by M C Beaton
“Vitamin pills. He showed me a bottle of them. Said they were multi-vitamins and that he kept a bottle in the salon as well. They were large and gelatin-covered.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Bill eagerly. “I’ll just phone that through.”
He went into the hall with his mobile phone. Agatha longed to warn Charles not to say too much, but the policewoman, a large and stolid female, sat studying them closely as if they were both some rare species of animal.
Bill came back and sat down.
“In view of your knowledge, Detective Inspector John Brudge of Worcester CID will be over to see you as well.”
Agatha groaned. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
Bill ignored her and turned his attention to Charles.
“Now, Sir Charles, where do you come into this? Were you under the impression that John Shawpart was a blackmailer?”
“I got that idea first from Aggie here. I decided it would be fun to find out and egged her on. I persuaded her to go out with him for dinner and tell him that James Lacey was coming back and she was terrified he would find out about us and so she was to tape the whole thing and see if he demanded money for her silence, but it all went wrong.”
“What happened?”
“To reinforce Aggie’s fiction, I turned up here to wait until they arrived back from the restaurant to play the part of the jealous lover. Unfortunately I did it a bit too well. I grabbed Aggie’s arm and her handbag went spinning and the tape recorder fell out and he saw it.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Let me see, he said something like, ‘Yours, I think.’ He looked amused in a nasty way, but as I explained to Aggie afterwards, lots of people carry these little machines around with them.”
“But he asked Mrs. Raisin to go into business with him, so he cannot think you suspected him of anything.”
“Well,” said Agatha reluctantly, “that was because I managed to make him think I had fallen for him.”
Bill leaned back in his chair. “I must ask you again: What made both of you persist in thinking he was a blackmailer?”
“I told Bill we saw that ferrety-looking woman, I mean John and me, when we left a restaurant, and she looked so white and frightened,” said Agatha, trying to signal with her eyes to Charles not to betray Mrs. Friendly.
“Oh, I can tell you all about that,” said Charles breezily. Agatha groaned inwardly.
“We were bored,” said Charles.
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Bill.
“Bored. Ennui. Fed up. No interest. So when Aggie said teasingly, she was sure he was a blackmailer, I went along with it, worked her up, you know. All a bit of fun.”
“And now he’s dead, murdered,” said Bill evenly.
“And so he is, which shows he must have been up to some malarkey after all and it’s up to you to find out what it was. But we had nothing to do with it.”
“You went to the hospital, Sir Charles, with Mrs. Raisin here. She said she was the deceased’s sister. Then, despite the fact that Mrs. Raisin told us before you arrived that someone had told her that Shawpart’s house had been burnt, your car was spotted driving slowly past on the night of the murder.”
“I was curious to see where he lived,” said Charles blandly.
“All right, let’s go back over some points. Which restaurant were you in, Mrs. Raisin, when you saw this frightened woman?”
“The bistro that’s attached to the Crown Inn in Blockley.”
“You said that the night before he died you shared a Chinese meal with him. Which restaurant?”
“He sent out for it. I can’t remember which one.”
“This business he meant to start in London. According to that assistant Garry, John Shawpart seemed under the impression that you were so besotted with him that you were prepared to pay for the whole thing.”
Agatha turned dark red with mortification.
“Good act you put on, Aggie,” said Charles. “He must have believed you were really smitten.”
“Ah, yes, you said it was an act,” said Bill. “That will be all for the moment. You will both be expected to make statements.”
“When will Worcester CID be calling?” asked Agatha.
“Quite soon.”
“Then I’d better stay,” said Charles cheerfully, “and let them deal with both of us at once.”
Agatha stood up to show Bill and the policewoman out, her legs stiff with tension.
“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Raisin,” said Bill, avoiding the hurt and rejected look in Agatha’s eyes.
She nodded to him, shut the door on them both, joined Charles in the living-room and burst into tears.
Bill got into the police car and took the wheel. The policewoman got in on the passenger side. The reason that Bill had been so cold and formal with Agatha was that he was accompanied by Snoopy Christine, the bane of Mircester police headquarters. She delighted in finding out weaknesses in her fellow officers and gossiping about them to anyone who would listen.
Her first words when they had set out from Mircester earlier had been, “Rumour has it that you’re a friend of this Agatha Raisin’s.”
And Bill, who knew Agatha was in trouble over pretending to be dead man’s sister and was well aware that any sign of warmth towards Agatha on his part would be reported by the beady-eyed Christine, had said casually, “Just some woman I met on some cases.”
“Her husband was murdered, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, I was on that case.”
On the road back after interviewing Agatha and Charles, Christine said nastily, “They’re nothing more than a couple of rich layabouts, amusing themselves by playing at detectives.”
“Exactly,” said Bill casually. With any luck, all Agatha would get would be a rap over the knuckles for having pretended to be Shawpart’s sister. Any sign of favouritism on his part, and Christine would put it about and it might get to Worcester and they might feel compelled to punish Agatha to show the police did not have favourites.
