As they approached the door of the mansion, Agatha felt her working-class soul cringing.
This was intensified by a smell of baked beans coming from the kitchen, which vividly brought back memories of the shabby streets of Birmingham: squalling babies, large belligerent women, and a small Agatha who nursed a dream of one day having a home in the Cotswolds. The food of the poor, remembered Agatha, had always seemed to be tinned baked beans or fish and chips.
Mrs Arthur opened the door. ‘He’s got company,’ she said. ‘He’s over at the stables.’
‘We’ll find him there,’ said James.
Agatha limped after him towards the stables.
Freda and Lord Pendlebury were standing outside, talking. Freda was wearing a tweed hacking jacket, jodhpurs and new riding-boots. She looked as if she had stepped out of a glossy advertisement in Country Life.
‘James!’ she cried when she saw him and she ran forward and kissed him on the cheek. Agatha wished she had not come. Lord Pendlebury sloped over. ‘What’s this, young man? I was just enjoying the company of this pretty lady before you came along,’ and he gave Freda a doting look. Then he saw Agatha. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s that woman back again.’
Freda giggled and hung on James’s arm, smiling up at him.
‘We’ve been asking questions about Paul Bladen’s death,’ said Agatha, harshly and loudly. ‘We gather you were having it off with him.’
‘Really!’ Freda looked at Agatha with distaste and then her eyes appealed silently to the two gentlemen for help.
‘Go away, you horrible woman. Shoo!’ said Lord Pendlebury.
‘Too blunt, Agatha,’ murmured James. ‘Why don’t you go home and leave this to me? I’ll call in on you later.’
Face red, Agatha wheeled round and stalked off. She could feel them all looking at her. Why had she been so blunt? Damn Freda!
James would probably drop the investigation and all because of that floozy.
Her feet hurt and her heart hurt and she was glad to get home to the undemanding affections of her cats.
She felt she should forget about James and go and ask Josephine Webster a few questions. The phone rang.
To her outrage and amazement, she recognized Jack Pomfret’s voice. ‘Look, Agatha,’ he wheedled. ‘Okay, I went about things the wrong way. Yes, you guessed it. I went bust in Spain. But I’ve got a nice little earner lined up and . . .’
Agatha dropped the phone. She found she was trembling with outrage. How dare he! She felt almost frightened that he should persist in trying to get money out of her. Think of something else. Think of Josephine Webster. And then there was Mrs Mason. She had been at the funeral.
But somehow she was too upset to think clearly. She thought about pouring herself a drink and then decided against it. She was not going to end up one of those people who poured themselves a drink the minute anything upset them. So she switched on the television and stared blindly at an American soap, gradually feeling herself relax.
An hour later, when her doorbell went, she jumped nervously, almost frightened that Jack Pomfret had pursued her to the country. But it was James who stood on the doorstep. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘But you were too blunt. Freda knows you don’t like her and so she is not going to take kindly to being questioned by you.’
‘So did you get anything at all out of her?’ asked Agatha.
‘When I got rid of the doting Pendlebury, I had a talk with her. She says she had a bit of a fling with Bladen, but that was all. She pointed out, rightly, that she’s free and single and can do what she likes. She was quite open about the whole business.’
‘But why in the surgery?’ demanded Agatha. ‘They’ve both got the privacy of homes and beds. Doesn’t that suggest passion rather than a casual affair to you?’
‘Well,’ he said awkwardly, ‘Freda’s quite a girl.’
‘Middle-aged woman, rather.’
‘Let’s not quarrel about Freda. I don’t think there’s anything there to worry about. Let’s try Josephine Webster.’
Glad of an excuse to be with him again and get away from the phone, Agatha set off with him to Josephine Webster’s shop. It was not a proper shop. It was a terraced house on the main street and she used what would normally have been the living-room to display her wares. The shop was dark and heavy with the ginger and cinnamon smells of herbal soaps and perfumes. Bunches of dried flowers hung from the beamed ceiling. Straw hats ornamented with dried flowers hung on the walls.
