by M C Beaton
‘So what? She’s an old friend.’
‘Was an old friend,’ said Agatha.
‘Was?’
‘She died in an attempt to murder me with something she was going to put into a syringe. Know anything about that?’
‘Dear me, no. I feel faint,’ said Sarah. ‘Could you pass me that box over there?’
Charles made to pick it up, but Agatha said sharply, ‘Leave it. Phone the police.’
Sarah closed her eyes and refused to say anything. When Bill, Alice and a policewoman arrived, Agatha met them at the entrance to the nursing home and rapidly outlined what she had discovered about Sarah.
‘We’ll look into it,’ said Bill.
Sarah refused to hand over the key so Bill asked for a hammer and smashed open the box. Putting on gloves, he examined the contents.
‘Mrs Drinkwater,’ said Bill. ‘Did you give any of these veterinary medicines to Rose Blacksmith?’
‘No!’ said Sarah.
‘From a broken phial, it has been quickly established that Rose died of Oblivon. I see you have some phials in this box. You have no right to these medicines. You were struck off.’
Sarah shut her eyes. She had always wanted to meet Gladys Tripp again. But she had never imagined the meeting would take place in prison.
* * *
Gladys Tripp was returned to her cell. She was now accused of having asked Rose Blacksmith to murder Agatha Raisin. She refused to answer any questions without her lawyer. It was only when her lawyer arrived that she learned of the failed attempt on Agatha’s life and the death of Rosie. She refused to answer any questions. Her lawyer gamely said they had no proof. Mrs Tripp was returned to her cell.
She sat on her bed, brooding. All the evil gods she had prayed to had deserted her. One wrinkled hand stroked the jacket Rosie had given her. It was made of patchwork squares of silk on a wool base.
She hammered on her cell door and demanded a glass of water. When it arrived, she sat down on the hard bed again. She sent a prayer to the Horned God. Then she wrenched the bottom button off her jacket and swallowed it.
A wardress heard the noise of Mrs Tripp’s feet drumming on the cell floor and rushed in. The old woman was arched with pain and vomiting. The wardress rang for the medical orderly, but by the time he arrived, it was too late. Mrs Tripp was dead.
Bill Wong called on Agatha in her office the following day with the news. ‘I hoped she would die in prison,’ said Agatha. ‘I feel sure there are murders we don’t yet know about, like poor Jerry Tarrant and Lady Craton.’
‘The press are having a field day,’ said Bill. ‘Suicide in the cells, witchcraft, murder and mayhem. Someone has been leaking news to the media. Have they been bothering you?’
‘On and off,’ said Agatha. ‘Strange as it may seem, I don’t want publicity on this one. I want to forget about the whole thing and move on. How did the old lady kill herself?’
‘Rose Blacksmith had given her a jacket. One of the buttons contained cyanide. Sarah Drinkwater says that in the days of the coven, they had this belief that they should be able to end their lives when they felt like it. Hence the idea of the poisoned buttons. What a way to die!’
‘If I were like Mrs Bloxby, I’d probably pray for her soul,’ said Agatha, ‘but being me, I hope she rots in hell or comes back as a cockroach.’
Epilogue
A month later, Agatha found work at the agency had dwindled. At first she was glad to spend more time in the village, but after a week or so, began to feel restless.
When Charles arrived at her cottage one Saturday, Agatha again felt irritated by the way he walked in and out of her life when he felt like it.
‘Why the sour face?’ asked Charles as he dumped an overnight bag in the hall.
‘Come to stay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you never think of phoning first to see if it will be all right? What if I were entertaining some gorgeous man?’
‘Then I would bless you and leave.’
‘And not care?’
‘What happened about the deaths of Jerry Tarrant and Lady Craton?’ asked Charles, ignoring her last question.
‘Both were cremated, so no hope there. We know Mrs Tripp had something on Moses, Sam and Clarice. But what about the rest of them? She couldn’t blackmail a whole village.’
‘Let’s go and find out,’ said Charles. ‘There’s no one left to try to bump you off now.’
