by M C Beaton
He turned back and joined Agatha. “Let’s jack this in.”
But Agatha, who had been turning round from time to time to see if James was coming back, saw his tall figure climbing over the stile, and said curtly, “Don’t whine. The exercise is good for you.” Then she, too, stepped in a puddle, but now that James was catching up with the group, she was determined not to notice it.
“This land,” said James, “used to belong to the Church. Then it was part of the Hurford estate. Lord Hurford lost his money gambling in the twenties and Pendlebury bought it from him. He had a place in Yorkshire but didn’t like the climate. That was the present Lord Pendlebury’s father. Now that little blue flower just at your feet, Mrs Mason, is…” He looked around. “Can anyone tell me?”
“Like being back in bloody school,” muttered Roy.
“Speedwell,” said Mrs Bloxby.
“Very good,” said James with such warmth and approval in his voice that Agatha decided to buy a book on wild flowers and plants and study it before the next ramble. She had expected a gentle tour around the fields and then back home, but the indefatigable walkers ploughed ahead through woods and fields until, with a feeling of relief, Agatha saw the spire of the church and knew they were circling back home and were nearly at Carsely.
James finally joined Agatha. “So now you are back with us, can we expect any more murders?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Agatha, although guiltily wishing that someone in the village would bump someone off so that she and James could go detecting again.
James looked thoughtfully down at Agatha. There was something rather sad and lost at the back of her eyes. He wanted the old truculent and confident Agatha back. “Why don’t I call for you in an hour,” he said suddenly, “and we’ll have a drink together at the Red Lion?”
“I would love that,” said Agatha.
“Bring your friend, of course.”
“He will be much too tired,” retorted Agatha. Roy had only come down because Wilson had told him to. He was not going to spoil her evening.
And so a sulky Roy was told to watch television until she came home.
Agatha searched feverishly through her wardrobe for something attractive that would not look too overdressed. Everything felt tight. She tried on dresses and skirts and blouses, settling for a comfortable old tweed skirt and sweater at the very last minute. Life was once more full of excitement and colour. She was home.
Bugger London!
Deborah Camden trudged up the long drive which led to Sir Charles Fraith’s mansion. Jessica had ordered her to walk over the route and check it out, but Deborah did not want to find herself facing some angry landowner or keeper all on her own and had decided it would be less frightening to call at the house first and explain her presence. To people who love architectural gems, Barfield House might appear a disappointment. It was not even Victorian Gothic. It was a large building built in the fake medieval style, vaguely William Morris, with mullioned windows on which the sun sparkled and winked.
The door was massive and studded. Deborah looked timidly around to see if there was perhaps not a smaller and less intimidating door but could not see anything. There was an electric bell on the wall at the side. She rang it and waited.
The door was opened by a man in a black suit, white shirt and plain silk tie. He had grizzled hair, small black eyes and a long mouth. He studied her impassively, and yet Deborah was suddenly sharply aware of the cheapness of everything she was wearing.
“Yes?” he demanded.
“Sir Charles Fraith?”
“Who wants him?”
“I represent the Dembley Walkers.” A thin line of sweat was forming on Deborah’s upper lip.
A voice called out, “Who is it, Gustav?”
The man turned and said evenly, “A person from the Dembley Walkers, sir.”
Gustav drew back and his place was taken by Sir Charles. He blinked at Deborah and said, “You’re a girl. I thought it might be one of those big beefy chaps with big beefy boots. Come in.”
Deborah walked into a vast oak-panelled hall. A moose head glared down at her from high up near the ‘boat’ ceiling, wooden and arched like those in old churches. Sir Charles led the way into a drawing-room, with Chippendale chairs upholstered in red and cream, a large fire, oak-panelled walls like the hall, and long mullioned windows looking out over the park, where deer flitted through the trees.
“Tea,” said Sir Charles to the hovering Gustav.
Gustav moved noiselessly forward, picked a log out of a basket beside the fire and hurled it into the flames with unnecessary force before going out of the room.
“Now, Miss…?”
Deborah held out a thin hand. “Deborah Camden. Pleased ter meet you.”
“And very pleased to meet you. Sit down. Sit down. I received a letter from Mizz Tartinck. I have just sent off a reply. Part of the right of way runs straight through one of my fields. There is, however, quite a pretty walk round the edge of that field. If you would be content with that, I would be glad to supply you all with tea.”
“Oh, you are awfully kind,” said Deborah. She was beginning to relax. Sir Charles looked so mild and inoffensive, and Jessica could not turn down such a generous invitation.
Sir Charles smiled at her. He thought she was a decent sort of girl. She had thick, pale, fair hair, permed into curls and waves in a rather old–fashioned style. Her face was very white, almost anaemic, and she wore no makeup. She had white lashes and pale blue eyes. Her thin figure, encased in a cheap little white nylon blouse, acrylic skirt, and droopy wool cardigan, was thin and flat-chested. She had very long legs under the short skirt, and rather knobby knees which Sir Charles decided he found rather exciting.
“This Mizz Tartinck sounds a formidable sort of lady,” said Sir Charles.
