Pushing Up Daisies

by M C Beaton

  “How did you meet Lord Bellington?” she asked.

  “Let me see. That would be about five years ago. I was working in a jewellers in the town, and he came in to buy a pendant for his daughter. We got talking, and he took me for dinner. The affair took off from there. At first he was very generous, and it was fun living in a big house. I was between men. The one before him had turned mean and bullying. Then, guess what? Bellington turned mean and bullying. Men!”

  “Have you always been an … er … mistress?” asked Gerald.

  “I suppose so. I’ve had the benefits of marriage but the freedom to clear off when I felt like it.”

  Agatha surveyed her curiously. What on earth did she do that made her so evidently popular? It was all a puzzle.

  “Did you ever meet Nigel Farraday?” she asked.

  “A few times.”

  “You see,” said Agatha. “Peta Currie was murdered in the village of Carsely. She was married to him at one time.”

  “I read about that,” said Jenny. “I never met the girl. Before my time and I didn’t like Nigel. He treated me like dirt, and his wife is a pill.”

  “I looked up their address,” said Gerald. “They live in Iddington Loxby. Is that near Harby?”

  “It’s about six miles away,” said Jenny. “I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like coffee or something?”

  “No, we’d better be on our way,” said Agatha. “He’s a member of Parliament, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he stands as an Independent. He was a Conservative and he feared he might lose his seat, so he decided to leave the party and stand as an Independent, promising all things to all people with nostalgia thrown in. You know, Britain for the British, throw all the immigrants out, bring back smoking, and double the pension money for the elderly. And as he is never likely to have any real power, he can promise what he likes.”

  As they were driving off, Agatha said, “I expected someone more glamorous.”

  “Oh, she’s sexy,” said Gerald.

  “I wouldn’t know,” commented Agatha huffily. What an odd world it was! Women’s magazines told you to wear heels and perfume, hair extensions and false eyelashes to lure the male creature, and here you have a woman like someone’s mother. She wondered if she would ever experience sex combined with tenderness and romance. James Lacey belonged to the wham-bang school. Charles was an expert lover, but always self-contained. “Like being shagged by the cat.”

  “What?” demanded Gerald, and Agatha realised to her horror that she had spoken aloud.

  “Nothing,” said Agatha quickly. “Thinking about an old case.”

  They finally reached the village of Iddington Loxby. Gerald stopped by the village green and asked a man where they could find the home of Mr. Farraday.

  “That’s Coddend Manor,” he said. “Go back the way you came and turn left at the sign that says Coddend. You’ll see the gates a little bit along that road. Got pineapples on the gateposts.”

  Soon they were cruising up a long narrow drive, thickly wooded on either side. The car bumped over a cattle grid, and they were out of the shelter of the trees and found open fields on either side. Agatha drove round a stable block, through an arch and into a courtyard which was full of cars.

  “He must have guests,” said Gerald. “Look! There’s a space over there. Back into it.”

  “This car goes forwards. It doesn’t go back,” said Agatha, who hated reversing. She parked between a Rolls and a Bentley.

  “Looks as if it was once a nice Georgian house. Now it’s got odd Victorian bits tagged on. And look at all that ivy! Must be eating into the stonework.”

  The door was standing open. Agatha was about to walk straight in, but Gerald caught her arm. “Shouldn’t we ring and get the butler to announce us?”

  “I think hardly anyone but the very rich have butlers these days. Come on.”

  They found themselves in a passage leading to a T-junction with corridors going off to left and right.

  “Maybe we should have phoned,” said Gerald.

  “As an ex-copper you should know it’s often better to surprise them,” retorted Agatha.

  Gerald stopped short. His face was creased up with anger. “I know more about detecting than you could ever learn!” he shouted.

  “Oh, shut up, you pompous git!” yelled Agatha.

  A woman appeared at the end of the corridor. She looked so like Peta that Agatha’s heart gave a lurch. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, “and what are you doing in my house?”

