Something Borrowed, Someone Dead: An Agatha Raisin Mystery (Agatha Raisin Mysteries)

by M C Beaton

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Moses Green. “You have a visitor, Mrs. Raisin. I didn’t tell him you were here in case it was someone you didn’t want to see.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A Mr. Roy Silver.”

  “Oh, he’s all right. Send him through.”

  Roy once worked for Agatha when she ran her own public relations firm. When he entered the pub garden, Agatha stared at him in amazement. Despite the warmth of the day, he was wearing a flat tweed cap, a hacking jacket over a Tattersall shirt, knee breeches, lovat socks and brogues.

  “Who on earth are you supposed to be?” demanded Agatha.

  “It’s my country look,” said Roy huffily.

  “It’s not you at all. What brings you?”

  “I’ve got a week’s holiday.” Roy sat down in a chair opposite her and pulled off his cap and mopped his rather weak face with a silk handkerchief. “I thought I’d help you detect. Are the press around?”

  “No,” said Agatha with a malicious smile, knowing Roy’s craving for personal publicity. “Your journey was not necessary. What have you been working on?”

  “I’ve been drumming up publicity for Country Air.”

  “What on earth is that?”

  “It’s a new fragrance for men. Husky and redolent of the outdoors.”

  “Any success?”

  “Lots. Hence the time off. I wore this outfit to the launch, sweetie, and I tell you, it was much admired. But you’re right. Wait here while I change.”

  Roy appeared half an hour later in a pink shirt, denim shorts, and trainers. He had a gold medallion nestling in the hair on his chest.

  “I gather that hair is stuck on,” said Agatha.

  “It looks real,” said Roy petulantly. “Are you going to fill me in on these murders or sit there nit-picking?”

  Agatha, glad of an excuse to clear her thoughts, went over everything she knew.

  “The one you don’t seem to have an interview with is the vicar, Enderbury. Why not?”

  “Seems an unlikely candidate.”

  “Why? Just because he’s a reverend? Hidden fire in some of these church folk. I remember a curate…”

  “Spare me. Okay. Have it your way. We’ll drop along to the vicarage.”

  “Odd sort of place,” commented Roy as they emerged from the pub. “Doesn’t look as if time has touched it.”

  “Well, murder has.”

  “How’s James?”

  “Why do you ask?” demanded Agatha sharply.

  “I called in at Carsely first. All over the village is the news that James has dumped a sterling female called Mary Gotobed—only she didn’t. Get it?” Roy cackled and did two cartwheels along the road.

  “Stop acting the clown,” said Agatha crossly. “If you’re going to help me detect, try to act like a detective.”

  Mrs. Pound, the vicarage cleaner, answered the door and said the vicar was in the church.

  They walked to the church and pushed open the door. Despite the warmth of the day outside, the church was cold and smelled of incense and damp hassocks. It was a Gothic revival building with beautiful stained-glass windows. The vicar was kneeling before the altar, his head bent in prayer.

  Agatha coughed loudly. Guy Enderbury looked around and got reluctantly to his feet.

  He walked towards them, demanding harshly, “What is it now?”

  “Just a few questions,” said Agatha.

  “You saw I was at prayer,” said Guy. “There is no respect these days. I blame the slap-happy type of service that is ruining the Church of England. Do you know the meaning of the word ‘awe’?”

  Agatha shuffled her feet and looked embarrassed. Guy fixed Roy with a piercing eye. “And what about you, young man? Come on. What do you know about the word ‘awe’?”

  Roy tittered and began to sing in a high falsetto, “Aw, dear, what can the matter be / Two old ladies locked in the lavatory.”

  “It is not a joking matter. No one anymore feels the presence of the Almighty. And why? Why?”

  “Could we have this deep discussion another time?” said Agatha. “I want to find out who committed these murders and no one in this village seems to care.”

  “And just what do you think I was doing?” demanded Guy. “I was praying for help. I will let you know when I get an answer.”

  “How will you know it’s not yourself talking to yourself?” asked Agatha. “I’m afraid these days that the police demand proof.”

