by M C Beaton
“I heard about Miss Triast-Perkins having a crush on George.”
“There’s a bit more to it than that. The rumour is that Mr. Selby encouraged her attentions.”
“How Victorian you sound! Encouraged her attentions, indeed.”
“If you don’t want to hear it …”
“Sorry. Yes, I do. Why should he encourage her? She’s hardly a glamour puss.”
“Miss Triast-Perkins is very rich. She does not like spending money, but it seemed that Mr. Selby had encouraged her to let him draw up plans to rebuild the lodge and make expensive alterations and repairs to the manor. She then used this as a sort of bait to keep him calling, dithering and delaying. Miss Triast-Perkins did not call when Mr. Selby wasn’t at home, and it is certainly odd that she called that day and so early in the morning, as it was just after Mr. Selby had left. Also, at that time Mr. Selby was in financial difficulties. He had just completed an expensive job for someone who then went bankrupt and couldn’t pay. His wife’s life was heavily insured. Village gossip, which can be very spiteful, as you know, was that George, having become impatient at getting the contract out of Miss Triast-Perkins, had more or less promised to marry her if he were free, therefore encouraging her to push his wife down the stairs. Oh, is that the time? I really must get on.”
And having delivered herself of that bombshell, Mrs. Bloxby hurried off.
“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha, fleeing upstairs again. “Can’t be anything in it.”
But her anticipation and excitement over the evening ahead had dwindled somewhat. She knew she had the reputation of being a very rich woman. She would see. If George started suggesting that he could remodel her cottage, she would be prepared.
By seven o’clock, Agatha was ready for her visitor dressed in a very short skirt, sheer stockings, white silk blouse and very high heels.
When she opened the door to George, she found to her dismay that he was casually dressed in an open-necked striped shirt, well-worn sports jacket and chinos. She invited him into her sitting room, fixed him the whisky he requested, poured a gin and tonic for herself, and then wondered where to sit. She should never have worn stockings with a short skirt. If she sat on the sofa or armchair, her skirt would ride up, exposing stocking tops. Agatha settled for a seat on a hard upright chair.
George sat on the sofa and cradled his drink in his hands. “This is a bad business,” he said moodily. “Any suspects?”
“At the moment, there’s just one,” said Agatha.
“Who?”
“Sybilla Triast-Perkins.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sybilla wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“She was in the tent before the exhibition was officially open. Her marmalade was one of the ones we know was laced with LSD.”
“I was in the tent as well. She did not go near the jam.”
“Wait a bit! We’re forgetting the tent was empty. They set it up at six in the morning and then went off for breakfast! Anyone in the village could have sneaked in then. I know they had pinned cloths down over the jam, but it would be so easy to lift the cloths and put the LSD into the jam.”
“Mrs. Raisin—”
“Agatha, please.”
“Agatha. I myself was out at dawn checking all the marquees and making sure they were secure. I hoped you might have some hard news, but all this is the same old speculation.”
We forgive beauty such a lot, thought Agatha suddenly. If he was a little balding man with thick glasses, I might get a bit tetchy.
“But this is the way cases are solved!” she said. “You talk and talk and turn it over. The main clues are often in the characters of the suspects. What about Trixie?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Trixie! Really, Agatha. That is just too far-fetched.”
“Why?” demanded Agatha stubbornly.
“Because she is a charming lady and the vicar’s wife.”
He looked quite cross, so Agatha hurried on. “What about the organizers? Mrs. Glarely and Mrs. Cranton?”
“Innocent ladies. Do a lot of good work in the village. Nothing sinister there.”
Agatha sighed. “Can you think of anyone at all?”
“Somehow, I think it must be one of the outsiders.”
“But none of the visitors had any opportunity.”
“They may have.”
“The thing I must find out,” said Agatha, “is when exactly Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop sampled the jam. My assistant, Toni, tried to talk to the organizers, but their husbands chased her off. Now if you were to ask them … ?”
