by M C Beaton
“What do you know about passion?” asked Bill sulkily.
“Nothing. But I’d like to. Think about it, Bill. You must have come across someone at some time you felt you couldn’t live without.”
Bill sat in silence, remembering at least two girls he had yearned after, dreamed about, but somehow, after he had taken them home, romance had died.
“You’ve been trying to suit your parents,” Toni went on. “Next time, try to find someone you want and don’t take the girl home until after you’ve got the ring on her finger.”
“I love my parents,” said Bill.
“And I envy you that,” said Toni. “At least you know who your father is. My mum will never tell me about my father and sometimes I even wonder whether she knows herself.”
“Is she still sober?”
“Yes, and doing very well.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Bill. “I mean—us.”
“I know you don’t want to hear about the friends bit,” said Toni. “But honestly, I think we were really meant to be friends.”
Bill gave a reluctant smile. “Sometimes, Toni, you seem older than Agatha.”
Chapter Four
AT THE END of the following working day, Toni was filing her notes on a case, glad it was over. Because of previous successes, she was often given work for women who wanted to make sure their husbands were not having affairs.
Jimmy Wilson strolled in. “Evening, babes,” he said. “Fancy a pint?”
“No, thanks,” said Toni. “Not tonight.” Jimmy was chubby and somehow he seemed to fill the small office with an oppressive, sweaty presence. Toni had already decided she did not like him. Phil Marshall was a gentleman. Patrick Mulligan looked and behaved like the hard-working copper he used to be, but there was something unhealthy about Jimmy. Toni wondered why he had taken early retirement. It was supposed to be because he had contracted cancer, but she felt sure, somehow, it had been because of some other reason. She moved towards the door. He barred her way.
“C’mon,” he said. “Just one drink.”
The door behind him swung open, banging into his back. He stepped aside as Agatha strode in, her bearlike eyes darting from Toni’s embarrassed face to Jimmy’s grinning one.
“I’m just off,” said Toni.
“Coming with you.” Jimmy moved to take her arm.
“Run along, Toni,” said Agatha. “You. Jimmy. Stay.”
When Toni had left, Agatha said, “What was all that about?”
“About what?”
“She looked nervous and embarrassed. You were blocking her way.”
“I only asked her for a drink.”
“Look here. That girl is eighteen and you are too old. If I catch you bothering her again, you’re out. Get it! Now sit down and tell me if you’ve found out anything else.”
“Nothing. You told me to leave it for a bit.”
“Well, get back on it tomorrow. Good night!”
Toni hurried along in the direction of her flat. She saw a group of her friends, all dressed up, heading in her direction. “Hi, Toni,” said Sandra, who was in the lead. “We’re off to that new disco, Naughty Nights, out on the Evesham road. Come with us.”
Toni had a sudden mental picture of Bill’s sad face, followed by one of the leering Jimmy Wilson. She wanted to feel as young as she was, and free.
“I’m not dressed,” she said.
“Go home and change and join us,” said Sandra.
“I might do that.”
At that moment, Wilkes was summoning Bill Wong. “There’s a new disco, Naughty Nights, and we want to make sure there’s no under-age drinking or drugs. I want you to go there in suitable clothes this evening.”
Bill reflected miserably that he had nothing better to do. He went home and changed into black trousers, a black T-shirt and a black leather jacket. As he was getting ready to leave, his father shuffled in, wearing his usual outfit of carpet slippers, open-necked shirt, baggy trousers and a ratty cardigan. The only thing Asian-looking about him was his almond-shaped eyes. The rest was pure British. “Why you going out dressed like a freak?” he asked “Where’s that nice suit we bought you for Christmas?”
“Going undercover,” said Bill.
His mother joined them. “Have you got a clean hanky?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“And clean underwear? What if you was to end up in hospital?”
“I’m fine.”
