by M C Beaton
A hurried and frantic search of all the debris below that window at last revealed the little envelope blown up against a wire fence.
This Simon was also able to tell Agatha because he was in constant touch with Ruby, although, so far, he had not persuaded her to come out on a date with him.
The leaf was at last identified as coming from monkshood, a deadly killer of a plant. It was once used to kill wolves and mad dogs and was then called wolfsbane. All parts of the plant are poisonous and it doesn’t even need to be taken by mouth; the poison can be absorbed through the skin. It looks like a delphinium and the most common colour is purple.
“So are they going to exhume Herythe’s body?” asked Agatha one morning as he staff were gathered in the office.
“No point,” said Patrick. “It’s the perfect killer and the poison doesn’t stay in the body. But the police are regarding it as murder and Charles has been pulled in for questioning.”
“Why Charles, of all people?”
“Someone tipped off the police that he was heard threatening to kill Herythe in the bar of the George.”
“I’d better get round there and see if there’s anything I can do,” said Agatha.
She was about to leave when there came a tentative knock on the door. Agatha opened it and found herself faced with a small boy carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Are you Mrs. Raisin?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“These are for you.”
Agatha was just reaching for the bouquet when Toni shrieked, “Don’t touch it. You, boy, drop it on the floor.”
Startled, the boy did as he was told.
“Look at the flowers,” said Toni. “That looks like monkshood.”
“Who gave you those flowers?” asked Agatha.
The boy was small and fair-haired. “It was a big chap. He gave me ten pounds to deliver them.”
The flowers were wrapped in gold paper. “Did you touch the flowers anywhere?” Patrick asked the boy.
“N-no.”
“The stems are wrapped up so he should be all right,” said Patrick. “I’ll call the police.”
“What’s your name?” Agatha asked the boy.
“Jimmy Martin, miss.”
“Look, Jimmy, go into the toilet over there and wash your hands thoroughly. That bouquet may be poisonous. You’ll need to wait here. The police will want to interview you.”
“Like in the fillums?”
“Just like that.”
“Wicked!”
* * *
There was a long delay, waiting for the boy’s mother to arrive before he could be interviewed. His description of the big man who had given him the flowers was vague. But it had taken place at the corner of market square, which was covered by a video camera. Not for the first time, Agatha fretted at not having the powers of the police. She would dearly have loved to have a look at the videotape.
When it was all over, and the boy had been taken home by his mother, Charles strolled in.
Agatha told him about the latest development. The usually urbane and unflappable Charles looked worried. “So you’re the killer’s new target. You’d better take a holiday, Agatha.”
“Not me,” said Agatha. “Patrick, take money out of the petty cash and stand drinks for your old police buddies and find out what’s on that video.”
“Too soon,” said Patrick. “Give it a few hours. I’ll get on with that divorce case and then I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“So, Charles,” said Agatha, “how did you get on?”
“Wilkes was really nasty,” said Charles. “The press are breathing down his neck. He all but accused me outright. Come on, Aggie. I could do with a drink.”
“Too early.”
“The sun is over the poop deck or whatever.”
“Wait until I arrange things here. What have we got, Toni?”
“Simon and I have that missing girl. Patrick’s got his divorce case and Phil is going with him to take pictures. And you forgot about yourself. So you have some free time.”
“All right, Charles,” said Agatha. “One drink and then I’ll get back here and go through my notes.”
* * *
In the pub, Agatha surveyed Charles over the rim of her glass. There he sat, impeccably tailored and barbered, as if they had never known a few nights of passion. Agatha’s hands began to shake and she carefully put her glass down on the table. “Take a deep breath,” said Charles. “It’s not every day someone tries to kill you, although it sometimes begins to look like that. Be sensible. Go away for a long holiday. Leave it to the police for once.”
“It would haunt me,” said Agatha. She carefully lifted her glass again and took a swig of gin and tonic. “There must be something in Jill Davent’s past. I find my mind has been blocked by Gwen Simple. I want her to be guilty. I feel she got away with murder. So who else have I got? There are the ones in the village who consulted Jill. Bannister’s a vicious old bitch but I can’t see her as a murderer. Doris wouldn’t harm a fly and Mrs. Tweedy’s too old. I took a note of Jill’s old address in Mircester. I think I’ll go there and ferret around. There must be some reason she moved to Carsely. Why leave a big town where she could have found many more clients? She paused. “Why were the police questioning you?”
“I threatened to kill Herythe and was overheard.”
“Why?”
Charles didn’t want to tell her that he had lost his temper when Herythe had threatened to seduce her. “Oh, he got on my nerves. I had forgotten how waspish he could be. Take someone with you to Mircester,” urged Charles. “I’ve got to go home. Got a meeting with the land agent.”
“I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll be safe now.”
“But for how long?” asked Charles. “What about your cats?”
“What about them?”
“You get your milk delivered, don’t you? Little bit of poison injected into the bottle.”
“All right. I’ll take them to Doris. I swear they like her better than me. I forgot to ask you. How did you get on with the Bannister woman?”
