by M C Beaton
He ate a large dinner that evening, washed down with a bottle of Sauternes. He had a weakness for sweet wine and always drank a bottle when not in company. He finished his meal with a glass of crème de menthe and decided to have an early night. He suddenly felt drunk. As he climbed into bed, his body was racked with spasms, and he vomited over the place. He bellowed for help, but his son had taken himself back off to London and his daughter had gone to a disco. His housekeeper lived on a cottage on the estate and his chauffeur in a flat above the garage. Nobody heard him, and he doubled up in agony before losing consciousness.
Agatha only heard the news a few days later when his obituary was in the Times newspaper. Two weeks later, on a Sunday, she attended a meeting of the allotment users at the vicarage. They were all celebrating. Lord Bellington’s heir, his son, Damian, had said he had no intention of building houses on the allotments.
When the cheers had died down, Agatha asked, “How did he die?”
“Vomiting and seizure followed by heart and kidney failure,” said Gerald, who had heard the news from police contacts.
“Really? Sounds like classic antifreeze poisoning,” said Agatha.
They all stared at her. Then Peta began to laugh. “Haven’t you enough to do at that agency of yours without inventing murders?”
“I watch a lot of real-life crime on television,” said Agatha huffily. “It would amaze you the number of people bumped off with antifreeze, and it is always diagnosed at first as heart failure.”
But the cheerful conversation resumed. Only Gerald suddenly felt uneasy. He had made friends at Mircester police headquarters. Inspector Wilkes had been acidulous on the subject of Agatha, but Detective Sergeant Bill Wong had said that at times Agatha’s intuition had been uncanny.
He quietly left the room and went home to make phone calls. As a result of his calls, Damian was asked if his father could possibly have been poisoned. Damian had shrugged and then had said airily, “He’s in the family vault. Have a look if you want.”
The following Sunday, just as Agatha was gloomily feeding a frozen curry into the microwave, her doorbell rang. She wondered if it could possibly be James Lacey or Charles but to her surprise, it was Gerald, saying, “May I come in?”
“Yes,” said Agatha, wishing she weren’t wearing a cotton skirt, t-shirt and flat sandals.
She led the way into her sitting room and offered him a drink. He asked for a whisky and soda. Agatha poured him one, got herself a gin and tonic and asked, “What’s the reason for the visit?”
“You were right,” said Gerald. “I’ve just heard. Lord Bellington was poisoned with antifreeze. I’m to take you in to headquarters to make a statement.”
“How did you find out?”
“I was worried about what you said. I made phone calls. The son said that as his father was in a stone coffin in the family vault, we could take a look if we wanted and signed the necessary papers. As both of us saw him on the last day of his life, the police want to interview us.”
“I hate this,” said Agatha. “Wilkes will treat me as if I am the murderer and keep me half the night.”
Wilkes was furious with Agatha. He found it hard to believe that she could suspect antifreeze poisoning when she had not even seen the dead body. Therefore, she must have had something to do with the death. After all, she had been in his home. Agatha pointed out that Gerald Devere had been there as well and also she had been accompanied by Charles. She explained that she watched a lot of real-life crime on television and was always amazed at the amount of deaths from antifreeze that went undiagnosed until some wife or husband bumped off the next spouse. At last, the long interview was over and to her fury, she heard herself being told not to leave the country.
Gerald was waiting for her when she left. “Rotten time?” he asked.
“Wilkes is a fool!” raged Agatha.
“He feels you made him look stupid,” said Gerald. He ran her to her cottage but refused her offer of a drink.
Which was just as well, thought Agatha sourly, when she walked into her sitting room to find Charles asleep on the sofa with the cats on his lap. She shook him awake.
“Bellington was poisoned,” said Agatha, “and as I was the one who suggested it, Wilkes is determined to make me prime suspect. Why weren’t you interviewed as well?”