Bill escaped and drove to the nightclub. Before he even reached it, he could hear the thud, thud, thud of the disco. When he parked his car and climbed out, the very ground beneath his feet seemed to vibrate to the noise.
Toni was enjoying herself, dancing under the flashing strobe lights, losing herself in the deafening music. Her partner was a thin youth with greasy hair and a face scarred by acne. But he danced like John Travolta in Grease. When the music finished, he said, “Want a drink?”
“Okay, I’m thirsty,” said Toni.
They shouldered their way through to the bar.
“What’ll it be?”
“Just a half of lager.”
When the drinks were served, he shouted above the noise, “Look at that weird bird over there!”
Toni swung round. “Which bird?”
“You can’t see her now. Drink up.”
Toni drank thirstily. Then she began to feel dizzy. “I’d better get outside,” she said weakly.
“I’ll help you.”
Bill was just entering the club when he saw Toni, supported by a young man. Toni looked barely conscious.
“What’s happened?” he demanded.
“She’s a bit faint. Getting her outside.”
“She’s a friend of mine. I’ll take over.”
“Get lost, mate.”
Bill flashed his badge. The youth stopped supporting Toni, who fell to the floor. The youth turned to flee. Bill seized him by his denim jacket, forced him to his knees, and handcuffed him to the leg of a desk by the door.
Then he phoned for backup and for an ambulance.
Agatha arrived at Mircester Hospital with Charles later that evening, having been phoned by Bill. Bill was waiting for them outside the ward where Toni was stretched out on one of the beds.
“What happened?” asked Agatha.
“We think someone slipped a date-rape drug into her drink,” said Bill. “The hospital’s taken tests. It was all Wilkes needed as an excuse to raid the club. They were selling a combination of Viagra and Ecstasy. No wonder there are so many rapes these days.”
“Why did Toni go to such a place?” cried Agatha.
“She’s young,” said Charles. “Young people go to discos. Here’s her mother.”
Mrs. Gilmour arrived looking harried and distressed, followed by a doctor. She nodded to Agatha and was taken into the ward where Toni lay.
They waited impatiently. At last the doctor emerged. “Mrs. Gilmour is going to stay with her daughter, but there is nothing to worry about. The girl will be all right in the morning.”
“Cheer up,” said Charles, and he and Agatha walked away. “This time it’s not your fault.”
“I worry about her,” said Agatha. “I wish she weren’t so young. I mean, if something happened to Phil, say, it would be pretty awful, but he is in his seventies and he’s had a long life. But poor Toni is really just starting out.”
“It must be difficult for one so young being in an office full of old people,” commented Charles as they emerged from the hospital.
“Watch it,” said Agatha furiously. “I am not old.”
Charles stifled a yawn. “I’d better get off back home. Things to do.”
Agatha felt bereft. There were times when she was furious at the way he used her cottage like a hotel, but now that she was no longer interested in George and there was no reason to wish him out of the way, she reluctantly admitted to herself that she would miss Charles’s company.
So Agatha was relieved on returning home to find a messa
ge on her phone from Roy Silver, her former employee, asking if he could come down for the weekend.
Agatha phoned him and said she would be delighted to see him with more warmth in her voice than Roy had heard before.
“You might have asked me to that murderous gig,” said Roy petulantly.
“Honestly, Roy, with all the flurry of last-minute arrangements, I forgot. I’m sorry.”
There was a little silence while Roy digested the fact that Agatha Raisin was actually apologizing to him.
“I’ll be at Moreton-in-Marsh on Friday evening. Train gets in at six-twenty.”
“I’ll be there,” promised Agatha.
Agatha felt guilty at leaving what she thought of as the Jam Case alone, but was looking forward to a lazy weekend with Roy.
When he descended from the train on Friday, she saw he was all dressed in black: black leather jacket, black shirt, black trousers, and black high-heeled boots. He had even dyed his hair black. He pirouetted on the platform.
“Why the Man in Black effect?” asked Agatha.
