by M C Beaton
“What about forensic evidence?” asked Agatha. “Footprints, fingerprints?”
“Can’t get anything off that rock, and the ground was bone-dry and hard. Jeffrey’s car was found nearby. They’re going over that inch by inch. It’ll take some time for all the fibres, if there are any, to be analysed and traced. I’m tired. Pray for just one break before anyone else gets murdered!”
When Bill had left, James said, “What about going back to Carsely and putting everything we’ve got on the computer and then see if we can hit on something.”
“I may as well see my cats,” said Agatha. “Should I bring them back with me?”
“If you like,” he said moodily. “But I don’t think there’s any point in us staying here much longer.”
Agatha glanced round the flat which had become their home for such a brief period. All her dreams of romance with James had faded away. They somehow seemed to have settled down to living together like two old bachelors.
Once back at Carsely, she fed and petted her cats, although deciding not to take them to Dembley with her, before going next door and joining James at the computer. But before he had started typing out the first list of names, his doorbell went and he soon returned, followed by Mrs Mason.
“I saw your car outside,” she said to Agatha. “How are things going?”
“Very slowly,” said Agatha.
“I’m worried about poor little Deborah,” said Mrs Mason, heaving her corseted bulk into a chair. “This other murder – I saw it on the six o’clock news – must be frightening her to death.” She preened lightly. “Thank goodness she has Sir Charles to look after her. Do you know she went to Barfield House for dinner last night?”
“She said something about that,” remarked Agatha. “She was asking what to wear. How did that go? I forgot to ask her.”
“Oh, she said it was wonderful and his friends were ever so nice to her.” Mrs Mason patted her grey permed hair. “I think we might have a Lady in the family soon.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said James idly, staring at the screen. He wondered what Mrs Mason would say if she ever knew her beloved niece had been having a lesbian affair with Jessica.
Mrs Mason bristled. “Don’t you think my Deborah good enough?”
“What?” James swung round. “No, no, I was just thinking one invitation to a dinner party does not make a marriage.”
“But Deborah says he’s ever so keen on her. She’s a bright girl. She was the first in our family ever to go to university. My poor sister, Janice, had ever such a bad time with that husband of hers. Bad lot, he was. Poor little thing. So clever and pretty. Do see if you can find out who’s doing these dreadful killings.”
She refused an offer of tea and left. James returned to typing out lists of names, one on each page. Then he and Agatha began to put down what they knew of each one.
“Do you know,” said Agatha, stifling a yawn, “I still think any of them could have done it. They’re not a very nice crowd.”
“You’d better get some sleep.”
“And something to eat,” said Agatha.
“Tell you what, as we’re leaving for Dembley in the morning, fetch your case along here. I’ll fix us an omelette or something and you can sleep in my spare room.” His eyes were kind, and Agatha knew that he was concerned for her because of her shock over the murder.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
She went back and collected a suitcaseful of clean clothes, not really bothering much what she put in this time. The idea of having supper with James and sleeping under his roof in Carsely would have sent her into Seventh Heaven only a short time ago. But the last murder had brought her face to face with the brutal realities of life. She was a middle-aged woman with a wrinkled upper lip who should accept that fact and stop being silly.
It was just as well she did not know that James was beginning to enjoy her company as never before. While she was in her own cottage, packing, he put clean sheets on the spare-room bed and went to rummage through the kitchen cupboards to find something for supper. He reflected that having someone around gave structure to his days, and when a weary Agatha returned on his doorstep, he took her suitcase from her and carried it upstairs without feeling in the slightest bit wary of her.
Over a supper of ham omelette and a bottle of chilled white wine, he talked idly about his army days and then, when she had finished eating, went upstairs to the bathroom and ran a bath for her and told her gently to get ready for bed.
“Maybe we’ll have a bit of luck if we try again, Agatha,” he said. “Have a bath and a good night’s sleep and if you have any bad dreams, just wake me up.”
“Thank you, James,” said Agatha humbly. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek and went upstairs.
James whistled to himself as he did the dishes.
“Will that be all?” Gustav asked Sir Charles.
“Yes, thank you,” said Sir Charles vaguely from behind his newspaper. Then, as Gustav was leaving the room, he lowered it and said, “Wait a bit. There is something. Did Aunt get off to London all right?”
“Yes, I took her to the station. The train was on time for once.”
“Good, good. I want you to take the day off tomorrow, Gustav.”
“Why?”
“Do you have to know? Well, I have invited Miss Camden round for lunch and I don’t want you glooming about the place.”
“Meaning you’re going to screw her.”
“Who I screw or don’t screw is entirely my business, Gustav. Just leave out something for a simple lunch and bugger off. And don’t try to intimidate her this time with forty courses and twenty canteens of cutlery. Cold pie, potato salad, something like that. Decent bottle of wine. We’ll eat in the kitchen. Now go away.”
Gustav stood his ground. “You should stick to your own type.”
“You’re a dreadful snob.”
“Not me. Some farmer’s daughter would be suitable, even some farm labourer’s daughter. And talking of farm labourers, did you sack Noakes yet?”
