by M C Beaton
"It may not be this mysterious Basil's number." James drove a little way along the road and then stopped. "Let me see it."
Agatha gave him the slip of paper with the number on it.
"It's a Mircester number," said James, "but it could also belong to any of the villages just outside Mircester. How are we going to find out the address that goes with it?"
Agatha sat scowling horribly. "I've got an idea," she said at last. "Any time I've been to police headquarters in Mircester to talk to Bill Wong or someone about a case, I've been put in an interview room and had to wait ages. The interview room has a phone. I could phone the operator and say I was a police detective, and before they get suspicious say something like, "Phone me back immediately at police headquarters on this extension.""
"Agatha, I forbid you to do anything so insane!"
"You what? Who the hell do you think you are to order me around?"
"See sense, woman. The one time someone will come to see you immediately is just when you don't want it. The phone will ring and someone like the dreadful Maddie will pick it up and promptly charge you with trying to impersonate a police officer."
"One has," said Agatha Raisin haughtily, "got to take risks in this business."
"Oh, don't get carried away. All we've done so far is create mayhem. I'll drop you off home. I'm going to the market in Moreton to get fish for dinner. If time lies heavy on your hands, you might try a little weeding, dear. It has not escaped my notice that you treat my place like a hotel."
"That's because it is your place," said Agatha, deeply hurt. "I can't wait to get my own home back."
"Can't wait either," said James, and they completed the drive home in bitter silence.
James went off to Moreton-in-Marsh and Agatha let herself in, smarting with hurt and fury. So this is what marriage would have been like? Being ordered about? How dare he. Well, she'd show him.
She went back out and got into her own car and drove as fast as she could to Mircester.
Feeling a bit nervous now, she approached the desk sergeant at Mircester Police Headquarters and said sweetly, "I would like to see someone in connection with the murder of Jimmy Raisin."
"It's Mrs. Raisin, isn't it?"
"Yes."
He lifted the flap, came round the desk and ushered her into an interview room off the entrance hall.
"Shouldn't be long," he said cheerfully. "Like a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you."
He left and shut the door. Agatha seized the phone and dialed the operator. Nothing happened. Then she realized she probably had to dial nine for an outside line and, hoping it was nine, tried again. The operator came on the line.
"This is Detective Sergeant Crumb," said Agatha, quickly taking her alias from the remains of a biscuit on a plate on the desk. She gave the operator the number she had culled from Mrs. Comfort's phone, asked for the name and address that went with it, and then gave her the number of the extension on the desk.
"We'll call you back," said the operator.
And Agatha waited and waited.
Then panic took over. She lifted the phone off the desk and put it on the floor. She seized the desk and pushed it across the floor and rammed it against the door. She had just finished doing that when two things happened at once. Someone tried to get in and the phone rang.
Agatha dropped to her knees on the floor, seized the receiver and muttered hoarsely into it. "Yes?"
"Detective Sergeant Crumb?"
"Yes, yes," hissed Agatha as she heard Maddie's voice calling from the other side of the door, "Mrs. Raisin? Are you in there? This door's jammed."
"The name and address you require is Basil Morton, number six, The Loanings, London Road, Mircester."
"Thanks," said Agatha.
She moved the desk and lay down alongside the door, just as she heard Maddie shouting, "Dave, come and help me with i this door."
Agatha groaned theatrically. "Are you all right?" Maddie called, her voice more sharp with suspicion than concern.
"I fainted," called Agatha. "I'll move. I'm blocking the door."
She got to her feet and stood back as Maddie, with policeman behind her, opened the door. Maddie's eyes went Straight to Agatha's flushed face and then to the phone, which was lying on the floor.
"You don't look at all like a woman who has just recovered from a faint," snapped Maddie. "And what's that phone doing on the floor? And didn't I hear it ringing?"
"I must have dragged it off the desk when I fell. It only rang a couple of times and then stopped."
"And it landed right side up with the receiver still in place?"
