by M C Beaton
“How did she die?” asked Agatha.
“The poor thing fell downstairs. She was carrying a tray of things and missed her footing. George is an architect and I’d warned him about those stairs. He has an old cottage near the church. Very old staircase, stone, you know, with deep steps.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last year, in June. I don’t think he’ll ever marry again. No one could match up to Sarah.”
“Sarah being his late wife?”
“Yes.”
“And she was pretty?”
What on earth was Agatha doing? wondered Toni.
“Oh, so dainty. A little slip of a thing.”
Agatha began to feel large and lumpy.
Toni said, “The problem is this. We believe that someone put LSD into the jam-tasting dishes. But the young people at the fête did not begin to queue up, having heard there was some drug available, until after the damage had been done. So it could very well have happened at the beginning, when the jam tasting was open to the public.”
“You’ll need to ask the organizers who was there. I went off to walk round the other displays.”
“Where do Mrs. Cranton and Mrs. Glarely live?”
“On either side of the pub in the main street. Mrs. Glarely on the near side and Mrs. Cranton on the far side.”
“If you can think of anything at all that might help, please phone me,” said Agatha, handing over her card.
Outside, Toni asked, “Why all the questions about George?”
“He was in the tent at the beginning,” said Agatha defensively.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Toni, “it wouldn’t take much effort to slide some LSD into the jam. It’s a clear liquid. Instead of tabs of the stuff, someone could have had a small flask concealed in the palm of their hand. There are too many suspects. How are we ever going to find out who did it?”
“We’ll just need to push on.” Agatha took the wheel this time, but as they were approaching the vicarage, she saw George going in and slammed on the brakes.
“Toni, I think it would be a good idea if you could go ahead and interview these ladies on your own. I want to check something with the vicar.”
And she’s just seen George going in to the vicarage, thought Toni. She really is in pursuit of that man. Aloud, she said cheerfully, “Just park the car. I’ll walk.”
When Toni had left, Agatha got a bag of make-up out of the glove compartment and repaired her face and brushed her hair.
The vicarage door was open. She walked in, hearing the sound of voices coming from the back of the house. Through the kitchen window she saw, to her dismay, not only George and the vicar and his wife but Charles Fraith. They were sitting round a garden table under the shade of a cedar tree, chatting animatedly. Trixie Chance had turned into a blonde. Her long hair fell in golden waves to her shoulders. Where the hell did she get a dye job like that done on a Sunday? wondered Agatha. And blast and damn Charles.
As she approached the group, Charles called out, “Hi, Aggie. Why didn’t you wake me up when you got home last night?”
Trixie looked amused. As Agatha sat down in a chair at the table, Trixie asked, “Are you pair an item?”
“Just friends,” snapped Agatha.
“Thought so. Bit young for you.”
Agatha was in her early fifties and Charles in his forties. She decided she actually hated Trixie. A breeze blew across the garden, sending a shower of petals from a fruit tree swirling across the grass. It blew a strand of Trixie’s golden hair onto George’s shoulder. He was sitting very close to her.
“How have you been getting on with the investigation?” asked Charles.
“Not very far. The list of suspects gets longer and longer.”
“I wonder if it was simply one kind of jam that had the LSD in it,” said Charles. “If they could find that out at the autopsy, we could focus on the person who made that jam.”
“Won’t work,” said Agatha. “Too many people were getting stoned. Toni says someone could have had a small flask of the stuff. Maybe the police should try to trace where that came from. Can’t see the drug dealers selling flasks of the stuff.”
“It also comes in gelatine squares,” said Charles.
“How do you know that?”
“Googled it on your computer this morning,” said Charles.
Charles looked as lazy and relaxed as always. He was wearing a short-sleeved checked shirt and jeans of that soft expensive blue look which costs a fortune. His fair hair was barbered and his neat features looked amused as he glanced from Agatha around the group.
“I came to help you,” he said to Agatha. “Perhaps we should start with the jam makers.”
“Toni’s talking to two of them, so that leaves four.” Agatha took out her notebook. “No, it leaves two. Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop were jam makers. The two remaining ones are Miss Tubby and Miss Tolling. Was there a lot of competition amongst the jam makers?”
“I don’t think so,” said the vicar. “Mrs. Andrews usually won. Her chunky marmalade was superb.”
“But there’s another one,” exclaimed Agatha. “Miss Triast-Perkins up at the manor. She said she had marmalade in the tasting.”
“I forgot about her,” said Trixie. “It’s the first year she’s entered anything.”
“So where can we find Miss Tubby and Miss Tolling?” asked Charles.
“They live together,” said the vicar.
“Lesbians,” said Trixie, twisting a long strand of golden hair between beringed fingers.
“Now, dear,” admonished Arthur. “I am sure it is all very innocent. They live in Rose Cottage, opposite the pub.”
“I never saw a pub,” said Agatha.
“It used to be a shop. It’s set a little back from the road. Called the Grunty Man.”
“Odd name.”
“Probably was the Green Man at one time.”
“Where have all the press gone?” asked Agatha.
“The police decided they were interfering with the investigation and banished them from the village and they have stopped any more entering.”
