by M C Beaton
Doris smiled for the first time. ‘Let me get you some tea, sir.’
Fran had agreed to be interviewed by Agatha. She sat in front of Agatha, nervously plucking at her skirt.
‘At first,’ said Fran, ‘we were really all against you trying to find out who murdered Mother. But then the police began to make each one of us feel guilty. Something’s got to be done. Jimmy’s going ahead putting the shop up for sale. It’s too early. None of us is going to get a good price with the suspicion of murder hanging over our heads. Besides, it’s just a little shop, no post office counter. The villagers go on grumbling about keeping the old ways but most of them shop at the supermarkets. The ones who go to Jimmy get their groceries on tick and then he has the awful job of making sure they pay their bills.’
‘Was your mother – how can I put this – was she ever very maternal?’
‘Not that I can remember. Dad adored us. We had marvellous Christmases when we were small. It was only after he died that Mother – well – turned. I sometimes wonder if she was jealous of us all.’
‘Was Jimmy always destined to be a shop-keeper?’
‘No, he was working in computers as a website developer, a firm in Mircester. The firm went bust just after Dad died. He was looking around for another job when Mother bulldozed him into running the shop.’
‘The shop did not belong to the estate?’
‘No, she bought it for him and gave it to him as a Christmas present. You should have seen his face. I thought he was about to cry.’
‘And Bert?’
‘Well, Dad had taken him into the business and he was happy working with him.’
‘And you are divorced?’
‘Yes. He was snobbish but it was as if Mother went out of her way to look common when he was around. She wouldn’t help out with Annabelle’s education.’
‘Didn’t you get a good settlement from the divorce?’
Fran turned red. ‘I had an affair. I looked on it as a passing fling but my ex got a private detective on to it. He said if I didn’t just walk away from the marriage, he would bring out my adultery in court. I should have stood my ground and fought for some money for Annabelle’s education, but I was so ashamed and Mother said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll give you an income.” It wasn’t enough.’
‘When your daughter grew up, did she come to resent her grandmother?’
‘Annabelle doesn’t resent anyone. A girlfriend with money suggested they open a dress shop in the King’s Road in Chelsea. It did and does very well.’
‘Annabelle isn’t married?’
‘My daughter is a lesbian.’
‘Oh. Do you own your own house?’
‘No. Mother bought it for me. Or rather, she bought it and took the rent out of my allowance. It’s a poky former council house in Mircester.’
‘And you all knew about your mother’s special salads?’
Fran shrugged. ‘Couldn’t not. As far as I can remember, she’s served up the beastly things.’
‘But you’ll be able to sell the house now?’
‘Yes, thank God. We’re all going to try and stay here at the manor until this dreadful murder is solved. It must be someone from the village.’
‘Why?’
‘Because none of us has the guts. She really ground us down.’
‘Is the kitchen door always open during the day?’
‘Yes, anyone could have come in that way. You know what these villages are like. Lots of inbreeding. I think it was done by someone mad.’
‘Where is Jimmy at the moment?’
‘He’s up at the shop, clearing out.’
‘Perhaps I might go up there for a word with him. And then perhaps Sadie might like to talk to me.’
‘I really don’t think my sister or Bert can tell you anything further.’
Agatha had to park a little way away from the shop. There was a crowd outside and the road was almost blocked by tractors and cars.
She walked forward and pushed her way to the front of the crowd. A rejuvenated Jimmy was shouting, ‘Everything must go. Fifty pee a box.’
He’s practically giving the stuff away, thought Agatha.
Groceries and vegetables from the shop had been piled into separate boxes. The boxes were disappearing rapidly as the villagers bought and bought, carrying stuff back to their cars and tractors and returning for more.
Jimmy’s thin face was flushed and his eyes were shining. Hardly the grieving son, thought Agatha. She retreated to her car and decided to wait. It wouldn’t be long before everything was gone.
