Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘No. I mean, yes,’ said Agatha, looking flustered. ‘Getting weedy.’

  ‘Haven’t you got his phone number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So phone him up. Drink?’

  ‘Gin and tonic, lots of ice.’

  James reflected that Agatha looked much better without those ridiculous heels on.

  ‘How’s life?’ asked Agatha, taking a big gulp of the drink he handed to her. She wanted to get it finished as soon as possible and go for a walk around the village where she might come across George working in someone’s garden. Hadn’t she seen him one evening going into the Glossops’ house? And it could only be to do work because Harriet was her own age and certainly no oil painting.

  ‘I’m taking a break from writing travel books,’ said James. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write a life of Admiral Nelson of Trafalgar fame.’

  ‘I would think,’ said Agatha cautiously, ‘that there are a lot of books on Nelson.’

  ‘And so there are. Another won’t hurt. I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘What happened to your television career? You were going to do a programme on expats in Spain?’

  ‘Well, I did, but it hasn’t been shown yet. I didn’t enjoy it. With the Spanish recession, the high state of the euro, a lot of retired people are finding it hard to make ends meet. And Lord protect me from dreamers. Seemingly perfectly sensible people who have worked hard all their lives suddenly decide to buy a bar in Spain. No previous experience. Not prepared to put in the long hours a Spaniard would. Of course, I . . . Are you going?’

  ‘Got to rush. Just remembered something.’ Agatha darted out the door.

  Doing a sort of power walk so that anyone seeing her would assume she was exercising, Agatha ploughed on through the village under a pale violet evening sky. The air was heavy with the scent of roses. Some people sat out in their front gardens and waved to her. So many new faces, thought Agatha. The recession meant that many people were selling up and richer people were snapping up the cottages and moving in. At least it was not the weekend, so there was no danger of running into Jessica Fordyce.

  Carsely village consisted of one main street with a few lanes running off it, like the one in which Agatha lived. There was one general store, one pub, the church, a primary school and, on the outskirts, a council estate. Many of the cottages, like Agatha’s, were thatched. But unlike nearby Chipping Campden, there were no cafés, restaurants, antique shops or gift shops so it was free in the summer from tour buses.

  It had been said, because of all the incomers, that village life had been destroyed, and yet, there was something in old Cotswold villages that seemed to bind people to them. Agatha herself now felt an outsider when she visited London. Her walk took her towards Jessica’s cottage, which was in a terrace of Georgian cottages parallel to the main street. She stopped at the entrance to the terrace. Jessica’s little scarlet sports car was parked outside.

  As she watched, George Marston came out, shouting farewell. Agatha scurried off, suddenly not wanting to be seen spying on him.

  Her heart was heavy, but when she got home, she phoned George. ‘Hello, Agatha,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can’t want any gardening at this time of the evening.’

  ‘I’ve decided to take some time off work,’ said Agatha. ‘Are you free tomorrow?’

  ‘Sorry, booked up all day.’

  Agatha bit her lip. Then she suddenly thought, What if he does not come to the dance? It would all be for nothing.

  ‘You are coming to the dance?’ she said as lightly as she could.

  ‘Of course. And the first dance is yours. Wouldn’t think of dancing with anyone else. Got to go to bed. I’m exhausted.’

  Agatha’s rosy dreams came back. She could see them moving together across the dance floor while envious eyes looked on.

  Two days of drenching rain brought some much-needed relief to the parched countryside. And then summer returned in refreshed glory. Agatha travelled up to London to buy an evening dress. She spent almost a whole afternoon at Harvey Nichols before deciding on a gold silk gown embroidered with little gold leaves. She bought a pair of high-heeled gold silk evening shoes to go with it.

  Agatha was about to get on to the train at Paddington Station in London when she suddenly saw, farther along the platform, George Marston about to board the same train. Agatha had a first-class ticket, but she hurried to see if she could join George in the economy seats.