_____________
Toni had failed to get anything out of either Mrs. Glarely or Mrs. Cranton. At both addresses she was told by their husbands to “get lost.” She wandered back down the village street in the sunshine.
Men were dismantling the marquees which had held the exhibits. She stood watching as they took down the jam tent. As the canvas collapsed, something small and glittering in the sunlight rolled out from the folds and lay on the grass. Toni ran forward. It was a small glass phial.
“Stop!” she screamed at the workers. “Evidence. Stop! Get the police.”
The door of the mobile police unit opened and Bill Wong came out. “Over here, Bill,” yelled Toni.
Bill ran to join her and Toni pointed to the phial on the grass. Bill put on a pair of latex gloves, took out an evidence bag, carefully lifted up the phial and popped it in the bag.
“Why didn’t we see that before?” he asked.
“It fell out of the canvas when they were taking the marquee down,” said Toni.
“You’d best come back with me and make a statement. Don’t let Collins fluster you. She’ll probably suggest you put it there yourself!”
Chapter Three
TRIXIE’S QUITE ATTRACTIVE,” commented Charles as he and Agatha walked along the village street.
“If you like ageing hippies,” said Agatha waspishly.
“She has beautiful hair, you must admit that. Like Rapunzel?”
“Who?” demanded Agatha. Fairy stories had not been part of her deprived childhood.
“Never mind. Who’s this George character?”
“Just some villager who was helping out with the fête,” said Agatha casually, aware of Charles’s searching eyes on her face.
“Single?”
“Widower.”
“Aha!”
“Aha what?”
“You’
re off again.”
“I don’t know what you mean. There’s the pub. It looks like a converted shop. No wonder I didn’t notice it before.”
“And here’s Rose Cottage. Ring the bell.”
“There isn’t one.”
“So knock the knocker.”
Agatha seized the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth and rapped hard.
A lace curtain beside the left-hand window twitched. Agatha waited impatiently for what she envisaged as a couple of elderly spinsters.
The door opened and a young woman stood there, hands thrust into a pair of worn jeans. She had a round rosy face and glasses and short hair in a gamine cut.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Miss Tubby and Miss Tolling,” said Agatha.
“I’m Maggie Tubby. What do you want?”
“My name is Agatha Raisin. This is Sir Charles Fraith. I am a private detective who has been asked by your vicar to investigate what happened at the fête. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“You’d better come in. We’re in the garden.”
She led the way through the small cottage to a long garden at the back where a woman was weeding. “Phyllis!” called Maggie. “Visitors.”
Phyllis straightened up and stood wiping her hands. Agatha guessed she was in her thirties. She was tall with prematurely grey hair and a catlike face. What a lot of grey hair there is around this place, thought Agatha. Do they never think of getting their hair tinted?
Maggie explained the reason for the visit. Phyllis indicated a garden table and chairs. “Let’s sit down,” she said.
“I gather you both contributed jam to the tasting,” said Agatha.
“Yes, plum jam. It’s our speciality.”
“Did you taste any of the exhibits?”
“Oh, yes,” said Maggie. “What a trip!”
“Which one was it?”
“It was Miss Triast-Perkins’s marmalade. Everything went funny. I began to see flashing lights.”
“Didn’t you think to warn anyone?”
“I just thought the jam was badly preserved—like some people we know.” Maggie shot a sly look at Phyllis. They both looked at Agatha and giggled.
I wish you precious pair had jumped off the tower, thought Agatha.
Charles asked, “Have you any idea who might have done such a thing?”
“Of course,” said Phyllis.
“Who?” demanded Agatha eagerly.
“Why, none other than Sybilla Triast-Perkins.”
“What proof have you?” asked Charles.
“Only that she has murdered before, so it was probably easy for the unhinged creature to murder again.”
“Murdered who?” Agatha almost shouted the question.
“Sarah Selby, poor little thing.”
“George Selby’s wife? The one who fell downstairs?”
“Pushed,” said Maggie.
“Then why wasn’t she arrested?”
“No actual proof, and she’s a friend of the chief constable. She was visiting at the time. She said that Sarah had gone up the stairs to fetch the breakfast tray. George always gave her breakfast in bed. She tripped, said Sybilla, and tumbled down onto the stone flags of the hall and broke her neck. But here’s the thing. According to the rigor mortis, Sarah had been lying there dead for an hour before Sybilla called the ambulance and police.”
“What was her excuse for not calling them immediately?” asked Agatha.
“Sybilla said that she fainted with shock and when she came to, she felt dizzy and sick and it took about an hour for her to get the strength to phone,” said Phyllis.
“Why would she want to kill Sarah Selby?” asked Agatha.
Phyllis and Maggie exchanged glances. Phyllis said, “She was crazy about George. Always visiting his house on some pretext or other, but before that fatal visit, she never called except when George was at home. He has an office in Mircester, though sometimes he works from home. He’s an architect.”
“Does everyone in the village suspect her?” asked Agatha.