One by one, the vehicles laden with groceries began to move off. Agatha’s stomach rumbled. She fished in the glove compartment of her car and found a Mars Bar, ate it, and lit a cigarette.
When the last vehicle had gone, she climbed stiffly from her car, her treacherous hip sending pain shooting down her leg. She limped towards the shop and then heaved a sigh of relief as the pain subsided.
‘Mr Tamworthy?’
Jimmy, who was closing the shop door, turned round. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘I wanted to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.’
He hesitated and then said reluctantly, ‘You’d better come in, but I don’t think I can be of much help.’
He led the way into the shop. The wooden shelves were empty of groceries. A few newspapers and a cabbage stalk lay on the floor. Agatha followed Jimmy through the shop, into the back shop, and up a wooden staircase. He opened a door at the top and ushered her in.
She found herself in a bleak little room. Jimmy sat down at a round table at the window. Agatha sat down opposite him. She looked around. There were no books or paintings. The table she was sitting at was flanked by three hard upright chairs. A battered sofa and coffee table were placed in front of a television set. She wondered whether his bedroom might contain more signs of individuality.
Jimmy’s face was a polite blank.
‘Can you think of anyone at all who might have wanted to kill your mother?’ began Agatha.
‘Mum irritated a lot of people but not enough to make anyone want to kill her.’
‘Did she have trouble with anyone apart from the villagers recently?’
He shook his head. Then he said, ‘Blentyn’s were annoying her a bit.’
‘Who are they?’
‘A building developer. He was anxious to start building on the bit of land where those ruined houses are. Mum kept telling him to wait. The boss, Joe Trump, he said that recession was coming and if she didn’t hurry up, he’d be unable to sell the houses. He was quite threatening.’
‘Where can I find Blentyn’s?’
‘Out on the industrial estate at Mircester.’
‘You must have hated your mother for having stuck you in this shop,’ said Agatha.
‘She was my mother. You can’t hate your own mother.’
‘It happens,’ said Agatha. ‘What will you do now?’
His brown eyes gleamed. ‘I’ll travel. I’ll go to all the places I ever wanted to see.’
‘When is the funeral?’
‘We don’t know. The police said they would let us know when they are releasing the . . . the . . . body.’
His eyes filled with tears and he shouted, ‘I was enjoying myself. This was my day! Why did you have to come along and spoil everything?’
Suddenly nonplussed, Agatha rose to her feet and muttered, ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
She clattered down the wooden stairs and out through the shop. It had begun to rain. Long fingers of rain were trailing across the stubble of the fields.
Agatha cursed herself as she walked to the car. Why had she run away like that? A real detective would have persevered.
Toni looked down from the window of her flat that evening and shrank back as she saw her brother coming along the street with two of his mates. They were glancing up at the buildings, searching for something. She had a sickening feeling they were looking for her.
She took
another cautious look. She had phoned a friend, Maggie Spears, earlier and had asked her to come round. To her horror, she saw the three stop and start to talk to Maggie. Maggie said something, tossed her head and walked on. Then, to Toni’s relief, Maggie walked straight past the entrance to the flats.
Five minutes later, Toni’s phone rang. It was Maggie. ‘That no-good brother of yours was asking where you were. I’ll come back when it’s safe. I told him you lived in Beacon Street, you know, out on the Evesham Road.’
‘Thanks, Maggie,’ said Toni. ‘I’ll be glad to see you.’
Chapter Seven
Phil drove up to the manor, parked discreetly behind the stables as he saw a police car approaching and went in search of the gardener, Fred Instick.
He found Fred, a gnarled old man, sitting on the edge of a wall smoking his pipe, seemingly unmindful of the steady drizzle falling down from the leaden sky above.
‘I am a private detective,’ said Phil. ‘Is there anywhere we can talk out of the rain?’
Fred, by way of reply, walked off in the direction of a potting shed at a corner of the garden.
Phil took down the large golf umbrella he had been holding over his head and followed Fred inside.
Fred looked gloomily at his wet pipe, gave it a shake, put it down and drew out a packet of cigarettes.
