Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet

by Beaton, M. C.

  Agatha looked eagerly around the kitchen. It was cheerful and warm. A large bowl of daffodils stood on the windowsill. There was a square scrubbed table in the middle and some elegant ladder-backed chairs. Supper consisted of cold ham and an excellent salad with a cold bottle of white Mâcon.

  Agatha studied him covertly as he ate with the absorbed attention he gave to everything and everyone except herself. ‘It’s time,’ he said finally, pushing away his plate, ‘for us to separately write down everything we know about everyone. Whoever killed Paul Bladen and Mrs Josephs did both killings in panic or rage and on the spur of the moment. But first, let’s see what we can get out of Miss Simms.’

  Miss Simms lived on the council estate near Mrs Parr. She answered the door to them and said cheerfully, ‘Just finished bathing the kids. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had children,’ whispered Agatha when they were alone.

  ‘Must be a single parent,’ said James. ‘Quite common these days.’

  The living-room was a mess of discarded toys and picture books. An old television set flickered in one corner. The furniture was of the kind bought on the pay-up plan, which grew old and shabby before the final payment was made.

  Miss Simms came tittuping back in on the ridiculously high heels she always wore.

  ‘Drink?’ she offered.

  James and Agatha both shook their heads. Agatha looked at James and James looked at Agatha and it was Agatha who said, ‘We happen to know you paid Paul Bladen five hundred pounds. Why?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very nice. I don’t really,’ complained Miss Simms. ‘What’s it got to do with you, anyway?’

  Agatha sighed. ‘We just want to know who killed Paul Bladen and Mrs Josephs. We feel if we knew why you gave him the money, it might help. The others gave him thousands and thousands, but they won’t talk.’

  Her gaze sharpened. ‘There were others?’

  Agatha nodded.

  Miss Simms sighed and sat back on the low sofa and crossed her legs, her skirt rucked up to show an edge of scarlet lace knicker. How little I really know about the people in this village, thought Agatha. I didn’t even know Miss Simms had children. It’s the car, that’s what. People in villages have become mobile and so they’re less curious about their fellows. And television. And yet it’s funny how people go on and on about the good old days when they had to make their own entertainment. If it was so great, why did they all rush out to buy television sets as soon as they could?

  Miss Simms’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘I may as well tell you, only it makes me so mad; like when I think of the way that bastard tricked me. He took me out to a posh restaurant in Broadway. He told me all about this veterinary hospital he hoped to start. He said if I gave him some money, he would call it after me. He said he would get Prince Charles to open it. I drank too much and well, things got a bit passionate that night and before I knew what was what, I’d written him out a cheque for everything I’d got in the Post Office savings. After a bit when he didn’t come round again, I got worried. Not nice to be dropped like that. I asked him about the hospital and he said he was too busy to talk about it. I asked for my money back and he got nasty and said I had given it to him of my own free will. I felt such a fool. I work over at a computer place in Evesham. I pay a chunk out of my wages to pay for child care for the kids. I told Mrs Bloxby. She said I should pray to God for guidance and so I did and do you know what?’

  ‘No, what?’ asked James.

  ‘The very next day God sent me a new gentleman friend with a nice job in soft furnishings and he pays me an allowance, like.’

  ‘You’ll be getting married soon,’ said James.

  She laughed. ‘He’s married, which suits me. Don’t like having a man underfoot all the time.’

  ‘Does Mrs Bloxby know the outcome of your prayers?’ asked Agatha curiously.

  ‘Ooh, yes. She said as how God moves in mysterious ways.’

  The vicar’s wife, reflected Agatha, was always the soul of tact.

  ‘I was so mad with that Paul Bladen, I could’ve killed him,’ said Miss Simms. ‘But I didn’t, and so good luck to whoever did.’

  ‘But there’s Mrs Josephs.’

  Miss Simms looked sad. ‘Forgot about her. Old duck she was. What about a drink now?’

  Both cheerfully accepted now that there was no danger of their being thrown out and Miss Simms produced an excellent bottle of malt whisky supplied by her gentleman friend. Agatha paid her membership fee for the Carsely Ladies’ Society and Miss Simms entered it carefully in a ledger.

