by M C Beaton
“It’s hardly late, James. It’s barely seven o’clock.”
“But you have had a rather long day. You left quite early this morning.”
“Am I under observation now? I thought snooping on people was supposed to be my job, not yours.” Agatha folded her arms and cocked her head to one side.
“I was having a coffee and looking out over the front garden,” James defended himself. “I couldn’t help noticing you leave.”
“So what brings you here at this time of day? I can’t remember the last time you were in my office.”
“Oh, I can!” he offered brightly. “We were still married at the time and—”
“Yes, all right, James. I don’t actually need to know when you were last here. I’d like to know what you’re doing here now. I have reports to finish going through.”
“Well, it’s a surprise!” With the hesitant flourish of a second-rate stage magician, James whisked a leaflet from an inside jacket pocket. “There’s a new bistro opened in Evesham run by a chap called Marco, and since I am an esteemed travel writer and restaurant aficionado, he has offered me a very special rate for dinner for two!”
Agatha paused for a moment to consider the invitation. She hardly felt flattered to be considered as a cut-price date, but she had stuck rigidly to her calorie-controlled lunch, and her stomach had been making alarming rumbling noises for the past half-hour.
“So how about it?” James waggled the leaflet. “I’m told this place is outstanding. I’ll admit, it was Marco himself who told me that, but he seems like a thoroughly decent chap and I believe him to be entirely trustworthy.”
“Oh James.” Agatha smiled, unsure whether she was giving in to his persistence or her own hunger pangs. “I’m sure it will be lovely. Give me a moment to finish up here.”
James triumphantly tucked the leaflet back in his pocket and took a seat at Helen Freedman’s desk, just outside Agatha’s office. The phone rang and, buoyed by high-spirited enthusiasm, he reached for the receiver, despite Agatha gesticulating frantically from behind her desk for him to leave it alone.
“Raisin Investigations,” he said in a sober voice that belied the smile on his face. “How may we help you? You have what? Really? Please hold the line, sir, Mrs. Raisin is right here. I will put you on loudspeaker.”
Agatha stomped out of her office, scowling at James.
“Please can you repeat that for Mrs. Raisin’s benefit, sir?”
“Yes, of course.” The man’s voice was a flat nasal drone, delivering his answer in an almost emotionless tone. “I’d like your help to find out why strange creatures keep appearing in my garden. Last week I saw three small wizards dressed all in black, with orange hats and long white beards. Then I saw the spirit of Aslan.”
“Aslan?” James was struggling to keep a straight face. Agatha rolled her eyes and turned to go back into her office. “The lion from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?”
“The very same. Large as life, he was, and pale white like a ghost. Now I’ve got the giant grinning rats.”
Agatha stopped, turned back and mouthed, “He’s got what?” in disbelief.
“I’m sorry, sir, would you mind repeating that?” James’s voice was politely serious, but his expression was full of laughter.
“Giant grinning rats,” said the caller. “There was a bunch of them on my lawn yesterday evening. I was trying to watch telly, but they kept peering in through the patio door—and grinning at me.”
“Have you tried calling the police about these creatures, sir?” James asked.
“Of course I have. After Aslan, they said they thought I was crackers.”
“I agree with them,” Agatha muttered.
“So what happened with the grinning rats, sir?” James enquired, clearly enjoying himself.
“Well, I went out to chase them away,” the man explained, “and they all legged it. I got close to one of them, and it pulled a baby out of its pocket, dropped it on the lawn and scarpered.”
“Oh, did it?” To Agatha’s surprise, James’s face now reflected the concern in his voice and he sat upright, suddenly alert. “What happened to the baby?”
“I’ve still got it,” said the man. “Haven’t a clue what to do with the little blighter.”
“Can you give me your name and address?” James asked, scribbling furiously on a notepad. “That’s great, Mr. Collins. We’ll be with you in about half an hour. If the grinning rats show up again, don’t chase them away. Promise? Good. See you shortly.”