He suddenly smiled. Agatha blinked at him, dazzled.
“There’s no time like the present. Why don’t we drive over there and I’ll see what I can do.”
Agatha felt elated as they drove off in George’s BMW. As his car purred through the Cotswold lanes, she felt the countryside had never looked more beautiful.
At Comfrey Magna, George drove straight along the main street and parked outside Mrs. Cranton’s home. Mr. Cranton answered the door. He was a small waspish elderly man. “Evening, Mr. Selby. The missus is right upset.”
“I would really like to have a word with her,” said George soothingly. “It won’t take long. You must see that it’s important to find out who did this dreadful thing.”
“Okay, but don’t spend too long. Her be fair shook up.”
Mrs. Cranton was sitting in a stuffy cluttered front parlour, drinking tea and eating biscuits. “Why, Mr. Selby,” she said. “How nice of you to call.”
“I was worried about you,” said George.
A cynical little voice in Agatha’s head said, “He can turn that charm of his on and off like a tap.”
“This is the detective, Mrs. Raisin. Mr. Chance has employed her to find out who did this dreadful thing. How are you now?”
“Not so bad. I only had a little taste of the awful stuff. I ’member it was Miss Tubby’s plum jam. Last year she left stones in it. I said to Doris—that’s Mrs. Glarely—let’s make sure she hasn’t done that again. We take our jam making seriously in this village, but Miss Tubby and Miss Tolling go on as if it’s all a joke. So I tasted a little and then Doris did and then we came over all funny.”
“When was this?” asked Agatha.
“Why, it were right before the tent was opened. The vicar and his wife and you, Mr. Selby, and, oh, Miss Triast-Perkins and Mr. Bassett had just left.”
“So someone could have crept in while you were off for breakfast?” said Agatha.
“But the marquee was closed. We tied the flap over the entrance.”
“Someone could have untied it. I mean, was anyone else about so early?”
“I saw Mr. Selby here. Then Miss Corrie was setting up the tombola stand. Let me see … no, can’t remember anyone else.”
“We won’t trouble you any further,” said George. “We’ll leave you alone.”
Mrs. Glarely’s husband delivered himself of a tirade against hippies and druggies, leaning on two sticks and glaring at them. George listened carefully and then said, “Of course you are upset. But the sad news is that the jam seems to have been poisoned before any of the visitors arrived.”
Mr. Glarely was a tall thin man with an old face marred by a lifetime of discontent. “S’pose you’d better talk to the wife,” he said reluctantly.
Another front parlour. Mrs. Glarely was drinking a clear liquid, which, from the smell, Agatha judged to be neat gin. She gave them a bleary glance. She looked like a twin of Mrs. Cranton—grey hair, tightly permed, wrinkled face, pale eyes.
George explained what they had learned from her friend and then asked, “So when you were both leaving after setting up the exhibits, did you see anyone about?”
But Mrs. Glarely had only seen Miss Corrie at the tombola stand.
“I suppose we’d better call on Fred Corrie,” said George when they left the Glarelys’ cottage.
“I thought she was a Miss Corrie.”
“Oh, Fred’s her name. Sho
rt for Frederica. Great sport.”
Agatha groaned inwardly. She pictured a sturdy, hearty woman with a tweedy brain. “Just a few doors along,” said George.
But the woman who answered the door was elfin, something straight out of The Lord of the Rings. She had long silvery straight hair, a sweet face and a perfect figure shown off to advantage in a clinging dress of white Indian muslin.
She stood on tiptoe and kissed George on the cheek. “Do come in. Who is this?”
George introduced Agatha. Fred led them through her cottage to where a large conservatory had been built on the back. It was furnished with cane-backed chairs and sofas with plump cushions. A few exotic-looking plants rose up out of ceramic pots.
It was very quiet except for the evening song of a blackbird perched on a lilac tree in the garden outside.
“I wonder if you can help us,” said George. “Mrs. Raisin here is trying to find out who doctored the jam. You were up very early setting up the tombola stand. Did you see anyone?”