  ‘So are you pair going to get spliced?’ she said cheerfully.

  James put down his glass. ‘No danger of that,’ he said evenly. ‘I am a confirmed bachelor.’

  Miss Simms laughed. ‘Wouldn’t be too sure about that. When our Mrs Raisin sets her mind to something, there’s no stopping her. Mrs Harvey in the shop was only saying the other day that we would be hearing wedding bells soon.’

  ‘She must have been talking about someone else,’ said Agatha, pink with embarrassment.

  When they had said goodbye to Miss Simms and walked outside, there was a constraint between them. Agatha felt quite tired and weepy.

  ‘I think I’d better go home to bed,’ she said in a small voice quite unlike her usual robust tones.

  ‘Don’t look so upset,’ he said in a kind voice. ‘They’ll go on talking about us, and when nothing happens, the gossip will die away.’

  But I want something to happen, wailed Agatha’s heart, and to her horror a large tear slipped out of one eye and ran down her nose.

  ‘You’ve had a rotten day,’ said James. ‘Tell you what, we’ll walk to the Red Lion and I’ll get you a stiff nightcap.’

  Agatha gave him a watery smile.

  The pub was blessedly quiet, only a few of the regulars standing at the bar. They carried their drinks over to a table by the fire.

  And then Freda walked into the pub with a man. She was wearing a pale-green tailored suit and a white silk blouse and looked as cool and fresh as a salad. Her companion was a florid-faced middle-aged man with silver hair, dressed in a blazer and flannels. They ordered drinks. Freda half-turned her head and saw James and Agatha. She whispered something to her escort, who let out a great braying haw-haw-haw of a laugh and stared at them insolently.

  Agatha noticed James’s face was wearing a blank look and that his body was tense. Please God, let him not be jealous, she prayed, at the same time wondering why she kept praying to a God in whom she did not quite believe.

  ‘I think I am tired,’ said James abruptly.

  They left together and walked silently home Agatha gave him a sad goodnight and went to her own cottage. At least the cats would be glad to see her.

  She unlocked the door and stepped inside, switching on the hall light as she did so.

  There was a square white envelope lying on the doormat. She opened it up. It contained one sheet of paper with a simple typed message.

  ‘Stop poking your nose into things that don’t concern you or you will never see your cats again.’

  Agatha let out a whimper of fear. She ran through to the kitchen and opened the back door. ‘Hodge, Boswell,’ she called, but all was darkness and silence. She switched on the back outside lights. The square of garden lay before her. No cats.

  She went inside and picked up the telephone and phoned the police.

  The windows of James’s bedroom overlooked the front of his cottage. He undressed and climbed into bed and switched out the light. Just as he was about to close his eyes, a blue light flickered up and over his ceiling and he could hear the sound of a car sweeping past in the lane outside.

  He switched on the light again and scrambled back into his clothes. As he stepped out of his own front door, another police car arrived.

  He ran to Agatha’s cottage, hoping she was all right, worried that by encouraging her to go on this murder hunt, he might have endangered
her.

  PC Griggs was standing on duty on the doorstep. ‘You can step inside, Mr Lacey,’ he said. ‘She’ll need some help.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone stole her cats.’

  James was so relieved that Agatha was not hurt that he nearly said, ‘Is that all?’ but bit the remark back in time.

  Agatha’s sitting-room seemed full of policemen, plainclothes and uniformed.

  Bill Wong looked up as James came in. He had an arm around Agatha’s shoulders, an Agatha who was sobbing quietly. Agatha had never thought of herself as a cat lover. In fact, she sometimes regretted the responsibility of looking after the pair. But now all she could think of was that they had either been slaughtered or were locked up somewhere, being mistreated and frightened.

  ‘You’d best sit down and tell us everything you did today,’ said Bill. ‘Agatha’s in no state to give us a coherent account. Begin at the beginning and go on to the end and don’t leave anything out.’