Neat Miss Webster was sitting at a desk in the corner of this room, doing accounts.
Determined to be more tactful, Agatha bought a cake of sandalwood soap, talked about the Carsely Ladies’ Society, the weather, and then finally got around to the subject of Paul Bladen.
‘A most unfortunate death,’ said Miss Webster, peering at Agatha over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Such a sad accident.’
James stepped in. ‘But now, in view of Mrs Josephs’ murder, the police are beginning to think that someone might have murdered Paul Bladen.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe that.’
‘There’s a mobile police unit being set up outside the village,’ said James, ‘and I don’t think it’s all because of Mrs Josephs.’
Her face had a pinched, closed look. ‘I am very busy. If you do not wish to buy anything else, please leave.’
‘But you must have been very close to Paul Bladen,’ pursued Agatha. ‘I saw you at his funeral.’
‘I was there to pay my respects, although I did not like him,’ she said. ‘Us village people went to pay our respects. Outsiders like you no doubt went along out of vulgar curiosity, and if you take my advice, leave investigations to the police.’
‘So that’s us, with a flea in both ears,’ commented James outside. ‘All we seem to be getting are insults. What about Mrs Mason?’
‘At least we’ll get a welcome there,’ said Agatha. ‘She lives on the council estate.’
‘How are your feet?’
‘Fine now. I changed my shoes.’
Mrs Mason indeed gave them a warm welcome. More tea and scones. Gossip about the village. But Agatha began to shift nervously. A big murder investigation was taking place in the village. Surely it was odd that Mrs Mason should not mention that.
‘Lot of police around,’ ventured Agatha.
‘Yes, poor Mrs Josephs. I find it hard to believe. I think she took her own life. She was so upset about her cat.’
‘That was a wicked thing of Bladen to do,’ put in James. ‘Of course, the police now think he was murdered.’
There was a long silence while Mrs Mason stared at him, her matronly figure rigid. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said at last. ‘No one would kill Mr Bladen.’
‘Why?’
‘He wasn’t the kind of person who gets murdered. He was a man of purpose and vision. A kind man.’
‘Not very kind to kill Mrs Josephs’ cat.’
‘That was a mercy killing. He told me the old cat was in agony.’
Agatha leaned forward. ‘Just think for a moment, Mrs Mason, just suppose someone had murdered Paul Bladen. Can’t you think of any reason why?’
‘No, I really can’t. I wouldn’t get involved in all this, Mrs Raisin. I really wouldn’t. It’s not decent. Perhaps it’s the way people go on in the city, but . . .’
‘But don’t you even want to know who killed Mrs Josephs?’
‘Yes, but that’s a job for the police.’
They couldn’t get anything else out of her and retreated to Agatha’s cottage.
‘I would like to have a go at that ex-wife, Mrs Bladen, one more time.’ said Agatha. ‘But no doubt she would just slam the door in our faces.’
‘You know,’ said James, ‘we could go back and see Bunty Vere-Dedsworth at the manor house. She might help us in getting Greta Bladen to talk.’
‘Then let’s go,’ said Agatha eagerly, frightened that if they waited in Carsely any longer, Freda wo
uld arrive on the doorstep.
Chapter Seven
They were just about to leave when the phone rang. Agatha started and looked at it as if it were a hissing snake. Was it Freda? Or was it Bill Wong asking them to mind their own business and leave the investigation to the police? He had always had a nasty way of knowing what she was up to.
She picked up the receiver and gave a tentative ‘Hello.’
‘Look here, Agatha,’ said Jack Pomfret’s voice sternly. ‘This is ridiculous. I –’
‘Go away and leave me alone!’ she screamed and banged down the receiver.
Then she stood and wiped her moist palms on her skirt. ‘He’s mad,’ she muttered. ‘I could kill him.’
‘Who? Are you all right, Agatha?’
She shook her head as if to clear it and gave a sigh. ‘Someone I used to know. He’s trying to con money out of me. He starts a new business. I pay. He knows I found out he was trying to cheat me. But he’s insane. He keeps phoning. I feel humiliated. I feel threatened.’
