It might be more fun to write mystery stories. Say, for example, the vet had been murdered, how would one go about finding out what had really happened? Well, the first step would be to find out why he was murdered, for the why would surely lead to the who.
If Agatha had answered her door to him and not looked as if she were avoiding him, he might have dropped the subject. Had he really wanted to write military history, he still might have dropped it. He gave an exclamation of disgust, switched off the machine and went out again. There would be no harm in trying Agatha’s door again. He had obviously been mistaken when he had thought she was pursuing him. And he had invited her for a drink, not Freda Huntingdon. It was not his fault that Agatha had suddenly decided to leave with that farmer.
It was a fine spring day, light and airy, smelling of growing things. This time, Agatha’s front door was open. He went in, calling, ‘Agatha,’ and nearly fell over her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hall, playing with her cats.
‘Am I seeing things, or have you two of them?’ he asked.
‘The new one’s a stray I picked up in London,’ said Agatha, scrabbling to her feet. ‘Like a coffee?’
‘Not coffee. I seem to have been drinking it all morning. Tea would be nice.’
‘Tea it is.’ Agatha led the way into the kitchen.
‘About the other night,’ he said, hovering in the kitchen doorway, ‘we didn’t have much of a chance to talk.’
‘Well, that’s pubs for you,’ said Agatha with seeming indifference. ‘You never end up talking to the person you go in with. Milk or lemon?’
‘Lemon, please. I’ve been thinking, this business about the vet. Did you go to the funeral?’
‘Yes. Lot of women there. Seems to have been popular with quite a lot of women, so he can’t have gone around putting down their cats unasked.’
‘Who was there from this village?’
‘Apart from me, his four remaining fans: your friend, Freda Huntingdon; Mrs Mason; Mrs Harriet Parr; and Miss Josephine Webster. Oh, and his ex-wife. Hey, that’s odd.’
‘What is?’
‘When I was supposed to be having dinner in Evesham that night I crashed and I phoned Paul’s house and this woman answered the phone saying she was his wife . . .’ Agatha broke off.
‘Well?’
‘Well, Paul Bladen told me afterwards that the woman who answered the phone was his sister, being silly or something. But no one else has mentioned his sister. I forgot to ask for her at the funeral.’
‘We could drive into Mircester and find out,’ he volunteered.
Agatha turned away quickly and fiddled with the kettle to hide the sudden look of rapture in her eyes. ‘Do you think it’s murder then?’ she asked.
He sighed. ‘No, I don’t. But it might be fun to go through the motions. I mean, ask people, just as if it were.’
‘I’ll get my coat.’ Agatha nipped smartly upstairs, gazing in the glass at her outfit of sweater and skirt. But there was no time to change, for if she did not hurry up, he might decide to call the whole thing off.
‘Just going to get some money,’ he called up the stairs.
Agatha cursed under her breath. What if he were waylaid in the short distance between her house and his? She went down the stairs and out of the door.
Freda Huntingdon was talking to him, laughing and holding that wretched yapping dog under her arm. Agatha clenched her hands into fists as they both disappeared into James’s cottage. She stood there in her own front garden, irresolute. What if he forgot about her? But he emerged with Freda after only a few moments. Freda was tucking a paperback into her pocket.
She waved goodbye to him and he walked towards Agatha. ‘Shall we take my car?’ he asked. ‘No need to take two.’
‘Mine will be fine,’ said Agatha. He climbed into the passenger seat. As Agatha drove past Freda, she turned and stared at them in surprise. Agatha gave a cheerful fanfare on the horn and drove fast round the corner out of the lane.
‘What did the merry widow want?’ she asked.
‘Freda? She had lent me a paperback and had come to collect it.’
Agatha would have chatted on merrily all the way to Mircester and probably would have driven James away again, but just at that moment she sensed there was a pimple growing on the end of her nose. She squinted down and the car veered wildly to the side of the road before she corrected the steering.
‘Are you all right?’ asked James. ‘Do you want me to drive?’
