by M C Beaton
“It’s that waiter. He’s never stopped pouring the stuff.”
“I think champagne is rather like your fish and chips, Agatha. Everyone likes the idea but few actually enjoy the taste. Listen!”
“So Robina says to me, just that evening before she was killed.” Fred Shaw was flushed and slightly tipsy. “She says, ‘Fred,’ she says, ‘I wish to God I had never let them go ahead taking the water’. ‘Why?’ asks I. ‘You was all for it’. ‘Well,’ she says, says she, ‘I’ve been getting these here threatening letters and all I want now is a quiet life.’”
“Did she plan to say something like that in her speech?”
“Maybe. I asked the police what was in them typewritten notes but they won’t tell me.”
“Better ask Bill Wong,” whispered James.
“Did any of us actually know which way Robert was going to vote?” asked Bill Allen.
A shaking of heads. “You were close to him, Mary,” said Angela. “He must have said something.”
Mary shook her head. “Not to me. Jane?”
All eyes turned to Jane Cutler. She had been relatively quiet since the start of the party. The sun shone on her immaculately groomed hair and on the strange smoothness of her face from which old, suddenly tired eyes looked out.
“He said he liked to keep people guessing. I got quite irritated with him. Said there was no reason for him to go on like the secret service.” She turned to Fred Shaw. “You said Robina’s notes were typewritten. Who told you that?”
“The police.”
“That’s odd,” said Jane.
“What’s odd? Yes, I will have some more.” Angela held up her glass.
“I never remember Robina having a typewriter. I mean, she was the sort of woman who prided herself on not being able to do anything manual at all. Does anyone remember her having a typewriter?”
There was a shaking of heads.
“She could have got someone to type out her notes for her,” suggested Jane.
“I got the impression from the police they were just notes, not a full typed speech,” said Fred Shaw.
“I don’t know why you’re all going on about whether her notes were typed or not,” said Angela Buckley. “I mean, was she murdered because she typed? Ridiculous.”
Fred Shaw’s eyes gleamed. “But don’t you see, if she had something in her original hand-written notes to say she had changed her mind about the water, someone could have typed out different notes to throw us off the scent.”
“And who else would want to do that but the water company?” said Mary Owen. “I’ve been against this water business from the start.”
“Oh, we all know that,” sneered Angela. “So much so that you paid a bunch of hoodlums to make trouble. So much for your bloody so-called concern for the environment, Mary dear. Bringing louts into the village. They were going to cement the spring. Our spring, Mary, not just yours!”
“I didn’t know what they were really like,” said Mary.
“Oh, yes, you did!” Angela’s eyes were blazing. “You saw damn well what they were like at the first protest, but you kept on paying them.”
“As I told the police, I simply contributed money to what I thought was a worthy cause. I did not know they would demonstrate.”
“Save Our Foxes, Mary? Save Our Foxes! Come on. Do the police know you’re a member of the Cotswold Hunt?”
“I handed in my resignation a year ago.”
“And told us all it was because you were too old!”
“I told you no such thing. I did not think it necessary to explain my reasons to a trollop like you. I saw the error of my ways and contributing to Save Our Foxes was a way of making amends.”
Jane Cutler tittered. “How odd. I simply cannot imagine you as having one sensitive bone in your body, Mary. You would make a good murderess.”
“Ah, but I have an alibi,” Mary flashed back. “Which is more than you can say for yourself.”
“The guilty ones always have a cast-iron alibi.”
“Ladies, ladies.” Bill Allen held up his hands, red and powerful in the sunlight. “Peace. We’ve all had our differences over the years but we’ve all stuck together through thick and thin. It’s a lovely day and there seems to be a lot more champagne. So let’s just bury the hatchet and enjoy ourselves.”
“I’ll kill that waiter,” muttered Agatha to James. “This is going to cost a fortune.”
“Worth every penny. I’ll pay for the champers.”
The councillors began to gossip together about safe village topics. Agatha and James seemed to be forgotten.
When they finally all reeled off to their cars, drunkenly oblivious to the fact that each was now well over the limit, James and Agatha waved them goodbye and went in to survey the debris of the party.
“Well, if the purpose of the party had been to really get that nasty lot together again,” said Agatha, “we succeeded.”
“We got a lot of what we wanted. Let’s see if we can get hold of Bill Wong tomorrow and find out more about those notes. And then let’s call on Mary’s sister. If she’s been covering for her, we might be able to guess something from her manner. We need an excuse.”
“I know.” Agatha held up a silver lighter. “This is Mary’s. We can say we happened to be in Mircester and thought she might be visiting.”
Eight
They drove out under a large, windy Cotswolds sky. The wind had turned cold, a harbinger of autumn. Agatha reflected that the older she got, the shorter got the summers and the longer and darker the winters. Of course, living in the country made a difference. One did not notice winter in the city quite so much.
When they got to police headquarters, it was to find that Bill had a day off and was at home.
“I hate going there,” grumbled Agatha. “His parents are such downers.”
“Phone first and make sure it’s all right,” said James.
