by M C Beaton
“I think I’ll go to the manor,” said Agatha. “The sister, Mrs. Unwin, might have something interesting to say.”
“Perhaps now might not be a good time,” said George. “The poor woman must still be grieving.”
“Oh, right,” said Agatha.
She left the vicarage and found Charles waiting by her car. “I thought I might find you here,” he said. “What’s all this about suicide at the manor?”
Agatha gave him all the details and her suspicions that Sybilla’s suicide note had been referring to the murder of Sarah Selby rather than the jam at the fête.
“I’ve been warned off at the vicarage against going to see her,” she finished by saying.
Charles grinned. “And that’s not going to stop you?”
“No.”
“Right. Leave your car and we’ll take mine.”
The rain was coming down in torrents by the time they reached the manor. The door was standing open.
“Anybody home?” called Agatha. Rainwater was dripping through the roof into several buckets placed about the hall.
A plump, fussy woman appeared in the hall. “What do you want?”
“Mrs. Unwin?”
“Yes?”
“I am Agatha Raisin …”
“You’re that wretched woman who started all this off by interfering in the village fête! Get out of here.”
“And this,” said Agatha loudly, “is Sir Charles Fraith.”
Oh, the magic of a title, thought Agatha cynically, as Mrs. Unwin visibly thawed. “I suppose it will do no harm to speak to you for a little,” she said. “Come into the drawing room. Would you like some tea or coffee, Sir Charles?”
“It’s all right,” said Charles. “You’ve obviously got a lot to do with all these leaks.”
“That was so like my sister,” complained Cassandra Unwin as she led the way into the sitting room. “Never had any repairs done.”
“Will you sell this place?” asked Charles.
“I’ll need to fix it up. Mind you, a builder would pay a lot for it. Knock down the house and put a housing estate on the land.”
“Wasn’t this your family home?” asked Agatha.
“We grew up here, but I don’t have any happy memories. If Sybilla hadn’t insisted on hanging on to the place, she might have made a better life for herself. But suicide! I can’t take it in. She can’t have been responsible for anything like putting LSD in the jam. Where would she get it?”
“Your sister only referred to one death in her note,” said Agatha, “and yet there were two caused by the LSD.”
“Well, I don’t suppose she was sane when she wrote that.”
“I believe she was very fond of a Mr. George Selby,” said Agatha, cautiously feeling her way through what she saw as a minefield of difficult questions.
“She talked a lot about him. I think she even had a sort of schoolgirl crush on him. Why do you ask?”
Charles saw that Agatha was going to jump in with both metaphorical hobnailed boots, and said hurriedly, “We wondered whether he had called on you. Perhaps he might have a better idea as to your sister’s state of mind.”
“Then why don’t you ask him? Really! I have a lot to do and I cannot see the point of all these questions.”
Charles thanked her and, taking a reluctant Agatha by the arm, propelled her outside. “It’s no use,” he said. “You’re not going to get anywhere. You can’t come right out and ask her if Sybilla murdered George’s wife. She won’t have a clue anyway.”
“Let’s go and see Maggie Tubby and Phyllis Tolling. They’re the ones who put the idea in my head.”
The rain was still pouring down and they stood under an umbrella on the porch of the cottage in the main street, which seemed to be rapidly turning into a river behind them.
Phyllis opened the door. “You again. I thought the case was closed.”
“Not quite,” said Agatha.
“Come in.”
Maggie was reading a book in the front parlour. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.
“This is Sir Charles Fraith, who is helping me in the investigation.”
“A ‘sir,’” mocked Maggie. “How too terribly Dorothy Sayers. What do you want now?”
“Why did you suggest that Sybilla killed Sarah Selby?”
“We’re sure she did. She was so unbalanced when it came to George. Now it looks as if she went even battier and tried to poison the village.”
“But in her suicide note, she said she was sorry about a death. A death. Not two.”
“You don’t think she would be in exactly a sane state of mind,” said Phyllis. “What’s the matter with you? Trying to drum up some business? I tell you, the sooner that accountant gets to the bank and you give him that safe deposit key and he starts sending some money to the Andrews and Jessop families, the better it will be.”
“How do you know about the safe deposit key?” demanded Agatha.
“It’s all over the village. Everyone’s been trying to get their hands on some of the money. Some claim that the visitors trampled over their gardens and ruined them—that sort of thing.”
“So the only reason you think Sybilla killed Sarah Selby was a hunch?”
“Of course it was a hunch, you thickheaded creature. If we’d had any proof, we’d have gone to the police.”
“Come along,” said Charles. “The two witches haven’t got anything important to say.”
Maggie’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “You don’t like us, do you?”
“Who would?” said Charles.
_____________
Two days later, as the monsoon-like rain still continued to pour down, Agatha phoned her office. “I’ll be a bit late,” she said to Mrs. Freedman. “I’m going into Evesham to get my hair done.”
“You can’t, in this rain. Evesham’ll be drowned.”
“That’s down in the town. My hairdresser is in Bridge Street and it never gets flooded. I’ll go in by the ring road.”
