Busy Body: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  “I could go in disguise.”

  “I’ll go,” said Charles.

  “But you’re not a detective!” exclaimed Toni.

  “I’m hurt. His photo’s on the article. I’ll recognise him. Anyway, I know more about the underside of London than can be dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.”

  “Why are you calling her Horatio?” asked Agatha.

  _______

  Charles went up to London on the following day, left his bag at his club and went to a less salubrious club in Beecham Place. The club for gentlemen was actually a cross between a hard-drinking club and a brothel.

  He asked the barman if his friend, Tuppy, had been in. “He usually calls in around now,” said the barman. Charles ordered a drink and waited. After ten minutes, Lord Patrick Dinovan, who was known to his friends as Tuppy, came in. He was a small grey man with a crumpled face. Charles always thought that Tuppy had the most forgettable appearance of anyone he knew.

  He hailed Charles with delight. “Take a pew, Tuppy,” said Charles. “I want you to do something criminal for me.”

  “Why not do it yourself?”

  “I might be recognised.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Free shooting. The pheasant season will be here before you know it.”

  Dan Palmer was drinking alone in the Horse Tavern, a riverside pub frequented by the staff of the Cable. He had a bad reputation of turning nasty after a few drinks and so his colleagues were giving him a wide berth. At last the fact that no one wanted to speak to him seeped into his drunken brain and with a snarl he tossed off his drink and walked outside. He had only lurched a few steps when he bumped into a small man.

  “I say, I am sorry,” said the man. “Let me make it up to you. Drink?”

  “Not in there,” said Dan, jerking a thumb back at the pub.

  “I’ve a room in a hotel near here and a good bottle of malt if you care to join me,” said Tuppy.

  Dan’s little eyes narrowed into slits. “Not gay, are you?”

  “Bite your tongue. Oh, forget it.”

  But Dan thought of a free drink. He longed for more. “Okay,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “John Danver.”

  “Lead on.”

  The hotel was small but expensive looking. Dan sank down in an armchair in Tuppy’s suite and gratefully accepted a large glass of malt.

  “You’re that famous reporter Dan Palmer, aren’t you?” asked Tuppy.

  “That’s me.”

  “Tell me some of your best stories. I’m fascinated.”

  Dan almost forgot to drink in his eagerness to brag. When he had finished, Tuppy said, “Is that detective female, Raisin, really that stupid?”

  Dan made to tap the side of his nose but drunkenly stuck his finger in his eye by mistake. “Ouch!” he yelped. “Oh, her, Aggie Raisin. No, that one’s as cunning as a fox.”

  “So why wreck her reputation?”

  “I had an old score to pay back. Did that hatchet job pretty nicely, hey? There’s nothing in there she can sue me about.”

  “So she really is good?”

  “Sure she is. That’s what makes it funnier.”

  “I don’t understand . . . Your glass is empty, let me top it up. Do you mean if one of you reporters on the Cable wants revenge, they can write a piece to get it?”

  “Only if they’re as clever as me.”

  “So your editor never guessed you were paying off an old score?”

  “Him? He wouldn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.”

  “He must be pretty good at his job to become editor, don’t you think?”

  “Hopeless. I could do the job better with both hands tied behind my back. He married the proprietor’s niece. Shee! Thash how he got the post. You have to be as shmart as me to keep on top. Ish a jungle out there. Jungle.”

  Dan rambled on and then suddenly fell asleep.

  Tuppy removed the whisky glass from his hand. He switched off the powerful little tape recorder he had hidden behind a bowl of flowers on the table between them.

  He made his way downstairs, pulling a baseball cap with a long peak out of his pocket and jamming it down on his head so that the peak shielded his face. He had sent a messenger to book the room under the name of Dan Palmer and pay cash in advance, plus a deposit. The foyer was still busy with a party of guests who had just entered. When he had arrived with Dan, the desk clerk had been on the phone and had not taken any particular notice of either Tuppy or Dan, and Tuppy had taken the precaution of keeping his room key with him.