  When she reached his carriage, she was disappointed to see he had a female companion. The seats round George and his friend were full. There was no way she could muscle in. And even if she could, when the ticket collector came around, he was bound to point out she had a first-class ticket and then George would think she was pursuing him.

  She sadly retreated to the nearest first-class compartment.

  For the first time since her obsession began, Agatha began to feel stupid. She was a rich woman, but all the expense of the ball began to seem mad. It was not as if she could recoup any of the money, because it would all go to Save the Children.

  When the train finally rolled into Moreton-in-Marsh, she felt clear-headed and somehow lighter. As she was getting into her car, a voice said, ‘Can you give me a lift?’

  She looked up, startled. It was George, those green eyes of his smiling down at her.

  ‘Of course,’ said Agatha. ‘Get in.’

  ‘My car’s in the garage,’ he explained. ‘Someone ran me down to the station.’

  ‘What took you to London?’ asked Agatha. George was formally dressed in a dark suit, striped shirt and tie.

  ‘I went up to join my sister. We had to go to the bank and sort things out. She lives in Oxford. What about you?’

  ‘Buying a gown for the ball.’

  ‘Still going ahead, is it?’

  Agatha threw him a startled glance. ‘Of course! Everyone is looking forward to it. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really my thing.’

  ‘But you will be there!’

  ‘Yes, I promised, didn’t I?’

  ‘You look tired,’ said Agatha. ‘Want to come to my place for a drink?’

  ‘Yes, all right. As a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.’

  All of Agatha’s obsession came flooding back. Once inside her cottage, she told him to sit in the garden. Her hands trembled a bit as she collected their drinks: beer for George, gin and tonic for herself.

  ‘Now,’ she said, sitting beside him in the garden, ‘what do you want to ask me?’

  ‘You’re a detective, right? You must have come across many weirdos in your career.’

  ‘Quite a number,’ said Agatha. ‘Why?’

  ‘How do you recognize a psycho?’

  ‘Do you think you’ve met one?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, there are lots of books on the subject, or you could look it up on the Internet,’ said Agatha. ‘The trouble is, I think there are different levels. I mean, a captain of industry, say, could be a psycho but it’s all channelled into power. He’s not going to kill someone. I suppose I would operate on gut instinct. Is someone threatening you?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think I’ve got an overactive imagination.’

  Agatha’s doorbell rang. She went reluctantly to answer it. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said bleakly to James Lacey.

  ‘I saw George coming in with you,’ said James. ‘I’d like a word with him.’

  ‘He’s in the garden.’

  Cursing James in her heart, Agatha led him through to the garden. She offered James a drink. He said he would like a whisky and soda. When she returned, James and George were deep in army reminiscences.

  At last, James turned to Agatha. ‘I’m sorry, we must be boring you to death.’

  ‘And I must go,’ said George, getting to his feet.

  ‘I’d better get back to my manuscript,’ said James.

  ‘I’ll run you home,’ said Agatha to George.

  ‘Don’t bother. I�
�ll enjoy the walk. Thanks for the drink.’ He bent and kissed her on the cheek.

  Agatha stood on the step and watched them go. James went into his cottage, and George walked down the lane to the corner. As if conscious of Agatha watching him, he turned and waved.

  And that was the last time Agatha saw him alive.

  Chapter Two

  The ball was a sellout. Toni, arriving in her battered old Ford, had to squeeze into a parking place some way from the village hall. Large expensive cars seemed to have taken up most of the parking areas in the village. Simon had offered to escort her and she had turned him down. Now she wished she had accepted his offer, feeling suddenly timid at walking into the hall on her own in all the glory of midnight-blue chiffon.

  A band up on the small stage was playing an old-fashioned waltz. Toni paused on the threshold, reflecting that it looked like a ball in a society magazine. There was a long bar down one side of the room. She saw Phil Marshall and Mrs Freedman standing by the bar with Simon and went to join them. ‘You look very beautiful, my dear,’ said Mrs Freedman.

