The Dead Ringer

by M C Beaton

  “I’ll be all right.” Agatha peered at her face in the hall mirror. “What a sodding mess. I should have charged her. I’m telling you, Bill, you can start looking for the Larry copper’s body.”

  She walked to the garden and Bill hurried after her. There were cries of dismay from Alice and Charles at the scratches on her face. “No, tell them later,” said Bill. “Why do you think we should be looking for Larry Jensen’s dead body?”

  “Oh, joke in bad taste, although I am beginning to think their infatuation is driving them mad. But when one of the twins, forget which, started babbling about bondage when we found Peregrine with his head bashed, Larry had a nasty gleam in his eye.”

  “We suspect him of selling stories to the newspapers,” said Alice. “Oh, I am sure he’ll turn up. Always hanging around.”

  “Always hanging around you,” complained Bill.

  Alice laughed. “Hasn’t a hope in hell.”

  Agatha experienced a sharp pang of jealousy. Bill had been her very first friend in the Cotswolds, and, although he was at least thirty years younger than she was, Agatha wanted to be absolutely the only woman in her male friends’ lives.

  “If you’ve a first-aid kit,” said Alice, “you had better let me fix your face for you. I gather one of the horrible twins did that. Why?”

  “The besotted twosome were supposed to have dinner with the bishop tonight but he cancelled and they must have found out that the reason for the cancellation is because he is taking me out for dinner instead. The medicine box is under the sink.”

  * * *

  When they had gone upstairs to the bathroom, Bill laughed and said, “That’s our Aggie. She thinks we should be looking for Larry’s dead body.”

  “Maybe you should,” said Charles.

  * * *

  The bell ringers finished their practice that evening and gathered round a table tombstone afterwards to sample the contents of a hamper sent to the Dupins by the bishop. Harry Bury and Gloria had complained of the heat and suggested they move outside to the graveyard. “It do be an odd summer,” said Harry. “Getting hotter and hotter.”

  “I do not believe our dear bishop should cancel dinner with us to entertain that trollop,” complained Mavis, “although it was sweet of him to send this hamper.”

  “She’s sexy,” said Colin Docherty, cracking his knuckles.

  “Our dear bishop has a mind above such things,” said Millicent.

  “Yes, but you precious pair ain’t,” leered Harry.

  The sisters half rose to stalk off but the humid heat made them sink down again. For once the bell ringers stopped quarrelling. It was just too hot and even though the sun was going down there seemed to be no relief.

  * * *

  The usually accurate weather forecast on television had been wrong. Thunderstorms were expected that evening, bringing in cooler air, and so Agatha had put aside the floaty silk chiffon dress she had planned to wear and settled on a long royal blue velvet skirt with a matching jacket over a white satin blouse.

  Her car was air-conditioned, but the steak house was not, and Agatha could almost feel her makeup beginning to melt. The bishop looked cool in a sky-blue linen shirt and matching trousers. Agatha was surprised. She had assumed he wore his bishop’s purple on every occasion. For although there were many gorgeous robes for the different religious festivals, Peter Salver-Hinkley did seem over fond of purple. Certainly, it suited his classical features.

  They conversed amiably about the weather. After they had ordered their steaks—Agatha’s well-done and the bishop’s extremely rare—he surprised her by saying he had just been grilled by the police.

  “Oh, your missing heiress,” said Agatha. “Has that come up again?”

  For a moment, there was a stillness in him and a flash of something unlovely in his eyes, but it was gone in a moment and he said lightly, “They are looking for some missing policeman.”

  “They asked me about him earlier today,” said Agatha. “Seems he had a nasty habit of selling stories to the newspapers and bondage games at a vicarage makes saucy reading.”

  “I despise people like that,” said Peter. “In fact, I don’t know how you can bear your job.”

  This gave Agatha an opportunity to brag about a former case and how clever she had been, and it was only when she had finished a long anecdote that she realised he had drunk most of the bottle of Merlot he had ordered and did not seem to be listening to her at all.

  “It was nice of you to invite me out for dinner,” said Agatha. “May I have some wine, please? Thank you. Can you see those claw marks on my face? I can feel my concealer melting in this heat. That was your precious Dupins, mad with rage because you cancelled dinner.”