  Agatha hurried forward with a placatory smile. “I am Private Detective Agatha Raisin. I am investigating the murder of Peta Currie. It would be helpful to learn something about her background. We wondered if we could have a word with Mr. Farraday.”

  “It is not convenient. We have guests.”

  “What’s up, darling?” A man walked towards them.

  “This woman,” said his wife in glacial tones, “wants to interview you about Peta Currie. I told her to get lost.”

  He walked forwards. He was a tall man with a thick head of white hair. His white face was marred with red splotches, and his large nose had very open pores.

  “Don’t worry, poppet,” he said. “You look after our guests.” He opened a door to the left. “In here.”

  The room had a dusty unused look. “Please sit down,” he said.

  Agatha sat on a battered sofa which sent up a puff of dust. Gerald sat beside her. Nigel pulled up a hardback chair, swung it round, sat down and leaned on the back. He was wearing a collarless shirt and baggy shorts. “My barbecue outfit,” he said. “Now, you are?”

  After introducing them both, Agatha began to question him about Peta. “There was nothing to her apart from clothes, make-up and a devouring interest in money. But she was attractive-looking, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “But she refused to breed. As a politician, it helps to have a family. The next one was a loser as well. Hit lucky with this one. Two little boys. What about you pair? Any kids?”

  To Gerald’s horror, Agatha said sorrowfully. “Gerald didn’t want me to have any.”

  “Poor you. Now you’re too old. You could adopt.”

  “Wait a moment!” howled Gerald. “I would have you know that I am a retired Scotland Yard detective, working for the Agatha Raisin Agency. We are not married. Agatha, what the hell came over you?”

  Nigel leered at Agatha. “She’s a kittenish joker. I like that.”

  Agatha smiled at him, and he stroked back his hair and smiled back. “So tell me a bit more. Was she faithful to you?”

  “Not towards the end of our marriage. Lucky for me. Put a private detective on her and got enough evidence so that I didn’t have to pay out oodles of cash when I divorced her.”

  “But was she someone who might be what we call a murderee? You know, did she frequent bad company? Drugs? Jealous lovers? Anything like that?”

  “I was too busy with an election by the time she started being unfaithful. Tell you what, Agatha—I may call you Agatha?”

  “Please do.”

  “Why don’t we get together for dinner one evening? By that time, I’ll have raked my poor brains for any stuff that might be useful to you.”

  “Fine,” said Agatha.

  Before they got into her car, Agatha slipped on the flat shoes she used for driving and tossed her high heels in the back.

  “You know he only wants to get into your knickers,” said Gerald.

  “It happens from time to time,” said Agatha. “But by the time he finds he’s on a loser, I might get something useful out of him.”

  Gerald, in the passenger seat, looked sideways at Agatha as if seeing her for the first time. He eyed her long legs displayed under short skirt, her glossy hair, and was aware of the faint smell of French perfume which surrounded her.

  “I didn’t kiss Peta,” he said. “She kissed me. She sat on my lap and kissed me before I knew what she meant to do.”

  “And did you cast her off, sa
ying, ‘I am not that kind of man?’”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t see it coming. What man would?”

  “I’ve got one friend who would see it coming a mile off,” said Agatha, thinking of Charles. Where was Charles? She realised she would rather have Charles with her than Gerald and then gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. Charles came and went in her life, often as cool and detached as a cat.

  “We’ll see if Damian is at home,” said Agatha. “Surely he must have heard some gossip about Peta. And I’d really like to interview the daughter.”

  To her surprise, when she parked the car, Gerald ran round to open the door for her.

  They rang the bell and waited. The door was eventually opened by Lady Bellington. She greeted Agatha with, “Oh, you tiresome woman. First the police, now you. Still, if Damian wants you, I’ll need to put up with it.” She walked away from them, leaving the door open.

  “Where is Damian?” called Agatha to her retreating back.

