Hot to Trot

by M C Beaton

  “It’s you,” said Darell. “The Raisin woman!”

  “I’m going to change.” Mary sobbed, rushing off.

  “I’d start with the chin if I was you,” snarled Agatha, noting with satisfaction Mary’s pronounced limp.

  “That’s quite enough, Agatha,” said Charles. “Gustav, get some people to clean up that mess.”

  “And you lot!” shouted Darell, waving up at the orchestra. “You’re being paid to play, so get on with it!”

  The music restarted, the dancers returned to their partners and the party stuttered back to life. Charles led Agatha out of the ballroom, with Toni in tow.

  “I’ll call a taxi,” said Toni, producing her phone. “Better reception outside. I’ll … um … start walking down the drive to meet it.”

  Charles stood with Agatha on the steps outside the massive oak front door. Agatha could hear Toni muttering to herself as she walked away. “Don’t go dousing yourself in champagne … drawing attention to yourself … Keep a low profile…”

  “That didn’t go entirely as I had hoped,” she said, sitting down on the top step. Charles took a couple of steps down and leant against the stone wall.

  “Far more entertaining than I thought it would be.” He chuckled. “Mustard and ketchup? That was inspired.”

  “First things that came to hand,” said Agatha forlornly. “What an embarrassment…”

  “She hates mustard,” said Charles.

  Agatha’s wig slipped out of her hand and tumbled down the steps like a soggy severed head.

  “This may never recover.” Charles laughed, stooping to pick it up. “But you will. Come on, I’ll walk with you to meet that taxi.”

  * * *

  Mary flung open her bedroom door and marched into the large adjacent dressing room, ripping off her gown and kicking it across the floor. She pawed at the mustard splattered over her cheek. Agatha Raisin had gone too far this time! Too far! She would suffer for this. She felt tears welling in her eyes and went to wipe them away, then suddenly stopped. Mustard. Mustard in the eyes would be unbearable! How that woman would love her to miss out on the rest of the party with inflamed eyes. That was not going to happen. She would return to the party, laugh and smile and show everyone that a despicable old cow like Raisin could not get the better of her. She headed into her en suite bathroom to shower.

  Minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she sat in front of the mirror at her dressing table, bathed in a pool of light, brushing her hair. She was considering what she should wear and how that would affect her choice of make-up when she suddenly had the chilling feeling that she was not alone.

  “Hello, Darlinda,” came a voice from the shadows. “You’re missing the party.”

  Mary spun round and her eyes widened with terror.

  “YOU!” she gasped. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  She leapt to her feet and dashed for the bedroom door, only to find it locked. There was no way out.

  * * *

  Agatha and Charles walked slowly, at a pace dictated by Agatha’s dress. They exchanged few words. They hadn’t made it very far down the drive when Agatha stopped to fish a stone out of her shoe.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Not about Mary … I’m sorry that this is going to make things even worse for you.”

  “I can handle it,” said Charles. “Don’t worry about me, sweetie.”

  “But I do, Charles,” Agatha said, “and there are things you’re not telling me.”

  “Honestly, Aggie, I can’t go into it all with you. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “I already know some of it,” Agatha admitted. “The spa hotel plan, for instance.”

  Charles sighed and admitted that he was sorely troubled by that particular idea. Agatha knew that the taxi Toni had summoned would take an age to arrive, and with Charles all to herself, she continued to press him for details of his situation. She tried to come up with suggestions about how he could rid himself of the Brown-Fields, and their discussion ranged back and forth, Charles maintaining all the while that he was not at liberty to discuss the intricacies of his financial arrangements with his wife and in-laws.

  “If they hear that I’ve let out even a whisper about—” He froze as a woman’s scream cut through the stillness of the evening. It came again, and again—shrill, relentless, terrified.

  “That’s coming from the stable block,” he said. “This way, hurry!”

