Busy Body: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  James slowly put down his book. He had followed the murder of John Sunday in the newspapers and television. He got up and went to the bar. “May I buy a round?” he asked.

  Faces beamed at him. Drinks were rapidly changed from wine to spirits. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying,” said James. “Someone going a bit over the top?”

  “It’s an elderly couple of ladies just outside the village,” said the florid man. “They’ve got lights all over the place like one of those awful Americans.”

  “Sounds fun. I’d like to have a look,” said James. “How do I get there? Should I drive?”

  “Don’t really need to. Turn left as you go out of the hotel door and keep on going about half a mile. You can’t miss it. Their stupid cottage lights up the sky.”

  James went out into the evening. It was quite mild and clear with a small high moon riding high above the twisted chimneys of the old houses in the village. As he passed the last house in the village, he saw a glow in the sky ahead of him and quickened his step. At last he came to the cottage. There were so many Christmas decorations, it was an exercise in vulgarity. A spotlight had even been placed in the garden to highlight a leering Santa clinging to the chimney.

  He marched up the path and knocked on the door. “Who are you?” shouted a voice from an upstairs window.

  James stood back and looked up. He could just make out an elderly woman half hidden behind a curtain.

  “I’ve just been admiring your lights,” he said.

  “Go away,” croaked the woman. “Shove off.”

  James walked thoughtfully back to his hotel.

  The wives of the murderers were missing. They had been famous for their display of Christmas lights. Their pride in that display had led to the murders. Could he, by some mad coincidence, have found them?

  He joined the English at the bar and, to their delight, paid for another round. “When did the two old ladies arrive here?” he asked.

  The florid man introduced himself as Archie Frank and his wife as Fiona. The others supplied names but James immediately forgot all of them, he was concentrating so hard on finding out about the occupants of the cottage. “Came about two months ago,” said Archie. “We don’t see them. They get a local girl to do their shopping. Keep themselves to themselves.”

  James made some small talk and then escaped to his room. He phoned Agatha and told her about the mysterious pair and their lights.

  “I’m coming over,” said Agatha. “I’ll bring a photo with me.”

  “Don’t come all this way for what might be nothing. Send me over the photo on my computer.”

  “I’m coming,” shouted Agatha. “I’ll bring Toni. Book us rooms. What’s the name of the place and directions?”

  Agatha collected Toni from Mircester and drove to Birmingham airport, where they got seats on a flight to Paris. Then they took a plane to Marseilles and hired a car. With Toni driving, they set off along the coast to the village of St. Charles-Sur-Clore.

  James was waiting for them outside. “You shouldn’t have bothered,” he said, looking at their exhausted faces.

  “I must be in at the kill,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a good photograph of them.”

  “The best way to go about it,” said James, “is to find out the name of the village girl who does their shopping and show her the photograph. We’ll check at the local store. Don’t you want to dump your bags and freshen up?”

  “Just for a few minutes, then,” said Agatha.

  In the local grocery store, James, in his fluent French, asked if they knew the identity of the girl who delivered groceries to the two old ladies in the cottage with the Christmas lights.

  “That’s my niece,” he said. “Michelle!” he shouted.

  A thin, small teenager with wispy hair came out of the back of the shop. James held out the photograph of Mrs. Beagle and Mrs. Summer. “Do you deliver groceries to either of these ladies?”

  “No,” she said.

  “You have never seen them before?”

  “No.”

  “You are very sure?”

  “Uncle, they are calling me a liar!”

  “Get out of here,” said her uncle. “Dirty English.”

  _______

  “What was that all about?” asked Agatha outside.

  “The girl says she has never seen them and told her uncle I was calling her a liar. He told me to get out. Sorry, it looks as if you’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  “She looked shifty,” said Toni. “I’ve studied that photograph for so long, I would recognise them anywhere. What if I go out there after dark on my own and watch? Look, if you didn’t want anyone to know where you were and got a girl like that to shop for you, you’d probably pay her not to answer questions.”

  “It’s worth a try,” said Agatha wearily. “I am so tired. I could do with a nap.”

  That evening, they met up in the bar. James waved to the English propping up the bar but shook his head when they urged him to join them.

  “I’m off,” said Toni. “I’ll phone you if I get anything.”

  She was wearing a black sweater and black jeans. She pulled a black wool hat over her hair and strode out along the road.

  She nearly missed the cottage because all the lights had been switched off. Only a bright moon was riding high above to show her the Santa clinging to the chimney.

  There was a garage at the side of the house. As she watched, an elderly figure opened the doors and climbed into a car. Toni took out a torch and shone it straight at the woman. It was Mrs. Beagle. The car shot forward, nearly knocking her over, and sped off down the road.

  Toni called Agatha and shouted, “It’s them! They’re in the car—they’re escaping. Come and pick me up.”

  In what seemed like no time at all, James came racing up in his car with Agatha beside him. “Which way?” he shouted as Toni jumped into the backseat.

  “Left.”

  “That’s the Agde road. Hang on.”

