by M C Beaton
“Cut her down!” Agatha’s voice was harsh with horror.
But James was bending over Mary and feeling for any life in the pulse at her neck and in her wrist.
He straightened up. “Leave everything as it is for the police. She’s been murdered and she’s stone-dead.”
“Murder!”
“Pull yourself together, Agatha,” he said sharply. “She didn’t plant herself. I’ll phone.”
He left the conservatory. Agatha gave one last horrified look at the body and scrambled out after him on shaky legs.
James was in the living-room. He called Fred Griggs and then sat down heavily on the sofa and clutched his thick hair with both hands. “It’s terrible…terrible,” he said. “I slept with her, you know.”
Agatha, already overset, sat down and began to cry weakly. “Don’t cry,” he said gruffly. “She cannot feel anything now.”
But Agatha was crying from a mixture of shock and shame. All her feelings for James now seemed like some sort of dismal schoolgirl crush. She had always thought that he led a monkish life, shy of women, always unattached, and because she herself had not indulged in an affair for some time, she had found it easier to dream about him as romantically as a schoolgirl. She had been jealous of his friendship with Mary, but she had considered it just that – friendship, with a bit of light flirtation, nothing more. But he had lain in Mary’s bed and in Mary’s arms. Her mind writhed under the weight of her miserable thoughts.
PC Griggs lumbered in. He looked like a village policeman, stolid, red-faced. One almost expected him to say, “Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello. What ‘ave we ‘ere?” But he was a shrewd and clever man in his slow way.
“Where’s the body?” he asked.
James unfolded his length from the sofa. “I’ll show you.”
Agatha looked longingly at the drinks trolley in the corner. She felt a stiff brandy might help her to pull herself together. Just as she was wondering whether she could risk pouring one by wrapping a handkerchief around the bottle, the CID arrived. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong was part of the group. Behind them came more cars. Pathologist, doctor, forensic team, police cameraman, and the press from the local newspaper, whose enterprising editor listened in on the police radio.
Bill Wong looked at Agatha’s tear-stained face and, thinking she was mourning Mary, said with quick compassion, “You go on home, Agatha. We’ll be along to take a statement later. You found the body?”
“Yes, me and James Lacey.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes, with the body.”
“Right. He’ll do for now. I’ll get one of my men to take you home.”
And Agatha was at such a low point that she let a policeman put a strong arm about her and lead her away.
Five
Agatha sat nursing a glass of brandy in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other. She noticed with a numb clinical interest that her hands were shaking slightly. She wished now she had stayed at Mary’s. Her home was so quiet under its heavy thatched roof, unusually quiet. Mostly the old house creaked comfortably as it settled down for the night.
Who could have done such a thing? What had she ever known of Mary? What had she ever really known of James Lacey, for that matter? He was intelligent, handsome, in his mid-fifties, a retired colonel who had settled in the country to write military history. They had investigated a previous murder together. She knew he could be resourceful and quite ruthless in dangerous circumstances. They had talked together quite a lot then, but about books and plays, about the murder case, about people in the village. What really made him tick? Would he be capable of murder?
But whoever had done the murder had probably also mined those gardens and she could not believe for a minute that James would do something as petty and spiteful as that. It all centred on gardening, of that she was sure. Therefore, her mind ran on, whoever had destroyed the gardens and poisoned Mr Spott’s fish and then murdered Mary was quite mad, and viciously so. It had not been enough just to knife Mary or strangle her. Someone had been evil enough to want her humiliated in death. Please, God, let it be someone from Mary’s past.
The sound of a car drawing up outside interrupted her thoughts. She stubbed out her cigarette and carefully put her brandy glass down on a side-table, noticing with an odd sort of pride that her hands had stopped shaking. She went to answer the door. Bill Wong stood there with a policewoman.
“I’ll take an initial statement from you, Agatha,” he said, “and then I would like you to report to headquarters in Mircester tomorrow while we go through it again. I have asked Mr Lacey to come as well, so perhaps you can travel in together.”
Agatha led Bill and the policewoman into the living-room. “Would you like coffee?”
The policewoman sat down demurely on a hard chair in the corner of the room and flicked open her notebook. “Not this time,” said Bill.
“No tape recorder?”
“We’ll tape your statement tomorrow, have it typed up and read it back to you. So begin at the beginning.”
Agatha spoke of the start of the evening in the pub and how James had become anxious over Mary’s non-appearance. She described how they had called at the cottage and found the door unlocked, gone inside, searched, and then found the body in the small conservatory.
“It would take someone of considerable strength to hoist a dead body up like that,” ventured Agatha.
“Perhaps,” said Bill. “The forensic chaps have taken the rope away, along with every speck of dust in that house. It’s amazing what they can find out these days. Now who else was in the pub when you left with Mr Lacey?”
Agatha wrinkled her brow. “Let me see. James and I were talking to Mr Galloway. Miss Simms was over at the bar with old Mr Spott. Mrs Mason and her husband were at the bar as well, and those pests, the Boggles, were complaining about the strength of the beer in another corner. In front of the fire was my cleaner, Doris Simpson, and her husband.” She half closed her eyes and continued to list the villagers. “Oh, and there was one stranger, on his own, at the far left of the bar.”
