Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison ar-19

by M C Beaton

  Charles finished his drink. “You’re too cynical. We’ll pop over to Comfrey Magna in the morning.” He stood up and stretched and yawned. “I’m off to bed.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Coming with me?”

  “My days of casual sex are over,” said Agatha.

  “Didn’t know they’d ever started. Good night.”

  After he had gone, Agatha sat looking into the flames, her cats beside her on the sofa. She felt strangely empty and purposeless. For so long, her obsession for James, her ex-husband, had fuelled all her actions. She missed the roller coaster of emotions. She even missed the pain.

  “At least I felt alive,” she whispered to her uncaring cats.

  The morning was cold, damp and misty as Agatha drove herself and Charles to Comfrey Magna. At one point she said to Charles, “I forgot to find out about Jimmy Wilson.”

  “What about him?” asked Charles.

  “There’s something unsavoury about him. I asked Patrick to find out why he took early retirement from the police force. He made a pass at Toni.”

  “Most men would. She gets prettier by the minute.”

  Agatha felt a stab of jealousy. She had promised Toni to hold a dinner party to further the girl’s hopes with Harry Beam. Now she meanly decided not to do anything about it.

  Agatha parked at the entrance to the village, just before the vicarage. A great lake of water lay across the road, fed by angry little streams rushing down from the hills.

  “We’ll need to paddle,” said Charles. “I wouldn’t risk driving through that if I were you.”

  “I’ll see if I can see the ground underneath the water.” Agatha got out of the car. She stared down at the water gloomily and then returned to Charles.

  “We’ll need to paddle.”

  “Right.” Charles got out of the car, took off his socks and shoes and then his trousers. Agatha took off her shoes and hitched up her skirt.

  Charles, holding his trousers, socks and shoes above his head, walked into the water. “Not too bad,” he said. “It’s only just up past my knees.”

  “There’s the postal van outside the vicarage,” said Agatha, fighting to keep her balance in the swirling water. “I’ve always come this way. The road in from the other end must be clear.”

  “He’s unloading sacks of mail. The vicar’s distress must have caused a lot of people to send money. Dry ground at last,” said Charles. “We’ll nip into the church and I’ll put my trousers on. Don’t want to shock the vicar’s wife.”

  “You’re kidding. Nothing could shock that one.”

  The church was cold and damp. Buckets full of rainwater lay on the floor and balanced on the altar and the pews.

  Agatha shivered as she pulled on her shoes. “This is misery,” she moaned.

  “Never mind,” said Charles. “Think of those poor bastards in Cheltenham and Tewksbury. No drinking water and up to their armpits in sewage.”

  “I can never feel grateful because of other people’s misery,” said Agatha piously. “Let’s go. Hope the police aren’t there or it’ll be a wasted journey.”

  They were just about to emerge from the church when Agatha saw Wilkes and Collins leaving the vicarage. She retreated, colliding into Charles. “The police are just leaving,” she hissed. “Wait a minute. I wonder where their car is. I didn’t see a police car.” She peered round the church porch. A police car and driver drove in from the other end of the village. Wilkes and Collins got in and the car drove off.

  “All clear,” said Agatha. “Let’s go.”

  It was George Selby who opened the door to them. Does he never work? wondered Agatha.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said George. “This is hardly a good time. Everyone is grieving.”

  A merry peal of laughter sounded from the study.

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” said Agatha. “Let us in.”

  George reluctantly stood aside. Agatha felt a little sexual tremor as she brushed past him and opened the door of the study. Arthur Chance and Trixie were slicing open envelopes, their faces radiant.

  “Come in!” called Arthur when he saw them. “People are amazingly generous.”

  “I’m happy for you,” said Agatha. “But I really want to find out who murdered poor Arnold Birntweather.”

  “The police are looking into that,” said Trixie, slicing open another envelope and extracting a cheque. “Oh, George, darling, come and help me.”

