by M C Beaton
“Not all that odd. The murderer could have got away with it. It’s terribly hard to detect, almost impossible.”
“Seems to point to a pretty sophisticated murderer,” said Agatha. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing some ordinary village housewife would use.”
“Why did you say that?” His voice was sharp. “What ordinary village housewife did you have in mind?”
“I didn’t. I mean I just meant that it was a very exotic sort of poison.”
“If you say so.” Suspicious. “I feel there’s a lot you’re holding back.”
Agatha managed a light laugh. “Don’t I tell you everything?”
“Not always, no.”
“We’ll have a drink and a meal soon, Bill.”
“Right. Go carefully. See you.”
Agatha replaced the receiver. Instead of being relieved to find they were still friends, she now felt worried and guilty about lying to Bill.
They made their statements the following day at Mircester police headquarters and emerged from a gruelling session blinking in the mellow sunlight. Good weather had returned, but without the ferocious heat, and there was an autumnal crispness in the air.
“It’s still morning,” said Charles, “and at least you’re still free. Haven’t banged you up yet, which is a miracle. So what do we do now? Confront Mrs. Friendly?”
“Bit early. The hairy husband doesn’t play golf until the afternoon.”
“So let’s try the library and read up on castor-oil plants.”
Mircester Public Library was dark and silent, a marble-pillared, cavernous Victorian place. Agatha’s high heels clicked across the marble floor.
“Where do we start?” she whispered.
“We’11 look up an encyclopaedia.”
They searched along the reference shelves. “Here we are,” said Charles. “R for ricin.”
He flicked the pages. “Nothing here.”
“Try P for poison,” suggested Agatha.
“Right you are. Now let me see. Ah, poisonous plants. Here we go. Listen to this, Agatha.
“ ‘Castor-oil plant. Ricinus communis. Large plant of the spurge family grown commercially for the pharmaceutical and industrial uses of oil and for use in landscaping because of its handsome, giant, twelve-lobed palmate (fanlike) leaves. The brittle spinel, bronze-to-red clusters of fruits are attractive but often removed before they mature because of the poison, ricinine, concentrated in their mottled bean like seeds. Probably native to Africa-’ ”
“Not Evesham, then. Rats,” interrupted Agatha.
“Listen and learn,” he said severely. “ ‘Probably native to Africa, this species has become naturalized throughout the tropical world. The plants are cultivated chiefly in India and Brazil, largely for their oil.’ Aha here we go! ‘In temperate climates they are raised as annuals and grow one point five to two point four feet in a single season.’ There! This is a temperate climate. Ergo, all we need to do is keep looking in gardens.”
He flicked over another page. “Here are the symptoms of ricin poisoning. Burning of mouth, throat and stomach, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal cramps, dulled vision, respiratory distress, paralysis, death.’ ”
Agatha repressed a shudder. “What a way to go! Let’s go and eat and see if we can catch Mrs. Friendly on her own.”
At two o’clock that afternoon, they left the car outside Agatha’s cottage and walked towards the church. “We’ll wander amongst the gravestones,” said Charles. “I’ll look knowledgeable and take notes and you yack away as if you’re telling me the history. Look at this tombstone. Five children, died so young, and they talk about the good old days. Why do people keep talking about the good old days, Aggie?”
“Nostalgia. If people have had a reasonable childhood, then they remember a time when the days always seemed to be sunny and they had no responsibilities, like work or paying the bills, and grown-ups were some sort of know-all superior giants. Funny, that. It even works for me with the recent past. When I’m depressed and things aren’t moving forward, my mind harks back to the London days and what a marvellous time I had, when, come to think of it, I didn’t really have a marvellous time.” Agatha frowned in thought. “I suppose no matter how old one is, one has to always have a goal. Study something. What?”
Charles had muttered a soft exclamation. “I got a glimpse of Mr. Friendly driving off.”
“We’ll give it a few minutes,” said Agatha. “You know, I’m a bit apprehensive about all this. Why not leave it to the police?”
