The Dead Ringer

by M C Beaton

  “Help yourself. It’s a pity Colin Dexter killed off Morse.”

  “Lewis isn’t bad. Shhh.”

  Patrick settled down happily to watch Lewis solve the mystery of a dead don.

  Agatha was suddenly overcome with a feeling of fear and horror. All memories of her incarceration in that tomb came roaring back.

  “Patrick! I’m scared,” she shouted.

  Patrick picked up the chair he had been sitting on and carried it back to beside the bed.

  “Yes, you would be,” said Patrick. “We should have guessed it was someone who knew that church well. You see, for a small woman like Mavis, she would need to know that the grave she dumped you in had a top that she could lift. The sexton said he thought there was something about that in the church records. The family weren’t all that well off and marble being expensive, they got it cut thin.”

  “What did she die of?”

  “Typhoid.”

  “Hope the germs died with her.”

  “Bound to. Try to have a sleep.”

  But although Agatha closed her eyes, she found she could not sleep. Instead, she found herself suddenly deciding to turn the agency over to Toni. Then what? Well, it would be nice to settle down with the slippers-in-front-of-the-fire type of marriage. No mad passion. Comfort and companionship. Perhaps she should marry Charles.

  But if she really wanted to marry Charles, she would need to propose to him and he would expect a healthy amount of money from her. Also, she did not want to live at Barfield House with his aunt and Gustav. Perhaps she could keep her cottage and they could come and go from each other’s houses. Patrick was asleep in front of the television. A quiz show was on with a hysterical compere, all piano teeth and false hairpiece. Agatha noticed with some irritation that Patrick had fallen asleep clutching the television control. She climbed out of bed and tried to get it out of his hand. He awoke and gave her a vicious backhander that knocked her to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I thought we were being attacked. Did you hit your head?”

  “No. Just my hip. Help me up.”

  Settled once more in bed, Agatha clicked through the channels until she found an old black-and-white movie, The Lavender Hill Mob.

  “I am sure it would be all right for you to go home, Patrick,” said Agatha. “I’ve got this panic button.”

  Patrick hesitated. He had a new lady friend, middle-aged like himself. He was beginning to think of marriage. “If you’re sure,” he said.

  “Sure as sure. Run along.”

  * * *

  Charles had been out in Mircester to meet an old friend for a drink. He was making his way to the car park when he noticed Patrick strolling along with a buxom matron on his arm.

  He waylaid the couple. “Patrick, aren’t you supposed to be guarding Agatha?”

  “She said there was no need. She’s got the panic button,” protested Patrick.

  Charles swung round and raced to his car, jumped in and drove as fast as he could to the hospital.

  * * *

  Agatha was dreaming that she was under the church floor and trying to get air, straining her mouth towards that little air hole. But it all went black and became more suffocating. She opened her eyes to realise the nightmare was real. Someone was pressing something down on her face.

  Running footsteps in the corridor. Agatha was released, gulping for air. A black-clad figure ran from the room. She pressed the panic button and nothing happened.

  Charles came rushing in followed by the hospital security guard.

  “Was it her?”

  “I think so. Oh, she cut the wire to my panic button.”

  “Phone the police. I’ll get to the car park and see if I can find her.”

  * * *

  A search went throughout the night but there was no sign of Mavis Dupin. “What I cannot understand,” said Charles, “is why she ran for it after you had been found. The police had nothing against her.”

  “I think she was afraid I had recognised her. Charles, I want to get out of here. I’d be safer in my own home. I’ve got a good security system.”

  “Which the killer bypassed before.”

  “No, I don’t think so. All Mavis had to do was ring the bell. Terry would answer the door. She would say she wanted to wait for me. Once inside, she biffed him. I also think when she slogged me with that hammer that she thought I was dead.”

  It was late afternoon by the time Agatha had gained permission to go home. She phoned Doris and begged her to look after the cats for a little longer. Then Charles said he must go to his own home. But he phoned Agatha’s office before he left and asked Toni to come and “babysit this walking disaster.”

