Agatha Raisin 04 (1995) - The Walkers of Dembley

by M C Beaton

  “No, no. Quiet little walks, but maybe better publicized and with membership cards and things like that.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do it. So how was London?”

  “Dire.”

  “No fun being back in harness?”

  “None at all. Glad to be home. The reason I got so interested in the rambling thing is I badly need to lose weight.”

  “Don’t we all,” said Bill mournfully, looking down at his own chubby figure.

  “So how’s crime?”

  “Quiet since you left. Usual wife beatings, drunks on a Saturday night, burglary, stolen cars and general mayhem. A few murders but nothing exotic.” He looked at her with affection. “You’re longing to play detective again, Agatha. Don’t. Take my advice and stick to rambling. Nice quiet pursuit. Rambling never leads to murder!”

  Three

  Jessica sat moodily on the end of the bed on Monday evening and said to her lover, Jeffrey Benson, who was propped up against the pillows, “I don’t know what came over that little twit, Deborah. Or the rest of you, for that matter.”

  Jeffrey scratched his hairy chest. “Come on, Jessica. I’m all for fighting nasty landowners, but when one of the breed is civil enough to send us a decent letter and issue an invitation to tea, then I’m prepared to meet him halfway. And if you plan on clumping over his precious field, then you can bloody well go alone.”

  “I didn’t think you would let me down like this, after all we’ve been to each other.”

  “Don’t use emotional blackmail on me, Jessica. You were the one who said that all we had going for each other was sex. The trouble with you feminists is that your idea of equality is to adopt the nastier characteristics of the men you despise. Maybe I should take up with Deborah. She’s showing some good old–fashioned female characteristics.”

  An ugly light came into Jessica’s eyes. “You’d better watch your mouth, Jeffrey dear. I mean, don’t you think MI5 might be interested in that couple of Irishmen you gave house room to two years ago?”

  A wary look shone in his eyes. “How do you know about that? You weren’t here.”

  “You got blind drunk after Alice’s party and bragged about it. I mean, that would be around the time that IRA bomb went off in the High Street and killed a child.”

  “It was nothing to do with them. They were just friends of friends who wanted a bed. They only stayed two nights.”

  “Oh, but in your cups you mumbled away about striking a blow for the freedom of Ireland.” She threw her head back and laughed, an irritatingly stagy laugh.

  He plunged across the bed and seized her by the throat. He was a powerful man. One brown eye which had a slight cast gave him a sinister look when he was angry. “You dare to tell anyone about those Irishmen and I’ll kill you. We’re finished. Get your stuff and get out, by the morning.”

  Jessica struck at his hands. Her eyes flashed. “I’m not frightened of you.”

  He sat back on the bed on his heels, a powerful naked figure.

  “Oh, but you should be, Jessica. You should be.”

  That was Monday evening.

  “It’s good of you to put me up,” said Jessica, looking around Deborah’s small flat. “I don’t know what came over Jeffrey. But that’s men for you.”

  “Well, he has a point,” said Deborah. “Why must you insist on going through with it?”

  “Because Sir Charles stands for everything we are against. Privilege, unfair wealth, keeping people from enjoying the countryside. Oh, let’s not argue.” She smiled slowly down into Deborah’s eyes. “Let’s go to bed. I feel like an early night.”

  “All right,” sighed Deborah. “I’ll make us some coffee first. Put your stuff in the bedroom.”

  As Jessica walked through to the bedroom, the phone rang. Deborah picked up the receiver.

  “Hello there,” came the voice of Sir Charles Fraith. “Look, there’s a showing of Citizen Kane at the Art Cinema tomorrow night. Feel like seeing it with me and having a bit of supper afterwards?”

  “Love to,” said Deborah, clutching the phone hard and marvelling that there was someone still left on the planet who hadn’t seen Citizen Kane.

  “Give me your address and I’ll pick you up.”

  Deborah looked nervously towards the bedroom. “No, I’ll meet you there. What time?”

  “Begins at seven thirty. Meet you outside at quarter past.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “See you then. Bye.”