“You’d better watch your village doesn’t flood.”
“Carsely never floods.”
“It might this time.”
Agatha noticed as she drove over the Simon de Montfort Bridge on the ring road that the river Avon had already flooded and was spreading rapidly out over the farmland on either side.
Although the traffic was moving easily on her side of the road, the other side seemed to be grid-locked.
She parked in the Aldi supermarket car park and walked through to Bridge Street. Outside Achille, the hairdresser’s, she turned and looked down towards the bridge. Police barriers were up. She walked down and joined the crowed of sightseers on the bridge. Waterside on the other side of the bridge was flooded. A large mobile home came hurtling down the river and smashed into the bridge. Bits of it appeared on the other side as if it had been through a giant shredder.
Agatha debated whether to return home while there was still time, but without her hair done she felt insecure.
Jeanelle, her hairdresser, greeted her with surprise. “We’ve been phoning up clients telling them not to come,” she said.
Agatha’s mobile rang. It was Toni. “We’re evacuating the office,” she said. “The police have been round telling us the water’s rising. The street below is flooded. We’re on the first floor, so with luck the water won’t come this high. But Phil’s found a man with a tractor and we’ve all been loading up the files and computers. The car park’s still dry, so once the tractor gets the stuff there, we can load it into our cars and take it to a storage unit we’ve rented on high ground.”
“It’s really bad, isn’t it?” said Agatha.
“Nobody’s seen anything like it.”
“Phone you later,” said Agatha.
But she insisted on getting her hair done.
As she joined the queue inching out of Evesham, she wished she had never come. She had complained about the rap music playing in the hairdressing salon. It had crashed around her ears sounding
like “Ugh, hunna hunna mudda fudda bitch, ugh.”
“Who likes that awful music?” she had asked Jeanelle. “Young people,” said the hairdresser. “It’s our music, if you know what I mean.”
I feel on the outside looking in, mourned Agatha. I feel trapped in an age group that’s out of touch with every other age group.
It took her three hours to reach the Carsely turn-off on the A44 by managing to plough through areas of flooding on the road.
When she got down to just before the centre of the village, she was met by a flood. Groaning, she parked the car, took off her shoes and began to wade through the swirling water. A dead cat floated past and a spasm of fear clutched her as she thought of her own cats.
The rain was still falling in torrents. She slipped and stumbled, several times nearly falling, until at last she reached dry ground on the other side. Agatha put on her shoes and hurried to Lilac Lane. Water was swirling down the lane. She rushed to her cottage. Charles had barricaded the front door with sandbags.
Agatha let herself in. He had left her a note on the kitchen table.
“Gone to check my own place. Keep dry! Love, Charles.”
Agatha checked her cats were safely indoors before going upstairs to change into dry clothes.
“It can’t get any worse,” she muttered.
But it did. Gloucestershire and the counties round about went under water. Her cottage stayed dry, but she had to house three elderly couples from the village who complained constantly that all the food she seemed to have were microwave curries.
Just when Agatha felt like committing murder herself, the sun came out and the waters receded. With great relief she saw her unwanted house guests leave. But then she was drafted in by Mrs. Bloxby to help clean out flooded cottages and to make frequent trips to the supermarket in Stow to bring back supplies of bread and milk.
At last she was free to go to her office in Mircester. Her staff were all there, unloading computers and other office equipment.
Gradually everything got back to normal and Agatha was just considering one evening whether to pursue the Comfrey Magna poisoning when she received a visit from Bill Wong.
“Survived the floods, Bill?”
“Just about. Agatha, this isn’t a social call.”
“What’s happened?”
“Someone masquerading as Arnold Birntweather, the accountant, and with all his identification called at the bank with the safe deposit key. He said the money needed to be counted again. He put it all in a large holdall and disappeared. In appearance, he seemed to be like the accountant, elderly and stooped.”
“But did the police hand this impostor the key?”
“They seem to have handed it over to the genuine man just after the flooding was over. He was accompanied by the vicar. When the vicar did not hear from him, he called at his house. Mr. Birntwweather had been killed by a savage blow to the head.”
“But they had seen Mr. Birntweather at the bank before.”
“Mr. Birntweather was old, with a dowager’s hump, thick glasses and dyed brown hair. The impostor looked exactly like that.”
“But how did the impostor get the number of the safe deposit box?” asked Agatha.
“Arnold Birntweather had a card inside his wallet with the number of the box on it. It was conveniently marked, ‘Safe deposit box number eleven.’”
“Snakes and bastards! When I went to see that precious pair, Tolling and Tubby, they told me that everyone in the village knew I had the safe deposit key, which probably explains the break-in at my cottage.”
“Do be careful, Agatha. I’d better get back to work.”
“Wait a bit. What about fingerprints?”
“Everyone knows about fingerprints these days.”
“CCTV cameras at the bank?”
“There’s a thought. You’d better come to headquarters with me and look at the film. See if you can penetrate that disguise somehow and recognize someone from that village.”
At police headquarters, Agatha studied the security tape film. Bill waited impatiently.
“Well?” he demanded at last.
