by M C Beaton
Damian arrived with the gardener, a surly Scotsman wearing a shiny blue suit. “I telt his lordship, missus,” said Fred. “There was a note on that wheelchair saying, ‘For charity.’ So I chapped at the door and Dinky answered it. I asked if we could take that dirty old chair because a note says it was for charity and like I said, charity begins at home.” Agatha waited impatiently until his fit of cackling at his own wit had subsided. “So the housekeeper, she said that it was probably meant for Oxfam or one of those, but it was getting late so just take the damn thing. So I did.”
“Do you still have that note?” asked Agatha.
“I did hae it but I chucked it on the fire.”
“Someone in this house didn’t want me to have that chair,” said Agatha.
“Either stay for the party or go home,” said Damian. “I do have guests, you know.”
“I’ll leave,” said Agatha. She turned one more time and looked back. A man in a chef’s hat was handing out plates of barbecued meat to the guests as they sat round the bonfire.
As Agatha looked, an especially large flame shot up, lighting up the faces of the guests, and there, almost on the other side of the bonfire and nearly out of sight, was Jenny Coulter and her latest beau. Agatha almost went in search of Damian, but decided to phone him the next day and ask him why he had invited his father’s ex-mistress.
She drove the van back to Mircester and paid for it, keeping the receipt to put on her expenses for Damian.
Agatha got into her own car and drove home. The lights were on in the living room, and Charles’s car was parked outside. She fought down a feeling of gladness.
Charles, as ever, was asleep on the sofa with the cats asleep beside him. He was awakened by Agatha pouring herself a large gin. “Getting to be an addict?” he asked.
Agatha swung round. “I am sick to death of moralisers. I think about giving up smoking, and some scientist tells me that I can’t eat bacon, fizzy drinks, cake, have a wood fire because of carbon monoxide and on it goes so I think, What the hell? Put it on my tombstone: ‘Here lies Agatha Raisin, late of this parish, nagged to death.’”
“Sorry. Pour me a whisky.”
“Your girlfriend has walked out on me.”
“I gather she has gone to London with Jake. Didn’t manipulate that one, did you?”
“If she’d really wanted to marry you, she’d still be around. Do you know, if you still want her, you can have her, because she’ll be back. Okay, she’s rich, and Jake only has money that his father allows. But I think he’s a butterfly. I think boredom sets in very quickly with that one after the first tide of enthusiasm has drawn back.”
“Talk about something else. My drink? Ta. Any breakthroughs?”
Agatha sat down and told him about the burnt wheelchair.
“Let’s see,” said Charles. “Let’s concentrate on the family and the ex-mistress. Maybe old Ma Bull was right, and Lady Bellington was down in the cellars with a syringe. Damian hires you to cover his tracks. Andrea thinks she’ll get money when her dad kicks the bucket, and finds out that Damian has the lot.”
Agatha sat slowly down beside him on the sofa. “She accused her brother of being the murderer. There’s something else.”
She pulled her iPad out of her capacious handbag, switched it on, and began to scroll through her notes. “Here’s something. She’s wildlife and animal mad. She wanted to open a sanctuary for donkeys, and Damian refused to give her the money. She looks like a changeling. Damian is languid and beautiful, the mother is elegant in a wasted way, and the unfortunate Andrea looks like a hairy troll.”
“Probably takes after father.”
“Forgot about that.” She stared at Charles, who reflected that when Agatha had one of her flashes of intuition, a gold light shone in her eyes. “Some of these animal libbers can be savage. I can’t see her loving the donkeys on her own. Say she teams up with one of the more feral animal libbers. I’ve always had a feeling there are two people in this.”
“So Damian could be next,” said Charles. “How did Farraday die?”
“Wait a moment.” Agatha phoned Patrick and asked him for news of Farraday’s death. When she rang off, she told Charles, “He says he’s just heard that Farraday was injected with Oblivon. I remember that drug. It turned up in my second murder case. It’s used by vets to tranquillise horses before an operation, but it’s instantly lethal to humans. So silly Nigel Farraday got himself killed because he wanted revenge on me.”
