Hiss and Hers: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  Fiona was about to get out and confront him when she suddenly decided it would be better to find out where he worked. It would be interesting to see what his bosses would think of him when she challenged him.

  She found a small bed and breakfast place nearby and took a room, explaining that she did not have any luggage because she had missed the last train. Setting her travelling alarm for seven in the morning, she tried to get some sleep, but the abbey clock was very loud and not only chimed the hour during the night but the half-hours and quarter-hours.

  By the time her alarm went off, she was feeling ragged and hungrier than ever. The woman who ran the bed and breakfast had agreed to supply her with an early-morning meal. Fiona ate ravenously, drank three cups of coffee and felt ready for battle.

  Simon looked out of his window in the morning. There was a Peugeot parked outside his door. He remembered it had been there with the engine running the night before. Then the sun, peeping over the rooftops, lit up the face of Fiona Morton behind the wheel.

  He cursed under his breath. How on earth had that terrifying woman found out where he lived? He dressed hurriedly and left by his small back garden and out into a lane that ran along the back. Then he hurried to the office, where he told Agatha that Fiona Morton was stalking him.

  ‘What were you up to?’ asked Agatha. ‘Didn’t have an affair with her, did you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Let me think. You’d better move into a bed and break-fast until she gets tired,’ said Agatha. ‘Give your keys to Patrick and he’ll go home and pack some clothes for you.’

  ‘You’ll need to go in the back way,’ said Simon, handing over his keys. ‘She’s watching the front.’

  Three hours later, Fiona angrily rang the doorbell. No reply. She stood, irresolute. Then she went to the library and looked up the yellow pages for a detective agency. She would put experts on the chase.

  Fiona settled on the Agatha Raisin Detective Agency. A woman would be sympathetic to her plight.

  Agatha was just about to leave her office to go back to Carsely and start interviewing the villagers herself in the hope that someone had been seen carrying that box of chocolates towards her cottage.

  She looked up as the door opened and Fiona walked in. Agatha recognized her immediately from her meeting with her. She could only be glad that both Toni and Simon were out.

  Fiona burst into a speech about how she wanted to find Simon and sue him for breach of promise. Agatha listened in growing alarm and then, when Fiona had finished, she said, ‘Have you a letter from him? Have you anything except your word to show his intentions were serious?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘You can try other detective agencies, you can try lawyers,’ said Agatha, ‘but they will all tell you the same thing. You have absolutely no proof of any serious commitment. In fact, I don’t know of any successful breach-of-promise case. It’s not as if you’re an underage teenager. No one is going to take you seriously.

  ‘Didn’t you recently claim to me that George Marston wanted to marry you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he did,’ said Fiona passionately. ‘He went to Carsely to set up a home for us.’

  ‘Mr Marston not only gardened in Carsely but bedded a few of the local women. He was in the village before his death for a good few months. I’m willing to bet he did not contact you once.’

  ‘That’s not true! He phoned me every day.’

  ‘Mrs Ilston, George’s sister, gave your name as a possible suspect. The police have that name. They will be checking your phone records and they will have checked George Marston’s phone records.’

  ‘You nasty bitch! I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’

  ‘You’ll what?’ demanded Agatha brutally. ‘Get out of here and stop wasting my time. Instead of looking for a lawyer, I suggest you contact a psychiatrist.’

  Fiona’s face turned a muddy colour. She had advanced threateningly on Agatha just as the door opened and Patrick walked in.

  ‘Miss Morton was just leaving,’ said Agatha.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of me,’ raged Fiona.

  ‘I sincerely hope I have,’ said Agatha as the door crashed behind Fiona.

  Fiona marched to the central car park where she had left her vehicle. She was just about to get into it when she saw Toni – the barmaid! – drive up. She locked her car again and followed the girl. Toni went straight to the detective agency.