“Solving this murder is your goal, Aggie. We’ll ask a few questions here and there, see how we get on, and when it becomes tiresome, we’ll jack it in.”
“This is just a game for you!”
Charles shrugged. “Why not? Take all this murder and mayhem too seriously and you’ll go barmy. Let’s go and see Mrs. Friendly.”
Liza Friendly looked as if she did not want to let them in. “Just a few moments of your time,” pleaded Agatha.
“Very well, but I’ve got a lot to do.”
They sat down in the small, dark living room. Liza did not offer them tea or coffee but sat facing them, perched on the edge of a chair, her hands clasped in her lap.
Agatha decided to get straight to the point. “That hairdresser, Mr. John of Evesham, was killed… murdered.”
“It was food poisoning!” Mrs. Friendly’s eyes darted this way and that as if looking for escape.
“It’s in the papers this morning,” said Agatha. She and Charles had bought the newspapers on the way back from Mircester.
Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. “I don’t read the newspapers.”
But Agatha noted she did not wonder why they were questioning her.
“You knew Mr. John.” Agatha made it a statement, rather than a question.
“Well, I went to his salon a few times. But then it seemed an unnecessary expense. I do my hair myself now.”
And it looks it, thought Agatha brutally.
She took a deep breath. “So when did he start blackmailing you?”
Liza leapt to her feet. “Get out of here!” she shouted. “Get out of my house.”
“Sit down,” said Charles quietly. “We haven’t told the police, and Aggie here went to great lengths to destroy the evidence.”
Liza sat down suddenly, as if her legs had given way. She said through dry lips, “If my husband finds out, he’ll kill me.”
“I’ll be in more of a fix with the police than you if they find out what I did.” Agatha told her about going to the hairdresser’s home to try to get hold of anything that might incriminate Mrs. Friendly.
“So you see,” she ended, “it’s in your interest to help us. We must find out who really did it.”
There was a long silence. Oh, hurry up, thought Agatha. What if that husband of yours has left something behind and comes back for it?
Then Liza said with a sigh, “I was fascinated by him. He made me feel attractive. We began to meet occasionally for a coffee, and then, a few months ago, Bob went off to Scotland to play golf with an old school friend. We went out for dinner and then we went back to his house.”
She fell silent. “You slept with him,” prompted Agatha.
“Yes.”
“So then what happened?”
“He’d found out I had some money of my own. My mother left me some in her will that was in a separate bank account under my name. After that one night, he didn’t call, didn’t get in touch. I went to the salon several times, but he always got someone else to do my hair. I was frantic. I loved him. I thought I could leave Bob and go away with him. I wrote him several letters, pleading with him, reminding him of our love. And then he phoned and arranged to meet me in the salon after hours. He produced those letters and said unless I paid him, he would send the letters to my husband. Bob has a frightful temper. John wanted five thousand pounds. He said that would be enough and he would let me have the letters. So I paid him.”
Agatha looked at
her with pity. “But you didn’t get the letters. He asked for more.”
Liza nodded.
“Did you give it to him?”
“I told him to wait, I needed time. Then I heard he was dead and I felt I had escaped from hell.”
Agatha looked around the poky cottage. “If you have money of your own and I assume your husband has money, why do you live in such a small place?”
“Bob always says we should keep hold of a lot of money for our old age. Old folks homes cost so much.”
“If your husband is as tyrannical as you make out, it’s a wonder he didn’t insist your money went into a joint account.”
“We never had one. Before Mother died, he gave me a weekly allowance. When I got my own money, he said I could use that.”
“You didn’t give John Shawpart a cheque, did you?” asked Charles.
She shook her head. “No, he wanted cash. I paid him in cash.”
“Good, the police won’t find any record of the payment in his bank.” Charles leaned forward. “You don’t think your husband could have found out anything? Shawpart was beaten up just before his death.”
“Oh, no. Bob would never have kept such a thing to himself.”
