by M C Beaton
“Then he phoned me two days later. I couldn’t believe it. We were friends! He told me unless I paid him five thousand pounds, he would inform the Inland Revenue that my husband had been cheating them for years. I panicked. I called on him and said that if he did that, I would kill him.” She fell silent. Then she said, “When I heard he was dead, it was like the end of a nightmare.”
“But look here,” said Agatha. “When did your husband die?”
“Five years ago.”
“But how on earth could the Inland Revenue find out that he had been taking cash payments and not declaring them?”
“They could have gone to his old customers. 1 sold the plumbing firm, but they’ll still have the old records.”
“But if they were paying cash,” said Agatha patiently, “those payments would not appear on the books.”
“But what if they found out his old customers and asked them?”
“What would they say?” asked Charles. “They couldn’t admit to cheating the income tax either. They’d be in a deep shit.”
Weak tears ran down Mrs. Dairy’s face. “So it was all for nothing.”
“All what?” asked Agatha sharply.
“All my worry. All my sleepless nights.”
“You didn’t kill him?”
“No. I read about it in the papers. Ricin. I’d never even heard of it. Please don’t tell the police any of this.”
“I can’t,” said Agatha. “I went to his house to destroy any evidence and someone set it alight. The police don’t even know I was there.”
Mrs. Dairy got up stiffly, as if her joints were hurting. “I shall make tea,” she said and disappeared into the nether regions.
“You can take the offer of tea as thanks for trying to save her neck,” said Charles.
“It wasn’t her scrawny neck I was trying to save but Mrs. Friendly’s. John really did pray on silly, ugly women who would be flattered by his attentions.”
“And some not so ugly,” said Charles with a slanting look at her.
“I wasn’t taken in for a moment!”
“That’s not the way I saw it.”
“Never mind that,” said Agatha hurriedly. “I wonder who inherits. Perhaps all this blackmailing business is clouding the issue. Perhaps he was murdered because of something else.”
“Highly unlikely. Here she conies.”
Mrs. Dairy returned and proceeded to pour tea that looked like discoloured water. Agatha guessed that she had only used one tea-bag in the pot and probably one that had been used already. There was a plate of hard biscuits.
Mrs. Dairy seemed to have recovered most of her old composure-or nastiness, as Agatha judged it to be.
“While I was making the tea,” said Mrs. Dairy, “I was thinking of your so-called detective abilities. I have a shrewd inquiring mind and I am sure I could find out who did it.”
“You mean you want to work with us?” asked Agatha with a sinking heart.
She gave a pitying laugh. “Oh, no. As the bard says, she travels fastest who travels alone.”
“It was Kipling,” corrected Charles. “ ‘He travels fastest who travels alone.’ ”
“Whatever.”
Agatha put her teacup down in the saucer with an angry little click. “Then we will not waste any more of your valuable time.” She got to her feet. Charles rose as well.
“We could compare notes,” said Mrs. Dairy graciously.
“Oh, but that would surely impede your progress.” Agatha headed resolutely for the door. Charles followed her outside. The dog ran after Agatha and began to snuffle eagerly at her ankles again. She picked it up, placed it inside and firmly shut the door. “Horrid little thing. Let’s get home, Charles, so I can disinfect my contaminated shoe.”
After Agatha had washed her feet and put on clean tights and shoes, she j6ined Charles in the kitchen and said, “Portsmouth.”
“What about it?”
“That’s where he used to have a business. We could go there and talk to hairdressers and see if there was any scandal about him.”
“Now? What if the police come calling?”
“So what? We’re not leaving the country.”
“Do you know Portsmouth? Huge place.”
“We’ll get a hotel and look through the Yellow Pages and phone up hairdressers.”
“Waste of time, Aggie. We go to Mircester Library and look up the Yellow Pages for Portsmouth and phone from here.”
Agatha sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I just wanted to get away.”
“Cheer up. If we find out anything on the phone, then we’ll go.”
