Pushing Up Daisies

by M C Beaton

  * * *

  Agatha blinked in the shadowy light of the storage unit. “She must have been some sort of kleptomaniac. Sorry, Alison.”

  Alison shrugged. “We weren’t close. She punished people by taking something of theirs if they irritated her.”

  “I found this portrait,” said Jake. He disappeared into the shadows and came back carrying an oil painting. It was a portrait of Nigel Farraday when he was younger.

  “That’s her ex,” said Agatha. “Before I call the police, I want papers, a diary, something like that.”

  “Great detective finds secret diary in hidden drawer in antique desk,” mocked Charles.

  “Don’t sneer. Let’s all take a good look. No dead bodies here. So it’s not a crime scene.”

  “It is, you know,” said Charles.

  They all stared at him. “What? Where?” demanded Agatha.

  Charles pointed to the giant marrow. “You don’t understand gardeners. To old Harry, that would be like pinching his child and leaving it to die.”

  “But if he didn’t know where it was and didn’t know she took it, there would be no reason to murder her.”

  “Unless she demanded money,” said Alison in a sad little voice. “One of her favourite sayings was, ‘I make people pay.’ She liked power.”

  “So there might be letters or something somewhere here,” said Agatha. “The police didn’t find anything incriminating in her cottage, did they?”

  Alison shook her head.

  “If there’s anything, it’s probably in that briefcase by the door,” said Jake.

  They all swung round and followed his pointing finger. A black leather briefcase was placed behind a rocking chair next to the door.

  “Shouldn’t we leave it to the police?” said Alison.

  “Just a peek,” said Agatha.

  Alison’s normally pleasant features suddenly settled into a mulish look. “No,” she said firmly, “I don’t want you poking around anymore. I will tell the police. She was, after all, my sister, and all that’s left of our family.”

  “But, my dear girl,” wailed Agatha, “in that briefcase there may be proof of who it was murdered Peta.”

  “I don’t care,” shouted Alison. “I want you all to leave. Now!”

  “If that’s the way you want it,” said Jake. “I’ll just switch off the light and help you to lock up.” The storage unit was suddenly plunged into darkness.

  “Put the light on now!” yelled Alison. “You’re all leaving. I’m not. I’ll phone the police now.”

  After some groping and fumbling in the dark, Jake found the light switch. When they got to the car park, Agatha said, “I’m phoning the police now before she destroys anything. I wonder what was in that case.”

  “Some sort of book,” said Jake, producing it from under his jumper.

  “Jake! If there is anything in there that leads us to the murderer, we can’t use it. We should have left it for the police.”

  “Phil left me a camera to practice photographing documents,” said Jake eagerly. “I’ll sit in my car and bash off as many pics as I can, and then I’ll sneak it back.”

  “Oh, go on,” said Agatha. “But be quick. And here’s a pair of gloves. Put them on.”

  Agatha fretted and tried not to chew her nails as Jake, in his car with the overhead light on, was busy clicking away. Then she heard the wail of a siren.

  “That’s it!” she shouted to Jake. “Get that book back.”

  Jake sprinted along to the storage unit. “Police on the way,” he called. Alison was ferreting around in the shadowy depths of the unit.

  Jake looked around and then threw the ledger over into a corner. It fell with a clatter. “What was that?” called Alison.

  “Tripped on something on the floor,” said Jake cheerfully. “I’ll hang around and give you a lift home.”

  “No, I think I’ll ask the police to take me back. I don’t like the idea of private detectives snooping around. Something nasty and seedy about it.”

  When the police arrived, Jake made a brief statement. Then he followed Agatha and Charles to her cottage, where he put the pictures he had snapped into Agatha’s computer.

  “Is it a diary?” asked Agatha eagerly.

  “No, it’s nothing but a list of MPs expenses. Probably Farraday.”

  “Yes, he was involved in the expenses scandal,” said Charles. “Look at the date. Years old. Must be right back to when she was married to him. Nothing of use.”