"Odd, that," said Agatha. She put her hand to her head. "I feel very hot. Could I have a glass of water?"
"Get it," Maddie ordered the policeman. "It's probably a menopausal hot flush."
Agatha glared at her, hating her.
"So let's cut the crap, Mrs. Raisin. Why are you here?"
"If that's your attitude, I think I'd rather speak to Bill."
"Bill's out on a job, and either you speak to me or I'll have you for wasting police time."
"It's a wonder you ever solve anything," said Agatha, "considering the way you put people's backs up."
The policeman came in with the glass of water and handed it to Agatha. She took it from him with a murmur of thanks, sat down, and began to drink it thirstily. Maddie watched her crossly and then said, "Out with it, Agatha."
"Mrs. Raisin to you." The glass of water had given Agatha time to improvise. She hadn't prepared a story, thinking that they would surely send Bill to see her.
"I have reason to believe," she said, "that Help Our Homeless was a scam and not a properly organized charity."
"We know that," said Maddie to Agatha's amazement. "The police went to close the place down in ninety-one, but the office was closed and the Gore-Appleton woman had disappeared."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why should I?" Maddie was barely able to conceal her contempt. "The trouble with you women who don't work is you're always poking your nose into other people's affairs. You've been told and told to leave matters to the police. I'll tell you something else. I think you were using that phone. Let's just try the call-back number and see what you were up to."
Agatha thought quickly. Maddie would only get that operator number. But she would ask everyone in the station if anyone had dialled the operator from the number in the interview room and find that no one had. Then, Agatha worried, she would phone the operator and find out what the inquiry had been about. But just at that moment, the phone rang.
Maddie picked it up. "Hallo, Bill," she said crossly. "Are you back in the building? You're not? You're phoning from outside." Bill's voice at the other end quacked busily. "Well, listen to this," said Maddie. "Your darling Mrs. Raisin is in the interview room and I think she was using this phone and I was about to get the call-back to tell me who it was phoned her, but because you found out I was in the interview room and decided to get through on an outside line, I can't find out now. Why didn't you just let the switchboard put yotl through?"
The voice quacked again. It was obvious to Agatha that Bill was explaining that whatever he had to say to Maddie he hadn't wanted to be overheard by the switchboard, because Maddie said, "This is neither the time nor place, and if you want to know the truth, there never is going to be a time and place...ever. Geddit?"
She slammed the phone down and said to Agatha, "Get out of here."
And Agatha went, gladly.
James was too curious about this new information to be angry with Agatha. In fact, he seemed to find her story about the desk and the manufactured faint amusing.
"Roy Silver phoned when you were out," he said "That secretary, Helen Warwick, the one Derrington was having the affair with, is back. I have the address. Want to go up to London today?"
"Can we leave it tomorrow?" pleaded Agatha. "I've got to go to Cheltenham with the awful Hardy woman and sort out the house sale."
"Are yo
u driving her or is she driving you?"
"Neither. She's meeting me there."
"Do you want me to come with you in case she tries to put the price up again?"
"She wouldn't!"
"She might. She's a tough customer."
"I hate her," said Agatha passionately. "I hate her almost as much as I hate that Maddie Hurd. What Bill ever saw in her is beyond me. What a bitch! And we've got Basil to check out."
"You go and see to getting your home back and we'll drive over to Mircester afterwards and see what we can find out about Basil."
"And there's the husband, Geoffrey Comfort of the Potato Plus. What is Potato Plus anyway?"
"It's a small factory where they put potatoes in plastic bags for the supermarkets. But his home number is in the book. Guess where he lives?"
"Here? Carsely?"
"No, Ashton-Le-Walls, same place as the late Miss Purvey. Off you go."
Agatha found Mrs. Hardy waiting for her in the lawyer's office in Montpelier Terrace in Cheltenham.
Agatha had paid PS110,000 for the cottage and had sold it to Mrs. Hardy for PS120,000. Mrs. Hardy was asking PS130,000, a ridiculous price, thought Agatha, now that the market had slumped.