  “I’ve got work to do. Mrs. Raisin …”

  “Agatha, please.”

  “Agatha, may I have a word with you in private?”

  Agatha followed him outside.

  “They really are upset and grieving,” said George, fastening those hypnotic eyes of his on Agatha’s face.

  “Doesn’t sound like it. What can I do for you, George?”

  “If you start asking them questions about Arnold’s murder, it will really distress them.”

  “But the police have just left and they don’t seem a bit distressed.”

  “Look, let’s go for dinner tonight and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Agatha brightened. “All right. Where and when?”

  “The Cantonese restaurant in Mircester? Say at eight o’ clock?”

  “Right.”

  He suddenly smiled down at her and Agatha felt weak at the knees. Must get rid of Charles, she thought frantically.

  Toni had invited a former school friend, Sharon, round to her flat that evening. She felt uneasily that she had been blackmailed into the invitation by Sharon complaining that Toni never saw any of her old friends.

  Thanks to Agatha’s generous salary, Toni had been at work on her flat since Harry had seen it. She had ripped up the carpet and polished the boards until they shone. They were now covered in brightly covered rugs she had bought at Mircester market. A new set of bookshelves ornamented one wall.

  “This is ever so nice,” said Sharon. She was a plump girl with masses of dyed red hair. Her crop top and low-slung jeans revealed a roll of fat and a fake ruby in her navel. “You’ve got a lot of books.” There was one lying on the coffee table. Sharon picked it up. “Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust. Didn’t we get that at school?”

  “No, none of us read much at school. We got the university notes on books and read them instead.”

  “So why are you reading a book by some Frenchie? Marcel. Sounds like a hairdresser.”

  Toni’s desire to talk about Harry overcame her. He hadn’t been able to come to Mircester because of the floods, but he had e-mailed her on her new computer and texted her regularly. In his messages, he suggested which books she should read and the type of music she should listen to.

  “It’s my new boyfriend,” said Toni. “He’s studying at Cambridge. He’s awfully clever. I did ask him for suggestions as to what I should read and I’ve been out buying piles of books.”

  Sharon, whose idea of a good read was the sort of magazine which described the private lives of celebrities along with other important female essentials like the type of vibrator to use, said, “I dunno if I’d like a chap like that.”

  “Why?” demanded Toni, immediately on the defensive.

  “Well, it’s like Kylie, remember her?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s tied up with Wayne. Remember Wayne?”

  Toni conjured up a memory of a gangling spotty youth who’d been in her class.

  “What about him?”

  “He and Kylie are an item. Got a flat out on the Evesham road. No sooner have they moved in together than he starts telling her what to wear. Dowdy clothes. He’s even got her to wear a cardigan and flat heels.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” complained Toni.

  “He’s making her over, don’t you see? And that’s what your fellow’s doing. Either the fellows like you for what you are or tell ’em to get stuffed.”

  “It’s not the same. He knows I want to improve my mind.”

  Sharon tossed back her thick hair
. “Listen, babes, there isn’t a fellow out there who’s interested in a girl’s mind. If they start making you over, it’s because they want to control you and keep you feeling inferior so you’ll end up thinking no other boy will want you.”

  “Oh, let’s talk about something else,” said Toni. “How’s your love life?”

  _____________

  Agatha told Charles that she had to go back to the office to catch up on work. “Don’t you want to go home and get some dry shoes?” asked Charles.

  “I’ve got a change of clothes in the office, Charles. Are you staying tonight? I have to warn you I might be late.”

  “Don’t sound so frantic, Agatha. Has George asked you out?”

  Mulish silence.

  “Aha. Okay, I’ll clear off. What’s he after?”

  “He’s going to give me everything he can think of that might give me a clue as to who murdered Arnold.”

  “And you don’t want me along because at one point in the dinner, he will reach across the table and take your hand and say he thought he could never find anyone to replace his wife, but now—”

  “Oh, do shut up!”