  Jake looked guilty. “There was a letter came with it. Loose. Not part of the ledger. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “Oh, let’s see it,” said Agatha wearily. “Probably a grocery list.”

  “It’s a bit of a letter,” said Charles. He read aloud: “Peter’s boy, Wayne, he saw you take my marrow, you bitch, and I am coming for you. Get it back here, or it will be the worst for you. I done been to the police, but they don’t do nothing so I am taking the law into my own hands.”

  “Must be Harry Perry,” said Agatha.

  “Better show this to the police,” said Charles.

  “No,” said Agatha. “I want to show Wilkes and Gerald that I am better than they are. I am going to get a confession out of Harry and take it to them.”

  “Great idea,” cried Jake. He put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Agatha, you are not even being paid to find out who killed Peta,” snapped Charles. “It’s vanity. You will put yourself at risk and get a spade in the back of your stupid neck. I’m going home.”

  “Ouch!” said Jake. “That was a bit nasty.”

  “He’s not usually like that,” said Agatha. “So let’s go and wake the old boy up. I’ll take a tape recorder.”

  As Agatha drove to the council estate at the edge of the village where Harry lived, she fretted about Charles. She had felt somehow bereft when he had left in such an angry mood. She began to wish she had decided to leave any confrontation with Harry until the morning, but Jake was all excited, his handsome face alight, his blue eyes gleaming.

  “Is he married?” asked Jake.

  “I don’t think so. I think there’s something about his wife being dead in one of the notes on the case.”

  “Here we are,” said Agatha. “The lights are on downstairs, and I can hear the television. What’s the time? One in the morning. Bit late to go calling.”

  “No, we must do this,” cried Jake. “You don’t want the police to get there first.”

  “But we don’t know he murdered her,” fretted Agatha.

  “Want the police to find out tomorrow?”

  “No. Okay. Let’s go.”

  Harry Perry answered the door. He was fully dressed but with three days’ worth of unshaven beard, and he smelled strongly of spirits.

  “We’ve found your marrow,” said Agatha.

  Harry looked at her in a dazed way. “You’ve found my Bertha?”

  “Bertha?”

  “Thas what I done call ’er. Bertha the Beautiful. I must go to her.”

  “The police have your marrow. May we come in?”

  “Yes, come along. Oh, Bertha. Best ever.”

  They followed him into a neat, bright little parlour. Harry switched off the television.

  Agatha switched on a powerful little tape recorder.

  She was about to begin a slow interrogation when Jake said cheerfully, “Must have driven you mad, her pinching that marrow. Did you bash her on the head?”

  “She jeered at me. She said she was going to give my Bertha to be cut up in a Chink restaurant. Her was standing there, laughing. ’Twas late at the allotments, and we was the only ones there. I took my spade and hit her on the head I was that angry. Didn’t mean to kill her, but she was dead so I buried her.”

  Agatha said quietly. “The police will be coming for you, Harry.”

  He heaved a great sigh. “Well, now, it’ll be a relief. I’ve always been a God-fearing m
an and never done no wrong to nobody. But, oh, what she done to Bertha was cruel.”

  “Bertha is in a storage unit,” said Agatha. “Your marrow was not cut up. Would you like to come with us now? I think the police will still be at the storage unit, and you can see your marrow.”

  At the storage unit, Wilkes swung round in a fury as Harry rushed in and knelt down beside his marrow.

  “What the hell are you doing here with that man?” shouted Wilkes.

  “He wants to say goodbye to his marrow before he tells you how he murdered Peta Currie. I have his confession on tape,” said Agatha. She felt it should be her moment of glory, but somehow Charles’s angry face kept rising up in her mind.

  It was a long night of interviews. At last, Jake and Agatha were free to leave. At Agatha’s cottage, Jake said, “Mind if I stay? I’m exhausted.”

  “Charles has gone, so you can have the spare room.”