“What are you playing at, James?” Agatha growled through pursed lips. “First you offer to take me out for a distinctly unflattering bargain-basement dinner, and now you’ve committed us to visiting someone who clearly needs to see a shrink rather than a private detective. I’ve already wasted time on one complete fiasco today. I’ve no intention of chasing any more wild geese!”
“Bear with me, Aggie.” James held up a calming hand. “This chap’s house is on the road to Evesham, so it won’t really take us out of our way, and if I’m right, it could be very interesting.”
* * *
They took Agatha’s car, James having caught a bus from Carsely to Mircester in the hope that they would be driving back to Lilac Lane together. He’d had second thoughts about the bus when it took him all round the council housing estate just outside Carsely picking up an assortment of hoodie-clad youths wearing jeans and tracksuit trousers that appeared to be falling down. They collapsed across numerous seats, grunting and shouting at each other while their thumbs flicked like pinball flippers across their phone screens. James sat straight and tall in his seat, uncomfortably conscious that his shirt and tie were attracting stares of derision yet pleased that, unlike the posse of youngsters, his underwear was not on display.
James drove, Agatha making it crystal clear that, having already endured an encounter that day with someone who believed she was being visited by a peeping Tom from Venus, there was no way she was spending time with another wacko, followed by a discount dinner, without the compensation of being able to look forward to a couple of glasses of wine. James was happy to forgo a drink, and his voluntary abstinence brought their conversation round to the Admiral’s drinking habits and the bowling green murder.
“Apart from the note,” said James, “what evidence do you have that the Admiral was murdered?”
“None, really,” Agatha admitted, “and it’s possible—not very likely, but possible—that he could have been so drunk that he didn’t realise he was swigging weedkiller.”
“But you don’t believe that? You don’t believe it was an accident?”
“It just never felt like an accident, and the more I hear about this man, the more I’m convinced that there are people who might want him dead. He certainly seemed to divide opinion at the bowling club. One woman there described him as ‘an absolute monster.’”
“Then you should follow your instincts and treat it as a murder.”
“You seem very keen for me to get involved.”
“Of course I am. You are far more interesting to be around when you’re on the trail of a murderer.”
Agatha gave James a quizzical look.
“So I’m a bit boring the rest of the time, am I?” There was no disguising the vexatious edge to her voice.
“Never in a million years!” James smiled. “Agatha Raisin is never, ever boring, but with a murder on your hands, the real Agatha comes to the fore.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. She knew he was right. She had been feeling that frisson of excitement ever since she opened the anonymous note. If she was honest with herself, she’d been feeling it from the moment she saw the Admiral lying on the bowling green. Perhaps she felt a little guilty about that. Should she really relish the thought that someone had been murdered? That hardly seemed right. Yet catching a murderer was certainly the right thing to do, and she was really rather good at that. She quelled her excitement with thoughts of Mr. Collins’s giant grinning r
ats, and gazed out of the window at the passing countryside.
Leaving Mircester, they joined the A44 towards Evesham. In the soft evening light, the hedgerows, in full leaf at this time of year, almost turned the road into a shady green tunnel. Where the roadside vegetation fell away, there were expansive views across the Vale of Evesham’s fertile fields all the way to the Malvern Hills in the far distance. They passed a signpost for the Broadway Tower. Agatha smiled. She had visited the tower only once; it was a splendid folly—a miniature castle sixty-five feet high, standing on one of the highest points in the area. It had been built by the Earl of Coventry more than two hundred years ago in order to please his second wife, Barbara, so the story went. Barbara had wondered if it would be possible to see a signal fire on the hill from their mansion near Pershore some twenty miles away. In the end, she could.
Agatha imagined the relief the earl must have felt when they viewed the flickering light of the signal. Barbara didn’t sound like the kind of woman you’d want to disappoint. Neither, however, was Agatha Raisin. She glanced across at James, who was guiding the car onto a narrow side road. In many ways, she had been far more enamoured of him when he had first moved into the cottage next door to hers. Then, he was a tall, handsome stranger and she had pursued him with unrelenting determination. The fact that he had been slightly aloof and reluctant to become involved only spurred her on.
