by M C Beaton
"No, not yet," said Agatha, keeping a wary eye on the door in case Barbara should leap in and savage her. "Who is he?"
"A retired colonel. Mr. James Lacey. He doesn't use his title. Very charming."
"I'm not interested!" snapped Agatha. Mrs. Bloxby looked at her in pained surprise and Agatha coloured.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "I just saw Vera Cummings-Browne with Barbara James. Barbara James tried to attack me." "She always had a dreadful temper," said Mrs. Bloxby placidly. "Mrs. Cummings-Browne is just back from Tuscany She is very brown and looks fit."
"I didn't even know she was away," commented Agatha. "I'm wondering what to buy. My cooking skills are still very limited."
"Get some of those lamb chops," advised the vicar's wife, ' put them under the grill with a little mint. I have fresh mint in the garden.
Come back with me for a coffee and I'll give you some. You just cook the chops slowly on either side until they are brown. Very simple. And I shall give you some of my mint sauce, too."
Agatha obediently bought the chops but hesitated in the doorway. "Do you mind seeing if the coast is clear?"
Mrs. Bloxby looked out. They've both gone."
Over the coffee cups in the vicarage garden, under the shade of a cypress tree, Mrs. Bloxby asked, "Are you still determined to move?" "Yes," said Agatha bleakly, wishing some of her old ambition and drive would come back to her. "The estate agents should be putting a
"For Sale" board up this morning."
Mrs. Bloxby looked at her over the rim of her coffee cup. "Strange how things work out, Mrs. Raisin. I thought your being here had something to do with Divine Providence."
Agatha gave a startled grunt.
"First I felt you had been brought here for your own benefit. You struck me as a lady who had never known any real love or affection. You seemed to carry a weight of loneliness about with you."
Agatha stared at her in deep embarrassment.
Then of course there is the death of Mr. Cummings-Browne. My husband, like the police, maintains it was an accident. I felt that God had sent you here to find out the culprit."
"Meaning you think it's murder!"
"I've tried not to. So much more comfortable to believe it an accident and settle back into our ways. But there is something, some atmosphere, something wrong. I sense evil in this village. Now you are going, no one will ask questions, no one will care, and the evil will remain. Call me silly and superstitious if you like, but I believe the taking of a human life is a grievous sin which should be punished by law." She gave a little laugh. "So I shall pray that if murder has been done, then the culprit will be revealed." "But you've got nothing concrete to go on?" asked Agatha.
She shook her head. "Just a feeling. But you are going, so that is that. I feel that Bill Wong shares my doubts."
"He's the one that has been urging me to leave the whole thing alone!"
"That is because he is fond of you and does not want to see you get hurt."
Agatha turned the conversation over in her mind. The "For Sale' notice was up when she got back, giving her a temporary feeling, as if she had already left the village.
She got out a large notebook and pen and sat down at the kitchen table and began to write down everything that had happened since she came to the village. The long hot day wore on and she wrote busily, going back and back over her notes, looking for some clue. Then she tapped the pen on the paper. For a start, there was one little thing. The body had been found on Sunday. On Tuesday it must have been Tuesday, for on the Wednesday the police had told her that Mrs. Cummings-Browne did not mean to sue The Quicherie the bereaved widow had gone to Chelsea in person. Agatha sat back and chewed the end of her pen. Now wasn't that odd behaviour? If your husband has just been murdered and you are collapsing about the place with grief and everyone is talking about how stricken you are, how do you summon up the energy to go all the way to London? She could just as easily have phoned. Why? Agatha glanced at the kitchen clock. What exactly had Vera Cummings-Browne said to Mr. Economides? She went to the phone, lifted the receiver and put it back down again. Despite his confession about his relative without the work permit, the Greek had still looked guarded. The shop didn't close till eight. Agatha decided to motor up to London and catch him before he shut the shop for the evening.
She had just locked the door behind her when she found on turning round that a family consisting of ferrety husband, plump wife, and two spotty teenagers were surveying her.
"We've come to look round the house," said the man.