  Dan awoke at six in the morning with a blinding hangover. He struggled to his feet and made his way downstairs and out into the street and hailed a taxi to take him to his digs, thanking his stars it was his day off.

  He set out for the office on the following day, stopping at the local newsagent’s to buy a copy of the Cable. A square box outlined in black and with the headline APOLOGY caught his eye.

  He read, “The Cable offers a full and complete apology to private detective Miss Agatha Raisin of the Raisin Detective Agency in Mircester over a recently published and misleading article, and wishes to assure readers that Miss Raisin is one of the country’s foremost private detectives.”

  What on earth . . . ? He hailed a cab, got to the office and rushed up to the editorial floor, to be met by the editor’s secretary. “Mr. Dixon would like a word with you.”

  He trailed after her to the editor’s office. Dixon was a thickset man with thinning hair and a pugnacious face. His office was flooded with the sunlight that was sparkling on the waters of the Thames outside the window.

  “Listen to this,” said Dixon, and switched on a tape recorder on his desk.

  Dan listened in horror to that conversation he had with that man who had called himself John Danver.

  “I was set up!” He gasped.

  “We were lucky to get away with only an apology. That Raisin woman could have sued our socks off. Now, in the past we’ve allowed you to write the occasional feature, but I’ve checked back on your work. Your few features always seem to skim this side of libellous. You can go and clear your desk. You’re finished.”

  “But . . .”

  “Do you want me to call security?”

  Dan went back to the hotel, only to be told that he had booked the room himself. He had stopped off on the way to have several drinks. He was told firmly that the room had been booked under his name and they could not tell him anything further. They would pay his deposit back.

  Dan hated Agatha Raisin as he had never hated anyone before.

  _______

  Charles regretted having offered Tuppy free shooting. After all, he depended on the pheasant season to raise money for his estate. Also, he had paid Tuppy for the hotel room and the malt whisky.

  He interrupted Agatha’s thanks by saying, “I’m afraid it cost a lot of money—bribes and things.”

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  “Good heavens! Oh, well.” Agatha fished out her cheque-book, wrote him out a cheque for the amount and handed it over. “Are you staying at my place?”

  “No, got things to do, people to see.” Charles felt a bit grubby, but money was money and estates like his just seemed to drink it up. “Tell you what, I’ll take you to lunch to celebrate.”

  “Can’t,” said Agatha. “Got an important date.”

  “You look shifty. Who with?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  Agatha’s lunch date was in Evesham with Simon Black. Because of the recession, Evesham looked more depressed than ever. They met in a Thai restaurant in the High Street.

  When they had ordered, Agatha asked, “How are you getting on?”

  “Slowly. You see,” said Simon, “in a village like Odley Cruesis, unless you were born there, you’ll always be an outsider. They’re a secretive lot. The vicar loves his church more than God or his wife. I admire the perpendicular north doorwa
y for the umpteenth time, not to mention the Norman pulpit.”

  “How are you getting on with May Dinwoody?”

  “Pretty well. But she won’t talk about John Sunday and neither will any of the other villagers. They’re nice to me because I’m the vicar’s pet. They talk about the weather and the crops mostly. I was in the store and I raised the subject of Sunday’s murder. There was a little silence and then they began to talk about something else. Sometimes I think they could all have been in on it.

  “I’ve been encouraging May to have some wine with her supper to see if that loosens her tongue.”

  “What about Penelope Timson?” asked Agatha. “Anything there?”

  “She is one nervous and flustered lady. She keeps hugging me, although it feels like groping, and says I am the sort of son she would like to have.”

  “Be careful,” warned Agatha. “Give it another week and then clear out.”

  That evening, Simon urged May to take a third glass of wine but she shook her head. “I’ve had enough. I don’t want to turn into a drunk. Oh, I quite forgot. The vicar wants you to report to the vicarage at nine in the morning. He thinks it’s time you started helping with the parish duties.”