She remembered the elation she had felt when he had agreed to pose as her husband to help investigate the murder of a young hiker. She remembered too the thrill of excitement that had fired her infatuation. Sadly, their actual marriage had been a disaster. Maybe they had both been too set in their ways to share their lives so completely. At the time, neither of them had any real regrets about divorcing. Yet as time passed, they had remained close, as friends and neighbours. Clearly there was still a bond between them, and when Agatha had suggested that their divorce might have been a mistake, James had readily agreed. He had shown her nothing but kindness, becoming an ever more important part of her life ever since. Was she really ready to commit to him again? More importantly at this particular point in time, with the car slowing gently to a halt, was she really ready for Mr. Collins and his imaginary menagerie?
“This is it,” said James, switching off the engine. “Seems like a well-kept house.”
“That,” said Agatha, recalling her experience earlier in the day, “means precisely nothing.” She had to admit, however, that the house had a great deal of charm. The last rays of the sun played on stone walls that supported a perfectly tiled roof. Two windows on the ground floor and three on the upper floor boasted immaculate white wooden frames with no sign of cracked or peeling paint. The open porch sheltering the gleaming red front door was almost engulfed with the delightful yellow blooms of a climbing rose.
A portly man who appeared to be in his seventies opened the door. He was wearing a comfortably old grey cardigan and grey trousers, and was just tall enough for the top of his head to reach James’s shoulder. They made their introductions and he led them inside.
“You have a lovely home, Mr. Collins,” James complimented the old man as they walked into the lounge. The room ran from the front to the rear of the house, where floor-to-ceiling glass doors opened onto a patio.
Agatha scanned her surroundings. There was a large dark brown sofa and two oversized armchairs, each of which was embellished with a selection of floral scatter cushions. A gilded mirror sat on a mantelpiece above a well-used open fireplace. The mantelpiece was adorned with an array of family photographs featuring children in the various uniforms of their young lives, from christening robes and school blazers to university graduation gowns and wedding outfits. Similar photographs decorated the walls and stood proudly on small side tables and a long dresser. The room was not to Agatha’s taste, but it was clean, tidy and not at all what she had been expecting. It was a normal, comfortable room, not the shambolic surroundings of a fantasist who was losing his marbles. On the other hand—she felt herself shrug—Miss Featherstone’s apartment had also been a neat, tidy place. You couldn’t always judge a book by its cover, or a person by the place where they lived.
“Thank you, Mr. Lacey.” Mr. Collins straightened with pride. “Please call me Eric. I don’t stand much on ceremony, but I do like to keep this old house in order. Our children grew up here and it’s been a happy place. I suppose I should have given it up for something smaller when my missus passed on, but I couldn’t bear to leave. The kids have moved away but they love coming home, and the grandchildren enjoy running around in the garden. I can’t let the little ’uns come here with these creatures roaming around, though.”
There it was again, Agatha thought to herself. The man’s fixation on the imaginary creatures in his garden seemed starkly at odds with his otherwise orderly lifestyle. Intrigued, she decided to cut to the chase.
“Can you show us the baby giant grinning rat, Eric?” she asked.
“Of course,” Eric replied. “Come through to the kitchen.”
The kitchen was large, with wood-faced storage units around the walls and blue-tiled work surfaces. It was even more neat and clean than the lounge, with the exception of one corner where the blue tiles were covered with a well-worn towel on which sat a wire cage that Agatha judged to be about the size of a case of wine. It was illuminated by a strong reading lamp.
“He’s been sleeping a fair bit, but he ought to be awake by now,” said Eric, stooping to peer into the cage. Agatha stooped alongside him. Inside the cage, staring back at her with large dark eyes, was the most delightful little animal she had ever seen. It had a pear-shaped furry brown face, two dainty round ears sitting on top of its head, a black button nose and a mouth that appeared to be … smiling.