“Have you any children?” asked Agatha.
She shook her head sadly. “We were never able to have any. I wanted to adopt, but Bob said the kid could turn out to be a psychopath and he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Didn’t you ever work?” asked Agatha.
“I was a secretary when I met Bob. Shorthand and typing. I sometimes thought of going back to work, but Bob said nobody would want me. It’s all computers now.”
“Computing can be learned,” said Agatha.
“Bob would never let me.”
“Look, you’ve got your own money. Have you a car? Can you drive?”
“Yes, I have a little car.”
“So why don’t you just get in the car one day when he’s out and drive off,” said Agatha. “Start a new life somewhere else.”
“Oh, I couldn’t!”
“Why?”
“What would Bob do without me? Who would cook his meals and iron his shirts?”
“He would just have to learn to do that himself,” said Agatha, exasperated.
“We’re getting away from the point,” said Charles hurriedly. “Now, think. Did you ever see John Shawpart with any other women?”
Liza sat silently for a moment, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. Then she said, “When he had stopped getting in touch with me after… after that night, I would drive to his house, on Sundays and half day, Wednesday, and watch. I was mad with jealousy. There was one woman paid him a visit-Maggie, I think her name is. I’ve seen her in the salon. Then another time, I saw Mrs. Dairy coming out of his house.”
Agatha stared at her. “Our Mrs. Dairy? The terror of Carsely?”
“Yes, her. But she was probably collecting for something.”
“Well, well. Anyone else?”
“A young pretty woman, thirties, that’s young to me. I hadn’t seen her before.”
“What did she look like?”
“Blonde, slim, a bit rabbity, rather prominent teeth, skinny legs.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. It’s God’s punishment on me!”
“I don’t think God punishes or rewards,” said Charles unexpectedly. “Those are both such human failings, starting off with, ‘If you’re good, Santa will give you a bike for Christmas.’ I never got one because I was told that Santa was mad at me for blocking up the chimney and smoking out the house.”
Agatha blinked at him in surprise and then went on, “Liza-may I call you Liza?”
She nodded.
“The thing is, Liza, don’t worry about the police. Do you think anyone might have seen you with Mr. John?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps his neighbours… ”
“But his neighbours didn’t know you?”
“No.”
“So at the worst, all they can give is a description, and you’ll probably be lost in all the other descriptions of women Mr. John was seen with.”
“How was he poisoned?”
“Ricin.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a poison from castor-oil beans.”
“But I’ve never even heard of it!”
There was the sound of a key in the door. Agatha glanced out of the cottage window and noticed the leaded panes were smeared with rain.
“Bob!” said Liza.
“So that’s all settled,” said Agatha. She raised her voice. “You’re like me, Mrs. Friendly, and don’t want to perform at any of their concerts, but I would appreciate your help with the catering on the next occasion. Why, Mr. Friendly! We were just leaving.”
“Good,” he said rudely, swinging a bag of gold clubs from his shoulder and stacking them in a corner. “Bloody rain.”
Agatha and Charles got up and made their way to the door. “My wife has enough to do with the housekeeping here without wasting time on parish affairs,” he said as they edged past him.
“Quite,” murmured Agatha. “Such a pleasure to meet you again.”
“Tcha!”
“And ya sucks boo to you to,” said Agatha when she and Charles emerged into the pouring rain. “Let’s run. I’m getting soaked.”
They ran all the way to Agatha’s cottage. They dried themselves off in their respective rooms, changed into dry clothes and met up again in the kitchen.
“Well,” said Agatha, “what did you make of that? Mrs. Dairy!”
“Who she?”
“The ferrety woman with the nasty little dog.”
“Ah, the one who retrieved your phone book.”
“The same.”
“So do we tackle her next?”
“I suppose so, although she’s going to be most dreadfully rude. Damn, if it hadn’t been for Liza. I would be regretting having tried to rescue any incriminating papers. God, would I love to have some dirt on Mrs. Dairy.”
“What’s her first name?”
