticks and brought it down on Agatha’s head.
Agatha fell to the floor. ‘Now, help me,’ panted Mrs Tripp. ‘Shove her down the well.’
Henry mopped the blood from his forehead with an oily handkerchief. He seized Agatha by the ankles and began to drag her towards the kitchen.
James heard the scraping sound of someone trying to remove the well cover. If only he could get up there and dive out of the hole. He was grateful for his mountaineering days that had taught him to climb a chimney. Bracing his arms and legs on either side of the well, he began to move slowly upwards.
‘This is heavy,’ he heard a man’s voice complain. ‘Do you really want me to throw her down on top of him?’
‘Nasty, snooping bitch,’ came Mrs Tripp’s voice. ‘They can die together.’
Then there came a howl of pain. ‘She’s come round. She kicked me in the balls.’
The sound of a whack. ‘That’s put her out,’ said Mrs Tripp. ‘Stop leaping about and chuck the damn woman down the well.’
I hope it’s not Agatha, thought James as he heaved himself ever upwards.
The scraping started again. With one final heave, James got himself to nearly the top. When the cover was pulled back, fuelled by a sort of mad desperation, James tumbled out on to the kitchen floor. Mrs Tripp screamed. Henry tried to kick James back down the hole. James rushed forward and butted Henry in the stomach and sent him flying against a Welsh dresser.
Weak from his ordeal down the well, James collapsed on the floor.
Sick and faint, Agatha opened her eyes to see Mrs Tripp swinging her stick to bring it down on James’s head. With one monumental heave, she got to her knees and seized the old woman by the ankles, making her lose balance, and then she lost consciousness again.
At that moment, police headed by Bill Wong rushed into the house. They heard a cry from James.
Bill could hardly believe the scene in the kitchen that met his eyes. Mrs Tripp was lying on the floor, moaning that Agatha had broken her hip, Henry Bruce had got to his feet and was as white as a sheet, James was sitting on the floor with his head in his hands and Agatha had blood pouring from a wound in her head. James looked up when he saw Bill and said, ‘Arrest Henry Bruce and Mrs Tripp. They tried to kill both of us.’
Agatha recovered consciousness later that day in hospital in Mircester. She looked groggily at Bill and Alice Peterson.
‘Feeling well enough to talk?’ asked Bill.
‘Don’t know. Feel woozy and sick,’ said Agatha. ‘Have you got them?’
‘Yes, Bruce is singing like a canary. He claims that Ma Tripp was incandescent because Gloria wouldn’t hand back her bureau. She got Bruce to nip down to the cellar and put the poisoned bottle in the crate. Clever old biddy told him to wear larger shoes. She knew Gloria was upset by the scene in the village shop and knew she would head for the bottle.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Agatha faintly. ‘Right up to the last minute Gloria was expecting the vicar and his wife. Didn’t she care whether she poisoned them as well?’
‘Clarice was in the shop just after Gloria had left. She told everyone she’d remembered that she and Guy were to have drinks with Gloria and said she was rushing back to get her husband to cancel it. Evidently Mrs Tripp calculated that Gloria really would head for the bottle. Bruce was told to wait and listen for any sounds of distress from Gloria. When he heard them, he was to get the bottle and glass and get rid of both.’
‘We think that’s why we didn’t catch them before,’ said Alice. ‘So hit-and-miss. So amateur and yet so cunning. Bruce disabled Roy’s car and put the digitalis that Mrs Tripp had brewed up in his flask. Another hit-and-miss plan.’
Agatha raised a hand to her bandaged head in bewilderment. ‘But the whole village must have been covering for them.’
‘We’re still going through her papers. Both Sam and Clarice had a fling with Henry Bruce. They were being blackmailed. It was nothing to do with their time in Broadway.’
‘How did you find that out?’ asked Agatha. ‘I mean, no one writes letters these days. Did Sam and Clarice tell you about it?’
‘We haven’t questioned them yet,’ said Bill. ‘It was all on dear Henry’s computer. Moses Green was threatened by having lock-ins, you know the villagers drinking long after hours. That explains why he was so anxious to get rid of you.’
‘What about poor Jerry Tarrant?’ asked Agatha.
‘He was gay.’
‘So what?’ demanded Agatha.
‘It obviously mattered a lot to him. Henry Bruce had been clubbing in Birmingham and saw him going into a gay club.’
‘Are you now exhuming his body?’
‘He was cremated.’
‘Snakes and bastards,’ said Agatha sleepily. ‘I wish Mrs Tripp weren’t so old. I’d like her to rot in prison for years.’ Her eyes began to close.
‘We’ll leave you to rest,’ said Bill.
Agatha’s eyes jerked open. ‘But what about the rest of the village, all insisting it was someone from outside?’
‘We’re working on that. Go to sleep. You’ll be all right. The hospital says you’ve a head like iron.’
