Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Oh, just bread-and-butter stuff,’ said Simon. ‘Divorces, lost teenagers, things like that.’

  ‘No murders?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘What about George’s murder?’

  ‘Dead end, I’m afraid,’ said Simon, ‘but Agatha is very tenacious.’

  ‘But what on earth can she do that the police can’t?’

  ‘I really don’t know. But somehow she digs away and bumbles around and always comes up with something.’

  ‘Isn’t she afraid?’

  ‘I think Agatha’s curiosity is bigger than her fear. Let’s talk about you. I thought your acting was superb this afternoon.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s a job. I’m lucky. Look, I’m sorry I forgot about dinner, but I’m worried about Rex.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Simon jealously.

  ‘We haven’t got to the end of the next script. In it, he’s killed off. He’s going to be furious.’

  ‘What did he do before?’

  ‘Not much. Shaving advertisement, that sort of thing. He’s been throwing his weight around a bit much on set, so they decided to write him out.’

  ‘That’s a bit hard. I mean, to let him find out like that. Couldn’t they just give him a warning?’

  ‘He’s had several warnings. Now, you really must go.’

  Simon rose reluctantly to his feet. She walked him to the door and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Maybe another time,’ she said.

  As the door closed, he stood miserably on the step. Then he sensed he was being watched and turned round.

  Joyce Hemingway stood there. He walked down the path to join her. ‘What are you staring at?’ demanded Simon.

  ‘You men are a joke, the way you sniff around her,’ said Joyce harshly.

  ‘I don’t suppose many men sniff around you,’ said Simon. ‘By the way, you were overheard threatening to kill George Marston.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ she said passionately. ‘George loved me!’

  ‘And half the village as well,’ commented Simon.

  She slapped him full across the face so hard that he had to hang on to the garden gate for support. Then she set off down the road with long, athletic strides.

  Simon got into his car and drove to Agatha’s cottage. Toni, Roy and Agatha had just finished dinner.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Simon when he joined them in the kitchen.

  ‘I thought you were having dinner with Jessica,’ said Toni.

  ‘Cancelled. Said she had to rehearse with the poisonous Rex. She says he’ll find out at the end of the script that he’s been killed off.’

  ‘And you all dressed up and nowhere to go.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘I had a confrontation with the terrible Joyce. She slapped my face.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘I told her she’d been heard threatening to kill George. She said George loved her, and I said, “Yes, and half the village as well.”’

  ‘She’s dangerous,’ said Toni.

  ‘Keep away from her,’ urged Agatha.

  ‘I’m bored,’ said Roy pettishly. He loved more than anything to see his photo in the newspapers and he had hoped the press would still be around the village. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Agatha turned to Simon. ‘There’s some of a lamb casserole left that Mrs Bloxby gave me. Like some?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  As Roy walked through the village under a violet evening sky, he found his steps leading him to Jessica’s cottage. He wondered whether he could persuade her to take him on as a publicist. Then he could return to London on Monday to present that success to his boss at the public relations agency.

  He put his hand on her garden gate and then stopped short. There came the sound of breaking glass and china and a man’s voice shouting, ‘How dare you let them plan to kill me off!’

  Roy took out his mobile phone and dialled Mircester police headquarters.

  ‘Listen!’ said Toni. ‘I think I hear police sirens.’

  They all went out to the front of Agatha’s cottage. ‘There are blue lights up the hill. That’s where Joyce lives. Come on!’ said Agatha.

  But they found three police cars outside Jessica’s cottage, not Joyce’s. A furious Jessica was standing on the doorstep while a shamefaced Roy was being lectured by Wilkes.

  Agatha arrived in time to hear Wilkes say to Roy, ‘They were rehearsing a script. Didn’t you think to check before you wasted police time?’

  ‘But I heard all this commotion and the sound of things breaking,’ pleaded Roy.

  ‘Miss Fordyce has clearly explained they were getting into their parts. I should book you for wasting police time.’

  ‘Come along, Roy,’ said Agatha. ‘I am sure he is very sorry and it won’t happen again.’