“I saw those two ladies, Mrs. Cranton and Mrs. Glarely, leaving the marquee. I wasn’t really paying much attention. I had had a restless night, so I got up early to put out the goods and then decided to go back to bed and try to get some sleep.”
“Weren’t you frightened someone would pinch some of the prizes?” asked Agatha.
Fred gave a tinkling laugh. “No, it’s always the same old rubbish except for a bottle of whisky and a bottle of gin and I didn’t leave them out. And nobody was going to run off with the tombola wheel. Once the visitors started to pour in, I sold tickets very quickly, turned the wheel and I managed to get rid of everything, even that tin of sardines in tomato sauce that turns up every year.”
“Maybe if you could think about the early-morning bit again,” said Agatha. “You saw the two organizers leaving the tent and walking off home. After that, did you even hear anything?”
“Only a cat yowling. I thought there was some animal in pain. It was coming from the churchyard. So I went over and searched, but I couldn’t find the animal.”
“So someone could have slipped into the tent while you were away,” said Agatha eagerly. “Did you try the jam yourself?”
“No, I was too busy turning the wheel and getting rid of the usual old dreck.”
Agatha’s stomach rumbled. She looked hopefully at George. “Gosh, I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” said Fred, “and I don’t feel like cooking. Let’s all go to the pub and get something.”
Agatha groaned inwardly. Gone were her hopes of a dinner date alone with George.
The small pub only had two customers when they walked into the low-ceilinged barroom.
“What have you got on the menu tonight, Bruce?” asked Fred.
“Wasn’t expecting folks, but I’ve got a rare bit of ham. You could have that with an egg and chips.”
“Great,” said Fred. “We’ll have three of those.”
Agatha wanted to say pettishly that she would select her own food, but, then, there didn’t seem to be anything else on offer.
They collected their drinks and sat at a round table which was scarred and stained with years of use. To Agatha’s delight, there was a large glass ashtray in front of her.
With a sigh of relief, she pulled out a packet of Benson&Hedges.
“You’re never going to smoke!” exclaimed Fred.
Agatha lit up and sighed with pleasure. “Too right, I am.”
“Well, I’ll be relieved when the smoking ban comes into force,” said Fred. “Do you not worry about passive smoking, because I do.”
“The pub door is open,” said Agatha. “Fresh air is whizzing all around us. I notice a Range Rover parked outside your cottage. Your carbon footprint is a whopping great size twelve. Mine is only a toe mark.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very rude woman?” said Fred.
“Maybe. But no one has ever accused me of interfering with anyone’s liberty. Oh, belt up, do. I know what the trouble is. Did you used to smoke?”
“Yes, but—”
“Thought so,” said Agatha gloomily. “You lot are like converted Catholics. I’m not having any fun any more, so you’re not going to have any either. Take this global-warming scam. They say we are taxing your hide off to save the planet. Bollocks! It all goes into that black hole called the Treasury and disappears forever and bugger-all is done to save the earth.”
To Agatha’s horror, large tears appeared in Fred’s eyes and rolled with crystal purity down her cheeks.
“Now look what you’ve done,” said George angrily. He put a comforting arm around Fred’s shoulders and handed her a clean handkerchief.
“I c-can’t s-stand angry voices,” hiccupped Fred.
“Sorry,” said Agatha gruffly. “Got a bit carried away.”
“I f-forgive you.” Fred dabbed at her eyes, but as she lowered the handkerchief, Agatha caught a look of steely venom before she smiled and said, “Silly little me.”
“There, now,” said George. “No one could call you silly.”
The food arrived. Fred talked animatedly to George about people Agatha did not know. The pair seemed to have forgotten her existence.
At least she would have George to herself when he ran her home. Her mind drifted off. She would invite him in for a drink. Perhaps light the logs in the fire. Soft lights. She would be comforting. Get him to talk about his wife. Sit next to him on the sofa and hold his hand, and …
“Oh dear, what’s the matter, George? Are you getting one of your migraines?”