The following day, Agatha felt much better and was delighted to receive a visit from Mrs Bloxby after she had made an official statement to Bill.
‘It’s quite a sensation,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘It’s all over the newspapers and television.’
The door of Agatha’s room opened and Toni and Simon came in. ‘We’ve called before,’ said Toni, ‘but you were asleep and we were told not to disturb you.’
Agatha told them what Bill had said. ‘What evil!’ exclaimed Mrs Bloxby.
‘I know,’ said Agatha. ‘It almost makes city crime look clean by comparison.’
‘Patrick, Phil and Mrs Freedman have all been round,’ said Ton
i. ‘You were asleep then so they were told not to disturb you.’
‘Everyone seems to have brought a lot of goodies,’ said Agatha, eyeing the baskets of fruit and boxes of chocolates. ‘Have you seen James or Charles?’
‘Not yet,’ said Mrs Bloxby, studying the bleak view outside the hospital window.
‘You look awkward,’ said Agatha sharply. ‘Out with it!’
‘I phoned and told Mr Lacey I was going to visit you and asked if he would like to come. He said, “Not now. Maybe later.”’
Two days later, Agatha received the glad news that she was to be allowed home. Her hospital room was crammed with gifts. Her cleaner, Doris Simpson, had called with various other well-wishers from Carsely. But James and Charles were still absent.
Toni came to drive her home. They went through the gifts, only selecting a few but keeping all the cards that went with them, and told a nurse to give the rest to the old folks’ home.
They were just about to leave when Roy Silver rushed in. He was wearing a black leather jacket and black leather trousers. ‘Just in time,’ he panted. ‘How are you?’
‘A bit shaky,’ said Agatha, ‘and feeling like a freak. You can see where they shaved off some of my hair.’
‘I’ll come home with you and look after you,’ said Roy importantly. ‘I’ve hired a limo.’
‘Oh, Roy, how very good of you. Toni, that means you’ll be able to go to the office.’
When they emerged on the hospital steps it was to find a battery of television and press cameras waiting for them.
Roy stepped forward. ‘I am Roy Silver,’ he said. ‘You know, darlings, the one that was nearly killed.’
‘Bastard,’ hissed Agatha, ‘you only came for the publicity. Get me back in the hospital, Toni.’
‘If you wait in reception,’ said Toni, ‘I’ll bring my car round to the staff entrance.’
They hurried back inside.
Outside, Roy tried to continue with a prepared speech, but he was drowned out with reporters’ demands to speak to Agatha.
As Toni drove off to Carsely, Agatha, still weak from medication and her injury, began to cry. ‘Oh, don’t,’ pleaded Toni. ‘I’ll soon have you home.’
‘James and Charles didn’t even bother to come,’ sobbed Agatha, ‘and that wretched Roy only wanted publicity for himself.’
‘To hell with them,’ said Toni. ‘Think of all the people who came to see you and who do care about you.’
Agatha dried her eyes and stared grimly through the windscreen.
Finally, Toni turned into the steep road leading down into Carsely. She drove round a bend and then put on the brakes. ‘What on earth . . .?’
The village band was blocking the road. The bandmaster walked forward and peered into the car. ‘Welcome home,’ he shouted. ‘Follow us.’
Bewildered, Agatha watched as Toni slowly followed the band. They played ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ as they proceeded down into Carsely. Villagers, clapping and cheering, lined the streets when they arrived in the village.
They followed the band into Lilac Lane and up to Agatha’s cottage. James and Charles stood on either side of her cottage door, each holding an enormous bouquet of flowers.
‘There you are!’ laughed Toni. ‘Still feeling unloved?’
Several of the more experienced pressmen had raced from the hospital, guessing that Agatha might escape the back way. Trying not to cry, this time with gratitude, Agatha made a brief speech of thanks to the village before going inside with Toni, James and Charles. Mrs Bloxby was waiting in the kitchen where a splendid afternoon tea was laid out on the table.
‘You arranged all this,’ said Agatha to James and Charles. ‘Most of the time, the villagers think I’m the grim reaper.’
‘Wanted to surprise you,’ said Charles. ‘Sit down, have tea and tell us all about it.’
Agatha’s cats actually climbed on her lap. She stroked their soft fur and told everyone what Bill had said.
When she had finished, James said, ‘What misery that horrible woman has caused. The scandal of Sam, Clarice and Henry Bruce will all come out at the trial. Moses Green might lose his licence. And goodness knows what else she found out to blackmail some of the other villagers into silence.’
There were frequent rings of the doorbell as more press arrived. Then Roy’s voice could be heard shouting through the letterbox. ‘Let me in!’
‘Leave him,’ said Agatha. ‘He only turned up hoping for some publicity for his precious little self.’
‘It’s difficult,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘He did nearly get killed working for you, Mrs Raisin.’
‘I can’t be bothered with him at the moment,’ said Agatha.