“Oh, she’s a darling, really,” said Deborah, “and awfully well educated. She’s a schoolteacher like me and should really be teaching somewhere better than Dembley Comprehensive.”
Wouldn’t be able to rule the roost at a more distinguished school, thought Sir Charles, but he said aloud, “Well, if the rest of the Dembley Walkers are like you, Deborah, then it should be quite a jolly day.”
“They get a bit hot under the collar about landowners,” volunteered Deborah.
“Why?”
“Well…er…they feel the countryside ought to belong to everyone.”
“But if, say, I did not own and run this estate, what would happen to it? People can’t afford places like this these days. I mean, it might be sold off in lots to a builder, and bang! goes another slab of countryside. Absolutely shiters, that. I don’t want to appear hard. Not a hard man, Deborah. Soft as butter. But I notice that there are rights of way sometimes through council estates and things but you lot don’t demand the right to march through their gardens, now do you?”
“I suppose not. But don’t you think it is an unfair society where someone like you should have so much and other people so little?”
“No, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh.”
The door opened, and Gustav came in carrying a tray heavy with tea-things.
“What’s this, Gustav, my man?” demanded Sir Charles. “No cakes or biscuits?”
“I’ll get them,” said Gustav.
The tray was set on a low table in front of the fire between Deborah and Sir Charles.
“Shall I be mother?” asked Deborah.
Gustav rolled his eyes and muttered audibly, “Saints preserve us,” before exiting again.
Deborah blushed painfully. “What did I say wrong? I just meant I would pour the tea.”
“So you did, and so you shall. Don’t pay any attention to Gustav. He’s potty.”
Gustav came back in carrying a plate with cakes. As his return was so quick, Deborah guessed that he had expected Sir Charles to demand cakes and had left the plate somewhere outside the door. Gustav shook out a napkin and placed it on Deborah’s lap, contempt
in every line of his expressive body.
She found her hands were beginning to tremble and said, in almost a whisper, “Perhaps Gustav should serve.”
“See to it, Gustav.”
Deborah murmured that, yes, she took milk and sugar, and heaved a sigh of relief when Gustav left the room again.
“So tell me about yourself,” said Sir Charles. “What do you teach?”
“Physics.”
“How clever of you.”
“Not really clever,” said Deborah. “And I hardly ever get a bright pupil. But this is my second teaching job. Maybe I’ll move on next year.”
“Any of the pupils give you a hard time?”
“Ooh, yes. There was this nasty boy, Elvis Black. Ever so horrible. Always jeering and breaking things. But Jessica went round and had a word with his parents. I don’t know what she said, but he’s been quiet as a lamb ever since.”
Sir Charles was beginning to regret his invitation to the Dembley Walkers to take tea with him. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Jessica was every bit as horrible as she sounded in her letter. But he liked Deborah. He liked her inoffensive quiet manner, he liked her pale, bleached look. He particularly liked those knees. The more she talked about her school life, the more she relaxed, and only Gustav coming back in to throw yet another unnecessary log on the fire made her look at her watch and say that she had better be getting back.
“I’ll run you home,” said Sir Charles.
“No, it’s all right,” said Deborah, conscious of Gustav’s black eyes on her. “I left my little car down at the lodge gates. I like walking, really”
Sir Charles stood up at the same time as Deborah. “Give me your phone number,” he said. “We must do this again.”
Deborah fumbled in her bag and found a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbled down her phone number.
“I will show Miss out,” said Gustav.
Gustav held open the massive front door for Deborah. She ducked her head as she passed him, but he said suddenly, “Don’t get any ideas about Sir Charles. He isn’t for the likes of you. So keep your little hands in your pockets and your feet off this estate.”
Deborah was too intimidated to reply. She walked off down the drive, her face flaming. The only thought that gave her any comfort was that Jessica would soon put Gustav in his place.
The Dembley Walkers crowded into the small classroom which they used for their meetings that evening. Jessica looked flushed and excited. She stood up and read out Sir Charles’s letter in a jeering voice. “As if we’re going to be bribed with offers of tea,” she finished. She looked at Deborah. “Did you check out the route this afternoon?”
Deborah stood up. “Not exactly,” she said. “I called at the house first and Sir Charles gave me tea and he was awfully nice. I mean, he’s looking forward to seeing us, Jessica.”
“So the great man gives you tea and you roll over and play dead,” sneered Jessica. “Honestly, Deborah, what a wet you are. I should have gone myself.”
Jeffrey Benson, Jessica’s lover, unexpectedly rose to Deborah’s defence. “Sounds a nice fellow to me. That was a decent letter, Jessica. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I thought we were all supposed to be walking for enjoyment.”
Terry Brice, the waiter, nudged his friend, Peter Hatfield, in the ribs and sniggered. “Nice to be served tea by someone else for a change.”
Alice Dewhurst boomed out, “I am all for confronting landowners, Jessica, and no one intimidates me. But when the man has gone out of his way to write a nice letter and all we have to do is walk around the edge of one field, I don’t see what the fuss is about.”
