Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘All right,’ said James amiably, ‘let’s go.’

  He took out a small street map and consulted it. ‘We can walk,’ he said. ‘It’s not far.’

  They set off. ‘Where does she work?’ asked Agatha. ‘Oh, and how did you find out about her?’

  ‘I don’t know where she works, but I got her address from Peter Rice in Mircester. She isn’t a veterinary nurse, simply a sort of receptionist.’

  Agatha began to wonder if they were ever going to get there, James’s idea of ‘not far’ not being her own. But they finally arrived at a long street of shops with flats above them. The shops had probably always been shops. The buildings were Georgian and run down, with cracked stucco and grimy fronts dating from the days before the Clean Air Act, when soot fell on everything.

  It was six o’clock. Most of the little shops were closed and the street was quiet. Agatha could remember the days when a street such as this would resound with the cries of children: children playing hopscotch, children playing ball, children playing cowboys and Indians. Now they were probably all indoors watching television, videos, or playing computer games. Sad.

  Number 43 turned out to be a staircase between two shops leading to flats above. At the top of the staircase was a battered wooden door and beside it a row of bells with names on cards beside each bell. There was no Mabbs listed.

  ‘Must have the wrong address,’ said James.

  ‘I didn’t walk all this way for nothing,’ said Agatha impatiently, for her feet were sore. She pressed the nearest bell.

  After a few moments the door was opened by a thin, anaemic-looking girl with blonde hair gelled up into spikes. ‘Wotyerwant?’ she asked.

  ‘Miss Cheryl Mabbs,’ said Agatha.

  ‘She’s on bell 4,’ said the girl, ‘but you won’t find her in. She and Jerry has gone out.’

  ‘Where?’ asked James.

  ‘How should I know, mate? They usually has fish an’ chips and goes to the disco.’

  ‘Where is this disco?’ James smiled at the girl, who smiled back.

  ‘Not your style,’ she said. ‘It’s down the road. Rave On Disco. Can’t miss it. Wait till later and you’ll hear the noise.’

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said James as they emerged out into the street again.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Agatha looked up at him. ‘We could have a bite to eat and then go to the disco ourselves.’

  He shied slightly and looked off into the middle distance. ‘I really think I would rather go home, Agatha. As the young lady there pointed out, discos are not my style.’

  Agatha glared at him. ‘Hardly mine either,’ she said, feeling her feet throb.

  He stood there, looking down at her in polite embarrassment and obviously waiting for her to give in.

  ‘Dinner and think about it?’ suggested Agatha.

  ‘I suppose I am hungry. It’s a bit early for dinner. We’ll find a pub.’

  Over drinks, followed later by a modest dinner in an Indian restaurant, Agatha reflected that the more time she spent with James, the less she seemed to find out about him. He seemed to have an endless fund of impersonal topics to talk about, from politics to gardening, but what he really felt or thought about anything, he did not say.

  But he agreed to try the disco.

  Back along Blackbird Street they went. They heard the thud, thud, thud of the disco music as they approached.

  The disco was called Rave On and was a club, but they got inside easily after paying a modest entrance fee. ‘Enjoy yourself, Grandma,’ said the bouncer to Agatha, who glared at him and said, ‘Get stuffed,’ and then realized that James’s face had taken on that shuttered look again.

  Inside it was full of bodies writhing under strobe lights. Following closely behind James, Agatha shouldered her way to a black plastic-padded bar in the corner.

  James ordered a mineral water for Agatha because she was driving and a whisky and water for himself. ‘How much is that?’ he shouted at the barman, a white-faced youth with a pinched, spotty face.

  ‘On the house, officer,’ said the barman.

  ‘We are not police officers.’

  ‘In that case, pay up, guv. Four pound for every drink. Eight quid, squire.’

  ‘Do you know Cheryl Mabbs?’ asked James. ‘We’re friends of hers.’

  He pointed. ‘Over there in that booth, her wiff the orange-and-pink ’air.’

  Through the stabbing strobe lights and shifting gyrating bodies, they could make out a gleam of orange and pink in a far corner.

  ‘Drink up,’ said James and tossed his back.

