by M C Beaton
“No reply. Let’s see if we can get in.” Agatha took out a credit card.
“You can’t!” protested Phil. “That’s breaking and entering.”
“It’s just a Yale lock,” said Agatha, ignoring him. “Good heavens! It works. I thought maybe that only worked in the movies. Come in and shut the door behind you.”
The flat appeared to consist of a small living room, bedroom, tiny kitchen and a shower. Agatha went over to a desk by the window and began to search after putting on a pair of latex gloves.
“Nothing here,” she said while Phil waited nervously. “I could try this computer.”
“Probably protected by a password,” said Phil.
“May not be.” Agatha switched it on. “Let me see. E-mail. No, I can get right into it. Bingo. Silly cow. Here it is. ‘I’ll be bringing over the designs and expect the usual fee,’ sent to Comfort Shoes.”
“But we can’t do anything with this evidence,” protested Phil. “We can’t say how we got it.”
“Never mind. Back to the factory, and watch me!”
The managing director summoned Carry Wilks. A tall, mannish-looking woman came into the boardroom.
Agatha got straight to the point. “You’ve been selling designs to Comfort Shoes. There’s been a leak at their factory. You corresponded with them via e-mail.”
“What have you got to say for yourself?” demanded the managing director.
“Just this,” said Carry. “Screw the lot of you.” She marched out of the boardroom.
The managing director called for security to stop Carry from leaving the building. “I got the information by breaking into her flat,” said Agatha, “so call the police and get them to search her place and don’t say anything about me. Get her charged first. Say you got a tip-off from an anonymous caller at Comfort Shoes.”
As Agatha drove off, a police car sped past, heading for the factory. “I’m glad there weren’t any children,” said Agatha. “I mean, if she had been a single mother with kids to support, I might have felt bad about turning her in.”
When Agatha got back to her cottage that evening, she found Charles had left her a note. “Got to go home. Have taken the photos with me. May be back tonight. Love, Charles.”
Agatha sat down at the kitchen table after having let her cats out into the garden. She was just about to go through the morning’s mail, which she had not had time to open, when the phone rang. It was Roy Silver. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Sure. Why?”
There was a silence and Roy said, “I think I should come down for the weekend.”
“You’re welcome. Any particular reason?”
“We’re friends.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at Moreton Station, usual time, around six-thirty in the evening.”
“See you then.”
What’s up with him? Agatha wondered.
Ever since the advent of e-mail, one hardly ever got anything interesting in the post, apart from bills and junk mail. Agatha put the junk mail on one side to be thrown away and the bills on the other side. There was an interesting-looking square envelope of expensive paper. Agatha saved it for last and then slit it open and drew out a heavily embossed invitation.
At first she could hardly believe what she was reading. She rose stiffly from the kitchen table, went through to the living room and poured herself a gin and tonic. Returning to the kitchen table, she lit a cigarette, took a good strong pull of her drink and studied the invitation again. It said:
Mrs. Agatha Raisin
and the staff of the Agatha Raisin Detective Agency
are invited to a reception
at the George Hotel, Mircester, on October 2nd
to celebrate the engagement
of Felicity Jane Bross-Tilkington
to Mr. James Bartholomew Lacey.
Drinks and snacks. Dress informal.
Reception at 7:30 p.m. in the Betjeman Suite.
RSVP Mrs. Olivia Bross-Tilkington,
The Laurels, Downboys, Sussex, SX12 5JW
Agatha felt her heart thumping against her ribs. When had all this happened? He had written to her a month ago and said nothing about it.
She heard her front door opening and Charles calling, “Anybody home?”
“In the kitchen,” said Agatha, thrusting the invitation under the pile of junk mail.
Charles came in carrying the boxes of photographs. “You have a look. I can’t find anything. Yes, I got an invitation as well and from the lost look in your eyes, so did you.”
“Bastard!” said Agatha. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Why should he? All was over between the two of you. Stop being bitch in the manger and look forward to the evening. It’ll be interesting to see who won that confirmed bachelor’s heart.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” said Agatha stiffly.
“Oh, but I do. You don’t want him, but you don’t want anyone else to have him.”
“He should have told me!” howled Agatha.
“So you keep saying. Drop it. Life goes on.”
“I won’t go.”
“Of course you will.”
“He’s invited the whole bloody agency.”
“And you were thinking of not telling anybody?”
Agatha scowled. “Something like that.”
“You’ll just have to be a big girl and go. Wish him well. Be a lady.”
“Oh, all right. That must be why Roy is coming down this weekend. He must have had an invitation as well. Probably thinks my hand needs holding.”
“That’s what friends are for. Are you any further forward with finding out who put acid in the jam?”
“Not a clue. But I’m beginning to wonder a lot about George Selby.”
“You’ve spiked his guns. He’ll probably move to another village and start all over again. Now, I’d better be going. I just came back to give you the photographs.”
“Can’t you stay for a meal?”
“One of your frozen curries? No, thanks. Probably be around later in the week.”