“Can’t see any reason to. He told the police what he saw. Help’s hard to come by these days. Can’t do it all by machine.”
“Wish you could do Deborah Camden by machine, sir. You might catch something.”
“Oh, get out, you dirty-minded bugger.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” was Gustav’s parting shot. “That one’s creepy.”
James and Agatha decided next day, after unpacking their bags, to go to the Copper Kettle for lunch, for, as James pointed out, that gossipy pair, Peter and Terry, might let another few gems of information fall.
They both ordered fish and chips, thinking that the chef at the Copper Kettle might be able to cook something so undemanding, but the fish proved to be of the breaded kind, frozen in bulk and sold to such restaurants. It was amazingly tasteless, as were the chips; even the tartar sauce had no taste at all.
“Thought the others might be in,” said Peter, stopping by their table. “Founder’s day at the school, so they’re on holiday.”
“I didn’t think comprehensive schools had founders,” commented Agatha. “I thought they were founded by the local council.”
“Well, this one has. So what are the leisured classes doing today?”
James thought quickly. He could hardly say, “Investigating this case to find out if one of you did it.”
Instead he said, “We might run over to Stratford and see if we can get tickets for this evening. Ages since I’ve seen a Shakespeare play.”
“Oh, you could run a little errand for me, then,” said Peter. “Deborah’s over at her mother’s. I borrowed a kettle from her, she had a spare, and she keeps nagging me and I always forget to give it back. I’ve got it here.”
“Can’t you just give it to her next time you see her?” asked James.
“I could, sweetie, but then I’d forget again. Now, if you took it, it would be your responsibility.”
“All right
,” said James. “Give us the mother’s address.”
Peter went off and returned with an electric kettle and a slip of paper with Mrs Camden’s address. “It’s a council estate,” said Peter. “Far side of Stratford from here.” James made a neat note of the directions.
“Do we really want to go to Stratford? Dreary dump,” said Agatha, as they got in the car.
“We’re supposed to be investigating. If Deborah’s there, she might be able to tell us something more.”
As they drove off in the direction of Stratford, Agatha felt relief that she no longer seemed to be obsessed with James, that in a way she had grown up and was content with friendship.
She remembered a typist called Fran she had once employed at her PR agency. Fran had mooned and talked and mooned and talked about a man she fancied who worked for another PR firm. At last Agatha and the rest had pointed out that it was the twentieth century and there was nothing to stop her phoning the man up and asking him out for a drink. They had all stood over her until she had picked up the phone and done just that. He said he would meet her for a drink on the Friday evening after work.
They told her what to wear right down to the underwear and scent. They told her what to talk about and how to behave and then sent her off on Friday.
On Monday morning Agatha stopped by Fran’s desk and asked, “How did it go?”
“I didn’t meet him,” said Fran.
“What!” exclaimed Agatha. “Didn’t he show?”
She remembered Fran’s little resigned sigh and how she had said, “I went right up to the door of the pub and looked in and he was there at the bar, waiting. So I turned and walked away. You see, I’d dreamt and dreamt about him for so long that I realized he could not possibly live up to my dreams and expectations. I’m not into reality.”
But I am…now, thought Agatha, and it feels good.
After several mistakes, they found Mrs Camden’s address. It was a terraced council house. The garden was weedy, scraggly flowerbeds surrounding a balding lawn. The gate sagged on its hinges.
The house had a neglected, deserted air, and they were almost surprised when they heard someone approaching on the other side of the door to answer their knock.
The woman who opened the door was somehow recognizable as Deborah’s mother. She had the same skinny bleached look, but her shoulders were stooped and the only colour about her was in her work-reddened hands.
“We are friends of Deborah’s,” said Agatha. “Is she here? It is Mrs Camden?”
“Yes, come in. Deborah’s not here, but I was just about to put the kettle on.”
“We’ve got a kettle of Deborah’s here,” said James, brandishing it. “Should we leave it with you?”
“I’ll take it. She might be over this evening.” A smile transformed Mrs Camden’s thin white face. “She’ll be anxious to tell me the news.”
“Oh, about the murder,” remarked Agatha.
Mrs Camden led them into a small living-room. It contained a few battered chairs, a sofa and a chipped table. There were no books or pictures, only a television set in the corner flickering away. Mrs Camden switched it off.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said. “I’ll get the tea.”
Agatha introduced them both to her as Mr and Mrs Lacey, getting the usual little thrill when she mentioned the names. Then she and James sat down side by side on the sofa.
“It’s bleak,” muttered James.
“She doesn’t seem to be working,” whispered Agatha. “I wonder if Deborah gives her any money.”
The miserable room silenced them. The wind had risen outside. A piece of newspaper blew against the window panes, staring at them like a face, and then blew away.
Mrs Camden returned with a tray on which were china cups decorated with roses, a teapot, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits.
After tea was poured, Agatha said sympathetically, “You must be very worried about your daughter.”
“Oh, because of these dreadful murders? But Deborah has always been the strong one. Thank goodness. And now she’s going to be Lady Fraith.”
