Chapter Three
Agatha was silent on the drive to London the following morning. James, used to Agatha’s holding forth on every subject under the sun, found this unnatural silence was making him uneasy. Furthermore, Agatha was wearing trousers and a sweater and no make-up and sensible walking shoes. No perfume either. He was obscurely piqued that for the first time Agatha should appear to make no effort whatsoever on his behalf.
The last known address for Help Our Homeless was in a basement in Ebury Street in Victoria. They had found it in James’s very out-of-date set of London telephone directories. James wished they had tried to phone first, for it turned out to be now a minicab firm.
They found the boss of the minicab firm, a large West Indian, lounging back with his feet on the desk.
‘We’re looking for Help Our Homeless.’
‘You an’ everyone else, guv,’ said the West Indian. ‘Tell you what I told them. Don’t know. Don’t care.’
‘Why is everyone else looking for them?’ asked James.
‘Same reason as what you are, guv. Money owing.’
‘So you have no idea where Mrs Gore-Appleton is now?’ asked Agatha.
‘Search me.’ He heaved his shoulders in a massive shrug, picked up a coffee cup, took a gulp of the contents and appeared to forget their very existence.
‘Did you buy this place from her?’ pursued James.
The man’s dark eyes focused impatiently on them again. ‘I bought it from Quickie Photocopying and Printing. Before that it was the Peter Pan Temp Agency, before that, Gawd knows. Nobody stays here long. Business rates are diabolical, trust me, guv That Help Our Homeless died about four years ago.’
They gave up and left. James stood on the pavement head down, scowling furiously. ‘If Help Our Homeless was a charity, then surely this Gore-Appleton must have been in the press, opening something, talking about something. Do you know a helpful reporter?’
‘I used to know lots of journalists, but they were usually fashion editors or show-biz.’
‘But they would have access to the records. Can we ask?’
Agatha searched her brain for a journalist she knew who might not hate her too much. When she had been a public relations officer, the press had regarded her as a pain in the neck and usually featured her clients just to get rid of her.
‘I know the show-biz editor of The Bugle,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Mary Parrington.’
‘Let’s go and see her.’
They drove slowly down to the East End. Fleet Street was no more. The big papers had all relocated to cheaper, larger sites.
At last they stood in the sterile steel-and-glass hall of The Bugle, waiting to see whether Mary Parrington would grant them an audience.
Fortunately for Agatha, the news editor had been passing Mary’s desk just as she was telling her secretary, ‘Tell that awful old bat, Agatha Raisin, I’m dead or gone, or anything.’
‘Wait a bit,’ said the news editor. ‘That’s the female involved in the Cotswold murder. Get her up here and introduce me. No reporter’s been able to get near her.’
The idea of throwing Agatha to the lions of the news desk greatly appealed to Mary, and so Agatha and James were shown up.
As he was introduced to the beaming news editor, a Mike Tarry, James reflected that he had accused Agatha of being naïve over the house sale, and yet he himself had walked straight into a newspaper office without pausing to think that he and Agatha were news themselves.
‘Well, Agatha,’ said Mike, after having practically strong-armed them into his office – ‘I may call you Agatha?’
‘No,’ said Agatha sourly.
‘Ha ha. Mary told me you were a tough character. How can we be of help? You must be anxious to clear your name.’ The offices had windows overlooking the reporters’ desks. Mike waved an arm. The door of his office opened and a photographer came in, followed by a reporter.
‘What is this?’ demanded Agatha.
‘You help us and we’ll help you,’ said Mike.
‘I’m off,’ said Agatha, heading for the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ called James. Agatha turned back reluctantly.
‘We do need help, Agatha,’ said James, ‘and we should have realized they would want a story. They’ve been pestering us since the murder. We’ve got nothing to hide. We want to find this Gore-Appleton woman. Why don’t we just tell them what we know?’
‘And then the police will wonder why we didn’t tell them what we’ve found out,’ pointed out Agatha.
