Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison ar-19

by M C Beaton

  Mrs. Brother was waiting for them on the landing at the top of the stairs. She was stooped and wrinkled and seemed very old indeed, but her eyes were bright and sharp.

  “Come in,” she said.

  They entered a low-ceilinged, sunny room. Unlike most homes of the elderly, the room was neither over-furnished nor filled with photographs. There was a good landscape over the fireplace. A sofa and two comfortable chairs were covered in faded chintz facing a low coffee table. A Persian rug lay on the polished boards on the floor. There was a small polished round table with three upright chairs by the window holding a little crystal glass of wild flowers.

  “Please sit down,” said Mrs. Brother.

  Agatha’s eyes fell on a large glass ashtray on the coffee table. “Do you smoke, Mrs. Brother?”

  “Yes, I enjoy the occasional cigarette.”

  Agatha pulled out her cigarette packet and offered her one. I can go on smoking if this ancient lady can still smoke and feel no ill effects, thought Agatha.

  Mrs. Brother lit up a cigarette and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. “I shouldn’t really,” she wheezed when she could speak.

  Agatha decided not to have a cigarette after all.

  “Can you tell me anything about Trixie Webster?”

  “I remember her. I was the one who phoned the police. She was squatting with a bunch of hippies in the basement. They played music so loudly that the whole building seemed to vibrate. My husband was alive then and went down to give them a ticking-off. Trixie threw a glass of vodka in his face and I do not wish to repeat what she said to him, but it was mostly four-letter words. When he told me, I called the police. It was hard to get the police to come even in those days, so I lied and said I thought they had guns.

  “They raided the place and to my delight, they actually found a gun—a sawn-off shotgun. Mark Murphy—he was married to Trixie at that time—was sent away for a long time because it transpired the shotgun had been used in a bank hold-up. They also found a large quantity of drugs. It was Trixie’s first offence and she got off lightly because she testified against the others. After that, I read in the local paper that she had been caught again for supplying drugs at a pop concert.”

  “Do you know she is now a vicar’s wife?”

  “What is the name of this vicar?”

  “Mr. Arthur Chance. I wonder how she met him?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he was prison-visiting. Why are you asking about her? Wait a minute. That fête in Comfrey Magna where there was LSD in the jam?”

  Agatha nodded her head.

  “And two women dead because of it! Trixie Webster is a wicked woman.”

  “I wonder why the police didn’t get on to her,” said Toni.

  “I remember she was charged under her married name of Murphy,” said Mrs. Brother. “And I don’t think the police would suspect a vicar’s wife. What will you do now? Have you any real evidence?”

  “No,” said Agatha slowly. “But if she testified against one of her former friends and was looking for some acid, they may have heard of it. Can you remember exactly when it was that she was charged with the others?”

  “You’ll need to wait a minute. I kept a newspaper cutting in my scrapbook.”

  Mrs. Brother stubbed out her cigarette and got painfully to her feet. She was doubled up with another frightening fit of coughing. Must really give it up, thought Agatha.

  She seemed to be gone a long time. The flat was very quiet. “Do you think she’s dead?” whispered Toni.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Agatha whispered back. “I should never have let her have that cigarette.”

  There was at last a shuffling sound and Mrs. Brother came back into the room carrying a heavy scrapbook. Toni leaped to her feet and took it from her. “Put it on the table by the window,” said Mrs. Brother.

  She opened the book to where she had marked a place with a slip of paper. “There it is.”

  They had all given the Puddleton Close address except one, a certain Cherry Upfield, whose address was listed as 5, Bybry Close, Cheltenham. Agatha took out her notebook and wrote it down. She turned to Mrs. Brother. “If she was Trixie Murphy when she was living here and I asked you about a Trixie Webster, how did you make the connection?”

  Mrs. Brother smiled. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The name Trixie and drugs and by the time she was booked for possession, she was booked under the name of Webster. She must have been divorced by then and her picture was in the newspapers. This is all very exciting. Will you come back and see me and let me know what happens?”

