by M C Beaton
“Is that how she died? How awful. I know that rhubarb leaves are poisonous but I didn’t know about adding soda. Most people around here would know about rhubarb leaves.”
“Is there anyone who was particularly close to Gloria?” asked Toni. “Did she have any special friend?”
“She spent a lot of time at the vicarage. Maybe she was friendly with the vicar’s wife.”
Fat chance, thought Agatha.
“Of course, there’s old Mrs. Tripp. Gloria spent a long time in her cottage, reading to her.”
“Where does she live?” asked Agatha.
“It’s the second cottage to the right of the pub. It’s called Wonky Wong. She has this rather battered little stone Chinaman on the doorstep.”
“Has she always lived there?”
“As long as anyone can remember. She must be nearly ninety.”
“Is she a widow?”
“Well, there’s the thing. She used to be a cook over at Lady Craton’s, just outside Broadway. I think in those days it was a courtesy title. Lady Craton’s long dead and her house is an insurance office now.”
“But if Mrs. Tripp was in service, she can’t have been in the village for long,” said Toni.
“The cottage belonged to her parents and she inherited it on their death, quite a long time ago. She let it out while she was in service and then moved into it on her retirement. She certainly knows a lot about the people in the village.”
“We’ll try her,” said Agatha.
“Would you like a bottle of my wine?”
“Yes, please,” said Toni quickly, frightened of what her tactless boss might say.
As they drove back towards the village, Agatha said, “You ate three scones, Toni. Don’t you ever worry about your figure?”
“No,” said Toni cheerfully. “I never seem to put on any weight at all.”
Agatha had eaten two and she could feel them nestling somewhere around her waistline.
* * *
They knocked at the door of Mrs. Tripp’s thatched cottage. The thatch was in good repair. I wonder if Lady Craton left her some money, thought Agatha, knowing from her own bitter experience how much it cost to employ a thatcher.
After quite a wait, Mrs. Tripp answered the door. She was bent over two sticks. Pink scalp was visible through strands of grey hair. Her face was brown and crisscrossed with wrinkles but her eyes looked intelligent.
“You’re that detective couple,” said Mrs. Tripp. “Bit tarty looking for detectives, ain’t you? Come in, come in. Nobody looks like a lady anymore.”
They followed her into her cottage parlour. There were four easy chairs covered in bright chintz. Yellow curtains patterned with chrysanthemums fluttered at the open latticed windows. There were some good china ornaments on the mantelpiece. A small table stood at the window covered in silver-framed photographs showing Mrs. Tripp’s past life as a cook.
She lowered herself into a chair and Agatha and Toni sat down facing her. “We need your help,” said Agatha. “Have you any idea of who might have murdered Gloria?”
“I know who murdered her.”
“Tell me,” urged Agatha.
“I don’t have no one to read to me anymore. If you was to read to me a bit, it’d clear my mind.”
“Yes, yes,” said Agatha impatiently. “But tell me first.”
“Read first, tell afterwards,” said the old lady.
“Oh, very well.”
Mrs. Tripp took up a book from the side of her chair. It was called The Duke and the Devil. The cover portrayed a woman in Regency dress, standing before a burning castle. “Start from page one hundred and two,” said Mrs. Tripp.
Agatha crossly handed the book to Toni, who began to read. “Frederica closed her eyes as the duke’s hot breath fanned her cheek. ‘My stars and garters,’ he said. ‘You inflame me.’ Frederica turned deathly pale. ‘Unhand me!’ The duke gave a sardonic grin. ‘I won you at a game of faro, so you’re mine, mine, mine!’”
Snore.
“She’s fallen asleep,” said Toni.
“Mrs. Tripp,” shouted Agatha.
“What!” The old lady woke up and looked about in a dazed way.
“You were about to tell us who murdered Gloria,” said Agatha.
“But you haven’t read to me.”
“Oh, yes we have,” said Agatha. “Toni’s been reading to you for an hour.”
