by M C Beaton
“Surely you can tell us if Bellington meant to disinherit Damian before he died,” said Agatha. She studied his face. Something flickered in Bill’s almond shaped eyes.
“So he did!” exclaimed Agatha with one of her unnerving flashes of intuition.
“I didn’t say that.” Bill’s mobile rang. “I’d better take this.” He walked away from the table.
Agatha heard him exclaim. “Carsely! Are you sure?” And then, “I’ll be right there.”
“I’ve got to go,” he said when he returned to their table.
“What’s happened in Carsely?” demanded Agatha.
“Never mind. See you. Thanks for the drink.”
Agatha’s brain was in a turmoil as she followed Bill’s car to Carsely. It could be nothing to do with her or he would have taken her with him. Was it something to do with Bellington’s murder? Several police cars raced past her.
When she got to Carsely, Agatha said, “They’re all heading for the allotments. What on earth is happening? If we hadn’t just seen Damian, I would expect something nasty to have happened to him.”
She pulled up behind the police cars. She and Toni got out and hurried forward to find their way blocked by a policeman at the entrance to the allotments. “Can’t go in there,” he said.
“But there are people in there,” protested Agatha.
“They were at the scene. Got to be interviewed.”
“What scene? What happened?” demanded Agatha.
“Clear off and mind your own business.”
They moved a little away. Then Agatha saw Mrs. Bloxby hurrying along the road, accompanied by Gerald.
“Isn’t it terrible?” she said, coming up to them. “Poor Miss Currie.”
“What?” demanded Agatha. “Never say someone’s bumped her off.”
“It appears she had been struck on the back of the head, and then the body was buried in one of the allotments,” said the vicar’s wife.
“How did you find out?” asked Toni.
“Two of the allotments holders phoned the vicarage as soon as the body was found,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha’s bearlike eyes fastened on Gerald’s face. “The police will want to know who was the last person who saw her alive,” she said.
“Naturally,” said Gerald stiffly. “That is normal procedure. Excuse me. Got to go home. Forgotten something.”
Mrs. Bloxby put a hand on Agatha’s arm and looked steadily at her face. She doesn’t want me to talk about him kissing Peta last night, thought Agatha. Damn! Why? Loyalty to her friend kept her silent as she watched Gerald walk quickly away.
“So another murder,” said a familiar voice behind Agatha. She swung round to find Charles. “Who’s been bumped off?”
“Peta Currie,” said Agatha. “Remember, we met her? Found in a grave on the allotments.”
Charles studied the allotment holders. “Now there’s a cross-section of village society,” he remarked. “There are the old guard. Some of them look as if they’ve come out of Planet of the Apes. You see those sort of faces in old Victorian photographs. Those big simian mouths. Right into the twentieth century, it was so unfashionable to have a large mouth that women cursed with one would paint little rosebud mouths in the middle of it. Some middle-class women who look like militant vegetarians. Some genuine gardeners. And look! Over there. There’s even a vineyard belonging to two attractive ladies. Do you know who they are?”
“One’s a terribly good photographer,” said Phil Marshall, who had walked up to join them. “And her friend is a tennis coach.”
“How fascinating they all are,” said Charles. “What did Peta do, I wonder, to cause her death? Step on someone’s prize leeks?”
“I checked up on her last night,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if there was anything on Google. In her early twenties, she was a famous model. She’s been married and divorced three times.”
“One up on you, Aggie,” said Charles. “You’ve only managed two husbands.”
“Any connection to Lord Bellington?” asked Agatha.
“Her first marriage was to a cousin of Lord Bellington’s, a member of Parliament, Mr. Nigel Farraday.”
“We’d better tell Bill,” said Agatha. She walked to the policeman at the gate. “Tell Detective Sergeant Wong that Agatha Raisin has important information concerning the murder,” she said. He turned away and spoke rapidly into a gadget on his lapel.
Agatha waited impatiently. At last, Bill came hurrying up and listened while she told him what Mrs. Bloxby had found out. “It’s a tenuous connection,” he said. “Come with me, Mrs. Bloxby, and we’ll take a statement. Stay where you are, Agatha, and I’ll call on you later.”