  “But it’s not as if I’m employed by the parish,” protested Simon.

  “Oh, but it’s not healthy for a young man of your age to do nothing. And you have shown such an interest in the church—so rare these days. You will notice that we do not have many young people in the village. We have children but not teenagers.”

  Probably got out of the damn place as soon as they could, thought Simon. Aloud, he asked, “What am I supposed to be doing?”

  “I think driving someone somewhere.”

  When Simon rang the bell at the vicarage the next morning, the vicar hailed him cheerily. “Just the fellow! Mr. and Mrs. Summers and Mr. and Mrs. Beagle will be here shortly. They want to take a shopping trip to Cheltenham.”

  “I don’t think for a minute they’ll all fit into my car,” said Simon.

  “You can drive my people carrier. It’s big enough for all of you. Ah, here they come. You might like to take them for a modest meal and I will refund you.”

  The vicar tenderly helped the couples into the vehicle. The day was sunny and warm but they all seemed to be well wrapped up.

  “Lovely day,” said Simon.

  Silence.

  “Why don’t we all sing?” suggested Simon, unnerved by the brooding atmosphere.

  “Shut up and drive,” growled Fred Summer, “and keep your eyes on the road.”

  It seemed to take ages to reach Cheltenham. Elderly bladders meant frequent stops.

  Cheltenham was the site of a monastery as early as 803. Alfred the Great admired the peace of the place, but the town’s sudden rise began in the eighteenth century with the discovery of the famous spa waters. People like Handel and Samuel Johnson flocked to the town to take the restorative cure.

  Simon drove into the Evesham Road car park. He had to let his elderly cargo out before he parked because the parking places there are so small that every vehicle seemed to have just squeezed its way in.

  He caught up with the two couples as they shuffled their way out of the car park. “Here, you,” said Fred. “You ain’t coming with us. Meet us back here at five o’ clock.”

  “But I’m supposed to take you to lunch,” said Simon.

  “Us’ll get our own lunch and charge the vicar. Shove off.”

  Simon glanced at his watch. It was only half past ten in the morning. Perhaps Toni could join him. He phoned her mobile.

  “Toni,” he began eagerly. “Simon here.”

  “Oh, hullo, Lucy,” said Toni brightly. “I’m in the office.”

  “I’m stuck in Cheltenham. If you can get away for lunch, I’ll meet you at that pasta place on the Parade at one.”

  “I’ll try. Got to go.”

  After he had rung off, Simon realised he wasn’t much of a detective. Anyone from the village was surely a suspect. He should have followed his passengers and seen what they were up to. They walked so slowly, they couldn’t possibly have got far. But as he raced down the slope into the centre of the town, he could not see them.

  He stopped his search when he realised how idiotic he was being. His four passengers had been inside the vicarage drawing room when the murder had been committed.

  He passed a pleasant time looking around the shops and then made his way to the restaurant on the Parade where he hoped to meet Toni. He managed to secure a table outside, ordered a glass of lager and said he would order the meal when his friend arrived.

  Fifteen minutes later, he had just decided she would not be able to come when he saw her bright golden hair and slim figure heading towards him through the crowd.

  “Hi!” said Toni. “What are you doing in Cheltenham? I thought you were stuck in that village looking for suspects.”

  “I got stuck with running four of the crinklies here for the day.”

  “Which four?”

  “The Summers and the Beagles.”

  Toni leapt to her feet, nearly colliding with the hovering waiter. “You idiot!” she said. “They know what I look like. Your cover’ll be blown if they see you here with me.” And she was off and running.

  Simon watched miserably as her fair head bobbed up and down as she ran through the crowd and then disappeared from view. Simon gloomily ordered a toasted cheese baguette. He felt every bit the idiot Toni had called him. He found her very attractive, but if he was going to make any success of this job, he’d better keep his mind strictly on it until he found out something useful. The only person in the village who seemed prepared to gossip to him was May Dinwoody. The likeliest subject was Tilly Glossop. She had had an affair, as far as anyone knew, with Sunday. He had a photograph of her in a compromising position with the mayor. Nothing of her affair with the mayor had leaked into the press.