  Now Fiona’s fury knew no bounds. That wretched Raisin woman probably had Simon as well as Toni working for her, and all Simon had been doing was smooching up to her to find out if she was a murderess. And what had that wretched woman said about her darling George having affairs in Carsely?

  She went to the nearest pub and drank several vodkas, her hatred of Agatha and Simon mounting with each glass. I am, she decided tipsily, a woman of action. I will go to this wretched village, find out where that Raisin woman lives and force her to listen to me.

  Fiona returned to her car and took out an ordnance survey map of Gloucestershire. But the lines swam before her eyes. Soon she was asleep. She awoke hours later with her head resting against the steering wheel.

  Remembering her mission, she consulted the map again and, this time, located the route to Carsely. Still feeling the effects of all she had drunk, she drove slowly and carefully, finally reaching Carsely.

  Fiona parked in front of the general store. A stout elderly woman with a sour face was just leaving. ‘Do you have Agatha Raisin’s address?’ asked Fiona, putting on what she thought was a winsome smile. Had the woman been anyone else but Mrs Arnold, Fiona would probably have been asked her business, but Mrs Arnold, looking at Fiona’s deranged face, hoped to make trouble.

  ‘It’s Lilac Lane, over there,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘The thatched cottage at the end.’

  Fiona marched off, weaving her way towards Lilac Lane, the effects of all she had drunk having not yet worn off.

  She rang the bell and hammered on the door but there was no reply. She stood back and looked around. The leafy lane seemed to swim in the sunlight. She saw a path at the side of the house. She found her way blocked by a padlocked gate. She climbed nimbly over it.

  Fiona settled herself on a garden chair, determined to wait. The sun was hot but she was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. She looked sourly at the blaze of flowers. No doubt George’s work. She felt a stab of vicious jealousy. The day was warm and her eyelids began to droop again. Her head fell on her bosom, her hat tipped over her face, and she fell asleep and began to snore. Fiona slept so deeply that a figure climbing over the garden fence and dropping to the ground did not wake her.

  Agatha arrived home an hour later. Her cats ran in front of her to the garden door and Boswell started pawing at it and meowing. She experienced a sudden spasm of fear. Were there snakes out there?

  She looked cautiously through the glass panes of the door. A woman was seated at the garden table, her head covered by a large hat. The hat was black and red. Agatha was about to open the door when she suddenly saw how that red colour glittered unnaturally in the sunlight.

  With trembling hands, she seized the phone receiver and called the police. Then she slowly sank down on the floor and hugged her knees.

  The front doorbell rang shrilly. Surely not the police so soon. She heaved herself to her feet and went to the door and peered through the spyhole. Charles Fraith was standing outside. Agatha opened the door, stared at Charles and burst into tears.

  He wrapped his arms around her. ‘What’s happened?’ Agatha gulped and pulled herself together. ‘In the garden,’ she said. ‘I think she’s dead.’

  Charles released her and strode into the house and straight out into the garden. Agatha hurried after him, crying, ‘Don’t touch anything! The police are coming!’

  Charles returned to the kitchen. ‘Do you recognize her?’

  ‘I can’t see anything. That hat is right over her eyes. Wait a moment. Where have I seen those black lace tights before? My God! It
’s Fiona Morton!’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure. She called at the office today. She’d tracked me down. She must have been waiting for me. They’ll think I murdered her.’

  ‘Got an alibi? Calm down and think.’

  ‘Let me see. I left the office at seven and then I went to the pub for a snack. I left there just after eight o’clock.’

  ‘Good. Relax, they’ll probably find at the post mortem that she was dead before you got home.’

  ‘I need a large drink.’

  ‘I think hot sweet tea is a better idea.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, but a large gin and tonic is an even better one.’

  ‘Okay. Sit down and stop fretting. I’ll get it for you.’

  Agatha watched his well-barbered hair and immaculate-clothed figure heading towards her sitting room and wondered, not for the first time, how Charles, with his privileged background, could remain so calm.

