by M C Beaton
At five o’clock, Agatha found her initial interest had revived. When Mrs Mason arrived with Deborah, Agatha, going to the door and glancing in the hall mirror, wished she looked more like a great detective, whatever great detectives were supposed to look like.
Deborah, decided Agatha, seemed an inoffensive sort of girl. There were hundreds like her to be seen on the streets of any town in the Midlands – fair-haired, washed out, thin and timid.
“So, Deborah,” began Agatha, “how can I help you?”
“It’s ever so worrying,” said Deborah earnestly. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Begin by telling me how you came to meet Sir Charles.”
“It was like this. Jessica was threatening to walk across that field and she sent me to check the right of way. I didn’t want to be caught out trespassing, so I called at the house first. Sir Charles was ever so nice and gave me tea. Then he asked for my phone number and then he called me up and took me out to the cinema.”
“Why?”
“Oh, well, you know…”
“He fancies you?”
“Maybe,” said Deborah. “He seemed to like being with me.”
“Has he phoned you since?”
“No, but I phoned him today and told him about you.”
“So the police have released him?”
“They couldn’t really keep him. The farm worker who saw him having a row with Jessica also saw him walking away towards the house when Jessica was still alive. If you’re available, Sir Charles would like us both to go there for lunch tomorrow.”
Agatha felt a glow of simple snobbish delight. She, Agatha Raisin, was going to have lunch at a baronet’s. Stuff James! She would have great delight in telling him all about it…afterwards.
“Do you want to use the phone to confirm it?” asked Agatha.
“No, he said if I didn’t phone back, he would know we were coming. We’re expected at one.”
“So do you want me to pick you up at the school? Although I feel I should not be seen by the others if I’m going to investigate this case.”
“I have a little old Volkswagen. I’ll get there myself,” said Deborah, “and meet you there. There’s one person I should warn you about. If anyone is capable of murder, he is.”
“Who is that?”
“Gustav. The manservant. He doesn’t like me. He told me to stay away from Sir Charles.”
“And did you tell Sir Charles this?”
Deborah hung her head and muttered. “No.” She hadn’t wanted Sir Charles to know she was the sort of person of whom a servant disapproved.
“Don’t worry,” said Agatha bracingly. “No uppity servant is going to get the better of me.”
Deborah opened her mouth to say that she thought Gustav could get the better of anyone, but shut it again. Let Agatha find out for herself.
Agatha went and got out a serviceable notebook and sat down again. “I’m sure you’re tired of questions, Deborah. But let’s go through it from the beginning.”
And so in a weary little voice, Deborah described how Jessica had first arrived at the school, how she had taken over the walkers, how much they had all admired her until her reaction to Sir Charles’s civil letter had seemed to go over the top and they had all decided they had had enough of her bullying ways. She went through the stories of the others, at least as much of them as she had gleaned while they had all sat around the ballroom.
“So no one except perhaps the waiters has an alibi?”
“If we had known there was going to be a murder on Saturday afternoon, then I am convinced we would have all made sure we had alibis,” said Deborah with a rare show of spirit.
“Very well, then. Now this Gustav. Where does he come from? That’s a German name. What’s his second name?”
“I don’t know,” said Deborah. “No doubt the police have found out.”
“Was there a detective there who looked Chinese?”
“Yes, he was present during the interviews.”
Bill Wong, thought Agatha. I must try to get hold of him.
She asked Deborah a few more questions and then said she would see her on the following day. She wrote down instructions on how to get to Barfield House.
No sooner had they driven off than Agatha’s doorbell sounded again. She patted her hair in the hall mirror. It would be James. Well, she might relent and forgive him for his earlier rudeness. Such news was too exciting to keep to herself. But it was Bill Wong who stood on the doorstep when Agatha opened the door. Her first sharp feeling of dismay was counteracted by the immediate thought that here was the very man she should be most glad to see.
“Come in,” cried Agatha. “How’s the rambler case going?”
“Now, how did you know that?”
“Because I have been asked to investigate.” Agatha, leading the way through to her comfortable kitchen, reflected that she hardly ever used her sitting-room these days.
“Who by?”
“Deborah Camden.”
“Why on earth did she ask you?”
Agatha bridled. “Why not? She is Mrs Mason’s niece and she had heard through her aunt of my detective work in the village.”
“What can you do that the police can’t?”
“Well, for a start, I’ve been invited to Sir Charles Fraith’s for lunch tomorrow. It’s easier to get to know what makes people tick when you’re meeting them socially”
“I suppose so, Agatha. But you’ve got a way of crashing into things. The next thing we know is the murderer will be after you with a spade.”
“Where did the spade come from?”