‘I’ll send him off,’ said Charles, ‘and tell him to come down another time.’
They heard Charles open the door to the clamour of the press and the pleadings of Roy. Charles shut the front door behind him and cut off the noise.
‘Did Bill say anything about Brian Summer?’ asked James.
‘Oh, do let her have her tea in peace,’ urged Mrs Bloxby.
‘It’s all right,’ said Agatha. ‘I can talk and eat. It seems as if Mrs Tripp delighted in manipulating him and sent him that book. The poor man is still in the psychiatric unit at Warnford Hospital. Bill wonders how she found out about the epileptic fits.’
‘After Bill had taken my statement,’ said James, ‘he said that Ada White confessed to having consulted Mrs Tripp to see if she had any brew that would help the man with his fits. She recommended the magic mushrooms and told her where to find them.’
‘What are magic mushrooms?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.
‘They’re hallucinogenic and can be found in the fields,’ said Toni. ‘They’re called shrooms on the street.’
‘She should go down in history as the Witch of Piddlebury,’ said Agatha.
* * *
A week went by, a week in which Mrs Tripp did not receive any visitors, apart from her lawyer. She had tried to phone various villagers to berate them for abandoning her in her ‘hour of need’. But both in their different ways had told her to rot in hell.
So she was delighted and surprised to be told she had a visitor. She was put into a room furnished only with a scarred wooden table and two hard chairs.
A woman, almost as old as herself, shuffled into the room. She was dressed entirely in black. She was stooped and wrinkled and wearing a red wig. ‘Don’t you remember me, Gladys,’ she said. ‘It’s me – Rosie Blacksmith.’
‘Rosie! Where have you been all these years?’
‘Went to stay with my daughter in Canada. Came back. Thought I’d rather die alone than die of boredom. Great churchgoer, my Elsie.’
‘What happened to our coven that used to meet up in Quarry Hill?’
‘You must have heard. Mind you, it must be about thirty years ago. Someone snuck up on us and took photos. They appeared in the Daily Express. There we all were, buck naked. We were a laughing stock. Folks are right cruel. Why did you leave us?’
‘I had other fish to fry. Got tired of freezing my assets off and dancing around. So here I am. And I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for that cow of a detective, Agatha Raisin.’
‘Do you want me to put a curse on her?’ asked Rosie.
‘What about killing her?’
‘I’d do it for you, Gladys, for old times’ sake, but I don’t want to end up in here.’
‘You could slip something in her drink. I read the local papers. There’s a Christmas fair in Ancombe this coming Saturday. Ancombe’s near her village.’
‘It’s miles off to Christmas!’
‘Folks like to get their presents early.’
‘So what’s it got to do with me, Gladys?’
‘Do you still tell fortunes at fairs?’
‘Yes, but not so much. My arthritis is wicked these days.’
‘You could offer your services, all money to go to charity. I’m good at reading people. I bet she consults you. Th
at one’s man-hungry, I’ll bet. Sad sacks like her are always looking for Mr Right.’
‘I can’t very well offer her a drink. She’s hardly likely to take one from me without getting suspicious.’
‘Put something in a syringe and jab her. Remember Sarah, the mad vet, who used to be one of us? Know where she is?’
The wrinkles on Rosie’s face bunched up as she thought hard. ‘Let me see, Sarah Drinkwater. I’ll need to check.’
‘If you get her, try to get some stuff for putting down animals.’
Rosie handed a carrier bag over to Mrs Tripp. ‘It’s one of those special jackets. I’m allowed to give it to you. They checked it out.’
Mrs Tripp’s eyes glistened with grateful tears. ‘That’s great. I thought everyone had forgotten me.’
‘We never forget, do we?’ said Rosie. ‘Give me a description of Agatha Raisin.’
Rosie lived in what had once been an agricultural worker’s cottage up on the outskirts of Snowshill. She paid off the taxi without giving a tip. Her cottage, unlike others, had not been modernized apart for the addition of an inside toilet. The outside was of red brick. Inside was dark and dingy.
She went to the drawers of an old rolltop desk in her living room and took out a battered notebook and thumbed through the pages.
She found an address and telephone number for Sarah in Broadway. She dialled the number. A woman answered. ‘I would like to speak to Sarah,’ said Rosie.
‘If it’s my grandmother you want, she’s in a home in Broadway.’
‘I’m an old friend. I’d like to visit her. Which home?’
‘It’s called the Resting Place.’
Rosie rang off. She took a note of the retirement home’s address. She decided it was near enough to get there on her mobility scooter and save the expense of another taxi fare.
Autumn leaves swirling about her, crouched over the handlebars, she set off down the hill to Broadway. Two women watched her go past. ‘Doesn’t she look sinister,’ said one. ‘Just like a witch. You can just picture her on a broomstick.’
Rose located the retirement home and drove up the short drive. She could only hope Sarah had retained all her wits.
