by M C Beaton
There was nothing Agatha could do but get up and take her leave. Outside in the porch, John looked down at her. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You’re the village Nosy Parker. Don’t come round here again.”
Agatha walked off as stiff as an outraged cat.
When she returned home, her cleaner, Doris Simpson, was there. “See, there’s a bit in the newspapers this morning about Mrs Fortune’s husband.”
“Rats!” Agatha seized the papers and sat down at the kitchen table and flicked through them. The American correspondent of the Daily Mail had interviewed Barry Fortune, Mary’s ex. He was quoted as saying he was sorry to learn about such a terrible murder. He said he and Mary had separated amicably fifteen years ago. He had married again. He owned a chain of video-rental shops. If I had only checked the newspapers before I went out this morning, thought Agatha, it would have saved me from asking unnecessary questions.
“And here’s your post,” said Doris, putting a small pile of envelopes on the table.
Agatha flicked through it. There was one from a lawyer’s office in Mircester. The name was in prim black letters on the outside of the envelope, Carter, Bung and Desmond. Agatha opened it and her eyebrows rose in surprise. It concerned the late Mrs Mary Fortune’s will. If she would call at their offices, she would learn something to her advantage.
“Come back, Doris,” she called.
The cleaner came back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry for those kitties of yours, Agatha,” she said. “Not much fun playing in that Gulag you’ve got out there.”
“Open Day’s not far off,” said Agatha. “The fence will be lowered then. You haven’t told anyone about it?”
“Course not! What do you want to see me about?”
“This.” Agatha held out the letter.
Doris read it slowly. “There’s a surprise.”
“I wouldn’t have thought she would have left me anything either.”
“That’s not what surprises me.”
“What, then?”
“She didn’t know you that long. I would think she would have already made out a will. Why change it to put in something in your favour? I mean, did she know she was going-to die?”
“That’s a thought.”
The doorbell rang. “That’ll be James,” said Agatha, still looking at the letter. “Could you get it, Doris?”
The cleaner glanced at her quizzically. Normally Agatha would have rushed upstairs to put on fresh make-up or a clean dress.
When James came into the kitchen, Agatha handed him the letter. “Oh, that,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I got one of those this morning.”
“You might have told me.”
“I felt awkward about it, under the circumstances.”
“Anyway, what did Beth want to talk to you about?”
He stood up and closed the kitchen door and then returned to the table and sat down again. “Mary had telephoned Beth earlier this year and said she was going to get married again…to me.”
“Ouch!”
“Yes, exactly…ouch. I have a feeling Beth regards me as prime suspect. Let’s get out of the village and go to the lawyers’. By the way, why do you have the lights on in this kitchen and the blind down over the window? It’s a lovely day.”
“Never mind that,” said Agatha hurriedly. “Let’s go.”
And so here I am again, she thought ruefully, running about the countryside with James, only this time it all seems rather…ordinary. And she congratulated herself on her new-found detachment.
The lawyers’ office was down a cobbled side-street leading off the main square, where old buildings leaned towards each other, cutting out the sun. There was a faded lady behind an ancient typewriter in the outer office. They gave their names and were told to take a seat and wait. She retreated into an inner room. Dust-motes floated in shafts of sunlight that streamed through the window behind the desk. They were seated side by side on a horsehair sofa, a relic of the ‘Victorian Age, like everything else in the musty office.
They were ushered in after a ten-minute wait. The fact that the lawyer who rose to greet them was comparatively young came as a surprise. Agatha had begun to expect an elderly gentleman with pince-nez and side-whiskers. “Jonathan Carter,” he said. “Please be seated. You are both beneficiaries under the late Mrs Mary Fortune’s will. It is very simple and straightforward. I will not take up much of your time.” He picked up several pieces of stiff paper and flicked through them. “I will only read the bit that concerns you both. I think you will not be surprised to learn that apart from a few bequests, the bulk of her estate goes to her daughter.”