  Toni’s first words were, “Who would have believed it?”

  “Believed what?”

  “Put on the telly. Mavis has surfaced and is giving press conferences. She says she is a victim.”

  Agatha turned on the television and there indeed was Mavis. “I have been the victim,” she was saying, “of one publicity-seeking amateur detective. Agatha Raisin is not interested in finding out the identity of this murderer because she hasn’t a clue. She is only interested in self-glorification. I am taking her to court.”

  The phone started to ring. “Don’t answer it,” said Agatha.

  One reporter suddenly stood up and said in a stentorian voice, “Wait a minute. Agatha Raisin was savagely attacked and then buried under the church floor. Are you saying she did that herself?”

  Agatha recognised a reporter from the Sun hustling Mavis away. The headlines in the Sun in the morning would be sympathetic to Mavis, but the other newspapers would not. The news presenter was saying, “Of course, Agatha Raisin, who promised to reveal the identity of the murderer, did not. Sharon Elver, who went to school with Agatha Raisin, had this to say.” A dyed blonde with a middle-aged spread bulging over torn jeans said, “Ooo! Our Aggie always was a bit of a liar. Boy mad she was. Always thinking up something to get attention so the fellows would notice her.”

  “She wasn’t even in my class,” wailed Agatha. “What can I do, Toni, to stop this character assassination?”

  Toni wanted to say, “Stop telling lies about knowing who the murderer is.” Instead she said, “Think! Why did you think it was her anyway? What would prompt a lady of the village to murder, amongst others, her own twin?”

  “Passion,” said Agatha. “Blinding jealousy and passion. She is in love with the bishop.”

  “Think of her as a chess piece. Get her to move,” urged Toni.

  Agatha sat with her eyes half closed. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked away busily before giving an asthmatic cough and chiming seven strokes.

  Suddenly, sitting up straight, Agatha reached for the phone. “What are you going to do?” asked Toni.

  Agatha phoned the Mircester Telegraph and asked for the following announcement to be put in in time for the morning’s issue. Toni listened uneasily as Agatha announced an engagement between herself and the bishop.

  When Agatha had rung off, Toni said, “The Mircester Telegraph will not only send a reporter here, they will inform the nationals as well. Couldn’t you wait?”

  “If I wait any longer for that bitch to ruin my reputation I won’t have a client left. Let’s go!”

  “Agatha! You are not made of iron. You must still be weak, not to mention traumatised.”

  “I’ve got it!” exclaimed Agatha. “Do you remember that drugs case we solved for that posh nursing home? Let’s see if they’ll take me in. Nobody would think of looking for me there.”

  “Well, that at least is sensible,” said Toni. “And your case is still packed from the hospital. If only we could find that hammer.”

  “The moment she surfaced, forensics—who had probably done a perfunctorily test before—would take that manor house apart.”

  * * *

  A new French bakery had recently opened in Mircester, and so the bishop smiled down at the two delicious croissants on hi
s breakfast plate the following morning.

  He was just savouring the first mouthful when the dean crashed in and slammed the Mircester Telegraph down in front of him. “What the hell are you up to now, Peter?”

  “And what are you talking about to make your face go all red and puffy and your eyes bulge?”

  “Oh, read the damn thing!” The dean stabbed one stubby finger down on the social column.

  “It must be Agatha playing games,” said Peter after he had studied the announcement. “She’s trying to get my attention. She really fancies me.”

  “Not one bit,” said the dean brutally. “But what of all those other women you led to believe were soul mates? They’ll be queuing up to ask you if it’s true. Let’s take that holiday.”

  “First, I’d better phone the paper and put a denial in and then find Raisin and ask her what the hell she’s playing at.”

  “Get your secretary to do it.”

  “She’s busy writing a speech for me.”

  Donald Whitby lit up a small cheroot, ignoring the fact that the bishop was flapping the smoke away with exaggerated gestures.