“In the ladies’ society of Carsely, Charles, first names do not exist. We are all Miss this and Mrs. that.”
“Where does she live?”
“Grim little house called Parks Cottage up Parks Lane, at the back of the village shop.”
“The rain is easing off. I think we should go before you lose courage. Maybe she’ll have a garden full of castor-oil plants.”
Agatha hesitated. “What sort of approach are we going to take?”
“Nasty and blunt, I should think, dear Aggie. Sort of thing you do best.”
FIVE
WATERY sunlight struck down on the cobbles as they made their way to Mrs. Dairy’s cottage. Not for one moment would Agatha admit to herself that she was intimidated by the waspish Mrs. Dairy and yet she experienced a sinking feeling as they approached the cottage and she saw that the door was standing open and the nasty little dog was snuffling about the steps.
“No castor-oil plants,” commented Charles, looking around the small front garden. “Nothing but laurels and other dreary shrubs. Wonder what’s round the back.”
Mrs. Dairy appeared at her front door. Her greeting was typical. “What do you want?”
“We wanted to have a word with you.” Agatha surreptitiously edged the snuffling dog away from her ankles with her foot.
“I don’t think I should invite you in,” said Mrs. Dairy, her thin face bright with malice. “I have my reputation to think of.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Agatha, irritated, gave the little dog another kick.
“I don’t think I should let you and one of your fancy men into my home.”
Charles brayed with laughter and Agatha glared at Mrs. Dairy.
“Okay,” she said truculently, raising her voice. “We’ll stand out here and discuss your fancy man, the late Mr. John Shawpart.”
For once, Agatha had obviously scored over the terrible Mrs. Dairy, whose green eyes goggled a
nd then darted right and left. “Come in,” she said abruptly. Her little dog raised his leg and peed onto Agatha’s shoe.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” howled Agatha. The dog scampered into the house. Agatha removed her shoe and, taking out a tissue, wiped it clean.
“Supposed to be lucky, Aggie,” said Charles. “Let’s go in before she changes her mind and slams the door on us.”
Another dark cottage living-room, everything in shades of dull green: green velvet upholstered three-piece suite, green walls, dark green fitted carpet, green leaves from the thick ivy outside which covered the cottage, blocking out any light the small windows might have afforded. All sat down and faced each other in this subterranean gloom.
“What did you mean by that remark?” demanded Mrs. Dairy. The dog leapt on her lap and she kneaded her thin fingers in its coat.
“John Shawpart was a blackmailer,” said Agatha. “He wooed women, found out about them, and then blackmailed them.”
“Rubbish!” Mrs. Dairy sounded breathless. “I’m a respectable woman. Who could possibly want to blackmail me? I am not like you, Mrs. Raisin, with your scandalous affairs with younger men.”
Checkmate, thought Agatha. What could there be in this acidulous women’s life that was worth a blackmailer’s time?
“Money,” said Charles suddenly. “It was all about money. We know that.”
He was half talking to himself, but Mrs. Dairy stared at him like a rat hypnotized by a snake.
“You know,” she said through dry lips.
Agatha was about to say they didn’t know, but Charles looked at Mrs. Dairy compassionately and said, “Oh, yes. We haven’t told anyone and Agatha here went to great lengths to try to destroy any evidence that might have incriminated you. That is why we have not gone to the police. We would be in trouble ourselves. Just tell us how he came to get the information.”
“I went there to get my hair done,” said Mrs. Dairy in a low voice, quite unlike her usual biting tones. “We got friendly. Had a few meals. I was flattered. I told him that my late husband had been a plumber. A master plumber,” she added with some of her old spirit in case he might think he was an ordinary tradesman. “We were talking about taxes and VAT and how iniquitous both were. He said sympathetically that there were ways round it. He knew a lot of tradesmen who would offer to do a job for a bit less for cash in hand. I’d had a bit too much to drink and so I told him that was what my Clarence had done and so that was the reason I had been left comfortably off.