“Have been,” said Charles lazily. “That nice detective, Alice Peterson, was sent over to my home.”
“It’s enough to make anyone a Communist,” said Agatha. “Such as you gets the kid-glove treatment while proles like me are dragged in and told not to leave the country.”
“Sit down. Calm down. Let’s talk about it. It can’t have been the son, surely, or he would not have agreed so easily to his father’s body being taken out of the vault for another autopsy. Could be the daughter. Or do you think one of the people from the allotments went there and spiked his booze?”
“Can’t be. They’ll have checked with that lodge keeper who visited him. Wait a bit,” said Agatha, shoving Charles’s legs onto the floor and sitting down next to him, oblivious of her cats’ complaints at being disturbed. “The antifreeze must have been in something he drank. Someone could have doctored a bottle of wine and just waited. Does he have any staff?”
“He has a housekeeper, gamekeeper or maybe two, the lodge keeper, a shepherd, a gardener, and a cleaning company from Mircester comes in once a week. If he has a dinner party, he uses a catering firm. He owns the small village of Harby, more of a hamlet, and recently jacked up the rents, causing no end of ill will.”
“How did you find out all this?”
“I phoned around,” said Charles. “Let it go, Agatha. The suspects are legion.”
Chapter Two
During the following week, Agatha found that she was too busy to even think about the death of Bellington. But on the Friday, she received a visit from Bellington’s son, Damian.
He had a weak, almost feminine face and carefully waved fair hair. He was dressed in a light blue silk suit with three-quarter-length sleeves over a white silk shirt open at the neck to display a gold medallion. His deep masculine voice came as a surprise.
“The police don’t seem to be doing anything, and I want to know who murdered my father,” he said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Agatha.
“Don’t be. I hated the old bastard. That’s the point. Everyone’s heard me complaining about the old sod and wishing he were dead. I feel if I’m called in for questioning one more time, I’ll have the screaming ab-dabs. So I want you to find out who did it.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Agatha. “My secretary, Mrs. Freedman, will get you to sign the necessary contracts. Now, do you suspect anyone yourself?”
“Too many people had it in for him. First, the villagers didn’t like their rents being jacked up. Then there were the allotment people.”
“It seems to me,” said Agatha cautiously, “that it would need to be someone who was in the house and could doctor the drinks unobserved. What about your sister?”
“Andrea? No. She must be the only one in mourning. We had the funeral yesterday, and hers were the only wet eyes around.”
“What about your mother?”
“Too pissed to care. Drunk as a skunk most of the time. And she never went near him after the divorce. That was ten years ago. Why he fought for custody of us is beyond me. But I suppose he adored Andrea.”
“What about the staff? I would like to arrange a meeting with them.”
“Come down tomorrow. Say, ten in the morning. I’ll have them gathered together.”
After he had left and Agatha’s detectives had returned for the Friday-night briefing, Agatha told them about the agency’s latest client. Toni Gilmour, young, blond and beautiful, said, “We’ve got so much work already. Have you thought of employing another detective?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Agatha. Perhaps Gerald might like some temporary employment and they would become close and he would
propose marriage and …
Patrick Mulligan, former police officer, broke into her dreams. “I could get a retired detective.”
“I’ll let you know after the week-end,” said Agatha.
Simon Black, young with a jester’s face and black hair, said eagerly, “Would you like me to come with you tomorrow?”
“No, I’ll go on my own,” said Agatha.
Phil Marshall, her oldest detective who lived in Carsely, knew all about Gerald Devere and guessed at Agatha’s plans. In the past, Agatha had always chased after any attractive man who arrived in Carsely or in any of the nearby villages.
Agatha rushed home to her cottage to put on a slinky black wool dress and high heels. She sprayed herself liberally with Miss Dior and headed for Gerald’s cottage.
But before she reached it, she met Mrs. Bloxby, who was hurrying along the road, her head bent. “I was going to ask Mr. Devere something,” said Mrs. Bloxby in a flat voice. “But he was in the garden and otherwise occupied.”