“Nothing but spite and malice. Two sandwiches short of a picnic.”
Outside the pub, Charles paused for a moment and watched Agatha as she walked to her car. She was wearing a short linen skirt, which showed her excellent legs to advantage. He had begged Wilkes to give her police protection, but Wilkes had said brutally that he had no intention of wasting manpower on a woman who had chosen a dangerous job. Charles decided to call on her that evening, although he rationed his visits to Agatha. It was, he told himself, no use becoming overfond of a woman who was a walking obsession constantly searching for a host. Agatha’s habit of falling in love with highly unsuitable men had irritated him in the past. He wondered gloomily who the next one would be.
* * *
What had once been Jill’s consulting rooms was now a handbag shop. A man with a thick moustache and an even thicker Eastern European accent approached her and asked if she would like to see any of the bags.
“No,” said Agatha. She handed over her card. “I’m interested in the therapist who used to have an office here. Did you buy the premises from her?”
“No, I rent, see. Don’t know no therapist.”
“Who do you rent from?”
“Harcourt and Gentle.”
“Where can I find them?”
“In the shopping arcade.”
* * *
Mircester’s shopping arcade was an uninspiring place, half full of closed shops. The other half boasted chain stores and the estate agent.
Agatha pushed open the door and went in. A tall woman was sitting at a desk. She had grey hair and was wearing old-fashioned harlequin glasses. Agatha thought she looked remarkably like Dame Edna Everidge.
“Take a seat, dear,” said the woman. “You can call me Jenny. What can I do you for? That’s my little joke. We like to put our customers at ease. Some poor souls are forced to downsize and Jenny’s he
re to hold their poor hands. Why I remember, just the other day—”
“Stop!” commanded Agatha. “I am a private detective and would like some information about one of your previous clients.”
“Naughty, naughty! Jenny does not give out information about clients.”
“And Agatha would like to point out to Jenny that this client was brutally murdered.”
“Oh, Jill Davent! Such a tragedy. I wept buckets. I’m ever so sensitive.”
The door opened and a tubby, balding man bustled in. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “Thanks for minding the shop. You can go home now. Ah, here’s your nurse.”
A muscular woman came in and led Jenny away. “I’m James Harcourt,” said the man, sitting down in the chair his mother had vacated. “I don’t know how Mother got the key to this place or how she got out of the home. I locked up and went out for only ten minutes.”
“Which home is your mother in?” asked Agatha.
“Sunnydale. So what are you looking for?”
Agatha handed over her card and explained the reason for her visit.
“I really can’t tell you anything,” he said. “She took a short lease for only six months.”
“Where was she before that?”
“Some address in Evesham.”
“Would you please let me have it?”
“I gave all the documents to the police. You’ll need to ask them.”
* * *
“Snakes and bastards!” muttered Agatha outside the estate agent’s. “Fat chance of the police letting me see anything.”
A mother walking past pulled her child away. “I’ve told you. Don’t stare at crazy people.”
That’s it, thought Agatha. I’m sure Jenny Harcourt is only eccentric. Sunnydale. I’ll give it a try.
She checked on her iPad. Sunnydale was situated a few miles outside Mircester. Agatha got into her car and drove there. As she stopped in the car park, she wondered how to introduce herself. She doubted very much whether they would let a detective interview a mentally disabled patient.
At the reception desk, she said she was Mrs. Harcourt’s cousin. A male nurse behind the desk looked at her doubtfully. “Mrs. Harcourt went wandering off today. She has her good days and bad days. Wait here.”
Agatha took a seat and looked sadly around. We all live so long these days, she thought, that unless you’re very lucky, you can lose all your marbles. What would I do? Would I even know I was dotty?
The nurse came back. “I think it’s all right. Mrs. Harcourt will be pleased to see you.”
* * *
This is not bad, thought Agatha. Mrs. Harcourt had a sunny room with a view of lawns and trees. There were a few pieces of antique furniture she had been allowed to bring with her.
“How nice to see you again so soon,” said Jenny Harcourt. “Jenny was talking about Jill Davent.”
“Why are you not allowed to leave the home?” asked Agatha
“I have a little problem, but we won’t talk about it. Ah, poor Jill. She came here, you know. My son sent her. We had lovely chats. She wanted me to leave her that little desk over there in my will. But it’s George II and I told her she couldn’t have it because I am leaving everything to my son and she never came back. Sad.”
“Did she tell you anything about herself?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, yes. She was married when she was living in Evesham. But she said he was a brute and threatened to kill her.”
“Have you told the police this?”
“They didn’t ask Jenny.”
Agatha leaned forward. “Have you any idea where in Evesham she used to live and was her married name Davent?”
“She said the cinema was at the end of the street. Wait a bit. A tree. She was married to a tree. No, the house was called after a tree.”
“Something like The Firs?” said Agatha, beginning to feel she had wandered into Looking-Glass country.
“What was it?” Jenny stared at the ceiling for inspiration. “Sycamore? Oak? Douglas, that’s it. Like the Douglas fir.”