  “Once I know who it is,” said the vicar, “I will be pointed in the right direction. Now, if you will excuse me…”

  “Come on, Roy,” said Agatha, who had come to the conclusion that the vicar was bonkers.

  They stood in the church porch. “Got your brolly?” asked Roy. “Hasn’t it got dark?”

  “That man is a bottle of communion wine short of a chalice,” said Agatha. “Praying for an answer. I’ve never heard such a load of rubbish.”

  A jagged flash of lightning struck the ground in front of the porch and a great crack of thunder crashed about their ears.

  “Yipes!” said Roy, clutching Agatha. “Maybe he got an answer.”

  “Or maybe I got an answer,” said Agatha. “He’s mad. I never noticed that before. Let’s run before we get soaked.”

  But a curtain of rain was sweeping through the village and they had to go to their rooms in the inn and change into dry clothes.

  By the time they met up again, the storm was rolling away to the east and a thin, pale sunlight was bathing the village. Water was dripping down from the thatched roofs.

  “Now what?” asked Roy.

  “I want to have a talk to Clarice, the vicar’s wife.”

  “He scares me. What if he’s there?”

  “So what. He’s just a religious nut.”

  They walked to the vicarage, Agatha striding ahead and Roy trailing reluctantly behind.

  * * *

  Toni had said a firm goodbye to her latest date the evening before. After James Lacey’s company, the young man seemed shallow and boring. She had just finished with the latest find-out-if-my-husband-is-cheating-on-me case and she felt listless and lonely. She returned to the office and typed up her report. To her irritation, Simon was patiently waiting for her. “Fancy a meal?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, I want an early night,” said Toni.

  Simon sadly watched her blond head as she bent over her computer keyboard before saying, “Goodnight.”

  Toni finished her report, but instead of going home, she got into her car and drove to Carsely. In Lilac Lane, she noticed with a sudden beating of her heart that James’s car was parked outside his cottage. She parked her car and then tried to tell herself not to be silly.

  James was inside, packing his suitcase. He felt ashamed of his treatment of Mary and knew he had raised hopes of marriage in her. As he earned most of his money by writing travel books, he had good excuse to get out of the village. He had naïvely tried to pretend that theirs was only a village friendship when he had seen her briefly in the village shop. When he had told her he was going on his travels, she had started to cry and had clutched hold of his sleeve as if to stop him leaving, watched by the curious eyes of some of the villagers.

  “I feel like a cad,” he said out loud. A sudden fear she might be lurking outside made him look out of his front window. He recognised Toni’s little car. He flung open the door. “Toni!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

  Toni got out of her car, her face pink with embarrassment. “I had some financial reports for Agatha and I put them through her letterbox.”

  “I say, have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m going off on my travels but I’d like something to eat first. Join me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  * * *

  Agatha and Roy were just approaching the vicarage when they met Clarice, who shied at the sight of them like a startled horse.

  “Can’t speak,” sh
e said. “Got to read to old Mrs. Tripp.”

  “I thought she was in hospital,” said Agatha.

  “Got out today and Guy insists I look after her.”

  “We’ll do it,” said Agatha, anxious to find out whether the old lady might have an idea of who it was had spiked her drink with laxative.

  “Oh, would you? Thanks most awfully. She gives me the creeps.”

  “And may we call on you afterwards?”

  “What? Oh, well, I suppose so. Who’s this?”

  “Sorry. Friend of mine, Roy Silver. Roy, Clarice Enderbury. See you later.”

  “So I get to see the horrible Mrs. Tripp,” said Roy.

  “We have to read to her first. Then with any luck we might get some information out of her.”

  * * *

  They rang the bell at Mrs. Tripp’s cottage and then they could hear her calling, “The door’s open.”

  They went into her parlour, where the old lady sat, wrapped in a large grey shawl.

  “Who’s this?” demanded Mrs. Tripp, looking Roy up and down. “Toy boy?”

  “A colleague of mine, Roy Silver.”

