With a happy feeling of duty done, he returned to Agatha’s cottage, meaning to creep back to bed for a few hours’ sleep.
But Agatha fell on him. ‘Look!’ she cried, holding up a jester’s outfit, cap and bells and all. ‘Isn’t this divine? Miss Simms, the secretary, wore it in the pantomime last Christmas, and she’s as slim as you. Should be a perfect fit. Put it on.’
Roy backed off. ‘What for?’
‘You put it on, you stand up on the A44 beside the signs and you wave people down to the village. You could do a little dance.’
‘No, absolutely not,’ said Roy mulishly.
Agatha eyed him speculatively. ‘If you do it, I’ll give you an idea for those nurseries which will put you on the PR map for life.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you after the auction.’
‘Aggie, I can’t. I’d feel ever such a fool.’
‘You’re meant to look like a fool, man. For heaven’s sake, you parade through London in some of the ghastliest outfits I’ve ever seen. Do you remember when you had pink hair? I asked you why and you said you liked people staring at you. Well, they’ll all be staring at you. I’ll get your photo in the papers and make them describe you as a famous public relations executive from London. Look, Roy, I’m not asking you to do it. I’m telling you!’
‘Oh, all right,’ mumbled Roy, thinking that at times like this Agatha Raisin reminded him forcefully of his own bullying mother.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said, making a bid for some sort of independence, ‘I’m not walking all that way back in all this heat. I’ll need your car.’
‘I might need it. Take my bike.’
‘Cycle all the way up that hill? You must be mad.’
‘Do it!’ snapped Agatha. ‘I’ll get you the bike while you put on your costume.’
Well, it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t too bad at all, thought Roy later as he capered beside the road and waved his jester’s sceptre in the direction of Carsely. Motorists were honking and cheering, a busload of American tourists had stopped to ask him about it, and hearing the auction was ‘chockful of rare antiques’, they urged their tour guide to take them to it.
At ten minutes to three, he got on Agatha’s bike and free-wheeled down the long winding road to the village. He had meant to remove his outfit, but everyone was looking at him and he liked that, so he kept it on. Outside, the morris dancers were leaping high in the sunny air. Inside, the village band was giving ‘Rule, Britannia’ their best effort, and lo and behold, a sturdy woman dressed as Britannia was belting out the lyric. The school hall was jammed with people.
Then the band fell silent and Agatha, in a Royal Garden Party sort of hat, white straw embellished with blue asters, and wearing a black dress with a smart blue collar, stood at the microphone.
Agatha planned to start with the least important items and work up.
She sensed that the crowd had a slightly inebriated air, no doubt thanks to old Mrs Rainworth from Mircester, who had set up a stand outside the auction and was selling her apple brandy at fifty pence a glass.
Mrs Mason handed Agatha the first lot. Agatha looked down at it. It was a box of second-hand books, mostly paperback romances. There was one old hardback book on top.
Agatha picked it up and looked at it. It was Ways of the Horse, by John Fitzgerald, Esquire, and all the S’s looked like F’s, so Agatha knew it was probably eighteenth-century but still worthless. She opened it up and looked at the title page and affected startled surprise. Then she put the book back hurriedly and said, ‘Nothing here. Perhaps we should start with something more interesting.’
She looked across the hall at Roy, who instinctively picked up his cue. ‘No, you don’t,’ he shouted. ‘Start with that one. I’ll bid ten pounds.’
There was a murmur of surprise. Mrs Simpson, who, along with others, had been asked to do her best to force up the bidding, cheerfully called, ‘Fifteen pounds.’ A small man who looked like a dealer looked up sharply. ‘Who’ll offer me twenty?’ said Agatha. ‘All in a good cause. Going, going . . .’ Mrs Simpson groaned audibly. The little man flapped his newspaper. ‘Twenty,’ said Agatha gleefully. ‘Who’ll give me twenty-five?’
The Carsely ladies sat silent, clutching their handbags Another man raised his hand. ‘Twenty-five it is,’ said Agatha. The box of worthless books was finally knocked down for fifty pounds. Agatha was unrepentant. All in a good cause, she told herself firmly.
