by M C Beaton
“Out on the stairs.”
“But a lot of women hug each other.”
“But they was kissing and groaning.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“Not me. Hadn’t the time to spend with me even though I told them I was an old soldier. No, all they wants to know is if I’d heard her or seen her having a row with that Jessica and I hadn’t seen a blind thing. I mostly keeps meself to meself.”
“So when did you see them hugging and kissing?”
“Reckon about a month ago. I tell you, what the world is coming to these days, I don’t know.”
Agatha stood up. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr Wotherspoon.”
“Won’t you stay?” Loneliness peered out from old eyes. “We could have a natter.”
Much as she thought him horrible, Agatha nonetheless felt guilty as she made her way to the door, said goodbye firmly and went down the stairs and out into the freedom of the sunny street. She wondered how James was getting on.
James privately would have liked to think up some idea for interviewing people that was different from Agatha’s. But at last he decided that a market researcher was as good as anything. He had no fear of being seen by Kelvin. Like the others, he would be at work.
Kelvin lived in a tower block near the school, a depressing place surrounded by scrubby grass and litter. What trees there were stood semi-shattered, raising their few remaining branches up to the sky. There were other signs of vandalism everywhere, and he found that the lift was out of order and had probably been out of order for some time, for the sign saying so was covered with old graffiti.
Kelvin lived on the tenth floor. James decided that the police would have interrogated the neighbours on either side of his flat and wondered if he might have better luck questioning the people underneath, as sounds carried down the way.
At the first flat he met with no success at all, perhaps because he never thought of Agatha’s idea of offering money. He said he was doing a survey about which kind of washing detergent was most used in Dembley. A sour-faced woman simply slammed the door in his face. He tried the next door after squinting upwards and deciding it must be the one directly under Kelvin’s.
The door was opened by a tired-looking woman in her thirties. Her dyed blonde hair was showing an inch of dark roots and her heavy make–up looked like yesterday’s.
“It’s not the rent arrears again, is it?” she asked nervously.
“No,” said James. “I would like to ask you some questions about which soap powder you use.”
To his relief, she gave a little jerk of her head. “Come in.”
He walked through a minuscule hall and into a living-room full of cheap furniture, all of which seemed to be falling apart. The sofa had been slashed, an arm was off one chair, and the table looked as if someone had recently tried to cleave it with an axe.
“My husband,” she said, following his eyes. “He do go on something awful when he has the drink in him.”
“Where is he now?” asked James nervously.
“Out on the building site. Come into the kitchen, will you? I’m not much use. I just buy the first packet I see in the supermarket.”
He followed her into a small kitchen, averting his eyes from the smashed cupboards, no doubt signs of the absent husband’s drunken wrath. She pulled a packet of soap powder from a cupboard under the sink and held it up. “This any good?”
He proceeded to ask questions – number in family, how often clothes were washed, and so on – automatically writing down the answers, wondering how to introduce the subject of the tenant upstairs. “I’m sorry to take up so much of your time,” he ventured politely.
She gave him a flirtatious smile. “I don’t mind. Don’t get to see much people. Like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please,” said James, smiling back.
He leaned against the kitchen counter while she plugged in an electric kettle. He looked down from the window. From down below came the harsh cries of little children trying to catch a cat to torture it. The cat escaped. The children hunched together as if plotting further horrors and then they ran off, screaming at nothing.
“Been doing this job long?” he realized she was asking.
“I’m retired. I do bits for the company a few times a year. Freelance. I’m not on the payroll.”
The kettle boiled. She filled a small teapot after putting in six tea-bags, arranged a bottle of milk, a bag of sugar, and two mugs on a tin tray with the teapot, and carried them into the living-room.
The tea was very strong indeed. She leaned back on the battered sofa and crossed her legs. She had very good legs. In fact, thought James, she had probably been a pretty girl before marriage knocked the stuffing out of her, much as the stuffing was spilling out of the sofa on which she sat.
“You’ve had a bit of excitement around here,” said James, sipping his tea and trying not to shudder.
“How come?”
“Isn’t one of your neighbours one of those ramblers, a Scotsman?”
“Oh, him.” She jerked a thumb at the ceiling. “Lives up above.”
“Look like a murderer?”
“Too soft, I’d say. Once tried to come on to me.” She recrossed her legs and adjusted her skirt so that a bit of grimy lace showed underneath. “But I wasn’t interested. He’s that kind, you know. Fancies himself a ladies’ man. I don’t think he can get it up.”
“That’s a bit harsh, surely,” said James. “You can’t tell that by looking at him.”
She giggled. “I can tell by listening. Should have heard her going at it.”
“Who?”
“Some woman he had with him.”
“When was this?” asked James sharply.
“I dunno. Oh, yeah, it was before that murder, a few days before. Round about midnight. My old man was passed out, and I was thinking, what a life, listening to the bed creaking upstairs. I mean, you can hear everything in these flats. Then I heard them shouting. Then I heard someone thumping about. Then going towards the door. Curiosity was killing me, so I went to our front door and opened it a crack. I heard her outside, shouting, ‘You can’t even make it and you know why? You’re probably a closet faggot.’”