  Back in her kitchen, Agatha said, ‘Don’t you remember, Roy, before you went out, Simon explained that Rex was about to discover that he’d been killed off in the latest script.’

  ‘I don’t believe that was all there was to it. He was shouting, “How dare you plan to let them kill me off.” Then I could hear what sounded like crockery and glass being smashed.’

  ‘They could have had a tape of sound effects,’ said Toni.

  ‘Well, if that line’s in the script, I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘The new series doesn’t run until next October,’ said Simon. ‘You won’t know until then.’

  ‘Did you never consider, Simon, that Rex and Jessica might be lovers?’ asked Toni.

  ‘He’s gay,’ said Roy.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Simon.

  ‘Trust me. I know.’

  Sulkily deciding that there was no hope of any publicity, Roy took himself off early the next day.

  Agatha, finding herself on her own, decided to visit Mrs Bloxby. This time she phoned first, but Mrs Bloxby said she would rather call on Agatha as her husband was busy, it being Sunday, which Agatha translated as meaning that Alf Bloxby’s temporary feelings of goodwill towards her had evaporated.

  As she waited for her friend, Agatha wondered what Charles was doing. Perhaps he blamed her for the breakup with Petronella.

  When Mrs Bloxby arrived, Agatha served her with her favourite glass of dry sherry and helped herself to a gin and tonic.

  ‘What was all the fuss about at Miss Fordyce’s cottage?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

  Agatha told her about Rex losing his part.

  ‘Oh, he’s not losing it,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Haven’t you read the Sunday papers?’

  ‘I haven’t been along to get them yet.’

  ‘Miss Fordyce has made a statement that if Rex leaves the show, then so does she.’

  Agatha’s bearlike eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘I wonder if he’s got some sort of hold over her.’

  ‘They are reported to be lovers.’

  ‘Roy says that Rex is gay.’

  ‘I suppose he could be,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘It’s a sad fact that in England good-looking young men with superb figures often are.’

  ‘And,’ pointed out Agatha, ‘who knows better than I how to spin a story for the newspapers. Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way round. Maybe Jessica is one of those women who falls in love with the unattainable.’

  And you know what it’s like to keep falling in love with the unattainable, thought Mrs Bloxby, but did not voice the thought aloud.

  ‘Maybe,’ Agatha went on, ‘Jessica was eaten up with jealousy and used Rex as her creature to get rid of the rivals.’

  ‘I really don’t think either of them has anything to do with it,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Miss Fordyce is so beautiful that surely she could have had an affair with Mr Marston if she wanted to.’

  ‘Perhaps she wanted to and couldn’t,’ said Agatha excitedly. ‘George had a penchant for the more mature woman.’ Except me, she thought. ‘I’d like to get a close look at both of them. I might call on them today.’

  ‘Oh, do be care
ful!’

  * * *

  As Agatha walked up to Jessica’s cottage, she noticed the day was quite chilly and a thin veil of white cloud was covering the sky. The disadvantage of living in the country, she thought, was one was too aware of the changing seasons and it would soon be autumn again, reminding a middle-aged woman like herself of things ageing and dying.

  The countryside was very quiet except for the faint sound of a tractor on the hills above the village.

  Agatha squared her shoulders, walked up the path and rang the doorbell. Jessica opened the door, looked her up and down, and said curtly, ‘I’m busy. Go away.’

  ‘Just a few words,’ pleaded Agatha. ‘I won’t take up much of your time.’

  Jessica shut the door in her face.

  Agatha walked slowly away. She saw the unlovely figure of Mrs Arnold approaching. Mrs Arnold blocked her path. ‘That poor girl,’ she said. ‘The press have been bothering her all morning and now you.’

  ‘And where are the press now?’

  ‘In the pub, getting drunk.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll join them.’

  Reporters and cameramen were clustered around tables outside the Red Lion, smoking and drinking.

  ‘Here’s Aggie!’ shouted a reporter from the Morning Record. ‘Any news?’

  Agatha pulled a chair up next to him. ‘Not a thing. Who is this Rex Dangerfield that Jessica should risk her career standing up for him?’