“Come on now, Aggie,” Charles was saying in a soothing voice, “it looks as if you’re off the hook. No one saw you going to his house after he was murdered.”
Agatha dried her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s Bill,” she said. “He was my very first friend and now he’s gone off me.”
She cleaned the burnt mess out of the fireplace, put it in a garbage bag, ran out and slung the bag into James’s garden. She returned to Charles.
“Probably had to be formal in front of that cow of a policewoman. Brace yourself. I think the heavy mob’s arrived.”
Detective Inspector John Brudge was an intelligent-looking man with dark hair and a thin, clever face. He not only brought a detective sergeant and a detective constable with him, but two policemen and a search warrant.
While he took Agatha and Charles carefully through their stories again, Agatha could hear the forces of law and order moving through the cottage, searching every drawer, cupboard and nook and cranny.
It was annoying rather than worrying, for she had nothing to hide. She had even wiped her conversation with the hairdresser from her tape recorder.
The one main thing that was making her begin to relax was that no one had seen her at the villa on the Cheltenham Road on the day it was burnt down.
Just as the long interrogation was coming to an end, the detective constable entered and quietly handed Brudge a receipt. Agatha stiffened and looked wildly at Charles. It was an Asprey’s receipt for those cuff-links. Then she began to relax again. She could say she had bought them for Charles and Charles would be quick enough, she was sure, to agree.
Brudge moved out into the hall with the receipt. She then heard him talking into his phone but could not make out the words.
He came back in holding the receipt and sat down.
“This is a receipt for a pair of very expensive cuff-links, Mrs. Raisin, gold cuff-links.”
“Yes,” said Agatha easily. “I bought them
as a present for Charles here.”
He looked at her steadily for a few moments and then he said, “In the part of the living-room of Shawpart’s house which survived, we found a box containing a pair of gold cufflinks from Asprey’s. I think you bought them for Shawpart, Mrs. Raisin, and it is no use denying it because we can easily check.”
“I bought those for Charles,” protested Agatha.
“Who can no doubt produce them?”
“It’s no use, Aggie,” said Charles. “Why lie when we have no reason to? I urged her to buy Shawpart some expensive present to get close to him.”
“Why?”
“I told you. It was a game. We were sure he was up to something fishy.”
“An expensive game. You have both gone on about finding out about this hairdresser for fun, because you were bored. I find that hard to believe. You initially lied, Mrs. Raisin, although Sir Charles here says you have nothing to hide. I find that very suspicious. You will call at Mircester tomorrow and sign your statements. You are not to travel abroad until this investigation is completed.”
“I’m sorry I lied,” said Agatha, “but I feel embarrassed about wasting so much money on him. And I wasn’t to know he would be murdered.”
“So you say. I have yet to read the Gloucester report. I hope you have not been lying to them as well.”
Agatha thought about her saying that someone had told her the villa had burnt down and then found out Charles’s car had been spotted. She groaned inwardly.
“We are taking some things,” said Brudge. A policeman held out a box containing a few bottles of vitamin pills and aspirin. “We will give you a receipt for them.”
When they had all left, she said to Charles, “What a mess.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not very.”
“Let’s go along to the Red Lion and get a sandwich.”
“All right. Give me a moment while I change. I feel all sweaty.”
She went up to her bathroom and stripped and had a quick shower and put on a clean blouse and skirt.
She looked out of the window. Charles was playing with her cats in the garden. He had made a ball out of kitchen foil and was throwing it in the air while the cats leaped up to catch it.
Did he ever worry about anything? Probably just as well if he did not. She herself was worrying enough for the whole of the Cotswolds.
The lounge bar of the Red Lion was smoky and dim. A fire had been lit and little puffs of grey smoke escaped from it and lay in bands across the low-beamed room.
They collected gin and tonics and ham sandwiches and retreated to a far corner.
“So what do we do now?” asked Agatha.
“We go on. For a start we’ve got to try to get the Friendly woman on her own.”
“How do we do that?”
“You’re all kerfuffled and discombobulated these days, Aggie. You put me up for the night and then we watch her house and see if Mr. Friendly leaves.”
“How can we do that without being too obvious?”
“The cottage is opposite the churchyard. You take me on a tour of the graves. I’m a historian. I make notes. Even if he doesn’t leave, surely she goes out shopping. Then we should get to a library and read up on ricin. Are there any castor-oil plants outside Kew Gardens in this country, for example? If not, which of our suspects has been abroad lately?”
“I don’t think we’ve really got any suspects.”
“Wake up! Of course we have. We have the hairy Mr. Friendly. We have the woman Maggie. We’ll start with them.”
“We can’t haunt the Friendlys tomorrow morning. We’ve got to go to Mircester.”
“So we have. After, then.”
“I’m still hurt by Bill’s behaviour,” fretted Agatha. “Badly hurt. First, he’s on holiday and doesn’t phone, then he’s on duty and treats me like Suspect Number One.”
“Why don’t you just phone him? You’ve got his phone number.”
“I don’t want to,” mumbled Agatha.