Agatha was about to sign the papers when the price of PS150,000 seemed to leap off the page at her.
"What's this?" she snapped.
"The price?" The lawyer smiled. "Mrs. Hardy said that was the price agreed on."
"What the hell are the pair of you up to?" snarled Agatha. She rounded on the lawyer. "You agree to the price of one hundred and thirty thousand on the phone!"
"Well, Mrs. Hardy seems to think one hundred and fifty thousand a fair price."
Agatha gathered up her handbag and gloves. "You can get stuffed, the pair of you. I'll tell you what my figure is now - one hundred and ten thousand pounds. Take it or leave it."
She marched out of the office.
Oh, my home, she mourned as she got in her car. I'd better give it up. Fd better find another cottage in another village and get away from James entirely and get my life back. The world is full of other men.
But when she walked into James's cottage and he looked up and smiled at her, she felt her heart turn over and wondered if she would ever really be free of the feelings she had for him.
She told him what had happened and James said mildly, "There are other cottages, you know. Let's have an early dinner and go to Mircester."
The Loanings, where Basil Morton lived, was a builder's development, rather like the one where the Wong family had 1 their house. It was like a council estate, the only difference that Agatha could see being that the houses were slightly larger and the gardens well tended.
They rang the doorbell, not expecting a reply, but using it as a preliminary to calling on the neighbours and asking where their 'friend', Basil, had got to. To their surprise, the door was answered by a thin, dark-haired woman. At first they thought she was a girl because she was wearing a short navy skirt and white blouse, almost like a school uniform, and her hair was braided into two plaits. But when she switched on the overhead light over the door, they saw the fine wrinkles around her eyes and judged her to be in her late thirties.
"May we speak to Mr. Morton?" asked James.
"Basil's away abroad on business. He's often away." Loneliness shone in the dark eyes. "Won't you come in?"
They followed her into a living-room, which was almost frightening in its sterile cleanliness. There were no books or magazines lying about. "How long have you lived here?" asked Agatha, looking around her.
"Ten years."
And not a scuff-mark or stain or wear anywhere, marvelled Agatha. Can't be any children.
"Sherry?"
"Yes, please."
"Then please sit down."
She knelt down in front of a sideboard which shone and gleamed from frequent polishing and took out a crystal decanter, then three crystal glasses and a small silver tray. She put the tray on the carpet and placed glasses and decanter on it.
"Allow me." James carried the tray and its contents to a low coffee-table, which also shone and gleamed like glass.
How terrifying, thought Agatha. Doesn't she ever spill anything?
The woman poured out three glasses of what turned out to be very sweet sherry, probably British sherry, thought James, wrinkling his nose as he sniffed it.
"Did you want to see Basil about business?"
"No, Mrs____ er...Morton?"
"That's me."
"We just wanted to talk to him about a personal matter," said James.
"He's gone abroad. Spain. He often travels."
"What is his business, Mrs. Morton?"
"Bathrooms. Morton's Bathrooms, that's the company."
"Why Spain?"
"He buys tiles there," she said vaguely. "To be honest, I don't really know anything about the business. I have so much to do here, and I'm so tired when Basil gets home that I usually fall asleep."
"Do you work at home?" asked James.
She gave a little laugh and one thin hand waved to take i in the gleaming living-room. "Housekeeping. It never ends. You must find that, Mrs...?"
"Call me Agatha. I get a woman to clean. I'm not very good at housekeeping."
"Oh, but you've got to keep on top of it. It's the least one can do for a hard-working husband. I like my Basil to have his little nest to come home to...when he does come home," she added wistfully.
James drained his glass with a little grimace and signalled with his eyes to Agatha.
"Well, we must be on our way, Mrs. Morton. We have other calls to make."
"Oh, must you go? Just a little more sherry?"
"No, really. You're very kind."
"Who shall I say called?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Perth."