  ‘I’ll leave mine,’ shouted Agatha above the din. ‘I never did like gnat’s piss anyway.’

  His eyes had that blank look which Agatha had come to interpret as a sign of disapproval. But he said, ‘We’d better dance our way over. Less conspicuous.’

  He joined the gyrating figures, cheerfully waving his arms in the air and dancing like a dervish. Agatha tried to follow suit but felt ridiculous. Teenagers were stopping their own dancing to cheer James on.

  Inconspicuous, thought Agatha with a groan. The whole damn place is looking at us.

  A few more whirls and turns and James came to a stop at Cheryl’s booth, wildly applauded by the customers.

  It was a different Miss Mabbs from the quiet, pallid girl in the white coat Agatha had first seen at the vet’s. Her hair was sprayed pink and orange and arranged in what Agatha could only think of as tufts. She wore a black leather jacket with studs over a yellow T-shirt with some slogan on it that Agatha could not read in the gloom. Beside her was a leather-jacketed young man with a face like a tipsy fox.

  ‘Miss Mabbs!’ cried Agatha. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ said the girl and picked up her drink, which was of as vile a colour as her hair, nudged aside the little paper umbrella on the top with her nose and took a sip of it through a straw.

  ‘I am Agatha Raisin,’ said Agatha, thrusting out her hand.

  ‘So what?’ mumbled Cheryl.

  ‘I met you at the vet’s in Carsely. I came along with my pussy.’

  ‘Took your pussy along, did you?’ demanded Cheryl’s escort with a cackle. ‘Any luck?’

  Cheryl sniggered.

  ‘Look here,’ said James in the authoritative tones of the upper class, ‘can we go somewhere quiet where we can talk?’

  ‘Sod off,’ said Cheryl, but the young man put a hand on her arm. His foxy eyes glinted up at James. ‘What’s it worth to us?’

  ‘A tenner and a drink,’ said James.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Come on, Cher.’

  They were soon all seated in a quiet dingy pub, perhaps one of the few left in Britain without a slot-machine or juke-box or piped music. A few old men sat around in corners. The bar smelt of must and old beer and old men.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ asked Cheryl Mabbs.

  ‘About Paul Bladen,’ said Agatha eagerly. ‘It now seems he was murdered.’

  Interest showed in her face for the first time. ‘And I thought nothing exciting would ever happen in that dump of a village. Me, I prefer the more cosmopolitan life, like,’ she stated, as if Leamington Spa were Paris. ‘Who done it?’

  ‘That’s what we want to find out,’ said James. ‘Any ideas?’

  She scowled horribly and took a hearty swig at her glass of vodka and Red Bull. ‘Could be anyone,’ she said finally.

  ‘There’s Mrs Josephs as well,’ said Agatha and told of that murder.

  ‘I told him trouble would come when he destroyed her old cat,’ said Cheryl. ‘He didn’t like cats, and that’s a fact. Hated the beasts. But he sweet-talked those old dears in the village a treat. Always taking one or the other of them out for dinner.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Why else?’ countered Cheryl. ‘After their money, I suppose. I mean, what other reason could there be?’

  ‘And why would he want their money?’ demanded James, fla
shing a sympathetic look at Agatha, who was now outscowling Cheryl. ‘I mean, he left a fair bit.’

  ‘It was an impression, that’s all. He was keen on that Freda Huntingdon. I caught them hard at it.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Agatha with a triumphant look at James.

  ‘Right on the examining table. Her skirt was up around her ears and his trousers were down round his ankles. Laugh! I nearly died. But the others? Holding hands and taking them out for dinner was about as far as he got, I reckon. Course he had to soft-soap Mrs Josephs, didn’t he? I mean, she was making things hot for him over that cat. Then there was that funny old creature, Webster. That’s it.’

  Agatha’s scowl came back. She estimated that Josephine Webster, she who ran the dried-flower shop, was probably younger than herself.

  ‘None of these ladies is really old,’ she protested.

  Cheryl shrugged. ‘All look like a hundred and two to me,’ she said with all the callousness of youth.

  ‘Did he get up to any of this philandering in Mircester?’ asked James.