  James put his foot down and began to drive at a hectic speed, screeching round bends, whizzing over the cobbles of silent villages, on towards Agde. “What kind of car, Toni?”

  “A red Peugeot. I didn’t get the number plate.”

  “There’s one ahead in front of that truck.” James passed the truck. The Peugeot in front of them accelerated into Agde and headed straight for the very long jetty which thrust its way out into the sea.

  The Peugeot went straight along at breakneck speed and in front of their horrified eyes, as James stamped on the brakes, the fleeing car went straight off the end of the jetty and into the sea.

  “They did a Thelma and Louise,” said Toni in a horrified voice, “and all over a bunch of stupid Christmas lights.”

  People came running out from the town headed by two gendarmes. “And now,” said James, “the questioning begins.”

  _______

  They were all locked up in the cells for the night and then the next day questioned over and over again, having been accused of reckless driving, terrifying two old ladies and causing their deaths. At last James persuaded a gendarme to get in touch with Interpol.

  Then detectives arrived from Marseilles and the questioning began again.

  Finally they were allowed to return to their hotel. Agatha took a pocket mirror out of her handbag and stared at the ruin of her face in dismay. Bags were sagging under tired, red-rimmed eyes and two little hairs had sprouted on her upper lip.

  She glanced sideways at James. He looked as handsome as ever with his blue eyes in his tanned face and his thick dark hair showing only a little grey at the sides.

  Why was it, she wondered bitterly, that a woman in her fifties had to start the long, long battle against loss of looks and a spreading waistline while men, provided they didn’t develop a gut, could age graciously?

  Toni looked tired as well, but in a graceful, waiflike way.

  Agatha opened her handbag and applied lipstick just as the car began
to bump over the cobbles of the street leading to the hotel, and put a red smudge up under her nose.

  The press were waiting outside the hotel, cameras at the ready. “Drive on,” shouted Agatha.

  James obeyed her and said, “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve smeared my face with lipstick. Find someplace where I can repair my make-up.”

  “Agatha, don’t be silly. We’re all exhausted and—”

  “Do as she says!” Toni leapt to Agatha’s defence.

  James drove up a farm track and waited in angry silence while Agatha cleansed her face with moist tissues and then carefully applied foundation cream, lipstick and eyeliner.

  Back at the hotel, they posed briefly for photographs before escaping indoors.

  In England, three people were having different reactions to Agatha’s adventures in France. Simon was wistful. He would have loved to have been there with Toni. Roy Silver felt obscurely that Agatha might have let him in on the adventure. What publicity! Charles Fraith was thoughtful.

  He found himself thinking a lot about Agatha. He had taken a pretty girl out to dinner the evening before and had found himself bored with her conversation.

  Now, Agatha was never boring: infuriating, rude, pushy, but never boring.

  He ambled into the drawing room, where his faded aunt was knitting a sweater in a violent shade of purple.

  Charles sat down next to her. “Do you remember Agatha Raisin?”

  “Hard to forget her,” said his aunt. “Never out of the newspapers.”

  “What would you think about her coming to live here?”

  “Good gracious, Charles. Wasn’t that last marriage enough for you? Besides, she’s old and can’t have children.”

  “I was just thinking of asking her to live here to see how it goes,” said Charles.

  “Just so long as she doesn’t interfere with the running of things,” said his aunt. “But will she fit? I mean with your friends? And what will Gustav say?”

  Gustav was Charles’s gentleman’s gentleman, a sort of truculent Swiss Jeeves.

  “Gustav will just have to find a way of getting on with it.”

  Gustav, listening outside the door, was already thinking of several ways of ousting Agatha. He had always disliked her. Gustav was a snob. He thought the word “common” was too mild a word to describe someone such as Agatha Raisin.

  Had Agatha come straight back from France, Charles might have dropped the idea, but the French judiciary moves in a slow and ponderous way and all he could remember as the weeks passed was what fun and adventures they had enjoyed.

  He phoned Agatha from time to time, but her phone was always switched off and the hotel said that Mrs. Raisin and Mr. Lacey and Miss Gilmour were not taking calls. Agatha had driven into Marseilles and bought herself a new mobile phone with which she kept in communication with the office. Somehow the press had got hold of her old mobile phone number. Agatha had never thought the day would come when she would flee from publicity, until a series of photographs magnifying every wrinkle had made her feel she could not bear another interview. Then she had come down with swine flu, which meant the whole hotel was quarantined while Agatha lay in bed in her hotel room and wondered if she was going to die.

  At last interest in the case died away, Agatha recovered and they were told they could go home. To Agatha’s dismay, James said he would carry on through France, writing up bits and pieces for his travel books.

  Just before she had been struck down with swine flu, Agatha had felt that she and James were getting on a close footing, and although she lectured herself about how useless it was to go back to the old obsession, she could almost feel it closing in on her. Then she fell ill and all she heard from James were occasional shouts from outside her bedroom door asking if she was feeling better.

  _______

  Agatha found her parking fees at Birmingham airport were incredibly steep. She paid up, muttering curses under her breath, and then drove first to Mircester, where she dropped Toni off, and then set out for Carsely.