“What did he look like?”
“Early twenties, jeans, designer stubble, thick sandy hair worn in a pony-tail, nondescript face. You know, two eyes, one nose, one mouth. I only noticed him because he was the only stranger there. He seemed to be waiting for someone. This is all a vague impression. You see, I was talking to James.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Bill with a faint twinkle in his eyes. “Now, when you both approached Mrs Fortune’s cottage, did you meet anyone?”
“I don’t think so. Everyone in this village says hello. I was thinking about Mary, as a matter of fact.”
“Mrs Fortune? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that although we were friends, I knew so little about her. I mean, she was all charm and warmth and then she would come out with some sort of bitchy remark.”
“Such as?”
“She called you a Chink.”
“Nothing to what I get back at the station. It’s probably the sort of thing she usually said.”
“No, she was out to be nasty. I was surprised that she was so overtly bitchy. I mean, often there was something you just couldn’t put your finger on.”
“Lacey must have known her better than anyone.”
“Why?” demanded Agatha defensively.
“Well known in the village he was romancing her.”
“Nothing to it.” Agatha’s heart had begun to hammer against her ribs. “He took her out for a few dinners and then that stopped. They were just friends.”
Bill looked at her distressed face. Lacey had been quite open about the fact that he and Mrs Fortune had been lovers earlier in the year, but all at once he could not bring himself to tell Agatha that.
The doorbell went. “I’ll get it,” he said.
He answered the door and then came back followed by Mrs Bloxby, who was carrying a small travel bag.
“I thought you would fe
el better if someone stayed here with you for the night, Mrs Raisin.”
Agatha’s eyes filled with tears again and she blinked them away.
“That’s all for now,” said Bill. “Come along to the police station at ten tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll call on Lacey and tell him to pick you up.”
Agatha escorted Bill and the policewoman to the door. Bill smiled at her. “Not like London, hey?”
“They have lots of murders in London.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant that there would be no Mrs Bloxby in London to think of sitting with you.”
“Oh, that. See you tomorrow.”
Agatha returned to Mrs Bloxby. “Come through to the kitchen and I’ll make some tea.”
“Yes, but I’ll make it. And then you’d better go to bed. What a dreadful experience. News travels fast here, but I found it hard to believe. Mrs Griggs, Fred’s wife, phoned me to tell me that someone had planted Mrs Fortune.”
“Yes, it was horrible,” said Agatha. “She had been strung up by the ankles and her head had been buried in a big flowerpot. And she was wearing that damn green like she always did. We didn’t see her at first because of that green, because…” Agatha began to shake.
“There now. There now. I’ll just put the kettle on. I am very distressed as well, although I did not have such a vile experience as you, Mrs Raisin.”
Agatha smiled weakly. “We should not be so formal with each other. I think you should call me Agatha and I will call you…?”
“Margaret.”
“Were you fond of Mary?”
“It’s not that.” Mrs Bloxby’s thin hands busied themselves putting tea in the teapot and filling it with boiling water. “I let my personal feelings interfere with my judging of the horticultural show and I have never done that before.”
Agatha blinked. “I find that hard to believe. Why?”
The vicar’s wife filled two mugs with hot tea, took milk out of the fridge and waited until they were both seated at the kitchen table. She stirred sugar into her tea and then said slowly, “I was one of Mrs Fortune’s admirers at first. It is so pleasant when a newcomer involves herself in helping out with church and village activities. She called at the vicarage quite a lot. She used to flirt with Alf.”
Not for the first time, Agatha considered Alf quite an unsuitable name for a vicar. “I did not mind because Mary Fortune is…was…a well-travelled, pretty woman, of the kind, I thought, who flirts automatically. Then she wanted Alf to take her confession. Well, our church is quite low and Alf does not have a confessional, but he will always listen to any parishioner in trouble, so he agreed to an interview with her in his study. I do not know what happened, but he told me afterwards that he considered her not a very nice woman and somewhat unstable. Then, when she called, he always found some excuse to leave the house.
“Mrs Fortune began to make little remarks to me, little disparaging remarks. You know, it was a pity I had let myself go. She could recommend a good hairdresser and so on. I have varicose veins, but I wear my skirts long so people don’t usually notice, but Mrs Fortune did. And then the next time I saw her, she would be all sweetness and light and friendship, but the poison began to seep in and I began to feel diminished and dowdy. To my horror, I began to dislike her and I never usually dislike people very strongly. One cannot like everybody and I sometimes find the Boggles, say, a sore trial, but there was something about her that got under my skin.
“She would smile at me slowly and pityingly. She would ask how many countries I had visited, and Alf and I have not been abroad in years.”
Agatha began to feel better. It was a relief in a way to find that Mrs Bloxby, whom Agatha had hitherto regarded as a saint, was capable of normal human feelings.
An idea came to her and she leaned forward eagerly. “It must be like being blackmailed or conned. That’s it. Conned.”
“What do you mean?”