  Agatha promised but, outside, asked Toni to make a note of it. She did not want to think she might forget her promise.

  When they were in the car, Agatha said, “Hand me that map of Cheltenham out of the glove compartment. Let me see, Bybry Close. It’s actually in Charlton Kings. Get back out on the London Road and I’ll direct you from there.”

  “Surely it’s quicker from here,” said Toni.

  “Probably. But I’ve been lost in Charlton Kings so many times, I prefer to go the way that I know I can find my way round the one-way system.”

  “Such a long time,” said Toni. “Fifteen years! She may be long gone.”

  “Need to just hope,” said Agatha, reflecting sadly that, to her, fifteen years ago sometimes felt like yesterday.

  Bybry Close had an air of genteel decay. Some of the houses were bravely painted in pastel colours, but most had faded dirty stucco fronts and weedy little gardens full of the detritus of old prams and children’s broken toys.

  Toni rang the bell. After a few minutes, she said, “I don’t think it’s working,” and knocked loudly at the door.

  A woman in her forties answered the door. Toni felt disappointed. Surely this plump little woman with a round rosy face and conservative clothes could not be Cherry Upfield.

  But Agatha pushed past Toni and demanded, “Cherry Upfield?”

  “Yes. Who wants to know?”

  Agatha patiently explained who they were and that she wanted to ask questions about Trixie Webster.

  “That cow,” said Cherry vindictively. “I hope she’s dead somewhere with a needle in her arm.”

  “Don’t you read the newspapers or watch television?” asked Agatha. “She’s now a vicar’s wife and lives in Comfrey Magna.”

  “Was that her? Blimey. I thought she looked a bit like the Trixie I used to know, but I thought she couldn’t possibly be. She was a redhead when I knew her, although, mind you, she dyed her hair. Come in.”

  She ushered them into a cluttered living room lined with books. “So what’s Trixie got to do with the goings-on at Comfrey Magna?” asked Cherry when they were seated.

  “We don’t know,” said Agatha. Toni was pleased with that “we.” Agatha usually said “I,” as if Toni were not present. “But we’ve just found out her drugs background and that she testified against you and the others. If she wanted to get hold of some acid, who would she go to?”

  “I don’t know. I’m long out of the drugs scene. Then, after she testified against us, no one would want to know her. But someone who was really into selling the stuff was Zak Nulty. I saw him the other day going into that pub, the Blodgers, on the Cirencester Road. You could try him, if you can find him.”

  “What does he look like?” asked Toni.

  “He’s very tall and thin and when I spotted him, he hadn’t changed all that much except he was going bald at the front and had his hair tied back in a grey ponytail.”

  “Whereabouts on the Cirencester Road?” asked Agatha.

  “Just after the T-junction on the London Road. On the left.”

  They thanked her and promised to let her know of any outcome.

  At the pub, there was no sign of Zak Nulty, but they realized they were hungry and ordered sandwiches and drinks.

  The pub began to fill up with an unsavoury-looking crowd of young people. Several of the men were eyeing up Toni. They probably think I’m her mother, thought Agatha dis
mally.

  After an hour, Toni said, “We may have missed him in the crowd. Let’s look outside. He may have gone to the bar, got a drink and gone outside for a smoke. There are a few tables outside.”

  Outside the pub, a large crowd was standing, filling the air with blue smoke. Toni nudged Agatha. Sitting at one of the tables was a tall thin man with a ponytail.

  Boldly Agatha walked up to him. “Zak Nulty?”

  “Who you?”

  “Someone who’s willing to pay you for a few minutes of your time—in private.”

  He grinned and rose to his feet. They followed him to the side of the pub. “Now, what’s it about?”

  “Trixie Webster.”

  “Who?”

  But his eyes flickered.

  Agatha opened her handbag and took out a roll of notes which she always carried tucked away in case she needed to bribe someone.