“Are you going to follow Andrea?”
“I’ve a feeling she would spot me whatever the disguise. I know, I’ll get Simon to check out some hunt saboteurs’ meetings. It’s that time of year.”
“Tell him to go into Mircester University and look at the notice boards. They used to offer students forty pounds plus a packed lunch and transport. Probably still do.”
“She might not be at one of those,” said Agatha. “But here are some photos of her that we got from glossy magazines. If she’s not there, we’ll try something else.”
Simon accepted the assignment eagerly. He had been feeling silly. He felt Toni despised him for chasing Alice. The fact that Alice was devoted to Bill Wong had finally cracked the shell of his obsession.
The next day, he went to the university, mingled with the students and studied the noticeboard. And right in the middle of one of them was a poster for Hunt the Hunt. His eyes flicked through all the bit about killing foxes being cruel and got to the bit where fifty pounds, a packed lunch and transport were offered to anyone caring to fight the good fight on on Saturday at Mirton Wold Manor where the hunt was to meet. Coach to leave the abbey car park at eight in the morning. To register phone 0333400691.
Simon left the college, sat in his car, and phoned the number. A girl answered, but it was not Andrea. She had a local accent and gave her name as Tanya. Simon gave his name as Simon Andrews and his job as a checker-out at a supermarket. She demanded his reason for wanting to go. Simon said that he needed the money and would like a day out. Also, he didn’t mind a bit of a punch up. She laughed and told him she would see him at the bus on Saturday.
Of course. Saturday is tomorrow, Simon realised.
In the morning, he climbed aboard the bus wearing a black sweater and trousers under a camouflage jacket. Tanya turned out to be a small chubby girl with red hair and freckles. She welcomed Simon with a grin and said, “Most of this lot are here for the money, but you’re the only honest one.”
Simon took a seat next to a pallid girl with a long white face and bitten nails. “Terrible about them foxes,” she said.
“I’m just here for the money,” said Simon.
When Simon was not in the grip of one of his obsessions, he was a good detective. He had guessed that most of the turnout would come for the money, and he didn’t want to engage in any violence.
But his new companion looked shocked. “That’s dreadful. I’ll tell Tanya.”
“She knows,” said Simon. “But she needs the numbers. I mean one of you must be filming.”
“Jerry does that. He’s got a car.”
She turned away in disgust and stared out of the window.
When they reached the manor, they stopped outside the gates. Tanya took a group photo of them all. There was a short drive so that they were able to see the hunt assembled on the lawn outside. They all climbed down from the bus. Simon shouldered his way to the gates, took out a camera and zoomed in on the hunters. He didn’t know if Charles hunted but didn’t want to risk being noticed. Suddenly, he thought he saw the small figure of Andrea riding a tall hunter. He retreated away from the others and covertly studied the pictures of Andrea he had brought with him. Just to be sure, he climbed up the wall and sat on top of it to get a better look.
She was wearing a pink coat. He had once wondered why scarlet hunting jackets were called ‘pink,’ had looked it up and found they were named after a tailor called Pink who had bought too much scarlet cloth for army uniforms and had been left with
a surplus and so had created the hunting coat.
Stirrup cups were being handed up to the riders. Andrea scowled and refused the drink.
“Get down off that wall,” shouted a voice below Simon.
Simon twisted around. A tall policeman, one of many, had just arrived.
Scrabbling down the wall and joining the others, Simon wished he’d worn a balaclava over his face like some of the others. He hoped none of the policemen would recognise him.
Two men swung the gates open. The hounds trotted out, the horsemen followed. And then the Master of the Hunt clasped his chest and said, “I’m sick. Get an ambulance.” Riders dismounted and helped him down. Then others of the hunt were dismounting and vomiting. Then Simon saw Bill Wong giving instructions. Bill saw Simon and scowled, but Simon held a finger to his lips and mimed he had to talk to him. So Bill got two policemen to drag Simon behind a police van and demanded, “Make it look good.”
