Pushing Up Daisies

by M C Beaton

  “She did it all,” shouted Henry.

  “Oh, yeah? So who gave her the Oblivon?”

  Silence.

  Then Agatha’s leg gave a twinge of cramp. She tried to stand up, staggered and clutched the wall. But her foot dislodged a pebble, which seemed to take an extraordinarily, large noise for such a small piece.

  “Someone’s out there!” shouted Damian. Agatha and Phil took to their heels and ran.

  Then Phil, with surprising strength for an elderly man, suddenly pushed Agatha into some shrubbery and fell on top of her. “We’ll never outrun them,” he said. “Lie still.”

  “Okay,” muttered Agatha. “But get off me. If we ever get out of here, we’d better go to the police. Wilkes will rave. Tape recordings are not admissible in court. We’ll need to hope like hell that Damian didn’t destroy the evidence.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Phil. “I feel Henry will crack. Shhh! They’re quite near.”

  Damian was giving orders to someone. “Get down to the village and get Tolly’s dogs. They’ll soon sniff the snooper out.”

  Agatha crouched, shivering with fear as the voices faded away. “I’m not waiting to be mauled by some Hound of the Baskervilles. Let’s get to the main drive and see if Patrick can call the police.”

  Patrick replied that the lodge gate was open, and that if they could make it to the main drive, he could race in and get them. “Police should be here soon,” he said. “They were all over the place before I rushed up here, trying to find out what happened to Gerald.”

  But Patrick had to wait until several cars from the village roared up the drive. He drove in behind them, assuming they would think he had come from the village to help in the hunt as well.

  Agatha and Phil were creeping in what they hoped was the direction of the main drive, because the night had become very black, when the heavens opened and the rain poured down stabbing torrents of icy rain.

  They crouched beside the main drive. Cars roared past them. “How will we recognise Patrick’s car?” asked Agatha. “Can’t see anything but headlights in this pouring rain. This is mediaeval. I think the bastard’s roused the whole village to hunt us down.”

  At last, they saw a flicking of headlights. “Let’s risk it!” said Agatha, and jumped out into the middle of the road. At first, she thought she’d made a terrible mistake as the car accelerated towards her, and she threw herself into a bush at the side of the road. But the car stopped and Patrick’s voice said urgently, “Get in.”

  Soaking wet, they dived into Patrick’s car. He did a U-turn and raced off. They saw the white face of the lodge keeper as they roared past. “That’s torn it,” said Patrick. “They’ll all be in pursuit.”

  “For God’s sake, man, put your foot down,” yelled Agatha. But Patrick continued at a sedate pace and swung down a farm track and finally parked near some trees.

  “There!” he said. “I always wonder in movies why, when the villain is chasing the hero, he doesn’t just get off the road. I’m sorry I can’t put the heater on, Agatha, but we don’t want to attract attention.”

  “All right,” said Agatha. “Now, as you are the one with the tape, Phil, you have the honour of phoning Mircester headquarters. I don’t think I could bear to hear Wilkes.”

  “There are police in the village because of what happened to Gerald. That’s a start,” said Patrick.

  Phil phoned and went through the whole business of being put through several people until he got to Inspector Wilkes. He was told they were all to stay exactly where they were.

  Agatha shivered. A dramatic ending, but not that dramatic. For once, there was no Charles to ride to the rescue.

  The wail of sirens sounded from the road. “That’ll be the lot from the village. Good,” said Patrick. “We’ll go to the pub and get you dried out.”

  “It’s just after eleven,” said Agatha, squinting at the luminous dial of her watch. “They’ll be closed.”

  “They’ll be open for the police. I think it’s safe to go now.”

  The landlord said they were welcome to come in. The police had left a short time ago, but he would make up the fire and get them some drinks. Phil phoned to leave a message as to where they could be found.

  But just as they were getting warm and dry, there was a call from Wilkes summoning them to the hall and telling them to make sure they had the tape.