  Deborah walked into the bedroom, a mulish look on her normally weak face. “I think I’ll sleep on the sofa,” she said to Jessica. “And I like my space. You can only stay here the one night.”

  Jessica looked at her, feeling a hot burst of rage. What had happened to all her acolytes? “Who was that on the phone?” she demanded.

  “Just a friend,” said Deborah. “I do have friends other than you, you know.”

  “I’ll bet it was Jeffrey”

  Deborah remained silent, with the set stubbornness of the weak and frightened stamped on her face.

  “So it was Jeffrey,” said Jessica. “Well, before you get the hots for that oaf, just think what he would say if he knew you had sex with me that evening he was away at the teachers’ conference in Birmingham.”

  “You wouldn’t,” shouted Deborah, not giving a damn what Jeffrey would think, but terrified that any such gossip would get around and might reach the ears of Sir Charles, her mind so distorted by fear that she did not pause to think it highly unlikely any part of her world would cross that of Sir Charles Fraith.

  “Oh, I would, I would.”

  “Get out in the morning!” screamed Deborah, beside herself with fear and hatred. “I never want to see you again.”

  That was Tuesday.

  Happy and quite drunk, Kelvin Hamilton lay in bed and watched Jessica strip. He had hardly been able to believe his luck when she had arrived on his doorstep with her two suitcases, claiming to have always fancied him. Past insults were forgotten. He was not surprised that she did not wear a bra and had breasts that were quite magnificent. This, he thought, was going to be a night to remember. When she removed her jeans and he saw she was wearing men’s Y-fronts, he felt a sudden sharp diminution of lust.

  She climbed into bed and he proceeded to try to make love to her, but nothing happened. After he seemed to have been thrashing around on top of her for some time, Jessica said in a disgusted voice, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kelvin, give up. You’ve got distiller’s droop. Go to sleep.”

  The contempt in her voice sobered him. Soon she was gently snoring. He lay with the tears rolling down his cheeks. He thought he would die of sheer humiliation. He wanted her dead. He woke her up and began to shout.

  That was Wednesday night.

  Jessica was determined to find free lodgings. She called at the Copper Kettle, but Peter and Terry squeaked nervously like bats and backed away from her. “Haven’t an inch to spare, sweetie,” said Terry. “Must rush. Lots of customers.” So Jessica went round to Alice Dewhurst’s, to the flat she shared with Gemma Queen.

  “I’m all for helping one of the sisterhood,” boomed Alice, “but as you can see, we really haven’t room for anyone else. Have you tried the Y?”

  And so Jessica moved in with Mary Trapp, whom she secretly despised, and only found comfort in the fact that Mary slavishly adored her. Mary even said she would go with her on the walk across that field of Sir Charles Fraith’s on Saturday.

  But on the Friday, Mary complained of stomach pains. Then she disappeared to the bathroom, from which sickening retching noises could soon be heard.

  “It’s your own fault,” said Jessica unsympathetically. “You will buy junk from the health shops and overeat, thinking it’s all right because it comes from a health shop. Honestly, you are a pill.”

  “Leave me alone,” said Mary.

  “At least you should be fit enough to come with me tomorrow,” said Jessica.

  Mary hunched a shoulder. “I w
on’t.”

  So on Saturday, wearing a large pair of studded boots, a short denim skirt and sleeveless blouse, and with a militant gleam in her eye, Jessica Tartinck set out alone.

  On the following Monday, Jeffrey approached Deborah in the staff-room. “How’s Jessica getting on?”

  “I don’t know,” said Deborah. “I haven’t seen her. I believe she moved in with Mary”

  “I’m meeting the others for lunch in the Grapes,” said Jeffrey, meaning the ramblers. “We’ll ask her then.”

  But when they were all settled over their beer and sandwiches in the Grapes, it was to learn from Mary that Jessica had set out on her walk across Sir Charles’s estate and had not returned.

  “He probably sent her off with a flea in her ear and she blames all of us,” commented Jeffrey. “You know she likes to sulk.”