Pink in the face with embarrassment, Mrs. Bloxby followed Bill into the allotments. I wonder how she’s going to explain her interest in Peta, thought Agatha.
She turned to Charles. “Let’s go home and wait for Bill. What about you and Phil, Toni?”
Toni said she would like to get back to Mircester, and Phil pointed to his camera with the zoom lens and said he would wait and get as many photos of the allotment holders as he could.
Agatha and Charles sat in the kitchen and waited for Bill. They had meant to sit in the garden, but the wind had become blustery and cold with dark little clouds scurrying over the sun. “Look at all the autumn leaves blowing all over the place,” said Agatha. “Such a shame. It all seems to pass so quickly. I feel like getting a can of lacquer and sticking them on.”
Agatha put her laptop on the kitchen table and switched it on. “Looking up Peta?” asked Charles.
“No, I’m looking up Bellington’s mistress, Jenny Coulter. Let’s see. Damn. Nothing at all. I’d better get her address from Damian. Are they still called mistresses these days?”
Charles shrugged. “Partners or significant others. There was an amusing letter in the Times from a man who said that in Australia, partners were referred to as ‘de facto.’ It was only after a while that he realised he wasn’t being introduced to deaf actors.”
Agatha phoned Damian and asked for Jenny Coulter’s whereabouts and then scribbled down an address. Then she told him about the death of Peta Currie.
“Who’s she?” asked Damian.
“She was married to your father’s cousin, Nigel Farraday, at one time.”
“I think I met Nigel once when I was a child,” said Damian. “Can’t remember this Peta. I’ll check up for you. But allotments are war zones. Got some in the village. Someone left the tap running last year, so the committee decided everyone had to carry water from a standpipe instead of plugging in their hoses. All because just one person was careless. Caused no end of fights.”
The doorbell rang and Charles went to answer it. Agatha heard Bill’s voice, told Damian she would talk to him later, and rang off.
Bill came into the kitchen followed by the pretty detective, Alice Peterson. He questioned Agatha closely about her visit to Harby Hall, and then said, “What’s this I hear about Mrs. Bloxby?”
“What on earth is there to hear?” demanded Agatha defensively.
“The gossip at the allotments is that Mrs. Bloxby was smitten by Gerald Devere and that Gerald Devere had become romantically involved with Peta Currie.”
“Rubbish!”
“That Mrs. Bloxby was seen spending a lot of time in his company, that she had taken to wearing smart new clothes, dying her hair and wearing make-up.”
“Oh, that’s my fault,” lied Agatha. “I had been encouraging her for ages to do something about her appearance, and she at last took my advice. Mrs. Bloxby spends a lot of time with newcomers to the village to help them get settled in. Come on, Bill! Mrs. Bloxby is a saint.”
“Nonetheless, when I have finished here, I will be talking to her. Where’s Charles?”
Agatha looked around. “He was here a moment ago. Do you think there is some connection between Peta’s murder and that of Lord Bellington?”
“Early days,” said Bill.
&n
bsp; Charles had slipped out to rush up to the vicarage. Fortunately, the vicar was out. Mrs. Bloxby listened in dismay as Charles warned her that Bill would be calling on her soon and the reason for his visit.
“What am I to say?” asked the distressed vicar’s wife.
“You will tell him what Agatha told him moments ago, that she had been encouraging you to smarten yourself up and you finally took her advice. Gerald called on you a lot because he didn’t know anyone in the village and you were helping him to get established. Okay?”
“But that would be a lie.”
“Do you want to upset your husband? What if he returns when Bill is here? I’m afraid the village is buzzing with gossip about you and Gerald.”
“I have been very silly,” said Mrs. Bloxby in a low voice. “Mr. Devere paid me many compliments. It was so nice to be admired. I thought my husband never really noticed me. But he did, finally. Last night! He took me out for dinner and said I was doing too much and told me to hire a cleaner.”