"And what else could we ask?" said James as they drove off. "We could hardly tell that poor neurotic house-cleaner that her husband has gone off to Spain with another woman."
"What now?" asked Agatha.
"Mr. Comfort, I think. Ashton-Le-Walls again, and wouldn't you know it. The fog is back."
"Are we going to tell this Mr. Comfort our real names?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Why did we waste time going to see Basil?"
"Well, we didn't go to see him because we know he's out of the country. I was going to ask the neighbours about him. Funny, I didn't think for a moment that he would be married."
"I suppose if we had been kind, we should have broken it to her," said Agatha slowly. "I think the police will check up and they'll tell her. Oh dear, all that cleaning and polishing in the name of love. He's probably spitting on the floor of his hotel room and leaving rings from his wineglasses on the bedside table."
"Just look at that bloody fog." James rubbed at the windscreen with a gloved hand. They had left the dual carriageway and were inching through the fog towards Ashton-Le-Walls.
"What are we going to ask him? Oh, look out!" screamed Agatha as a badger loomed up in the headlights. James braked and the badger shambled off into the hedge.
"I don't know," said James testily. "For God's sake." He had moved off again, only to brake savagely once more as a deer leaped through the fog in front of them. "Why don't those bloody animals stay warm and comfortable instead of wandering about on a filthy night like this? Mr. Comfort? We'll play it by ear. He may not even be home. Or we may find ourselves faced with the second Mrs. Comfort."
Geoffrey Comfort lived in a large manor-house on the outskirts of the village. "You'd never think there was all that amount of money in putting potatoes in plastic bags," marvelled Agatha. "I'm beginning to think I've spent my life in the wrong trade."
"Place looks deserted," muttered James, peering through the fog. "No, wait a bit. There's a chink of light through the downstairs curtains."
They parked the car and approached the house and rang the bell.
They waited and waited. "Probably left the light on because of burglars," Agatha was beginning, whe
n the door suddenly opened and a middle-aged man stood there, peering at them. He was very fat and round, rather like a potato himself, one of those potatoes washed and bagged for the supermarkets. To add to the impression, his fat face was lightly tanned and he had two black moles on his face, like the eyes of a potato.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Comfort?"
"Yes."
"I am James Lacey and this is Mrs. Agatha Raisin."
"So?"
"Mrs. Raisin's husband was murdered recently. He stayed at a health farm at the same time as your wife."
"Fuck off!" The heavy door was slammed in their faces.
"What do we do now?" asked Agatha.
"We go to the nearest pub and eat and drink, that's what we do. We can't very well ring the bell again and demand he speaks to us."
A window opened and Mr. Comfort's round head ap peared. "And bugger off fast or I'll let the dog out."
"There's your answer. In the car, quick, Agatha."
They sped off, James swerving in the drive to avoid a pheasant. "What's that stupid bird doing awake? Why isn't it up in the trees with the rest of the birds? Why has the whol damned countryside turned suicidal?"
"I could do with a bucket of gin," said Agatha gloomily. "Pity you're driving."
"Never mind. I'll drink just short of any breathalyser test. I'm-more interested in food."
They found the village pub, called quaintly the Tapestry Arms. A menu was chalked up on a blackboard beside the bar James read it aloud. "Jumbo sausage and chips, curried chicken and chips, lasagne and chips, fish and chips, and ploughman's."
"Should we try somewhere else?"
"Not in this fog. Let's try a couple of ploughman's am hope for the best."
The ploughman's turned out to be rather dry French bread with a minuscule runny pat of butter and a wedge of Cheddar-type cheese which looked for all the world like an old-fashioned slab of carbolic soap.
Agatha's gin and tonic was warm, the pub having run out of ice.
Bands of fog lay across the room. Agatha thrust away her half-eaten food and lit a cigarette. "Don't glare at me, James. With all this fog about, my cigarette smoke won't make much difference."
"So you think the Hardy woman will accept your offer?" he asked.