“I could have sworn you only arrived a few minutes ago,” said Mrs. Tripp. “Who are you anyway?”
“We’re detectives,” said Toni gently, “and you really must tell us who murdered Gloria French.”
“It was the vicar’s wife.”
“You’re sure?” barked Agatha.
“Saw her with my own eyes going round the back of Gloria’s cottage on the morning she was murdered.” Her eyelids began to droop and soon she was asleep again.
“Come on, Toni,” said Agatha. “Back to the vicarage.”
* * *
They rang the doorbell but there was no reply. “Maybe she’s still in the garden,” suggested Toni. They walked round the side of the vicarage, where a high gate stood open. Clarice was sitting in the sunshine, a cigarette in one hand and what looked suspiciously like a glass of elderberry wine in the other.
She started guiltily when she saw them. “Just relaxing,” said Clarice. “I find gardening quite exhausting.”
“Is that elderberry wine?” demanded Agatha.
“Yes, it is. Was it made by Ada? Yes, it was.”
“You were seen going round the back of Gloria’s cottage the day she was murdered,” said Agatha.
“Oh, do sit down. Yes, I was there.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No, I didn’t. It was so awful. I knew she never locked the back door except at night. I suddenly had an impulse to get my Crown Derby bowl back. But when I opened the kitchen door, I heard these noises. I thought Gloria was having sex with someone so I beat it. Oh, God, the poor woman was probably in her death throes and I could have saved her. Please don’t tell Guy. Being the vicar’s wife, I have to keep up appearances.”
“Who did you think she was having sex with?” asked Agatha.
“Henry Bruce. He’s by way of being the village’s odd job man. He does gardens and repairs things. He’s got a colourful reputation and Gloria was a man-eater. You won’t tell anyone—please?”
Agatha hesitated. She knew from her friend Mrs. Bloxby that the life of a vicar’s wife was not easy. She was expected to do a lot of work around the parish without complaint and keep up appearances at all times.
“I won’t say anything,” said Agatha. “But it might come out if the forensic team finds anything.”
“I don’t see how they can,” said Clarice. “My fingerprints aren’t on file, nor is my DNA.”
“Did you see anyone around?” asked Toni.
“No.”
“Your fingerprints will be on the door handle. This is a tiny village. The police may get around to taking the fingerprints of everyone in the village.”
Clarice clutched her hair. “This is awful! No, it isn’t!” She lowered her hands and beamed at Toni. “I wore gloves.”
“In this heat!” exclaimed Agatha.
Clarice held out her hands, which were red and rough. “I’m trying to do something about my hands. I covered them in cream and I was wearing white cotton gloves.”
“We’ll do our best to keep your visit quiet,” said Agatha. “We’d better go and see what Henry Bruce has to say for himself. Where does he live?”
“He’s got a smallholding just on the left as you go out of the village. You can’t miss it. There’s a broken-down tractor in front of his cottage.”
* * *
Outside the vicarage, Agatha took out her phone and called Patrick. “Any more news?”
“The police have found a couple of footprints on a flowerbed near the back door,” said Patrick.
“A woman’s footprints?”
&
nbsp; “Not unless she wears size tens. The police should be around the place. They’re going to check the shoes of every man in the village. There were size-ten footprints on the cellar stairs.”
When Agatha rang off, she told Toni the latest news. “That seems to let Clarice out,” said Toni. “Her feet are certainly not as big as that.”
“Agatha!”
She swung round and found Bill Wong smiling at her. “I gather someone must have employed you,” he said. “Who is it?”
“Jerry Tarrant, the head of the parish council,” said Agatha.
“Well, we’ve got officers all over the place. It might be a good idea to leave things just now. Inspector Wilkes is directing operations and he won’t like to come across you.”
“We’re here legitimately,” said Agatha. “We’ll jump into the shrubbery or something if we see him.”