The following day Agatha worked hard, because there was a backlog of unsolved cases. By the time she finished up, it was seven o’clock. She bought a copy of the Mircester newspaper before driving home. Once she had fussed over her cats and settled down at the kitchen table, she opened the newspaper and scanned the items. On page seven, there was a photo of Gilda posed outside the health farm, looking very glamorous. The headline was, “Architect Needs Money Before He Can Wed.” The story said that local architect George Selby was pleading with rich friends to put money into his glamorous fiancee’s venture of opening up her own clinic; otherwise she would not marry him. “‘I think he will get the necessary money,’ said beautiful Gilda Brenson yesterday. ‘He knows I must have my own business before I marry. Careers last, men don’t.’” The story went on to say that Mr. Selby lived in Comfrey Magna, scene of that disastrous fête where two women met their death after sampling jam heavily laced with LSD. It ended by saying that Mr. George Selby was unavailable for comment.
“I bet he is,” muttered Agatha.
There was a ring at the doorbell. Agatha got wearily to her feet and clutched her hip. She didn’t want a hip replacement. Not yet, surely. So ageing. She opened the door.
A furious George Selby thrust her into the hall. “You horrible old bat!” he yelled. “You got that story in the local rag.” He had Agatha by the shoulders and was shaking her.
“Are you going to k-kill m-me the w-way you k-killed your w-wife?” shouted Agatha.
He drew back his fist and punched her hard on the face. “I could kill you.”
Mrs. Bloxby, finding the door opened, had just walked in, clutching a jar of home-made chutney. She rushed forward and brought the jar down on George’s head and he slumped to the floor.
“Mrs. Raisin! Are you all right?”
“Thanks to you.”
Mrs. Bloxby knelt down by George. “Call an ambulance.�
�
“I’m calling the police as well,” said Agatha.
After what seemed an interminable wait, George was borne off in an ambulance. Two policemen had arrived and were taking notes. One turned to Mrs. Bloxby. “You are to come to the station with us and we caution you that anything—”
“What? Why?” screamed Agatha.
“We are charging you with causing grievous bodily harm.”
“You’re mad. She saved my life!” shouted Agatha and burst into tears.
Wilkes was furious when he learned the news. He knew officers were under constant pressure by the government to meet targets, but he knew the scandal the arrest of Mrs. Bloxby would cause. He had to interrupt Agatha, who was holding a press conference outside the police station about the iniquities of the force, to announce that no charges were being brought against Mrs. Bloxby. He warned Agatha not to say anything about it as, when George Selby recovered from what turned out to be a straightforward concussion, he would be put on trial.
But there was nothing he could do to stop the press from taking pictures of Mrs. Bloxby as she emerged from police headquarters. Bill Wong drove them both back to Carsely. Wearily, Agatha told him all about George’s engagement and how he had been trying to get money to fund Gilda’s clinic.
“Leave it alone,” urged Bill when she had finished. “I don’t think we’ll ever know whether he conspired with Sybilla to kill his wife, but I don’t really see what we can do about it now.”
“Is Mr. Selby going to be all right?” asked Mrs. Bloxby nervously.
“Yes. By the time the ambulance had got him to hospital, he was conscious and phoning his lawyer. You’re a brave woman. Agatha, are you sure you shouldn’t have gone to hospital for a check-up? There’s a huge bruise coming up on your cheek.”
“I’m fine.”
Bill wondered whether to mention that he had received an invitation to James’s engagement party and then decided against it.
When they arrived at Agatha’s cottage, Bill offered to drive Mrs. Bloxby on to the vicarage, but she refused, saying she wanted to talk to Agatha.
“I’ll be off, then,” said Bill. “We’re friends, right, Agatha? So if you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m always there for you.”
“What would I want to cry about?” said Agatha defiantly. “My face isn’t that sore.”
When Bill had driven off, Mrs. Bloxby followed Agatha into her cottage. “The police took away the chutney,” she said. “Good glass. It didn’t even break. Let me make you a cup of tea.”
“I’d like a stiff brandy.”
“Hot sweet tea is better for shock.”
“Brandy is for forgetting. I’ll get it. What about you?”
“A sherry would be nice.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby, after she had taken a little sip of sherry, “I received an invitation today to Mr. Lacey’s engagement party.”
“Oh, I knew all about that,” said Agatha airily.
Mrs. Bloxby studied her friend’s face.
Agatha crumpled. “Well, actually I didn’t know. And, yes, it was a shock.”
“But you didn’t want him any more.”
“I know. But I’m getting on and … and … as long as I thought he still wanted me, it meant there was someone out there who did. I can’t stand the idea of everyone pitying me and thinking I’ll be in mourning. I hate being pitied!”
“No one will pity you if you turn up at that party and give him your blessing.”
“I rather thought of not going.”
“Then everyone will pity you.”
“Snakes and bastards!” Agatha let out a puff of angry cigarette smoke and took a gulp of brandy. “I wonder what she’s like?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Go.”
“I suppose so. I wonder why. I mean, he always struck me as a confirmed bachelor. Even when we were married, he went on as if I were some sort of junior officer. Look, thank you so much for saving me. I wonder if George really would have killed me?”
“He’s a dangerous man,” said Mrs. Bloxby with a shudder. “I’d better get back to the vicarage.”