Agatha felt a pang of guilt. Poor Mary. She really did like me. And I haven’t even mourned her. All I could think of after we found her dead in that terrible way was to feel shattered because James confessed to having had an affair with her.
“Mr Lacey,” said the lawyer, “you must understand that what is written here is in the words of Mrs Fortune.
To Mr James Lacey of 8 Lilac Lane, Carsely, Gloucestershire, I leave the sum of five thousand pounds in payment for services rendered, although said services were not really worth much.
James said, “Thank you,” in a stifled voice.
To Mrs Agatha Raisin of 10 Lilac Lane, Carsely, Gloucestershire, I leave five thousand pounds so that she may take herself to a reputable health farm to reduce her middle-aged bulk.
“Bitch,” commented Agatha briefly.
“You will both be receiving the money in due course,” said the lawyer.
“I don’t want it.” James’s voice was harsh.
“Take your time,” said the lawyer. “It is, I admit, a rather spiteful bequest. But do not reject it out of hand. We all need money.”
“Are you accepting yours?” asked James as they walked up to the square.
“Oh, yes. She’s not alive, is she? I mean, money’s money. You know, James, if she really was as bitchy as it now seems she was, it’s not surprising someone bumped her off.”
“The world is full of bitches,” said James, lengthening his stride so that Agatha had to hurry to keep up with him. “But no one goes about murdering them.”
“Let’s go and see Bill Wong,” panted Agatha. “And do slow down a bit.”
He stopped so suddenly, she almost cannoned into him. “Why Bill Wong? He’s told you to keep out of it.”
“But if we tell him about Mary’s will, we might be able to ferret some information out of him.”
“I don’t want to tell him about the will.”
“Don’t you see, the police will know the contents of the will already. I’ll tell him my bit. You don’t need to come if you don’t want to.”
He stood for a moment, his hands thrust in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, looking at his feet. “All right,” he said abruptly.
They walked to police headquarters and asked at the desk for Bill Wong. He came down the stairs after only a short wait, a smile of welcome on his face. “Just at my lunch-hour,” he said cheerfully.
“If you’ve got the time, lunch is on me,” said Agatha. “We’ve something to tell you.”
“I hope you haven’t been stirring things up with any amateur detective work,” said Bill.
“No, no. Do you want to hear our news or not?”
“I’d like lunch,” said Bill with a grin.
“We’ll go to that restaurant James took me to the other day,” said Agatha briskly.
In the restaurant, she ordered a sirloin steak with sautéed potatoes, grilled tomatoes and peas. “What happened to your diet?” asked James.
“Sod the diet,” retorted Agatha. She privately thought there was no need to go on suffering. She had no one to compete with and she was no longer romantically interested in James Lacey. Of course, she had read endless articles in women’s magazines about how one should slim for oneself, one should feel good about oneself. But it had never worked that way for Agatha and she doubted if it ever would.
When they we
re served, Bill asked, “Now what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“I’m a beneficiary in Mary’s will,” said Agatha.
“I know that,” said Bill. “And Mr Lacey here as well.”
“James,” he corrected. “A very rude bequest it was, too.”
“Come to think of it, she must have hated us,” said Agatha. “And why make such a recent will? She must have expected to live a long time.”
“Not necessarily,” said Bill.
“Why?”
“I don’t want you getting involved.”
Agatha reached, out a hand. “I’ll take that plate of steak-and-kidney pudding away from you, Bill Wong, unless you explain yourself.”
“Leave it alone. I’m hungry. Oh, I suppose the press will get hold of it. When her husband asked for a divorce way back when, she tried to commit suicide.”
“Emotional blackmail,” said James. “Probably didn’t mean to go through with it.”
“She would have done the job all right – bottle of barbiturates, bottle of vodka – but for one little miracle. A neighbour whose flat overlooked hers passed his day in watching the women opposite through binoculars, although he subsequently swore to the police that he was bird-watching. So he saw Mary swallowing pills and drinking vodka and swallowing pills until she slumped over the table and he called for an ambulance and the police. She was rushed to hospital and her stomach was pumped out. She was subsequently treated several times for depression, the last being when she was living in New York. She moved there after the divorce to a flat in Washington Square in the Village.”
