by M C Beaton
Bill Wong listened to them, his face darkening.
“You’ve gone too far this time,” he said. “If she makes a complaint, I can’t protect you. Just leave it alone now. I should not have encouraged you.”
“But we did find out something for you,” pleaded Agatha.
“No, you have done a bad thing. I cannot do anything to limit the damage. Let’s just hope we hear no more about it.”
“Now, where?” asked Agatha as they stood in the car park outside the police headquarters.
“Fred Shaw?”
“I feel small,” said Agatha wearily. “I feel I’ve just been ticked off by the ieacher. I feel I’m a bad person. I’ll tell you, James, I have never been so insulted by so many people as I have been since the first murder took place.”
“Oh, you’re all right,” said James absent-mindedly. “Let’s see Fred.”
They drove out of Mircester. It was the end of August. A few leaves were already turning yellow and there was a faint chill in the air. Agatha began to feel that every winter in the country with its fogs and icy roads was another little death. She could take a holiday somewhere sunny and miss the bad weather and the frantic ho-ho-ho jollity of Christmas, but the fact was she was increasingly reluctant to leave her cats. When they die, she vowed, I’ll never keep another animal. It was no fun going away any more when part of her heart was always worrying if they were all right.
Her thoughts turned to Guy. He had at least given her a buzz when she was out with him, although the look-what-J’ue-got feeling was mitigated by the feeling that people might think her too old for him.
And what of James? Driving so competently, seemingly unfazed by the fact that they might both soon be in deep trouble. He would probably take himself off, she thought bitterly, and leave her alone to face the music.
She no longer knew what she felt for him. Relationships had to move forward, even an inch, or, like one of those videos she rented, the film came to an end and the tape began to run backwards—only, in her mind, showing not the happy scenes, but a long list of rejections.
She would see this case to the end, if it ever ended, and then detach herself from him.
They drove into Ancombe and stopped outside Fred Shaw’s shop. He was serving a customer. He looked down the shop and saw them. “Be with you shortly,” he called.
He served his customer with four batteries, said goodbye, and then approached them.
“What do you want?” he asked truculently.
“Just a few questions,” said James.
“I’m shutting the place up for lunchtime,” he said. “Come into the back shop.”
He locked the door and pulled down the blind. He jerked his head and they followed him into the back shop.
“So what do you want?” There was no offer of whisky this time.
“We feel that life in Ancombe will never really go back to normal until these murders have been solved,” began James.
“So what’s that got to do with me? The police are working on it.”
“Yes, but you are a man of business, a shrewd man,” said Agatha quickly.
The truculence left Fred’s face. “I do see a lot of things other people don’t,” he said in a mollified voice.
“I heard something about Andy Stiggs being in love with Mrs Struthers. Mrs Struthers must have been younger than her husband.”
“Yes, she was. Andy also thought he should have been chairman of the council as well. He will be now.”
“Do you think he could have murdered Robina as well?” asked Agatha.
“Here now. I never said he murdered Robert. But he was always around Robina’s. Maybe he saw something.”
“As Andy Stiggs was against the water company, that must have soured his relations with Robina,” said Agatha.
“I think he thought he could persuade her to change her mind.”
Agatha looked at him thoughtfully, wondering when she could slip in a question about his speech. Instead she said, “Was there ever a Mrs Stiggs?”
“Yes, he married Ethel Fairweather on the rebound right after Robert got married and lived unhappily right up until her death. She was a shrew. In some way, he blamed Robert for his rotten marriage, know what I mean?”
“Where does he live?” asked James. “I have his address but I’m not sure exactly where his cottage is.”
“Second on the left past the church.”
“You never called to see me with your speech,” said Agatha.
“What speech?”
“The one you were going to make at the fete.”
“When I heard that pop group was coming, I knew you wouldn’t want me.”
And yet the pop group was a relatively late booking, thought Agatha. And when Fred had thought that Jane Harris was to open the fête, it had not stopped him.
“You don’t think Mary Owen could have had anything to do with it?” asked Agatha. “I mean, it turns out as far as I can gather that she’s not broke after all. She paid those protesters.”
“She’s big enough, strong enough and nasty enough,” said Fred. “But Andy Stiggs is my choice.”
“You thought it was Mary Owen at one time.”
“Did I? I can’t remember that.”
“So let’s try Andy Stiggs,” said James when they left the shop.
“What’s our approach?”
“Same as with Fred. Just want to get it cleared up.”
Andy Stiggs’s cottage was a mellow building of Cotswold stone with a newly thatched roof. There was a pleasing jumble of old–fashioned flowers: stocks, impatiens, delphiniums, lupins, and roses, roses all the way.
Andy Stiggs was weeding a flowerbed. He straightened up as they came through the garden gate.
“What?” he demanded.
Oh, to be from the police and be able to say, “Just a few questions,” with an air of authority, thought Agatha.
“We were in the village,” said James, “and we thought we would drop in and see you.”
