by M C Beaton
“No, I burned them.”
“A pity. But I am sure my boss, Mrs. Raisin, can recommend a good lawyer.”
“I don’t want to go to court!”
“I am sure Mrs. Raisin will track down the murderer, and as soon as that happens, get a lawyer to sue their socks off. You deserve it after all you’ve been through.”
Ada gave him a watery smile. “You’re not like a detective at all.”
“It helps,” said Phil. “Now, have a good think. Who in this village would want to kill Gloria French?”
“Everyone is saying it must have been some madman from outside the village. I wish that were true. There was an awful period when everyone seemed to suspect everyone else. At first everyone liked Gloria. She did so much for the church. She always volunteered to drive elderly people into Mircester for a day’s shopping or worked at village fetes. But then she became—how shall I put it?—raucous and pushy. There was a rumour that she drank a lot, but I never saw her drunk and Moses at the pub said she only drank lemonade or some sort of soft drink when she went there. Of course, there was all that business of borrowing things and not giving them back.”
“Did she ask you for anything?”
“She wanted to take away a case of elderberry wine from a sale at the church. I told her sharply she’d have to pay for it. At the end of the day, I looked for it. It was a box of six bottles I had kept under the table in the café in reserve in case we ran out. It had gone! I challenged her and she denied it.”
“And did people hear you accusing her?”
“Most of the village, I would think.”
“What about men?” asked Phil. “Did she have affairs?”
“She tried. She set her cap at the vicar but he was so thrilled with the church repairs that he either didn’t notice or pretended not to. His wife loathed Gloria.”
“What about Samantha Framington? Didn’t she say she knew who the murderer was?”
“She now says she was just joking. Silly sort of joke and a dangerous one. What if the murderer really is in the village?”
“And how did you find Mr. Brian Summer? He stayed with you, I believe.”
“He’s still here, poor man.”
“Not back at school?”
“The press dug up some school poisoning case and the police questioned him over and over again. He got a line from the doctor to say he was suffering from depression and would take a year’s sabbatical.”
“I would have thought,” said Phil, “that he would want to get away from this village.”
“He’s a thoroughly nice man. We’re outside the village here. He likes going for long walks. He says he finds it healing.”
* * *
Agatha had found no one at home at the vicarage. She tried the church but it was locked. Mrs. Bloxby had told her that the churches had become a target for thieves.
She walked to the village store. Jenny Soper was just leaving. “Oh, you’re back!” she exclaimed. “I thought the whole business was over.”
“How can it be over when the murderer hasn’t been caught?”
She was joined by Peter Suncliff. “Back again?” he said to Agatha.
“Jenny was just saying she thought the whole thing was over,” said Agatha. “But how can it be over? Nobody’s been caught.”
“But nothing has happened since,” said Jenny. “Isn’t that right, Peter? Doesn’t that show it must have been some stranger, some madman?”
“It was too well planned for that,” said Agatha. “And any stranger would stand out in a tiny village like this.”
“But there are the woods where Craig Upton was poisoned,” protested Jenny.
“Craig was poisoned because he stole a bottle of wine from my car,” said Agatha. “Have you seen Sam Framington?”
“I saw her earlier, going to the vicarage,” said Peter.
Agatha felt suddenly uneasy. Why had there been no reply when she had called at the vicarage?
She said goodbye to the pair and hurried back to the vicarage. Again, there was no reply although she knocked on the door this time as well as ringing the bell.
Agatha stood irresolute. Perhaps they were all in the garden, lying dead. She tried to tell her fertile imagination to shut up, but she told herself it would do no harm to have a look at the back of the vicarage. But the path at the side was blocked by a high, iron padlocked gate, now firmly closed. The church with its graveyard lay next door. Perhaps there was a viewpoint into the garden from the graveyard.
She went into the graveyard and threaded her way through the old mossy gravestones. There was a high stone wall cutting the graveyard off from the vicarage garden next door, but some old tombstones were propped against that wall. Glad that she was wearing flat shoes for once, Agatha hitched up her skirt, grabbed handholds in the old wall and hoisted herself up and peered over the top of the wall.
Sam and Clarice were seated at the garden table on the terrace, sharing a bottle of wine.
Fred came out and said, “I’m off down to the shop and then I’ll get back to the manor.”
“Right,” said Sam. “Are you sure that dreadful detective woman has gone away?”
“Sure as sure. Pushy cow.”
In a burst of rage, Agatha heaved herself up to the top of the wall with such energy that she tumbled over the top and landed on the thick grass in the garden on the other side.
Clarice and Sam were staring at her. Agatha picked herself up, dusted herself down and with a crocodile smile said, “I thought I would just drop in.”
“You’re trespassing!” exclaimed Clarice. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I thought something awful might have happened to you,” said Agatha. “I heard, you, Sam, had gone to the vicarage. I mean, last heard you were going about saying you knew the identity of the murderer, so it stands to reason you’re a prime target.”
“It was just a joke,” said Sam shrilly. “I told everyone that.”
She’s scared, thought Agatha.
“Did anyone threaten you?” she asked.