“My cleaner, Doris Simpson, was about the only person who didn’t like her when everyone else seemed to,” said Agatha. “She said something like, “No warmth there. It’s as if she’s acting.” Do you think that? Why come to the Cotswolds?”
“She is English,” pointed out Bill.
“Where from?”
“Newcastle originally. Her parents are dead. A lot of outsiders move to the Cotswolds. Take you two, for example,” said Bill.
“But don’t you see,” said Agatha, pursuing her theme, “she was acting being the perfect village lady, baking and gardening and so on. If she had lived, she might have tired of the act, moved somewhere else and adopted another role.”
“Speculation,” said Bill, shaking his head. “I need more solid facts. I may as well make use of you while you’re here. Let’s start with the people who had their gardens ruined. Mrs Bloxby? Who would have a spite against Mrs Bloxby, of all people?”
Mary, thought Agatha suddenly, but could not voice her suspicions without betraying the confidences of the vicar’s wife.
But another idea struck her. She said, “James, do you remember when you were supposed to take me out for dinner in Evesham?”
“Very well indeed. That was the day I got food poisoning.”
“And that was the day you visited Mary!”
“What are you getting at, Agatha? I didn’t dine with her.”
“But surely you had something to eat?”
“Let me see, coffee and home-made cakes, as I recall.”
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “And then you were too ill afterwards to take me for dinner. I had told Mary you were taking me for dinner.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bill. “Just hold it there. Are you suggesting that Mary put something in the cakes so that James would be ill and would not be able to go?”
Agatha nodded.
“That’s ridiculous,” said James.
“Did she eat the cakes as well?”
James said slowly. “No, she didn’t. She said something about being on a diet.” In fact, what she had said was that she had no intention of becoming as frumpish as Agatha Raisin by letting her figure go.
Bill Wong’s eyes were suddenly shrewd. “I think you’re suggesting also that Mary Fortune might have been the one who ruined the gardens. Do you know something about Mrs Bloxby, say, that you’re not telling us, Agatha?”
“No,” mumbled Agatha.
He gave her a long look and then said, “Okay. Let’s start with you, James. Now the idea was that whoever ruined the gardens wanted to put competition out of the running. But let’s just give Agatha’s theory a whirl. Did you upset Mary before your garden was set alight?”
“As a matter of fact, it was shortly after I had told her the affair was over.”
“So let’s examine the rest. Mr and Mrs Boggle?”
“Forget them,” said Agatha. “They annoy everyone.”
“All right. Miss Simms, then, the unmarried mother who is secretary of the Ladies’ Society.”
“We’d need to ask her,” said Agatha. “She’s not the type to irritate anyone.”
“And Mrs Mason?”
“The same,” said Agatha gloomily. “Need to ask.”
“Mr Spott, he of the poisoned fish? I mean, if by some far-fetched chance Mary was out for petty revenge, then it need not be just plants.”
“Bernard Spott adored Mary,” said James. “He would never have said a word to annoy her.”
“We’re getting nowhere,” sighed Bill. “I don’t think your argument’s got a leg to stand on, Agatha. Say one of those maddened gardeners decided to get revenge on Mary, which one can you see doing it? Mrs Bloxby, Miss Simms, James here, Mrs Mason, or the Boggles or old Mr Spott?”
“Must be someone from her family or her past,” said Agatha. “Was the husband in America the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“But it must have been someone she knew,” said James suddenly.
“Why?”
“There was no forced entry. She opened the door to whoever. She was poisoned. Someone slipped weedkiller in her drink. What drink?” he demanded, looking at Bill.
“Hard to say, but from the contents of her stomach, brandy, I think. It was a strong measure of weedkiller.”
“And you’ve checked all the weedkiller suppliers?”