‘All right,’ said Agatha. ‘I feel like a bit of action. The agency’s not getting the work these days.’
‘You’ve had a lot of publicity,’ said Charles, sitting down at the kitchen table and taking a cigarette out of Agatha’s packet, which was lying on the table, and lighting it.
‘If I ever gave up smoking, you’d have to give up as well,’ said Agatha. ‘Don’t you ever buy your own? Anyway, you’d think all that publicity would have generated work.’
‘People might think you’re too expensive,’ said Charles. ‘You need the bread-and-butter work of lost pets and children. Put an ad in the local paper, giving your rates, cheap enough to undercut the others. That should bring the work in.’
‘Good idea. I’ll try that. Do you want lunch?’
‘Not one of your famous microwave meals,’ said Charles. ‘Come on. We’ll find a pub on the road there.’
It was raining heavily when they set off, but as they drove down the lanes approaching the village, the sky cleared.
They had stopped for a long lunch on the road, and so it was late afternoon when they parked outside the Green Man. ‘The pub’s still open for business,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m glad the old bat didn’t manage to get it closed. I’d like a word with Jenny Soper.’
‘Why her?’
‘She went along with this business that the murders must have been committed by a stranger. I wonder if Mrs Tripp had anything on her.’
‘Where does she live?’
Agatha shuffled through her notes. ‘Over there. That cottage by the shop.’
Jenny answered the door. She backed away slightly when she saw them. ‘What do you want?’
‘I was wondering why so many of the villagers went along with the fiction that the murders must have been committed by a stranger,’ said Agatha. ‘Mrs Tripp couldn’t have been blackmailing everyone.’
Jenny opened the door a little wider. ‘Come in.’
Her front parlour was as neat as a pin. A comfortable sofa and two armchairs covered in bright chintz dominated the room and a log fire was crackling on the hearth.
Charles and Agatha sat side by side on the sofa and Jenny perched on the edge of an armchair. ‘People used to go to her for herbal cures,’ said Jenny. ‘Last winter, I couldn’t get rid of a cough and she gave me a mixture which cleared it up. She seemed harmless. We got to talking a bit. I told her about my marriage. I’m divorced now and Raph, my ex, is doing time for armed robbery.’
‘That surely wasn’t enough to keep you quiet,’ said Agatha.
‘She gave me some tea that made me feel warm and sleepy. I found myself confiding in her that I used to be a drug addict and all the battle I had getting off the things.
‘It was shortly after you arrived that she called on me and said it would be a good idea if I put it about that it must have been a stranger. She said Peter Suncliff might change his ideas about me if he knew I used to be a drug addict married to an armed robber.’
‘But Mr Suncliff is surely much older than you.’
‘I’m forty-two. I’m older than I look. Peter is everything my former husband isn’t. He’s affectionate and dependable. He told me once that drug addicts disgust him.’
‘If he’s all that decent a man,’ said Charles, ‘your past shouldn’t bother him.’
‘I couldn’t bear the secrecy any more,’ said Jenny. ‘Just before she was arrested I told him. He said he already knew. Mrs Tripp told him that unless he went along with the fiction about the murderer, she’d tell everyone in the village about
my past. He kept quiet for my sake. This is a closed community. People value respectability. I had carved out a new life for myself here.’
‘You don’t work,’ said Agatha. ‘How do you manage for money?’
‘My parents died just after the divorce and left me quite well off. I left Birmingham and wanted to start a new life here. Peter and I are going to be married.’
‘That’s great,’ said Charles. ‘Is the vicar still married?’
Jenny looked at him, round-eyed. ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
‘Silly thing to say,’ said Charles hurriedly. ‘I was thinking of some other vicar.’
‘I thought the police would have been round prosecuting people for impeding the police in their inquiries,’ said Agatha, when they left Jenny’s cottage.
‘I think Mrs Tripp’s death closed the case for them. What about the wicked vet?’
‘Sarah died of a heart attack in prison. It was in the papers,’ said Agatha.