Just then, the phone rang. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I think I may have discovered your Maggie for you.”
“Who is she?” said Agatha eagerly. “Where does she live?”
“I may be wrong but I think you want a Maggie Henderson. She lives at nine, Terrace Road, in Badsey. She’s a schoolteacher.”
“How did you find out?”
“I simply give her description, such as it was, and her first name to various people in the surrounding parishes. It may turn out to be the wrong Maggie.”
“We’ll try anyway. Thanks a lot.”
Agatha said goodbye and rang off. She told Charles her news.
“Let’s leave Portsmouth for just now and try this Maggie,” he said. “Badsey’s only a few miles away.”
But when they drove to Badsey and found the correct address it was to find that Maggie Henderson taught at a school at Worcester and was not expected back until about five o’clock. “And with our luck,” said Agatha gloomily, “her husband will be home at the same time. Do we go to Worcester?”
“No,” said Charles. “Let’s go into Evesham and find a place for coffee and make notes on what we’ve got.”
They parked in Merstow Green and walked across the road to a tea-shop off the Market Square. “Look at this!” exclaimed Charles. “The last genuine old English tea-shop in captivity.” It was low-beamed, quiet and dark. A waitress with a gentle Scottish accent took their order.
“Now,” said Charles, taking out a small notebook and a pen, “let’s see what we’ve got in the way of suspects. Begin at the beginning, Aggie. Anything you can think of.”
Agatha rested her chin on her hands. “Let me see, what made me suspect him of being a blackmailer in the first place? Ah, I know. I told you. I heard some woman threatening to kill him when I was in the loo at the hairdresser’s. John said it was a couple in the shop next door who were always quarrelling. But although I could hear her voice, I couldn’t distinguish the voice of the man. He kept his low. It could’ve been John.”
“Right.” He made a note. “We’ll check out that shop afterwards. Next.”
“Wait a bit. He told me he had been married once. That’s a thought. I wonder if he had any children and who inherits.”
“We’ll try to find out.”
“There was another candidate for blackmail. There was a customer talking to him about her daughter Betty. She said she thought her daughter was not only on drugs but pushing them as well. Her husband was called Jim.”
“Good. More.”
“Then we now know about Mrs. Dairy, Maggie, and Liza Friendly. Wait a bit. There’s Josie.”
“Who’s she?”
“Vapid little receptionist. Seemed besotted with John and very jealous of me.”
“Ah,” said Charles, making another note. “I think I should handle that one. I’ll get my hair cut and chat her up. That way I can pick up the gossip about the customers.”
“Then,” said Agatha, “do you remember how Liza was telling us about watching the house and she saw this blonde? How did she describe her? Blonde, I think, rabbity, prominent teeth, skinny legs. I think that’s all we’ve got.”
“So there’s one of these suspects or maybe someone we haven’t heard of who had the keys to his house. Remember, you didn’t hear anyone breaking in… unless… Oh, why didn’t we think of the obvious?”
&nb
sp; “What?”
“I bet when you let yourself in you didn’t lock the door behind you.”
Agatha goggled at him.
“Think!” urged Charles. “Was it a Yale, the kind that would automatically click shut and lock behind you?”
“No,” said Agatha slowly. “It was a mortise. Biggish key.”
“Then that explains that.”
Agatha clutched his arm. “Don’t you see, if someone knew just to walk in, they must have known I was in there!”
“Could be. Or maybe someone just tried the handle first and meant to break in if the door was locked. Did it have glass panes?”
“Yes, those stained-glass ones. You know, Charles, I think we might be concentrating too hard on the blackmailing angle.”
“What other angle is there?”
“Oh, passion and jealousy. Jealous woman, jealous husband. Remember, someone did beat him up.”
“Stick to blackmail,” said Charles in an authoritative manner which made Agatha long to prove him wrong.
“If you’ve finished,” said Agatha huffily, “let’s try that shop next door to the hairdresser’s. Wait a bit. Surely the hairdresser’s will be closed down?”