“Did you get a look at her?”
“Naw”
“Pity”
“Why?”
“It would be interesting to know if she was that woman that got murdered.”
She looked at him round-eyed and then, to his horror, she darted over to where he was sitting and sank down on his lap, “Oh, I’m so frightened,” she murmured into his hair.
Oh, Agatha, Agatha, thought James. I wish you were here. And then a key grated in the lock. She was off his lap and back on the sofa with her skirt demurely pulled down about her knees as a huge burly man lurched into the room. “Who’s this?” he roared.
“One of those men doing market research,” she said.
He jerked his thumb at the door. “Out!” he shouted. And James was up and out the door and down the stairs as fast as he could.
Agatha was beginning to feel a bit sulky. She and James were seated that evening in the Copper Kettle being served by Terry Brice. The initial excitement of sharing their discoveries was over. James kept talking about the case when Terry was out of earshot, and Agatha, who had been writing romantic scripts for him all day, could not understand why he wasn’t speaking any of the lines. She wrenched herself into reality with an effort when he said, “We should tell Bill Wong about this.”
“Couldn’t we wait just a little?” said Agatha. “I mean, he might order us to keep clear.”
“I don’t know about that. We’re private citizens. He can’t stop us living in Dembley or going out with the ramblers. I sympathize with you, because we’re certainly suffering in the cause, having to pretend to be man and wife” – Agatha winced – “and eating this quite dreadful food. Leave it, Agatha. I’ll make us an omelette when we get home. What is that you’re poking your fork in?�
��
“It said on the menu it was old–fashioned Irish stew. How’s your steak?”
“Like army boots.” He signalled to Terry. “Take this away. We can’t eat any more of it.”
“Why?” he asked plaintively.
“For a start,” said Agatha, “this Irish stew is disgusting. The gravy’s lukewarm and there doesn’t seem to be much meat and there’s too much salt.”
“We are fussy, aren’t we, sweetie. That’s Jeffrey’s favourite dish.” Terry’s eyes glinted maliciously. “But then, he likes all things Irish.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked James.
Terry leaned one slim hip on the edge of the table. “Haven’t you heard our Jeffrey on the subject of Free Ireland? Quite fiery, he is.”
Peter Hatfield sailed up. “What are you lot gossiping about?”
“They don’t like the food,” said Terry.
“Fussy, fussy,” chided Peter. “You going on this walk on Saturday?”
“Yes,” said James. “How can the pair of you get the time off on Saturday? I mean, that must be your busy day.”
“We don’t work Saturdays. I know it’s odd, but they were so keen to have a couple of waiters who would do Sundays that they let us off.”
“So how come you were both here on the day of the murder?” asked James and then cursed himself as Terry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“Someone said something about it at your meeting,” said Agatha quickly. “That fair girl, Deborah what’s-her-name.”
“Considering she’s prime suspect number one, she should watch her mouth,” said Terry waspishly.
“Why is she prime suspect?”
“Because,” said Terry patiently, as if speaking to an idiot, “she was the last one to see Jessica alive.”
“What?” Agatha stared at him. “But she said she was window-shopping.”
“Well, one of our customers, a Mrs Hardy, she said as how she saw Deborah’s car heading out of Dembley to the Barfield estate on that Saturday, and if she wasn’t going to see Jessica, where was she going?”
Six
The following morning, James finally agreed to Agatha’s suggestion that she should talk directly to Alice and Gemma and see what she could find out and he should talk to Jeffrey, and after that, they would tell Bill Wong what they knew. As none of the people they wanted to interview was likely to be free before early evening, they decided to spend the day in Carsely, attending to household chores.
Neither had realized what an amount of gossip their taking off together for parts unknown would cause in the village, Mrs Mason having kept discreetly quiet.
Agatha’s first caller after she had fed her cats was the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby.
“And where have you been?” asked Mrs Bloxby.
“We just went off on a little trip,” said Agatha, rather proud of the fact that the vicar’s wife obviously thought she and James were now ‘a number’.
Mrs Bloxby’s kind eyes surveyed Agatha’s flushed and happy face. “You like Mr Lacey, do you not?”
“Oh, yes, we’re great friends.”
They were sitting in Agatha’s garden. The cats rolled on the lawn in the sunlight. Great fleecy clouds ambled across the sky overhead. It was an idyllic day.
“I sometimes think,” said the vicar’s wife, leaning back in her chair and addressing a cloud, “that we are very quick to counsel young people while neglecting our contemporaries.”
“Meaning?” asked Agatha.
Mrs Bloxby’s mild eyes descended again to rest on Agatha’s face. “Meaning that a lot of the old advice is still relevant in this wicked age, even for women such as ourselves. I have observed that men who get what they want outside marriage, particularly confirmed bachelors like James Lacey, are therefore content to stay unmarried.”
“I am not having an affair with James,” snapped Agatha.
“Oh, my dear, I thought…You must forgive me for jumping to the wrong conclusion.” Mrs Bloxby gave a little laugh. “I should have realized – you are probably both investigating something. Do forgive me.”