‘I’m fine.’ But Agatha sank into a worried silence. She could feel that pimple growing and growing, an itchy soreness on the end of her nose. Why should such a thing happen to her on this day of all days? This was what came of eating ‘healthy’ food, as recommended by Mrs Bloxby. Years of fast food had not produced one blemish. The only solution, Agatha decided, was when they reached Mircester, she would say she needed to buy something from the chemist’s – no gentleman would ask what – and then say she was dying for a drink.
She parked in the last space in the town’s main square. A woman who had been in the act of carefully reversing into it before Agatha beat her to it by driving straight in nose first, stared in hurt anger. When they got out of the car, Agatha, keeping her face averted, said, ‘Got to go to the chemist’s over there. Meet you in that pub, the George, in a few moments.’ And then, like jesting Pilate, did not stay for an answer, but scuttled across the square.
In the chemist’s, she bought a stick of Blemish Remover, astringent lotion, and, for good measure, a new lipstick, Hot Pink.
James looked up and waved as Agatha came into the pub, but she scuttled past him to the Ladies’, her face still averted.
Agatha cleaned her face, applied the astringent lotion and then wiped it off with a tissue. She peered at her nose. There was a bright little red spot at the end of it. She carefully applied the stick of Blemish Remover, which resulted in a beige blotch on the end of her nose. She covered it with powder. The light in the Ladies’ was not working, so she could only guess at the effect. She stared upwards. There was a light socket up on the ceiling, but she noticed the light bulb was missing and what light there was in the room filtered through the grimy panes of a window high up over the hand basin. Then she remembered she had bought a packet of 100-watt light bulbs the day before and had left them in her car. She scuttled out again. Again James waved and again she ran past him, her face averted, and out the door. He drank his beer thoughtfully. He had once thought Agatha Raisin deranged. Perhaps he had been right. There she came again, running sideways, and back into the Ladies’.
Agatha looked up at the ceiling. In order to reach the light socket, she would need to stand on the hand basin. She hitched up her skirt and climbed into the large Victorian hand basin and gingerly stood up. She reached up to the light socket.
With a great rending sound, the hand basin came away from the wall. Agatha swayed wildly and then grabbed hold of a dusty windowsill as the hand basin slowly continued to detach itself and fell with an almighty crash on the floor, taking the brass taps with it. A ferocious jet of cold water from a now broken and exposed pipe shot straight up Agatha’s skirt.
With a whimper she let go of the windowsill, jumped to the flooding floor and skirting the debris shot back into the pub after firmly closing the door behind her.
‘Let’s go,’ she said to James.
He stared at her in surprise. ‘I’ve just bought you a gin and tonic.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Agatha desperately. ‘Cheers!’ She threw the drink down her throat in one gulp. ‘Come on!’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a flood of water appearing from under the door of the Ladies’.
James followed her out. He noticed to his dismay that the back of her skirt had a dark stain on it and he wondered whether to tell her. She was not that old, but perhaps she had bladder trouble.
‘Now, this pub looks much nicer,’ said Agatha, pushing open the door of the Potters Arms and diving in. Once more,
she went to the Ladies’. To her relief it was a modern place with a hot-air hand dryer. She took off her skirt and held it under the dryer until the water stain began to fade. Then she lay down on the floor and held her wet feet up under it. Time passed. When she emerged, a worried James was on his second pint of beer. ‘I was just about to send someone to look for you,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Agatha, radiant again, for she had discovered that the new make-up had done the job effectively and she was once more warm and dry.
‘I bought you another gin,’ he said, indicating the glass on the table.
Agatha smiled at him. ‘Here’s to detection,’ she said, raising her glass. And then she slowly lowered it, a look of ludicrous dismay on her face. For into the pub had just marched Bill Wong and a tall policewoman. ‘Dropped my handbag,’ said Agatha and dived under the table.
It was to no avail. ‘Come out, Agatha,’ said Bill.
Agatha miserably crawled out from under the table, her face red with shame.
‘Now, Agatha,’ said Bill, ‘what have you been up to? PC Wood here called me into the George. A woman answering your description went in and vandalized the ladies’ room, tearing a hand basin out of the wall and flooding the place. People in the square saw you running in here. What have you to say for yourself?’
‘I had a spot on my nose,’ mumbled Agatha.