Bill groaned. “Do you know just how many places in the Cotswolds sell weedkiller? Legion. But yes, we are getting around to them all.” Agatha had taken a menu from the waitress and was studying it. “Never say you are going to order pudding, Agatha?”
“Icky-sticky pudding,” said Agatha firmly. “Anyone else?” They all ordered the sticky toffee-syrup-laced sponge. Why was it, thought Agatha gloomily when she had finished the last crumb, of pudding, that desserts like this, which could slip down her gullet in the old days without any effect, immediately made the waistband of her skirt as tight as a corset?
“I think the daughter is the best bet,” she said over coffee. “Surely it’s very simple. She inherits. She did it, or her boyfriend.”
“Her own mother?” protested James.
“She could have wanted it to look like the work of some maniac,” said Agatha.
“I tell you this,” said Bill, “if it was a maniac, it might just have been some fellow who called at the door.”
“And she let him in and offered him brandy! Not likely,” said Agatha firmly.
Bill heaved a sigh. “Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to be getting back. It might have been done by someone from her past and we’ll never find out who it is.”
“Makes you want to forget about the whole thing,” said James after Bill had left.
“I think people will start talking soon,” said Agatha. “We could start off by calling on Mrs Mason. She’s a sensible lady. All we can do is keep on asking questions until we get a lead.”
Seven
At first, that afternoon, as they sat over tea and scones in Mrs Mason’s living-room, it looked as if they weren’t going to get very far. Mrs Mason talked in a hushed voice about ‘poor Mary’. Both Agatha and James ferreted about in their minds for a way to find out what the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies’ Society actually thought about the dear deceased.
It was James, spurred to his own defence by Mrs Mason’s murmur of “You, above all others, must be grief-stricken, Mr Lacey,” who found an opening. “I regret
to tell you, Mrs Mason,” he said, leaning back in one of her velveteen-covered armchairs and stretching his long legs out in front of him, “that although I am shocked and saddened by the murder, I am not grieving. I did not know Mary very well.” Mrs Mason looked startled. “But I thought…”
“I had an affair with Mary Fortune. Most people in the village seem to have known that. It finished a while ago. But despite that, I repeat, I did not know her very well and I am beginning to believe that she had a knack of putting people’s backs up.”
“I think,” said Agatha quickly, remembering what Mrs Bloxby had said, “that she had a way of making people ashamed of themselves and so nobody confided in anyone else what she had said or done.” James gave her a sharp look.
“Well, of course, put like that…” Mrs Mason adjusted her glasses and peered at Agatha. “I thought I was making too much of it.”
“Too much of what?”
“She said, in the nicest way possible, that she wondered why no elections were held for the posts in the Ladies’ Society. ‘Whatever can you mean, Mrs Fortune?’ I asked. She smiled and said that she gathered that I had been chairwoman for several years and Miss Simms had been secretary. I pointed out that nobody had complained. ‘They wouldn’t complain to you, dear,’ she said. ‘But there have been certain murmurings,’ yes, that’s what she said, murmurings. ‘About what?’ says I, getting sharpish. ‘Oh,’ says she as sweet as pie, ‘some of the ladies would like to see new blood at the helm.’ I found myself getting angry. ‘Like yourself?’ I says, irritated-like. And she says, ‘Why not? Would you have any objections?’
‘Not me,’ says I, ‘but it’s up to the group.’”
Mrs Mason paused for breath. A red tide of colour rose up her neck. “It would have been all right if she had left it at that. But she went on to say that the Ladies’ Society over at Little Raddington had a very presentable chairwoman who was quite young.”
Her voice was a bad imitation of Mary’s rather drawling accent. “I bought myself a new pale blue twin set – you remember, Mrs Raisin, you admired it – and I wore it with my pearls to one of the last meetings. Mrs Fortune looked at it and gave a little smile and I suddenly wished I hadn’t wasted the money. She had a way of smiling, she had, that seemed to say, ‘It doesn’t matter what you do, you’ll never look like a lady.’