  “Garden,” Lady Bellington shouted over her shoulder before disappearing into a door and slamming it behind her.

  Said Agatha to Gerald, “Instead of searching through this rabbit warren of a place to find a door leading to the garden, let’s go out and walk round the building.”

  When they emerged, fitful sunlight was flickering through the ivy leaves covering the building. A chill breeze had sprung up. Agatha wished she had worn a coat. Then she realised she was still wearing the flat shoes she used for driving. She felt diminished and not only in height. But the gravel path around the house leading to the back would have been difficult to negotiate in high heels, so she walked on, trying not to feel dumpy.

  They found Damian seated in a lounge chair on a terrace at the back of the house. A gust of wind sent a flurry of red and gold autumn leaves swirling about him. He caught one and held it up. “One of the lost children of the dying year,” he said.

  And what do you reply to that? Agatha wondered. “Come and sit down,” he said.

  Agatha chose an upright metal garden chair, and Gerald perched on the edge of a lounger on the other side of Damian.

  “So who’s the murderer?” he asked.

  “Early days,” said Agatha. “Where is your sister, Andrea?”

  “Got back yesterday. The funeral is tomorrow. What’s left of dear old Dad, that is, after they’ve cut him up and extracted his bodily fluids.”

  “You weren’t very fond of your father, were you?” asked Gerald.

  “He could be tiresome. I had a poem published in The Spectator when I was only sixteen. I was so proud. I showed it to him. He punched me in the face and called me a poofter. He said if he caught me writing poetry, he would cut off my allowance. So that was the end of that.”

  “If you disliked him so much,” said Agatha, “why are you so keen to find out who murdered him?”

  He giggled. “Oh, you are a one, duckie. To shake the man by the hand. Seriously. I’m prime suspect, and I want you to get the police off my back.”

  “Does Andrea inherit anything?” asked Gerald.

  “Her allowance, which is madly generous, has to go on being paid. But I wish she’d stop mooning about here and go somewhere, and stop moping around the place.”

  “We would like to speak to her,” said Agatha.

  “Whatever floats your boat, sweetie.” He leaned back and shouted, “Mrs. Dinky!”

  The name conjured up visions of a pretty little maid, but it was a small, aggressive-looking woman who appeared through the French windows. “Fetch Andrea, would you?” ordered Damian.

  “Is that your housekeeper?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s not the one I first interviewed.”

  “Sacked her. Malicious gossip. Dinky’s from the village and knows how to keep her mouth shut, particularly as I own her cottage.”

  “Doesn’t the sacked housekeeper live in your village?”

  “Mrs. Bull? Yes, Ivy Cottage. Ah, here is my beloved sister. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Oh, so it’s you.” Andrea glared at Agatha and Gerald. “I was told a lady and a gentleman were waiting to see me. Mistake.”

  Despite the fact that her poor background had recently been spread about the village of Carsely, Agatha still had the fear that people might see through the façade she had built up of good clothes and posh accent to her origins in a Birmingham slum. She forced down a burst of bad temper and said, “We are trying to find out who murdered your father, and we would appreciate it if you could tell us if you can think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him.”

  Andrea started to walk away. “I know who killed him,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Wait!” cried Agatha. “Who is it?”

  “Damian, of course.”

  Chapter Four

  “Wait!” called Agatha, but Andrea ran off into the house.

  Damian appeared through the French windows, and from the mocking smile on his face, Agatha guessed he had heard every word.

  “So did you really kill your father?” asked Agatha.

  “No, but Andrea would like to think so. The pair of you look quite shocked. Don’t listen to her, or you’ll never find who really bumped my father off.”

  “Why would Andrea want you to be the murderer?”

  “Because all the inheritance would then go to her, wicked me not being able to profit from crime.”

  “I would like to talk to the housekeeper you sacked,” said Agatha.

  “Hoping that a disgruntled ex-employee will dish the dirt? As I told you, her name is Mrs. Bull, and she lives in Ivy cottage. It’s right on the green. You can’t miss it.”