"You can't." Agatha pushed past the family.
"It says "For Sale," he complained.
"It's already sold," lied Agatha. She heaved the board out of the ground and dropped it on the grass. Then she got into her car and drove off, leaving the family staring after her.
The hell with it, thought Agatha, I wouldn't want to inflict that lot on the village anyway.
She made London in good time, for most of the traffic was going the other way.
She parked on a double yellow line outside The Quicherie.
She went into the shop. Mr. Economides was clearing his cold shelf of quiches for the night. He looked at Agatha and again that wariness was in his eyes.
T want to talk to you," said Agatha bluntly. "Don't worry," she lied.
"I've got friends in the Home Office. You won't come to any harm."
He took off his apron and walked around the counter.
They both sat down at one of his little tables. There was no offer of coffee. His dark eyes surveyed her mournfully.
"Look, tell me exactly what happened between you and Mrs. Cummings-Browne when she called on you."
"Can't we forget the whole thing?" he pleaded. "All ended well. No bad publicity in the London papers."
"A man was poisoned," said Agatha. "Don't worry your head about immigration. I'll keep you out of it. Just tell me."
"All right. She came in in the morning. I forget what day it was. But mid-morning. She started shouting that I had poisoned her husband and that she would sue me for every penny I'd got. She told me about the quiche you had bought. I cried and pleaded innocence. I threw myself on her mercy. I told her the quiche was not one of mine but had come down from Devon. I told her my cousin grew all the vegetables for his shop in his own market garden. Some of that cow bane must have got mixed in with the spinach. I told her about my cousin's son-in-law.
She went very quiet. Then she said she was overwrought. She said she hardly knew what she was saying. She was a different woman, calm and sad. No action would be taken against me or my cousin, she said.
"But the next day, she came back."
"What!"
Agatha leaned forward, clenching her hands in excitement.
"She said that if I ever told anyone that the quiche had come from Devon, then she would change her mind and sue and she would also report my relative to the Home Office and get him deported."
"Goodness!" Agatha looked at him in bewilderment. "She must be mad."
Two people came into the shop. Mr. Economides rose to his feet. "You will not tell? I only told you before because I thought the whole thing was over."
"No, no," gabbled Agatha.
She went out into the heat and drove off, heading automatically back to the Cotswolds, her brain in a turmoil. Vera Cummings-Browne didn't want the police to know that the quiche had come from Devon. Why?
And then the light dawned. A phrase from the book on poisonous plants leaped into her mind. "Cowbane is to be found in marshy parts of Britain ... East Anglia, West Midlands, and southern Scotland." But not Devon.
But, wait a bit. The police had been thorough. They had searched her kitchen and even her drains for traces of cow bane And they had said that Vera Cummings-Browne probably didn't know cow bane from a palm tree. But couldn't she just have looked up a book, as she, Agatha, had done? If she had, she would not only know what it looked like and where to get it, she would know it did not grow in Devon.
When she got home, Agatha wondered whether to phone Bill Wong but then decided against it. He would have all the answers. There had been no trace of cow bane in Vera's house. Her brain had been unhinged by the death and that was why she had gone to see Economides.
She put the estate agent's display board back in place and then tried to get a good night's sleep, but the days and days of heat had made the old stone walls of her cottage radiate like a furnace.
Agatha awoke, tired and listless, but dutifully got out her notes again and added what she had found out.
Cowbane. What about the local library? she thought with a jolt. Would they know whether Vera Cummings-Browne had taken out a book on poisonous plants? Would there be a record? Of course there must be!
How else could they write to people who had failed to return books?
As she trudged along to the library, Agatha reflected that her standard of dressing was slipping. In London, she had favoured power dressing and always wore crisp dresses and business suits. Now her loose print dress flopped about her and her bare feet were thrust into sandals.
The library was a low stone building. A plaque above the door stated it had originally been the village workhouse. Agatha pushed open the door and went in. She recognized the lady behind the desk as being Mrs. Josephs, one of the members of the Carsely Ladies' Society.