“I’m just on my way to see him,” said Agatha. “How otherwise occupied?”
“I was about to ring the front doorbell when I heard his voice coming from the back garden. I walked around. He was kissing that newcomer, Miss Peta Currie. I backed off and left.”
“That’s fast work,” said Agatha bitterly. “I’ve seen this Peta Currie with Gerald, and I met her at the allotments.”
“Arrived a few months ago. Has an allotment. Rumoured to have been married but calls herself ‘miss.’”
And here we are, thought Agatha sadly. Two middle-aged women looking as if they had just been jilted. “Like to come back to my place for a drink?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I’d better get back to the vicarage.”
* * *
Agatha had decided to take Toni with her. Damian greeted them at the hall and said the staff were all waiting for them in the library. “When you’re finished,” he said, “Mother would like to see you.”
“She’s here!” exclaimed Agatha.
“Yes, I got her back. The place is mine now,” said Damian. “I can’t be bothered with running it, but Mother is a great organiser.”
Agatha thought this did not tally with Damian’s earlier description of his mother as a drunk and said so. “She’s taken the cure,” said Damian. “Good rehab job, and she’s my mother. You’d better talk to the factor first, Giles Bennet. He had a row with Dad. Dad accused him of fiddling the books to line his own pockets. He was given a month’s notice. I kept him on because I got the accountants to go through the books and there was no evidence of fiddling.”
Agatha found the interviews with the factor and the staff a waste of time. People had either been warned or did not like to speak ill of the dead, and they all said, even the factor, that he had been a model employer. Giles Bennet said that there had been nothing new in Lord Bellington firing him. It had happened regularly and he paid no attention to it. His lordship had been a great character. As the eulogies went on, Toni caught a look of malicious glee on Damian’s face, quickly supressed when he saw her looking at him.
They were then led to a morning room where Olivia, Lady Bellington, was waiting for them. Agatha thought that it was only the ex-wives of Scottish peers who were allowed to retain their titles but, with unusual tact, refrained from saying so. Olivia was a tall, thin haggard woman with brown hair and large grey eyes. She was dressed in a faded blouse and jeans.
“So grateful for your help, Miss Prune,” she said languidly.
“It’s Raisin. Agatha Raisin.”
“Sorry. I knew it was one of those wrinkled fruits. Have a seat. I don’t know if I can help you because, as you probably know, I haven’t seen Arthur in yonks.”
“And you definitely had not seen anything of your husband since the divorce?”
“Not a sausage, darling. I mean his behaviour was gothic. Absolutely shiters.”
“If the antifreeze could have been inserted in one of the bottles,” said Toni, “might there not be some in other bottles?”
“Oh, my dear girl,” said Damian, “the forensic lot went through the cellar end to end. Dad likes sweet stuff. He had been drinking Sauternes and crème de menthe. But could they find those bottles? Disappeared. Not even in the rubbish.”
“It must have been someone with access to the hall,” said Agatha. “It can’t have been any of the villagers, for example.”
“It could,” said Damian. “Two days before he died, there was open day at the hall. You know the sort of thing. Marquees on the lawn. Stands with homemade cakes and stuff. White elephant stall. Yawn. I wasn’t there. Andrea told me about it.”
“Your sister? Is it possible to talk to her?” asked Agatha.
“She’s off hiking in Scotland. I’ll let you know when she gets back.”
“Is there any of the villagers who was really furious at the rents going up?” asked Toni.
“Nasty old codger called Humphrey Sanders. Lives in Pear Tree cottage next to the pond.”
“Well, that was a waste of space,” said Agatha bitterly as they drove down to the village.
“Not quite,” said Toni. “Damian is somehow enjoying our failure at getting anywhere.” She told Agatha about the look she had surprised on his face.
“You don’t hire a detective of my calibre if you’re a murderer,” said Agatha.