Phil waited until he had lit a cigarette and then asked, ‘Do you know of anyone who would be likely to have murdered Mrs Tamworthy?’
Fred puffed slowly at his cigarette. His face was as dry and brown and cracked as a bed of earth in a drought. ‘Reckon I might ha’ done it,’ he said at last.
‘Why?’
‘Starvation pension, that’s why. Her said she’d pay me cash. “Don’t want to worry about taxes, Fred,” that’s what her did say. Now she’s gone and them’ll sell up and what’ll I do? They’ll sell my cottage and I ain’t got a pension worth looking at cos there’s no official record of me being employed.’
Phil, who was in his seventies, looked sympathetically at the old gardener. Then he had an idea. Agatha paid him a generous salary and expenses.
‘Look here, it’s hard to try to get information about what goes on in the manor. We’d gladly pay you for anything you can find out.’
‘You mean like snooping?’
‘Hard word, but that’s what detective work is all about.’
‘I could do with the money. I’ve had a right hard time of it with the police grilling me and demanding to know if I supplied hemlock by accident along with the other vegetables.’
‘Here’s my card,’ said Phil. ‘Any little thing you can think of. Keep your ears open. You’re sure you don’t have any idea who did the murder?’
‘I think it were her youngest, Jimmy. The others lived away from the manor but he were right up the road. Some mother that old woman was.’
‘Right, let me know if you think of anything else.’
As Phil left the potting shed, the rain had increased to a steady downpour. He got into his car and drove round to the front of the manor. The police car was still there, but no sign of Agatha’s car. He decided to go back to the office and write up his notes.
Fred made his way up to the manor house with a basket of vegetables. He went in by the kitchen door and laid the basket on the table. He could hear them all talking in the drawing room. He felt sour and bitter. There they all were, having inherited a fortune while he was facing the remainder of his days in poverty.
Some mad impulse made him poke his head round the drawing-room door. ‘Veggies in the kitchen,’ he said.
Fran said grandly, ‘Thank you, Fred, you may go.’
Her lady-of-the-manor attitude made Fred furious. ‘I know which one of you did it,’ he said. White, shocked faces turned in his direction. He grinned and slammed the door. On his way out through the kitchen, he saw bottles of Mrs Tamworthy’s wine in a rack by the door. He helped himself to a bottle and retreated to his cottage.
Agatha was cross with Charles for disappearing. She was at last fed up with the fact that he had the keys to her cottage and could come and go as he liked.
The following morning she telephoned the security firm that had installed her burglar alarm and asked them to come immediately to change the locks on her door and the code on the burglar alarm.
She telephoned the office and said she would be a bit late.
When the workmen arrived, she said she was going out for half an hour and made her way up to the vicarage.
‘I’m getting the locks on my cottage changed,’ said Agatha as soon as Mrs Bloxby opened the door.
‘So no more surprise visits from Sir Charles?’
Agatha followed her into the vicarage living room. ‘I don’t like the way he uses my house as a hotel.’
‘Mrs Raisin, I do believe you are –’ Mrs Bloxby broke off. She had been about to say, ‘growing up at last.’ She changed it to, ‘being very sensible. Have you time for a coffee?’
‘Yes, please, but only if it’s ready. I can’t be away too long.’
‘It’s ready. Won’t be a minute.’
‘May I smoke?’
‘Not in the house. We can go into the garden. It’s a fine morning.’
‘Don’t bother. The table and chairs will still be wet after last night’s rain.’
‘It’s all right. I’ve wiped them down.’
Agatha went out into the garden. The air was fresh and scented with autumn flowers. She took a deep breath, thinking how good country air was for her health, and then lit a cigarette.
‘I heard on the local radio station,’ said Mrs Bloxby when she returned with two cups of coffee, ‘that Paul Chambers is out on bail.’
‘Damn! I’ll need to keep Toni well away from that village. It’s a pity because the girl has a sharp eye.’