“Because we’ll be going detecting, Aggie.”
“Don’t call me Aggie, and I want the weekend off.”
“You can’t just leave it! I’ll take you for dinner and you can tell me all about it.”
“You can take me to the Black Bear. It’s the only place left where I can smoke before this dreadful nonsmoking ban hits the country.”
Agatha felt her enthusiasm for the case returning as she carefully described what she had found out.
“Fascinating,” said Roy, ignoring the fact that some beefy-looking men at the bar were looking across at him and sniggering. “How’s Toni getting on?”
Agatha told him about the date-rape drug and finished by saying, “She’s back at work and appears none the worse.”
“So to get back to your case,” said Roy, “you said most of the LSD might have been in the jam supplied by Miss Tubby. So we start there. Let’s go and see her tomorrow.”
“You’d better wear something more conservative. She and her partner are a couple of bitches.”
“I think I look rather smart in a sinister way.”
Agatha looked at Roy’s rather weak face topped with its crop of gelled dyed-black hair. “Very nice for London,” said Agatha with rare tact. “But a bit too exotic for down here.”
Agatha felt a twinge of reluctance as they approached the village on the following day. The police unit was still in evidence, but apart from that, the village seemed to have sunk back into its usual rural torpor.
“We’ll call at the vicarage first,” said Agatha. “I’m employed by the vicar to solve this case.”
“Must we?” complained Roy. “I don’t like holy people.”
“You like Mrs. Bloxby.”
“That’s different. Everyone likes Mrs. Bloxby.”
The door was opened by Trixie. She was wearing a white-lace vintage morning dress. Agatha’s expert eye, honed by working in the past for various couture houses, estimated it was genuine and must have cost a mint.
“Lovely dress,” said Agatha. “Your husband at home?”
“Yes, go through to the garden.”
They followed her. Trixie’s blonde hair flowed down her back. She’s really rather sexy in a feral way, thought Agatha. Without that dress and hair, she wouldn’t get far in the attraction stakes with her mean features.
The vicar was seated at a garden table under the shade of a cedar tree with the accountant, Arnold Birntweather. Mr. Chance looked up and saw Agatha. The sun flashed on his thick glasses as Agatha and Roy approached, giving him a blind look.
“Welcome!” he cried. “We’re just going over the accounts.”
Agatha introduced Roy. “Sit down,” urged the vicar. “We are just deciding who gets what out of the money. We cannot take it all for the church when there are so many needy charities.”
Trixie appeared, carrying a tray with a jug of lemonade and glasses.
Agatha said, “I forgot to introduce Roy to you, Trixie. This is a friend of mine, Roy Silver.”
Trixie cast Roy an amused look. Agatha could only be glad that Roy had changed into a conservative shirt and trousers. She had already put Trixie down as a bitch.
Trixie set down the tray and then put an arm around Arnold’s bent shoulders. “Stop fussing over the accounts on such a lovely day,” she cooed.
Arnold smiled but said, “They’ve got to be done.”
“Oh, nonsense, have some lemonade.”
Arnold let out a cry as Trixie poured lemonade over the account papers.
“I’m so very sorry,” said Trixie. “Here. I’ll take them away and dry them.”
Agatha noticed a washing line at the end of the garden. “We could peg them up on the washing line,” she said. “They’d be dry in no time. Has the writing been washed away?”
“No, it’s still quite clear,” said Arnold.
“Come along. I’ll help you,” said Agatha. “No, don’t anyone else bother. I’m an expert at this sort of thing.”
She carried the spoiled papers down to the end of the garden and carefully pinned them up, her mind working furiously. Trixie is wearing an expensive dress. She did that deliberately. Trixie must have been stealing from the funds.
“Where is the money kept, Arnold?” she asked.
“In the vicarage.”
“I think you should take it yourself and put it in a safe deposit box in the bank. Think about it. Someone who has committed murder wouldn’t stop short at a robbery.”