“Damn, of course it will be.”
“Let’s take a look anyway.”
They walked along the High Street. Sure enough, the hairdresser’s was closed and dark.
“We’ll try the shop next door,” said Charles.
They both entered a small dark shop which sold an assortment of cheap souvenirs.
There was an enormous woman behind the counter dressed in a man’s shirt and leggings. They could see the leggings because she was bending over to pick up something from the bottom shelves behind the counter.
“Excuse me,” began Agatha. The woman straightened up and turned round.
She had a large, round, truculent face and thick glasses. What d’ye want?” she snapped.
Agatha, accustomed to the usual friendly manners of the Evesham shopkeeper, blinked and said, “We wondered whether you knew that man next door who was murdered?”
“And what’s it to do with you? You’re not the police. Who are you? More of those ghouls who want to gossip about the murder and not buy anything?”
Agatha took the plunge. “I heard you threatening to kill Mr. John.”
Her large face was a study in surprise. “I never did! When’s this supposed to have happened?”
“I was in the toilet at the hairdresser’s a few weeks ago. I asked John Shawpart about it and he said you and your husband were always quarrelling.”
The woman held up a large, pudgy, ringless hand. “Ain’t got a husband. Come with me.” She lifted the flap of the counter. They walked through. She led them through to a grimy kitchen in the back shop. She opened the kitchen door. “Look!”
There was only a narrow little strip of yard. On the hairdresser’s side was a high wall. “On the other side of that wall is the hairdresser’s yard,” she said. “Whoever you heard, it couldn’t have been me. You heard someone out in the yard of the hairdresser’s.”
The bell tinkled in the shop. “Got a customer,” she said. “Get out of here.”
“What do you think?” asked Charles when they were back out in the High Street.
“I think Mr. John lied, that’s what 1 think,” said Agatha. “I say, that’s a new hairdresser’s across the road. Eve’s, it says. And look through the window.”
“What?”
“At the desk. It’s that receptionist, Josie.”
“Then take yourself off somewhere, Aggie, and let me go and get my hair cut and chat her up.”
“How long will you be?”
“Give me an hour. Here’s the car keys. I’ll meet you back at the car-park.”
“I tell you what. You go in and after a few moments, I’ll go in myself and make an appointment. Maybe all the old staff are there.”
Agatha waited impatiently while Charles crossed the road and went in. He spent some time talking to Josie, who was giggling and laughing. Then he disappeared into the nether regions.
Agatha crossed the road. Josie was still smiling, but the smile left her face when she saw Agatha. “So this is where you are,” said Agatha brightly. Within the salon she saw Garry and two other of Mr. John’s former assistants.
“Yes, we was lucky. Eve opened up and she took us all on.”
“Who’s Eve?”
Josie gave an impertinent sigh and bent over the appointments book. “Do you want to make an appointment, Mrs. Raisin? We’re very busy.”
Agatha opened her mouth to blast her and then thought better of it. “Put me down for the day after tomorrow. Three o’clock.”
“Do you want Garry?”
“No, I’ll try Eve herself.”
“It’ll need to be four o’clock.”
“Okay, that’ll do.”
Agatha walked out again into the High Street. She wandered about Evesham, down Bridge Street to the Abbey Gardens, sat and smoked and then made her way to Charles’s car to find him standing outside, waiting for her.
“How did you get on?”
He took the keys from her and unlocked the car.
“I’ll tell you on the road to Badsey.”
When they drove off, he started, “I’m taking Josie out for dinner tonight. I gather that this new hairdresser came along and employed them all. Hard-looking woman. But fast. She has them all working-snipping and perming and tinting as if they’re all on an assembly line. Josie is going to tell me all.”
“Do you think this new hairdresser might have bumped off Mr. John to get his trade?”
“What a fertile imagination you have, Aggie. This isn’t Sunday night viewing on telly. This is real life. We have a dead blackmailer. So it is perfectly logical to assume that someone blackmailed him to get him out of their threatened life.”