Agatha went to a phone-box and dialled Bill’s number. Mrs Wong answered.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I would like to speak to Bill,” said Agatha patiently.
“Well, you can’t—” began Mrs Wong when the phone was taken from her and Bill’s voice came on the line.
“We hate to bother you on your day off,” said Agatha.
“We?”
“Me and James. But we wanted to ask you something.”
“Come round. My young lady’s here.”
“Oh, in that case, maybe we’d better leave it.”
“No, no. I would really like you to meet her.”
Agatha said they’d be about ten minutes and then rejoined James.
“He says to come round but he’s got his young lady there.”
“And is that a problem?” asked James.
“It is, in a way. I’m very fond of Bill and I don’t want to be a spectator when his parents ruin his love life one more time.”
“If she really cares for him, then nothing will put her off.”
“Oh, Mrs Wong will think of something.”
They drove to Bill’s parents’ modern brick house set among others of the same design in a neat private housing estate.
“We’re just having a drink before lunch,” said Bill, when he answered the door. “I’d like to invite you as well, but Mum says she doesn’t have enough.”
“It’s all right,” said Agatha quickly. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Come into the lounge and meet Sharon and then we’ll go out into the back garden for a private chat.”
When they entered the small chilly lounge, the air was heavy with silence. Sharon, a pretty young girl, looked up, her face breaking into a smile of relief.
“Sherry?” offered Bill. He poured two little glassfuls of sweet sherry and handed them to Agatha and James. “Now this is Sharon Beck. Sharon, Mrs Agatha Raisin and Mr James Lacey.”
“Ever so pleased,” murmured Sharon.
“It’s his day off,” g
rumbled Mr Wong. “Don’t see why people should bother us on Bill’s day off.”
“Do you enjoy working at police headquarters?” Agatha asked Sharon.
“Oh, ever so much. The other girls are really nice.”
“Don’t hold with girls working once they’re married,” said Mr Wong.
There was an awkward silence and then Mrs Wong said, “It’s just as well we’ve got the spare bedroom.”
Another silence.
“Why?” asked Agatha desperately.
“So that when Bill gets married, they can live here.”
“I didn’t think any young married couples lived with the parents of one or the other these days,” said James.
“No reason not to,” said Mrs Wong. “If Bill marries Sharon here, well, she’ll need to stop working because of babies and that, and he doesn’t make enough.”
Sharon looked like some frightened animal cowering in the undergrowth.
“I feel awkward breaking into your lunch party.” Agatha stood up. “If we could just have that word, Bill?”
“Sure. Let’s go into the garden.”
“Don’t be long,” called Mrs Wong. “It’s shepherd’s pie.”
The garden was Bill’s domain and its beauty contrasted with the cold stuffiness of his family home.
“So what do you want to know?” he asked.
“Those notes Robina Toynbee left,” said James. “They were typewritten?”
“Yes.”
“But she didn’t have a typewriter,” said Agatha.
“No, we couldn’t find one. We’re asking around the village to see if she got someone to type them for her.”
“What did the notes say?”
“Not much. Just instructions for the speech. Things like, begin with welcome. Outline benefits to village from water company. That sort of thing. Only two small pages.”
“Don’t you find that odd?” asked Agatha. “I mean, no typewriter?”
“That’s what we’re looking into.”
“Fred Shaw was up at Robina’s cottage the night before,” said James.
“We know.” Bill dead-headed a rose. “He came forward and told us about it. He said she was being frightened by anonymous letters but she must have burnt them all. We didn’t find any.”
“Wait a bit.” Agatha frowned. “I’ve just remembered something. Fred Shaw. He was determined to make a speech at the fête himself. I didn’t know how to put him off. He said he would call on me and discuss it but he never did.”
“He could have changed his mind when he heard The Pretty Girls were supposed to be opening it.”
“True. But he’s very vain and bullying. And there’s something else. I can’t remember if I told you. There was bad feeling between Andy Stiggs and Robert Struthers. Andy wanted to marry the late Mrs Struthers and claimed Robert had stolen her away.”
“But why kill Robina Toynbee?” asked Bill.
“Because Andy Stiggs was against the water company.”
“Bill!” Mrs Wong, shrill and bad-tempered, appeared in the doorway. “Are you coming in or not? I was just saying to Sharon that when you’re married, she’ll need to see you get your meals on time.”
“Coming, Mum.”
“You’re not engaged, are you?” asked Agatha.
“Not yet,” said Bill with a grin. “But that’s Mum for you. Always hoping.”
“Yes, that’s Mum for you,” said Agatha bitterly as they drove off. “Can’t Bill see how she frightens them all away? But no. He adores his parents and doesn’t see anything wrong with them.”
“I suppose, in that, he’s luckier than most. Did you adore your parents, Agatha?”
“They were drunk most of the time. I couldn’t wait to get away from them. What about you?”
“Mine were great. My father died ten years ago and my mother only survived him by a year. She was devoted to him.”
“What did they die of?”
“My father died of a stroke and my mother of cancer.”
“So much cancer about,” mourned Agatha. “I must give up smoking.”
