by M C Beaton
Jeffrey shrugged. “She was a convenient lay,” he said. “But then, you never can tell with women. They say they’re liberated, they say they only want sex, and the next thing they’re pushing you around. What that wife of yours needs is a good punch in the mouth.”
“But if you advocate rights for women, then you shouldn’t be advocating punches in the mouth,” said James.
“Why not? They consider themselves equal to men, then treat them like men. If a man gives you any lip, you sock him one. Why not sock a woman?”
“Apt to end up in prison,” said James.
“Then just walk away from it. I’ll never get married.” Jeffrey flexed his muscles. “Plenty of crumpet out there.”
James suddenly found himself disliking Jeffrey intensely. He had heard of such men but had never met one before, the type who claim to hold liberal views and underneath hold the same views as any American redneck. Liberal views on women as held by the Jeffreys of this world were simply a convenient way of talking some woman into bed and having sex without responsibility.
With a conscious effort, he forced himself to laugh, man to man.
“Who do you think murdered Jessica?” he asked.
“I think it was one of the women,” said Jeffrey. “Our Jessica was bisexual. Alice was jealous of her because she was after Gemma. Then she messed about a bit with our Deborah, and God knows what she got up to with Mary. I mean, think about Mary. She was probably the last one to see Jessica alive. That business about having food poisoning! She could have made that up to give herself an alibi.”
“And do the police suspect you?” asked James. “I mean, you being her lover and all that.”
“They probably still do. But I didn’t do it, so they can ask all the questions they like. Do you know the filth even searched my flat? “What are you looking for?” I asked them. “A spade?””
“I’m surprised,” ventured James, “that you don’t think Sir Charles did it.”
A sneer marred Jeffrey’s face. “That sort don’t even fart without asking permission from the police. Besides, he’s got lots of people there to do the dirty for him. But I think it was a woman. Women are vicious.” He looked pointedly at his empty tankard, and James quickly ordered another.
“Oh, well, let’s talk about something else,” said James. “I’m thinking of settling in Ireland.”
“Which part?” asked Jeffrey sharply.
“The south, of course. I write books, or try to write books, anyway. My mother’s Irish,” lied James. “Do you know, if you’re a writer you don’t have to pay taxes?”
“Yes, grand country, so it is.” Jeffrey’s Midlands accent had faded, to be replaced by a slightly Irish one.
“The only trouble,” said James, handing money over the bar for the drinks, “is that writer friends tell me that the IRA come calling and tell the writer that since he’s not paying taxes, he can jolly well pay towards the Cause.”
“And why not?” demanded Jeffrey truculently. “Why should they live off the fat of the land and not pay for it?”
“I suppose you have a point,” said James, wondering what it would be like to punch Jeffrey in the mouth.
Agatha took a quick look around Alice’s flat while Alice was in the kitchen making coffee. There was distinct evidence of two contrasting personalities. The bookshelves were divided between heavy political tomes and paperback romances. On the low coffee-table was stacked Marxism Today alongside Woman’s Weekly. There was a pottery wheel over by the window and a large stuffed pink teddy bear sat on the sofa.
Alice came back in carrying two cups of coffee. She smiled at Agatha. “I’m glad you’ve come to me for advice about boots, but I’ve got a surprise for you. Not boots – trainers, or sneakers, as our American cousins call them. Like these.” She stuck out a foot. Agatha wondered why great white trainers on female feet should look so threatening. “They’ll set you back about forty pounds,” boomed Alice. “But worth every penny. I can walk for miles and never get sore feet. Why did you want to join us?”
“Why do you think?” Agatha ruefully patted her waistline. “I find jogging too energetic, and a walk in the country is just the thing for getting my weight down and seeing a bit of the scenery. The trouble with driving everywhere is that one might as well be in London. It’s hard to appreciate the countryside when all you ever see of it is trees and fields whizzing past the car windows.”
