‘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 £110,000 for the cottage and had sold it to Mrs Hardy for £120,000. Mrs Hardy was asking £130,000, a ridiculous price, thought Agatha, now that the market had slumped.
Agatha was about to sign the papers when the price of £150,000 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 agreed 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. I’d 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 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 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, when 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 appeared. ‘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 whole 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 and 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.
‘No, I don’t. I think I’m going to have to pay her what she wants. I know it’s silly and I know I could get somewhere else quite close, but I want my own place. Did you notice the garden when we were going into her place? Weeds everywhere. Why do people live in the countryside if they don’t like living things?’ demanded Agatha piously. She wrinkled her nose at her warm gin and tipped it into a rubber plant which was standing on a shelf near her table.
‘I gather you don’t want to try another of those?’
‘No, thank you. And I don’t like warm beer either.’
‘Then we may as well face a foggy journey home.’
They went outside. The fog had lifted and a fresh wind was blowing. A little moon raced through the clouds above their heads. A shower of beech nuts fell on Agatha’s head. ‘More nuts!’
‘They’re poisonous,’ said James. ‘Poisonous to sheep and cattle. Don’t seem to affect the squirrels.’
When they reached home, James said wearily, ‘I feel we are going round and round and not getting anywhere. The police have all the resources – to check histories, alibis and bank accounts. Do you think it is really worth going to London tomorrow to see this secretary?’
‘Of course.’ Agatha was now frightened that if they stopped their investigations, James would take off for foreign parts again. ‘You’ll feel better about it all in the morning.’
Helen Warwick was not at the Houses of Parliament but at her flat in a Victorian block in Gloucester Road in Kensington. When she answered the door, Agatha could not believe at first that this lady could have been Sir Desmond’s mistress. She was plump and placid, with light grey eyes and brown hair worn in an old-fashioned French pleat. She was wearing a tailored silk blouse and tweed skirt, sensible brogues, and no make-up. James judged her to be in her forties.
James explained, correctly this time, who they were and why they had come. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
The flat was large, rather dark, but very comfortable, with a fire burning brightly in the living-room. There was a large bowl of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums on a polished table by the window. The sofa and chairs had feather cushions. A good Victorian English landscape hung over the fireplace. It looked as if Miss Warwick had money and had probably always been well off.
‘I was shocked when I learned of Desmond’s death,’ said Helen. ‘We were great friends. He was always so kind and courteous. I’m sorry his wife had to find out in such a dreadful way. What’s all this about blackmail?’
So they told her all about Jimmy Raisin and Mrs Gore-Appleton. ‘I remember them,’ said Helen. ‘No, they didn’t try to blackmail me. I’m the sort that would have gone straight to the police and they probably knew that. I didn’t like them one bit. How they found out my real identity I do not know.’
‘They probably looked in your handbag,’ said Agatha.
‘And saw the different name on my credit cards? I suppose so. Horrible people. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I can almost pinpoint the day they found out.’
‘Tell us about them,’ said Agatha eagerly. ‘Everyone else we’ve asked seems vague, even someone who slept with Jimmy.’
‘Let me see . . . would you both like coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ said James, anxious to hear what she had to say and frightened that if she went into the kitchen, she might change her mind about talking to them.