As a child, Agatha had never had pets, and for most of her adult life she’d had neither the time nor the inclination to share her home with any kind of animal. When she had been given her cats, Boswell and Hodge, she had eventually warmed to them as much for their independent nature as for their companionship, and at one time she had become rather fond of an irascible flatulent donkey. In the main, however, she regarded herself as a people person rather than a pet person. The fluffy baby in the cage, however, was different. Even though she considered herself to be made of sterner stuff, she felt her heart give a little skip and found herself smiling back at him simply because he was just … so … cute!
“The lamp’s to help keep him warm,” Eric explained. “The old cage was for the kids’ hamsters.”
“Well I never.” James squatted to see directly into the cage. “I didn’t think it could be possible, but what you have there, Eric, is a quokka.”
“A what?” Agatha turned to him with raised eyebrows.
“A quokka,” James repeated. “It’s a kind of miniature wallaby—very rare and found only on the western coast of Australia, mainly on small isolated islands. Because they look like they’re smiling, they’re known as ‘the world’s happiest animals.’”
“You’ve seen them on one of your travel writing trips, haven’t you?” Agatha guessed.
“Yes, but I would never have expected to see one here. They’re a protected species. They’re very friendly, but to stop them becoming ill or catching any kind of infection, tourists are banned from feeding or touching them. No one’s allowed to take them home as pets. The clue was when Eric told us about this little chap being abandoned by his mother. That’s a survival reaction. To escape from a predator, a mother carrying a baby in her pouch will leave the young one behind to avoid them both becoming somebody’s supper.”
“He seems partial to lettuce himself,” Eric commented, and as if on cue, the quokka picked up a scrap of lettuce to nibble. “I also gave him a bit of warm milk from the finger of a rubber washing-up glove. Reckoned if he was in the pocket, he wouldn’t be weaned.”
“That’s good thinking,” James agreed, “but he might need more than just ordinary cow’s milk. We need expert help with him. Have you contacted a
ny of the local animal rescue centres?”
“Not yet.” Eric sighed. “I’m afraid folks will just think I’m batty, like the police did after I reported Aslan and the wizards.”
“Don’t worry, Eric,” Agatha assured him. “They’ll believe me. We’ll get you some help with your quokka.”
“The babies are called joeys,” James said.
“Well, we’ll get you some help with little Joey.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Raisin.” Eric reached across and squeezed Agatha’s hand. “For a while, I thought I might be going crazy. I’m not short of a bob or two, you know. I want to pay you to find out what’s going on around here.”
“Well, your giant grinning rats are real,” Agatha pondered, “so we can assume that Aslan and the wizards are real, too. Any ideas on those, James?”
“Let’s take a look.” James retrieved his smartphone from his jacket pocket and connected to the internet. “A ghostly white lion … what might that be, I wonder?” His fingers tapped the screen and he eventually came up with an image. “Did he look like this?”
Agatha and Eric leaned together to look at the picture on the phone’s screen. Haunting green eyes stared out at them from a lion’s pale face, its noble head surrounded by a mane like a cloud of snow.
“That’s him—that’s the ghost of Aslan!” Eric declared.
“Is that some kind of albino lion?” asked Agatha.
“No,” said James. “It’s a Timbavati white lion from South Africa. Very rare, but they have four at the West Midlands Safari Park, not too far from here.”
“Eric’s Aslan can’t be one of theirs,” Agatha pointed out. “I went there once for a corporate function and was given a tour. Their security is top-notch. I don’t believe anything could escape. In any case, if a lion was on the loose in the Cotswolds, there would be a huge hue and cry.”
“You’re right,” James nodded, “and nothing has been reported in the media.”
“Which might mean that it escaped from someone who didn’t want any fuss being made,” said Agatha. “Someone who’s not supposed to be in possession of such an animal.”