“Do you know how long Gerald had been romancing Peta?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know a thing about it until I caught them kissing. Did Ms. Raisin tell you about that?”
“Not yet. You know, I think men like Devere go around romancing women to boost their own ego. I hope someone kills him!”
The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Bill,” said Charles. “I’ll go out through the churchyard.”
Chapter Three
When Charles joined Agatha back in her kitchen, she said, “Damian called back with Jenny Coulter’s address. She’s in Mircester. Great! Let’s see if she’s at home.”
“It’s been a long day, Agatha,” said Charles. “Can’t you leave it until morning?”
“She’s probably got a job. These days, so-called ‘kept women’ usually work as well.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“I wish. You know, Charles, those allotments do have a certain charm.”
“Like dead bodies?”
“No, I mean, I can see myself sitting outside a shed on a summer’s day, watching things grow.”
“The only thing you’re likely to grow is boredom,” said Charles. “You know, Aggie, you wrap yourself in fantasy so many times, I find it hard to believe that you can actually wake up to the real world and solve cases.”
“I don’t fantasise!” shouted Agatha. “And don’t call me Aggie! Okay, Monday. Will you call at the office?”
“No, I will not. I do have a life of my own. I have to supervise arrangements for the harvest festival. Nice and bucolic and dead-body free.”
When he had left, Agatha went to let her cats in. They eyed her sulkily because it had begun to rain. The fine weather had broken at last. Agatha looked at the clock. Ten in the evening! And she hadn’t eaten. She lifted the lid of the freezer chest and stared bleakly at a pile of microwave dinners before slamming it shut again.
The doorbell rang. Agatha looked down at her cats. If Bill or Charles had come back, with that odd sense of theirs, they would have run to the door, but both continued to groom themselves.
She looked through the spy hole and saw Gerald on her doorstep. She reluctantly opened the door to one shattered dream.
“Is this too late?” asked Gerald.
“No. Come in. What’s the matter?” said Agatha, leading the way to the kitchen. She felt no urge to excuse herself and go upstairs to refresh her make-up. That dream had died.
“Coffee? Or something stronger?” she offered.
“Nothing for me.”
“So what’s the problem? I assume you do have a problem.”
Gerald sighed and sat down at the kitchen table. Agatha sat opposite him.
“Being in the force in an odd sort of way cushions one from the outside world. Us and them. Now I am one of them. My vanity has taken a strong blow. Peta came on to me with all guns blazing, and I was comforted and flattered. She has been murdered, and I seem to be prime suspect.”
“Wilkes makes everyone feel like prime suspect,” said Agatha bitterly. “You want something from me. What is it?”
“I want to work again. I was hoping you might need another detective.”
Agatha was about to refuse. She was still cross with him for having upset Mrs. Bloxby. Then common sense came to her aid. Here was a man, suspect or not, who would have better contacts in the police than Patrick.
“Call at the office tomorrow at nine o’clock,” she said, “and sign the necessary papers. I am going to see Jenny Coulter, Bellington’s ex-mistress, tomorrow. You can start by coming with me.”
“Thank you.”
“There is just one thing.” Agatha’s bearlike eyes bored into his face. “No more chatting up Mrs. Bloxby and giving her wrong ideas.”
“I promise you I won’t go near the vicarage again.”
“Oh, yes, you jolly well will, but when her husband is there. It would be hurtful to cut her off. Invite Mrs. Bloxby and her husband to dinner.”
“I’ll do that. What must you think of me?”
Agatha grinned. “Not much as a man, but as a detective, I’d like to see how you do.”
When he had left, that old romantic fantasy about him hovered over Agatha’s head. She shook it violently as if to shake the nonsense away and went up to bed. But before she drifted off to sleep, she hoped that when Charles found out that Gerald had joined her staff, he would be annoyed.
Gerald was introduced to Agatha’s staff the next morning. Agatha noticed as he shook hands all round that he held on to Toni’s hand a little longer than was necessary.
Then they had a quarrel in the car park outside. Gerald insisted they should take his car, but Agatha wanted to start off being the one in control and won the battle. She drove off with a rather sulky Gerald beside her in the passenger seat.
