The Dead Ringer

by M C Beaton

  Agatha talked about things that were going on in her village of Carsely and how it looked as if it was going to be a hot summer. She was just about to start asking questions about the bishop when Sir Charles Fraith strolled into the garden and sat down in a deck chair beside them.

  “I thought I had asked you to return my keys,” said Agatha after she made the introductions.

  Charles gave a lazy smile. “I saved you from leaving this nice garden to answer the door.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Minding my own business, beloved. New reading, Agatha?” She had taken the parish magazine with her when she left the vicarage.

  Agatha felt herself growing more and more irritated with Charles. She wanted the reality of this man who sometimes shared her bed to go away and let her nourish her new dream.

  And yet there he sat at his ease, barbered and tailored to perfection. Agatha thought dismally that even when Charles was naked, looked as if he was wearing a well-tailored skin.

  “Mrs. Toms gave it to me,” said Agatha. “Helen here is hosting a party for the bishop.”

  “To which I am sure I am invited,” said Charles, smiling at Helen.

  “I will need to ask my husband,” said Helen, throwing a piteous look at Agatha.

  “Really, Charles, you are pushy,” said Agatha. “Helen and I were about to have a heart-to-heart before you butted in so be a dear man and clear off.”

  “No, no,” gasped Helen. “Must go.” She was beginning to find Agatha rather terrifying. “Bye.” And with that she fled.

  * * *

  “How did you get on?” was the first thing her husband demanded.

  “She’ll come,” said Helen. “Oh, a friend of hers, Sir Charles Fraith, wanted an invitation but Agatha didn’t want him there.”

  Peregrine Toms was a snob and that title acted on him like magic. “But he must come! I shall send him a card.”

  * * *

  “I could understand it,” Charles was saying, “if you wanted to get your lustful hands under the purple, but you want to fall in lurv, Aggie. You always do and it all ends in misery.”

  “At least I don’t look at his bank balance. He’s got an interesting face, that’s all.”

  Charles stifled a yawn. “Now, why do I get a frisson of doom?”

  Agatha studied the photograph of that face. What would it be like to be Mrs. Bishop?

  When she looked up from the magazine, she saw that Charles had fallen asleep.

  What should she wear? Something classic. If the good weather held, maybe white chiffon. But one needed to be tall to wear floaty dresses and Agatha was only five feet five inches in her high heels. She went indoors and returned with a pile of fashion magazines and began to search through them.

  Her mobile phone rang. Charles mumbled something but did not wake up. When Agatha answered it, she found an agitated Mrs. Bloxby at the other end of the line.

  “You really mustn’t go to that party,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’ve found something out and I don’t like it. Peter Salver-Hinkley was dating Jennifer Toynby, a local heiress. She disappeared when? a few years ago and hasn’t been seen since. He was suspected of having had something to do with her disappearance but it never came to anything. But I think he might be dangerous. Leave him alone!”

  “Oh, I think I should go,” said Agatha. “I mean, I might do a bit of detecting and find out what happened to this Jennifer.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Look, you’ll be there. You can stamp on my foot if you think I’m behaving badly. Bye.”

  “But…”

  Agatha hung up. A shadow fell across the magazine in front of her. She looked up at the sky. In the middle of the expanse of blue was one little round black cloud, blocking out the sun.

  “And that do be a bad omen, lady,” said Charles suddenly in a stage gypsy voice.

  Chapter Two

  Agatha and her staff were so busy in the intervening weeks before the party that Agatha almost forgot about it. Sometimes the detective agency was quiet but they had been suddenly swamped with demands to find lost animals and teenagers, proof for people wanting divorces and the inevitable find-the-shoplifter cases. She felt lucky to have such loyal and hardworking staff. There was young and beautiful Toni Gilmour, jester-faced Simon Black, ex-policeman Patrick Mulligan, gentle and elderly Phil Marshall, and secretary Mrs. Freedman.

  Helen had phoned once to say that Charles had not replied to his invitation and that had reminded overworked Agatha that she had not had time to buy a new outfit. But the work had driven adolescent dreams out of her head. It would be a boring sherry and nibbles affair.