  “Oh, dear. I have been turning on the charm too much. The fact is when it comes to raising money for Help the Old, I am apt to be ruthless. We have an old folks’ home and we hope to expand.” He suddenly smiled into Agatha’s eyes and exuded such a wave of sexuality that Agatha actually blushed.

  “Of course,” he said huskily, reaching across the table and running a thumb across the back of her hand, “if you could see your way…”

  Agatha withdrew her hand and said stiffly, “I’ll consult my accountant tomorrow and see what I can afford.”

  “Good,” he said briskly, turning off that strong musky sexuality like someone turning off a tap. Poor Dupins, thought Agatha. Must like being hit with a sledgehammer.

  Neither had ordered a starter and their steaks arrived. Agatha began to feel slightly nauseated. Her steak seemed so large. Across the table, Peter was deftly slicing the bloodiest steak Agatha had ever seen. Behind her a couple with ya-ya voices were having something flambéed and the resultant wave of heat struck Agatha in the back of the neck.

  But Julian was paying her to find out about the heiress, so Agatha said, “Don’t you often wonder what happened to Jennifer Toynby? After all, she was your fiancée.”

  He carefully sliced off another slice of meat, letting a small rivulet of blood run across his plate to form a blood lake amongst the vegetables.

  He chewed slowly and carefully and then said in measured tones, “My engagement had been long over. I gather she had discovered drugs. She will turn up one day in a rehab or a commune. Now, please let us talk about something else. I gather they are excavating the crypt at Thirk Magna.”

  “Why?”

  “We found some old documents which showed that the tomb of Sir Randolph Quentin, one of the Knights Templar, is buried there. They excavated a grave and have taken the bones away for DNA testing. When they are finished, the bones are returned and I give old Sir Quentin a Christian burial.”

  Agatha wondered if she were suffering from something called prickly heat that she had only read about in books about the tropics. She desperately wanted to scratch her armpits. She stood up abruptly.

  “Where are you going?” asked Peter.

  “Where do you think?” demanded Agatha crossly.

  The ladies’ room was empty. She bathed her face and armpits in cold water and then carefully reapplied makeup. She wished she could just walk out the door and go home.

  A woman walked in. She was wearing black trousers that looked as if they had been painted on her long sticklike legs. Over them, she wore a red chiffon blouse, semitransparent, showing two pendulous sagging breasts. She had thick black lifeless hair and a haggard face.

  “Your fellow’s a real dreamboat,” she said to Agatha.

  “He’s not my fellow,” said Agatha. She suddenly wanted to walk away from the bishop with his bloody steak and that suffocating sexuality he could turn on at will.

  “I wonder,” said Agatha, “if you would do me a favour and tell him I am not feeling very well and have gone home.”

  “Delighted, I’m sure,” said her companion. “Love a chance to talk to him.”

  * * *

  Agatha went out into the close, humid night. To her relief, a cab was cruising past and she hailed it.

 
; It was only when she was home and sitting out in the garden with a cold gin and tonic in her hand that she wondered what had come over her. She was being paid to investigate. Not to run away. With some reluctance, she admitted to herself that Peter Salver-Hinkley frightened her.

  Chapter Four

  The next day, after Julian had signed a contract, Agatha decided to let her young assistants, Toni Gilmour and Simon Black, make a start on the case of the missing heiress. The weather was still suffocating. Black clouds had piled up in the sky and everyone had eagerly awaited a refreshing thunderstorm but nothing had happened, and, once again, a sun like polished brass shone down on the wilting population of the Cotswolds. People wore the minimum, and men who should never have gone bare-chested stripped off to expose shark’s belly–white skin.

  Agatha received a call from Mrs. Bloxby to say that the crusader’s bones were being returned to their grave in the crypt at Thirsk Magna on the following day at five in the afternoon and would Agatha like to go to the ceremony. Agatha said she would not, but, after she had rung off, she told Toni and Simon about it and suggested they start their observation of the bishop there.