“I think I’ve got one coming on,” said George, “but I’ve got to run Agatha home.”
“I’ll do that,” said Fred. “Off you go and take your pills.”
At that moment, Charles sauntered into the pub. “Hi, Aggie.”
“Oh, Charles,” said Agatha with relief. “Can you run me home? George here has a migraine coming on.”
“What about a drink first?”
“We’ll get one at my place.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Agatha made hurried introductions. Charles smiled at Fred but was soon hustled out of the pub by Agatha.
“What did you do to upset that fair maiden? Her eyes were red,” said Charles as he drove off.
“She was complaining about me wanting to smoke.”
Charles grinned. “And you blasted her?”
“Not quite. There was no reason for her to start to cry. You know, I am sure that one can cry at will. Nasty little actress. Also, she was around setting up the dreary tombola stand at dawn before the fête got started. She could easily have sneaked into the tent and put LSD in the jam.”
“You’re jealous. You are ruthlessly pursuing George and I bet you don’t even know the first thing about him.”
“Talk about something else,” growled Agatha.
“Okay. Don’t you think it’s possible that one of the young people at the show doctored the jam?”
“No. They weren’t interested in any of the exhibits. They all came to hear Betsy. Trust me. It was one of the locals. Anyway, I’ve proof the jam was doctored before the fête opened. I’ve taken on a new detective, Jimmy Wilson. He’s supposed to have good contacts with the police. I’ll ask him to find out if the police know how many were affected with the LSD and who they are. Apart from a few young people who might have got some of the stuff after the word went around, I think we’ll find it was the locals who suffered. Apart from the women who contributed the jam and one pig farmer who loves the stuff and the lady of the manor, I really don’t think anyone else in the village was much interested. It’s more of a hamlet than a village, and I think most of them had something on display at one of the other tents.”
Disappointed and feeling silly over her pursuit of George, Agatha decided to concentrate on work the next day. She gave instructions to Jimmy Wilson to find out who had been affected by the drugged jam. Then she settled down to work on other cases until some of the fuss h
ad died down.
The following day, Jimmy came in with his report. He said, “The police cleared the tent when they heard about the possibility of drugs. They said only six teenagers managed to get hold of seemed to be a bit spaced out. The forensic reports on the jam are not yet in because, despite what you see on TV, it takes ages. But it seems that both Mrs. Jessop and Mrs. Andrews each had a good taste of Miss Tubby’s plum jam. They think there might have been more in that dish than in any of the others, or even that only a few of the dishes might have been drugged.”
“Surely they can find that out quickly,” complained Agatha. “It’s a simple test. Doesn’t need a DNA expert.”
“Well, it may do,” said Jimmy, “if they want to find out who handled the dish.”
Agatha groaned. She began to have an uneasy feeling that this might be the one case she could not solve. She would not admit to herself that her defeatist feelings were because she now felt a fool for having so blatantly pursued George.
That evening, Toni braced herself to clear up matters with Bill. He wanted her to come to his home for dinner, but Toni said she would rather have a quiet drink in a pub because there was something personal they needed to discuss.
Bill met her, looking wary. His previous girlfriends, the few that had been straight with him before dumping him, had always said seriously that they wanted to discuss something personal.
After he had bought them drinks, he said wearily, “Out with it. We’ll always be friends, and yakkety-yak.”
“It’s just that I don’t love you—meaning, I’m not in love with you,” said Toni bravely, “and what’s more, you’re not in love with me.”
“That’s not true!” protested Bill. “Mum and Dad were so pleased. Dad was even going to find a house for us …”
His voice trailed away before the startled expression on Toni’s face.
“Look, Bill,” she said gently, “you can’t marry someone just because your parents like them. And any girl you turn out to be really in love with won’t want your parents butting in to choose where you are going to live once you are married. We’ve never even been to bed together. And that’s because neither of us has been carried away by passion.”