“Andrea Bellington is from Harby Hall,” said Simon. “She’s into animal rights. She refused the stirrup cup which is why she’s about the only one not being sick. Get whatever bottles supplied the stirrup cup and get it analysed.”
“Right. Thanks, Simon. Now bugger off.” He said to the two policemen who had brought Simon, “Throw him back.”
Members of Hunt the Hunt looked on sympathetically as Simon was carried up to join them and thrown on the ground. They all began to shout about police brutality with the exception of Tanya, who was on her mobile phone saying, “Well, if the hunt is cancelled, they can have their lunch but no pay.”
Simon could hear the wail of approaching sirens. He managed to ease up to the gate and looked down the drive. Andrea was standing by her horse and speaking rapidly into a mobile phone.
Andrea rang off and looked in surprise as Bill Wong and two policemen approached her, and then all three went into the manor.
It was a long day for Simon. All the would-be saboteurs had to be interrogated and their names and fingerprints taken. Warned beforehand by Bill Wong, the policeman who interviewed Simon accepted his fake name and fake address without a murmur.
He decided to find out if any of them knew Andrea. He did not ask outright but wondered out loud whether Hunt the Hunt had someone on the inside. Some looked blank, others said they had seen a lot of children running around the grounds of the manor, and it was probably one of them who had decided to play a trick. Tanya shouted that they would drive on and look for another hunt. Simon’s bus companion, the pallid girl, volunteered that her name was Flossie. Simon realised that Flossie was one of the genuine protestors and asked her if Hunt the Hunt had a mole.
“You mean someone on the inside?” asked Flossie.
“Yes.”
“’Scuse me.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Simon, but standing up to let her past him for she had been sitting in the seat at the window.
“Going to have a piss. Okay?”
“Sure.”
It was then that Simon realised that the bus did not have a toilet, and Flossie was bent over Tanya, who was seated at the back of the bus, and speaking urgently. Then Tanya leaned across the aisle and whispered to two thuggish-looking men with shaven heads and face piercings.
This could get nasty, thought Simon. He started to make retching noises and called to the driver, “Stop the bus. I’m going to be sick.” The driver slammed on the brakes, and Simon hurtled off the bus and into nearby woods, running as hard as he could when he heard the sounds of pursuit. At last he rolled into a hollow, covered himself with piles of dead leaves, and waited anxiously. He heard the sound of many voices and realised the whole coachload had turned out to find him. Voices cried, “Kill the bastard.” Simon shivered, reflecting that although they were against cruelty to animals, there was nothing in their minds to stop them being cruel to people.
What possibly saved him was the fact that most of the coachload only wanted a paid day out. He heard them finally returning to the bus, complaining to Tanya that he was long gone. Soon he heard the bus move off and slowly sat up. A large dog fox regarded him solemnly before slinking away.
Agatha’s eyes gleamed when Simon reported his day. “That’s great news,” she said. “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”
“How can we pin it on Andrea?” asked Simon.
“Don’t you see? Farraday was killed by Oblivon. So if this emetic turns out to be something you give to animals, it means we can start looking for a vet. Patrick, see how quickly you can find out what was in the stirrup cup.”
“This isn’t CSI Miami,” grumbled Patrick. “Could take a week.”
“Well, see if she was the only one who refused the stirrup cup.”
“I doubt it. I think half the world’s been in rehab.”
“Oh, Patrick,” exclaimed Agatha. “Just do it.”
By the following day, Patrick had found out that three other members of the hunt had refused the stirrup cup. One because it was port and said the stuff served was filth and the other two, recovering alcoholics. Andrea said she didn’t drink cheap booze and that’s what the folk at the manor always served.
“I want you, Patrick and Phil, to follow Andrea. Could you wear different footwear, Patrick? These black shoes and socks mark you out as a copper. See if she knows a vet. Of course, if she has a horse, it stands to reason she knows a vet.”