  So much for global warming, thought Agatha, as fine snow began to fall, dancing hypnotically in front of the windscreen as she drove down into Carsely.

  With a sigh of relief, she let herself into her cottage. No cats. Of course, they were at her cleaner’s home. She went upstairs and unpacked and changed into a loose housedress before going downstairs to make a pot of coffee.

  She lit up a cigarette and coughed and gagged. I must give up, she thought. The dreaded cough. I always swore if I got a cough I would stop. But she smoked the cigarette anyway and drank a strong cup of black coffee.

  The doorbell rang. Agatha went to the door and called out, “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Bloxby.”

  Agatha flung open the door. “I am so glad to see you.”

  “The bush telegraph told me you had been sighted returning home, so I decided to bring you a casserole for your supper. All you have to do is heat it in the oven.”

  “Come in. How good of you!”

  “What adventures you have been having?” said the vicar’s wife. “And how very strange that so much murder and distress should have been caused by Christmas lights. Giles Timson did a very powerful service at Christmas, lecturing the villagers of Odley Cruesis on worldly things and how it was a spiritual festival. Then he said that Santa Claus did not exist and the villagers were furious and the newspapers called him a villain for destroying the dreams of children. Mrs. Timson has left him.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Her car broke down outside Mircester just after you left. She called the nearest garage and while she was waiting for the repairs, she got talking to a man called Joe Purrock, the garage owner. Evidently they hit it off right away. He is a widower. I believe Mrs. Timson’s appearance has quite changed. She has blond hair now and a permanent tan and wears really ankle-breaking stilettos but she seems very happy. They went to the Maldives for Christmas. Poor you. I don’t suppose you had much of a Christmas.”

  “Santa came down the chimney and presented me with swine flu.”

  “What did Mr. Lacey give you for Christmas?”

  “Sod all.”

  “Peculiar man. What did you give him?”

  “Well, nothing either. I lost Christmas somehow, somewhere. It all seems like a blur. I’ll never forget the sight of Mrs. Summer and Mrs. Beagle driving straight off into the sea. If James hadn’t happened to visit that village, they’d probably never have been found out.”

  “I think they might. Sooner or later a local paper was going to take a picture of their cottage and some sharp Interpol man would have turned up to investigate. I mean, the murders made headlines around the world just because they were committed to stopping John Sunday from preventing them from decorating their cottages. So odd, you see. It made the practise quite unfashionable last Christmas, people being frightened they might be thought of as weird if they overdecorated.”

  “Sherry?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll have a G and T myself,” said Agatha. She returned with the drinks.

  “Sir Charles phoned me quite a lot to see if I had heard from you,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

  “Probably would have liked to be in at the kill.”

  Charles had decided to fetch one of his late grandmother’s rings out of the bank to present to Agatha. Just to show he was, well, not exactly proposing but sort of serious before he suggested she come and live with him.

  Gustav came into the study while Charles was admiring the sapphire and diamond ring. “Who’s that for?” demanded Gustav.

  “Mind your own business and get me a whisky and soda.”

  Gustav began to plan. His father had been a maker of clocks and musical boxes as well as being a jeweller. Gustav had worked for him, but when his father died, he had sold up the business and drifted abroad, ending up as a general factotum to Charles. He liked his life. He had full control of the running of the house. He had previously escaped from two disa
strous marriages and disliked women in general and Agatha Raisin in particular.

  He spent all his spare hours on his scheme. Charles phoned Mrs. Bloxby and learned to his surprise that Agatha had been back for a week. He phoned her up at her office and invited her out to dinner at The George that evening.

  “Who’s paying?” asked Agatha suspiciously.

  “I am, my sweet. Want to hear all about your adventures.”

  “Bit tired of talking about them. Okay. I’ll see you there. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  As he waited in the dining room, Charles felt quite nervous. But he relaxed as Agatha breezed in, saying, “I’m starving. Good heavens! Champagne on ice. What’s the celebration?”

  “You being back.”

  “How sweet.”

  But Agatha wondered if Charles was going to find some excuse to leave her holding the bill.

  Agatha talked during the meal about her adventures. When she had finished, Charles asked, “What do you feel for James now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha candidly. “I didn’t spend much time with him. Same old James, if you know what I mean.”

  The coffee was served.

  Charles felt in his pocket and took out a red morocco leather box. “Present for you.”

  “Oh, Charles.”

  Agatha beamed. The other diners were twisting around in their chairs.

  “Open it!” urged Charles.

  Agatha raised the lid. A little pig’s face mounted on a coiled gold wire popped up and a tinny mechanical voice said, “Ugly bitch! Ugly bitch!”

  Agatha threw her coffee straight into Charles’s face and fled the dining room, the laughter of the diners ringing in her ears.

  Driving straight to Carsely, blinking her eyes to try to stop the tears running, Agatha went straight to the vicarage. Alf, the vicar, answered the door. “Really, Mrs. Raisin, we were just about to go to bed.”