Pushing Up Daisies

by M C Beaton

  “Minding my own business,” said Charles. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “Doesn’t Agatha trust us to do the job?” grumbled Toni.

  “He’s not detecting. He’s on a date,” said Jake. “Can’t say I blame him.”

  So much for “Will you marry me,” thought Toni. Men were a faithless lot.

  “Let’s try the Clutter woman,” said Jake. “Isn’t it amazing how people hang on to their odd names? Like being called Smellie. You would think they might change for the sake of the children.”

  When they approached the hall, they found only a few stragglers and were directed to the house behind the trees that Jake had spotted earlier. Two stone gateposts flanked the entrance to a short drive bordered by laurels, rhododendrons and two large monkey puzzle trees. The house was a large grey stone building, built, Jake guessed, in the Edwardian reign. The only oddity was that above the upper windows on the front of the house were stone human faces: ugly, frightening, scowling horrors. Jake pointed to them. “Isn’t that awful? Didn’t the builders get enough money? Or, it could be, there’s madness in the family.”

  “Well, the heiress seemed sane enough.” Toni rang the bell, an enormous white china round clearly marked BELL in black letters and set on a disc of brass. A small round bad-tempered woman answered the door. “What?” she demanded.

  Toni knew that if she said they were detectives, this woman would slam the door on them, so she said instead, “Miss Clutter wanted a word with us after the funeral.”

  “What about?”

  Jake stepped forward, “Look,” he said haughtily, “just do your job and run and get her. Stop standing there with your mouth open. Hop to it!”

  “No need to get cheeky with me, young man,” she said, but she retired into the darkness of the hall behind her, leaving the door open.

  “You were awfully rude,” said Toni.

  “I know. She’s a bully and the only thing bullies understand is other bullies.”

  Cassandra appeared and said, “Oh, the glamorous detectives. Do come in. Mrs. Terry! Tea, please, and some of those leftover cakes from the funeral.”

  “You should be resting, that’s what,” said Mrs. Terry. “Tea, indeed, and your poor ma not cold in her grave.”

  “On the contrary, as my mother died last week, I am sure she is very cold indeed. Tea!

  “Awful woman,” said Cassandra. She pushed open a door on the left. “Have a seat. I’ll light the fire. Do you know there isn’t any central heating? Mother wouldn’t have it.”

  “You will be able to get it now,” said Toni sympathetically.

  “Wouldn’t waste a penny on this place. I’m selling up and going to—oh, I don’t know—the south of France or somewhere I can sit in the sun and eat croissants.”

  Cassandra had a long, mediaeval type of face with thick curved white lids over pale grey eyes. Toni guessed her to be in her late fifties. A rumbling outside and clattering of dishes heralded the arrival of tea. Mrs. Terry entered pushing a huge mahogany trolley laden with tea canisters, hot water, milk, sugar and cakes.

  “Thank you. Go away,” said Cassandra. “Now, Indian or China?”

  “Indian,” said Jake. “Me, too,” said Toni quickly, because tea was stuff that came in bags, according to her experience.

  “Would you, young Jake, light the fire? I would have asked that tiresome woman to do it, but she would moan on about how we never had fires lit until the middle of November.”

  While Jake went over to the fireplace, Toni watched, fascinated, as Cassandra measured out tea leaves into a silver pot and added hot water. Then she selected another canister and went through the ritual again, selecting a different silver pot. “I prefer China tea,” she said to Toni.

  “In your situation, lady of the manor,” said Toni cautiously, “we thought that might make you a good observer.”

  “Oh, say it,” said Cassandra waspishly. “Old maid. Spinster of the parish.”

  “I simply got the idea that you were above normal intelligence,” said Toni, who hadn’t thought anything of the kind but was anxious to repair any damage.

  “That was once the case,” said Cassandra. “I won a scholarship to Oxford, but my father died and mother became a permanent invalid. I adored my father and was shattered by his death, and so I became a blasted companion.”

  She strained a cup of tea into an eggshell-thin cup. “Milk and sugar?”

  “A little milk and one lump,” said Toni.

  “What about you, young man?”