Mrs. Josephs smiled brightly. "Were you looking for anything in particular, Mrs. Raisin? We've got the latest Dick Francis."
Agatha plunged in. "I was upset by Mr. Cummings-Browne's death," she said.
"As were we all," murmured Mrs. Josephs.
"I'd hate a mistake like that to happen again," said Agatha. "Have you a book on poisonous plants?"
"Now, let me see." Mrs. Josephs extracted a microfiche nervously from a pile and slotted it into the viewing screen. "Yes, Jerome on Poisonous Plants of the British Isles. Number K-543. Over to your left by the window, Mrs. Raisin."
Agatha searched the shelves until she found the book. She opened it at the front and studied the dates stamped there. It had last been taken out a whole ten days before the death. Still ... "Could you tell me who was the last to take this out, Mrs. Josephs?"
"Why?" The librarian looked anxious. "I hope it wasn't Mrs. Boggle.
She will leave the pages stuck together with marmalade."
"I was thinking of getting up a lecture on local poisonous plants," said Agatha, improvising. "Whoever had it out before might show equal interest," she continued, looking at the illustrations in the book as she spoke.
"Oh, well, let me see. We still have the old-fashioned card system."
She drew out long drawers and flicked through the listed book cards until she drew out the one on poisonous plants. That was last taken out by card holder number 27. We don't have many members. I fear this is a television village. Let me see. Number 27. Why, that's Mrs. Cummings-Browne!" Her mouth fell a little open and she stared through her glasses at Agatha.
And at that moment, the library door opened and Vera Cummings-Browne walked in. Agatha seized the book and returned it to the shelves and then said brightly to Mrs. Josephs, "I'll let you know about the Dick Francis."
"You'll need to join the library first, Mrs. Raisin. Would you like a card?"
"Later," muttered Agatha. She looked over her shoulder. Vera was standing some distance away, looking through the returned books. "Not a word," hissed Agatha and shot out.
So she did know about cow bane thought Agatha triumphantly. And she certainly knew what it looked like. She saw clearly in her mind's eye the coloured illustration in the book. Then she stopped in the middle of the main street, too shocked to notice that a handsome middle-aged man had come out of the butcher's and was looking at her curiously.
She had seen cow bane recently, but in black and white. What? Where?
She began to walk home, cudgelling her brains.
And then, just at her garden gate, she had it. The slide show. Mr. Jones's slide show. Mrs. Cummings-Browne getting the prize for the best flower arrangement, an arty thing of wild flowers and garden flowers and, snakes and bastards, with a piece of cow bane right in the middle of it.
The handsome middle-aged man was turning in at the gate of what had so recently been Mrs. Barr's cottage. He was the new tenant, James Lacey.
"Mr. Jones," said Agatha aloud. "Must find Mr. Jones." Batty, thought James Lacey. I don't know that I like having a neighbour like that.
Into Harvey's went Agatha. "Where do I find Mr. Jones, the one who takes the photographs?"
"That'll be the second cottage along Mill Pond Edge," said the woman behind the till. "Do be uncommon hot, Mrs. Raisin." "Sod the weather," said Agatha furiously. "Where's Mill Pond Edge?"
"Second lane on your right as you go out the door."
"I know the heat's getting us down," said the woman in Harvey's to Mrs. Cummings-Browne later, ' there was no need for Mrs. Raisin to be so rude. I was only trying to tell her where Mr. Jones lives."
Agatha was fortunate in finding Mr. Jones at home because he was also a keen gardener and liked to spend most of the day touring the local nurseries. He had all his photographs neatly filed and found the one Agatha asked for without any trouble.
She looked greedily at the flower arrangement. "Mind if I keep this for a few days?"
"No, not at all," said Mr. Jones.
And Agatha shot off without warning him not to say anything to Mrs. Cummings-Browne.
She went to the Red Lion, clutching the photo in a brown manila envelope, her brain buzzing with thoughts.
She ordered a double gin and tonic. "Someone said as how he'd seen that detective, the Chinese one, heading your way with a basket," said the landlord.