  He returned with a gin and tonic for Agatha and a whisky for himself just as they both heard the wail of sirens in the distance.

  Agatha, after she had identified the body as that of Fiona Morton, found herself a prime suspect. Ever since the murder of George Marston, the police had been busy asking questions around the village and had learned of Agatha’s infatuation with George. Wilkes promptly decided that Agatha had brained the woman in a jealous rage.

  She was taken off to police headquarters for questioning. She was forced to tell them about sending Simon to investigate and about how Fiona had found out and had visited her at the detective agency. She gave her alibi, which was checked while the questioning went on and on. Agatha had been out of favour with the police before, but never to such an extent, especially when her alibi checked out. Baulked of his prey, Wilkes gave her a blistering lecture about having interfered in police business, told her not to leave the country, and finally dismissed her.

  Agatha emerged wearily into the reception area to find Charles waiting for her with a suitcase and a travel bag. ‘The place is crawling with forensic people and coppers,’ he said. ‘I gave your cats to Doris and we’re clearing off to a hotel. I booked us rooms at the George.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Agatha. ‘That was good of you. I’m starving and it’s pretty late. Most of the restaurants close at nine-thirty.’

  ‘There’s a curry house opposite the George or we can get sandwiches at the hotel.’

  ‘Sandwiches, I think. I don’t feel like being out in public, because I’ve just had a nasty thought.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Fiona had that stupid large hat covering her face. What if someone thought she was me?’

  ‘That did cross my mind, but I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘I should tell them.’

  ‘Leave it. I’ll phone Bill when we get to the hotel.’

  They were in the small sitting room adjoining the bedroom in Agatha’s suite at the hotel, finishing a plate of egg and cress sandwiches, when Bill Wong arrived.

  ‘I couldn’t make it earlier, Charles,’ he said. ‘Do you really think someone might have been out to murder Agatha?’

  ‘They tried to kill her before. Why not now?’ asked Charles.

  Bill flipped open his notebook. ‘Let’s see. George was rumoured to have had affairs with these women: Joyce Hemingway, Harriet Glossop and Sarah Freemantle.’

  ‘My money’s on Joyce Hemingway,’ said Agatha bitterly. ‘Acidulous cow!’

  ‘But Harriet Glossop is the only one with a record.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Agatha. ‘The only drama in that woman’s life, I’d have sworn, is when her angel cakes failed to rise in the oven. What did she do?’

  ‘Harriet Glossop was suspected of having killed her first husband.’

  ‘Her first husband!’ Life is not fair, thought Agatha. After all the tints and nonsurgical facelifts I’ve undergone, a woman who looks like a cottage loaf goes out there and gets more than one husband – forgetting that she had already had two herself. ‘What did she do?’ she asked aloud.

  ‘He took an overdose of barbiturates. There was no suicide note. Harriet was suspected. At last it came out that the silly woman had the suicide note all along but was ashamed of having a husband who had committed suicide over an affair with another woman.’

  ‘Maybe she wrote it herself,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Agatha! A handwriting expert checked it. It’s my belief that someone in that village thinks more highly of your detective capabilities than Wilkes does.’

  ‘What about Jessica Fordyce?’

  ‘Cast-iron alibis. Agatha, she only comes down at week-ends. I think you should go away for a long holiday until we clear this up.’

  ‘I’m not running away,’ said Agatha, wishing in that moment that she hadn’t got so much unhealthy pride. It would be lovely to clear off and feel safe again.

  ‘Well, concentrate on your other cases. Keep clear of the press. I think the more high profile you are, the greater the danger.’

  ‘How’s Alice Peterson?’

  Bill’s almond-shaped eyes in his round face lit up. ‘Oh, she’s wonderful. So pretty and great to work with.’

  Agatha felt jealous. Bill was her first friend when she moved to the Cotswolds and, although he was considerably younger than she was, she felt possessive of him.

  ‘Any romance?’