“Why?” He brushed earth from his large hands.
“As vice-chairman of the council, soon to be chairman, you must know a lot about what goes on in the village.”
“And what’s that got to do with you? You don’t live here.”
“You surely want these murders cleared up.”
“Of course I do, and the answer is staring you in the face. It’s that water company. It’s my belief that poor Robina changed her mind and so they bumped her off.”
“I think it’s only on TV that companies go around bumping people off,” said Agatha.
“You can’t see what’s under your nose because that Guy Freemont has been romancing you,” said Andy.
“That’s got nothing to do with it!” Agatha’s face flamed.
“To my mind it has. What else would a young man like that be doing with a woman of your age?”
“That’s enough of that,” said James coldly. “You are just as suspect. I gather that Robert Struthers pinched the love of your life from under your nose.”
“That was years and years ago.”
“Sometimes resentments grow with the passing of time.”
Andy picked up a hoe and brandished it at them. “Get out of here. Just get out and don’t come round again or I’ll…”
“Or I’ll what?” asked James. “Murder us? Come along, Agatha.”
“I think I’ve got a headache coming on,” said Agatha as they walked back to the car. “If you don’t mind, I would like to go home and lie down for a little.”
“I think we’ve done enough for one day anyway,” said James.
Half an hour later, Agatha crawled under the duvet on her bed and drew her knees up to her chin. She felt she could not go on investigating the murders. The council members with their insults had finally been able to intimidate her.
Despite the warmth of the duvet and the warmth of the day, she shivered. All the Carsely security, all the safety, all the comfort seemed to have been ripped away and she w
as alone once more in a hostile world.
The phone rang, loudly and imperatively. She heaved herself up on one elbow and looked at it. What if it was James? No, probably Roy trying to get her back into PR, or something like that. Let it ring and she would check the answering service in a few minutes and find out who had called.
She waited and then dialled 1571. “There is one message,” said the prissy voice. “Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes,” muttered Agatha.
“I am afraid I didn’t quite get that. Would you like to hear your message?”
“Yes!” shouted Agatha, exasperated.
She waited. Then a harsh voice said, “This is Mary Owen. Come and see me as soon as possible.”
Oh, dear, thought Agatha bleakly. She’s heard about us questioning the corner shop. I’d better get James.
But there was no reply. Agatha climbed out of bed and washed and dressed. She suddenly did not want to wait for James. She wanted to get it over and done with.
She drove steadily to the manor-house in Ancombe, wondering all the while if Mary meant to take her to court for harassment or invasion of privacy or something.
Mary answered the door. “Follow me,” she said curtly. She led the way into a dark drawing-room: beamed ceiling, thick curtains, stuffed creatures in glass cases, a brass urn of pampas-grass, a drawing-room out of a Hammer horror movie.
“Sit down,” barked Mary.
“I’d rather stand.” Agatha felt she might have to make a quick getaway.
“Very well. You have been spreading scandal in my sister’s neighbourhood, questioning her local shopkeeper. If you do anything like that again, a nasty accident could happen to you.”
Mary had walked up close to Agatha as she said this. Agatha took a step backwards.
“We were just trying to clear up loose ends,” she protested. “If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”
“Just who the hell do you think you are?” She grabbed Agatha by the shoulder and pulled her towards a large mirror over the fireplace. “Look at yourself! You are a middle-aged woman and no lady. You poke your nose into things that don’t concern you.” She gave Agatha another shove. “Just get out of here and remember: Any more interference and I’ll come looking for you!”
Thoroughly demoralized, Agatha stumbled for the door. She drove off, not even looking in the driving mirror to see if Mary was watching her. She never wanted to see her again.
She was getting out of her car outside her cottage when Mrs Darry came scuttling along, the small bundle of yapping hair which passed for a dog trotting in front of her.
“Mrs Raisin!” she called.
Darry, Darcy, bitches all, thought Agatha, and whipping out her keys, let herself into her cottage and slammed the door.
She leaned her back against the door and breathed deeply.
The doorbell rang. “Go away!” shrieked Agatha.
“Are you all right, dear?” The voice of Mrs Bloxby came faintly from the other side.
Agatha opened the door and promptly burst into tears.
“Oh, come along into the kitchen,” said Mrs Bloxby, putting an arm around Agatha’s shaking shoulders.
Rubbing her eyes on the back of her sleeve, Agatha allowed herself to be led through to her kitchen and gently thrust down into a chair.
“I’ll make some strong sweet tea,” said the vicar’s wife, plugging in the electric kettle and then handing Agatha the box of tissues which had been lying on the kitchen counter.
Agatha blew her nose and said weakly, “I’m sorry. Everything got too much for me.”
“Wait until I make us some tea and you can tell me all about it.”
Soon, with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, Agatha poured out everything, about her shame at her affair with Guy, about not knowing where she stood with James, and finally about the threat from Mary Owen.
“That’s very interesting,” said Mrs Bloxby. “About Mary Owen.”
