by M C Beaton
Toni felt low. She had been given another divorce case and she hated divorce cases. But she lingered in the office, fascinated to hear Agatha Raisin in full bullying mode on the phone. “Yes, I think you should send a reporter. We’re running a real food campaign here. Good home-village produce and no supermarket rubbish. And I can promise you a surprise. Yes, it is Agatha Raisin here. No, no murder, hah, hah. Just send a reporter.”
Next call. “I want to speak to Betsy Wilson.”
Toni stood frozen. Betsy Wilson was a famous pop singer. “Tell her it’s Agatha Raisin. Hullo, Betsy, dear, remember me? I want you to open a village fête next Saturday. I know you have a busy schedule, but I also happen to know you are between gigs. The press will all be there. Good for your image. Lady-of-the-manor bit. Large hat, floaty dress, gracious—come on, girl, by the time I’m finished with you I’ll have you engaged to Prince William. Yes, you come along and I’ll see if I can get the prince.” Agatha then charged on to tell Betsy to arrive at two o’clock and to give her directions to Comfrey Magna.
“Thick as two planks,” muttered Agatha, “but she’s coming.”
“But she’s famous!” gasped Toni. “Why should she come?”
“Her career was sinking after that drugs bust,” said Agatha. “I did a freelance job and got her going again.”
She picked up the phone again. “News desk? Forget about the healthy food. Better story. Fête is to be opened by Betsy Wilson. Yes. I thought that would make you sit up.”
Toni waited until Agatha had finished the call and asked, “Can you really get Prince William?”
“Of course not, but that dumb cow thinks I’m capable of anything.”
At dinner on the Wednesday night, only Trixie Chance greeted Agatha’s news that Betsy Wilson was to open the fête with delight. George Selby said anxiously, “But the village will be overrun by teenagers and press. It’ll be a disaster.”
Agatha felt panicky. She now had the nationals coming as well as the local newspapers.
“I’ve got it,” she said. “Vicar, you open the fête with a prayer. Get yourself a good sound system. Think of the size of the congregation. I’ll get Betsy to sing ‘Amazing Grace.’ Set the tone.”
The vicar’s eyes shone. “I can see it now,” he said, clasping his hands as though in prayer.
“Yes, so can I,” said George. “Mess and rubbish everywhere.”
Trixie squeezed his arm. “Oh, Georgy Porgy, don’t be a great bear. Little Trixie is thrilled to bits.”
She’s five feet eight inches, thought Agatha sourly, and people who refer to themselves in the third person are always crashing bores.
“It’ll be marvellous,” said Agatha. “It’ll really put Comfrey Magna on the map!”
She wondered how she could manage to engineer an evening with George on his own. Mustn’t seem too needy. Men could smell needy across two continents.
In vain during the meal did George try to protest against the visit of the pop star. The vicar and his wife were too excited to listen to him.
What was worse, George was beginning to look at her with something like dislike in those grass-green eyes of his.
He leaned across the table, interrupting the vicar’s enthusiastic plans and said coldly, “I’ve decided I don’t really want to be part of this.”
“But George,” wailed Trixie, “we depend on you to organize the marquees and things.”
“I am sure the very efficient Mrs. Raisin can take over from me. I only chipped in because Saint Odo’s is a beautiful church and the fête was one way to raise funds towards the necessary repairs as well as sending some money to charity.”
“Listen,” said Agatha, panicking as gorgeous George seemed to be vanishing over the flat horizon of her present manless life, “here’s an idea which will get you so much money you could build a cathedral. It will only mean one day of chaos. You put up barricades at the two roads leading into the village. You charge five pounds a head for entry. You get a couple of farmers, say, to contribute fields for parking. Haven’t you any Boy Scouts or Girl Guides?”
“Yes, we do,” said the vicar.
“Draft them in to park the cars and dib, dib whatever, you’ve got a fortune.”
There was a startled silence. The vicar looked as if someone had just presented him with the Holy Grail. George gave a reluctant smile.
“I suppose it could work. We don’t have much time.”