‘Desmond and I joked about health farms at first. We weren’t really interested in our health. We thought it might be an amusing place to get together. His wife might have found a visit to a hotel suspicious but Desmond had told her he was worried about his blood pressure. Jimmy Raisin was a wreck. We arrived on the same day. He was still stinking of booze, but after only a couple of days, he looked like a changed man. He was always oiling around us, my-ladying me to death and claiming to know all sorts of celebrities. He was the sort of man who calls celebs by their first name. He kept talking about his good friend, Tony, who had won an Oscar, and it turned out to be Anthony Hopkins. I don’t suppose he even knew him. Mrs Gore-Appleton was not much better. She was – what is it the Americans say? – in my face. She had an abrasive manner overlaid with syrup. You know, she paid me effusive compliments while all the time her sharp eyes watched me to see if I was swallowing any of it. Desmond finally told them we wanted some time to ourselves. The day after that – that would be about five days after we arrived – they began to throw us very knowing looks and then pass our table and give contemptuous laughs. I thought it was because Desmond had snubbed them. But they must have found out I wasn’t Lady Derrington. What else can I tell you? I thought Jimmy Raisin was a wide boy, what they used to call a spiv. There was something seedy about him. I gathered from the newspapers that you had not seen him in a very long time, Mrs Raisin. The Gore-Appleton woman was blonde and muscular, tried to be very pukka, but there was something all wrong about her. I tell you what. Let me get us all some coffee and I’ll think some more.’
Agatha and James waited until she returned with a tray. There was not only coffee but home-made toasted tea-cakes. ‘Did you really make these yourself?’ James took another appreciative bite. ‘These are excellent and the coffee is divine.’ He stretched out his long legs. ‘It’s very comfortable here.’
Helen gave him a slow smile. ‘Come when you’re in town and have a free hour to spare.’
Agatha stiffened. This wretched woman suddenly seemed like more competition than any blonde sylph. She was suddenly anxious to get James away.
But Helen was talking again. ‘You say he slept with some woman?’ She laughed. ‘I love that euphemism, “slept with”. One does anything but.’ She gave a warm creamy laugh and Agatha’s bearlike eyes fastened on her with barely concealed hate.
‘That would be a Mrs Comfort, am I right?’
‘How did you know?’ said James.
‘Oh, he was making up to her and the Gore-Appleton woman was egging him on. I heard him say, “I’ll get her tonight,” and Mrs Gore-Appleton laughed and said, “Have fun,” and the next morning, well, body language and all that, you know what I mean, don’t you, James?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
I’ll kill this bitch, thought Agatha.
‘And that poor spinster lady, she was murdered,’ said Helen with an artistic shudder. ‘More coffee, James?’
Her tailored silk blouse had a deep V and she leaned forward, deliberately, Agatha thought, to reach for the coffee pot at such an angle that James could see two excellent breasts encased in a frilly brassiere.
James had another full cup of coffee and was helping himself to another tea-cake. Agatha groaned inwardly.
Helen suddenly looked at her. ‘I remember now. You and Mr Lacey here were to be married but Jimmy turned up at your wedding.’ She laughed again. ‘That must have been quite a scene. You’ll be able to marry now.’
‘Yes,’ said Agatha.
‘We haven’t made any plans,’ said James.
There was an awkward silence.
‘We should go,’ said Agatha harshly.
‘Could you just wait until I finish my coffee, dear?’
Agatha, who had half-risen, sat down again.
‘Lacey, Lacey,’ Helen was saying. ‘Are you any relative of Major-General Robert Lacey?’
‘My father. He died some time ago.’
‘Oh, then you must know . . .’ And what followed was the sort of conversation Agatha dreaded, James and Helen animatedly talking about people she did not know.
At last, when Agatha felt she could not stand another moment without screaming, James got to his feet with obvious reluctance.
They took their leave, Agatha first, muttering a grumpy thanks, James after her, stopping to kiss Helen on the cheek and promising to see her again, giving her his card and taking one of hers.
Agatha fumed the whole way back to Carsely. She complained bitterly about harpies who sponged off men instead of going out to work. James tried to point out that as a secretary to a Member of Parliament, Helen did go out to work, but that only seemed to make Agatha worse. He left her at the cottage, saying he had to see someone, whereupon Agatha tortured herself with mad jealousy, imagining him driving back to London to spend the night with Helen. She finally went to bed and tried to read, listening all the while for the sound of his key in the door. At last, just after midnight, she heard him return, heard him come upstairs and go into the bathroom, heard him wash, heard him go to his own room without coming in to say goodnight to her, although he could surely see the light shining under her door.
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage Page 12