The phone rang again and Agatha jumped.
‘Allow me,’ he said. He picked up the receiver and listened. Then he said in glacial tones, ‘This is Agatha’s husband speaking. I handle all her financial affairs. One more call from you and I will suggest to the police that they take a close look at your business transactions.’
James looked at the receiver before putting it down and smiled.
‘What did he say?’ demanded Agatha.
‘He gave a frightened squawk and rang off. You won’t be hearing from him again.’
‘Why are you so sure of that?’
‘Because, my dear Agatha, it’s an old-fashioned world, however tough and independent women have become. He now thinks he has an irate husband to deal with. Come along. You look too rattled to drive.’
As she climbed into his car, Agatha felt a warm glow permeating her body. He had said he was her husband! Oh, somehow she must tell Freda Huntingdon that!
The day was blustery, with great cloud shadows racing across the fields, where new corn rippled in the fleeting sunlight. Agatha’s heart sang. And then her voice sang, ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning.’
‘It’s afternoon,’ said James. He switched on the radio, a pointed rebuke, and Agatha sank back into silence.
The manor house looked as it had done before, calm and benign, part of the landscape rather than some building thrust upon it.
‘So you’re back,’ said Bunty, looking pleased. ‘I was just going to have some coffee.’
‘We need your help,’ said James when they were all seated in the comfortable kitchen.
He succinctly outlined all that had happened and explained they were sure that Greta Bladen could help them.
Bunty listened carefully, her eyes bright with interest.
‘As I told you before, I know Greta,’ she said. ‘We all know each other in this little village. I’ll phone her and ask her to come up.’
She went off and came back shortly to say that Greta was on her way. ‘You had better let me do the talking,’ said Bunty. ‘She can be prickly.’
And prickly was what Greta looked as she entered the kitchen and stopped short at the sight of Agatha and James.
‘Now you can’t run away from people asking questions about Paul’s death,’ said Bunty firmly. ‘You didn’t like the man, but surely you don’t want a murderer to be left to roam the Cotswolds in peace. Sit down, Greta, and have coffee. You see, we all feel that if we knew a bit more about Paul Bladen, then we might be able to guess which of the suspects might have done it.’
‘Including me,’ said Greta bitterly, but she sat down and shrugged off her short coat.
‘Well, it’s a dreary story,’ she said. ‘As you probably realize, I was ten years older than Paul when I met him. He was working as a vet in Leamington Spa where I lived. I had a dog then I was devoted to, the way only the unloved can become devoted to animals.’
Agatha, who had been thinking of her cats, stared down into her coffee cup.
‘I took my dog to the vet for some shots. Paul was charming. I could not believe my luck when he asked me out. My parents had died and left me a house and a comfortable amount of money. It was what the romances call a whirlwind courtship. Shortly after we were married, I found my dog dead one morning. The animal had been fit and healthy the day before. Paul was all sympathy and did an autopsy. He said the dog had died of heart failure. Only in later years did I suspect he had poisoned it. Strange in a vet, but he had a hatred of dogs and cats. He told me about his dream of a veterinary hospital. He said he would name it after me. I gave him a considerable amount of money to get started.
‘During the following year, he regaled me with stories of the plot of land he had bought and how the builders had started work. I was excited and asked to see it, but he said he wanted it to be a surprise. I said, “At least tell me where it is,” and he said Chimley Road on the outskirts of Mircester. He started to come home very late. He said he was always going over to the building site when he finished work. Then he said we were moving to Mircester to be near the new hospital. He did not ask me for money. He said he had a house all ready but I was to promise not to go near Chimley Road until he was ready to surprise me.’
Greta sighed. ‘I was so much in love with him. That was until I met his partner, Peter Rice, at a party. I had known Peter before, by the way. We were old friends. So I thought it all right to ask him if they would still run the surgery when the new veterinary hospital was opened.
‘He asked me, “What veterinary hospital?” I told him. He gave me a pitying look and said why didn’t I go out to Chimley Road and have a look. Alarmed, I set off the next day. It was a long row of terraced houses. No building site.