“No they did not!”
The vicar came out onto the terrace. “Why, Mrs. Raisin, what are you doing standing there? Is there any wine left in that bottle, dear?”
“Mrs. Raisin was just leaving,” said Clarice. Her eyes bored into Agatha’s face.
“As a matter of fact,” said Agatha brightly, “a glass of wine would be very nice.” She walked up to the table, pulled out a vacant chair, sat down and smiled all around.
“I’ll get you a glass,” said Clarice, suddenly transforming back into the character of vicar’s wife.
She rose and went indoors.
“I’m off,” said Sam, getting to her feet.
“What a pity,” said Agatha sweetly. “I’ve a few questions I wanted to ask you.”
“Haven’t got the time. Busy, busy, busy.” She rushed off.
“Well, Mrs. Raisin,” said the vicar. “How is your detecting going?”
Clarice came out with a glass, poured Agatha a little wine and thumped the glass down in front of her.
“Careful, darling,” admonished the vicar gently.
“Sorry,” mumbled Clarice.
“I am wondering why this village appears to have decided that the murders were committed by some visiting maniac,” said Agatha.
The vicar looked surprised. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. What about you, Clarice?”
“It does seem like the most sensible idea,” said Clarice. “I mean, everything’s peaceful again and there hasn’t been any more trouble.”
“I would hardly call murder ‘trouble,’” said Agatha.
“Exactly,” agreed the vicar. “But what can we do to help?”
Agatha felt frustrated. She turned to Clarice. “You were round at the back door of Gloria’s cottage when she was murdered. Didn’t you see anyone at all?”
“What’s this?” The vicar looked surprised. “I had already cancelled our visit to her.”
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br /> “I just suddenly wanted to get our Crown Derby bowl back,” said Clarice, shooting a venomous look at Agatha. “I told you I heard noises and thought she was having sex with someone.”
“My dear! Why didn’t you tell me this? And do the police know?”
“I didn’t want to get involved,” said Clarice. “I mean, I didn’t see anyone or hear anything apart from those odd noises.”
“But you might have been able to save her,” exclaimed the vicar. “And what on earth made you think she was having sex of all things?”
“She was always chasing one man or another,” said Clarice sulkily. “The way she came on to you, Guy, was a disgrace.”
Her husband looked genuinely shocked. “I’m sure you must have imagined it,” he said. “I never noticed anything.”
“You never do,” said Clarice bitterly.
Agatha decided wearily that she was not going to hear anything of interest no matter how long she stayed, but she did beg Clarice to think again and see if she could remember anything.
* * *
Outside, she phoned Phil, who said he had just arrived back at the pub and was in the garden if she would like a report.
She hurried back and found him sitting under the shade of an elm tree, sipping lemonade.
When he told her that Brian Summer was still in the village and still staying with Ada White, Agatha brightened up. Although she would not admit it to herself, she was constantly searching for something to take her mind off James and Mary back in Carsely.
* * *
Mary was away visiting relatives in Deale and James had an interview with the local paper. He hated interviews and yet he knew it was wise to publicise his books as much as possible. When he left the newspaper, he decided to call at the detective agency and see if Toni might be free for dinner. He felt she needed cheering up. It was seven in the evening, but he knew Toni often worked late.
Toni was there, and said she would be delighted. Simon was also at his desk and as Toni and James left, James turned round and found Simon scowling at him.
He hesitated on the stairs leading down from the office. “Maybe I should go back and ask Simon to join us.”
“No, please,” said Toni. “I’m with Simon most of the day and that’s long enough.”
“Where would you like to eat?”
“It’s still lovely weather. Anywhere we can sit outdoors.”
“The George Hotel has some tables out on the terrace. Let’s see if we can get one.”
Soon they were seated out in the terrace, looking out over the hotel garden at the back.
After they had ordered their food, Toni sat back in her chair with a sigh. “This is so kind of you. Perhaps I should have gone home and changed into something a bit smarter.”
“You look fine,” said James, and meant it. Toni’s blond hair had grown long and was worn loose. She was wearing a blue denim blouse which matched her eyes, a short denim skirt and low-heeled sandals.
“How’s Mary?” asked Toni.
“Gone to visit relatives. I’ve just endured a newspaper interview and I felt like relaxing. How’s Agatha getting on?”
“She’s gone back to Piddlebury with Phil. I haven’t had a report from her yet.”
“Had any trouble from Luke?”
“None at all. I can’t understand it. I’m a pretty good detective and I’m good at sizing up people, except when it comes to older men.”
“Well, if you find yourself gravitating to another one, bring him along to see Daddy James and I’ll look him over for you.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
“Tell me what cases you’ve got at the moment?” asked James.
Toni talked on during the meal. James watched her and thought he was not surprised that mature men fell for her. She was fresh and pretty.
As she talked, Toni thought that James was really very attractive with his bright blue eyes in his tanned face. Somehow, they both lingered over their coffee, reluctant to end the evening.
At last Toni said, “Thanks for dinner. It’s been great. When does Mary get back?”