“It’s happened before,” said Toni. “They did it to hide the fact they were guilty.”
“That was ages ago,” said Agatha huffily. “I wish I weren’t so worried about Mrs. Bloxby.”
“Why?”
“Shouldn’t have mentioned it. Here’s that cottage and here goes for another useless interview.”
* * *
The vicar looked up from his newspaper as his wife walked into the sitting room and slumped down in an armchair. “You looked tired,” he said.
“That’s all I need,” said his wife bitterly.
“You’ve been working too hard,” said the vicar. “And you’ve been looking so attractive lately. Tell you what. Let’s go out to that new restaurant in Ancombe.”
The sun slowly began to dawn in the gloomy night of Mrs. Bloxby’s mind.
“That would be lovely.”
* * *
Humphrey Sanders opened the door of his cottage. “I ain’t buying nothing.”
“I am a private detective,” said Agatha, handing him her card. “I am investigating the murder of Lord Bellington.”
“And good riddance,” he said, and slammed the door.
“I’m sick of this,” said Agatha. “Let’s find a pub.”
The village did not boast a pub, but they found one in a nearby village and settled down in the garden to eat fish and chips.
“That’s better,” sighed Agatha, pushing her plate away. “What did you make of Damian?”
“Effeminate, malicious, hiding something,” said Toni.
“Now, Bellington said to me and Charles something about changing his will,” said Agatha. “That would be a motive. I wish for the umpteenth time I had the powers of the police.” She took out her mobile and called Patrick. “See if any of your police contacts can tell you if Bellington meant to change his will,” she asked.
Agatha lit a cigarette. “I’d forgotten something. Bellington had a mistress, Jenny Coulter. I’ll need her address.”
“Want to go back to Harby and knock on a few doors?” asked Toni.
“Fed up with the place. This is Sunday, and I dragged you down here. Maybe you had a date or something.”
“Not at the moment,” said Toni.
Agatha studied her assistant’s beautiful face. She herself had not had a normal youth. Mostly, she had been too driven by ambition to think about finding dates.
“Do you ever try these dating agencies online?” asked Agatha.
“Haven’t so far,” said Toni.
“I think we should head back to Mircester and try to see Bill Wong. With any luck this is his day off and he might give u
s some information. At least the murder isn’t in the Cotswolds and the villagers of Carsely can’t accuse me of being a harbinger of death.”
* * *
There was one allotment going spare. It had belonged to an elderly man who had died six months before. Hot contestants for the plot were Bunty Daventry, Josephine Merriweather and Harry Perry. But the head of the Small Allotments’ Committee, Tommy Bennet, had held out against them, saying the plot should go to someone new.
“Look at it!” raged Bunty. “Full of weeds and the seeds blowing all over the place. It’s a disgrace. Wait a bit! Look at that! Someone’s been digging.”
She walked over to the allotment. “Looks like a grave,” she said.
“Probably is,” said Harry. “You’d never believe the number of people who want to bury a pet. It’s been dug fresh, like.” He seized his spade. “I’m going to dig it up and see if I recognise the creature, and if I do, I’ll take the dead beast and chuck it in their garden.”
He dug energetically, his old walnut face creased in concentration. “Something soft here.” He got down on his hands and knees and began to scrape away the earth with his fingers. Other allotment holders began to crowd around.
He suddenly fell back on his bottom while Bunty let out a scream of terror. Exposed was the white, dead face of Peta Currie. A little breeze had sprung up, and granules of earth rolled down the dead face like tears. Bunty, who had always prided herself on being stronger than any man, fainted. Mobile phones were snatched out all round as babbling voices shrieked for the police and ambulance.
Unaware of the drama, Agatha and Toni were sitting in a pub in Mircester with Bill. He had been on duty, and they had caught him just as he was leaving headquarters.
“You know I cannot discuss police business with you, Agatha,” he was saying.