* * *
They walked through the village. Policemen could be seen carrying bags of men’s shoes and dumping them in the back of police cars. “If they’re at Bruce’s cottage, we may wait until later,” said Agatha. “Gosh, it’s hot.” She envied Toni, who turned golden brown in the sun whereas all she got was a red face.
They located the cottage with the tractor outside in a small yard. The lazy sound of hens reached their ears.
What would it be like, thought Toni, to live in a little village like this? If one could forget about the murder and the policemen going through the village, and imagine it on a normal day, tucked away as it was from the noise and bustle of the towns, standing in the sun, listening to the soporific clucking of hens, it might have an almost magnetic pull.
But Agatha, striding ahead, shouting, “Anybody home?” shattered the dream.
Agatha had imagined some local village seducer, a sort of Lady Chatterley’s lover kind of man. But the figure that emerged from the cottage was a small, slight man with a thick head of black hair, brown eyes and a tanned face. He was wearing a worn blue denim shirt over jeans.
“Mr. Bruce?” asked Agatha.
“That’s me. You’ll be the detective ladies.” He looked Toni over from the top of her blond head to her long tanned legs, displayed to advantage under a short linen skirt. He smiled at her. “You can interrogate me any time. What’s your name?”
“Agatha Raisin,” said Agatha crossly, interposing herself between Toni and Henry.
“And who’s the pretty one, then?”
“My assistant, Toni Gilmour. Is there anywhere we can talk?”
“Come inside.”
They followed him into the coolness of a stone-flagged kitchen. “Sit down,” he said. Agatha and Toni sat on plastic chairs at a plastic table. Toni looked around. The kitchen appliances were ancient. She wondered if he collected people’s broken-down fridges and cookers and repaired them. The cooker was of chipped green enamel and looked as if it dated from the forties. There was also a washing machine with a mangle.
“Drink?” he offered, opening an old fridge. It seemed to be full of nothing but cans of beer.
“No, thanks,” said Agatha.
He helped himself to a beer, sat down at the table and smiled lazily at Toni. “Fire away.”
“Were you having an affair with Gloria French?” asked Agatha.
“She lived in hope, that one,” he said. “But why would I be interested in an old bird like that when there are gorgeous girls around?”
“I haven’t seen any gorgeous girls in this village,” said Agatha.
“I go up to Birmingham occasionally. Clubbing.”
Agatha estimated Henry was in his forties. “Aren’t you a bit old to go clubbing?”
“Never too old, and it would amaze you to see how willing those girls are.”
“So what can you tell me about Gloria?” said Agatha.
“Don’t you let your pretty sidekick open her mouth?” Agatha glared at him.
“Oh, well, let’s see. Gloria. She wanted me to unblock her sink. I did that. But when I tried to charge her, she pressed up against me and said she could pay in other ways. I ran. She called on me several times after that before she gave up. She was a right harpy.”
“Have the police taken your shoes?” asked Toni.
“Came here just before you.”
“What size shoe do you take?” asked Agatha.
“Size nine.”
“Have you any idea who might have murdered her?” asked Agatha.
He shook his head. “She did annoy a lot of people by taking things and not giving them back.”
“Was there ever anything valuable?”
“Not that I heard. Oh, yes. There was one thing. Lady Framington.”
“Who’s she?”
“Our lady of the manor, that’s what. Gloria had organised a dance in the village hall. She borrowed a string of real pearls from Samantha Framington and she had a hell of a job getting them back. If they hadn’t been listed on her insurance, I think Gloria would have hung on to them.”
“But,” said Toni, “if Gloria had such a reputation, why did someone like Mrs. Framington lend her valuable pearls?”
“That was shortly after Gloria moved into the village. Everyone thought she was great. She seemed to do such a lot of good work.”
“Where did Gloria come from?”
“London, I think.”
“Where is the manor?”
“Big square house at the other end of the village from here.”
* * *
The trouble with wearing a sun hat, thought Agatha, as they plodded their way along to the manor house, was that it upset one’s hairdo. But as the sun beat down on her head, she reluctantly decided she would need to stop at her car and get an old straw one out of the back.