  “No milk and four lumps,” said Jake, sitting back on his heels and admiring the blaze. He got to his feet and sat on a sofa next to Toni. Family portraits hung on the walls. The furniture was solid and Victorian, apart from a handsome grand piano.

  “Are these your ancestors?” asked Toni.

  “Oh, no, they came with the house. Grandfather made his money up in Yorkshire. He owned several mills. When he died, Father sold the lot and invested the money. He didn’t really do anything. He said he wanted to be really posh, and that is why he bought this house along with the ancestors and married Mother, who is related to the Earl of Ampweather, be it a mere twig on the family tree and to a family who showed absolutely no signs of ever wanting to know her. Of course, you want to know about this village and who could have attacked Mrs. Bull. The trouble is that she is such an awful woman, it could have been anyone. Now, Mrs. Ryan is your best bet.”

  “We tried there, but there was no reply,” said Jake.

  “I believe she sleeps in the afternoon. She is a very sharp observer of character. Do have some cake.”

  “May I use your bathroom?” asked Toni.

  “Yes. It’s at the top of the stairs.”

  Toni went up the oaken staircase. An unhappy house, she thought. The stairs were uncarpeted and polished to a high shine. As she neared the top, the dim light winking on something caught her eye. She bent down. A nail had been hammered into the side, and a knot of cord was still tied round out. Is that how her mother fell down the stairs, thought Toni. Do I report this? Do I cause this woman, who has escaped from her horrible parent, to suffer a police investigation?

  But as she descended the stairs again, she knew she could not do it.

  Cassandra was laughing at something Jake had just said as Toni entered the room. “It’s getting late,” said Toni. “We should go. Thank you so much for the tea.”

  “Call again, although I might not be here. I’m getting away as soon as I sell this place.”

  As Jake got into the car, Toni said, “I’ve left something. Back in a minute.”

  She sprinted back to the door and rang the bell. Cassandra answered it. Toni whispered urgently, “There is a nasty nail sticking out at the top of the stairs. Get pliers and get it out before Mrs. Terry sees it.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Cassandra calmly. “How odd I never noticed that before.”

  Chapter Eight

  Although Toni and Jake were eventually able to speak to Mrs. Ryan, they could not elicit any more than Agatha had already had from her, although as far as Cassandra was concerned, she did confirm that old Mrs. Clutter had led her the hell of a life. Jake was puzzled because Toni looked worried and barely seemed to be listening.

  Still, after Mrs. Ryan, they called on various villagers. It always seemed to be the same. Mrs. Bull was a nasty woman who liked finding out secrets about people. Was she a blackmailer? No, said everybody. She wasn’t blackmailing me.

  “Of course,” said Jake, “not one of them is going to admit to having something in their own lives that was worth blackmailing them over. Toni! Toni, where are you?”

  “Sorry, I’m a bit tired. Let’s go home and type up the little we’ve got in the morning.”

  But after Toni dropped Jake off in Mircester, she began to think her guilty conscience would never let her sleep again, and so instead of going to her flat, she headed for Carsely.

  Agatha answered the door, her face lit up like a ghoul with a green
light at the end of an appendage sticking from her mouth. “Bloody e-cigarette,” she said. “I’m beginning to think nothing will work. Come in. Have you anything exciting?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Toni, edging past her and making for the kitchen, where she crouched down on the floor and petted the cats. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Like a drink?”

  “I’d love one, but I’m driving and I’ve already had cider and dandelion wine. Coffee would be great. What are you doing?” For Agatha was beginning to scrape the foil tops off little plastic tubs.

  “I bought this lot by mistake. I’ve got that old-fashioned percolator, and these thingies are for that type of machine that George Clooney advertises. But I’ve got a cafetière. So if I scrape the gubbins into the cafetière, it makes a brilliant cup of coffee. Soon be with you. Just wait for the kettle to boil.”

  At last, the coffee was ready. Toni sat down at the table.

  “Out with it,” urged Agatha. “Nothing will shock me. I’m old enough to be your mo—…, elder sister.”

  “I think I’ve helped a murderer cover up a crime.”