‘I taxed Paul with it. He began to say that things hadn’t worked out there, so the building site was in Leamington, and when I didn’t believe him, he finally came out with the truth. He was a gambler, a dedicated gambler. Not only had he spent all the money I had given him in gambling but he needed more to pay his debts. I refused. He grew ugly. He told me he had only married an old bat like me for my money. Yes, I could have killed him then. But I wanted free of him and so I made him agree to a separation and subsequent divorce. If he did not agree, I said, I would tell Peter Rice all about him.’
‘So,’ said James, ‘one of his ladies could have murdered him because he conned money out of them.’
‘Surely that’s hardly a reason for murder,’ protested Bunty.
‘Oh, yes, it is,’ said Agatha, thinking of Jack Pomfret.
‘So now you’ve got what you want from me,’ said Greta in a tired voice, ‘may I go?’
‘Of course, my dear,’ said Bunty ‘But you must realize how essential it is to find out who did this terrible thing.’
Greta stood up. ‘Why? Why is it so important? He died painlessly. He was cruel and useless.’
‘But there is the murder of Mrs Josephs,’ said Agatha quietly. ‘You must have read about that.’
‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with Paul?’
‘She said she was going to tell me all about him,’ said Agatha, ‘and the next day she was dead.’
Greta shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I cannot bring myself to believe that Paul’s death was anything other than an accident. I don’t know this Josephs woman – I mean I didn’t know her. Possibly her death is unrelated.’ Her voice shook. ‘I’ve done what I can for you. Please don’t trouble me again.’
There was a long silence after she had left. Then, ‘Poor woman,’ said Bunty.
‘Perhaps.’ Agatha laced her fingers tightly round the coffee mug. ‘On the other hand, she surely had the most reason to kill Paul. She would know about Immobilon. Perhaps she would have access to Adrenalin, if he had left any of his drugs behind when he left her.’
‘You’re forgetting about the break-in at the surgery,’ James pointed out.
‘The police seem to think that might have been done after Mrs Josephs’s death.
’
‘So many women. So many suspects,’ mourned James. ‘But we have taken up enough of your time, Bunty.’
They thanked her and left.
‘We’ve got one thing,’ said Agatha, as they drove off. ‘Money, not passion, seems to be at the bottom of things. Look, Jack Pomfret didn’t get any money out of me, right? But the very fact that he tried to trick me, the fact that he has the gall to phone me up makes me want to murder him, gives me a mad hatred and fear of him. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes, I think so. If any of these women, I mean any of our suspects, apart from Greta, paid up, there would be a motive. We could go to Mircester and ask Peter Rice what happened to Paul Bladen’s deposit book.’
Agatha agreed, delighted at an opportunity of more time in his company.
The evening surgery at the vet’s in Mircester was just closing. Peter Rice greeted them this time amiably enough but scoffed when they asked if he had any of Paul Bladen’s bankbooks.
‘I cleared all his papers out and made a bonfire of them,’ he said. ‘I’ve put the house up for sale. I could hardly sell it with all his junk around. I asked Greta if she wanted anything but she didn’t, so I gave his clothes to charity and the contents of the house are being sold with it.’
‘Which was his bank?’ asked James.
‘The Cotswold and Gloucester. But bank managers don’t reveal anything about their customers’ accounts, even when they’re dead, as far as I know.’
‘You didn’t happen to notice if Paul had received any large sums from women recently?’ asked Agatha.
He gave a jolly laugh. ‘He was hardly young enough to be a toy boy. The lawyers will only pass over to me what is left after their bill and the funeral costs have been settled. I’m afraid his banking affairs have gone to the grave with him. But why do you ask? Hadn’t been ripping you off, had he?’
‘Just curious,’ said Agatha. ‘I mean it is odd, now that it’s turned out someone murdered Mrs Josephs. I mean, it definitely makes Paul Bladen’s death look like murder.’
‘Not to me,’ said Peter. ‘Pendlebury asked me to do that operation and I said I would never touch Immobilon again.’
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet Page 11