“It had been left there by the farm labourer, Joseph Noakes, the one who said he had seen Sir Charles having a row with Jessica. He’s a surly chap with a big chip on his shoulder. He had been asked to clear a blockage in a ditch, had been walking back the day before, that was the Friday, got tired of carrying the spade and just stuck it among the rape at the edge of the field. There were two paths through the rape other than the mess left by Jessica. One going towards the house, which we assume was made by Sir Charles, and one leading off to the side of the field from where Jessica was struck. No footprints. Just crushed flowers.”
“This Gustav,” asked Agatha, “what’s his background?”
“Hungarian mother, English father. Brought over here in the fifties, went into service at age fifteen in Clarence House as a kitchen porter, then footman at the Marquess of Drent’s, then started work as chauffeur, and finally butler, ending up as butler to the old man, the late Sir Charles, who died three years ago. He’s fifty-two. Unblemished record.”
“I always thought of butlers as being very old.”
“The few that are left these days usually are. As a profession, it’s finished. Gustav is a houseman, rather than butler. He never married.”
“Homosexual?”
“Don’t think so. All unmarried men aren’t homosexual. What about me?” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “What about lover-boy, James, next door? Told him about this?”
“Not yet,” said Agatha, who had no intention of recounting to Bill how she had been snubbed. “Aren’t you going to tell me to keep out of it as you usually do?”
“Not this time. I don’t see that a harmless lunch can put you in danger. But I’ll call round here tomorrow evening. In fact, I’ll be very interested to hear what you make of Sir Charles and Gustav. What did you think of Deborah?”
“Plain little girl. Not much character. Rather bowled over by the fact that Sir Charles took her out. Sort of girl easily swayed by stronger characters. I shouldn’t think she had any strong political affiliation with Jessica’s views. I think she just latched on to the stronger woman.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I’ll hear how you get on.”
Logic and emotion warred in Agatha’s bosom next day and emotion won. She found she was dithering over the idea of having lunch with a baronet. Logic screamed at her that Sir Charles was a mere baronet who lived in a Victorian ma
nsion described in the guidebooks as ‘architecturally undistinguished’.
Deep down the old Agatha, product of a Birmingham slum, trembled.
Despite all the changes of dress she had put herself through, trying to find just the right outfit, she arrived at the end of the drive to Sir Charles’s house a quarter of an hour early. She forced herself to park by the side of the road, and lit a cigarette while peering at her reflection in the driving mirror. There were little lines on her upper lip. She’d need to try anti-wrinkle cream. She smoked and worried and fretted until, with another look at her watch, she realized fifteen minutes had passed. With a heightened colour and a fast-beating heart she drove up the drive.
Barfield House may have been considered ‘architecturally undistinguished’ by the experts, but it was big, a huge, imposing mansion.
Deborah’s car rolled to a stop just behind Agatha’s and, glad of even this weak support, Agatha went to join her and together they stood on the step while Deborah rang the bell. Agatha was wearing a blouse and skirt and lamb’s-wool cardigan. Deborah was wearing a pale-blue polyester trouser-suit and a little white blouse which seemed to make her more bleached-looking than ever.
The door was opened by Gustav. His black eyes flicked over them for a split second, but the look was somehow enough to demoralize both women. It seemed to say, “That I should have to open the door to such as you!”
“Sir Charles is in the sitting-room,” said Gustav, leading the way across the cavernous hall.
Both women entered the sitting-room. Sir Charles rose to meet them. Sitting beside the fireplace was a faded elderly lady. Sir Charles introduced her as his aunt, Mrs Tassy.
“So you’re the detective,” he said heartily after the introductions were over. “Brought your magnifying glass and fingerprint dust, hey?”
Simple fool, thought Agatha loftily and felt herself relax.
“Raisin,” said Mrs Tassy in a high, strangulated voice. “Would that be one of the Sussex Raisins?”
Gustav spoke from the corner of the room. “Hardly,” he said.
Mrs Tassy put on a pair of spectacles and peered at Agatha. “No, I suppose not,” she said. “When are we eating, Gustav?”
“Any time you like.”
Mrs Tassy rose. She was a surprisingly tall woman. At least six feet of her loomed over Agatha. “Good,” she said simply. “I’m bored.”
“You won’t be bored when Mrs Raisin starts grilling us, shining lights in our faces, and applying the old rubber truncheon,” said Sir Charles. “Come along, Deborah. You look as if you need fattening up.”
Deborah giggled. Agatha suddenly wanted to run away. Never had she felt so timid or inadequate in years. She began to feel angry and truculent. Who the hell did these people think they were, anyway?
“Good heavens!” said Sir Charles, as they all sat round a long table in the dining-room. “Why all the silver? We can’t be having that many courses.”
Gustav remained silent. He poured wine. He served soup. Agatha had a feeling that he hoped she would be intimidated by the display of cutlery. But how could he have known anything about her? It must be little Deborah who was the target.
Mrs Tassy fixed pale eyes on Agatha. “If my nephew is going to employ you, what are your fees?”