They both stared at her.
“Are you sure?” asked James.
“Yes, she’s gone over there today and she knows he’s going to pop the question.”
“Are you sure she isn’t imagining things?” asked James cautiously.
“Oh, no,” said Mrs Camden with supreme confidence. “Deborah always knows what’s what. Mind you, it was a bit of a blow when she said that me and Mark and Bill – that’s her brothers – couldn’t come to the wedding.”
Agatha looked at her in a dazed way. “Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be fitting. I mean, we’re not of Sir Charles’s class.”
“Neither is Deborah,” pointed out James.
“But she’s made herself that way,” said Mrs Camden. “I’m that proud of her. She was always the hope of the family.”
“Are you working?” asked Agatha. It seemed later an odd thing to ask, but there was something about Mrs Camden’s stooped figure which seemed to suggest years of drudgery.
“I have my cleaning jobs,” she said. “And then I work in the supermarket at weekends.”
“Deborah must be able to help you out a bit,” said James.
“She can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Agatha.
“She needs all her money to keep up the right appearance. She’s amazing. Even when she was little, she would say, “Mum, I’m going to the university and I’m going to be a teacher.” And so she did. So when she said to me, “I’m going to marry Sir Charles Fraith and live in that big house,” I knew she meant it.”
“And what of your sons?” asked Agatha.
She sighed. “They take after their father. They’re both in a council flat in Stratford, on the dole, but at least they’re not under my feet.”
“Do you know where your husband is?” asked Agatha.
She shook her head. “Don’t want to know, either. He was a violent man. I’m not complaining. Deborah’s my whole life. Let me show you something.” She stood up and walked from the room and they followed her.
She pushed open a door. “This was Deborah’s room.” She stood aside to let them pass.
James and Agatha stood shoulder to shoulder and looked in awe at the bedroom. It was a sort of shrine. The bed had a pretty coverlet and was covered with dolls and stuffed animals. The walls were covered with photographs of Deborah. Deborah as a baby, as a toddler, at school, at university. There were long low bookshelves containing books, the shells of Deborah’s life, from the brightly coloured children’s books right through to the works of Marx.
The wind moaned louder and the branches of a dead tree tapped against the window.
“Very impressive,” said Agatha in a weak voice.
They returned to the living-room which, after the bright bedroom, hit them afresh with its sad, shabby dullness.
Mrs Camden sat down again with a sigh. “It was something to work for,” she said. “You know, seeing Deborah had the best of everything.”
“Surely you don’t need to work so hard now?” suggested James.
“Well, girls always need something extra these days. She needed help getting her little car, and things like that. How did you come to meet my girl?”
“We are both retired,” said James, “and we joined the Dembley Walkers, just after the murder.”
“Good exercise,” commented Mrs Camden.
James looked at her in surprise. “You do not seem very frightened for the welfare of your daughter, considering there have now been two murders.”
“Sir Charles will look after her,” she said comfortably. “She says the first thing she’s going to do as soon as they are married is get rid of that servant, Gustav. Is that his name?”
“She seems very sure of herself,” was all Agatha could think of saying.
“Mmm.” Mrs Camden’s face was again illuminated with that smile. “Although I won’t be at the
wedding, I’ll read about it in the society magazines. Just think of that!”
“Deborah must have been upset at Jessica Tartinck’s death,” said James.
“What?” Mrs Camden came out of her rosy dream. “Oh, that strapping big woman. But Deborah told me she was always getting people’s backs up. I mean, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”
Agatha stood up. She suddenly wanted to get away. She had never considered herself a particularly sensitive person, but she was now assailed with such a feeling of impending doom that she was desperate to get out of that shabby living-room.
“We must go,” she said abruptly.
As if suffering from the same feelings, James leaped to his feet and held open the door for Agatha.
Once they were in the car, Agatha, who was driving, said, “Let’s find somewhere quiet. I need to think.”
She drove out of Stratford and parked in a lay-by and switched off the engine and looked blankly at the wind whipping through the trees at the side of the road.
“Why is it,” she said in a thin voice, “that I feel I’ve just escaped from a madhouse?”
“Deborah appears to have been selfish from the day she was born, but the thing that frightens me is this wedding business. There’s something else,” said James. “It just occurred to me. There was something very hush-hush about Sir Charles’s father’s death. I remember someone telling me he died mad.”
“What kind of mad?” asked Agatha. “I mean, no one ever says mad these days.”
“Does it matter? For some reason Sir Charles has been leading Deborah into thinking he’s going to marry her. I don’t believe he means to for a moment.”
Agatha stared at him. “And Deborah’s there. Now. At Barfield House.”
“Fast as you can, Agatha,” said James. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
Eight
Deborah sailed up the drive to Barfield House in her little car. Her heart was light. Sir Charles had told her that Gustav had been given the day off and that his aunt was in London.
Sir Charles answered the door. He was wearing an old open-necked shirt and jeans, making her glad that she wasn’t too ‘dressy’. She was wearing a pink silk blouse from Marks & Spencer and a short navy acrylic skirt with a slit at the back and white sandals.