“It’s odd,” said Agatha. “But I really do think that’s Arnold.”
“Mr. Birntweather?”
“Yes. I don’t think any impostor could be that good. Have you any footage of the street outside the bank?”
“I’ll run it for you. Why?”
“Maybe someone was waiting for him—someone who had threatened him.”
Bill slotted in another tape. Agatha saw Arnold climbing stiffly out of his old Morris Minor. “Look!” said Agatha.
“What?”
“Run that again. A car with tinted windows pulled in right behind him.”
“This is a very long shot, Agatha. I’ll check the number plate. Wait there.”
Agatha continued to study the tapes.
Then the door opened and Bill, Wilkes and Collins came in. Bill said, “You’re on to something. That car was stolen during the floods. It belongs to a respectable shopkeeper in Badsey.”
“You can go now,” said Collins.
“No ‘thank you’?” demanded Agatha. “I thought you had gone to Scotland Yard. Did they send you back?”
“Just get out of here!” snapped Collins.
Bill escorted Agatha out. “I thought she’d gone,” said Agatha.
“She did. But for some reason she came back and now we’re stuck with her. Thanks, Agatha. You’re a great help.”
Before she drove off, Agatha phoned Charles on his mobile, but as usual, it was switched off. She couldn’t text him a message because, even though she had a state-of-the-art mobile, not only did she not know how to text, she did not know how to take photographs or send e-mails. She phoned his home and for once she was in luck. Charles himself answered, rather than his man, Gustav, or his aunt. Agatha told him about the latest development.
“Where are you?” asked Charles.
“Just about to leave Mircester.”
“I’ll meet you at your cottage.”
“Thank goodness it’s dry at last,” said Charles. “But it’s cold. Mind if I light the fire?”
“Go ahead,” said Agatha. “Doris has it all set and ready.” Doris was Agatha’s cleaner and about the only person in the village who called Agatha by her first name. “I’ll fix the drinks.”
When Charles was comfortably settled in an armchair, cradling a glass of whisky and watching the flames leap up the chimney, he asked, “Any ideas?”
“My money’s on Trixie.”
“Come on! The vicar’s wife? Can you see her stealing a car and threatening poor Arnold?”
“I’m sure she deliberately tried to spoil the accounts.”
“What’s all this?”
Agatha lit a cigarette, scowled at it and put it out. Cigarettes in the morning tasted great, but later in the day, they’d lost their magic.
“I was with Roy, and Arnold and the vicar were sorting through the accounts at a table in the garden. Trixie arrived with a jug of lemonade and I swear she deliberately tipped it over the papers.”
“And were they ruined?”
“Well, no. It was sunny. Remember sunshine? I suggested we pin them up to dry. Arnold told me they were okay. Now, if Trixie had been squirrelling some of the money away and doctoring the accounts, Arnold might have known about it, but straightened it out with the vicar, not wanting any scandal.”
“I can’t believe it. Look, there were a lot of unsavoury things going on during the floods. Cars left on dry ground were being stolen. The gossip about the safe deposit box could have spread out from beyond the village. Put on the news and see if there’s anything.”
“Let’s see if they’ve done better than their coverage of the floods. Hopeless. I had to turn on the radio to get any proper news. All there was on TV was some reporter’s great face blocking off the screen talking to the man in the studio. And they were all in Tewksbury. It’s the herd instinct. They’ve always had it. One re
porter puts on his waders and stands in a flooded street in Tewksbury and the other reporters promptly head for Tewksbury to do the same, along with their cameramen. I’ll try the BBC 24 Hour News.”
They waited patiently through the usual dismal round of international news until suddenly the announcer said, “The village of Comfrey Magna is in shock tonight.” A brief summary of the disastrous fête and the theft of the money. “And now to our reporter, Alan Freeze, in Comfrey Magna, who interviewed the vicar, Mr. Arthur Chance, early this morning.”
“I am here with the vicar, Mr. Arthur Chance, and Mrs. Chance. This must be a sad blow, Mr. Chance.”
“It’s a disaster,” said Arthur Chance. Trixie stood beside him dressed in a long black gown with a low neck.
“I bet those breasts aren’t real,” muttered Agatha.
“I don’t know what to do,” Arthur went on, his voice trembling. “The church roof is leaking and there is no longer any money for the repairs.” He burst into tears. Trixie pressed his head into her bosom and stared nobly into the camera.
“Mrs. Chance?” pursued the reporter.
“I must take my poor husband indoors,” said Trixie. “It is not only the church roof that the money was needed for but for the families of the two ladies who were killed during the fête.” She tossed back her blonde hair but still managed to clutch her sobbing husband to her chest.
Her eyes filled with tears and she said with a little break in her voice, “Please help us.”
Then she escorted her husband into the vicarage.
“And now to the Middle East,” said the presenter.
“Switch it off,” said Agatha. “What a performance!”
“It was pretty moving,” said Charles.
“Oh, the vicar was genuine. But did you see how Trixie said ‘Help us’? Not ‘Help us find who did this terrible murder.’ She’s hoping for donations, and she’ll get them.”