“Not to mention adding to the pollution problem,” said Alice. “Jessica always said…” Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned her head away and said gruffly, “Sorry, I still miss her.”
“It must have been a great blow to you,” murmured Agatha.
“It’s the guilt, you see.” Alice took out a man’s handkerchief and gave her nose a vigorous blow. “She came here looking for a bed and I threw her out. I thought she was after my Gemma. If only we had all stayed friends, we would have gone with her and this terrible murder would never have happened.”
“Who do you think did it?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, Sir Charles Fraith. But being who he is, we’ll never see justice done. There’s one law for the rich and another for the poor. He lied about being in London when she was killed. He was seen threatening her, but he’ll pull all sorts of strings and we’ll never hear another word about it.”
“Don’t you think it might have been Jeffrey Benson?” ventured Agatha. “He seems to have been her lover.”
“How did you know that?”
“Gossip at the walkers’ meeting,” said Agatha.
“Humph. The bourgeois lack of loyalty among that lot sometimes amazes me. No, I don’t think Jeffrey did it, but the police will want to pin it on him so that their dear Sir Charles will escape scot-free. Oh, here’s Gemma.”
Gemma walked in. She gave Agatha a sidelong smile.
“What have you got there?” asked Agatha, looking at a couple of videos that Gemma was carrying.
“I thought we might watch these tonight,” said Gemma. “I’ve got Mad Maniac and Serial Passion.”
Alice sighed. “I’m not going to watch that American rubbish.”
“Suit yourself,” said Gemma. “Any chocky biccies?”
“In the tin over there,” said Alice with a weak, indulgent smile. “Such a child,” she whispered to Agatha.
Gemma caught Agatha’s eye and winked. Agatha began to wonder about Gemma. Who exactly was this little shop-girl who went in for a lesbian affair and liked watching videos about serial killers? She remembered from the reviews that the two films Gemma had chosen to watch were particularly nasty.
But Alice had caught that wink and she suddenly stood up and loomed over Agatha. “I don’t want to hurry you off,” she said, “but I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Of course.” Agatha got to her feet as well. “See you Saturday.”
Agatha was glad to get out of there. On reflection, she decided that there was something quite frightening about Alice and Gemma.
Agatha and James were just having a cup of coffee and sharing notes when there was a ring at the doorbell. James went to open the door and found Bill Wong standing there. He came in and looked thoughtfully about him.
“What are you two up to?” he demanded. “And don’t tell me it’s because you’ve decided to shack up together. You could have done that in Carsely.”
“Sit down, Bill,” said Agatha. “We were going to phone you. I told you Deborah Camden had asked me to investigate the case on behalf of Sir Charles. Wait till you hear what we found out.”
He listened, his face growing grim as they reeled off the new evidence they had found: Kelvin had had a row with Jessica; Deborah had been seen driving out of Dembley on the Saturday afternoon in the direction of the Barfield estate; Peter and Terry never usually worked on Saturday afternoons and yet had opted to work the Saturday of the murder; and Jeffrey Benson appeared to be an IRA sympathizer.
“And how long were you going to sit on this evidence if I hadn’t called round?�
�� demanded Bill furiously. “We’ll need to pull Deborah and Kelvin in again. And what of this Irish business? There was a bomb went off in the High Street here two years ago and a child was killed. I thought I had heard Jeffrey’s name before. Two Irishmen were reported to have been staying in his flat the night before the bombing. He denied the whole thing and we had no evidence to hold him. But this time he’s really going to sweat.”
“We were going to phone you this evening,” said James. “It’s no use being angry with us, Bill, and telling us to keep out of it. You’d never have found all this out without our help. How did you find us?”
“Sir Charles told me where you were. He appeared to think that the hiring of you showed him to be innocent. I’d better get down to police headquarters right away, and you two are coming with me!”