‘We would have told them sooner or later. May as well get it over with, Agatha. You’re in the lions’ den now, and even if you walk out, that photographer is going to bash off a picture of you before you get out of the office.’
‘Let him,’ said Agatha truculently.
‘Agatha, you haven’t any make-up on.’
And that clinched it.
The interviews and photographs had to wait until Agatha was ferried off to the shops by a ‘minder’ to buy make-up and a smart dress and high heels.
Then they both told what they knew, and Agatha and James posed for photographs, Agatha having extracted a promise that the art department would use the airbrush generously on her picture.
But when the reporter searched the files for details about Mrs Gore-Appleton, he found practically nothing, only one mention of her making a speech on the homeless at a charity event. No photograph. Agatha felt cheated until James pointed out that the publicity would be the one thing to flush out Mrs Gore-Appleton.
There seemed nothing left to do but allow themselves to be entertained to lunch, return to Carsely, and find out what the article in the following morning’s paper would bring.
Agatha struggled awake the next morning out of a heavy sleep. Someone was banging on her bedroom door. She put on her dressing-gown and then stood, irresolute. The someone would be James, of course. The article must be in the paper. She debated whether to ask him to wait until she changed, but then shrugged. The days of dressing up for James had gone.
She opened the door. He was brandishing a copy of The Bugle. ‘Would you believe it!’ he raged. ‘Not a bloody word!’
‘Come down to the kitchen,’ said Agatha. ‘Are you sure you didn’t miss it?’
‘Not a word,’ he repeated angrily.
Agatha sat down wearily at the kitchen table and spread out the newspaper. The headline screamed, FREDDIE COMES OUT OF THE CLOSET! A comedian, the pet of British audiences for his clean humour, had declared he was gay. The other story on page one was about a Bugle reporter who had been shot by the Bosnian Serbs.
‘We never heard a word about these stories when we were in the office,’ said Agatha. ‘They must have broken in the afternoon and knocked our story out of the paper.’
‘Maybe they’ll run it tomorrow.’
Agatha shook her head, wise in the way of newspapers. ‘They won’t use it now,’ she said gloomily. ‘If they had had the story right at the time of the murder, they would have used it no matter what. But now it’s sort of yesterday’s news.’
‘I’ll phone up that editor and give him a piece of my mind.’
‘Wouldn’t do any good, James. We’ll need to think of something else.’
He paced up and down the kitchen. ‘I feel frustrated,’ he said. ‘I want to do something now.’
‘That health farm,’ said Agatha. ‘The one Jimmy went to. We could go there and perhaps get a look at the records and see who was there at the same time, pick out the people Jimmy might have thought of blackmailing.’
James brightened. ‘Good idea. What’s the name of the place?’
‘I’ve got Roy’s notes in the living-room. Look there. They might be cagey about letting us see their records, so perhaps we’d best check into this health farm as guests and under false names.’
‘We’ll check in as man and wife. Mr and Mrs Perth, that’ll do.’
James hurried off, leaving Agatha to marvel at the sheer insensitivity of me
n. Husband and wife, indeed, and without a blush!
Agatha went back upstairs to wash and dress. She longed to be in her own home again. Perhaps she should call on Mrs Hardy one more time.
Mrs Hardy answered the door to Agatha half an hour later. She was as muscular and tweedy as ever, and a truculent look lit up her eyes when she saw Agatha.
‘Look,’ said Agatha, ‘I wondered if you would reconsider letting me have my cottage back. I would pay you a generous sum.’
‘Oh, go away,’ said Mrs Hardy. ‘I am working to settle in here and could do without these tiresome interruptions from such as you. I hear you were once a businesswoman. Behave like one.’
She slammed the door in Agatha’s face.
‘Stupid old trout!’ raged Agatha to James when she returned to join him and told him about Mrs Hardy’s continued refusal to sell the house.
‘Why bother?’ said James. ‘There are other houses, you know. I heard in the village that the Boggles are thinking of moving to an old folks’ home. That means you could buy their house.’
Agatha gazed at him, aghast. ‘But the Boggles live in a council house.’