  “Mavis Dupin has been giving you a hard time,” he pointed out. “If you let this announcement stand, and she comes yelling in here, tell her you are deeply in love with old bossy boots.”

  “And what if old bossy boots, one Agatha Raisin, got it right and little Mavis is our murderer?”

  “Rubbish. A tiny woman like that lifting up that gravestone and dumping Raisin underneath?”

  “All right. But I am only doing it because she frightens me. I mean, bell ringing can give you muscles. And have you ever stopped to think about the real identity of the killer?”

  “I think it was one of those bell ringers,” said the Dean. “Anyway, if she isn’t around by this evening, we could clear off to Thailand tomorrow and by the time we get back, she’ll be fantasising about someone else. I mean, you didn’t have any physical contact with her, did you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Whisper naughty things in her ear?”

  “You forget my position,” said Bishop Peter haughtily.

  “I think you forgot it when you encouraged the droopy vicar’s wife to tie up her husband.”

  The bishop shrugged. “I didn’t tell her to clobber him one.”

  The pair were sharing a bottle of fine old malt whisky. Only the dean knew that Peter was capable of savage outbursts of rage. But he asked as he had asked a few times before, “You have no idea where Jennifer Toynby is?”

  The bishop smashed his fist on the table. “Shut up! Just shup up!”

  The bishop’s secretary opened the door and ushered Mavis Dupin in. The bishop groaned inwardly. He had forgotten to tell her to admit no one. But he rose and drew out a chair for Mavis, remembering guiltily that he had managed to extract quite a bit of money from her.

  Mavis held out the Mircester Telegraph with one trembling hand. “Tell me this is not true.”

  The dean waited for Peter to say it was indeed true but Peter said gently, “How can it be true when you are the one I love?”

  What’s he playing at, wondered the dean.

  “Please leave us, Donald,” said the bishop, who had just realised that if he could send Mavis away a happy woman then he could flee abroad the next morning.

  When the dean had left the room, Peter said gently, “I should have telephoned you. I have spoken to Mrs. Raisin. She is crazy about me, poor woman. Ignore the paper.”

  “I need proof of your commitment and loyalty to me,” said Mavis.

  “I swear to you…”

  “Actions speak louder than words. We are going to bed and I mean now.”

  “But I have no … er … well … things to stop you getting pregnant.”

  She flipped open a huge leather sack of a handbag. “I have plenty.”

  The door opened and the dean came in, adjusting his stole over a white cassock. “Matins, my lord bishop.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Mavis, do you want to attend, or would you rather wait here?”

  “I shall wait for you, my beloved.”

  * * *

  But when the service came to an end, Peter clearly saw a large number of the press waiting to speak to him.

  In the vestry while they changed out of their robes, Donald whispered, “I took the liberty of packing two bags and informing the canon to take over and that it was a family emergency.”

  “Good man! What’s the best way out? I can’t think. She wants me to seduce her. She’s sitting there in my study in all her dried-up, withered virginity clutching a handbag full of condoms. I wish you’d never thought up this old folks’ home idea.”

  “What? You were delighted. If I hadn’t thought of it, you would have had to keep three elderly ladies in an expensive home.”

  “Let me think.”

  “The crypt!” exclaimed Donald. “There’s a little-used passage off where the choir boys keep their stuff. Thank goodness they weren’t due at matins.”

  They hurried off, finally gaining the car park. “No press. We’ll take your Ford. I keep expecting Mavis to round the corner with a hammer.”

  “So, you do think she murdered all those people?”

  “No. Of course not. Get a move on!”

  * * *

  It began to dawn on Mavis that she had been dumped just like a sack of coal down an old coal hole. At one point, the press had come knocking at the study door but she had locked the door so that she and “her lover” would not be disturbed as they exchanged their first passionate kisses. But when she realised the morning service was well and truly over, she unlocked the door and opened it. The bishop’s secretary, Mary Frank, stood there.