  “Don’t look much like a detective to me,” commented Mrs. Tripp. “Puff of wind would blow you away, young man.”

  “I’m ever so fearfully strong and I’ve a black belt in karate,” lied Roy.

  “Well, well, don’t stand there. Read to me.” She handed Agatha a copy of a book called The Colours of White. “Page ninety-two.”

  Agatha and Roy sat down and Agatha turned to page ninety-two. “He tied her to the bed,” she began, “and he could feel the rousing of his passion. ‘Slut!’ he said and struck her across her face. ‘I’m going to f…’”

  Agatha stared at the old lady. “Do you enjoy this filth?”

  “Great stuff,” cackled Mrs. Tripp. “Read on.”

  “I would like to ask you a few questions,” said Agatha.

  “Read!”

  Agatha decided maliciously to make it all up. “The door burst open and Jason Strongfellow erupted into the room. He felled Jasper with a single blow to the jaw and then released Felicity and gathered her trembling body in his strong arms.”

  “She’s asleep,” whispered Roy. “She’s got some nice stuff here, but so many photographs.”

  “She was in service.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait,” said Agatha. “She’ll wake up soon.”

  * * *

  I’m not doing anything wrong, James Lacey told himself as he looked across the table in a Thai restaurant in Evesham at Toni’s glowing face. I’m only being a friend to her.

  They were seated at a window table, and across the street, Carsely gossip Mrs. Arnold, who had followed them, studied their happy faces avidly. She drove back to her cottage and looked up Agatha’s e-mail address and began to write.

  * * *

  “Why have you stopped reading?” demanded Mrs. Tripp suddenly.

  “Been reading for ages,” said Agatha. “Now, you must have an idea of who put that stuff in your drink. Who visited you that day?”

  “There was Jenny Soper. She often shops for me. She came with that Peter Suncliff. Let me see. Henry Bruce came to unstop the sink. Vicar called round to say his wife would be coming to read to me. Ada White and her husband called with some scones.”

  Agatha groaned. “It seems as if one of an awful lot of people could have done it. Are you sure you don’t know which one?”

  “Nary a clue.”

  The old lady looked so complacent that Agatha said crossly, “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “When you get to my age, death ain’t so scary. Besides, I had a good clean-out.”

  Roy suddenly said, “You know, I think you’ve got a good idea who is responsible. I think you must know an awful lot about everyone in this village.”

  “Oh, get out of here, you piece of piss,” said Mrs. Tripp viciously. “Go on!”

  * * *

  Outside, Agatha asked Roy, “Why did you say that?”

  “Just thought I would needle her and see what happened. I’m hungry.”

  “Let’s go to the pub. I could do with a drink,” said Agatha. “I hope they’re still serving. It’s pretty late.”

  Moses told them dinner was over but his wife could make them ham omelettes. Agatha went up to her room and brought down her laptop. “I’ll just check if there are any urgent e-mails,” she said, putting it on the table and switching it on.

  “Too late. Here’s our food,” said Roy.

  Agatha put her computer on the table next to them. They ate in silence, each immersed in their own thoughts. Roy was wondering if his trip was a waste of time. Nothing was happening, and nothing happening meant no press, and no press meant no publicity for himself.

  Agatha found her thoughts turning to James Lacey. He was going to marry Mary Gotobed. Surely Toni was safe.

  She moved to the next table and switched on her computer. She scowled when she saw there was a letter from Mrs. Arnold. She clicked on it and read: “Dear Mrs. Raisin, I thought you ought to know that Mr. Lacey has cruelly spurned Mary Gotobed and turned his attentions to a girl young enough to be his granddaughter, namely Toni Gilmour. They were lovey-dovey in a restaurant in Evesham this evening. It’s disgraceful and ought to be stopped. Yrs. Rose Arnold.”

  “What’s up?” asked Roy. “You look as if someone’s poisoned you.”

  “It’s James,” said Agatha bleakly. “He’s romancing Toni.”