The bidding went on. The tourists joined in. More people began to force their way in. Villagers began to bid. It was such a big event that they all wanted now to say they had contributed. The sun beat down through the windows of the school hall. Occasionally from outside came the sound of fiddle and accordion as the morris dancers danced on, accompanied by the occasional raucous cry of old Mrs Rainworth, ‘Apple brandy. Real old Cotswold recipe.’
Midlands Television turned up and Agatha spurred herself to greater efforts. The bidding was running wild. One by one, all the junk began to disappear. Her sofa and chairs went to a Gloucestershire dealer, even the fake horse brasses were snapped up and the Americans bid hotly for the farm machinery, recognizing genuine antiques in their usual irritatingly sharp way.
When the auction was over, Agatha Raisin had made £25,000 for Save the Children. But she knew that she now had to soothe the savage breasts of those who felt they had been cheated.
‘I must thank you all,’ she said with a well-manufactured break in her voice. ‘Some of you may feel you have paid more than you should. But remember, you are helping charity. We of Carsely thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Now, if you will all join me in singing “Jerusalem”.’
The famous hymn was followed by Mrs Mason leading the audience in ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. The vicar then said a prayer, and everyone beamed happily in a euphoric state.
Agatha was surrounded by reporters. No nationals, she noticed, but what did it matter? She said to them, facing the Midlands Television camera, ‘I cannot take the credit for all this. The success of this venture is thanks to the freely given services of a London public relations executive, Roy Silver. Roy, take a bow.’
Flushed with delight, Roy leaped nimbly up on to the stage and cavorted in his cap and bells for the camera. The band then played selections from Mary Poppins as the crowds dispersed, some to the tea-room, some back to the applebrandy stall, the rest to watch the morris dancing.
Agatha felt a pang of regret and half wished she had not given Roy the credit. He was beside himself with joy and, followed by the television camera, had gone out to join the morris dancers, where he was turning cartwheels and showing off to his heart’s content.
‘Pity it won’t make the nationals,’ mourned Roy as he and Agatha sat later on Agatha’s new furniture.
‘If you make the locals, you’ll be lucky,’ said Agatha, made waspish by fatigue. ‘We’ll need to wait now until Monday. I don’t think there’s a local Sunday paper, and then there’s hardly any news coverage on television at the weekends.’
‘Put on the telly,’ said Roy. ‘They do the Midlands news for a few minutes after the national.’
‘They only do about three minutes in all,’ said Agatha, ‘and they’re hardly going to cover a local auction.’
Roy switched on the television. The local news covered another murder in Birmingham, a missing child in Stroud, a pile-up on the M6, and then, ‘On a lighter note, the picturesque village of Carsely raised a record sum . . .’ And there was Roy on the road waving down motorists and then a shot of Agatha running the auction, the singing of ‘Jerusalem’ and then a quick shot of Roy with the morris dancers, ‘Roy Silver, a London executive,’ and Roy stopping his cavorting to say seriously, ‘One does what one can for charity.’
‘Well,’ said Agatha, ‘even I’m surprised.’
‘There’s another news later,’ said Roy, searching through the newspaper. ‘Must video it and show it to old Wilson.’
‘I lo
oked fat,’ said Agatha dismally.
‘It’s the cameras, love, they always put pounds on. By the way, did you ever discover who that woman was, the one on the tower of Warwick Castle?’
‘Oh, her. Miss Maria Borrow of Upper Cockburn.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. I’ve decided to let the whole thing rest. Bill Wong, a detective constable, seems to think that the attacks on me have been caused by my Nosy-Parkering.’
Roy looked at her curiously. ‘You’d better tell me about it.’
Wearily, Agatha told him what had been happening since she had last seen him.
‘I wouldn’t just let it go,’ said Roy. ‘Tell you what, if you can borrow a bicycle for me, we could both cycle over to this village, Upper Cockburn, and take a look-see. Get exercise at the same time.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘I mean, we could just ask around, casual like.’
‘I’ll think about it after church,’ said Agatha.