  * * *

  She was not to know that the visit from a bishop to a forgotten place like Thirk Magna was the equivalent to George Clooney volunteering to help at a sale of work. There seemed to be endless quarrelsome meetings about things like whether to hang out bunting.

  Agatha Raisin would have been irritated to learn that two spinsters, the Dupin twins, nourished their own initial romantic dreams. They began to quarrel about the smallest things. Millicent accused the sexton of being vulgar because he wanted fairy lights at the entrance to the bell chamber and he proved he could be really vulgar by telling her to stuff her bloody bells where the sun don’t shine. Then Peregrine Toms caught a cold and the curate, Harry Mansfield, delivered the sermon the Sunday before the visit. His sermon was on love thy neighbour. He was a very good speaker and by the time he had finished, hatchets were being mentally buried all over the village.

  The church was built in the twelfth century. It was large for such a small village. But there had once been a castle, former home of Sir Randolph Quentin, the ruins of which could still be seen outside the village. The Quentin family had lost all their money in a series of crusades and the church might have followed the castle into disuse had not the wealthy wool merchants of the Cotswolds given generously to its upkeep and improvement.

  Perhaps Julian Brody alone was not moved to charity by the sermon. He was worried about Helen. She had a purple bruise on one cheek and Julian suspected her nasty husband had put it there. He slipped out of the church before the service was over and made his way to the vicarage next door. He knew the door wasn’t locked during the day and so he boldly walked in and followed the sound of a television set. Peregrine was in his study watching the racing from Cheltenham, a whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other. Julian took out his phone and before Peregrine became aware he was in the room, snapped off a photograph. Startled by the flash, Peregrine swivelled his head and yelled, “What do you think you are doing?”

  “If you strike your wife again,” said Julian, “I shall post up this photograph all over the village and put it on Twitter.”

  “I’m a sick man,” wailed Peregrine.

  “You are indeed. Get yourself a good psychiatrist, you horrible creature.”

  After Julian had left, Peregrine thought hard. Helen must get that photo for him. Next time he struck her, he’d make sure the marks didn’t show.

  * * *

  Said the bishop to the dean, Donald Whitby, “Why on earth did I say I would go to—what’s the name of the place?”

  “Thirk Magna,” said the dean. “And you have got to go. There’s a bit about your visit in the local paper. Besides, you told me you wanted to meet that detective.”

  “Changed my mind. She’s probably as hard as nails.”

  * * *

  Julian was sharing a candlelit dinner with Helen Toms at a new French restaurant in Mircester. It had been Helen’s invitation and his preliminary elation was dampened by the thought that her horrible husband had probably given her orders to steal his camera and erase that photograph.

  He chatted amiably about this and that until the end of the meal when he leaned across the table and took her hand in his. “Don’t go home tonight,” he said.

  Her face turned pale but she said in a little voice, “All right.”

  “No, the bastard is
not having that photograph but if you go home and tell him, he will beat you up. My aunt, Maggie, lives near here in Mircester and she will put you up for the night. I bought you some stuff from Marks to change into. Peregrine can’t do anything until the bishop’s gone and then I will be there to see he doesn’t.”

  She gently drew her hand away. “I cannot love you, Julian. I wish I could.”

  “You might come to. But stay with my aunt. Peregrine will think you are seducing me. I will give you the photo after I print off several copies. He will be so delighted he will behave well.”

  Banks of leaves and flowers were between the tables and so neither Helen nor Julian saw the Dupin twins pay their bill and hurry out.

  “It is our duty to tell the dear vicar,” said Millicent. “When you went to the lavatory, I could distinctly hear her agreeing to spend the night with him and then that Édith Piaf music started up again. But I heard that bit.”

  “I think you should leave it until tomorrow,” said Mavis.

  “No. Tonight. He will be worried when she doesn’t come home and may even call the police. As leaders of this community, it is our duty.”

  “Well, do it yourself,” said Mavis.

  But Helen had decided not to stay with Julian’s aunt. So, all Mavis got for her interference was a bruise on her cheek to match Helen’s as the infuriated vicar punched her hard. “I shall report you to the police,” shouted Mavis. “You have struck a Dupin!”