‘Speak up. I can’t hear you.’
‘I had a spot on my nose,’ roared Agatha. Everyone looked at her and James Lacey desperately wished himself elsewhere.
‘And how did that make you tear the hand basin out of the wall?’ asked Bill.
‘I bought make-up at the chemist’s.’ Agatha’s voice was now reduced to a flat even tone. ‘I wanted to cover up the spot, but the light in the Ladies’ wasn’t working and I thought it probably needed a new bulb. I remembered I had a packet of light bulbs in the car and went to get one. But the only way I could get to the light was by standing on the basin. It came away from the wall. I was so shocked I decided to say nothing about it.’
‘I am afraid you are going to have to come with me,’ said Bill severely.
The fact that James Lacey did not offer to accompany her, that he muttered something awkwardly about staying put and reading the newspapers, plunged him low in Agatha’s estimation despite her distress. So much for the knight errant of her dreams. He was going to sit safely while she dealt with a no doubt enraged landlord.
James went out a few moments after they had left. He bought two newspapers and then returned to the pub. But he could not concentrate on the stories. Damn Agatha. What a woman. What a stupid thing to do! And then the ridiculous side of it all struck him and he began to laugh and, once started, couldn’t seem to stop, although people edged away from his table nervously. He finally mopped his eyes and, tucking the unread papers under his arm, strode over to the George.
Agatha was holding out a cheque which the landlord of the George was refusing. ‘Ho, no, you don’t get off that easily,’ he said. He was an unpleasant-looking man with a face like a slab of Cheddar cheese, the skin yellow and slightly sweating with rage. ‘You charge this woman, officer,’ he said to Bill, ‘and I’ll see her in court. You charge her with wilful vandalism.’
James twitched the cheque out of Agatha’s fingers and blinked slightly at the large sum. ‘You can’t afford this,’ he said to Agatha. ‘A lady like yourself, existing on a widow’s pension, cannot afford a sum like this. Declare yourself bankrupt and then, even if he takes you to court, he won’t get a penny. I know a good solicitor just around the corner.’
‘Good idea,’ said Bill. ‘You need a solicitor anyway. He’ll want to know why there was no
light bulb in the Ladies’ in the first place, why the basin fell away from the wall so easily. The wiring in this pub had better be checked, too.’
‘I’ll take the cheque,’ growled the landlord desperately.
‘You’ll take another cheque,’ said James firmly. ‘Agatha, get your cheque-book and write out one for half this sum.’
The Cheddar cheese looked ready to explode again, but a steely look from James silenced him.
Agatha wrote out the new cheque while James tore up the old one.
When they were all outside in the square, Bill said, ‘If that had been a nice, respectable landlord, I might have charged you, Agatha. Anyway, thanks to Mr Lacey, it’s all sorted out. What about dinner tonight?’
Agatha hesitated. She had originally thought her day with James might end in an intimate dinner. On the other hand, better to continue to play it cool. ‘Yes, that would be nice. Where do you live? I know your phone number but not your address.’
‘It’s number 24, The Beeches. You go out of town on the Fosse and take the first left along Camden Way until you come to a set of traffic lights, turn right, then take the first left, and that’s The Beeches. It’s a cul-de-sac.’
Agatha scribbled the information down on the back of a gas bill. ‘What time?’
‘Six o’clock. We eat early.’
‘We?’
‘My parents. You forget, I live at home. You come, too, Mr Lacey.’
Please, please, please, God, prayed Agatha.
James looked surprised but then said, ‘I’d like that. I’d more or less decided to have the day off. Is it all right if I come dressed like this?’
Bill looked amused. ‘We’re not formal,’ he said. ‘See you then.’
He moved off, with the tall and still silent policewoman walking beside him.
‘I think we need something to eat now,’ said James. ‘What about a beer and a sandwich, and then we’ll decide who we ask about the sister. We should have asked Bill Wong. Still, we can always do that this evening.’
He did not mention the ruined toilet and Agatha was grateful for that. But she felt obliged to say gruffly, ‘I’m hardly penniless.’
‘I know,’ he said amiably, ‘but the minute that landlord thought you were broke, then he was glad to take any money.’