After her two detectives had gone off, Agatha was just about to go out on a case that Patrick had been working on when the door of the office opened and Damian strolled in.
“What’s happened?” asked Agatha.
He took a chair on the other side of her desk. He’s going to turn it round and lean his arms on the back, thought Agatha, and that is what Damian did.
“I’ve come to pay my bill,” he said.
“But we’re still working on it,” protested Agatha.
“I don’t want to be rude, dear lady, but I have come to the conclusion that you’re a waste of space. Give me my bill.”
“Are we getting too close to home?” asked Agatha.
“Just shut up, and I’ll pay up.”
Agatha was suddenly glad that the elderly temp was at her desk in the corner. Mrs. Freedman was still poorly, and Agatha had phoned the agency and demanded the oldest secretary they had on their books. She was called Harriet Teller, grey-haired, thick glasses, tweedily dressed.
“Harriet,” said Agatha, “add up the expenses so far and give Lord Bellington the bill.”
“Certainly,” said Harriet. “It will only take a few minutes.”
Agatha studied Damian. Despite the effeminacy of his face, there was something masculine about his deep voice and strong body.
“Stop staring,” said Damian languidly. “It’s rude.”
“I’m wondering why you want me to stop investigating,” said Agatha.
“Because you are useless. Will that do?”
“No, it won’t. I have a good success rate. Did you hire me because you thought I was useless?”
“This is boring. Give me the damned bill.”
Harriet brought it over. He glanced at it, drew out a chequebook and signed it. He stood up and said, “Don’t come near the hall or any of my family.”
“What did you make of him, Harriet?” asked Agatha.
“Anxious and frightened,” said Harriet.
“Now, that’s sharp of you. I think it has something to do with his sister.”
“This is hopeless,” said Phil. “Here we are in Harby and highly conspicuous. We can’t lurk outside the hall or the lodge keeper will report us. There isn’t a pub in this village.”
* * *
“Let’s find out the nearest one,” said Patrick. “There must be somewhere for the locals. I’ll ask that old codger over there.” He got out of the car and came back to say, “The Prince of Wales is down that road to the left.”
“Another village?”
“No, one of those places stuck out in the countryside.”
They found the pub
and noticed there were quite a few vehicles in the car park. “We can hardly go in there and start questioning people,” said Phil.
“We can listen to gossip. I mean, it’s been all over the newspapers. We can say we read about it. Also, we can ask about a vet. We’ll find someone chatty.”
“What shall we say we do?” asked Phil.
“We could say we’re travelling salesmen,” said Patrick.
Phil said, “Won’t do. I’d then have to think what I was selling and why I was in this neck of the woods. Just say we’re pals and retired.”
They reached the pub and collected their drinks. Two people had just vacated an old-fashioned settle by the fire. They sat down and looked hopefully at two old men in the settle facing them.
Phil said, “Is there a vet near here?”
Two old faces stared at him without blinking. Phil wondered if they were brothers. Both were wearing woollen caps, both had grey stubble and weak blue watery eyes.
What it is to be a detective, thought Patrick. Instead of saying, Get stuffed, I have to say, “I see your glasses are empty. Like a drink?”
“Oh, ar, very kind of you, I’m sure,” said one. “That’ll be two pints.”
While Patrick went to get the drinks, one of the men said, “I’m Cedric and this ’ere is brother, Tom. You was asking about a vet? Well, thank ee kindly,” as Patrick put two pints of beer on the table in front of them. “That ud be young Henry Jessop over at Orlington Sudbury. Got trouble?”
“My cat, Daisy, is poorly,” said Phil. “Got her in the car.”
“If you go out and drive to the left, you’ll come to a crossroads and you’ll see the sign to Orlington Sudbury. The vet’s is on the village green,” said Tom.
“Want another pint?” asked Phil.
“Surely. Very kind.”
Phil went to the bar this time. He and Patrick were sticking to soft drinks.
“Over our way,” said Patrick, “there’s was a vet once who was a terror with the ladies.”