  They were ushered into the drawing room at the hall, where they found Andrea, Damian and their mother, all looking relaxed and amused. There was no sign of Henry.

  “Play the tape,” ordered Wilkes.

  To Agatha’s amazement, the Bellingtons simply looked amused. When the recording was finished, Damian said languidly, “Aren’t we convincing? We knew Agatha was outside the window, snooping, so we all decided to give her something worth snooping for. You should see your faces!”

  “But you called for help finding us. You called for dogs!” shouted Agatha.

  “I’d fired you, sweetie, and I planned to give you the fright of your life. I hope I did.”

  “Where’s Henry?”

  “Goner home, I suppose,” said Damian. “Dear me, inspector, you are quite red in the face.”

  “I am taking you all in for questioning,” said Wilkes. “All of you!” He turned to his men. “Wong, get two to help you, and bring that vet in to headquarters. You are all to be questioned, and that includes you, Ms. Agatha Raisin!”

  Epilogue

  The black clouds were rolling away to the east, and an angry red sun was gilding the old jumbled roofs of Mircester when Agatha was finally released from police headquarters. She had driven her own car up from Orlington Sudbury.

  She still could not believe it. Wilkes was sure Damian was telling the truth. But where was Henry? Surely the fact that no one had found him pointed to guilt?

  Agatha saw the tired figure of Bill Wong emerging and went to join him. “It’s a no go,” he said. “Damian has even got those villagers who turned up to hunt you down to say it was all a joke. But there’s one consolation for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’ve put out an all points bulletin for Henry. He would be the weak link if he didn’t actually murder anyone himself.”

  “If they’ve left him alive,” said Agatha gloomily. “I’ve an awful feeling we’ll never find him now.”

  Agatha drove slowly home, very tired, and chilled to the bone. Even with the car heater blasting, the chill seemed as if it were lodged inside her forever.

  When she arrived outside her cottage and let herself in, she petted her cats and chased them out into the garden before climbing the stairs to look into the spare room. She had hoped perhaps that Charles might be there, but the room was empty.

  She had a hot shower and then went to bed, finding herself thinking of Jake and wondering whatever had happened to him.

  * * *

  Jake was feeling trapped. His delight at being back in London had waned because Olivia’s father had researched the Lisle family and found Jake’s father to be not only respectable but very rich. So he had phoned Mr. Lisle to meet at his club, and it was decided that Jake should study for the stockbroking exams.

  The fact that Jake had not even proposed marriage to Olivia was ignored. Olivia said they were close, that they were in love, and that was enough for both fathers. Jake passionately did not want to be a stockbroker, but his father was giving him a generous allowance, and he knew that allowance would be cut off if he said he didn’t want to study for the exams.

  Also, Olivia liked expensive restaurants. And she expected him to pay half of the rent. He had assumed the flat in Pont Street would be owned by her. Bed was a disappointment. She was surprisingly bony and went so stiff during lovemaking that he felt as if he were romancing a plank.

  Sometimes, he thought of Agatha, all curves, passion and French perfume, and wished he had never left the agency. How to escape?

  One blessed quiet evening, while Olivia had gone off to a hen party
, he put up his feet and turned on the television. Crime Watch was showing, and Jake noticed they were still hunting for that vet. Still, his detective days were over, so he switched over to a travelogue on Madeira. As the cold wind howled down Pont Street outside, Jake gazed at scenes of sunshine and wished he were there. I just haven’t enough money to escape, he thought. If I were a villain, I could simply go out and mug someone. Then he remembered that he still had the keys to the carpentry shop, and in the office was a safe where Mr. Bonlieu kept a stack of money, perhaps to pay people off the books. Jake had noticed the money one day when Bonlieu had left the safe open while he berated Jake for laziness. But they would have changed the locks after the murder, wouldn’t they? Jake suddenly decided to try.