“No, only us. They’re all a bit backward in this backwater. You know, tug their forelocks to the lady of the manor. Some lady. Okay, the Triasts were upper crust, but old man Perkins made his money out of biodegradable cats’ toilets.”
“Place looked a bit run-down,” said Agatha.
“She’s mean, that’s why,” said Maggie.
“So why doesn’t she sell off that lodge house, for example?”
“Blessed if I know,” said Maggie. “Maybe she concocts poisons there.” She and Phyllis laughed heartily.
“And what do you do for a living?” asked Agatha. “Manufacture LSD?” She had not forgiven them for that “badly preserved” remark.
“I paint,” said Phyllis, “and Maggie throws pots. Don’t you feel a bit guilty? If it hadn’t been for your grandiose ideas about the fête, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“If you think it was Sybilla who did it,” said Agatha, “then it really doesn’t matter how many people attended the fête.”
She and Charles took their leave. As they walked back, Agatha plunged into a rosy dream. She would solve the case of Sarah Selby’s death. She would break the news gently to George, holding his hands and gazing into his eyes.
“Thank you,” he would breathe. “Now I have closure. I thought poor Sarah could never be replaced, but now …”
“Wake up, Aggie,” said Charles. “You’re wandering along with a silly smile on your face.”
“I was thinking about the case.” Agatha was angry at having her dream interrupted. As they came in sight of the vicarage, Agatha saw George saying goodbye to Trixie. She laughed at something he said and kissed him on the cheek.
Hair extensions, thought Agatha. That’s it. I must get hair extensions.
Toni came running to meet them and told Agatha about finding the phial. “Who ever put the LSD in the jam must have thrust the phial into one of the seams of the canvas,” she said.
Agatha heard herself being hailed and turned round with a smile to greet George. “I’m very worried about all this. Have you any clues?” he asked.
“Got quite a few,” said Agatha. An idea struck her. “Look, I’m busy at the moment. Here’s my card. Why don’t you come to my cottage in Carsely this evening for drinks, say at seven, and I’ll fill you in.”
“Right,” said George, tucking the card into his top pocket. “I’ll see you then.”
Now, thought Agatha, I’ve got to get rid of Charles.
Agatha decided to call it a day. She told Toni and Charles that with all the press haunting the outside of the village and police crawling all over the place, it would be better to come back the following day, when things might have cooled off a bit.
Scouts were dumping bags of all the refuse they had collected outside the mobile police unit, and a squad of tired-looking policemen were starting to go through the bags.
She saw two elderly women being led to the police unit. “That’s Mrs. Glarely and Mrs. Cranton, I think,” said Toni. “I’ll phone Bill tonight and see if he’ll tell me what they said.”
Agatha was just steeling herself to say something to Charles when he said, “I’ve got to go out tonight. Maybe see you later or tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to do anything more today?” asked Toni. “Or will I stay here and scout around on my own?”
“See if you can collar Bill and get anything out of him,” said Agatha, now anxious to leave and begin beauty preparations for the evening ahead.
But duty nagged and she knew she had better call in to her office before she went home.
Motherly Mrs. Freedman was serving a man with coffee and biscuits when Agatha arrived. “This is ex-Detective Sergeant Jimmy Wilson,” she said. “Jimmy, your boss, Mrs. Raisin.”
Jimmy was a medium-sized, pugnacious-looking man. He had a round face with small eyes and a squashed nose above a pursed mouth. To Agatha’s relief, he
seemed to be in his early fifties.
“Did you take early retirement?” she asked.
“I had cancer,” said Jimmy. “By the time I got over it, I felt like taking a long break, so I resigned. But I’m fit and ready for work now. I’ve got good contacts with the police.”
“We’re overloaded with work,” said Agatha, “but Mrs. Freedman will give you some jobs to get started on. Did you sign a contract?”
“Yes, my cousin here gave me all the papers.”
“Cousin?” queried Agatha, scowling at Mrs. Freedman.
She blushed. “Well, you needed someone and I knew Jimmy here was a good detective.”
“We’ll see how you go,” said Agatha. “I may want you to check with your police friends to find out anything you can about this business at Comfrey Magna. But we’ll deal with that when you’ve cleared up some of the backlog. I’ve got to rush. I’ve got an important interview to do with the case I’m on.”
Agatha had just removed a face pack and was washing her face when her doorbell rang. She cast an agonized look at her watch. Six o’clock. It couldn’t be George. She towelled her face dry and ran downstairs and opened the door. It was Mrs. Bloxby.
“Oh, come in,” said Agatha. “I’m expecting someone this evening for drinks and I was just cleaning myself up. Coffee? Sherry?”
“Nothing for me,” said Mrs. Bloxby, following Agatha through to the kitchen. “You were asking about George Selby?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “In fact, he’s coming here this evening for drinks.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants to know how I’m getting on with the case,” said Agatha tetchily.
“Do you know how his first wife died?”
“Yes, she fell down the stairs. A Miss Triast-Perkins was there, but evidently too shocked to phone for an ambulance until after an hour had passed.”
“It’s all gossip, of course,” said Mrs. Bloxby reluctantly, “and you know how unreliable gossip can be.”