“Not soon enough,” said James. “She’s supposed to run the tombola stand at the village fete on Saturday and it looks as if I’ll have to do it.”
“I tell you what,” said Toni, “I’ll come along and help you.”
“Would you? That would be great.”
* * *
Simon stared blindly at the television screen in his flat. He longed to phone Agatha and tell her that James had taken Toni out for dinner. But Toni would be furious and so would James. Still, he’d keep an eye on Toni.
* * *
Agatha saw Peter Suncliff seated at another table and went over to talk to him. “What now?” he asked.
“It turns out that Gloria had a drinking problem but she was a binge drinker and only went for the bottle when she was upset. Now, on the morning of the murder, apart from the confrontation with Jenny, was there anything else? Did anyone else upset her?”
“There was old Mrs. Tripp,” said Peter reluctantly. “She said something nasty to Jenny that Jenny was at the menopause and Mrs. Tripp weighed in with something like Jenny was too young but Gloria was not. I can’t remember the whole thing.”
Agatha went back to join Phil and told him what Peter had said. “Right,” said Phil, “we should go and see her.”
Agatha knew that the old lady would probably demand a reading from one of her romances first. “You go,” she said to Phil. “I’m sure you’ll have the gentler touch.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’ll go over my notes and see if there is anything we missed.”
“All right,” said Phil, but wondering why Agatha looked shifty.
Agatha watched Phil as he walked away. He was dressed for the heat in a grey cotton shirt and grey chinos. His white hair was thick and looked healthy. Remarkable for his age, thought Agatha, and then remembered gloomily that Phil did not smoke and drank sparingly.
* * *
“You’re that other detective,” said Mrs. Tripp, after she had opened the door to Phil. “Come in.”
Phil went into her cluttered living room. “Sit down,” she ordered, “and read to me.”
“I would like to ask you a few questions,” said Phil.
“Read first.”
She handed him a paperback called Deborah’s Desire. “Page fifty,” she ordered.
Phil felt trapped. The small room was hot. Sun flickered on the silver frames of the many photographs.
He opened the book and began to read. “The Marquess of Dulwater brooded over the cringing figure of Deborah. ‘Kiss me!’ he ordered. ‘I cannot,’ she sobbed. ‘You are taking advantage of me because I am poor.’”
Snore.
Phil looked up from the book. Mrs. Tripp had fallen asleep. He rose to leave. She opened her eyes. “Have you read?” she demanded.
“Pages and pages,” said Phil, hoping she believed him.
“Sit down,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“Have you any idea who committed these murders?”
“I tell you, it was some nut case from outside the village.”
“But you said before,” said Phil, consulting his notes, “that the vicar’s wife was guilty.”
“I thought she was but I was wrong.”
“Look,” said Phil patiently, “how could someone from outside the village get hold of Mrs. White’s elderberry wine and change it for a mixture of poison from rhubarb leaves and soda?”
“These maniacs can be right clever.”
“Suppose it turns out to be someone from the village. Have you any suggestion as to who it might be?”
“No, and you’re wasting your time. And be glad o’ that! Think on. If this murderer is someone in the village, then you’re next.” She gave a cackle of laughter and sent a blast of foul breath in Phil’s direction.
* * *
Agatha had figured out that if Brian Summer went out
walking, he would probably walk in the woods. She drove to the edge of the woods, got out of her car, and set off on foot. She was grateful for the cool greenness.
She had not expected to have much success in finding him but felt that any activity was better than none. If she did not come across him, then she would go to the farm and see if Mrs. White would let her wait for him.
After half an hour, Agatha began to think of the walk back and was just about to turn around when the trees opened up into a clearing and there, sitting on a fallen log, reading a book, was Brian Summer. He looked up and saw her, scrambled to his feet and stood poised for flight.
“I wondered why you had decided to stay on in the village,” said Agatha, advancing on him.
He sank down miserably back on the log. Agatha sat down beside him. He was as attractive as she had remembered him to be with his tall, lean body and thick white hair.
“After all the police questions, I suffered from depression. The police dug up all that stuff about the teenager dying at that party. You know about that?”
“Yes.”
“A doctor signed me off. It’s peaceful here. It’s one of the last villages in the Cotswolds which seems cut off from the outside world.”
“But here! Why here of all places? Two unsolved murders.”
“I felt I of all people had nothing to fear from the murderer.”
“Why?”
“I did not know Gloria French. I have no idea who might be the murderer.”
He was wearing shorts. Agatha cast a covert eye at his strong, muscular legs.
“Why don’t we have dinner this evening?” she suggested brightly.
“How very kind of you.” He rose to his feet with one fluid movement. “But I really prefer my own company at the moment.”
“Well, goodbye, Greta Garbo,” muttered Agatha to the uncaring trees as Brian strode away and was soon lost to sight.
* * *
Phil was arriving back from Mrs. Tripp’s house as she returned to the inn. “I haven’t had any luck,” he said. “She really doesn’t have the faintest idea. She’s just a silly old woman. And she smells.”
“I didn’t have any luck with Brian either,” said Agatha, thinking, In more ways than one. “Let’s have some tea and figure out which one to talk to next.”