“I didn’t think of charging anything,” said Agatha.
“Amateur,” said Gustav sotto voce from the sideboard.
Agatha swung round. “Cut the crap, you cheeky pillock,” she howled.
“I do not think we are going to have a very good summer,” said Mrs Tassy into the brief startled silence which had followed Agatha’s outburst. Agatha tried to remain cool but she could feel an ugly tide of red washing up her face from her neck. “I read in the paper the other day that it’s something to do with the volcanic eruption in the Philippines. It is said to cause bad summers in Europe.”
“It might stop you militant ramblers from frightening any more landowners,” said Sir Charles, smiling fondly on Deborah.
“Oh, never tell me you are one of those.” Mrs Tassy looked curiously at Deborah. “You have to be careful. You don’t want to get yourself killed.”
Gustav deftly removed the empty soup plates. Agatha had been fiddling with the knives and forks beside her plate. Gustav twitched them back into place with a little sigh.
Fish in cheese sauce appeared before them next. “You’re doing us proud, Gustav,” said Sir Charles. “But a bit extended and formal, isn’t it? I think we would have been cosier with a bit of cold pie in the kitchen.”
By way of reply, Gustav raised his expressive eyebrows and retreated again to the sideboard.
Agatha had a thin pearl necklace round her neck. “Are those real?” asked Mrs Tassy.
“No,” said Gustav.
Agatha tried to rally. “No one wears real pearls these days,” she said. She could hear those dangerous twanging Birmingham vowels creeping to the surface of her voice.
“I do,” said Mrs Tassy, and that was the end of that subject.
“So how are you going to start detecting?” asked Sir Charles.
“I would like to see the field where the murder took place,” said Agatha, and then decided to move into the attack. “Why did you tell the police that you were in London on the day of the murder?”
“Because I didn’t want to be accused of it,” said Sir Charles patiently.
“You panicked?”
His eyes, turned on her, were suddenly bright and intelligent. “No,” he said. “I suddenly wanted to have nothing to do with all the fuss and bother. I really didn’t think anyone had seen me quarrelling with that Jessica, you see.”
“What were you quarrelling about?”
“Obviously about her jumping up and down in the field and wrecking the crop. She gave me a lot of stuff about being a bloated capitalist. I’ve never heard such cliches since I was at a meeting of the students’ union at my college in Cambridge. I told her to get knotted and walked away. When I looked back, she was standing there, shouting insults at me. I thought of calling the police and then I got fed up with the whole thing. I tend to ignore things that make me fed up. Of course, now the police are thinking of charging me with obstructing them in their investigations. Such a pain.”
“But surely you must have realized they would find out?”
“Why?” he asked in simple surprise. “I didn’t know Noakes had such a dislike of me. None of the other estate workers would have dreamt of saying anything.”
“Probably killed her himself, the silly sod,” said Gustav.
“I would like that,” said Mrs Tassy meditatively.
Agatha cracked. “Yes, that would suit you lot very well,” she said. “One of the farm workers being the guilty party would be just great.”
“If I’d known you were going to be nasty,” said Deborah, tossing her fair hair, “I’d never have asked you.”
“More wine, Gustav,” said Sir Charles. “You know, Mrs Raisin, I cannot really have someone trying to help me who is prejudiced.”
“I’m not prejudiced,” protested Agatha. “I merely said – ”
“Oh, roast beef!” exclaimed Mrs Tassy. “You are spoiling us, Gustav.”
And Agatha could think of nothing further to say. She was totally demoralized. She envied Deborah, who was happily prattling on to Sir Charles about films and books. The dreadful meal wound to its close. When Agatha, tipsy and miserable, made her way out to her car, she was well aware that nothing further had been said about engaging her services. “You shouldn’t drink and drive,” said Gustav as a parting shot.
Agatha drove slowly home, but not too slowly in case any of the police still searching that rape field should find the slowness of her pace suspicious.
Once home, she drank several cups of black coffee and stared miserably at the kitchen wall before going through to her sitting-room and trying ineffectually to find a television programme to take her mind off her shame. What had come over her? She, Agatha Raisin, the
scourge of every maître d’ from Claridges to the Ritz, had been demoralized by a pretentiously long lunch in a country mansion.
Sobered by coffee and misery, she went to answer the summons of the doorbell. Bill Wong stood there. “How’d you get on?”
“Come in,” said Agatha. “Sun’s out. We’ll sit in the garden for a change.” She made more coffee and carried two mugs out to the garden table.
“Your garden’s beautiful,” said Bill, looking at the glowing colours of the flowers.
“Thanks to the neighbours.” Agatha glowered down into her coffee-cup.
“So what’s the matter?” demanded Bill.
“I think he did it.” Bill thought Agatha sounded positively pettish. “Sir Charles and that servant of his.”