  He could only assume that the whole business had been hushed up. In the report which Simon had accessed, Patrick had said that Tilly had claimed it was a brief fling and there was nothing in the mayor’s bank statements that revealed he was being blackmailed. How had Sunday got hold of the photo? Tilly swore she did not know.

  I must manage to get friendly with Tilly, thought Simon as he passed a slow afternoon and eventually made his way back to the car park in time to pick up his passengers.

  His charges arrived promptly at five o’ clock, carrying various plastic shopping bags. He gathered from their conversation—for not one of them addressed him directly—that apart from shopping they had been “taking the waters.”

  On the road back to the village there had to be even more “comfort stops” than there had been on the road in, so it was dark by the time he thankfully reached the village and helped them out of the people carrier before taking it back to the vicarage and leaving it outside.

  Either his imagination was working overtime or Odley Cruesis was an eerie place. As he made his way across the village green and along the lane to the old mill house, it was completely silent. No dog barked, no voices sounded in the still summer air, not even the blare of a television set.

  He sighed. Another evening of polite conversation with May. If only he could find out something, anything, to enable him to get out of this place. There was a large yellow moon in the sky, turning the waters of the old millpond to gold.

  He stood at the edge of the pond, looking at the water. A vicious shove right between the shoulder blades sent him hurtling down into the pool.

  Something prompted him to stay down as long as possible. His terrified mind conjured up visions of medieval-type villagers with pickaxes and billhooks waiting for him to surface. At last, he thrust himself upwards, shaking the water from his eyes and casting terrified looks around but there was no one there. He hauled himself up the steep bank and lay panting on the grass.

  Instead of going to the mill house, he ran to his car and drove as fast as he could to Agatha’s cottage in Carsely.

&
nbsp; Agatha answered the door and stared in amazement at the soaking figure of Simon. “Come in,” she said. “What on earth happened?”

  Simon told her about the attack on him. “I’m a good swimmer,” he said, “otherwise I would have drowned.”

  “I’ll run you a hot bath,” said Agatha. “My friend, Charles, has left a dressing gown and some clothes in the spare room. Brandy? Maybe not. Hot sweet tea is the answer.”

  “I know,” said Simon, “but I’d rather have the brandy.”

  “Leave your clothes outside the bathroom and I’ll put them in the tumble dryer. Good thing you were only wearing a shirt and trousers and not your best suit.”

  After Simon had bathed and was dressed in Charles’s dressing gown and waiting for his clothes to dry, Agatha said, “Well, that’s you finished with that village. What did you do today?”

  So Simon told her but could not admit he had seen Toni. Yet someone must have seen him. Perhaps the old people. Even so, surely they hadn’t had any time to gossip to anyone in the village. Of course they always could have phoned someone. But he said none of this aloud.

  “I want you to type out every little thing you can think of,” said Agatha. “Describe your stay at the village from beginning to end, what people said, what impression you had of them. I suppose they all hope that Tom Courtney for some odd reason killed Sunday himself. You may know more than you think you know. Take the whole day tomorrow to do it. I’ll break it to the others that you were employed by me after all. Now, do we report this to the police? No, they’ll start raging about us interfering. You’d better phone May Dinwoody and tell her that you’re visiting a friend and then you’re moving out. I know. I’ll phone her and say I am your aunt. I’m very good at accents.”

  Agatha phoned May and adopted what she cheerfully thought was a Gloucestershire accent. After she had finished calling, she told Simon cheerfully, “She’s a bit upset about losing you. Do you want me to get Patrick or Phil to go and collect your stuff? It does seem as if someone in that cursed village guessed you were working for me.”

  “No, I’ll go myself,” said Simon. “May and I got very friendly. I don’t want her to know.”