  The only thing that James left out was that they had both pretended to be social workers. In a flat voice, he described the interviews they had conducted, the trip to Leamington, the finding out about Cheryl Mabbs’s theft of the drugs including Adrenalin, and the attacks in the pub.

  He then fell silent, waiting for a lecture, but Bill said, ‘We’ll have this all typed up and get you to sign it tomorrow. We’ll need to interview everyone in Lilac Lane and see if they saw anyone or heard a car while you were both in the pub.’

  He turned to Agatha and gently questioned her again, taking notes of his own while she confirmed James’s story.

  James ambled off to the kitchen and made some coffee. Men were dusting Agatha’s front door for fingerprints, examining the road outside for tyre tracks, picking over the front garden. He sat down at the kitchen table, listening to the murmur of voices in the other room and reflecting that he had initially retired to the country for peace and quiet.

  At last he rose and went back to his own house and dug out a sleeping-bag, put his pyjamas, toothbrush, and shaving-kit in a bag and returned to Agatha’s cottage.

  Bill and the others were just leaving. ‘I’ll sleep downstairs here tonight,’ said James, and Bill nodded.

  Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, was sitting with Agatha when he went into the sitting-room. ‘That nice Mr Wong phoned me,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘What a terrible business. Agatha should not be left alone.’

  ‘She won’t be,’ said James. ‘I’m sleeping down here. Don’t cry, Agatha. Cats are great survivors.’

  ‘If they’re still alive,’ sobbed Agatha.

  ‘I’m glad you are staying, Mr Lacey,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘But phone me if you need any help.’

  James saw her out and then returned to Agatha. ‘Off to bed with you,’ he said gently, ‘and I’ll bring you something to make you sleep.’

  Agatha scrubbed her eyes and trailed up the stairs. Part of her mind told her that such a short time ago she would have believed any sacrifice was worth getting James to stay under her roof and look after her, but the rest of her mind cried out for her lost pets.

  After she was in bed, the door opened and James came in carrying a tray. ‘Whisky and hot water and a couple of aspirin,’ he said. ‘I’ll be downstairs. Drink up.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and held the glass to her lips and waited until she had swallowed the aspirin.

  After he had left, Agatha lay awake, tears trickling out of the corners of her eyes. Everyone seemed sinister to her now, even James. What did she know of him? A man arrived in a village and claimed to be a retired colonel and everyone took him at face value. And yet, Bunty knew his family, and she, Agatha, had met his sister a year ago. But how formidable, how terrifying he had been when he had been slapping the miserable Jerry around. Ruthless, that was the word for it.

  Slowly she drifted off to sleep, plagued with nightmares. Freda was torturing the cats and laughing while James looked on; Bill Wong invited her to dinner and served up the cats, roasted on a tray; and Miss Webster was sitting efficiently at her desk, with Agatha’s two cats, stuffed and mounted, in front of her.

  Agatha awoke in the morning. Sunlight was streaming into the room, there was a smell of coffee and the hum of voices from downstairs. She looked at the clock beside the bed. Ten in the morning!

  She washed and dressed and went downstairs. Her kitchen was full of women: most of them members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, Mrs Harvey from the general store, and Mrs Dunbridge, the butcher’s wife, all being served coffee by James.

  They surrounded her as she came in, murmuring sympathy. Her kitchen counter was loaded with gifts of cake and jam and flowers. Even Miss Simms was there. ‘Took the day off from work,’ she said.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Agatha, ‘but I don’t know what you can do.’

  ‘Mr Lacey has had a very good idea,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘We’re organizing a search. Your cats may have been dumped off somewhere in the village, so we are all going out on a house-to-house hunt. You sit quietly here with Mr Lacey and we’ll report if we find anything.’

  Agatha abruptly left the room and went up to the bathroom and cried her eyes out. All her life she had forged on, pushy and determined to get to the top of the public relations profession, all her life she had been alone. All this friendship and help made her feel weak.

  When she went back downstairs, red-eyed but composed, only James and Mrs Parr were left.

  ‘Mrs Parr has just been telling me much the same story as Miss Simms,’ said James. ‘Bladen told her about the veterinary hospital and said he would name it after her. Her husband found out about the missing money and hit the roof.’