  Agatha swung past in the arms of Charles Fraith. Her face was tight with concern. She hadn’t seen George for over three days. George had promised her the first dance and yet he hadn’t even put in an appearance. She glanced over to where Toni was standing. What it was to be young and beautiful, she thought enviously. Toni’s white shoulders rose from folds of blue chiffon and her fair hair was piled on top of her small head. Jessica Fordyce was also standing at the bar, surrounded by men. She was wearing a low-cut black sheath and her glossy red hair shone in the lights.

  At the end of the dance, Agatha muttered something to Charles about repairing her make-up, and refused the offer of the next dance with James, but instead she went outside the hall and looked up and down. People were still arriving, laughing and chattering. The county had turned out in force: high voices, out-of-date gowns on some of them, but all at ease in a way that Agatha, always conscious of her low upbringing, could never achieve.

  Agatha suddenly decided she simply must find out what had happened to George. She began to run through the village towards his cottage, feeling the straps of her high-heeled sandals beginning to hurt.

  George’s cottage lay on a little rise above the village. It had been an agricultural worker’s cottage at one time, a small, ugly redbrick building, unlike the golden Cotswold stone buildings of the rest of the village. Agatha hammered on the door. Nothing but silence.

  She wondered whether he might be sitting in his garden, having decided not to attend. Agatha made her way along the path at the side of the house to the garden at the back. It was a mess of weeds and overgrown bushes. Obviously George did not believe in wasting time on his own garden.

  Agatha felt a dark lump of disappointment in her gut. She was about to turn away when a bright moon shone down on something sticking out of the compost heap, something metal that glittered.

  Moving slowly, Agatha bent down for a closer look and then stood up, her heart beating hard. The metal was part of a prosthetic leg. Maybe he had an old one that for some reason he had dumped in the compost.

  She picked up a rake and began to rake away the compost. Another leg was exposed – this time a real one.

  Crying and sobbing, she got down on her knees and began to claw away the stinking compost.

  Gradually the dead body of George was revealed, but with a bag tied round his head. Agatha had one mad hope that it might not be George’s body but then realized that she did not know anyone else with a prosthetic leg. Agatha felt for a pulse and found none. She wanted to tear off the bag from his head, but a cold voice of common sense invaded her panic, telling her to leave it to the police. She stood up, cursing that she had left her phone in her evening bag at the hall, and tore off her shoes and began to run, fleeing through the moonlit streets, past the brooding thatch of the cottages, over the cobbles, until she reached the village hall.

  The band had just finished playing a number when Agatha Raisin erupted into the hall. She went straight to Bill Wong, who was standing with James. ‘George Marston has been murdered,’ she said.

  ‘Show me,’ said Bill.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said James.

  ‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘Stay here. Keep them all here. Go on with the raffle. Don’t tell anyone.’

  She hurried off with Bill. ‘Let’s go,’ said Toni, who had witnessed the exchange. ‘Something awful’s happened. Agatha’s as white as a sheet and her dress is ruined.’ Toni, followed by Phil, Simon and Patrick, hurried after Bill and Agatha.

  At George’s cottage, Bill, who had collected his forensic suit from his car, said, ‘Agatha, come with me, and just point to where the body is.’

  Toni, Simon, Patrick and Phil waited anxiously until Agatha rejoined them. Charles came hurrying up. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s George!’ wailed Agatha. ‘I think it’s George. He’s dead. He’s got a bag tied over his head.’

  Police cars, marked and unmarked, swept up to the cottage. Police began to tape off the area. Inspector Wilkes approached them. ‘Mrs Raisin, Wong says you found the body.’

  ‘It’s in the back garden,’ said Agatha hoarsely.

  ‘Constable Peterson will take a preliminary statement. Wait there.’

  Alice Peterson was a pretty young woman with dark curly hair and blue eyes. ‘Would you like to sit in the car, Mrs Raisin? You’ve had a bad shock.’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ said Agatha. ‘I couldn’t see the head. It may not be him.’

  ‘I believe Mr Marston had a false leg. Did you notice one?’