  Agatha petted her cats and went wearily up to bed as an angry red dawn was shining in the windows. She showered and climbed into bed—and found Jake already there.

  “Lost your way?” demanded Agatha.

  He gathered her in his arms and began to kiss her with single-minded intensity, and Agatha went down under him in a red sea of passion.

  * * *

  Toni said to Simon as they met in the office in the morning, “I got a text from Agatha. It seems she and Jake discovered Harry Perry to be the murderer of Peta. I wonder if she’ll come in today.”

  “Probably our young friend has got his leg over by now.”

  “You have to be joking. She’s old enough to be his mother.”

  “Yes, but he fancies her rotten. Saw it coming a mile off.”

  “I won’t believe it,” said Toni.

  Agatha awoke the next morning with an anxious feeling that she had done something she really shouldn’t have done. Memory came flooding back. Jake! There was no one in the bed next to her.

  How could she have been so stupid? Oh God. Had Charles seen it coming? Agatha crawled out of bed and showered and dressed before going downstairs. Doris Simpson handed her a cup of coffee. “That young fellow said he would see you in the office.”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Agatha. “Forgot something.”

  She sprinted up the stairs to her bedroom and stripped the sheets off the bed, ran back downstairs and stuffed them in the washing machine.

  “I would have done that,” said Doris.

  “It’s all right,” said Agatha, switching on the washing machine.

  “You forgot the soap powder,” said Doris.

  “Sod the soap powder,” yelled Agatha. Immediately she followed it up with, “I’m sorry, Doris. Have just made a big mistake.”

  “Sit down, Agatha, love,” said Doris. “He’s a gorgeous-looking young man.”

  “It’s not that,” wailed Agatha. “He’s on my staff. I can’t bear the thought of having an affair with someone that people will mistake for my son. I can’t bear the thought of all the maintenance and fear of wrinkles.”

  “Well, you have a talk to him. But he must have really wanted you. I mean a chap like that could get any girl he wanted.”

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Doris. She came back after a few moments. “It’s the press.”

  Agatha sighed and got to her feet. “I’d better give them a statement. I’ve an agency to run, and it pays to advertise.”

  There was a great deal of press interest. A murder in a village was not great news. A murder over a giant marrow called Bertha, on the other hand, warranted the front page.

  Agatha forced herself to mention Jake, but she was dreading seeing him again.

  All the way into the office, she rehearsed speeches. But it was with a feeling of relief that she found the office empty apart from Mrs. Freedman, the secretary.

  “All out of jobs?” she asked.

  “Yes. Simon’s looking for a lost teenager, Phil and Patrick both have divorce cases and Toni’s taken young Jake off on a supermarket theft. Pleased as anything today is Jake. Thinks he fancies Toni. They make a handsome couple. I look at them and wish I were young again. Don’t you feel that, Agatha?”

  “No, I feel like work,” said Agatha. “Tell everyone I’ve gone back to Harby. Now that Peta’s murder is out of the way, I can concentrate of what we’re being paid for.”

  It was a sunny day. The countryside had turned into a sort of jewel box as the autumn leaves blazed in ruby, gold, silver and purple beside the road. But blind to all the beauty was Agatha Raisin. It wasn’t the inner child she suffered from, she thought gloomily. It was that nagging inner governess. “How could you have been so stupid as to go to bed with that young man? Grow up. Act your age.” She felt as if she had overindulged in chocolate or booze. She hoped Charles never found out. Then she gave herself a mental shake. Charles was a friend, that was all. But she seemed to see his accusing face in her inner mind. She wrenched her mind away from Jake. What had happened to Gerald Devere? She hadn’t seen him around. The case should now be less complicated with Peta’s murder being solved, but it could still have something to do with one of the allotment holders, furious that Bellington had meant to build houses on their land. That business with the diamonds in the furniture had nothing to do with Bellington. But it had landed her with Jake. Agatha winced.