  “Go on. He’s always been like an uncle to her.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” said Roy. “You’ve interfered in Toni’s life before. She’d never forgive you and you’d lose a good detective. James is a sensible man.”

  * * *

  “So I’m off on my travels,” said James as he drove Toni back to Carsely to pick up her car.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Various places in Spain. I’m doing a budget holiday book and with the recession in Spain there are a lot of holiday bargains.”

  “Sounds great,” said Toni wistfully. “I haven’t had a holiday in ages.”

  “I say, why not come with me? I could cover your expenses.”

  “I’ve got holiday owing. But what would Agatha say?”

  “Agatha needn’t know.”

  “I’ll phone her now. The work’s just begun to slack off. I’ll need to lie.”

  Toni arranged to meet James at Birmingham Airport on the following morning, where he would arrange a ticket for her. She said goodbye to him and then parked a little way up the road and called Agatha.

  “This is very short notice,” said Toni, “but a friend of mine has a villa in Bulgaria and I’ve got a chance of a free holiday. I’d like to go off tomorrow for two weeks. Work has gone slack so everything will be okay.”

  “Have you seen James?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes,” said Toni. “We had dinner and then he took off for the airport. He’s been very kind to me. I’ll miss his company.”

  “I’m surprised you have anything in common. He’s so very much older than you.”

  “Well, he’s always been like one of the family. I’ll phone Mrs. Freedman tomorrow and bring her up to date. I really could do with a holiday.”

  “It’s all very sudden. I’ll go to the office myself tomorrow and allocate the work. Have a good time.”

  When Agatha rang off, she said to Roy, “Everything’s okay. That was Toni. She’s off to Bulgaria to stay at a friend’s villa and James has gone off on his travels. She does seem to think of him as some sort of relative.”

  “And is James going to Bulgaria?”

  “Oh, drop it, Roy. I’ve been worrying about nothing. I’m going up to the office tomorrow. Want to come?”

  “I’ll stay here. I might find out something.”

  * * *

  Roy was a bit of a fantasist. When Agatha had left the following day, he dreamed of finding out the identity of the murderer and seein
g his own photograph on the front page of all the newspapers. The more he thought about it, the surer he became that the vicar was the culprit. The man was obviously a religious maniac.

  He decided to stalk Clarice and catch her on her own. Villagers looked at him curiously as he hung about the village street near the vicarage. A pretty, young woman who introduced herself as Jenny Soper at last accosted him and asked if she could help.

  “I’m down here to help Agatha find the murderer,” said Roy.

  “And who does Mrs. Raisin think it is?”

  “She hasn’t a clue. But I know.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I only need a little more proof. Wait and see.”

  Jenny went off to do her shopping at the village store. She was hailed by Peter Suncliff. “What’s that odd young man doing hanging about?”

  “He’s convinced he knows the identity of the murderer.”

  The little shop was crowded. There was a startled silence.

  Henry Bruce said, “Do you think he really knows something?”

  “Not really,” said Jenny. “I mean, he would have told that Raisin woman and she’s gone off to London.”

  “Is anyone going to carry my groceries for me?” demanded Mrs. Tripp.

  The villagers began to melt away. No one wanted to be trapped into reading to old Mrs. Tripp.

  Clarice Enderbury had already done her shopping. She hurried out into the main street. Roy came rushing up to meet her. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.

  “I’m busy,” snapped Clarice. “What do you want?”

  The villagers had crowded out of the shop behind Clarice, but stopped to listen.

  “In my opinion, your husband is the murderer,” said Roy.

  Clarice’s green eyes bored into him. “You will be hearing from our lawyers. I’ll sue your socks off. That’s slander. That’s defamation of character.”

  “I said, ‘In my opinion,’” panted Roy. “You can’t sue me.”

  “Wait and see,” said Clarice grimly.

  Peter Suncliff strode forward. “Get out of our village, you little pipsqueak. We don’t want you here.”

  Roy cringed as he looked from one angry face to the other. For a second, he seemed to see them dressed in seventeenth-century clothes and out on a witch hunt. He scampered off back to the inn.