  Agatha really wanted to go home and spend a leisurely time getting ready for the evening, but Charles might hang around making sarcastic comments up until she left. The only reason she had said she was going to the office was to get rid of him.

  She dropped him off at her cottage, turned the car around and sped back to Mircester.

  Agatha was determined to buy something dazzling to wear. But the weather was a problem. It was actually cold. If the lowering sky sent down any more torrents, it might be better not to wear anything too filmy and seductive.

  She settled on buying a black wool trouser suit, black court shoes with a modest heel, and a scarlet silk blouse.

  With a flutter of anticipation she had not felt in ages, Agatha began to dream about the evening to come.

  Chapter Seven

  THE RESTAURANT was called the Moulmein Pagoda. Agatha wondered whether the owner was a Kipling fan. She remembered how she and her school friends had found an old wind-up gramophone in a skip. It had one record on the turntable, “The Road to Mandalay.” They had wound it up and played the record. Agatha had thought it romantic, but as soon as the record had finished, her companions had gleefully set about stomping on the record and gramophone until nothing was left but little pieces. She remembered the line, “By the old Moulmein Pagoda/Looking lazy at the sea,” because in later years, she had looked up the poem in the library and had memorized it. But the pagoda had been in Burma and the sailor had been looking to China across the bay.

  George was late. She ordered herself a mineral water and lit up a cigarette. Soon the smoking ban would be in force. The police were setting up a hotline where you could report anyone smoking on a free phone line. Of course, if you wanted to report a real crime, it would cost you fifty pee a minute. The powers that be were also going to send out undercover agents to restaurants and pubs. Soon it will be the obesity police, thought Agatha, snatching cream cakes from the jaws of ladies in tea shops.

  After half an hour, Agatha decided to leave. She was just getting to her feet when George hurried in.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said.

  “Half an hour, to be exact,” Agatha pointed out.

  “Sorry, sorry. Busy, busy.”

  He called the waiter over and said, “We’ll have the number-two menu please. Would you like some wine, Agatha?”

  “Do you think I might be allowed to choose it?” asked Agatha sarcastically.

  “Of course. They do a very nice house white here.”

  “Where is the wine list?”

  “On the back of the menu.”

  “I always think white wine goes better with Chinese food,” said George.

  “I like red,” said Agatha firmly. “I’ll have a half bottle of Merlot. What do you want?”

  “I’ll have a small carafe of the house white.”

  He shouldn’t have ordered the meal for me, thought Agatha angrily. Why do I always get to know cheapskates? Probably frightened I would start choosing from the a la carte.

  Aloud, she said, “I was wondering if the owner was a fan of Kipling.”

  “Why?”

  “The restaurant’s called the Moulmein Pagoda. That’s from ‘The Road to Mandalay’.”

  “Don’t know it.”

  “It goes like this …”

  To George’s horror, Agatha began to sing in a loud alto soprano. A group at the other end of the restaurant joined in. There was a round of applause when Agatha finished and she stood up and bowed.

  “Oh, do sit down and stop making a spectacle of yourself,” snapped George.

  But Agatha didn’t care what he thought. He had left her waiting for half an hour and then had chosen her dinner.

  “Do not … ever … speak to me like that again,” said Agatha in a level voice. “You are neither my husband nor my father. Would you like me to leave?”

  “No. Look—let’s start again. I’m still upset at Arnold’s death. Have the police any idea who broke into your cottage? It must be the same person who killed Arnold and stole the money.”

  Agatha sighed. “If it were a television programme, some forensics scientist would hold up one bit of hair and say, ‘Aha! This matches the DNA of Arthur Chance or whoever.’ But the police are probably sitting on their hands because it’s me and it’s only a burglary where nothing was stolen. Have you any idea at all who could have killed Arnold? You said you’d fill me in.”

  Suddenly in Agatha’s mind that last sentence seemed to have a sexual connotation. She flushed and studied her glass of Merlot.