‘Church!’
‘Yes, church service, Roy. Early tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be glad to get back to the quiet life of London,’ said Roy with feeling. ‘Oh, what about the idea for my nurseries?’
‘Oh, that! Well, what about this. Get some new plant or flower and name it after Prince William.’
‘Isn’t there a rose or something already?’
‘There’s a Charles, I think. I don’t know if there’s a William.’
‘And they usually do things like that at the Chelsea Flower Show.’
‘Don’t be so defeatist. Get them to find some new plant of any kind. They’re always inventing new things. Fake it if necessary.’
‘Can’t give gardeners fakes.’
‘Then don’t. Find something, call it the Prince William, hold a party in one of the nurseries. Anything to do with Prince William gets in the papers.’
‘Wouldn’t I need permission?’
‘I don’t know. Find out. Phone up the press office at the Palace and put it to them. Take it from me, they’re not going to object. It’s a flower, for God’s sake, not a Rottweiler.’
His eyes gleamed. ‘Might work. When does Harvey’s open in the morning to sell newspapers?’
‘They open for one hour on Sundays. Eight till nine. But you won’t find anything, Roy. The nationals weren’t at the auction.’
‘But if the locals have a good photo, they send it to the nationals.’
Agatha stifled a yawn. ‘Dream on. I’m going to bed.’
When they walked to church the next morning, Agatha felt she ought to tie Roy down before he floated away. A picture of him had appeared in the Sunday Times. He was dancing with the morris men. Three old village worthies with highly photographable wizened faces were watching the dancing. It was a very good photo. It looked like a dream of rural England. The caption read, ‘London PR executive, Roy Silver, 25, entertaining the villagers of Carsely, Gloucestershire, after running a successful auction which raised £25,000 for charity.’
It was all my work, thought Agatha, regretting bitterly having given Roy the credit.
But at the morning service, the vicar gave credit where credit was due and offered a vote of thanks to Mrs Agatha Raisin for all her hard work. Roy looked sulky and clutched the Sunday Times to his thin chest.
After the service, Mrs Bloxby when appealed to said she had an old bicycle in the garden shed which Roy could use. ‘The least I can do for you, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mrs Bloxby gently. ‘Not only did you do sterling work but you let your young friend here take all the credit.’
Roy was about to protest that he had stood for hours on the main road looking like an idiot in the name of charity, but something in Mrs Bloxby’s gentle gaze silenced him.
Upper Cockburn was six miles away and they pedalled off together under the hot sun. ‘Going to be a scorcher of a summer,’ said Roy. ‘London seems thousands of miles away from all this.’ He took one hand off the handlebars and waved around at the green fields and trees stretched out on either side.
Agatha suddenly wished they were not going to Upper Cockburn. She wanted to forget about the whole thing now. There had been no further attacks on her, no nasty notes.
The tall steeple of Upper Cockburn church came into view, rising over the fields. They cycled into the sun-washed peace of the main street. ‘There’s a pub,’ said Roy, pointing to the Farmers Arms. ‘Let’s have a bite to eat and ask a few questions. Did this Miss Borrow go in for village competitions?’
‘Yes, jam-making,’ said Agatha curtly. ‘Look, Roy, let’s just have lunch and go home.’
‘Think about it.’
The pub was low and dark, smelling of beer, with a flagged floor and wooden settles dark with age. They sat in the lounge bar. From the public bar Tina Turner was belting something out on the juke-box and there came the click of billiard balls. A waitress, in a very short skirt and with long, long legs and a deep bosom revealed by the low neck of her skimpy dress, bent over them to take their orders. Roy surveyed her with a frankly lecherous look. Agatha gazed at him in dawning surprise.
‘What’s made your friend, Steve, moody?’ she asked.
‘What? Oh, woman trouble. Got involved with a married woman who’s decided that hubby is better after all.’
Well, thought Agatha, these days, with women looking more like men and men looking more like women, you never can tell. Perhaps in thousands of years’ time there would be a unisex face and people would have to go around with badges to proclaim their gender. Or maybe the women could wear pink and the men blue. Or maybe.