“There’s a hypnotist in Mircester who’s supposed to have a good success rate. There was an article about him in the Cotswold Journal. I’ve still got it.”
“Give it to me when we get back. I’ll give it a try.”
“Now can you remember where Mrs Darcy lives?”
“If you go back to the centre I can guide you from there.”
Soon they were cruising along the quiet street where Mary Owen’s sister lived. “Stop here,” said Agatha, “and we’ll get out and walk. I’m not quite sure where it was. It was dark.”
They got out and walked along. “I think about here.” Agatha stopped. “There was a street lamp, and yes, a lilac tree.”
“There are several lilac trees along here.”
“Let’s try anyway.”
But the woman who answered the door to them was not Mrs Darcy. Mrs Darcy, she volunteered, lived at number 22.
So along to number 22.
Mrs Darcy opened the door and stood looking at them contemptuously. “Oh, it’s you,” she said to Agatha, “and who’s this?”
“Mr James Lacey.”
Mrs Darcy was wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a crisp cotton dress and the great likeness to her sister was considerably diminished in the clear light of day. She was slightly shorter in height than her sister.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“We’re trying to help clear up these terrible murders,” said James with a charming smile. “And Mary left her silver lighter at Mrs Raisin’s cottage. As we happened to be in Mircester, we thought we would leave it with you.” He handed it over.
“So what have the murders got to do with you? I can understand this woman poking her nose in, but you are obviously a gentleman.”
“I would have thought that you, of all people, would be anxious to see these murders cleared up.”
“Why me?”
“Because Miss Owen is your sister.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
A woman walking her dog paused by the garden gate, listening avidly.
“You’d better come inside,” said Mrs Darcy curtly.
She led the way into a sitting-room, a rather bleak room with green walls and a few dingy oil paintings.
Agatha and James sat side by side on a sofa.
Mrs Darcy stood in front of the fireplace.
“So? What’s this about Mary?”
“Your sister,” said James patiently, “paid the Save Our Foxes people to demonstrate.”
“There is no proof of that! Mary’s kind-hearted. She was merely contributing to a good cause.”
“I find it hard to believe that Mary cared a damn about foxes, one way or the other,” said Agatha.
“I doubt if you know anything about the countryside at all.” Mrs Darcy turned back to James.
“There’s no need to be so rude to Mrs Raisin,” said James sharply. “In fact, I think the only reason you are being so rude is because you are worried about your sister.”
“I have no reason to worry. You are mistaken. There is nothing I can tell you to help you. On the night Robert Struthers was killed, Mary was here. She had no reason to kill Robina Toynbee. In fact, the suggestion that my sister might have killed anyone is highly insulting. We had dinner together. I did not draw the curtains and several of the neighbours saw us.”
“What time was that?” asked James.
“About sevenish. I do not like eating late.”
“And what time did you both go to bed?”
“About ten. Mary went out to buy milk and newspapers at the corner shop in the morning, and after breakfast she left for Carsely. I would suggest you both leave this matter to the police. Now I would really like to get on…”
Outside, Agatha clutched James’s arm and said, “Mary had plenty of time to nip over to Carsely and murder Robert Struthers.”
“I find it hard to
believe.” James shook his head. “Someone could have seen her car in Ancombe.”
“She didn’t need to take her own car. She could have taken her sister’s. She could have arranged to stay with her sister to establish an alibi.”
James grinned. “I know you want it to be Mary. But I think we’re wasting our time. Let’s try Fred Shaw.”
“We could just check at the corner shop and make sure she did buy milk and newspapers.”
“The police will have done that.”
“Still…”
“Oh, all right. We’ll walk along.”
The corner shop turned out to be one of the last survivors of its kind. Not only did it stock groceries and newspapers, but postcards, gifts, and bags of garden fertilizer.
There was a small wizened man behind the counter. “We are helping the police with their inquiries,” said James, quickly flashing a credit card in the gloom of the shop.
“I’ve told the police all I know. Mrs Darcy’s sister was in here the morning after that murder. She bought the Express and The Daily Telegraph and a pint of milk.”
“Are you sure it was Miss Owen?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, she’s been in here before. Besides she said something like, ‘I’m back visiting my sister. I wish she’d do her own shopping.’”
“But Miss Owen and Mrs Darcy are very much alike.”
“Mrs Darcy wears glasses. Her sister don’t.”
“But what if Mrs Darcy had taken her spectacles off? Would you be able to tell the difference?”
“I s’pose. Miss Owen, she wears trousers all the time and Mrs Darcy wears frocks.”
James tugged at Agatha’s arm. “That will be all. We won’t be troubling you further.”
“Don’t you see?” said Agatha as they walked back to the car. “Mrs Darcy could have been covering for her sister. We’d better tell Bill.”
“You know what I think?” said James gloomily. “I think that shopkeeper will tell Mrs Darcy of our visit and that she will complain to the police and I will get a lecture for impersonating a detective or something.”
“Surely not.”
“Surely yes. That shopkeeper will tell his other customers that we practically accused Mrs Darcy of covering for her sister. I hope we don’t end up in court. In fact, we’d better go and tell Bill.”