“Call an emergency meeting in the village hall tomorrow,” said Agatha eagerly.
“There are only a few days left,” cautioned George.
“We can do it,” said Agatha. “I know we can do it.”
“What about all these crowds that are going to come? We’ll need to inform the police.”
Agatha quailed at the thought of her friend Detective Sergeant Bill Wong’s reaction. “I’ll do that,” she said, “and I’ll hire a security firm to police the area.”
“You are an angel,” said the happy vicar.
But George looked uneasy. “I feel no good will come of this,” he said.
The dinner party finished at eight because the vicar liked to eat early and get to bed early.
Agatha cast one longing look after George’s retreating well-tailored back as he headed for his car.
She must find out more about him. Surely Mrs. Bloxby knew something.
Later that evening, Mrs. Bloxby listened in alarm to Agatha’s plans. She felt that as Agatha had bulldozed ahead, there was now little point in making any protest. And when Agatha left, commenting on the incredible beauty of the Cotswolds spring, Mrs. Bloxby repressed a sigh. Agatha’s perception of beauty, she felt, was prompted by her hormones. If only Agatha hadn’t seen that handsome man in the graveyard. She knew her friend of old. Agatha was heading for another obsession, and while it lasted, the Cotswolds would be beautiful and every pop tune would have a special meaning.
Agatha sustained a visit from a very angry Bill Wong on Friday evening. “You might have told me first what your plans were,” he complained, “and I would have done my best to stop you. Betsy Wilson! It’s as bad as hiring Celine Dion for the occasion.”
He was only slightly mollified by the news that Agatha had engaged a security firm that had promised to put as many of their men as possible on the ground.
Bill was the product of a Chinese father and a Gloucestershire mother. He had inherited his father’s almond-shaped eyes, those eyes which were looking suspiciously at Agatha. “Who is he?” asked Bill.
“He? Who?”
“You’ve fallen for someone.”
“Bill, can you not for once believe something good about me? I’m doing this for charity.”
“So you say. I’ll be there myself on Saturday.”
“How’s your love life?” countered Agatha. “Still dating my young detective, Toni Gilmour?”
“We go around together when we both get some free time, but …”
“But what?”
“Agatha, could you try to find out what she thinks of me? Toni is very affectionate and likes me, but there’s no spark there, no hint of passion. Mother and father like her a lot.”
Agatha eyed him shrewdly. “You know, Bill, you can’t go after a girl just because your mother and father like her. Do you yearn for her?”
“Don’t be embarrassing.”
“All right. I’ll find out what her intentions are.”
“I’d better go. See you tomorrow.”
Agatha, who had been sitting on a kitchen chair, rose with one fluid movement to show him out.
“You’ve had a hip replacement!” exclaimed Bill.
“Nonsense. It wasn’t arthritis after all. A pulled muscle.”
Agatha had no intention of telling Bill or anybody else that she had paid one thousand pounds at the Nuffield Hospital in Cheltenham for a hip injection. The surgeon had warned her that she would soon have to have a hip replacement, but now, free of pain, Agatha forgot his words. Arthritis was so ageing. She wa
s sure it had been a pulled muscle.
George Selby had to admit to himself that it looked as if the day was going to be a success. Betsy Wilson was a rare pop singer in that she appealed to families as well as teenagers. He also had to admit that had she not arrived to open the fête, only a few people would have attended. What was considered the height of the fête was the tasting to find the best home—made jam. Little dishes of jam were laid out, and people tasted each and then dropped a note of their favourite in a ballot box.
The sun shone from a cloudless sky on the beauty of spring. It had been a cold, damp early spring, and now, with the sudden heat and good weather, it seemed as if everything had blossomed at once: cherry and lilac, wisteria and hawthorn and all the glory of the fruit trees in the orchards around the village.
Betsy Wilson, in a gauzy dress decorated with roses, made a short speech, clasped her hands and sang her latest hit, “Every Other Sunday.” It was a haunting ballad. Her clear young voice floated up to the Cotswold hills. Even the hardened pressmen stood silently.