  “I was just about to get the spare key,” she said. “His lordship has gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “I don’t know. He never tells me anything unless it’s asking me to write another speech. Maybe he’s gone to that fiancée of his.”

  “He is not engaged to Agatha Raisin.”

  “He didn’t tell me to phone the Telegraph and tell them it was a mistake,” said Mary. “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Raisin?”

  “I shall do that,” said Mavis, stalking out, muttering, “Remember you are a Dupin.”

  * * *

  James and Charles were at that moment glaring at Agatha. “You mean,” shouted James, “to sit here and hope she turns up to kill you with the weapon she used on the others? You are mad.”

  “You’re here to protect me,” said Agatha. “I’ve let Toni go. Wouldn’t want any harm to come to her.”

  “Well, hear this,” said Charles. “I have to remind you again that I am not one of your employees. I am off on holiday and I suggest you phone your staff and get them over here.”

  “Good idea,” said James. “I’m off as well.”

  “Look, I am sorry,” said Agatha. “Can’t you stay for a bit?”

  To her dismay, neither answered. They simply walked out.

  “Be like that!” Agatha yelled after them. “A friend in need is a pain in the bum. Is that it?”

  Silence.

  The deep evening silence of the Cotswolds that city-bred Agatha could never get quite used to settled over the countryside.

  Agatha phoned Patrick and he said he would round up the others and come over.

  Now out of the silence, Agatha began to hear the little whispers of the countryside. Things moved in the thatch. A dog barked. A car drove up to the end of Lilac Lane and stopped. Odd, thought Agatha, that there are no press ringing my bell. But I don’t suppose it’s great news.

  Funny enough, it would feel better if it were the bishop rather than Mavis. Even though she must be out of her tiny gourd, she’s a fellow sufferer tricked by love into insanity.

  But is our bishop maybe not capable of another murder? I never did find out what happened to Jennifer Toynby. Then Ducksy went missing as well.

  The doorbell rang, making her jump. She went to her front door and
looked through the spy hole. Patrick’s lugubrious face looked back.

  The welcoming smile faded from Agatha’s face when she opened the door and heard Patrick say, “She’s got a gun in my back. Couldn’t do anything else.”

  “Inside. Both of you,” commanded Mavis.

  Agatha’s skull experienced a sharp pain as she remembered that vicious blow to the head.

  Mavis ushered them into the kitchen. “If anyone calls,” she said, “you are to send them away. Got it?”

  “Or you’ll what?” demanded Agatha. “Shoot me? You’re going to do that anyway. So, you killed all these people and all because of a money-grabbing bishop.”

  “Be quiet!” ordered Mavis.

  The kitchen was brightly lit. Agatha studied Mavis. Then she thought of the murders.

  The only thing that had made her worry about her judgement was that Millicent was so small—too small to dispose of bodies. Then she remembered Charles moaning about hosting the cricket club fête for his home, but saying he had to do it, because some of the villagers were positively feudal and expected him to honour tradition.

  She said, “Oh, God! You didn’t do it alone. You’ve got a helper.”

  Mavis’s eyes blazed for a moment. “We will wait here until I am sure no one else is coming and then we will leave.”

  James, thought Agatha frantically. You are only next door. Didn’t you see her arrive?

  But James had gone to see his not very intelligent Croatian wife and to discuss divorce proceedings. Charles had reached home and was calling to Gustav to pack a suitcase.

  * * *

  Toni pulled up next to Mavis’s car. “I recognise that gas guzzler,” she said to Simon and Phil Marshall. “It’s that old Bentley from the manor house. Simon, call the police while I get round to Agatha’s back garden and see if I can see her. Phil, can you disable the car?”

  “Easily.”

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  A calm had settled over Agatha. If I am going to die, she thought, I would like to know who helped Mavis. Let me think. Lady of the manor. Dupins there for ages. Someone who knows the church. Harry Bury, the sexton.

  “It was Harry Bury,” said Agatha. “You probably ordered him to. Poor bastard. But your own sister. How could you?”