  “She’s a bitch,” said Kelvin moodily.

  “That’s not true!” Mary looked outraged. “What’s happened to all of you? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Why didn’t you go with her, Mary?” asked Alice.

  “I was too ill,” said Mary. “Food poisoning.”

  “I’m a teensy bit worried.” Peter looked around the group with wide eyes. “The poor thing came to the Copper Kettle looking for a bed from us. Did you throw her out, Jeffrey?”

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “What happened with you, Deborah? Didn’t she try you?”

  “I’ve got a small flat, as you know, and only one bed,” said Deborah. “I could only give her one night’s lodgings.”

  “I said we should have put her up,” whispered Gemma.

  Alice’s eyes flashed with jealousy. “Now, we’re not going to have a row about that again.”

  “So what should I do?” asked Mary. “Call the police?”

  “We don’t want to have anything to do with the filth,” said Jeffrey, and there was a general murmur of agreement. “I’ll ask Jones if he’s heard anything from her.” Mrs Jones was the head teacher.

  “I’ve already done that,” said Deborah. “I asked this morning. She hasn’t phoned in sick or anything.”

  “Then maybe you’d better ask your friend, Sir Charles, if he saw her on Saturday,” suggested Jeffrey, looking at Deborah.

  “No friend of mine,” muttered Deborah. She had not told the others of her date with Sir Charles. She had enjoyed her evening, although, in her case, seeing Citizen Kane for the umpteenth time and then being entertained to supper in a Burger King had not seemed like an upper-class evening out. But Sir Charles had been easy company, although he had not suggested seeing her again. She longed to phone him. Now, surely, she had an excuse to do so.

  “I could phone him up,” she offered.

  “Knowing Jessica,” tittered Peter, “she could already be shacked up with him.”

  “I’ll ring,” said Deborah.

  She went over to the public phone in the corner. Gustav answered. She breathlessly asked for Sir Charles.

  “Sir Charles is not at home,” said Gustav.

  “Oh, I wondered if you had seen anything of my friend, Miss Jessica Tartinck?”

  “No.”

  And then, somewhere in the regions of the house behind Gustav, Deborah distinctly heard Sir Charles calling, “Who is it, Gustav?”

  “No one,” called back Gustav and put the phone down.

  Deborah stared at the receiver in baffled fury. Then she slowly replaced it. Pride stopped her from telling the others she had been snubbed by a servant.

  “No, he hasn’t heard anything,” she said.

  Jeffrey looked at her in surprise. “But didn’t one of his keepers or gardeners see her?”

  “No,” said Deborah, head bent.

  “Now what do we do?” demanded Alice.

  “We’re not in the pages of a Gothic romance,” said Jeffrey. “I mean, if you’re thinking she’s in the deepest dungeon of Barfield House in chains, forget it.”

  “It may have nothing to do with Sir Charles,” said Gemma. “All sorts of awful things happen to women these days.”

  “Wimmin like Jessica mug folks, they don’t get mugged themselves,” said Kelvin.

  It was at last agreed to leave the matter for another couple of days. A few more drinks and they all began to feel confident that Jessica was staying away to get even with them for having stood up to her.

  But two more days passed, and the Dembley Walkers met in the school.

  No Jessica. It was Jeffrey who addressed the group. “I think we should all get together after work tomorrow and go out there and see if we can find any sign of her.”

  “No need for that,” said Mary Trapp. “I’m convinced she is staying away to punish and frighten us.”

  “An’ I say, whit do we pay taxes for?” demanded Kelvin truculently. “Call the cops.”

  “No,” retorted Jeffrey fiercely. “Let’s see what we can do ourselves first.”

  It was a clear warm evening when they all met up again. Ill-assorted as they were, Jeffrey could not help thinking how relaxed and happy they all were without Jessica around. She had dominated them so much. He mentally pulled himself up. He was already thinking of her in the past tense. They marched out of Dembley in the golden evening. When they reached Sir Charles’s estate, Jeffrey unfurled a large Ordnance Survey map of the Pathfinder series and with one grubby fingernail outlined the route.