‘I haven’t been reading them lately. Do we really need to go around digging up everyone’s nasty secrets?’ said Charles. ‘Poor souls. It’s such an odd place. Not like the Cotswold villages where newcomers are no novelty. Makes you feel you ought to set your watch back one hundred years.’
‘Still, let’s call on Sam. I’m curious. Also, the vicar said God had told him the identity of the murderer. I want to find out if God got it right.’
‘Okay. Vicarage first and then Sam.’
Clarice opened the vicarage door to Agatha and glared at her. She was holding a large glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, both signs the vicar was not at home.
‘Piss off,’ she said. ‘One witch in a village is enough without a witch bitch like you haunting my doorstep.’
The door slammed in their faces.
‘I wonder what the Mother’s Union makes of her?’ said Charles.
‘Oh, she can act the part of the vicar’s lady to perfection,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s try the church.’
They entered the gloom of the church. Ada White was arranging a vase of flowers by the altar. She turned and saw them, let out a shriek, dropped the vase and ran past them out of the church.
Guy Enderbury appeared from the vestry. ‘What was that noise? Oh, it’s you.’
‘Ada knocked over the flowers,’ said Agatha.
‘Dear me, what a mess,’ said the vicar, looking down at the shattered glass vase and the flowers lying on the floor. ‘I’ll get our cleaner, Mrs Pound, to clear it up.’
‘Did God really tell you who the murderer was?’ asked Agatha.
‘That is between me and my Maker.’
‘Meaning you didn’t know, but you hoped whoever it was would come after you,’ said Agatha.
‘You are an unbeliever,’ said Guy.
‘Only when it comes to codswallop.’
‘Was Mrs Tripp blackmailing you?’ asked Charles.
‘Of course not. There is nothing in my life she could blackmail me about.’
‘It has been said,’ remarked Agatha, her eyes boring into his, ‘that you only married the Broadway barmaid because you got her pregnant.’
‘Mrs Tripp could hardly blackmail me over something that was common knowledge at the time. Get out of my church!’
Agatha itched to ask him about Henry Bruce. But what if the police had not said anything?
She and Charles reluctantly left. Guy stood in the middle of the aisle, glaring after them.
‘Sam next, I suppose,’ said Charles. ‘This is all a waste of time, Agatha.’
‘I’m curious, that’s what,’ said Agatha.
They made their way to the manor house, Fred answered the door and looked them up and down. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he demanded.
‘Always the perfect butler,’ said Agatha. ‘We’re here to see Sam.’
‘Lady Framington to you.’
‘Tell her we’re here!’ shouted Agatha.
Sam appeared behind Fred. ‘What are you doing back here?’ she demanded. ‘It’s all over with.’
‘We’re curious,’ said Agatha. ‘Was Mrs Tripp blackmailing you over your affair with . . .’
‘Come inside,’ said Sam quickly. ‘That voice of yours is so loud, it’s like a megaphone.’
They followed her into the drawing room. ‘I did not have an affair with anyone,’ said Sam.
‘Not even with Henry Bruce?’ said Agatha.
‘I’m hardly likely to hop into bed with the hired help. Now, your friend James Lacey was another matter. Quite delicious.’
‘James wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .’ spluttered Agatha.
‘Oh, he could and did.’
‘Come on, Aggie,’ said Charles. ‘She’ll just sit here all day, lying her head off.’
James Lacey, earlier that day, had been shopping in the market in Mircester for vegetables when he came across Toni. They stood looking at each other awkwardly, and James said, ‘I did make such a fool of myself, Toni. Forgot my age. I am sorry.’
‘Oh, I was just as much to blame,’ said Toni with a shy smile.
‘Look, it’s lunchtime. Join me?’
‘Why not?’ They walked out of the square and along to the George Hotel.
The day was dark and the lights were on in the dining room. After they had sat down, James noticed a small diamond ring glittering on Toni’s engagement finger.
He pointed to the ring. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Toni. ‘I’ve met someone at last.’
‘Not as old as I am, I hope,’ said James.
‘He’s a medical student,’ said Toni. ‘His name is Frank Evans. He’s two years older than I am.’
‘That’s a blessing. Got a photo?’