Once they had eaten, he drew out a notebook and pen and said, ‘Why don’t we pretend it’s murder and start by writing down all the names of the people we should speak to.’
‘I think the ex-wife would be a good idea,’ said Agatha, ‘although she wasn’t very friendly. I know, we can call at the vet’s here, his partner, Peter Rice. He’ll know whether Bladen had a sister, and that would be a start.’
Mr Peter Rice was a pugnacious man with a large bulbous nose, small eyes and a small mouth. The ugly nose, which dominated his face, was disconcerting, rather like a face pressed too close to a camera lens. His thatch of thick red curly hair looked as if someone had dropped a small wig casually on the top of his rather pointed head. His neck was thick and strong, as were his shoulders. In fact, his body seemed too strong and broad for his small head, as if he had thrust his head through a Strong Man cardboard cutout on a fairground.
He was not pleased to learn that they had queued up in his surgery, not to consult him about some animal, but to ask him questions about his dead partner.
‘Sister?’ he said in answer to their questions. ‘No, he didn’t have a sister. Got a brother somewhere in London. Fell out a time ago. Brother didn’t bother turning up for the funeral.’ His hands covered in thick red hair like fur moved restlessly over a shelf of small bottles, as if looking for a label that said ‘Vanish’. ‘Now if that’s all . . .’
‘Was he a wealthy man?’ asked James.
‘No.’
‘Oh. How do you know?’
‘I know because he left everything to me.’
‘How much was that?’ asked Agatha eagerly.
‘Not enough,’ he said. ‘Get out of here and leave me to deal with my customers.’
‘So he inherits and not the brother. Now there’s a motive,’ crowed Agatha when they were outside. ‘Who would know how much money was involved?’
‘The lawyer. But I doubt if he would tell us. Let’s try the local newspaper
editor,’ said James. ‘They pick up all sorts of gossip.’
The offices of the Mircester Journal came as a disappointment to Agatha, even though the newspaper consisted of little more than three pages. She had naïvely expected something like the newspaper offices she had occasionally seen on news programmes, great enormous rooms with lines of computers and busy reporters. Time and printing changes had passed the Mircester Journal by. The offices consisted of several dark rooms at the top of a rickety staircase. A pale young woman with straight lank hair was pounding an old-fashioned typewriter and a young man with his hands in his pockets was standing by a window, whistling tunelessly and looking down into the street.
‘May we see the editor?’ asked James.
The pale girl stopped typing. ‘If it’s births, deaths, or marriages, I do that,’ she said.
‘None of those.’
‘Complaints? Wrong name under the photo?’
‘No complaint.’
‘That makes a change.’ She got to her feet. She was wearing a long patchwork skirt and baseball boots and a T-shirt which said ‘Naff Off’. ‘Names?’
‘Mrs Raisin and Mr Lacey.’
‘Right.’
She pushed open a scarred door and vanished inside. There was a murmur of voices and then she popped out again. ‘You’re to go in. Mr Heyford will see you now.’
Mr Heyford rose to meet them. After the vision in the T-shirt and baseball boots he came as a conservative surprise, being a small, neat man with a smooth olive face, black eyes and thin strips of oiled black hair combed straight back from his forehead. He was dressed in a dark suit, collar and tie.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you? I recognize your name, Mrs Raisin. That was quite a lot of money you raised for charity last year.’ Agatha preened.
‘We both knew the vet, Paul Bladen,’ said James. ‘We’re having a sort of a bet. Mrs Raisin here said he was worth a lot of money, but I got the impression he didn’t have that much. Do you know how much he left?’
‘I can’t tell you exactly how much because I can’t quite remember,’ said Mr Heyford. ‘About eighty-five thousand, I think. Would have been a fortune once, but that sort of money won’t even buy you a decent house now. He left a house, of course, but he had taken a double mortgage out on that, and with house prices being what they are, Mr Rice, who inherited, will barely get enough to cover the mortgages. I never thought the day would come in this country when we would consider eighty-five thousand not very much money, so it looks as if you’ve won the bet, Mr Lacey.’
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet Page 6