  The last time he had gone in by the back door, it had not been burglar alarmed. He was smiling to find his key still worked when a burglar alarm went off over his head. He hurriedly typed in 1066 in the alarm box, and the shrill noise stopped. It was the same code for the burglar alarm at the front of the shop. Didn’t they realise, wondered Jake, that 1066 must be one of the most common security codes in the British Isles? Most school history was forgotten except for the date of the Battle of Hastings.

  He made his way through to the office, remembering it was never locked. Now to find the code for the safe. He searched the desk and then remembered he had forgotten to keep his gloves on. The hell with it. He went on searching. Then he wondered, it couldn’t possibly be the Battle of Hastings again. He twisted the dial—1066—and grinned as he swung the door open. There were two neat stacks of twenty pounds notes. He took one stack. After closing the safe, he decided not to trouble wiping off his fingerprints. Bonlieu couldn’t report the theft to the police in case PC Plod asked if he had declared it on his income tax.

  Now, one more night with Olivia!

  Jake called in at a travel agent early the following morning and booked a flight to Funchal in Madeira and a room at the famous Reid’s palace hotel.

  Now, Jake’s father had often grumbled that his son was a waste of a first-class brain. As he approached the check-in desk and queued up behind a bearded young man, Jake suddenly felt a frisson of recognition as the young man turned and looked nervously behind him. It was the face he’d seen on crime watch.

  Jake did not even pause to think. Throwing his arms around the man and holding him in a tight grip, he shouted, “Henry Jessop! I am making a citizen’s arrest!”

  The vet struggled free, tried to run but was brought down by a rugby tackle from Jake. Airport security came running.

  Agatha watched the morning news on television as she drank her coffee and stiffened in amazement as Jake’s handsome face appeared on the screen. He was a hero! He had arrested a man the police were looking for at Heathrow Airport. The report went on to say that Mr. Jake Lisle had been on his way to take a flight to Madeira. What on earth could he be doing going to Madeira, wondered Agatha. And then with one of her flashes of intuition, she realised that Jake was probably running away from Crime Watch.

  The police would sweat Henry, and Henry would confess to his involvement. But could Andrea really have killed her own father?

  A day later, before she went to the office, she marched into police headquarters and demanded to speak to Bill Wong, only to be told it was his day off. Right, thought Agatha. He no longer lives with his parents. I’ll go and see him now.

  Bill answered the door, looking sleepy and still wearing his pyjamas. “Come in, Agatha,” he said, “but don’t ask me about the case. You know I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

  Agatha plumped herself down on a sofa in Bill’s small living room and glared at him. “You lot wouldn’t have a case if it hadn’t been for me. One thing. Did Henry talk?”

  “Okay. But I never told you anything,” sighed Bill, slumping down on the sofa next to Agatha. “Yes, Henry told the story. Reading between the lines, it seems as if Henry did not enjoy being a vet. He dated Andrea, and she talked about her dream of a donkey sanctuary somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. They would have a cottage. They would live a blissful Arcadian existence with the dear donkeys. Andrea had become obsessed with the dream. Father wouldn’t pay up, so Father had to go. She was shattered when the will was read and she found that apart from an allowance, Damian got the lot. But Mrs. Bull had overheard her talking to Henry about the murder and had tried to blackmail Andrea, and so Mrs. Bull had to go. Henry was challenged with the fact that Andrea alone could not have put those slabs on top of the well or have chucked the old housekeeper down it without assistance, but Henry insisted she did it alone.

  “Farraday had to go, too, because Andrea believed he must know something, or why else would his wife say so at the fair? The only thing that does seem the truth is that Henry really did not like being a vet and, odd in his profession, had an anthropomorphic view of animals and had been hospitalised a view years back for attempted suicide and diagnosed as suffering from acute depression. Wilkes is going to have a go at Andrea later today. I think when she hears just how much he’s landing her in it, she might tell us the truth about his involvement.”

  But later that day, Patrick told Agatha he had just heard the news that Andrea had hanged herself in her cell. “If Henry had not been found, she could have got away with it,” said Agatha. “Yes, we got that tape, but it’s not admissible in court. A good barrister could probably have got her off. I suppose they didn’t find anything in that room above the stables?”