  As she turned into the drive at Harby Hall and waved to the lodge keeper, she realised that she did not have any reason to call. She parked in front of the main entrance, switched off the engine and rested her hands on the wheel. Agatha had not seen her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, for some time. She suddenly hoped that Mrs. Bloxby had got over her infatuation for Gerald. And thinking of infatuation, she thought grimly, I’d better let young Jake down gently.

  Jake and Toni had enjoyed a successful morning at a large supermarket. They had been blaming loss of profits on shoplifters, but Toni and Jake, while pretending to be shelf stackers, had found that five members of the staff were blatantly stealing goods and using one of the supermarket’s vans to cart the stuff away. Most of the stolen stuff was electrical: microwaves, vacuums, television sets and so on. Toni and Jake had filmed the thieves, Jake being amazed that the thieving was so blatant. The management called the police, the culprits were arrested and Toni and Jake left with praise ringing in their ears.

  “I think this calls for a drink,” said Jake.

  Toni smiled. “Just this once.”

  They went into the nearest pub. Toni ordered a vodka and tonic and Jake had a half of lager. “I love this detective business,” said Jake happily, “and I love you, Toni.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Jake looked dreamily at the blond beauty that was Toni. He had practically forgotten his night with Agatha. That was just one of those things.

  “Why don’t we go clubbing this evening?”

  “Because I’ve got a date,” said Toni.

  “Who with? Simon?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  * * *

  Agatha got out of the car. All she could do was tell them about Peta’s murderer, study faces, try to pick up vibes and push and prod until something gave way. Andrea answered the door, scowling horribly. “In my opinion, you’re a waste of space,” said Andrea by way of a greeting. She turned and hurried off. Agatha shrugged and began to walk along the passage. There was a mirror at the end of it showing her reflection. She had recently lost weight, and her figure in a dark blue cashmere trouser suit was trim. Sun shining in from a high window shone down on her glossy hair. “Not bad,” she said. “Not bad at all.”

  “What’s not bad?” drawled a light voice behind her, making her jump.

  Agatha swung round. “Oh, Damian, I was just thinking that with Peta’s murder solved, it should surely make things less complicated.”

  “Let’s talk.” He pushed open the door of one of the hall’s many rooms. This one was full of old hunting boots, crops and a couple of saddles and a child’s rocking horse. “I should really get the
decorators in,” said Damian, “and throw out half the stuff. I don’t hunt, so what’s the point of keeping all this rubbish?”

  “Get a good antique dealer in to evaluate things before you throw anything away,” said Agatha. “That rocking horse is surely worth a lot.”

  “Good advice. Find a seat. Talking of money, are you getting anywhere or am I wasting my poundses on the desert air?”

  “No, I’m getting a good idea of what happened,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to tell you right now because I may be wrong, and you might unwittingly alert the guilty person.”

  “Do you want me to prepare the library?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you know. You call us all together and lean on the mantle and go through us, accusing us one after the other until you point and say, ‘But it was YOU!’”

  Agatha gave a reluctant laugh. “I would like to ask you about Mary Feathers. Allotments seem to bring out the beast in people.”

  “Our village siren. I think she’s a lesbian.”

  “Meaning you tried and couldn’t get anywhere.”

  “No. From time to time, Mary has the odd waif living with her. Sometimes they are seen hand in hand, which offends the delicate sensibilities of the villagers.”

  “I might have a word with her,” said Agatha.

  “You do that and hurry up. I am not a bottomless pit of money.”

  As Agatha stood outside Mary’s cottage, she wondered if Charles had called on the woman for a date. What if Charles ever found out she had been to bed with Jake? Agatha shrugged. It was none of his business. He had made no commitment to her. On the rare occasions he had visited her bed, he had not uttered one word of love. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she blinked them away to find the door had quietly opened and Mary was surveying her.

  “You could do with a strong cup of tea,” said Mary. “Come in and sit by the fire.”

  Weakly, Agatha followed her in. A bright fire was burning on the hearth, and the room smelled of apples and cinnamon. “Sit down, and I’ll fetch tea.”