“I remember reading a case in the papers where a chap in a village had tricked various people out of their savings by pretending to be a stockbroker. He wasn’t very good at it and the first couple he had conned quickly found out about it. But they did not take him to court. They were too ashamed of being gulled, don’t you see. So he was able to go on for a bit, tricking other people.
“Now, when people talked to you about Mary, I am sure you murmured something nice because to say you did not like her would mean you would have to explain why, and the very explanation would make you feel more diminished. I bet she riled more than you. Why did you tell me, of all people?”
Mrs Bloxby looked at her in mild surprise. “You never judge or condemn, Agatha. I suppose that’s it.”
Only in my head, and nearly all the time, thought Agatha ruefully.
And then somehow it was easy for her to say, “James was having an affair with Mary.”
“So I gathered.”
“But no one said anything to me! James told me last night.”
“It’s well known you are a friend of his,” said Mrs Bloxby tactfully. “People would assume that you knew.” She knew that the reason had been that people did not want to hurt Agatha. “But there’s a thing. Although he stayed on friendly terms with her, he definitely cooled off her when you arrived back. It might be worth finding out why. I feel if we all knew Mary Fortune better, then we could learn who murdered her and why. You will be finding out, will you not? It is not only the murder, you see, that destroys and rips apart the tranquillity of the village, but the intrusions of the press. Such a colourful murder, you see. The press are already arriving in droves.
Sooner or later, someone is going to check the press library and find out about your previous investigations and your phone will start ringing and your doorbell.”
As if in reply, the doorbell shrilled. “I will deal with it,” said Mrs Bloxby. Agatha heard the vicar’s wife open the door, then the murmur of voices, then Mrs Bloxby saying firmly, “Mrs Raisin has had a bad shock. She is not to be disturbed,” and then the slam of the door.
“Thank you,” said Agatha when Mrs Bloxby returned to the kitchen, although her vanity stabbed her. If she had been on her own, she would probably have invited the press in.
Then the phone rang. Without asking permission, Mrs Bloxby answered it, repeated that Mrs Raisin was not well enough to be interviewed, and then returned. “I pulled the phone out from the wall. You will not be disturbed again. I’ll just go upstairs and unplug the extension as well.”
Agatha rose to her feet and opened her mouth to say she was well able to deal with the press, but her knees trembled and she felt weak and shaky. “You know,” she said, “I think I will go to sleep.”
But half an hour later when she closed her eyes, visions of James in the arms of Mary Fortune swam in her mind, and with a great effort she willed herself to go to sleep to make all those nasty pictures go away.
James called for her at nine the following morning. In an obscure way, Agatha was glad the old elation at the thought of going out with him had gone. She felt like a silly middle-aged woman. She had once had a crush, when she was at school, on one of the older boys, and she had behaved with James Lacey just like that. Her distress at learning of his affair with Mary had gone, to be replaced with a strange kind of relief to be free of what had gradually been becoming an obsession. She had put on the minimum of make-up and a plain white blouse, a tailored skirt, and low-heeled shoes. “We’ll take my car,” said James. “Silly for both of us to drive separately.”
They drove off. The silence lasted all the way up to the A44. Then James said, “Have you been thinking about it?”
“The murder? Of course. Thought of nothing else.”
“Maybe after we have made our statements, we should have lunch and talk about it.” He glanced sideways, wondering at the unusually silent response. “If you want to,” he added finally.
“Yes, all right,” said Agatha. Her reluctance came from a new desire to stay free of any emotional entanglement, that
is, her emotional entanglement with James. She could never believe now that at any time he had felt anything warmer for her than friendship.
“Good, then we’ll leave the talking until then.”
At the police headquarters in Mircester, James and Agatha were interviewed together and then separately. This time Agatha was not interviewed by Bill Wong. She asked for him and learned he was in Carsely with the other detectives who were investigating the case.
She had her statement read over to her and signed it. She had been asked if there had been any man in Mary’s life and had replied with a firm negative. It was up to James to tell them if he wanted to.
She waited in the entrance hall of the police station for James and was almost beginning to wonder if they had arrested him on suspicion when his tall figure appeared.
“Well, now, what sort of food do you want to eat?” James asked.
“Something light,” said Agatha. “I’m still on a diet of sorts.”
He glanced down at her. “Yes, it shows. There’s a new place in the square. They do very good salads and things like that and the tables are set well apart, so we don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing us.”
They walked together across the square. The sunny day was now overcast and an irritating, busy little wind tugged at Agatha’s hair and blew swirls of dust about their feet. It had been an unusually dry summer and to date the gardeners had complained about the need for the constant watering of plants.
The restaurant was quiet and they were given a table at the window. Agatha asked for a Caesar salad as a main course and James ordered grilled steak and fried potatoes and onion rings.
“Now,” he began, “have you thought of anything?”
Agatha hesitated. Before she would cheerfully have repeated everything Mrs Bloxby had told her, laying the confidences of the vicar’s wife on the altar of desire, but a queer loyalty stopped her this time, and she said instead, “I do not think Mary was as popular as I believed her to be.”