‘What’s wrong with that? Some of these council houses are very well built. And the Boggles’ place would be quite roomy once you got the junk out.’
Agatha wondered if he thought a council house was all she was good enough for and then considered in time that James did not know of her low beginnings and was merely being infuriatingly practical.
‘Buy it yourself,’ she muttered.
‘I might at that. Get packed. I’ve booked us in at the health farm. It’s called Hunters Fields. We’re expected there this evening. I’ll take Roy’s notes with us. Don’t look so miserable. Forget about your cottage for the moment. We’ll think of something.’
‘What? Snakes through the letterbox?’
‘Something like that.’
Agatha went to call on Mrs Bloxby before they left. ‘So you and James do seem to be getting on very well,’ said the vicar’s wife.
‘The only reason we are getting on well is because James has all the sensitivity of a rhinoceros,’ said Agatha drily. ‘He’s checking us into this health farm as man and wife.’
‘Perhaps he is using that as an excuse for you to really get together again,’ ventured Mrs Bloxby. She looked at Agatha’s set face and added hurriedly, ‘Perhaps not. He is a most unusual man. I think he keeps his mind in little compartments. The compartment of romantic Agatha has the door firmly shut on it while the compartment with Agatha as friend is open. It’s better than nothing, or is it agonizing?’
‘Not really,’ said Agatha. ‘I find I can’t think of him in the old way any more.’
‘Because that would mean hurt?’
‘Yes,’ said Agatha gruffly and her small eyes filled with tears.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Mrs Bloxby, tactfully going off and allowing Agatha time to recover.
‘If only I could get my old cottage back,’ mourned Agatha when Mrs Bloxby returned with the tea-tray. ‘James is so well organized, I feel superfluous. I want my own things about me again.’
‘I called on Mrs Hardy.’ The vicar’s wife carefully poured tea into two thin cups. ‘She made a little speech about keeping herself to herself, that kind of thing. In fact, she was quite rude. Perhaps you should look for somewhere else?’
‘I’ll have to,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m embarrassed by the fact that so many people have refused to take their presents back, including you. I know you don’t suspect us of the murder, but I suppose most people in the village do, and that is why they really don’t want to have anything to do with us.’
‘It’s not quite that. Yes, lots of people did suspect you of the murder, but then good sense asserted itself and they became ashamed of themselves. The reason they do not want their presents back is because they think, because of the way you are both going on, that you and James will get married after all, and they do not want to be troubled by finding a suitable card and wrapping all over again.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Agatha harshly. ‘Then they are doomed to disappointment.’
Mrs Bloxby changed the subject and regaled Agatha with some of the more innocent village gossip until Agatha finally took her leave.
Hunters Fields was a large mansion set in pretty parkland. When James told Agatha what they were charging, Agatha blinked in sheer horror. James insisted on paying the astronomical prices, saying he had recently been left a legacy by an aunt and was comfortably off.
They were shown to a spacious room on the first floor by a pretty receptionist who said the director would be with them shortly to explain the programme and the facilities of the centre.
The room had twin beds set well apart. They had just finished unpacking and hanging away their clothes when the director entered. He was a smooth-faced man with silver hair, well-tailored clothes, small gold-rimmed glasses and a benign air. He introduced himself as Mr Adder.
‘The most important thing,’ he said, ‘is for our resident doctor to examine you both in the morning. We are careful about that. We do not like to subject our clients to too strenuous a programme if they are not up to it.’ His eyes surveyed Agatha and James. ‘You, Mr Perth, look too fit to need our help.’
‘It was my wife’s idea.’
‘Ah, yes, I see.’ The mild eyes turned on Agatha and she could feel those little rolls of fat at her middle-aged waist growing bigger.
Mr Adder went on to outline the facilities – massage, sauna, swimming pool, tennis courts, and so on.
James said, ‘We would be interested to see your records.’
‘Why?’ A small frown now marred Mr Adder’s normally bland face.