  ‘Didn’t know him then,’ replied Cheryl. ‘Saw the ad for a vet’s receptionist and got the job.’

  ‘So what are you doing now?’

  ‘Kennels. Out Warwick way.’ Cheryl’s face suddenly softened. ‘I like animals. B’etter’n people any day.’

  ‘So all we got out of that unlovely pair,’ said James as they drove back to Carsely, ‘was much as we supposed. He was charming the ladies of Carsely . . .’

  ‘And screwing one,’ said Agatha with a grin.

  ‘I must confess I was very surprised to hear that about Freda,’ he said stiffly. ‘Do you think our Miss Mabbs could have been making it up?’

  ‘Not for a moment,’ said Agatha gleefully.

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose we should now concentrate on Miss Webster. Then there’s Mrs Mason to see. Who was the other one you saw at the funeral?’

  ‘Harriet Parr.’

  ‘We’ll see them all tomorrow,’ said James. ‘But better not let Bill Wong know what we’re doing.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Agatha, ‘I can’t help feeling that the clue to the whole thing lies with his ex-wife. She must know more about him than anyone. And who was the woman who answered the phone that night I called and said she was his wife? I’ll bet that was our Mrs Skirt-up-to-Her-Eyeballs, Freda Huntingdon.’

  ‘Can we please drop the subject of Freda?’ he said. Agatha glanced sideways at him as they approached the orange lights of a roundabout. His face looked grim.

  Damn Freda, thought Agatha bitterly, pressed her foot harder on the accelerator and sent the car racing homewards through the night.

  ‘Do you think there is a Mr Parr?’ asked James as he and Agatha strolled through the village the next day to renew their investigation.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. There are an awful lot of widows about. Men don’t live that long.’

  ‘Probably only the married ones,’ said James.

  He put his hands in his pockets and began to whistle something complicated – probably Bach or some old bore like that, thought Agatha.

  Mrs Harriet Parr lived in a modern bungalow on the outskirts of the village. When they reached the gate, Agatha said suddenly, ‘This is a waste of time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t remember meeting a Mrs Parr at the vicarage, and if she wasn’t there to overhear what Mrs Josephs said to me, how can she have anything to do with it?’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Josephs was going about saying the same thing earlier.’

  ‘Oh, well, let’s get on with it.’

  Mrs Parr answered the door herself. Agatha began by saying they hadn’t met, but she and Mr Lacey would like to ask her a few questions, and soon they found themselves in a comfortable living-room. Agatha counted six cats. There was something claustrophobic about seeing so many cats in one room. She felt obscurely that at least some of them ought to be outside.

  Mrs Parr was a small woman with curly black hair and an oddly old-fashioned sort of hourglass figure. Agatha decided she was probably wearing a corset. She had hard red cheeks and a small pinched mouth which when she spoke revealed pointed teeth.

  It was some time before Agatha could get down to questioning her because she and James had to be introduced to each cat in turn. Then Mrs Parr fussed over James, asking him if he were comfortable, plumping cushions at his back, before rushing off to fetch tea and ‘some of my special scones’.

  ‘No Mr Parr,’ whispered Agatha.

  ‘Might be out at work,’ said James.

  Mrs Parr came back with a loaded tray. After tea had been poured and the lightness of scones admired, Agatha said, ‘Actually, we’re really interested in finding out about Paul Bladen.’

  Mrs Parr’s cup rattled against the saucer. ‘Poor Paul,’ she said. She put cup and saucer down and dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘So young and so brave.’

  ‘Brave?’

  ‘He was going to found a veterinary hospital. He had such dreams. He said he could only talk to me. I was the only one with enough imagination to share his vision.’

  Then they heard the front door open. ‘My husband,’ whispered Mrs Parr. ‘Don’t . . .’

  The door of the living-room opened and a tall thin middle-aged man with a grey face and a prominent Adam’s apple bobbing over a rigid shirt collar came in.

  ‘People from the village, dear,’ said Mrs Parr. ‘Mrs Raisin and Mr Lacey. They both live in Lilac Lane. They’ve just been admiring my scones.’

  ‘What brought you here?’ asked Mr Parr bluntly.