  “Is there any chance of speaking to your sister again?” asked Gerald.

  “Not a hope in hell. Run along and detect elsewhere.”

  Mrs. Bull looked like a gargoyle. Her ears stuck out a right angles, and she had a large nose and a curved-up mouth. Her eyes were green, the colour of sea-washed glass and just as opaque. She was very tall and thin. Agatha made the introductions.

  “You’d best come in,” she said. “I can tell you a thing or two about that lot.”

  She led the way into a dark parlour. Ivy Cottage lived up to its name. Ivy blocked most of the light from the windows. The room was cluttered with china ornaments, framed photographs, magazines and bunches of dried flowers. Mrs. Bull waved her hand to a horsehair sofa, indicating they should sit down. She switched on a fake log fire in the grate and then sat primly on the edge of a heavy Jacobean-type chair.

  “Why were you sacked?” asked Agatha.

  “I spoke to one of them reporters, and Mr. Damian sacked me.”

  “Aren’t you frightened that he might take this cottage away from you if you talk to us?” asked Gerald.

  “Can’t. It’s mine. The old man gave it to me. ‘For services rendered,’ he said.” She let out a cackle of laughter. “First time I heard a bit o’ leg over called that.”

  “You mean…” began Agatha.

  “Screwed me rotten when he was drunk.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Bull have something to say about that?”

  “Ain’t no Mr. Bull. I calls myself Mrs.”

  “But he had a mistress. What did Jenny have to say about that?”

  “Wily bird that one. Didn’t care. Said it gave her a night off.”

  “So have you any idea who murdered Lord Bellington?” asked Gerald.

  “’Twas that ex-wife o’ his. I’ll tell you why. I caught her down in the cellars one evening with a syringe in her hand.”

  Agatha said, “But she is a recovering alcoholic and was probably into drugs. Maybe she was just down there to get a fix. But wait a minute. I gather she didn’t come back to the hall until after Bellington died and Damian invited her.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Mrs. Bull triumphantly. “Her had no cause to be there.”

  “And what did Lord Bellington say when you told him?”

  “Didn’t.”

  Aga
tha’s bearlike eyes bored into her. “She paid you to keep quiet.”

  “Well, I didn’t think her was up to anything nasty-like, and the money came in handy.”

  “So when was this?” asked Agatha.

  “A week before he popped his clogs.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “I thought I’d get into trouble.”

  “So why are you telling us?” asked Gerald.

  “Someone called on the phone just afore you got here and said I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

  “A man or a woman?” asked Agatha.

  “Couldn’t say. Metallic sort of voice.”

  “But why didn’t you tell the police about Lady Bellington and the syringe?” asked Gerald.

  “Told you, didn’t I? Don’t have nothing to do with the police.”

  A phone rang shrilly from the back premises. “Better answer that,” said Mrs. Bull. “Back in a mo.”

  “We’ll have to tell the police,” whispered Gerald.

  “I think she’s a fantasist. Why should Bellington want to bed someone who looks like an extra in a horror movie?”

  “He was drunk and she was available,” said Gerald. “Shhh, she’s coming back.”

  “You’d better leave,” said Mrs. Bull. “Right now!”

  “Who was on the phone?” asked Agatha.

  “Friend in the village. Now, get out o’ here.”

  “Agatha,” said Gerald when they were clear of the village, “we really have to tell the police about her. They can check her phone. She was threatened. That last phone call really frightened her.”

  “I’ll see if Bill Wong is at home,” said Agatha reluctantly. “The last person I want to see is Wilkes. I think that wretched man likes dragging me in for questioning.”

  They managed to prise the information out of Mrs. Wong that her son was on duty until four o’clock in the afternoon. “We’ll wait in the car park outside police headquarters and catch him when he leaves,” said Agatha.

  “I don’t see why we are bothering with a mere detective sergeant,” said Gerald.