  “Not Bellington! That’s the only one earning me some money.”

  “No. Let me tell you about it.” Agatha listened carefully to the story of Cassandra Clutter.

  When Toni had finished, Agatha began to pace up and down. She was wearing a silk nightdress under a brightly coloured kimono, and the material made a swishing sound.

  “Let me think,” said Agatha. “Charles is here. I’ll get him. I think he’s fallen asleep in front of the television.”

  Another complication, thought Toni wretchedly.

  But when Charles followed Agatha into the kitchen, he said, “What’s all the fuss about, Agatha? If it’s about me calling on Mary Feathers, then I’d like to point out that it’s none of your business.”

  “It isn’t that. What? Why?”

  “Drop it, Aggie. I am allowed a personal life. What’s this about Toni?”

  Toni told her story again. “Oh, shite,” said Charles. “Now you feel that Mrs. Bull might have found out about her pushing mum downstairs, and so Cassandra shoved her down the well.”

  “I didn’t get as far as that,” wailed Toni. “I only had this bad feeling I had helped her to cover up the murder of her mother. I was so sorry for her. I mean her mother seems to have made her life hell.”

  “Agatha and I will simply go down there tomorrow,” said Charles soothingly, “and we’ll tell her what’s upset you, and then we’ll both judge whether we think her guilty or not. But the police do investigate all sudden deaths. Don’t worry. Let your elders and betters take care of you.”

  “You didn’t tell Jake any of this?” demanded Agatha.

  “No. Not a word.”

  “Good. Off you go. Try to get some sleep. Take over my work in the morning and allocate the jobs. Team Jake up with Phil.”

  The next morning, Agatha was unusually quiet on the road to Harby. Yet she would not admit to herself that she had come to regard Charles as her property. After all, he had gone off before and had actually become engaged. He had even been married. But for quite a time, he appeared to be fancy free. Autumn leaves danced and swirled in front of the car as if their twists and arabesques were mocking one middle-aged woman, reminding her that in the end, everything dies.

  They arrived in Harby, and Agatha followed instructions to the house. Cassandra herself answered the door. After the introductions, Agatha said that they wished to speak to her about a really serious matter.

  They were ushered into the drawing room. “I feel I am back at school and waiting outside the headmistress’s study,” said Cassandra. “You both look so grim.”

  Agatha gave Charles an appealing look.

  So Charles told her of Toni’s suspicions and how she was tormented by the fact that she had helped to cover up a murder.

  “Oh, that!” exclaimed Cassandra. “Oh, that’s nothing. That was Mrs. Terry. I told her right on the day mother died that she was sacked. Nasty, bullying woman. So she rigged up that nail and told people how I had put a cord across the stairs. It was after the police investigation. I told Mrs. Terry that her fingerprints were on that nail just to see her sweat.”

  “It’s a wonder she didn’t take it out herself,” said Agatha, “or wipe the nail.”

  “That would be admitting she put it there. Oh, such good, good riddance to her and to sainted Mother.”

  “Did you never want to bump your mother off?” asked Charles curiously.

  “Oh, so many times. But I am like Shostakovich.”

  “Is that a type of vodka?” asked Agatha.

  “No. A Russian composer applied for membership of the Communist Party, even though he hated the lot of them. The evening before he was due to join, he broke down completely, calling himself a coward and a whore, saying he had been a coward all his life. That was me. Frightened of my own shadow. She broke me down, bit by bit, after Father died. I’m free at last. I’ll travel. But I’ll need to advertise for a companion because I don’t even have the guts to go on my own.”

  “Perhaps a good psychiatrist…” began Charles.

  “Don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo.”

  “Oh, you should give it a try,” said Agatha crossly, because she was still smarting at not knowing the name of that wretched composer.

  “Worked for you, did it?” asked Cassandra.

  “Unlike you, sweetie, I’ve never had need of one,” snapped Agatha. “In fact…”

  “In fact,” interrupted Charles smoothly, “the other thing we wanted to ask you about was the murder of Bellington. Have you the slightest idea who might have done it?”