She sang two more ballads, finished by singing “Amazing Grace,” and then was hustled into a stretch limo by her personal security guard. The band which had accompanied her packed up and left, to be replaced by the village band.
Then Toni, who was with Agatha, tugged her sleeve and said, “That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” asked Agatha.
“Look at all those teenagers queuing outside the jam tent.”
“Really? If I thought it was going to be such a popular event, I’d have charged an extra admission fee.”
“Could someone be peddling drugs inside that tent?” asked Toni.
“Why?”
“Some of the people coming out look stoned.”
Agatha was about to walk towards the tent when she heard screams and commotion coming from over by the church. People were pointing upwards. A woman was standing at the top of the square Norman tower, her arms outstretched. As Agatha ran over to the church, followed by Toni, she heard someone say, “It’s old Mrs. Andrews. Her said something about how her could fly.”
Agatha saw George running into the church and ran after him, with Toni pounding after her. George was disappearing through a door at the back of the church where stairs led to the tower. Agatha ran up the stairs, panting and gasping as she neared the top. She staggered out onto the roof.
Mrs. Andrews was standing up on the parapet. “I can fly,” she said dreamily. “Just like Superman.”
George made a lunge for her—but too late.
With an odd little laugh, Mrs. Andrew sailed straight off into space. George, Agatha and Toni craned their heads over the parapet. Mrs. Andrew lay smashed on a table tombstone, a pool of dark blood spreading from her head.
George was white-faced. “What on earth came over her? She was a perfectly sane woman.”
“The jam,” said Toni suddenly. “I think someone’s put something in the jam.”
“Get down there,” said Agatha, “and tell the security guards to seal off that damned tent.”
She was about to run after Toni when George caught her arm. “What’s this about the jam?”
“Toni noticed that an awful lot of teenagers were queuing up outside the jam tent and coming out looking stoned. I’ve got to get down there.”
When they arrived outside the church, a woman came up to them looking distraught. “Get an ambulance. Old Mrs. Jessop’s jumped into the river.”
Police were beginning to shout through loudhailers that everyone was to stay exactly where they were until interviewed.
“Thousands of them,” gasped Toni. “I told Bill there was something wrong with the jam.”
Chapter Two
SIR CHARLES FRAITH, a friend of Agatha’s, placed his slippered feet on a footstool in his drawing room and switched on the television to BBC news.
Agatha’s frantic face seemed to leap at him out of the screen. “I don’t know what happened,” she was saying to the interviewer. “I think some maniac put something in the jam.”
The interviewer went on to describe the events at Agatha’s disastrous church fête. Apart from Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop, two villagers had suffered heart attacks.
The camera panned out over the village. It looked as if the whole of the county’s police force were on the scene, busy taking down names and addresses. They’ll never forgive Agatha for the expense of all this manpower, thought Charles. I’ll get over there this evening and pick up the pieces.
_____________
As dusk settled down over the Cotswolds and blossoms glimmered whitely in the fading light, all was peace and quiet except at Comfrey Magna.
Inside the tent, lit by the harsh glare of halogen lights, the two organizers of the jam tasting, a Mrs. Glarely and a Mrs. Cranton, sat weeping quietly.
Agatha and Toni were being interviewed inside the tent for what seemed to Agatha like the hundredth time.
Facing her was Detective Inspector Wilkes, flanked by Detective Sergeant Collins. Bill Wong had been sidelined by Collins, a nasty, pushy woman, who had pointed out to Wilkes that Bill was tainted by his friendship with Agatha and should be kept out of the interview. Collins had said she was transferring to the Metropolitan Police, but Bill had a sinking feeling that she’d been turned down. Behind Agatha, waiting to be interviewed again, were the vicar, his wife and George.
“Now this Betsy Wilson,” said Wilkes, “she was involved in some drug scandal a few years ago.”
“She’s clean,” said Agatha, “and she didn’t go near the jam tent. Betsy went straight to the platform. Her band had arrived earlier and set up. She sang her songs and left.”