‘What are you thinking about?’ demanded Roy.
Agatha gave a guilty start. ‘Oh, about the Borrow woman,’ she said mendaciously.
Roy took her now empty gin glass and went to the bar to get her a refill. Agatha saw him talking to the landlord.
He came back, looking triumphant. ‘Miss Maria Borrow lives in Pear Trees, which is the cottage to the left of this pub. There!’
‘I don’t know, Roy. It’s such a lovely day. Couldn’t we just take a look around the village and then go back?’
‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ said Roy severely. ‘Gosh, this steak and kidney pudding is great. You know, there’s nothing like these English dishes when they’re done well.’
‘I should have had a salad,’ mourned Agatha. ‘I can feel every calorie.’
I’m weak-willed, she thought when she had eaten every scrap of the steak and kidney pudding and she realized she had let Roy talk her into a helping of hot apple pie with cream, real cream, and not that stuff like shaving soap.
The waitress came up when they had finished the pie, her high heels clacking on the stone flags of the floor. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.
‘Just coffee,’ said Roy. ‘That was an excellent meal.’
‘Yes, I reckon the part-timer on Sundays does a better job than our Mrs Moulson during the week,’ she said.
‘Who’s your part-timer?’
‘That’s John Cartwright from over Carsely way.’
She clacked off. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Roy, seeing Agatha’s startled face.
‘John Cartwright’s the husband of Ella Cartwright, who was having an affair with Cummings-Browne. Who ever would have thought he could cook? He’s a great dirty ape of a man. You see, it could have been done. Someone could have replaced my quiche with one of their own.’
‘Again, I have to point out that you would be intended as the victim,’ said Roy patiently.
‘Wait a bit. Maybe it was intended for Cummings-Browne. Why not? Everyone knew he was to be the judge. Perhaps there wasn’t enough cowbane in that little piece he nibbled at the show.’
‘I’m sure any murderer would have thought of that.’
‘But John Cartwright struck me as having the IQ of a plant.’
The waitress brought coffee. When she had gone again, Roy said, ‘Have you ever wondered about Economides?’
‘What? Why should the own
er of The Quicherie, who didn’t even know Cummings-Browne or where I was taking the quiche, decide to put cowbane in it?’
‘But from what I’ve gathered,’ said Roy, ‘Economides didn’t shriek and complain. Did he demand to see the quiche?’
‘I don’t think so. But he would want to let the matter drop. Perhaps the John Cartwright in the kitchen is another John Cartwright?’
‘Finish your coffee,’ urged Roy, ‘and let’s stroll round the back of the pub and take a look in the kitchen door.’
Agatha paid the bill and they walked together into the sunlight. ‘How do you know the kitchen’s at the back?’ she asked.
‘Just a guess. We’ll try to the right because the car-park’s to the left.’
They walked round the building. Agatha was about to enter a small area of dustbins and outhouses when she drew back with a yelp and collided into Roy. ‘It is John Cartwright,’ she said. ‘He’s standing outside the kitchen door smoking a cigarette.’
‘Let me see.’ Roy pushed her aside and peered cautiously round the corner of the building. John Cartwright was leaning against the doorway, holding a home-made cigarette in one large dirty hand. His apron was stained with grease and gravy. The sun shone on the tattoos on his black hairy arms.
‘I feel sick,’ said Roy, retreating. ‘He looks filthy. Food poisoning oozing out of every dirty pore.’
‘I think we’ve done enough for one day,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s leave this Borrow woman alone.’
‘No,’ said Roy stubbornly. ‘We’re so close.’
Maria Borrow’s cottage was low and thatched and very old. The small diamond-paned windows winked in the sunlight and the little garden was a riot of roses, honeysuckle, snapdragons, delphiniums and busy Lizzies. Roy nudged Agatha and pointed to the brass doorknocker, which was in the shape of a grinning devil.
‘What are we going to say?’ asked Agatha desperately.
‘Nothing like the truth,’ retorted Roy, seizing the door-knocker.
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death Page 12