Toni smiled. ‘Of course.’
She fished in her handbag and drew out a photo and handed it to James. It showed a very handsome young man with dark curly hair and hazel eyes.
‘When’s the wedding?’
‘We’re going to wait until Frank gets his degree. We’re looking for a flat. Mine is too small.’
‘Doesn’t Frank have a bigger flat?’
‘No, his is as small as mine.’
‘What do his parents think of the engagement?’
‘His father is dead. I’m meeting his mother for dinner tonight. She’s travelling up from Wales.’
‘And does Agatha know?’ asked James.
‘Not yet. Anyway, my private life is none of her business.’
‘Let’s order and then you can tell me more.’
Once the waiter had taken their orders, Toni said, ‘I met him at a pop concert. Some youths were annoying me and he stepped in. We went for a drink.’
‘When was this?’
‘A week ago.’
James wanted to say that surely that was a bit rushed, but felt that he, of all people, had the least right to question Toni’s happiness. As the meal went on, he could only be glad that he and Toni seemed to have returned to their former easy-going relationship.
* * *
‘Don’t be nervous,’ Frank said to Toni that evening. ‘Mother will adore you. And you’ll adore her. She’s so bright and clever and friendly. I’ve booked a table at the George.’
Toni had not seen a photograph of Frank’s mother and imagined she would be a plump Welshwoman with rosy cheeks, black hair and a lilting voice.
The real woman came as a shock. Mrs Evans was a thin dyed blonde with a wind-tunnel facelift and a mouth enhanced by collagen. That mouth was painted scarlet and seemed to hang on her thin white face as if it did not belong to it.
Frank embraced her and she clung on to him fiercely. Then she released him and her pale eyes raked up and down Toni. ‘So this is your little friend?’
‘Yes, this is Toni.’
‘I assume that’s short for Antonia.’
‘No,’ said Toni. ‘I was christened Toni with an i, not y.’
‘Dear me, the odd names they do give girls these days.’
/> They sat down at a table in the window. The waiter came up and Mrs Evans ordered a martini, Frank had the same, and Toni ordered sparkling mineral water.
Mrs Evans came from Cardiff. She and her son promptly launched into a conversation about people Toni didn’t know, Frank laughing uproariously at all his mother’s anecdotes. The rain, which had ceased earlier, began to fall again.
This is awful, thought Toni, gazing bleakly at the rain smearing the plate-glass windows. I wish I were like Mrs Bloxby and believed in God and I could ask for divine help to get me out of this.
‘Toni!’ cried a familiar voice. Toni looked across the dining room. Agatha and Charles were bearing down on their table.
Toni made the introductions. ‘Your fiancé?’ said Agatha. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘About a week ago.’
‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure, is what I always say,’ remarked Mrs Evans. ‘Don’t want my precious just throwing himself away on anyone.’
‘Then he’s damned lucky he’s got a pearl like Toni,’ said Agatha. She signalled to the headwaiter. ‘This is a celebration. Move us all to a bigger table and bring champagne.’
Charles whispered in her ear. ‘You’re butting in, Agatha.’
‘She needs help,’ muttered Agatha.
After the food was ordered and the champagne poured, Agatha got to her feet. ‘Here’s to Toni Gilmour,’ she said. ‘The best detective ever.’
‘Such an odd job for a little girl,’ said Mrs Evans. She turned to her son when the toast was over and picked up her conversation with him where she had left off.
Agatha said to Toni, ‘We’ve just been to Piddlebury.’
‘Did you find out why they all banded together with this fiction that the murders were done by an outsider?’ asked Toni.
‘Stonewalled at every turn,’ said Charles, ‘apart from Jenny Soper, who admitted to being blackmailed. Such an odd village. So closed in. I bet there was a lot of incest in the old days.’
Mrs Evans found to her annoyance that her son was no longer listening to her. ‘Are you all right now?’ Frank asked Agatha. ‘Toni told me you got struck on the head and then the murderers tried to push you down the well.’
Agatha launched into a highly colourful, highly embroidered account of her adventures, pausing only to eat her food.