  He looked at the notes and said slowly, “What if I do?”

  “Did she ask you for any LSD recently? We’re not the police.”

  “I’ll put it this way,” said Zak slowly. “You tell the police and I’ll find you and break your legs.”

  “Okay,” said Agatha. “I just want to know.”

  “You someone from that village where she lives?”

  “Yes,” lied Agatha.

  He eyed the notes greedily. “How much is there?”

  “Five hundred.”

  He hesitated and then said, “Well, I don’t owe that bitch nothing. Yes, I got her some acid. Now, give me the money and don’t let me see you again and if the pigs come for me, you’re toast.”

  Agatha handed over the money and she and Toni hurried off to the car park.

  Toni drove off a little way and then parked the car. “Now, what do we do?” she asked.

  “Tell Bill.”

  “What! No confronting the suspect like Poirot? And what if Zak comes looking for us?”

  “Let me think. I know. We now know for sure that Zak is dealing drugs. We tell Bill to get the police to pick him up for dealing and possession. Then they can cut a deal with him. He testifies he gave Trixie the acid and that’s that. Let’s get to police headquarters.”

  But they were told that Bill was at home. Agatha’s heart sank. Bill’s parents always surveyed her as if something particularly nasty had turned up on their doorstep.

  Cherry Upfield fed her cat and settled down in front of her television set to watch a late edition of Midlands News. She sat up straight as a shot of a church covered in scaffolding came into view and the presenter said, “Repairs have begun on the church in Comfrey Magna, scene of recent extraordinary events.” As Cherry watched, there was an interview with the vicar, and standing next to him, smiling sweetly, was Trixie.

  Cherry’s eyes narrowed. That smug bitch. She’d still like to get even with her. She lifted the receiver on the phone next to her chair and dialled directory inquiries and asked for the number of Arthur Chance at the vicarage in Comfrey Magna.

  The phone rang several times and then a woman answered.

  “Trixie?” asked Cherry.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  Got a posh voice now, thought Cherry. “It’s me, Cherry Upfield.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you,” said Trixie firmly, and Cherry was suddenly sure she was about to hang up.

  “Wait! I just want to give you a warning. Do you know Agatha Raisin?”

  “Go on.”

  “She’s on your trail. Got your drugs background. I hope you didn’t get any acid from Zak because that was where she was heading when I left.”

  Trixie hung up and stood, breathing hard. “Who was it?” called Arthur.

  “A well-wisher,” said Trixie.

  _____________

  Agatha and Toni, having passed the formidable barrier that was Mrs. Wong who had grumbled at the lateness of the hour, told Bill all they had found out.

  He listened to them with excitement. “We never thought of checking a vicar’s wife out,” he said. “We’ll get on to it in the morning.”

  “Be sure you get Zak before he gets us,” said Agatha. “He said he would break my legs if I told the police.”

  “Leave it with me.”

  “So that’s that,” said Agatha as she said goodnight to Toni after dropping her off at her flat. “Thanks for all the driving. I’m still so tired, I’ll be glad to get home.”

  Once in her cottage, Agatha unwound the cats from around her ankles and decided to check her answering service.

  There was one message from Mrs. Bloxby. She said, “I hope it’s all right. I gave Mrs. Chance your address. She said she had some news that might help you.”

  Agatha checked that the burglar alarm was on. She wondered whether to phone Bill and then decided to do it in the morning.

  She slept uneasily, wishing not for the first time that she had bought a modern house and not an old thatched cottage where the timbers creaked and the thatch rustled.

  In the morning she showered and dressed and went downstairs. She opened her front door to bring in the pint of milk that she had ordered to be delivered every day. Agatha drank her coffee black but liked to have milk in the fridge for her pampered cats and for any visitors. She wondered where Charles was and wished he would leave a note every time he went away to say when he would be back. She debated whether to phone him but did not feel like dealing with his man, Gustav, who delighted in telling her that Charles was not at home, even when he was.