“Well, we’ll see what Maggie has to say,” said Agatha gloomily. “She’s probably another woman with a truculent husband.”
“Her car’s outside, anyway,” said Charles as they drove up. “If it is her car and not her husband’s.”
They got out and walked up an ankle-spraining front path made of pieces of brick. The garden was neglected and weedy and the net curtains at the windows were dingy.
Agatha pressed the doorbell. “No ring,” said Charles. “Knock.”
Agatha rapped on the glass panes of the door. I wonder why anyone ever becomes a newspaper reporter, she thought. They condemn themselves to days of rejection.
The door opened on a chain and one of Maggie’s protuberant eyes stared at them.
Agatha smiled brightly. “Do you remember me, Mrs. Henderson? We met in the hairdressing salon, Mr. John’s, in Evesham.”
“What do you want?”
“We wanted to talk to you about Mr. John.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“We know he was blackmailing you,” said Charles.
The door slammed. Agatha and Charles looked at each other.
Then they heard the sound of the chain being dropped and the door opened.
Maggie Henderson looked at them triumphantly. “You can’t do anything to me now. I suppose you got hold of the letters that bastard had. Well, the damage is done. My husband’s left me, so go screw.”
“We’re not blackmailers,” said Agatha. “Can we come in? All the evidence is destroyed.”
“In the fire?”
Agatha nodded. “The reason I want to find out who killed him and who set the house on fire is that I was in the house when it was set alight. I went there to try to destroy any evidence. But don’t tell the police that. They don’t know.”
Maggie’s face softened. “So you were a victim as well. Come in.”
“Not really…” began Agatha, but Charles pressed her arm warningly as they followed Maggie into the house, as if to say, let her think you’re a fellow sufferer.
The living-room was untidy and dusty. “I had a call from a policewoman,”
said Maggie. “Sit down. She was only checking her way through the list of customers and when I read that his house had burned down, I prayed my letters had gone up with it. I thought, you see, with all the rain that day that they might not, but the policewoman told me that he had used Calor gas and kept spare cylinders in the basement. The gas exploded. She said even the stuff in the filing cabinet had been destroyed.”
I did’t even see the filing cabinet, thought Agatha.
“So what happened between you and Mr. John?” she asked. “I am Agatha Raisin and this is Sir Charles Fraith.”
“Well, Mrs. Raisin… ”
“Call me Agatha.”
“That’s a name you don’t hear much these days,” said Maggie. “I had a friend called Agatha but she changed her name to Helen. Said she couldn’t bear people calling her Aggie.”
“I know how she feels,” said Agatha, casting a fulminating glance at Charles.
“I was so glad when I heard he was dead,” said Maggie. “I could’ve murdered him. But I’m such a rabbit. Things weren’t going too well in my marriage. Pete was a good husband, I suppose, but always a dab hand at nasty little putting-down remarks. Any time we went out to the pub with friends, I knew there would be a post-mortem in the road home. “Why did you say that, you made a fool of yourself, you looked like a tart,” that sort of thing. But that’s marriage for you. Then Mr. John started to ask me out, meetings on the sly. Pete was out at work and I was enjoying the school holidays. He made me feel like a princess. I began to complain about Pete to him. He was very sympathetic. He said a lot of women were stuck in lousy marriages because they hadn’t the funds to leave. I said I had always had my own money. My parents died in a car crash and left me comfortably off. He exhilarated me. 1 saw for the first time that it might be possible to find the courage to leave Pete. This is my house.”
She fell silent.
“Then what happened?” prompted Agatha.
“He made love to me and I felt beautiful.” Agatha felt a slight pang of regret that she hadn’t given the hairdresser a fling. “Then, after that, he was suddenly too busy to see me or even to do my hair. I was obsessed, frantic. The school holidays were coming to an end and I knew I wouldn’t have much freedom. So I wrote to him, reminding him of our love, of our afternoon of love.