  Charles ran round the side of the house, past the door to the butler’s pantry, with Agatha, having hitched up her skirts, hot on his heels. At the entrance to the stables they could see a young woman, sobbing hysterically, being comforted by a young man. The stable was brightly lit and Charles stopped in the doorway. Hanging by her neck from a wooden beam was Mary. She was wearing her riding clothes. Her eyes were closed and her head had been forced sideways by the large knot in the thick rope. Her arms were limp by her sides and her legs dangled neatly together.

  “Quickly, Charles, there may still be time!” yelled Agatha, dashing past him.

  She grabbed Mary’s legs and lifted her, taking the weight off the rope. Charles swiftly righted a stepladder that was lying on its side and climbed up to loosen the rope around Mary’s neck and undo it from the beam. It was clear when they laid the body gently on the stable floor, however, that their efforts were in vain.

  Lady Mary Darlinda Fraith was dead.

  Chapter Four

  Other people arrived while Agatha and Charles were laying Mary’s body on the floor of the stable. The security guards were first, followed by Gustav and a straggle of partygoers.

  “Keep them all out of here, Charles,” said Agatha. “Get Gustav to phone the police. Tell the security guards to make sure that no one leaves until the police get here, especially the couple who found the body.”

  Agatha looked down at Mary. The mustard-and-ketchup-stained gown was nowhere to be seen. She was dressed instead in her show-jumping outfit—black boots, white jodhpurs, a black jacket with a sparkling diamond horse brooch and a white shirt with a high collar. This is all utterly bizarre, thought Agatha. This is a classic suicide scene. Hanging is the most common form of suicide in the country, but none of this makes any sense. Why on earth did Mary change into these clothes? And suicide? She was a strong-willed and very determined young woman. She certainly wasn’t the sort to slope off and hang herself, even after the sort of confrontation we had on the dance floor. She was upset, but not suicidal. There is something very odd about all of this.

  Agatha crouched over the body. The eyes were closed. On the eyelids, however, she noticed clusters of little red spots. There was also a swelling around the mouth and on closer inspection she could see that the lower lip was split, the small cut covered over with lipstick. I certainly didn’t smack her in the mouth, she told herself, so how did that happen? And she hasn’t done a very good job of covering it up.

  She moved the rope slightly and noted the abrasion it had left on the neck. Then she spotted the edge of a bruise lower down and gently shifted the collar on the right side. There were a series of dark marks accompanied by small scratches. Finger marks, she concluded. Could I have done that when I grabbed her a few days ago? I didn’t take much of a grip, so it hardly seems likely.

  She pulled the collar at the other side to reveal another set of marks, then immediately stood up and backed away. She was startled by a piercing shriek followed by the sound of Linda Brown-Field screaming, “My baby! My baby! Charles, get that rope off her neck!” Tears were streaming down her face and Darell was at her side, supporting her as she wept and sobbed.

  “Don’t just stand there!” he yelled. “Do it, man!”

  Charles turned towards the body but Agatha grabbed his arm, holding him back.

  “You mustn’t touch anything,” she said. “She’s been murdered.”

  “WHAT?!” Darell exploded. “Murdered? YOU did this!” He pointed an accusing finger at Charles. “YOU did this!”

  �
�Don’t be ridiculous!” Charles yelled. “I was nowhere near the—”

  “Let’s all try to calm down a little, shall we?” Detective Constable Alice Peterson hurried past the Brown-Fields into the barn and went straight to the body. With a radio crackling bursts of static, a female uniformed police officer took up position just inside the doorway. Alice looked up at her colleague and shook her head. “No signs of life,” she said softly.

  “You got here quickly, Alice,” Agatha said. The woman was the fiancée of Bill Wong, a detective sergeant she had known for many years.

  “We were in the area,” Alice explained. “Are you okay, Mrs. Raisin?”

  “I’m fine,” Agatha said, imagining the appalling effects a champagne shower and a sweaty sprint must have had on her make-up. “I must look a fright, but I’m all right.”