  ‘Nasty git,’ said another reporter. ‘Usually preens himself the minute he sees a camera but not today.’

  ‘Do me a favour,’ said Agatha. ‘Does Rex have an address in London, or does he live in Jessica’s flat?’

  ‘I’m Reg Hendry,’ said the Morning Record reporter. ‘Come inside to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink. I help you and you help me.’

  ‘Okay.’ Agatha followed him into the darkness of the old pub. Reg bought her a gin and tonic and a pint for himself. He was a tired-looking man in his thirties with thinning brown hair and blurred features as if many pints of beer had softened the lines. He was wearing a blue open-necked shirt and faded jeans. Agatha remembered when reporters always used to wear suits.

  They took their drinks to a table in a corner by the window. ‘I’ll give you his London address and what I have on him,’ said Reg, ‘on condition you tell me if you find out anything that would make a good story.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Agatha.

  He took a gulp of beer, and then said, ‘He was born Rex Pratt. Parents lived in Lewisham. Poor and dishonest. Mother had several charges for shoplifting and father for burglary. He worked on building sites and then got a job, no one knows how, as a tour operator taking people round India. Then he signed up with an advertising agency and got some ads for shaving cream and toothpaste. Changed his name to Rex Dangerfield. Producer of the hospital soap took him on at first in a bit part as a junior doctor. Almost immediately he got a shed-load of fan mail so producer Malcolm Fryer upped him to star opposite Jessica. Publicity put out rumours that he and Jessica were an item.’

  ‘Do you think he’s gay?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Could be. But no one’s heard anything about that.’

  ‘Address?’

  Reg took out his iPhone and flicked through it. ‘Here we are. Number five Chepstow Lane, Notting Hill.’

  Agatha took a note of it.

  ‘Do your best,’ said Reg. ‘I’ll be going back without a story.’

  ‘Well,’ said Agatha, ‘you could slant it this way. Village still in fear. Murders unsolved. Even Jessica Fordyce frightened to open her door. You never know who might be calling on you in this once rural idyll and blah, blah, blah. Terrified villagers frightened of snakes.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll join the others, wait till they pack up and get my photographer to take some pictures. Want to give me a quote?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Agatha. ‘The police have told me to keep out of it.’

  Agatha returned to her cottage, depressed because the other members of the press had shown no interest in her. She was yesterday’s news.

  She saw Charles’s car outside her cottage. He had a set of keys and had let himself in. He was sitting in the garden with both cats on his lap.

  ‘Nice to see you,’ said Agatha. ‘Haven’t seen you for a bit.’

  ‘Doing this and that. Bring me up to speed on the unsolved murders.’

  He listened carefully and when Agatha had finished, he said, ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘I think I’ll go up to London tomorrow and watch his flat. I want to see what he does, where he goes and who his friends are.’

  ‘I’m bored. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Are you finished with Petronella?’

  ‘Of course.’ Charles suddenly grinned. ‘Private detectives. They’re all over the place.’

  ‘We’d better check tomorrow morning and make sure Jessica’s car’s gone. No point in going to London if the pair of them are still down here. And I’ll see if Reg knows which tour company he worked for. I’d like to know if he got sacked for something.’

  Agatha went into her office the following morning to allocate work. ‘Where are you off to?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Just chasing a lead,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.’

  Simon had plans of his own. He had taken the phone number of the make-up girl, Hattie Chivers, while he had been watching the filming in the Malverns. He had phoned her up and had arranged to meet her for dinner in London that evening. He wanted to find out as much as he could about the relationship between Jessica and Rex.

  Toni watched him anxiously. She planned to keep an eye on him. She felt sure Simon was going to do something very silly – or dangerous.

  Rex lived in a mews house in Chepstow Lane. Charles was driving and managed to squeeze his old BMW into a parking space opposite Rex’s house.

  Through a slit in the downstairs curtains, they could see a light burning. But it was the sort of thing people did for security when they went out. If Rex had already gone out on the town for the evening, thought Agatha, it was going to be a long wait.