“It’s a matter of principle,” said Jessica, thin eyebrows raised, still confident of beating them down. “Don’t tell me you are all so thrilled at the idea of tea with one minor aristocrat that you are going to let him get away with this?”
“Well, ah, I cannae see anything wrong with the man,” said Kelvin Hamilton. “We’re a wee bittie mair democratic up in the Highlands, and – ”
“Oh, spare us tales of Brigadoon,” said Jessica. “We all know you come from Glasgow and probably some slum at that.”
“You bitch!” shouted Kelvin. “Go yoursel’. I’m sick o’ you.” He stormed out. There was an uneasy silence.
Mary Trapp stood up on her large feet. “You know, Jessica,” she said, “no one appointed you leaderene of this group or whatever. If you’re determined to make trouble, I’m not going.” And to Jessica’s dismay, there was a murmur of assent.
Jessica went into her favourite speech on equality and feminism, quotes from Marx and Simone de Beauvoir. Her eyes flashed. She looked magnificent, but she was heard out in a stony silence.
“All right,” she finished, glaring around at them. “I’m going. And I’m going to walk right across that field!”
Agatha Raisin waved goodbye to Roy with a feeling of relief, glad that she had ordered him a taxi and that she did not have to drive him to the station. She was sick of the sight of him. She had been enjoying a pleasant chat with James on the Sunday evening and Roy had sidled into the pub, smiling ingratiatingly all round, and then had monopolized her, telling her how much Pedmans wanted her back while James’s attention had been claimed by other villagers. Agatha fervently hoped she would never see him again.
She felt quite stiff and sore after her ramble but was convinced that her skirt was a tiny bit looser around the waist. She resolved to diet, or rather, instead of going on a formal diet, to eat fewer calories.
Then, to get closer to James again – although she would not even admit to herself that that was her motive – she decided to get really involved with the Carsely Ramblers. They needed to be organized, have meetings, stick up posters announcing their forthcoming rambles, and so on. There was no need for them to confine their walks to around the village. They could use their cars to go farther afield, have a meeting-point at some pleasant country pub, and start walking from there.
Agatha drove down to the second-hand bookshop in Moreton and found an old book on various rights of way. Then, fired with enthusiasm, she returned to the village and knocked boldly on James’s door.
“Oh, Agatha,” was the unwelcoming greeting. “I was just getting a good run on my book. But come in.”
Agatha felt she should really say something like, “Oh, well, in that case, I’ll come back later,” but she had been away so long and James had been writing that wretched piece of military history for so long that she was sure a short interruption would not matter.
“I had some ideas for the Carsely Ramblers,” said Agatha eagerly as he stood back to let her in.
“Such as?” he asked, switching off his computer. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” She followed him into the kitchen.
“I thought,” said Agatha, “that we might get a bit more organized. You know, maybe take our cars and go somewhere farther afield and start from there.”
“I suppose we could do that,” he said on a sigh. “As a matter of fact, Agatha, I was thinking of dropping the whole thing.”
“Why?”
“I’m not really the organizing type.”
“I can do all that for you. All you have to do is show up.”
“Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Black, no sugar,” said Agatha, thinking he might at least have remembered how she liked her coffee.
They carried their mugs through to the book-lined living-room. She lit a cigarette and looked round for an ashtray. He rose and went back to the kitchen and returned with an old saucer which he put down next to her. Why was it non-smokers always made one feel so guilty? thought Agatha. Hardly anyone had an ashtray in the house any more.
The smoke from her cigarette rose to the beamed ceiling and hung there. James’s eyes followed it as if measuring pollution.
“So what had you in mind?” asked James. A car slowed down in the lane outside. He looked hopefully towards the window, as if longing for some inte
rruption.
“Like I said, we could go farther away for our rambles and maybe I could work out some posters and put one up in Harvey’s and one on the church notice board. We get a few tourists and they might like to come along. Then I thought we should have membership cards and charge a fee.”
“I don’t know about a fee,” said James. “I mean, what would the fee be for? Landowners don’t charge the public for using rights of way. That,” he added pedantically, “is why they are called rights of way”
“A fee would pay for membership cards. People like having membership cards.”
“I don’t. Look, Agatha, I really should get on. Why don’t you go ahead and see what you can organize and then let me know about it?”
Agatha looked pointedly down into her coffee-cup as if indicating that she had had hardly time to drink any, but then she put the cup down and made her way to the door. James walked after her, switching on the computer again on the way.
Well, that’s that, thought Agatha gloomily, letting herself into her own cottage. Sod ramblers. A car drew up behind her and she turned round to see Detective Sergeant Bill Wong smiling at her from the driving seat.
“Welcome back,” he cried, getting out, his features creased in a smile.
“Come in,” cried Agatha. “We’ll have coffee and you can tell me all about crime. I’ve just been to James’s but got turfed out after about two minutes.”
“Oh, is that still going on?”
“Is what still going on?”
“Your deathless love for James Lacey.”
“Don’t be silly. I used to have a little crush on him, but that’s long gone.” Agatha walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle. “We have a rambling group in Carsely now. James was running it. All I suggested was that it could do with a bit more organization.”
“Not one of those militant groups, Agatha?”