  “You’re soaking wet,” said Alice. “What happened here?”

  The steady bright light of the stable was now punctuated by flickering blue, a police car having pulled up behind the house.

  “A long story,” said Agatha, “but this isn’t suicide. I think she was murdered.”

  “Did you find the body?” asked Alice.

  “No, the young couple over there did,” Agatha explained, pointing. “Probably out here for nothing more sinister than a roll in the hay. We got her down but there was nothing we could do. She was dead.”

  “I see,” said Alice. “Stay right here until the forensics people arrive, please.”

  “Well, well, Agatha Raisin.” Chief Inspector Wilkes stood at the stable entrance. “At times like these, why is no one surprised to see you?”

  “And everyone dismayed to see you,” Agatha replied.

  “I don’t want any lip from you.” Wilkes scowled at her. “What’s the situation, Peterson? Seems like a suicide.”

  “Things ain’t always what they seem…” muttered Agatha, deep in thought.

  “What?” snapped Wilkes. “What are you mumbling about, woman?”

  “He murdered my daughter!” Darell shouted, pointing at Charles again. “Probably with help from her!” He jabbed the finger in Agatha’s direction.

  “Is that so?” A sly smile played on Wilkes’s lips. Bill Wong appeared at his shoulder and exchanged a brief nod with Alice. “Keep them all here until forensics are finished with them, Sergeant,” Wilkes said to Bill. “It’s getting a little chilly. I’ll be inside when we’re ready to talk to them. Bound to be some tea and a spot of grub on the go.”

  * * *

  Bill Wong led Agatha towards the library. She was wearing a paper forensic suit, the forensics officers having taken her clothes for examination, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Toni wafted along beside them, still dressed in her pink gown.

  “I’ll hang around, Agatha,” she said, “in case you need me.”

  “Thanks, Toni, but you’d best go home and get changed,” said Agatha. “I’ll call you if there’s anything you can help with.”

  “I can have someone drive Toni home,” Bill offered. “Listen to me, Agatha,” he said, leaning in to speak quietly. The son of a Gloucestershire mother and a Hong Kong Chinese father, Bill was young, lean and handsome. He was one of the first people Agatha had come to know when she moved to Carsely and remained a trusted friend. “Wilkes wants to take your statement personally. You know what he’s like. Don’t wind him up. He’s really gunning for you. Be careful.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” said Agatha, giving him a smile, “but I have nothing to be frightened of.”

  Chief Inspector Wilkes was sitting at Charles’s desk. Agatha was given a chair in front of the desk. Bill Wong stood to one side.

  “What on earth have you got yourself mixed up in this time, Mrs. Raisin?” said Wilkes, grinning. “A very serious situation. Our pathologist has examined the body and is convinced that Lady Mary was cruelly murdered—strangled. The hanging scenario was simply a pathetically amateur attempt to cover up the murder. Now who do we know around here who is a pathetic amateur? What do you think, Sergeant Wong?”

  “Mrs. Raisin tried to save the victim,” said Bill.

  “Unfortunately,” said Agatha, “she was dead long before we got to her.”

  “And made a very good job of securing the crime scene,” Bill added.

  “All for show, though, wasn’t it?” Wilkes sneered. “You were not invited to this party, were you, Mrs. Raisin? You even ended up starting a fight with the hostess—and she ended up dead.”

  “I wasn’t the one who started—”

  “And only a few days ago, you threatened to strangle her when you had another fight outside your own front door.”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  “It’s my job to find out about things like that, Mrs. Raisin. Care to comment about the front-door fight?”

  “No, I thought I would just give you an ugly look, but you’ve already got one.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. I know you threatened Lady Mary. You see, I am a police officer—a real detective—not some silly amateur woman playing at the job!”

  “You couldn’t detect a bear if it bit you in the arse!” Agatha snapped.