  ‘I suppose I might have done the same thing,’ said Agatha slowly, remembering that dinner at the Greek restaurant. ‘He told me about his plans and I said I would contribute something, but I was thinking of a cheque for twenty pounds. And he was all ready to go to bed with me but I panicked and ran away. Did you have an affair with him, Mrs Parr?’

  She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have done. That wasn’t how he tricked me. I was so flattered by him because he said I was the only woman who understood him. I am not very happy in my marriage and he made me feel attractive. I should have told you before, but I felt such a fool. I was still a bit in love with him when he died, but after the funeral my mind cleared up and I could see what he had done.’

  ‘Mrs Mason was telling me the same thing while you were upstairs, Agatha,’ said James, ‘He was a compulsive gambler, Mrs Parr, and that’s why he needed the money.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Agatha. ‘He didn’t spend any of it. I mean, what he got out of the ladies of Carsely was still in his account.’

  ‘I’ll go off and join the search,’ said Mrs Parr. ‘The least I can do.’

  ‘Thanks for all this, James,’ said Agatha, when they were alone. Her eyes filled with tears again.

  ‘Now, now, the time for crying is over. Let’s sit down and discuss what we know. Instead of thinking that, say, Freda must have done it because she paid out the most money, what we should be looking for is someone with the character to do such a thing.’

  ‘Who can say what anyone will do when they’re goaded?’

  ‘You wouldn’t kill anyone, Agatha, now would you?’

  Except Freda, thought Agatha.

  ‘What we should do,’ he went on, ‘is make a list of suspects and then divide it up and follow each one and see what she does during the day and who she sees and if there is anything suspicious about her behaviour. Now, the women who gave money to Bladen were Mrs Parr, Mrs Mason, Freda, Miss Webster, Mrs Josephs and Miss Simms. Then we have to take into account Paul’s ex-wife, Greta. Also, there is one side of the case we have not been looking at. Bladen was killed up at Lord Pendlebury’s stables. Bob Arthur found the body and came running out, saying, “Looks like someone’s done fer him.” Why should he say that? Why not think it a heart attack or something? There’s another interesting thing I noticed about
Bladen’s bank statements. There were no major withdrawals, so he must have had cash to pay for all his food and entertaining. How did he pay the bill at the Greek restaurant?’

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘Right. So what about Mrs Arthur? There’s a thought.’

  ‘It gets worse and worse,’ said Agatha. ‘Where do we begin?’

  ‘I’ll begin with Freda. No, don’t scowl. My motives are pure detection. You start by watching Mrs Parr.’

  ‘Oh, come on! That woman couldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘She’s terrified of that husband of hers. Bladen might have known that. She may yet not be telling us all. He could have been blackmailing her. Give you something to do. You want your cats back, don’t you?’

  Agatha winced.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll get moving on my side and we’ll meet up here, say, at six o’clock this evening. Nothing like action to beat the blues, Agatha.’

  Agatha went numbly about the kitchen after he had left, stacking away the various gifts in cupboards. Apart from cakes and pots of jam there was a large bunch of dried flowers, but they could hardly be from Miss Webster. Agatha shoved them in a vase and went upstairs to put on the make-up she had wept off.

  She was on her way out when she stopped in the hall. The back of the front door was still covered in fingerprint dust. A gleam of sunlight lit up a tiny coloured object sticking among the coarse coconut matting of the doormat. She bent down and looked at it and then picked it out. Puzzled, she turned it this way and that. Then her face cleared. It was a tiny dried petal. It must have fallen off that bouquet of flowers that someone had brought. She flicked it from her fingers and then opened the door.

  Then she froze.

  Suddenly it was the night before and she was lifting the envelope from the doormat and opening it, taking out the letter, smoothing it out. Surely a flicker of something small and bright had drifted down.

  Chapter Nine

  Agatha felt weird and strange as she walked numbly out into the bright sunlight. Two policemen were asking questions at the other cottages in Lilac Lane. People waved and called to her as she went past but she did not hear them.