  She was bending down to pick up the bottle of milk when she saw a little dead bird lying beside it. Blue tits had a habit of pecking through the foil top of the milk and drinking the cream. Agatha went back into her cottage on shaking legs and called the police.

  Bill and Wilkes turned up, followed by a forensic team. Agatha explained how Mrs. Bloxby had left her a message to say that Trixie had called, asking for her address. The little bird was bagged up and the milk bottle sealed and taken away.

  Agatha suddenly had a horrible idea. “The office!” she exclaimed. “There’s milk delivered there. I’d better phone Toni and tell her to get round there and make sure no one touches it. Nobody’s due at the office for another hour.”

  “We’ll send a policewoman round there to meet her,” said Wilkes.

  Toni hurried round to the office. She looked down at the bottle of milk outside and decided it would be best to leave it until the police arrived. She unlocked the door and went in.

  She was just jacking up her computer when she heard a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called over her shoulder.

  Toni heard someone come in. “Did you get the milk?” she asked.

  “No, but you’re going to get it.”

  Toni swung round and stared in alarm at Trixie Chance, who was standing there with a knife in one hand and the bottle of milk in the other.

  “You and that lesbian boss of yours have ruined my life,” said Trixie. “Let’s see what she feels when she finds her little creature dead on the office floor—although she’s probably dead herself by now.”

  “I’m not a lesbian and neither is Agatha,” said Toni, standing up. “Put down the knife.”

  Toni moved behind her typing chair.

  “Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” snarled Trixie.

  “Because you caused the deaths of two women,” said Toni, while inside her head her mind raced. To have survived a brutal childhood, to have come out of it all into the sunshine of a glorious life and to have it threatened by this madwoman. Toni felt herself beginning to burn up with white-hot rage. She grasped the back of her wheeled typing chair and ran with it, slamming it into Trixie and sending her flying just as the door opened and a policewoman and policeman rushed in. Trixie was making a dive for the knife, which had fallen out of her hand, when the policewoman fired her Taser gun into her back.

  The policeman handcuffed Trixie while the policewoman said, “She’ll come round any minute now. What happened here?”

  Toni told her about Agatha’
s warning. The police called for forensics and told headquarters to tell Wilkes of the latest development.

  More police arrived. Toni repeated her story over and over again while a recovered Trixie was taken away, swearing horribly.

  By the time Toni arrived at police headquarters to make an official statement, the press were gathered outside.

  Inside, she was relieved to find that she was to be questioned by Bill and Wilkes. She had dreaded being interviewed by the bullying Collins.

  When the interview was over, Bill said, “Do you want us to call your mother?”

  “No, it’s all right,” said Toni. “She’s living in Southampton now. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll find Agatha waiting for you.”

  Still suffering from shock, Toni went out into reception to find Agatha sitting there. She eyed her uneasily. What if Agatha was a lesbian and that was the reason for all her generosity?

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” demanded Agatha. “Have I got a smut on my nose?”

  “Trixie said you were a lesbian,” Ton blurted out.

  Agatha began to laugh. When she had finished laughing, she said, “Sometimes I wish I were. It would make life a lot easier. Men! I phoned Charles for support and he answered his phone for once and said he couldn’t make it because he had some female staying with him. Now, tell me what went on.”

  Toni sat down next to her and wearily described again what had happened.

  “Well, if the forensics turn up trumps, they’ve got her for two counts of attempted murder,” said Agatha, “so that’s good enough to be going on with. I’ve still to make an official statement, so I’ll be here for a while. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’ve told the others to do the same. Forensics will be working in the office for most of the day.”

  Toni emerged and blinked as a battery of flashes went off in her face. The chief constable, George Robinson, was addressing the press. He put an arm around Toni’s slim shoulders. “All I can tell you,” he said, “is that this brave private detective tackled someone who was attempting to murder her. I will make a further statement later.”

  Agatha heard the commotion and opened the door. “This way, Toni!” the photographers were shouting.