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, accompanied by a new detective, Larry Jensen, was just passing the front desk in Mircester police station when they heard Mavis and her sister putting in a complaint about the vicar of Thirk Magna. “How he could behave so badly when the dear bishop is due to visit,” shouted Mavis. “He laid hands on a Dupin!”

  To Bill’s surprise, Larry said to the desk sergeant, “I’ll take this.”

  Bill said good night and went off to meet his fiancée, Detective Constable Alice Peterson, who was waiting for him in the pub. Bill was half Chinese and half British, which gave him an attractive look but he was unaware of it and he considered Larry to be much too handsome to be around Alice. He hoped Larry would forget the invitation to join them for a drink but only five minutes after Bill had joined Alice, Larry walked into the pub.

  Larry had thick fair hair and very blue eyes. His features were regular and he was lightly tanned having just got back from a Spanish holiday.

  “That sounded like a domestic,” said Bill. “Not like you to get involved.”

  “Tell you about it sometime,” said Larry.

  * * *

  Agatha had again forgotten about the bishop’s visit and let out a squawk of alarm when Mrs. Bloxby turned up on her doorstep, prepared to accompany her to Thirk Magna.

  “I haven’t anything to wear,” fretted Agatha.

  “Nonsense. You’ve loads of clothes.”

  “But the weather’s perfect. I’d always imagined myself wearing something chiffon and floaty and a big straw hat.”

  “It is a small event,” said the vicar’s wife. “The bishop will stay about half an hour. What about that pale green silk trouser suit you bought recently?”

  “If I can find it.”

  “In your wardrobe?”

  “I can’t remember taking it out of its bag,” wailed Agatha. “I hope I didn’t put it in the rubbish.”

  By dint of not telling Agatha that she had called to collect her an hour early, expecting the usual dithering, Mrs. Bloxby was able to get her to Thirk Magna just as the bishop’s car was arriving.

  The bells were sending cascades of sound over the village. Pom, pom, pom, pom, POM! Agatha could feel the ground beneath her feet reverberating to the sound. The bishop’s chauffeur jumped out and opened the door of the limousine. The Right Reverend Peter Salver-Hinkley emerged, dressed in a long purple cassock. He was hatless and a little breeze ruffled his glossy black curls. From the other side of the limo came the Very Reverend Dean, Donald Whitby, a thickset man in a white robe and highly decorated stole.

  “Mrs. Raisin! Your mouth is hanging open!” shouted Mrs. Bloxby, unfortunately as the sounds of the last bong died away.

  The Dupin twins were racing up from the bell tower. Millicent stuck out her foot and tripped Mavis up. Mavis writhed on the ground, screaming with rage. Agatha moved forward to welcome the bishop but the vicar, Peregrine Toms, got there first. He held out his hand but Millicent ducked under it and cried, “Welcome! Welcome! I am Millicent Dupin.”

  The bishop was tall. He smiled across at Agatha and said, “And who is this lady?”

  “Place is full of rubberneckers,” said Peregrine. “Come up to the vicarage. I am sure you could do with a drink.”

  “Is that Alf Bloxby?” said Peter, ignoring him. “Who is this lady, Alf?”

  “That is Agatha Raisin from our village. Oh, meet my wife.”

  “You must come to dinner and bring the famous detective with you. I have heard of you, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “Agatha, please.”

  Agatha Raisin felt like a love-struck teenager. “Let’s find a drink,” said the bishop, tucking her arm in his and walking up the short drive to the vicarage, deaf to a loud wail of “Trollop!” from Millicent.

  Oh, dear, thought Mrs. Bloxby. Mrs. Raisin is about to plunge into another obsession. Where is Sir Charles? He might tease her out of it.

  It is doubtful if so many women all at once had ever hated Agatha Raisin so much and Agatha was human enough to relish their jealousy. But was this gorgeous bishop gay? He appeared to have a lithe, muscular figure under that cassock. Agatha became aware that the dean, Donald Whitby, was trying to get his attention by clutching at Peter’s sleeve.