  “Not a thing. Damian has been charged with obstructing the police in their enquiries, harbouring a murderer and I forget what else,” said Patrick. “But I’m sure a good lawyer will give him a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  A week later, Agatha called at the vicarage. “I was about to call on you,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I haven’t seen you in ages. You missed Gerald Devere’s farewell party.”

  “I missed it because I wasn’t invited and no one thought to tell me,” said Agatha crossly.

  “Now, that was very wrong of him. He invited the whole village. It was held in the church hall last week.”

  “So where has he gone?”

  “Back to London.”

  “Glad to see it hasn’t affected your new appearance,” said Agatha, for the vicar’s wife still had her hair tinted and was wearing a cheery red cashmere sweater.

  “It all seems like a fevered dream,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “How is Lord Charles?”

  “Hasn’t been near me. I think he sussed out I’d been to bed with Jake, and that is one one-night stand he is never ever going to forgive me for, and I don’t know why.”

  “Perhaps he is beginning to care more for you than when you were just friends,” suggested Mrs. Bloxby.

  “I’m fed up all round,” fretted Agatha. “No dramatic solving of the case. All just fizzled out, and any credit goes to Jake and the police. Do you know what the great detective has been doing today? Looking for a missing cat called Tiddles. Went round to the house. Looked up and there is the moggy on the roof.”

  “So you told the happy owner?”

  “Well, no. I waited until the beast had climbed back down to the garden, nipped in, shoved it in a cat box and rang the bell. I’m sick of the type of animal lovers who think that animals are better than people any day because they want unconditional love without having to do much to earn it.”

  But as Agatha petted her cats when she got home, she said to them, “You don’t give me unconditional love, do you? Your love is conditioned by the food I put in your furry mouths.”

  “So cynical.” Charles’s head rose above the sofa back, and he rubbed his eyes. “I was fast asleep.”

  Agatha experienced a spurt of sheer gladness. “Anything in particular bring you here?”

  “Yes, come and sit down and I’ll tell you. Get me a drink first. Whisky and soda.”

  When Agatha handed him the drink, he took a sip and said, “How would you like to come on holiday with me to Madeira?”

  “Yes, I think so. Why Madeira?�
�

  “That’s where Jake was going, and it put the idea in my head.”

  “When?”

  “Next week?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, what am I talking about? Of course I can get away.”

  “It’s next Monday. Just for a week. The seven-twenty in the morning flight to Funchal. I’ll meet you at Gatwick. Don’t be late. I’m off home.”

  After he had left, Agatha experienced a warm glow. Not only was Charles back in her life, he was actually paying for a holiday for her.

  To her amazement, she found they were flying business class. Charles was seated at the window, Agatha in the middle and a small child at the aisle with the child’s parents in two seats opposite. “I tried to get us the two seats,” muttered Charles, “but they were all booked up. You’d think the parents would want to sit with their brat.”

  During the flight, the child’s parents passed over an iPad and said, “Watch The Ruggies.”

  Agatha remembered that The Ruggies was a children’s television show about animated rugs. She was finding the squeaky voices of the animated rugs highly irritating when she suddenly heard a familiar voice saying, “Now then, bad ruggies. You mustn’t quarrel.” Agatha peered at the screen and saw Jake’s face.

  “I’ve just seen Jake,” Agatha said to Charles. “He’s on television.”

  “I read about that,” said Charles. “He was headhunted by an agent after that arrest he made and got the job on children’s TV.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I don’t want to talk about that piece of garbage. Right?”

  Charles sounded unusually vehement, and Agatha began to feel sad. Charles must have been really keen on Olivia to resent Jake so much.

  But when they arrived in mild warm sunshine, and she found they were to stay at the famous Reid’s hotel, Agatha’s spirits soared. They were given two rooms with a connecting door, and each had a sunny balcony overlooking the sea.