  “I know that Arthur phoned Arnold on the day he was murdered and said they should both go to the bank that afternoon. Then he got a phone call from a Mrs. Wilmington, who was once a parishioner, pleading for his spiritual help and saying that she was close to death. So Arthur phoned Arnold and put the appointment off until the following day, because Mrs. Wilmington had given him an address in Warwick.

  “When he got to the address in Warwick, he found it was a betting shop and no one in the flats above had ever heard of Mrs. Wilmington. He returned to the vicarage and looked up her last address, which was in Ancombe. He phoned. Mrs. Wilmington answered the phone, claimed she was fit and well and had never phoned him.”

  “Didn’t he immediately call the police?”

  “No, he thought it was someone playing a tiresome joke.”

  “So there’s now a woman in the case. Probably a woman working in partnership with some man.” Agatha silently cursed the police. They had held back all this from her.

  “Let’s talk about something else. Ah, here’s our food. Tell me how you came to start a detective agency?”

  In between eating and drinking, Agatha gave him a highly embroidered version of the cases she had solved and how she had at last decided to turn professional.

  Then she realized that George had ordered another bottle of wine for her. “I’ll need to take a taxi,” said Agatha. “Oh, well, tell me about yourself. I’ve done all the talking.”

  George began. He was an architect and had settled in the Cotswolds because there were so many demands for house extensions and garage conversions. He was kept very busy. Of course, in a couple of cases, his clients had declared bankruptcy and he had not received any money for months of work. “I hadn’t realized until I moved to the Cotswolds that bankruptcy had become a sort of growth industry. I mean, I knew there were a lot around, but I thought it was from people who had used too many shop credit cards charging high interest.”

  “You must miss your wife very much,” said Agatha, mellowed with wine.

  He heaved a sigh. “Sarah was such a homebody. She made all the curtains herself when we moved in, and loose covers for the chairs. Her cooking was plain but delicious. She never had any ambition. When we were in financial difficulties, I suggested she might like to get a job to help out. But she cried
and said our home was her job.”

  “What about Fred Corrie?” asked Agatha, thinking that perhaps George was attracted to the useless clinging type.

  “What about her?”

  “Does she work?”

  “She paints. Watercolours. Don’t sell very well, but she’s got an income from a family trust. Did anyone ever tell you that you are a very sexy woman”?

  Agatha blinked. Then she said, “Maybe.”

  He laughed and called for the bill. “I’ll take you home in a taxi. We can pick up our cars tomorrow.”

  In the darkness of the taxi, he reached out and took her hand. He said softly, “I think our evening is not over yet.”

  Agatha took rapid inventory of her body. Legs—yes, shaved. Armpits, ditto. Was she ready for this? Yes, screamed her hormones.

  As the cab drew up outside her cottage, she saw all the lights were on inside. “That’s odd,” said Agatha. “I think someone’s in there.”

  George curtly told the taxi to wait. Agatha unlocked the door and marched straight into the sitting room. Charles was lying on the sofa, one leg in plaster propped up on a cushion.

  “What happened to you?” raged Agatha.

  “I fell down your stairs and broke my leg,” said Charles plaintively. “I called the ambulance and got fixed up.”

  “Why didn’t you go home?”

  “Aunt’s away and Gustav is on a break, so I decided you’d be the best person to look after me, light of my life.”

  “I’d better go,” said George.

  Agatha saw him to the door. “Charles is just a friend,” she said.

  “Oh, really? ’Night.”

  After he had gone, Agatha marched back inside. Charles was sitting upright on the sofa. Beside him on the floor was the discarded plaster cast, looking like a white umbrella stand.

  “What in hell’s name were you playing at?” raged Agatha.

  “Calm down. No, don’t shout. Listen. George Selby is a suspect, or had you forgotten? Ever since you’ve got over James, you’ve been desperate for a replacement. Think about it. Were you really going to fall into bed with a man who might have organized the death of his wife? A man who may even have killed poor Arnold?”