  “What is it?” demanded Peter, coming to such an abrupt stop that Agatha teetered on her very high heels.

  “The Dupin sisters are the queens of this hamlet,” hissed Donald, “and you pretty much nearly cut them dead. One of them has begun to cry.”

  “Sorry, Agatha,” said the bishop, smiling down at her. “Mustn’t let you lure me away. We’ll talk later.”

  Agatha watched him approach the twins. Mavis was the one who had burst into tears. Peter handed her his handkerchief and she clutched it to her bosom.

  “Had they met him before?” asked Agatha.

  “Not as far as I know. It is like an Elvis Presley fan suddenly meeting him face-to-face for the first time.”

  “Need to die to do that. Oh, look who’s here.”

  Charles came strolling up. “I’ve never seen so many besotted women, including you, Aggie. What’s the big attraction?”

  “He is sexy,” said Agatha.

  “I think he’s dangerous. Looked up that old case, Jennifer Toynby. She was a rich heiress. Disappeared from a party at the bishop’s palace one evening. Never seen again.”

  “Was the bishop suspected of anything?”

  “No. People said it was thought he was going to marry her. There was even a rumour going around that they had got as far as the lawyer’s, hers that is, to discuss marriage settlements. Maybe he felt huffed, feeling the glory of his purple position in the church was above sordid money. Maybe … oh, here he comes with two women who have just stepped out of a medieval fresco scuttling after him.”

  Agatha suddenly felt sorry for the Dupin twins. They had obviously bought new outfits which surely matched everything else they still had in their wardrobes. Mircester boasted a couple of “lady” shops, mostly featuring two-piece outfits in drab colours. Despite the heat of the early evening, Millicent was wearing a wool cardigan over a silk blouse and she had a wool skirt to match, all in a sort of sludge colour. Mavis was bolder in an ankle-length, deep purple dress, but it was cut too low, exposing a flat freckled bosom.

  Agatha quickly caught Charles by the arm as he was trying to escape and deftly introduced him to the Dupin twins. The magic sound of a title stopped both in their tracks as the sisters began to vie for Charles’s attention.

  “Every ti
me I try to get a moment with you,” complained the bishop, “someone always interrupts. Oh, what is it, Peregrine?”

  “Perhaps you would like something stronger than champagne.”

  “This is like the Mad Hatter’s tea party. I am not drinking champagne, I am not drinking anything. Be a dear chap and fetch me a whisky—and you, Mrs. Raisin?”

  “Agatha, please. Gin and tonic.”

  Peregrine stalked off and could soon be heard yelling for his wife.

  “Is there a lot of that in the church?” asked Agatha.

  “What? Alcohol?”

  “No. Wife beating. The vicar there beats his wife. Do have a word with him?”

  “He will simply deny it and beat her harder. She has to do something about it. Dear Agatha. I love your outfit. You look as cool as a green salad. Have dinner with me tomorrow?”

  “That, may I remind you, will be Sunday.”

  “Evening’s free. The dean will handle anything. Eight o’clock? Give me your card and I’ll pick you up.”

  “All right,” said Agatha noticing the twins bearing down on them. “If you do one thing for me. Be nice to the Dupin twins.”

  The bishop’s obvious admiration of her, had given the not usually kind or charitable Agatha a desire to spread happiness.

  To her relief, he smiled and nodded and gave his full attention to the twins. Charles drew Agatha away. “You are missing all the gorgeous eats in the drawing room. Some French chef conjured them up.”

  “Lead the way,” said Agatha. “Tell me about marriage settlements.”

  “Oh, come on! You a bishop’s wife?”

  “Not me. He was romancing some heiress who disappeared and was never found. I’m interested.”

  “Don’t be, unless someone is paying you.”

  “Well, it would make a change from the usual dull routine.” Agatha stood still suddenly at the door to the vicarage. “Something’s wrong here,” she whispered.

  “Instead of standing there feeling all intuitive, why don’t you go in?”

  The French windows to the drawing room had been left open wide to allow guests easy access that way. Two waitresses were circling guests with plates of canapés and glasses of champagne.