‘An acquaintance of ours, a certain Jimmy Raisin, stayed here once. At the same time, some other people we might know might have been staying here and –’
‘No, no, no, Mr Perth. Our records are confidential. Dinner is in half an hour.’
He departed after giving them an odd little bow.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Agatha gloomily.
‘We’ll just need to break into the office,’ said James.
This he repeated after a minuscule dinner. ‘I don’t think I can bear to stay the whole week, Agatha,’ he said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ protested Agatha. ‘Might be good for us.’ Now that they were settled, she was looking forward to a trimming-down session.
‘If I have to dine on this rabbit fodder for a whole week, my temper will become unbearable,’ said James. He looked around the other guests. They were mostly middle-aged and all looked rich.
‘So when do you plan to break into the office?’
‘Tonight,’ said James. ‘We’ll take a look around after dinner. Wherever it is, it can’t possibly be locked. A respectable place like this has no reason to suspect anyone would want to snoop.’
‘We may have given Mr Adder reason to think we might. For all we know, he may have something pretty ordinary to hide, like one set of accounts for himself and one for the income tax.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ James sipped moodily at his decaffeinated coffee. ‘And then, after we’ve located the office, we should drive to the nearest pub and get something to eat.’
Agatha wanted to protest. She felt slimmer already. But she knew it would irritate James if she insisted on dieting when she ought to be investigating.
After dinner, they walked around and found the office off the hall. It had a glass window which overlooked the hall, so they could clearly see filing cabinets and two computers. Not only was the office locked but so were the other rooms adjoining – sauna, massage room, treatment room, doctor’s room, and director’s room.
‘How are you going to open the door?’ asked Agatha.
‘I brought some lock-picks with me.’ James had used a set of lock-picks before, never volunteering to explain why or how he had first got them.
They then drove down to a nearby village, where James ate a large helping of
steak and kidney pie while Agatha contented herself with a ham sandwich and a glass of mineral water.
And then back to their room. James suggested they change into dark clothes, lie on top of their beds, and he would set the alarm for two in the morning.
Once in his bed, he fell asleep immediately while Agatha lay awake and listened to the gentle rumbling of her stomach. Just when she thought she would never fall asleep at all, she did, and then awoke with a start as the alarm sounded shrilly.
‘Time to go,’ said James. ‘Let’s hope they don’t have some security guard patrolling the place to make sure the guests don’t raid the kitchens.’
He opened the bedroom door. The corridor outside was brightly lit. He retreated back into the room. Agatha was wearing a navy sweater and black trousers and he was in a black sweater and black trousers. ‘It’s very bright out there,’ he said, ‘and we look like a couple of burglars. Do you think we should put on our dressing-gowns and then we can claim we were searching for food? They must be used to that.’
‘They will wonder what we are doing searching for food in their files. Perhaps if we put something ordinary on. We both have jogging suits. We can say we were out for a run. We can say, if we’re caught, that we are paranoiac about our private lives and wanted to see what was on file, something like that.’
‘All right,’ said James, starting to take off his trousers. Agatha felt obscurely miffed that he should undress so unselfconsciously in front of her.
She herself changed into a scarlet jogging jacket and trousers in the bathroom. She did not want James to see any of the middle-aged body he had rejected.
Her face looked wan in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. Perhaps just a little foundation cream and a bit of powder. Maybe a bit of blusher. That new shade of red lipstick would go nicely with her jogging suit. She was just reaching for the mascara when James’s impatient voice sounded from the other side of the bathroom door. ‘What are you doing, Agatha? Are you going to be in there all night?’
‘Coming.’ Agatha regretfully abandoned the mascara and went out to join him. As she followed him out into the corridor, she realized again that the metabolism of Agatha Raisin did not thrive on health food. She was sure she had bad breath and her stomach was full of gas. She fell back behind James, cupped her hands and breathed into them, but James looked over his shoulder and demanded, ‘What are you doing now?’ and Agatha mumbled, ‘Nothing,’ fell into step beside him and prayed to all the gods who look after middle-aged ladies that she would not fart. The silence in the building was absolute.
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage Page 5