  ‘Yes, his trouser leg was pulled up,’ said Agatha. She was wearing scarlet lipstick and it stood out garishly on her white face.

  ‘Just tell me what you know,’ said Alice.

  Agatha swayed slightly and Charles came forward and put an arm around her shoulders. As she told the little she knew, Agatha felt the whole thing was unreal and that the voice issuing from her mouth belonged to someone else.

  When she had finished, Charles said, ‘I went away and got my car. I think you should sit in it, Agatha. Toni, you too. When they get the bag off his head, someone’s got to identify him.’

  They waited in silence.

  No other villagers joined them. Amazingly, the news had not reached the village hall, and, through the night air, they could hear the faint sounds of the dance band.

  Toni was surprised that Mrs Bloxby had not come to find out what had happened to her friend. But Mrs Bloxby, who had organized a raffle for the ball, was holding her post. She thought that Agatha had gone off hunting for George. She had not seen her leave with Bill. She assumed her staff and friends had gone to bring her back.

  The night dragged on. At last Wilkes came out. ‘We’ve got the bag off. Someone will need to identify him.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Agatha, getting out of the car. There were loud protests from her friends.

  ‘No, I’ve got to see for myself that it is George,’ she said.

  How she was to regret that decision.

  In the garden, a tent had been erected over the body. In the unearthly light of the halogen lamps that had been set up, George’s swollen and discoloured face was revealed.

  ‘It’s George Marston.’ Agatha gulped and was led back to the car.

  ‘Go home,’ said Wilkes, who had followed her. ‘We will call on you in the morning.’

  The next morning, Mrs Bloxby switched on the radio as she made her husband’s breakfast. She listened to the news, appalled. She went into her husband’s study. ‘Alf, it’s ghastly. George Marston has been murdered!’

  ‘When? How?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wondered why Mrs Raisin never came back to the village hall.’ Mrs Bloxby regretted the fact that she had thought Agatha had simply been unable to find George and had gone back to her cottage in a massive sulk. ‘I’ll need to go and see if there’s anything I can do,’ she said.

  ‘What about my breakfast?�
�� cried the vicar, but his wife had already left.

  The police had put a tape across the road just before Agatha’s cottage to keep the press at bay. Mrs Bloxby, using her status as the vicar’s wife, persuaded the police on duty to let her through to the cottage. Toni answered the door, still wearing her ball gown.

  ‘Agatha is in the sitting room, making a statement,’ whispered Toni. ‘They should be finished with her shortly.’

  ‘Do they know how he died?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

  Toni shook her head. ‘But Agatha says there is no way he could have fallen into his compost heap and covered himself up or tied that bag round his own head. We’ll need to wait ages. If only it was a television show, they’d rush back to the lab and immediately produce the results. Agatha has had to account for all her movements in the last few days.’

  ‘I did not see Mr Marston around the village recently,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘The police should ask questions in the village shop. I believe some of the village women were asking for Mr Marston, saying he had promised to help with odd jobs but had not turned up.’

  There was a ring at the doorbell. ‘I wonder who that can be,’ said Toni, going to answer it.

  A smartly dressed middle-aged woman stood on the step, accompanied by Detective Constable Alice Peterson.

  ‘This is Mrs Ilston, Mr Marston’s sister from Oxford,’ said Alice. Unlike her brother, Mrs Ilston was dark-haired and only medium height. Her eyes were swollen with recent crying.

  Alice went into the sitting room and emerged shortly, followed by Inspector Wilkes, Bill Wong and a policewoman.

  ‘I wanted to see the man in charge of the case,’ said Mrs Ilston. ‘They told me at headquarters you would be here.’

  ‘We’ll take you back to headquarters,’ said Inspector Wilkes soothingly. ‘I gather two of my detectives broke the sad news to you last night.’

  ‘Yes, and I don’t understand it!’ wailed his sister. ‘He was always so popular.’

  They moved off. The door slammed behind them. Agatha dragged herself from the sitting room.

  ‘Thanks, Toni,’ she said. ‘You can go home now.’