“You’re frightened he’s gone off you because of some deep unlikeable flaw in your character, so you prefer to be miserable. Tell you what, I’ll go home and pack a bag. I’ll be staying with you.”
Agatha raised a smile. “No funny stuff.”
“Did I ever? See you back at the ranch, Aggie.”
He went off. She finished her drink, but instead of going home, walked to the vicarage and rang the bell.
“Christ!” came the unholy voice of the vicar. “It’s that woman again.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Alf, and get on with your sermon,” came Mrs. Bloxby’s calm voice.
“I always call at the wrong time,” said Agatha ruefully as Mrs. Bloxby opened the door.
“Pay no attention to Alf. He’s the same with everyone. I keep telling him he’s too antisocial for a vicar. Come in.”
“If you’re sure… ”
“Quite sure. Tea? Coffee?”
“A cup of coffee would be nice.”
“Come into the kitchen.”
The kitchen was warm and welcoming. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling and shining copper pans gleamed against the old stone walls. “I’ve got some ready,” said Mrs. Bloxby, pouring two mugs.
Agatha said, “Can we take this into the garden? Then I can smoke with a free conscience.”
“Certainly, although I hope you don’t find it too chilly. It’s got quite cold since the weather broke.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby when they were both seated, “I know the police were at your cottage and all because of that hairdresser. I wish I had never recommended him. Is it murder?”
Agatha described all the things she had done and left undone. A large bam owl, ghostly in the dark, swooped over their heads, and sleepy birds chirped lazily in the surrounding trees.
“I’ve been so very stupid,” commented Agatha when she had finished her tale.
“I think all the effort you went to on Mrs. Friendly’s behalf,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “shows a noble spirit. Perhaps you should tell her. She must be dreadfully frightened that the police may have found something.”
“So you do think she could have been a victim of blackmail!”
“Just an idea.”
“Does Mr. Friendly go out? I mean, is she ever on her own?”
“He plays golf practically ever afternoon between two and five.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha. “I don’t feel so silly now.”
“In the meantime, I shall ask around about a woman called Maggie and give your description. The joy about being a vicar’s wife is that I can ask questions about people and no one thinks it suspicious.”
“I’d better go. Charles will be back any minute. He’s staying the night. I mean, you know, I don’t mean… ”
Mrs. Bloxby laughed. “Off you go. And phone Bill Wong. There’s bound to be a simple explanation.”
“So what’s happened to you?” demanded Charles as she let him in. “All calm and smiling now. Been at the Prozac?”
“Been seeing Mrs. Bloxby.”
“Ah, confession is good for the soul.”
Agatha led him up to the spare bedroom.
“While you’re putting your things away, I’ll make a phone call.”
She went down to the kitchen extension and dialled Bill Wong’s home number.
She prayed his formidable mother would not answer the phone and it was with relief that she recognized Bill’s voice. “Bill, it’s Agatha.”
“Oh.”
“Bill, what happened? You were on holiday and you didn’t phone.”
His voice to her relief sounded amused. “The phone works both ways, Agatha.”
“I thought you’d gone away on holiday until Charles said he saw you in Mircester.”
“A heavy romance, Agatha.”
“And what was all the formality today about? You treated me like a criminal.”
“Just as well, too. I was accompanied by Snoopy Christine and you’ve got me i
n deep shit already, Agatha.”
“Why?”
“I did not put in my report that you had lied about driving past the villa with Charles. I don’t know why you did that.”
“I was confused.”
“Anyway, Snoopy Christine somehow got hold of my report and felt duty-bound to point out the omission to Detective Inspector Wilkes, who gave me a lecture on the dangers of favouritism. Then you tried to pretend you hadn’t Charles’s number and threw that phone book over the hedge. I’d left that bit out as well. Christine pointed out that omission as well.”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, but I felt guilty because of your coldness and about us playing amateur detectives.”
“I know you well, Agatha, and when you said you knew nothing about the fire, I could swear you were lying.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” said Agatha hotly. She knew that if she confessed to Bill that she had actually been inside when the house went on fire, then he would have to report her and she would probably be arrested for arson, along with impeding the police in their inquiries and anything else they could throw at her.
“Keep in touch with me and let me know if you think of anything you might have missed out,” said Bill. “But it’s mostly Worcester’s case. Don’t flap about and get yourself nearly killed like you’ve been doing in the past. And remember that Worcester CID are very clever.”
“There are cases you would never have solved if it hadn’t been for me,” said Agatha huffily.
“I’ve told you and told you, the police always get there sooner or later. Take a break. Relax. Get a hobby.”
“You’re patronizing.”
“I’m cross because I got into trouble trying to cover up for you.”
“Sorry.”
“We’ll meet soon, Agatha.”
“Okay, how’s the romance?”
“Dead in the water. I don’t know what happened.”
“Take her home to meet the parents and all that?” asked Agatha with affected casualness.
“Yes, but it still collapsed.”
Poor Bill, thought Agatha. Mr. and Mr. Wong were enough to scare off any girl. But he adored his parents and she knew that any criticism of them would wound him deeply.
“Isn’t ricin an odd sort of poison?”