‘Tell me how far you’ve got with the case.’
Agatha began to sum up the little she knew. ‘Dear me,’ said Mrs Bloxby when she had finished, ‘one would think Mrs Tamworthy wanted to be murdered.’
‘The thing that puzzles me,’ said Agatha, ‘is why was she clutching that hemlock root? I mean, how did she get hold of it? Surely the killer wouldn’t go out of his way to give us a clue as to how she had been poisoned?’
‘It’s all very odd,’ said Mrs Bloxby.
Agatha looked at her watch and let out a squawk. ‘I’d better go. They should be finished by now.’
When Agatha finally got to the office, she carefully read the notes from Phil and Patrick. Patrick had written that Alison appeared to have been correct when she said her husband had lost interest in the brickworks. The failure of the brickworks did seem to have been caused by Bert not paying much attention to orders.
Sir Henry Field came as a surprise. He was managing director of a firm that made health-food bars, a small concern. Patrick had gathered that he didn’t have much to do with the running of the firm. The owner liked Henry’s title on their masthead.
Agatha, when she had read Phil’s notes, said, ‘I find this gardener interesting. I would like to talk to him myself. It’ll keep us clear of the house if the police are still around. Patrick, if you could get back to some of the other cases . . . We’re building up a backlog. Toni, you go through the cases with him and see what you can do.’
Patrick said, ‘Agatha, Toni is seventeen. You can drive a car at seventeen.’
‘Hmm, that’s a thought.’
‘But I don’t know how,’ said Toni. ‘I mean, if you have no hopes of owning a car, you don’t think about learning to drive.’
‘Right, Toni, get Mrs Freedman to book you up for a crash driving course where you get your licence at the end of the week.’
‘I can’t afford a car!’ exclaimed Toni.
‘I’ll get you an old banger. It’ll be the property of the agency. Get on with it. Come along, Phil. Let’s cross your gardener’s palm with silver and see what he comes up with.’
‘Police are still here,’ grumbled Agatha to Phil, who was
driving.
‘I’ll park round the back,’ said Phil.
‘Do you know where his cottage is?’ asked Agatha.
Phil shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. He’s probably in the garden.’
He parked the car and led the way to the kitchen garden. But there was no sign of Fred.
‘I don’t want to go into the house with the police there,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s go to the stables. That groom, Jill, will know where to find him.’
They met Jill as she was crossing the stable yard. To Agatha’s question, she said, ‘If you go right round the back of the kitchen garden to where those ruined houses are, you’ll find his cottage just the other side of the ruins.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Mrs Tamworthy?’ asked Agatha.
Jill put down the bucket and ran a hand through her short curly hair. ‘I’ve only worked here for three months. The previous groom left in a huff. Said she wasn’t being paid enough and there was too much work for one person.’
‘And is there?’
‘Not now,’ said Jill with a sigh. ‘Several owners have been up with their horse boxes to take their precious animals away. I’m starting to look for another job.’
‘They surely don’t think anyone would murder the horses,’ said Phil.
Jill laughed. ‘If you owned several thousand pounds’ worth of horseflesh, you wouldn’t be taking any chances either. They say that even if it turns out that the hemlock in the salad was an accident, then it follows that some of the stuff might get into the feed.’
They thanked her and walked back to the kitchen garden, then round it and found themselves facing the field with the ruined houses. ‘That must be the cottage,’ said Phil, pointing to a small building on the other side of the field. ‘We’ll need to cross the field.’
Agatha was wearing flat sandals. The field was still sodden from the previous day’s rain. She squelched across it following elderly Phil’s athletic stride. Phil was wearing serviceable boots. How does he manage to keep so fit at his age? wondered Agatha. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t smoke. Must stop. Well, maybe tomorrow.
‘Here we are,’ said Phil. ‘Real agricultural labourer’s cottage. Cheap brick. Look, there’s even a pump in the garden. Maybe he doesn’t have any running water. I don’t suppose he uses the front door. Let’s try the side.’