A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Time for your exercises,” she said. The nurse smiled at Agatha. “We like to keep our clients mobile.”
“Will you come again?” asked Jenny.
“Certainly,” said Agatha.
As they moved together out of the room, the nurse whispered to Agatha, “Check your belongings and make sure she hasn’t taken anything.” Agatha looked in her handbag.
“My wallet’s missing!”
“Wait there. I know where she hides things.”
The nurse returned with Agatha’s wallet. Jenny was walking ahead down the corridor.
“I’ve got to catch her,” said the nurse. “If I don’t, she’ll be back to the shops in Mircester, pinching things. See yourself out.”
* * *
Agatha stopped at the reception desk. “I gather that Mrs. Harcourt is a kleptomaniac,” she said to the male nurse.
“Fortunately, not all the time,” he said. “She can go months until something excites her and then she raids the shops. But you’re her relative. You must have known that.”
“It’s been kept very quiet,” said Agatha. She was heading for the door when she stopped still. What if Jenny had stolen something from Jill and it was still in her room?
She turned around. The nurse had left the reception desk and was hurrying into the back regions. Agatha ran lightly up the stairs and located Jenny’s room. When that nurse had gone back to get her wallet, she had gone to the desk. In the drawers of the desk were old photographs, scarves, and cheap jewellery. Grateful for all the programmes on antiques on television which showed where secret drawers were located in old desks, Agatha found one. Inside was a small black book. She snatched it up as she heard footsteps in the corridor outside. The footsteps went on past the door. Agatha ran down the stairs and out to her car and drove away as quickly as possible.
She stopped a little way from Sunnydale, parking in a space by a farm gate.
Agatha opened the book. Jill’s name was on the inside front page. It was a sort of small ledger with lists of payments. The entries ranged from twenty to five hundred pounds. Beside each sum of money was only one initial and the dates of the payments. Agatha sighed. If, by a very long shot, this book belonged to Jill and was evidence of blackmail, then it followed that she should turn it over to the police so that they could match it with any files they had taken from Jill’s office or with anything on her computer.
But she could imagine the questions. “You stole this book, Mrs. Raisin. Did you inform Sunnydale you had taken it without a patient’s knowledge?” And on and on it would go.
It must be Jill’s, surely. It had her name on it. The payments stopped one day before her murder.
Were these single initials from first or last names? The twenty-pound payment was marked with the initial V. Could that be Victoria Bannister?
Agatha thirsted for revenge on Victoria. She decided to go to Carsely and confront the woman. Then she would decide what to do about the book.
* * *
Victoria was weeding in her front garden when Agatha opened the gate.
“What do you want?” Victoria demanded harshly.
“I wondered why you were paying Jill Davent blackmail to the sum of twenty pounds a month,” said Agatha.
Victoria’s face turned a muddy colour. “Nonsense!”
Agatha shrugged and held up the little book. “Just thought I’d give you a chance to explain before I turn this record over to the police.”
Victoria slumped down onto the grass and buried her face in her hands.
“If you tell me and it’s nothing really awful, I won’t tell the police,” said Agatha.
Victoria slowly got to her feet. “Do you mean that?”
“Depends what you did.”
“Come inside. Someone might hear us.”
The kitchen into which Victoria led Agatha was surprisingly welcoming and cheerful to belong to such
an acidulous woman. There was a handsome Welsh dresser with Crown Derby plates and geraniums in tubs at the open window.
They both sat down at an oak table. “It’s like this,” said Victoria. “Do you remember Mrs. Cooper’s dog?”
“The nasty little thing that yapped all the time?”
“She lives next door. I couldn’t bear the noise anymore. I crushed up a lot of my sleeping pills and put them in a bowl of chopped steak. When the beast fell unconscious, I put it in a sack and drowned it in the rain barrel. Then I buried it.”
“And how did Jill find out?”
“She seemed ever such a good listener, and no one ever listens to me. So I paid for a consultation. The death of that dog was on my conscience. So I told her. The next thing I know she was demanding regular payments for my silence. I had to pay up.”
“You’ve confirmed for me that this was Jill’s,” said Agatha. “I won’t tell the police. But why did Jill tell you about my background?”
“That was before I actually consulted her. We were having a drink and she told me.”
“So why spread it around?”
She hung her head. “I don’t know. I told the police about you threatening to kill her because I didn’t want them to start looking at me.”
“Just keep clear of me in the future,” said Agatha. “You are a sickening woman.”
* * *
As Agatha was about to enter her cottage, she was hailed by James Lacey, who hurried to join her. “Toni’s just called me,” he said. “She told me to look out for you as someone just tried to kill you.”
“Come in and I’ll tell you all about it. I haven’t had lunch and I must eat something.”
Agatha told him, between bites of a cheese sandwich, everything that had happened, ending up with, “So I think I’ll have to throw myself on Bill’s mercy, but first, I’d like to track down the husband.”
“I’d better come with you.”
Agatha looked at him. There he was, as handsome as ever from his lightly tanned face and bright blue eyes to his tall muscular figure. Why did she no longer feel a thing?