  But after ten minutes, a taxi drove up and Rex got out. He went into his house but the taxi stayed outside with the meter running. ‘Get ready to follow the taxi,’ said Agatha.

  After a short time, Rex came out and the taxi drove off. Charles waited until it reached the end of the lane and then began to follow.

  After some time, when the taxi began to cross Westminster Bridge, Agatha said impatiently, ‘Where on earth is he going?’

  ‘Need to keep after him till we find out,’ said Charles placidly.

  The taxi went on into Lambeth, turned down a side street and stopped in front of a club called Pink Peter. ‘I think that answers the question of whether he’s gay or not,’ said Charles. ‘I’d better park and go in after him. I hope he doesn’t know what I look like. You’ll have to wait for me.’

  ‘Will you be safe?’ asked Agatha anxiously.

  ‘I’ll be safer in a gay club than I’d be in some pubs I know,’ said Charles. ‘Wish me luck.’

  As he cautiously approached, Charles saw that young men going in were holding up membership disks. He hung back until a noisy crowd arrived and joined them. He eased into the centre of the group, and was swept in past the doorman.

  Rex was sitting at the bar with a young man. Charles took a seat at the far end of the bar. A few couples were dancing on a small dance floor. The music was Cole Porter. It all seemed very discreet and retro. Blown-up photos of Marlene Dietrich and Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz decorated the walls.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Charles Fraith,’ said a voice in his ear.

  Charles stared up at the beefy features of someone he knew. ‘Why, Buffy!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you,’ said Bernard Buff-Jerryn.

  ‘Didn’t know you were a friend of Dorothy’s,’ said Charles. ‘Aren’t you married?’
>
  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ demanded Buffy.

  ‘Just wondered.’ Rex and the young man got to their feet, went to a staircase in the corner of the room and began to mount the stairs. ‘What’s up there?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Rooms for a bit of you-know-what. Interested?’

  ‘Not me. Wasn’t that Rex Dangerfield who just went upstairs?’

  ‘Yes. We get a lot of celebs in here. This your first time?’ Buff put a heavy hand on Charles’s knee.

  Charles gently removed it. ‘I’m detecting, Buffy.’

  ‘You can’t do that! The thing about this club is that it’s the most discreet in London. I’ve got my reputation to consider. I’m a Liberal MP, or have you forgotten?’

  ‘I won’t say a word, Buffy. Does Rex come here a lot?’

  ‘I’m off. If you aren’t out of here in the next few minutes, I’m getting you thrown out,’ said Buffy.

  Charles slid off the bar stool and made his way to the door and out into the street.

  ‘I daren’t wait any longer,’ said Charles when he joined Agatha. ‘Rex is definitely gay. I met an old school friend. Last person you would suspect. Roly-poly politician, wife and two kids. What do we do now?’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere for dinner,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve a feeling I’ve been looking at this case the wrong way around.’

  Simon and Hattie Chivers were having dinner in Rules in Covent Garden. Looking down the prices on the menu, Simon could only be glad that his parents had relented and had reinstated his allowance.

  Hattie was thin to the point of emaciation. Her arms were like sticks. Her brown hair was lank. She asked him to order. Simon ordered the most inexpensive items on the menu, fearing that anything more expensive would turn out to be a waste of food. This turned out to be the case, as Hattie merely picked at her fish.

  ‘Now,’ said Simon eagerly, after he had heard all Hattie’s complaints about working for the soap, ‘how do you get on with Jessica?’

  ‘No one gets on with Jessica,’ said Hattie. ‘She’s a right cow.’

  ‘She struck me as charming.’

  ‘Well, she would. She does this warmth and friendliness, but she’s always trying to put the knife into someone. You have to be sure to pay homage to her or she’ll get you fired. The producer, Malcolm, is so terrified of losing her that he’ll do anything she wants. There was this old actor Carl Friend. Hadn’t had a part in for ever and couldn’t believe his luck when he landed the role of a lovable old patient. One day, Jessica was late on the set, and Carl joked, “Come on, Jessie, move yer bloody arse.” He was only quoting from My Fair Lady. The next thing we know, he’s been written out.’