  By the following afternoon, Agatha was beginning to feel like a wimp. The heat in that steak house had made her fancy things, that was all. She phoned Mrs. Bloxby and said she would pick her up and that they would go to the ceremony together.

  Agatha was wearing what she privately damned as her “frump” clothes. This consisted of a loose blue linen housedress, bare legs and flat sandals. Mrs. Bloxby, getting into Agatha’s car, said, “I see neither Sir Charles nor Mr. Lacey will be joining us?”

  “See?” demanded Agatha. “Odd way of putting it. I expect to see one of them holding up a sign which says, WE’RE NOT GOING.”

  And you should be holding a sign saying, NO ONE WORTH DRESSING UP FOR IS GOING TO BE THERE, thought Mrs. Bloxby. Whereas I am wearing my best cotton shirtwaister because I am a saint. As the car moved off, Mrs. Bloxby giggled.

  “What’s the joke?” asked Agatha.

  “Just the heat getting to me,” said the vicar’s wife, who did not want to explain that she found her bout of saintliness absolutely ridiculous. Yet, she thought wistfully, we vicars’ wives have so little to feel superior about.

  “I am not looking forward to meeting Helen Toms again,” said Agatha. “She’s the sort of woman Scotland Yard calls a ‘murderee.’ You know. The perpetual victim.”

  “That is a bit harsh,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Our dear bishop has caused a lot of upset here and there. Now, Alf told me last night that Peregrine Toms had found God.”

  “Sounds like a parcel. Had he lost Him?”

  “Obviously. Wife beating and gentle Jesus meek and mild don’t quite go together. He is to preach a sermon in the church just before the bishop arrives for the reburial ceremony.”

  “You might have told me,” complained Agatha. “I thought that in five minutes’ time I would be standing on the vicarage lawn with a ciggie in one hand and a drink in the other. Now, I learn I am to be cooped up in a hot-as-hell church listening to some bore.”

  “Mrs. Raisin, I must explain…”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Agatha, stopping outside the vicarage by slamming on the brakes. “My name is Agatha, get it? All this second name malarkey is beginning to sound camp.”

  Mrs. Bloxby got out of the car and walked towards the church without looking around. Agatha stared mutinously through the windscreen and then lit a cigarette. She did not care if she had offended her best friend. Screw everybody.

  She had the engine running to keep the air-conditioning on. Suddenly she saw Mrs. Bloxby, her face paper-white, being supported from the church by the sexton, Harry Bury.

  Agatha switched off the engine and hurtled from the car. “I’m sorry,” she shouted.

  “Get her a cup of tea,” said Harry, “and look after her. I’ve got to go. Ringing a peal for the bishop.”

  Agatha put an arm around her friend’s shoulders and led her to a flat tombstone. “What happened?”

  “I had just got inside the church,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “when a fat fly landed on my face. I smacked it against my cheek and then looked at my hand and it was covered in blood. It had probably been feeding off some dead animal’s carcase. I realise that now, but I was suddenly sure there was a dead body in the church.”

  “Only bones,” said Agatha. “Oh, damn it to hell. The bells have started.”

  They both looked up at the square Norman tower. Above the tower, the black clouds had returned and were piling up against the sky. Agatha sat with her arm still around her friend’s thin shoulders.

  “I shouldn’t have been so rude to you,” said Agatha. “It’s the heat and this place. Oh, hullo, Toni.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to come,” said Toni. “Here’s Simon as well. Mrs. Bloxby! Has something happened? You look so white. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  Toni ran off through the churchyard. She was wearing sky-blue shorts and a blue chiffon blouse. She came back and handed Mrs. Bloxby a glass of water.

  “A fly landed on my face,” said the vicar’s wife. “I smacked it and my hand came away covered in blood.”

  The sound of the tenor bell summoned them to church. The old Norman church did not have a very attractive interior. Cromwell’s men had shattered all the stained glass so the windows were all of plain glass. The saints had been wrenched from their plinths. The only thing of any beauty was a wooden altar painted in gold and green, an exquisite thing.

  The congregation shuffled in. Came the high voice of one of the Dupins—Agatha was not sure which one as the twins sounded alike—“I wish some people would realise the importance of washing in hot weather.”