“This place where she lives,” said Agatha, “is in one of the council estates on the edge of town. I would have expected her to live somewhere better.”
“Maybe she relied on Bellington for money and a home, I wonder what she looks like,” said Gerald, after Agatha had parked the car and they were walking towards the entrance to the flats. “I got photos of Bellington at various functions e-mailed to me from an old contact. His ex is in a lot of the old ones, but in the newer ones, there’s no sign of any love life.”
Agatha felt a stab of envy. Of course he would have more useful contacts than she did herself. She often fretted at being kept out of police investigations, being left with no forensic details.
Jenny Coulter’s flat was in a small block, only four stories high. Jenny’s flat was on the top floor. There was an OUT OF ORDER sign on the lift. When they reached the top floor, Agatha found she was out of breath and that her feet hurt. Oh, God, she thought, here it comes at last. No more cigarettes and no more high heels. I’m doomed.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Gerald.
“What? No, I’m fine. Ring the bell.”
Gerald pressed the bell. Then there was silence: only the moaning sound of the wind which had risen outside. There were no usual sounds one would expect in a block of flats: no television sounds, crying babies or rowing couples. There were only two apartments to each floor. “I’ll try the apartment opposite,” said Agatha. At first, there seemed to be no one home there either, but just as Agatha was turning away, the door was opened by a very old man, leaning on two sticks. “Who is it, Grandpa?” called a voice behind him.
“I think it’s the Jehovahs,” he said. “Look here, I don’t believe in God, never have, never will and…”
“We are private investigators,” shouted Agatha. “Do you know when your neighbour, Miss Coulter, will be home?”
His pale, watery eyes stared at her. “I ain’t deaf. She’s usually home, but she don’t answer the door if she thinks it’s someone she don’t know.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha, still cross at having been mistaken for a Jehovah’s Witness.
Agatha took out a business card and shoved it thr
ough the letterbox. She rang the bell again. After a few minutes, when she was just about to give up, the door opened, and a plump woman with grey hair answered it. “I was hoping to speak to Miss Coulter,” said Agatha.
“That’s me. Is it about that mean old bastard?”
“Yes, if you mean Lord Bellington.”
“Come in.”
They followed her into her living room. Agatha introduced Gerald. The room contained some nice pieces of antique furniture and a basketweave Sheraton sofa and chairs.
Jenny saw Agatha surveying the furniture and grinned. “When I left the old bastard, I got the removal lorry round first during the night. Left a note saying if he wanted his stuff back, he could sue me.”
Gerald said, “Have you any idea who might have poisoned him?”
“I bet it was that son of his. Weird. The whole family’s weird. Was the poison in one of his filthy-sweet drinks?”
“Yes,” said Gerald. “It was either in the sweet wine or the crème de menthe. So it must have been someone who knew he liked sweet alcohol.”
“He had a fete or some type of thing like that,” said Agatha. “One of the villagers could have got into the house. I’m sure they used a lavatory in the house.”
“He knew his drinking habits weren’t fashionable,” said Jenny. “Only the immediate family would know about his liking for sweet drinks.”
“What about dinner parties?” asked Gerald.
“Only the best wine and port afterwards,” said Jenny. “I told all this to the police. They tracked me down pretty quickly. I have an alibi for the night he was murdered, but it was pointed out to me that a bottle of wine or crème de menthe could have been poisoned any time before.”
“This is a council flat,” said Agatha. “Was it hard to find?”
“I’ve always had it. Hung on to it for a rainy day. Never thought the storm would arrive, but here I am. Have a seat.”
Agatha was puzzled. She had expected someone like the few trophy wives who lived in Carsely: blond, cosmetically enhanced and each with her personal trainer. Jenny certainly had a figure to delight an Edwardian gentleman, having a generous bosom and large hips. Her eyes were large and brown. But she had deep grooves at the side of her mouth and wrinkles radiating above her lips and around her eyes. She came to the conclusion that Jenny had once been a looker in her younger days, and that would be when the affair started.