The vicar came to join them. “My poor wife begs to be excused. She is very distressed.”
“It’s all right,” said Arnold. “Thanks to Mrs. Raisin’s idea, there is no harm done.”
“Please call me Agatha.”
“Very well. Agatha. Although I find this modern business of calling acquaintances by their first names very … familiar. Agatha has had a splendid idea.”
He outlined the idea for putting all the money in a safe deposit box.
“Excellent,” enthused the vicar. “It certainly is not safe to keep so much money at the vicarage. I’ll go and bag it up. Perhaps we can each have a key to the box, Arnold?”
“Just for yourself and Arnold,” said Agatha quickly. “No one else.”
“Of course.”
There was no sign of Trixie when they entered the vicarage. The money was packed into bags. Then Agatha and Roy escorted Arnold to his bank and waited while he made arrangements for the safe deposit box and saw the money safely stowed away. “I forgot that Mr. Chance should have come with us to sign for the other key,” said Arnold as they left the bank.
Back in the village, they refused Arnold’s invitation to join him for tea in his cottage.
Agatha had parked the car near the church. “We’ll walk from here,” she said. “Must get some exercise.”
“So what was that all about?” asked Roy. “Don’t you trust the vicar?”
“I don’t trust his wife. First, that gown she was wearing cost a fortune. Secondly, she deliberately spilled lemonade over the accounts. Thirdly, I think she’s getting her harpy fingers into the money.”
“But what about that poor accountant? What if someone forces him to get the money and then bumps him off?”
Agatha stood stock-still. Then she said, “Snakes and bastards. I might be risking his life. Back to Arnold’s we go.”
Agatha explained carefully to Arnold that he should give her the key and let it be known that she had it. The elderly accountant looked relieved. “I do feel all that money is a great responsibility. The manager at the bank was very helpful. He said I could use a little room there to do the accounts and that means the money does not need to leave the bank. Then when I have counted it thoroughly—I thought I had already done so, but there seem to be some discrepancies—it can go into a separate account and then cheques can be sent to the various beneficiaries.”
“You mean, money is missing?”
“Oh, I am
sure it is all down to my faulty eyesight. Here is the key. I will collect it from you when I need it at your office if you will supply me with the address.”
Agatha handed him a card. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “When it gets to the chequebook stage, there is no reason for anyone else to have to sign the cheques.”
“I had thought of two signatures, mine and Mr. Chance.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Agatha briskly.
“Now you’ve put your own life at risk,” said Roy as they walked back to their original parking place.
“I think I’ve made it all too complicated for dear Trixie.”
“What if it’s someone else?”
“There is no one else. Oh, here comes the lady of the manor.”
Miss Triast-Perkins came slowly towards them. “Have you just come from the vicarage?” she asked.
“We were there earlier,” said Agatha.
“Was Mrs. Chance wearing a lace gown?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Now that is too bad of her. That was one of my grandmother’s gowns. I lent it to her for amateur theatricals, to be worn carefully onstage but not around the house. I shall go and get it back now. I should never have lent it to her.”
Miss Triast-Perkins tottered off on a pair on unsuitable high-heeled sandals.
“Now, what have I done?” said Agatha gloomily.
“Maybe it’s the vicar.”
“Maybe it’s just Arnold’s eyesight,” said Agatha. “I should have gone over the books with him. I wonder if those papers have been collected off the washing line, or Trixie’s found some way to destroy them.”
“You’ve really got your knife into the vicar’s wife. Why?”
Agatha shrugged. “I can’t help feeling she deliberately poured lemonade over those papers.”
“Well, let’s call at the vicarage and find out.”
At the vicarage, Arthur Chance greeted them with surprise, and to their questions he answered that, yes, the papers had dried quickly and George Selby had just left to take them to the accountant.
“So there you are,” said Roy cheerfully as they walked back through the village. “Who’s George Selby?”