“That’s all right,” mumbled Agatha, “but don’t tell anyone in the village we’re on a case. It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“I should have known better. Do not think me impertinent. Mr Lacey is a very charming man. But he did have an affair with poor Mary, that woman who was murdered, and in that case I always thought it was a matter of casual sex.”
No, thought Agatha, he was briefly in love with her, and remembered sharply all the pain she had felt.
As Mrs Bloxby began to talk of village matters, Agatha suddenly wished she herself had not been so honest. She wanted every woman in the village to think that she was having an affair with James. But now Mrs Bloxby, without revealing anything about the investigation, would contrive to let everyone know the friendship was innocent.
After the vicar’s wife had left, Agatha decided to take herself down to Moreton-in-Marsh for a quiet lunch. She wanted to be alone and think about James and turn over everything he had said in her mind, always searching for some hint that his feelings might be warming towards her.
Moreton-in-Marsh is a busy Cotswold market town with a wide tree-lined main street on the Fosse Way, an old Roman military road. Ever since the Abbot of Westminster, who owned the land, decided to make use of the transport on the Fosse Way and a new Moreton was built in 1222, it has always been a favourite stopping place for travellers, the wool merchants of medieval times being replaced with tourists.
Agatha found a parking place after some difficulty. Even in the depths of winter, it is hard to find a parking place in Moreton, where the number of cars and the absence of people often puzzled Agatha. Where did so many car owners go? There wasn’t enough work or enough shops to draw them all. Agatha went into the tourist information centre to see if she could pick up some pamphlets about rambling walks to take along on Saturday in order to show the Dembley Walkers she was a dedicated member. She read a tourist pamphlet on Moreton-in-Marsh to see if there was something about the old town she did not know. And there was. One pamphlet explained that the charter for the market had been granted by King Charles I in 1638. “Some years later,” she read, “he stayed at the White Hart Royal, which was a well-known Coaching Inn, and was part of the Trust House Forte Hotel Group.” Agatha had a brief and vivid picture of King Charles and his Cavaliers with their booted feet up on the hotel tables listening to the piped Muzak which was a feature of Trust House Forte Hotels.
After a look in a thrift shop, she went to the White Hart and ate a massive plate of lamb stew. She emerged later blinking into the sunlight, drugged with food, feeling the waistline of her skirt uncomfortably tight.
Was there something about women of a certain age, she wondered, that, when they wanted to attract a man, instead of getting on the exercise bicycle, they stuffed themselves with food?
For his part, James had had a bar lunch at the Red Lion and had endured a lot of sly teasing of the what-have-you-been-doing-with-our-Agatha variety. As he walked home, he wondered whether Agatha’s reputation was being damaged and then decided it was not. Provided there was no truth in the rumours, they would soon die out.
He found he was anxious to get on with the investigation, and as he walked down Lilac Lane, he saw Agatha getting out of her car and hailed her.
“I think we’d better get going,” he said. “I want to bump into Jeffrey as he comes out of the school as if by accident and take him for a drink. What about you?”
“I’ll just knock on Alice’s front door and say I’ve come to ask her advice about boots,” said Agatha, feeling lethargic and heavy and wishing she had not eaten so much.
She fell asleep in the car – they had used her car for the journey back to Carsely and James was driving it – and awoke to hear James saying in an amused voice, “I didn’t know you snored, Agatha.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Had
too much to eat at lunch.”
She wished she could always look and feel bandbox-fresh for him. She felt old and began to worry about those wrinkles on her upper lip. Surely they hadn’t been there before she went to London. That’s what PR did for you, she thought sadly. James had very good eyesight. When he looked at her, she could feel his blue eyes fastening on those wrinkles. How could a man want to kiss any woman with those nasty little wrinkles above her mouth?
Agatha did not know that James felt most at ease with her when she was quiet and crushed. She felt she had to be always ‘on stage’ for him.
He dropped her off near Alice’s and went on to their own flat, leaving the car outside and setting out on foot for the school.
Children of all shades were tumbling out of the school gates. He still found it strange to hear Indian and Pakistani children calling to each other in broad Midlands accents. Although their faces did not have the pinched, white, unhealthy appearance of the native British, they held that flat, discontented look of the underprivileged.
He saw Jeffrey strolling out and drew back a little and then began to follow him. Finally James speeded up and crossed a busy street to the other side, crossed back again, and came face to face with Jeffrey and hailed him. “Hot day,” said James. “Care for a drink?”
“All right,” said Jeffrey.
James noticed Jeffrey no longer eyed him with suspicion. The reason for that soon came out when they were seated in a pub called the Fleece, Jeffrey saying he was tired of the crowd at the Grapes.
“You shouldn’t let that wife of yours wear the trousers,” said Jeffrey, raising a pint of bitter. “Cheers.”
James was about to protest but then decided that the role of hen-pecked husband was putting him in a sympathetic light. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said easily. “I suppose when you’ve been married as long as we have, you get so you don’t notice it. But I would have judged you to favour equal rights for women.”
“Equal rights, yes,” said Jeffrey moodily, “but not domination.”
“Was Jessica like that, the dead woman?” asked James. And then added quickly, “Sorry, I forgot you were close to her.”