  “He annoyed so many people. The village was furious because he was putting the rents up. I don’t think his death has anything to do with Mrs. Bull. Such a nasty woman. Someone just broke. Mother liked dragging me up there when she was collecting for some charity or other. How she grovelled! In my opinion, the whole Bellington family is weird.”

  When they left Cassandra, Agatha felt depressed. “I don’t think we’re going to crack this case,” she said gloomily. “Too many suspects, and now I’ve taken on useless Jake. As soon as I can find some work other than detecting for that young man, the better.”

  “That should teach you not to let your mind be seduced by good looks,” said Charles.

  “Oh, really? Then why are the other men in my life not at all handsome?”

  “Bitch! Draw your claws in, Aggie.”

  And so they bickered amiably, not knowing Jake was going to make the first big break in the murders.

  * * *

  Jake had spent a pleasant enough day with Phil. But his work had mostly consisted of carrying Phil’s camera bag while Phil snapped off shots of an adulteress.

  Feeling restless at the end of the day, Jake took himself off to Carsely for a talk to Agatha, but finding her not at home, he went for a walk through the village instead.

  He found himself up the hill and outside the ugly red brick cottage where Peta had lived. There was a pretty brown haired girl weeding in the garden.

  Jake leaned over the hedge. “Do you usually weed by moonlight?” he asked.

  She straightened up. “It’s something to do. Do you want a coffee? I could do with one. I’m Peta’s sister, Alison. You live in the village, yes?”

  “No, I’m a detective.”

  Jake followed her inside. “Lot of cleaning?” he asked sympathetically.

  “Fingerprint dust. Drawers turned out and nothing put back. I was surprised she left me the lot in her will. She never could stand me.”

  Jake followed her into the kitchen. Alison was late thirties, he judged. Older than he had first thought. She had a pleasant face and a round chubby figure, the bottom half crammed into jeans. She switched on the kettle. “It’s instant, I’m afraid.”

  “Suits me,” said Jake. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Maybe. I hate driving at night, and the lawye
r gave me keys to a storage unit in Mircester. He should have given them to the police. Anyway, I’d like to have a look first.”

  “I’ll drive you,” said Jake. “Maybe we’ll find something in there which will help us find out who murdered her.”

  To Jake’s relief, George’s Storage ran a twenty-four-hour service. They were shown to storage unit 204 and left in a dark alley lined with other storage units. Alison unlocked the padlock, and Jake bent down and raised the door. He fumbled inside until he found an electric switch. Odd bits of furniture loomed up in the shadows cast by the weak light bulb overhead. Jake recognised some of it as being very good indeed. “What’s that?” said Alison nervously, pointing to something wrapped in a blanket in the middle of the floor.

  “Stand back,” said Jake. “I’ll look. It might be a body.”

  “Maybe we should call the police,” said Alison nervously. “We could be mucking up a crime scene.”

  “They won’t thank us if it turns out to be carpets.” Jake whipped away the blanket, and both stared in amazement.

  “What on earth is it?” whispered Alison.

  “I know. It’s a giant marrow. It’s Harry Perry’s giant marrow.”

  “Who’s Harry Perry?”

  “Some old boy from the allotments. I read it up in Agatha’s notes. The villagers were complaining that someone was stealing their vegetables. Look, over in that corner. There’s baskets of decomposing vegetables. Was your sister mad?”

  “No, just spiteful,” said Alison. “She always thought everyone in the whole wide world had it better than she had, and she would try to even the balance by stealing. Can’t we just shut this place up and pretend we don’t know? The thought of finding out which piece belongs to which person is too much.”

  “The police will do that,” said Jake. “Look, this must be awful for you. Do you want to wait back in the car? I’d better phone the boss.”

  “No, I’ll wait,” said Alison. “We weren’t close.”

  Agatha was getting ready for bed. Charles was staying the night. She had a sudden longing to invite him to join her, to hold her, to remind one middle-aged woman that there was still sexual life in her. “Don’t go in for casual sex,” nagged her conscience. “Why not?” she was just demanding when the phone rang. Agatha listened to Jake’s excited description of his find. “Stay there!” she ordered. “I’ll be with you as soon as possible.”