Later that evening Jeffrey Benson was returning from the Grapes. As he turned the corner of the street where he lived, he saw two men standing and looking up at his block of flats. There was something familiar about them, about the grey suits and grey faces. He recognized one of them. It was the man who had questioned him after the bombing. The man from MI5. He walked quickly away and went to a phone box. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and found a number and dialled. When a voice answered, he said, “Benson here, Dembley. They’re waiting to question me again about that business two years ago.”
“Then do what you did two years ago and keep your mouth shut,” said the voice.
“But they’ll keep me in for days and grill me,” said Jeffrey, his voice sounding weak and frightened and not at all like his usual robust tones.
“You know what to do.” The voice was cold. “Keep your mouth shut or we’ll shut it for you.”
“If that’s all the help you are,” shouted Jeffrey, “I’ve a good mind to tell them the lot and ask for protection.”
“Just remember, there’s no protection from us,” said the voice.
Jeffrey walked out into a shifting world full of death and violence. For the first time in years, he thought of his mother. Like a lost child, he walked back to his street and approached the two men.
“Looking for me?” he said.
Deborah had all her clothes spread out on the bed when the police came for her. She had been trying to think what to wear on Saturday. She had studied society magazines, but all they showed were pictures of people at balls and parties. They did not show any pictures of people at a country-house dinner.
And when they started to question her about that Saturday, she was terrified that they might arrest her and that she might never get to Barfield House for dinner.
Bill Wong called on Agatha and James the following morning. He looked weary.
“We can’t hold Deborah,” he said. “She said she had started to drive out in the hope of stopping Jessica making a scene, but then had turned back to Dembley before she got to the estate. She’s stuck to her story, although we questioned her over and over again. She said she turned back because she was frightened of Jessica, then she said she had lied to us because she was frightened of being accused of the murder.
“Kelvin has admitted to the row with Jessica. After intensive questioning it appears that he was so ashamed of his inability to lay her that he lied to us. Believe that if you want. Peter and Terry said they had volunteered for the extra work at the restaurant and changed shifts with two of the other waiters because no one was going out on that Saturday walk but Jessica. Now we get to Benson.
“He did house two Irishmen the night before the bombing. He swears blind he didn’t know what they were going to do, that is if they did it. He’s so terrified, he’s told us all he knows and it’s not much. We traced a phone number he gave us, but when we got there the four men who had been living in this house in Stratford had packed up and disappeared. They must have known he would sing. False names, rent paid cash, no contact with the neighbours. The usual dead end.”
“I suppose he’s under protective custody,” said James.
“Not worth it. He’s just one of those naive liberals who get sucked in. He’ll never hear from them again, and more’s the pity. But that’s all MI5’s pigeon. We’re still working on the murder.”
“I suppose the walk on Saturday is off,” said Agatha.
“Oh, no, you may as well go along and keep your ears open. I can’t stop you. But go carefully. Sir Charles is still under suspicion, but it could well be one of your rambling companions. Make sure they don’t suspect you. Jeffrey talks to you about Ireland in a pub, James, and the next day MI5 comes calling. He might put two and two together.”
When he had left, James and Agatha looked at each other for a long moment.
“I think you had better go home, Agatha,” said James finally. “I don’t like this.”
But all in that moment the idea of giving up her precious role of Mrs Lacey was more frightening to Agatha than the idea of being murdered.
“I’ve got you to protect me,” she said. “We haven’t even had any breakfast. I’ll make it.”
She hummed to herself in the kitchen as she prepared a cheese omelette for both of them, so engrossed in her wifely role that she quite forgot that she had never really made an omelette.
James came into the kitchen in time to smell burning cheese and swipe the pan off the stove. “Go and sit down, Agatha,” he said in a kindly voice. “You’re obviously too worried to cook.”
And so Agatha had all the humiliation of sitting there feeling useless while James whipped up two light cheese omelettes. He doesn’t need a wife, mourned Agatha. If the road to a man’s heart is through his stomach, then I haven’t got a hope in hell.
“What about Mary Trapp?” asked James.
“Oh, her? Maybe we’ll talk to her on the walk,” said Agatha. “I mean, it’ll begin to look odd if we call on another one of them.”