  ‘We’ve just started asking a few questions about Paul Bladen – you know, the vet that was found dead.’

  ‘Get out of here,’ hissed Mr Parr. He held the door wide open. ‘Out!’

  ‘We were only –’ said Agatha, but that was as far as she got.

  ‘Get out!’ he shouted at the top of his voice this time, his thin tired face working with rage. ‘Never come here again. Leave us alone.’

  ‘I am very sorry we upset you so much,’ said James politely as he and Agatha edged past the infuriated husband.

  ‘Fuck off, you upper-class twat,’ yelled Mr Parr and spat full in James’s face.

  There was a horrified silence, punctuated only by the sound of Mrs Parr’s weeping. James slowly cleaned his face with a handkerchief. Mr Parr was now trembling and looking appalled at the enormity of his own behaviour.

  James put his large hands on Mr Parr’s shoulders and shook him backwards and forwards.

  He punctuated each shake by saying, ‘Don’t . . . ever . . . do . . . that . . . to . . . me . . . again.’

  Then he abruptly released him and strode out, with Agatha at his heels.

  ‘We’re really stirring up mud, Agatha,’ he sighed. He looked back at the neat bungalow. ‘You know, sometimes when I was coming home on leave, I would look out at little houses like that from the train and imagine secure and cosy lives. What awful emotional dramas lurk behind the façades of all the houses called comfortable names like Mon Repos and Shangri-La, what breeding grounds for murder.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite a lively place, the country,’ said Agatha cheerfully. ‘I feel we’re getting somewhere. Mrs Parr must have been having a fling with Bladen. Let’s try Josephine Webster.’

  ‘Perhaps before we get to her, we should call on Freda Huntingdon.’

  ‘What? That floozy? How can you bear to look at that slut without blushing?’ demanded Agatha.

  He stopped and looked down at her, leaning back, hands in his pockets and rocking slightly on his heels. A faint gleam of malice shone in his eyes. ‘On the contrary, Agatha, I find the idea of a Freda Huntingdon with her skirt around her ears quite delectable.’

  Agatha walked on. Well, they would call on Freda because Agatha was suddenly sure, had a sudden gut feeling that Freda was the murderer. She, Agatha Raisin, would prove it. Freda would be dragged off by the police. She would be sentenced to life imprisonment. She would be locke
d away from society and James would never set eyes on her again.

  ‘Why are you racing along?’ demanded James plaintively from somewhere behind her. ‘I thought you weren’t all that keen on seeing the woman.’

  ‘I’ve decided that after all I do want to visit dear Freda,’ snapped Agatha.

  Droon’s Cottage, which Freda had bought, was at the back of the village on a rise. It was a Georgian cottage with a splendid wisteria hanging over the Regency doorway, its purple blooms just beginning to show.

  ‘The bell doesn’t work,’ said James and Agatha scowled horribly at this sign of his knowledge of the workings of Freda’s house.

  The door was opened by Doris Simpson, who cleaned for Agatha.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Agatha, who felt that this excellent cleaning woman was her sole property, although Doris only came one day a week now.

  ‘I does for Mrs Huntingdon, Agatha,’ said Doris, and Agatha thought that Doris should at least have addressed her as ‘Mrs Raisin’ in front of James.

  ‘Is she in?’ asked James.

  ‘No, James, her’s up at Lord Pendlebury’s. Got a horse and he’s keeping it in his stables for her. Oh, and Bert thanks you for the loan of the books.’

  ‘We’ll go up to Pendlebury’s and have a word with her there,’ said James.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Bert and Doris Simpson,’ said Agatha.

  ‘I sometimes have a drink with them in the Red Lion. Should we walk to Pendlebury’s? It’s a fine day.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Agatha ungraciously, thinking, trust Freda to ingratiate herself with the aristocracy.

  She was cursing her middle-aged feet by the time they reached Eastwold Park. She was wearing a low-heeled pair of black suede shoes which up until that day had appeared a miracle of comfort. But shoes which had only been worn around the house and for a short walk from the car to the shops had developed hard ridges and bumps on the inside, of which she had previously been unaware.