“Do you mean if she could threaten me, she could have murdered them?”
“Not exactly. If Mary Owen and her sister were the straight and outraged people they claim to be, why did they not complain to the police?”
“Maybe they did.”
“Can you find out?”
“Wait a minute. I’ll try to get Bill.”
To Agatha’s relief, Bill Wong was at police headquarters.
“What is it now, Agatha?” he asked sharply. “What have you been up to?”
Agatha told him about Mary’s threat and then said, “Has either Mary or her sister complained to the police about me and James?”
“No, thank goodness.”
“Don’t you see, that’s what so odd about it? If she and her sister were as innocent as they claim to be, they’d simply have gone to the police.”
There was a silence. Then Bill said slowly, “But you are making a complaint about Mary Owen threatening you.”
“I don’t know, Bill. No witnesses. But she phoned and left a message on my answering service asking me to come and see her.”
“Do you still have that message?”
“Yes.”
“Keep it. I’d like to listen to it. But I’ll go and have a talk to her.”
“Are you sure she isn’t in need of money, Bill?”
“Oh, that. No, we checked her bank statements. She’s pretty wealthy.”
“So why did Fred Shaw say she wasn’t?”
“I asked him. He said since she did all the gardening and cleaning herself, with only a bit of occasional help, he assumed she had gone broke. Leave it to me.”
He rang off. Agatha rejoined Mrs Bloxby in the kitchen. “Neither Mary nor her sister complained to the police.”
“Very odd, that,” said Mrs Bloxby. “I don’t like to see you so distressed.”
“It’s all the insults and cracks about my affair with Guy. I’ve been made to feel like a vulgar trollop.”
“You must not take it all to heart. The fact is that you are dealing with a lot of frightened people. Everyone is suspect and they know it and so they take their fright out on you because they see you as some enemy stirring up the muddy waters.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I slammed the door in Mrs Dairy’s face before you came. She’s a horror.”
“I’m afraid she is. Cheer up. She whines that she is very disappointed in Carsely and that it is not a very nice place at all. I feel she will be leaving us soon.”
“I do hope so. That woman has halitosis of the soul.”
After Mrs Bloxby had left, Agatha went upstairs and washed her face and put on make–up. She would call on James and tell him about Mary. If only he would put his arms about her and hold her close.
Bracing herself, she went next door and rang his bell.
James answered the door, looking flustered. “What is it, Agatha?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
“I’m actually very busy packing.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going up to London for a few days.”
“Why?”
“Private business.”
Agatha felt so rejected, so forlorn, that she did not tell him about Mary. “Bye,” she said weakly and walked away.
James looked after her impatiently, at the droop of her shoulders. He opened his mouth to call her back and then shut it again and went, back inside to finish his packing.
Agatha, in her own cottage, dialled Roy’s office.
She didn’t want to be alone. Roy would surely come running if she asked him.
Roy came on the phone. “Changed your mind about the water company, Aggie?”
“What?”
“I mean, are you going to go on working for them after all?”
“No.”
“So is this just a friendly chat?”
“I wondered whether you would like to come down for the weekend?”
Roy had been invited to a barbecue on Saturday by his boss and h
e was not going to turn down such an important invitation, particularly as the boss had a marriageable daughter.
“Sorry, sweetie, too busy. Maybe another time.”
“Yes. Bye.”
Agatha sat staring at the phone. She wondered if she should pack a suitcase herself, drive to Heathrow and get on the first available plane out to anywhere.
The phone rang. Agatha picked it up cautiously, as if the receiver might bite.
“Agatha!” It was Guy’s voice. “I really miss you. What about dinner on Saturday?”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on. It would be nice to see you again. That French restaurant in Mircester. What about it? I could pick you up at eight.”
“All right,” said Agatha, thinking as she said goodbye and replaced the receiver, what the hell, nobody else wants me.
By Friday, Agatha was feeling calmer. Some healthy walks and a comfortable meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society did much to restore her equanimity, that and the news that Mrs Dairy had gone on holiday.
By late on Friday evening she had decided to cancel her date with Guy. She was just reaching for the phone when it rang. She picked it up gingerly, all her old fears coming back.
“This is Portia Salmond,” said a cool voice. “I think we should talk.”
“So talk.”
“I don’t want to talk over the phone. Can you come here?”
“Where’s here?”
“I live at 5 Glebe Street. It’s near the abbey in Mircester.”
“I know it. Why now? It’s late.”
“It won’t take long.”
Curiosity overcame Agatha. “Give me half an hour.”
She drove through the quiet night-time lanes and then down the A44 to the Fosse. There was a chill in the air. Summer had gone.
She wondered if James had ever taken Portia out for dinner. That was what she really wanted to find out.
Glebe Street was narrow and cobbled and dark. A sliver of moon hung in the sky at the end of the street and the great btdk of the abbey loomed over the houses on the left.
Great English abbeys and minsters always reminded Agatha more of the power of the state, the crown and the army than the power of God.