“What about the members of the band?” rasped Collins. Her hair was pulled back so severely that Agatha was amazed her eyes didn’t water. “That lot are always into drugs. Assuming it was drugs and not some nasty local herb in the preserves.”
“I think it was LSD,” said Toni suddenly. “I’ve been thinking about it. It’s a hallucinogen.”
“And how come you know about it, young lady?” demanded Wilkes.
“It was a case we turned over to Worcester CID earlier this year,” said Toni. “Do you remember, Agatha? A mother thought her son was on drugs. I followed him to that club in Evesham and found they were giving out tabs quite openly. So I informed the police and the club was raided.”
“What are tabs?”
“LSD is usually found on little squares of blotting paper called tabs,” said Toni. “It’s also a clear liquid. All someone had to do was tip a few drops into each of the jam-testing dishes. I gather the show was set up early in the morning and then the organizers went home for breakfast. It might be an idea to trace the source of the drug. LSD isn’t all that common in the clubs these days. It’s all Ecstasy or crack cocaine or heroin.”
Toni was a pretty young girl aged eighteen. She had naturally fair hair. Collins threw her a look of dislike. “You seem to know a lot about drugs.”
“It’s my job,” said Toni. “I’m a detective. You see, that’s how I found out our two organizers had left the tent empty. Before the tent was opened to the public, the various jam dishes were covered with white cloths fastened with drawing pins. The tent was only opened to the public after Betsy had finished singing.”
“It wasn’t us,” wailed Mrs. Glarely.
“We’ll need the names of all the women who contributed jam,” said Wilkes. He sighed. “Are there many?”
“Only six,” said Toni, pulling out a notebook. “I have their names and addresses here.”
“Good girl,” said Wilkes, and Agatha felt a little stab of jealousy. She felt tired and jaded, and there was Toni looking as fresh as a daisy. Had George noticed Toni? That was the trouble with middle-aged men. They were allowed to fancy young girls. Middle-aged women fancying young men were called cradle snatchers.
“And,” went on Toni, “Mrs. Cranton said apart from these ladies, the only people who came into the tent before it was officially
opened were Mr. George Selby, the vicar and his wife, and a pig farmer called Hal Bassett—”
“What was a pig farmer doing in the jam tent before it was opened?” interrupted Wilkes.
“He was trying to get an advance taste. He eats home-made jam by the spoonful. Then there was Miss Triast-Perkins from the manor. She claimed that she wanted to be sure of decorum at all the events. She said that Mrs. Raisin was out to ruin the village by running the fête like a three-ringed circus.”
Agatha hated being left out. “Could we continue all this in the morning?” she pleaded.
“And I need to let the marquee people come and collect the tents tomorrow,” said George.
“Just a few more questions,” snapped Collins.
And so it went on until nearly midnight, when they were all told they could go but to report to a mobile police unit which would be in place in the village in the morning.
As they all walked outside the tent, Agatha asked George, “Do you know how much we made?”
“The vicar is going to count the money. There must be thousands. Of course, any relatives of Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop must be compensated, not to mention any people who suffered ill health.”
Agatha had been about to suggest she should be compensated for hiring the security firm, but decided it might sound callous. She was desperately wondering how to set up a date with George when she heard the vicar calling her.
Reluctantly she turned back as George hurried away. “Mrs. Raisin,” said Arthur Chance, “this is a terrible business. I would like to hire your agency to find out who did this terrible thing.”
Trixie protested. “There are police all over the place.”
“Mrs. Raisin’s agency has a good reputation,” said the vicar firmly.
“I’ll do it,” said Agatha. “I feel responsible.”
“So you should,” said Trixie, tossing her long hair. “Where’s George?”
“I think he’s gone home,” said Agatha. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
She headed to where she had parked her car to find Toni waiting for her. “We’ve been employed,” said Agatha. “I think you and I should concentrate on this case and leave Phil and Patrick to cope with the rest.” Agatha suddenly remembered Bill’s request. “How are you and Bill getting along?” she asked.