“We didn’t exactly call on Deborah or Kelvin,” James pointed out. “Still, maybe you’re right. We’ll have a day off. Tell you what, we’ll go to the movies and forget about the whole thing.”
Agatha had quite decided the pursuit of James was hopeless and was so quiet and subdued for the rest of that day and evening that James enjoyed her company immensely. And that night he didn’t even bother to put a chair under the handle of his bedroom door.
It was a subdued group of ramblers who set out from the Grapes that Saturday. Agatha was still without any romantic hopes and was wearing the trainers recommended by Alice. She felt they made her feet look enormous, but what did it all matter anyway? There was nothing to look forward to now at her age but an early grave.
Jeffrey Benson was suffering from total loss of ego. When he remembered the way he had cringed before his interrogators, he felt like bursting into tears. Then, when he had begged them for protection and they had told him in an almost fatherly way that he was of no account to anyone, he was just one of the saps the IRA had used, he had felt totally demoralized.
It was obvious that Alice and Gemma had had some sort of row because Gemma, wearing a brief pair of shorts and unsuitable, thin sandals, was talking animatedly to Mary Trapp while Alice lumbered behind, scowling. Peter and Terry were whispering together. James wondered how soon it would be before the ramblers connected him and Agatha with the sudden renewal of police interest and how the police had come by the new information. The one thing, he thought, that might save himself and Agatha from discovery was the walkers’ lack of interest in anything other than their own immediate affairs. He looked down at Agatha, who was glooming along beside him, and decided it was time they reinforced the marital couple bit and said sharply to her, “What’s the matter with you, dear? You look as if you’ve lost your last penny”
“Oh, shut up, pillock,” snapped Agatha, correctly guessing what he was up to and glad of a way to release her pent-up frustrations. “It’s a wonder you didn’t ask that little tart from the library along.”
“How dare you speak to me like that,” said James. “Jeffrey’s right. You need a punch in th
e mouth.”
“What’s that?” Mary Trapp swung around. “How dare you advocate violence against women, Jeffrey!”
“Ah’m sick o’ this bickering,” said Kelvin. He looked stonily at Agatha and James. “You two should keep your quarrels out o’ public. There’s nothing mair sickening than a marital row.”
“How would you know, Kelvin?” jeered Alice. “You can’t even get a girlfriend.”
Kelvin stood stock-still, his face flaming. “Ah’m sick o’ the lot of ye. Ah’m going home.”
“Now, then,” said Peter. “Birds in their little nests agree. Are we out for a nice walk, or aren’t we?”
They all walked on in silence. But as they reached the outskirts of Dembley, rusting recession-hit factories on either side of them, the grey clouds above parted and the sun shone down. Spirits began to lift. Gemma began to sing ‘One Man Went to Mow’, and they all joined in.
By the time they reached the edge of the land across which they were to walk, they were all in a fairly good mood.
They consulted the map and the old book Jeffrey had found. “There should be signs,” said Jeffrey. “But this is the way. Let’s go.”
They all climbed over a stile and along the edge of one field, but then they came up against a padlocked gate. Leaning on the other side of the gate was a large, brutal-looking man with a shotgun.
“Get off my land,” he shouted. “Poxy ramblers. I’d shoot the lot of you.”
“Who are you?” demanded Jeffrey, moving to the front of the group.
“My name is Harry Ratcliffe,” said the farmer, “and you’re on my land.”
“You’ve got no right to order us off,” said Jeffrey wrathfully. He brandished the map. “This is a legitimate right of way”
“Ah, to hell with you,” said Ratcliffe. “Left-wing buggers. Why don’t you go and get a job and cut your hair?”
Jeffrey could not bear one more humiliation. He thrust the map into Agatha’s hands, vaulted over the gate, and aimed a punch at the farmer. The farmer blocked his arm and swung his fist, which landed with a smack on Jeffrey’s nose.