  A silence fell on the group. Without the militant Jessica heading them, none could get away from an uneasy feeling of trespass. The evening was very still and quiet. They carefully shut farm gates behind them. Jessica would have left them open. Soon they reached the field of oil-seed rape blazing golden in the westering sunlight.

  “Look!” said Jeffrey, stopping at the edge of the field. Jessica, they assumed it must have been Jessica, had certainly marched right into the field, trampling and stamping down the flowers.

  “She must have jumped her way along to do this damage,” said Alice, quite awed.

  They fell into single file, Jeffrey at the head, and followed the track. Over the trees at the far end of the field rose the bulk of Barfield House.

  “The track stops here,” said Jeffrey. “Was she burying something?”

  They all gathered around and looked down at the mound of earth and torn yellow flowers.

  Kelvin edged forward and scraped at the earth with one large foot. A little cascade of loose earth fell from the mound and there, sticking out, was a booted foot and a white leg, a white hairy leg. Jessica never shaved her legs.

  “Oh, God,” shrieked Alice. She knelt down and scrabbled at the earth with her fingers. Gradually Jessica’s body was exposed. Her earth-soiled face stared sightlessly up to the calm evening sky.

  Deborah turned away and was violently sick, Gemma began to weep, and Mary Trapp fainted, falling over the dead body in a grotesque embrace.

  Kelvin pulled her away. “We’ve done enough. Get the police. Don’t you daft pillocks see? Someone’s murdered her.”

  It was quickly discovered, once Jessica’s body had been turned over, that someone had struck her a vicious blow on the back of the head with a spade, striking down with the edge, and then had made an ineffectual attempt to bury her. Bill Wong, waiting patiently by the tent which now covered Jessica’s body for one of his superiors to give him instructions, had a fleeting thought that it was odd that Agatha should return from London to take up rambling and now here was a rambling murder. The lights placed on the field round the tent blazed into the darkness. An owl hooted from the trees. A rising wind rustled the oil-seed-rape blossoms, bleached white by the lights.

  Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes came up to him. “They’re all at the house, are they?”

  Bill nodded.

  “We’d better start questioning them. We’ve learned all we can at the moment. She was struck violently from behind.”

  “Must have been a pretty powerful man.”

  “No, a woman could have done it. One good swing. It was a heavy spade.” />
  “So who would have a spade to hand?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out. Too early for fingerprints yet. And it’s been raining since the murder, if she set out last Saturday, as she threatened to do.”

  “Think Sir Charles lost his rag and biffed her?”

  “We’ll get a better idea of what sort of man he is after we speak to him. I hear the bane of your life is back in Carsely”

  “My friend Agatha?” Bill grinned. “I wonder what she’ll make of this.”

  Wilkes shuddered. “Don’t even tell her.”

  Gustav greeted them at the door. “I have put the persons you wish to question in the ballroom.”

  “We would like a word with Sir Charles first, if we may?”

  Gustav inclined his head. “Come this way.” His formal manner suddenly dropped. “And don’t take all night over it.” He looked over their shoulders. “What is it, Parsons?”

  The policeman turned round. A tall thin man with a broken shotgun in the crook of his arm stood there.

  “I have shut the gates, Gustav,” said Parsons. “But the press are trying to get to the house.”

  “Then shoot them,” said Gustav patiently. “This way, gentlemen.” He held open the door of Sir Charles’s study. Wilkes hesitated a moment, obviously wondering if that order to shoot the press was to be taken seriously, and then decided it wasn’t.

  He introduced himself and Bill Wong.

  Sir Charles sat behind a large leather-topped desk. He folded his hands neatly on top of it, and surveyed them with bright interest.

  “Now, Sir Charles,” said Wilkes. “Just a few questions. The dead body in your field is that of a member of a rambling group called the Dembley Walkers. We believe she was killed last Saturday, possibly around the middle of the afternoon. That was the time she intended to be walking across your land. Did you see her?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you last Saturday?”

  “In London. I have a flat in Westminster.”

  “Address?”

  He gave it to them.