  “Is that so?” growled Wilkes. “Well here’s something I CAN do that you can’t. Agatha Raisin, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Lady Mary Fraith. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. So—anything to say now, Mrs. Raisin?”

  “Drop dead!”

  “Take her and book her in at the station, Sergeant Wong. I look forward to having another little chat with you later, Mrs. Raisin.”

  Bill stepped forward and escorted Agatha towards the door.

  “Wait a minute, Sergeant,” called Wilkes. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He held his hands out in front of him, fists clenched, wrists together.

  “Are you sure that’s really necessary, sir?” objected Bill.

  “Just do it!” ordered Wilkes. “This is a murder suspect.”

  Bill reached under his jacket and produced his handcuffs. “Sorry, Agatha,” he whispered, clicking the cuffs over her wrists.

  Wilkes smiled, gloating. His humiliation of Agatha Raisin was complete. Agatha glowered defiantly at him, holding her head high, assuming a calm dignity that even her baggy white paper overalls and devastated make-up could not suppress. “You’re going to regret this,” she said quietly.

  * * *

  Agatha was taken to Mircester police station. Bill Wong booked her in with the custody sergeant, who led her to a dull grey cell with a metal door. Bill’s last words to her were “Don’t worry, Agatha. You’ll be out of here in no time.” No time turned out to be six hours later, which included an hour of interrogation and accusation with the insufferable Wilkes. Eventually she was released without charge, as was Charles, who had undergone a similar ordeal. Toni and Gustav had arrived to take them home, bringing them fresh clothes. Bill Wong spoke to them both on the steps outside the police station.

  “I really can’t say very much,” he told them, “but witnesses—partygoers and security staff—have given statements confirming your story. They saw you going off down the driveway. Toni and her taxi driver saw you running back towards the house. All the evidence we have points to the fact that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time to have been involved in Mary’s murder. So you are off the hook—for now. Wilkes is still convinced that one or both of you are behind this.”

  “He’s an idiot,” said Agatha. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “He is dangerous,” Bill said, “and he’s going to use every means to dig up evidence against you.”

  “He won’t find any,” said Agatha, “because we didn’t do it! In the meantime, the killer is somewhere out there free as a bird. We have to find who did it.”

  “Stay out of it, Agatha,” Bill warned her. “As a friend, I don’t want to see y
ou getting hurt. You could find yourself in serious trouble if you get caught up in this investigation again.”

  “I know, Bill. I know that you’re trying to give me good advice, and thank you for that—but I will get even with that cockroach Wilkes. Right now, I’m exhausted and I’m going home to bed.”

  * * *

  Roy Silver arrived just after midday. Having spent most of the night either at Barfield House or in police custody answering endless versions of the same questions from Wilkes, Agatha had been out of bed for barely an hour when she opened the door to him. Roy stood there, suitcase in hand, ashen-faced.

  “Aggie, darling!” he gushed. “I heard it all on the radio on the way here! Murder at Barfield House! Unbelievable! You under arrest! You must be feeling—oh my God! What are you wearing?”

  “It’s a onesie, Roy,” said Agatha. “Get over it.”

  Roy dropped his suitcase in the hall and followed Agatha through to the kitchen. She poured him a coffee and they sat at the table. Boswell and Hodge kept their distance from the stranger, eyeing him suspiciously before disappearing into the garden. Agatha related the events of the previous evening, Roy gasping and fanning his face at appropriate moments of high drama.

  “So the mess that Charles was in just got even messier,” she concluded.

  “I’m afraid,” said Roy, “that it may be even worse than you think.”

  “Worse?” Agatha groaned. “Come on, Roy, how could this possibly get any worse? What have you found out?”

  “Well, obviously I have nothing in writing—no official documents or anything—but I’ve twisted a few arms, so to speak, and pieced together the deal that Charles did with the Brown-Fields. I’ve subsequently had one contact confirm that I’ve got it spot-on.” He lifted his empty coffee cup and gave it a waggle.