  The air was full of the noisy buzzing of flies. And that sweetish, cloying smell!

  The bishop and the dean arrived, Peter having forsaken his favourite purple for leaf green.

  Everyone began to shift uncomfortably in the hard pews as Peregrine began to rant. He said that digging up the crusader was blasphemy and God would punish them all. Agatha was just beginning to wonder if he would ever shut up when Peter rose and simply elbowed Peregrine aside, whispering savagely, “Go and put your head in a bucket of cold water.”

  Peter smiled down on the small congregation. The Dupin sisters clasped their hands and silently worshipped at the altar of his manly beauty.

  “We are gathered together…” began Peter, but that was as far as he got.

  “Death!” shouted a farmer seated in a back pew. “That’s what that there smell is and it’s coming from the crypt.”

  “He’s right,” said Agatha in a loud voice. “I’ve smelt death before.”

  Peter looked round the congregation and his eyes fell on the sexton. The bishop, Agatha was to learn, had a very good memory. “Mr. Bury, is it not? Well, I suggest, Mr. Bury, if the organist would like to play something while you go and investigate, perhaps you can put your fears to rest.”

  Peggy Comfort was a reporter with the Mircester Telegraph. She was twenty-one years old and determined to be a hard-hitting journalist. She was sure that her editor, Charlie Soames, had spotted her potential. She did not know that her generous bust and blonde hair gave the editor ideas of an altogether different and alluring potential. She slid quietly out of her pew and made her way down the stairs to the crypt. Harry Bury was lying beside the excavated grave of the crusader. In the yellowish overhead light, his face had a sinister bluish tinge.

  Immediately, Peggy imagined herself on television, describing how she had saved his life. She bent over him and, in doing so, looked down into the grave and at the crawling, sickening mass of flies covering a body. Her scream was tremendous. It rose up from the crypt and sent the birds, roosting in the graveyard trees, up to the stormy sky. It was a scream such as Fay Wray gave in the original King Kong. Six miles away in Moreton-in-Marsh, people were to swear the next day that they had heard that terrible scream.

  As the congre
gation was about to rush to the crypt, Peter called in a stentorian voice, “I will go. My dean will accompany me. If we need more help, we will call.”

  Fortunately, neither he nor the dean looked round or they would have seen Agatha, her two detectives and Mrs. Bloxby following close behind.

  Peggy had stopped screaming and was being sick in a corner. The Very Reverend Dean, Donald Whitby, bent over the fly-covered corpse. “I’ll call an ambulance but I think he’s dead. Can you make out what’s under all those flies, Peter?”

  “I’ll wait for the police. Oh, let’s get out of here and phone. That awful smell!”

  Toni opened her handbag and took out a can of something called Fly Off and sprayed it into the grave. Heavy bloated flies rose up in a cloud and Agatha screamed as some lodged in her hair. She suddenly felt dizzy and faint and longed to escape the dreadful scene but did not want to show weakness in front of her detectives.

  Toni and Simon then eased Harry Bury away from the grave. “It’s that missing policeman,” said Agatha, taking one last stomach-heaving look at the dead face exposed by Toni’s Fly Off spray. “It’s Larry Jensen.”

  “We can’t just leave this sexton,” said Toni. “Simon, I’ve got a defibrillator in my car. Here are my keys. Run and get it and I’ll try the kiss of life.”

  Never had Agatha admired her assistant more as Toni put her lips to the blue lips of the sexton. That was until she heard Mrs. Bloxby murmur, “That girl is a saint,” and was consumed by a flash of jealousy because the sick reporter was wiping her mouth on her skirt and taking out her camera.

  A flash of lightning stabbed through a long window at the end of the crypt and lit up the tableau of Toni, her blonde hair spilling over Harry Bury’s face. It was the photograph that was to go around the world and secure Peggy a job on a national newspaper. It earned her the nickname of Flash in the Pan because her subsequent reporting was very amateur. Toni cried, “There’s a pulse.”

  Forgetting her jealousy in her excitement, Agatha called to Simon who had come hurrying down the stairs. “Hurry up! He isn’t dead yet.”