Agatha frowned. She did not want to tell Bill anything. Not now. Not until she had it all worked out.
Bill Wong turned away from Agatha's cottage, disappointed. He glared up at the
"For Sale' sign. He felt sure she was making a mistake. A faint miaow came from inside the basket. "Shh," he said gently. He had brought Agatha a cat. His mother's cat had produced a litter and Bill, as usual, could not bear to see the little creatures drowned, so had started to inflict them on his friends as presents.
He was walking past the cottage next door when he saw James Lacey.
"Good morning," said Bill. He eyed the newcomer to Carsely shrewdly and wondered what Agatha thought of him. James Lacey was surely handsome enough to strike any middle-aged woman all of a heap. He was over six feet tall, with a strong tanned face and bright blue eyes. His thick black hair, fashionably cut, had only a trace of grey. "I was looking for your neighbour, Mrs. Raisin," said Bill.
"I think the heat's got to her," said James in a clear upper-class voice. "She went past me muttering, "Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones." Whoever Mr. Jones is, I feel sorry for him."
"Anyway, I've brought her this cat," said Bill, ' a present, and a litter tray. It's house-trained. Would you be so good as to give it to her when she returns? My name is Bill Wong."
"All right. Do you know when that will be?"
"Shouldn't be long," said Bill. "Her car's outside."
He handed over the cat in its carrying basket and the litter tray and went off. Jones, he thought. What's she up to now?"
He went into Harvey's to buy a bar of chocolate and asked the woman behind the till, "Who's Mr. Jones?" "Not you too," she said crossly. "Mrs. Raisin was in here to find out, and quite rude she was. We're all suffering from this heat, but there's no call to behave like that."
Bill waited patiently until the complaints were over and he could find out about Mr. Jones. He didn't really know why he was bothering except that Agatha Raisin had a way of stirring things up.
Agatha was quite depressed as she walked home. She thought she had solved the case, as she had begun to call it in her mind, but while in the pub, that great stumbling block had risen up in front of her again.
There was no way Vera Cummings-Browne could have cooked a poisoned quiche in her
kitchen without the police forensic team finding a trace of it.
She let herself wearily into her hot house. Better put the whole business to the back of her mind and go down to Moreton and buy a fan of some kind.
There was a knock at the door. She looked through the new spy hole installed by the security people and found herself looking at the middle of a man's checked shirt. She opened the door on the chain.
"Mrs. Raisin," said the man. "I am your new neighbour, James Lacey."
"Oh." Agatha took in the full glory of James Lacey and her mouth dropped open.
"A Mr. Wong called but you were out."
"What do the police want now?" demanded Agatha "I did not know he was from the police. He was plain clothes. He asked me to give you this cat."
"Cat!" echoed Agatha, amazed.
"Yes, cat," he said patiently, thinking, She really is nuts.
Agatha dropped the chain and opened the door. "Come in," she said, suddenly aware of her loose print dress and her bare, unshaven legs.
They walked into the kitchen. Agatha knelt down and opened the basket.
A small tabby kitten strolled out looked around and yawned. "That's a sweet little fellow," he said, edging towards the door. "Well, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Raisin ... "
"Won't you stay? Have a cup of coffee?"
"No, I really must go. Oh, there's someone at your door."
"Could you wait just for a moment," said Agatha, ' watch the kitten until I see who that is?"
She left the kitchen before he could reply. She opened the door. A woman stood there, looking as fresh as a spring day despite the heat.
She was wearing a white cotton dress with a red leather belt around her slender waist. Her legs were tanned and un hairy Her expensively dyed blonde hair shone in the sunlight. She was about forty, with a clever face and hazel eyes. She was exactly the sort of woman, Agatha thought, who would be bound to catch the eye of this glamorous new neighbour. "What is it?" demanded Agatha. "I've come to view the house."
"It's sold. Goodbye." Agatha slammed the door. "If your house is sold," said James Lacey when she returned to the kitchen, feeling more of a frump than ever, ' should get the estate agents to put a "Sold" sign up."