  ‘It’s against the rules.’

  ‘What rules?’ asked Charles. ‘I bet it happens all the time.’

  ‘I don’t want to spoil things. Leave my private life alone. Agatha, you’ve to come back to headquarters tomorrow. They want to question you further.’

  ‘Snakes and bastards,’ groaned Agatha.

  When Bill had gone, Charles helped himself to a whisky from the minibar and settled down to watch television. He switched to a showing of CSI: Miami.

  ‘I’ve had enough crime for one day,’ complained Agatha.

  ‘But this is fictional crime,’ protested Charles.

  There was a shot on the screen of a long sandy beach. ‘Sometimes,’ said Agatha, ‘when things are bad, I wish I could just walk right into the television screen and take time off from reality. I don’t mean be part of the plot, but just stand somewhere sunny and watch them filming.’

  ‘Then it might be a good idea to take Bill’s advice and go away. You could be walking on a beach somewhere tomorrow.’

  ‘You forget, I’ve been told not to leave the country.’

  ‘There are beaches in Britain.’

  ‘Pah and pooh to you. I’m going to bed. Switch off the TV when you leave.’

  * * *

  It was late afternoon the next day, and after a tedious few hours of questioning, Agatha was able to go home. She was furious with Charles. He had left early that morning, leaving her to pay the whole hotel bill for both of them. She picked up her cats from Doris, went to her cottage, let the cats out into the garden, and settled down with a sigh to read the post, which had arrived in her absence.

  She threw the junk mail in the kitchen bin, put the bills to one side, and found a handwritten envelope with the postmark Wyckhadden.

  Agatha remembered how, during a case there, she had become engaged to the local chief inspector, Jimmy Jessop, who had subsequently broken off the engagement after finding her in bed with Charles. Fickle, faithless Charles! Jimmy had subsequently married a local woman, said he was happy, and that was the end of that.

  She slit open the envelope and read:

  Dear Agatha,

  I have been reading about you in the newspapers and you seem to be having an awful time. I have been through the wars as well. My poor wife died of cancer last year.

  If you ever feel in need of a holiday, I can put you up. Crime is slack here so I’d be able to take you around.

  Keep in touch!

  Yours affectionately,

  Jimmy

  Agatha read the letter over again. Perhaps it would be nice to take a break and get the hell out of Carsely. But t
hat might leave Toni in peril. This murderer might decide to punish her by attacking Toni. And what about Harriet Glossop?

  I should really interview her again, thought Agatha. But at police headquarters, they had told her that Fiona’s attacker had climbed over the high cedar wood fence that bordered that side of Agatha’s garden. Harriet was round and motherly and surely not fit enough to scale that fence.

  And what of Jessica Fordyce and her cast-iron alibis? Surely that in itself was suspicious. Innocent people usually had a hard time accounting for their movements. Then there was Joyce Hemingway – thin, stringy and athletic.

  But back to Sarah Freemantle. Where was Mr Free-mantle? Could he have returned from the rigs a jealous man? What was he like? Had Sarah been telling the truth when she had said she had not had an affair with George?

  There was a ring at the doorbell. Agatha peered nervously through the spyhole and gave a sigh of relief as she recognized the mild features of the vicar’s wife. She swung the door wide open, and cried, ‘Come in!’

  ‘I heard the news about Miss Morton,’ said Mrs Bloxby, walking with Agatha into the kitchen. ‘How horrible for you! Don’t you feel you ought to get away?’

  ‘Read this while I make some coffee,’ said Agatha, handing her Jim’s letter.

  Mrs Bloxby read it carefully. Here was a respectable widower, she thought. Surely just the thing. She pictured Agatha married and settled down in a seaside town far from danger.

  ‘This would make a nice break for you,’ she said. ‘Why not just go down for the weekend and get away from all this? You surely cannot think very clearly about the murders when you seem to be under threat yourself. I thought they might at least have put a police guard on your door.’