“We’ll take the car,” she said.
“Why? We’re nearly there,” said Toni.
“Because the damn place might have a drive and I’m hot and tired.”
Agatha drove in through the open gates of the manor. Lawns stretched on either side. There didn’t seem to be a bit of shade. Toni was glad to get back out into the sunshine because Agatha had blasted the air-conditioning so high that she had goose bumps on her arms.
The manor house was a square Georgian building with a portico. It looked well kept and prosperous. Agatha rang a polished brass bell set into the stonework at the side of the door. They waited.
The door was opened by a small man wearing a green baize apron.
“Lady Framington?” asked Agatha.
“No, I’m the butler, or maid of all work. I’ve been polishing the silver. If you’re selling anything, shove off.”
“My name is Agatha Raisin,” said Agatha haughtily. “Here is my card. I wish to speak to Lady Framington.”
“Whether she’ll want to speak to you is another matter.” The butler slammed the door in their faces.
Toni giggled. “Honestly. Talk about the servant problem.”
But deep down in Agatha’s psyche lay the memory of her upbringing in a Birmingham slum and she felt outraged.
The door opened again. “She’ll see you,” said the butler. “Follow me.”
Agatha followed his small figure, resisting a sudden urge to kick him in the backside. He led them out onto a terrace at the back of the house. Lady Framington was sitting at a table reading a glossy magazine.
She looked up and saw Agatha. “Oh, you’re that detective woman. Sit down. Fred, bring tea.”
“Can’t. I’m polishing the silver.”
“Just do it, you horrible little toad.”
Fred went off, grumbling under his breath.
“Is he always like that?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, but he’s got arthritis and it makes him grumpy. One must make allowances.”
She had a “county” voice and a manner reminiscent of Maggie Smith playing the part of the dowager in Downton Abbey. She had large hands and feet and a slim flat-chested figure dressed in a faded cotton shirtwaister. A large collagen-enhanced mouth dominated her face. Her hair was iron
grey and cropped short.
“I am investigating the death of Gloria French,” said Agatha. There was no shade on the terrace and a smooth lawn stretched out in front. No flowers or bushes.
“So I heard. Quite exciting. Gloria was a pill.”
“I hear you had some trouble getting a necklace back.”
“That damn woman tried to steal it. At first, she seemed like God’s gift, doing good works all over the place. But incomers often go on like that and then they settle down. She backed down fast when I said I had proof of ownership and I would take her to court. Any idea who did it so I can shake the murderer’s hand?”
“Not yet,” said Agatha. “Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”
Lady Framington picked up a brass bell on the table and rang it energetically. The butler appeared through the French windows. “Where’s the bloody tea, Fred?”
“Just bloody coming.”
The butler retreated. “Ever watch Poirot?” asked Lady Framington.
“Yes,” said Agatha.
“I always know whodunit. I bet I can find out who this murderer is. Whether I would tell you is another matter. Here’s the tea at last.”
There were no biscuits or cakes. Just a brown china pot of tea, milk and sugar and three mugs.
“Help yourself,” said Lady Framington.
“Lady Framington…”
“Sam, please.”
“Well, Sam,” said Agatha, “if you go detecting and get too close, the murderer might want to remove you.”
Sam gave a great braying laugh. “I can take care of myself. Drink up.”
The tea was awful: dark brown and stewed, but Sam drank hers with relish. “Fred does make a good cup of tea.”
“Isn’t that someone at the bottom of your garden?” cried Agatha.
“What? Where?”
Agatha quickly poured her tea under the table.
“I can’t see anything,” said Sam.
“Must have been mistaken. If you think of anyone, please let me know,” said Agatha. “Come along, Toni.”
When Agatha and Toni had gone, Sam rang the bell. “What now?” asked Fred, answering its summons.
“Clear the table.”
“Look at that!” said Fred, pointing to a damp patch under the chair where Agatha had been sitting. “She pissed herself. Dirty old cow.”