As she walked through the hall, Mrs. Bloxby said, “A bit of the jar must have broken after all. Look! There’s a bit of glass on the floor.” She bent down and picked it up. “It’s a contact lens, a green contact lens.”
Agatha grinned. “So much for George’s beautiful green eyes.”
When Agatha met Roy as he arrived by train on Friday, she had to endure being clasped to his thin bosom. “You poor, poor darling,” said Roy.
“Get off me!” snarled Agatha. “If you think I am in mourning over James’s engagement, forget about it.”
“There’s no need to be so rude,” retorted Roy angrily. “Really, sweetie, it’s a wonder you’ve got any friends left, the way you go on.”
“I can’t stand the idea of everyone being sorry for me,” said Agatha. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Come along. I’ll take you for dinner.”
Roy was dressed conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt and striped silk tie. “Sticky account?” asked Agatha sympathetically.
“Very sticky. Jason’s Country Clothes. I’ve to make a big push to promote them.”
“Then I would have thought you’d have been kitted out in a Barbour and shooting breeches.”
“I was,” said Roy as they walked to Agatha’s car, his thin face flushed with annoyance. “I even wore a tweed fishing hat and the managing director said I looked ridiculous.”
“You weren’t wearing your gold earring with the fishing hat, were you?”
“Well, I was. I forgot to take it off. I’ve got some casuals in my bag.”
After they had dined and returned to the cottage, Roy asked, “What are all those boxes of old photos doing on your kitchen table?”
Agatha told him. “I’ve been through them, and so has Charles.”
“I’m not tired,” said Roy. “Fix me a coffee and I’ll have a look.”
Agatha made him a cup of coffee and took herself off to bed. She was awakened an hour later by Roy shaking her. “Leave me alone, Charles,” she mumbled.
“It’s not him, it’s me,” said Roy.
Agatha switched on the bedside light and struggled up against the pillows. “What’s up? Found something?”
“It’s what I haven’t found which is interesting.”
“That being?”
“It’s what’s not there. There’s no photo of the vicar’s wedding.”
“Well, they’d hardly have it with the rest,” complained Agatha. “I bet it’s framed in silver somewhere in the vicarage. What did you think? They might not really be married?”
“Something like that.”
“Dream on.”
“We could nip over there tomorrow. I didn’t like Trixie.”
“Neither did I. Oh, very well. The vicar might have heard some gossip.”
Roy and Agatha set out next morning for Comfrey Magna. Roy was wearing a white silk blouson with skintight blue velvet trousers and ankle boots with stacked heels. Agatha reflected that the jeering comment that some man looked like a big girl’s blouse could certainly apply to Roy, but she held her tongue. If she criticized his dress, she was sure he would sulk for the rest of the day.
Agatha had phoned the police earlier that morning to say she would not be pressing charges against George. She had no desire to appear in court to be ripped apart in public by some defence counsel.
Arthur Chance opened the door to them himself. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Do come in. I am so sorry about Mr. Selby. The poor man must have been terribly overwrought, but all things end happily.”
“Really?” Agatha and Roy followed him in. “How happy?” asked Agatha when they were seated in the vicarage living room.
“Mr. Selby—George—called on me this morning. He checked himself out of hospital. He gave me the glad news.”
“That he and Gilda are to be married?”
“That was merely a fabricati
on of the press. No, he is to be married to Miss Frederica Corrie.”
“What! That’s sudden.”
“Evidently they had been courting for some time.”
“And you believe that rubbish?”
“She doesn’t want to,” came his wife’s amused voice. “She’s jealous.”
“Rubbish,” said Agatha. “I’ll bet dear Fred is rich.”
“Pots of money,” said Trixie.
“Well, there’s your answer.”
“Please leave,” said the vicar. “I don’t like your unchristian comments. You have brought nothing but tragedy to this village.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t spike the jam. I didn’t steal the money.”
“You heard hubby,” said Trixie, her eyes sparkling with malice. “Take your toy boy and shove off.”
Agatha opened her mouth to blast her, but Roy pulled at her arm. “Let’s just get out of here,” he said.
Outside the vicarage, Agatha said, “We’re going to see Gilda. I wonder if she knows the news.”
They drove to Bartley’s Health Farm. “I assume she works on Saturdays,” said Agatha. “Wait here. I’ll ask at the desk.”
After a few minutes,” Agatha came hurrying back. “She’s at home. I know where she lives.”
They drove into Oxford and managed to squeeze into a parking place outside Gilda’s house.
Gilda answered the door and stared at Agatha. “So it’s you. The private detective. George told me about you.”
“Do you know he is engaged to a certain Frederica Corrie?” asked Agatha.
“I am not surprised. I visited him in hospital and told him we were no longer engaged. I have been ridiculed in the press as a gold digger. Now go away.”
“What will you do now?”
“Find a really rich man who does not have to chase after silly rich women to get money for me.” And with that, Gilda slammed the door in their faces.
“She can’t have cared a jot for him,” said Agatha as they both got in the car.
“It doesn’t solve a thing,” complained Roy, “unless you suspect her of having pushed George’s wife down the stairs.”
