by M C Beaton
She realized with a start that Paul had said something and both men were now looking curiously at her. She shut her mouth, which had a distressing tendency to droop open when she was worried about something.
“Agatha?” prompted Paul.
“What?”
“I was just explaining to Mr. Perry the reason for our interest in Mrs. Witherspoon’s cottage. And why don’t you sit down?”
Agatha sat down in a chair facing Mr. Perry.
“What you are really saying,” said Mr. Perry, “is that you believe there’s something fishy about the old woman’s death. You learned we had been trying to buy the house from her and thought, aha, sinister hotel chain will go to any lengths.”
“Something like that,” said Agatha, too taken aback to be anything other than honest. “But that was before we came here. It all seems very respectable.”
He looked amused. “The reason we wanted the place was because of the acreage at the back, and that, combined with the age of the house, made it seem ideal for our purposes.”
“But how did you even know about the place?” asked Agatha. “I mean, you wouldn’t know about that land at the back unless someone had told you.”
“Exactly.”
“So who told you?”
“I don’t remember all the details. I did not approach Mrs. Witherspoon myself. But we’ll have the file somewhere. He pressed a button on the intercom. “Susie, get me the file on…” He looked at Paul. “Name?”
“Ivy Cottage, Bag End, Hebberdon.”
“That’s Ivy Cottage, Bag End, Hebberdon,” said Mr. Perry into the intercom.
Agatha eyed a large glass ashtray on Mr. Perry’s desk. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not in the slightest. Would you like coffee?”
“Please.”
He pressed the intercom again. “After you’ve found the file, Susie, bring us some coffee.”
“Does she mind that?” asked Agatha curiously.
“Mind what?”
“Being asked to make coffee?”
“Oh, no, we’re a very old-fashioned firm.”
Susie came in and handed her boss a file.
Mr. Perry opened it. “Now, let me see. Ah, yes, we have a letter here. From the son, Harry Witherspoon.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Agatha, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
“We were misled. We were under the impression that it was his to sell. He sent us photographs of the house and grounds.”
“It’s his to sell now,” said Paul.
“I don’t think we would want it. Ah, Susie. Coffee. Excellent. Just put the tray on the table.”
Agatha looked curiously at Mr. Perry’s face. Had he had plastic surgery? He looked up and caught her staring. “I was in a car crash,” he said. “They did quite a good job of my face, but not quite natural, don’t you think?”
Agatha turned red with embarrassment. “Looks fine to me,” she said gruffly. “Why wouldn’t you want the cottage?”
“It would take a great deal of restoration, and a cottage like that is a listed building. I could not see us getting planning permission. It has quite a history. Our man found out about it when he was doing his research. During the Civil War, that is Roundheads and Cavaliers, a certain Cavalier, Sir Geoffrey Lamont, fled the Battle of Worcester and took refuge there. It was rumoured he was carrying a fortune in jewels and gold with him. He did not know that his host, Simon Lovesey, had become a Cromwell sympathizer, and Lovesey betrayed him. Sir Geoffrey was hanged on Tower Hill.”
“And what happened to his fortune?” asked Agatha.
“Nobody seems to know. Shortly after betraying him, Lovesey died of consumption, which was what they called tuberculosis in those days.”
They helped themselves to coffee and talked about the price of houses until Mr. Perry said he had an appointment in a few minutes and so they took their leave.
“Do you think there is buried treasure?” asked Agatha excitedly as they drove back.
“Not for a moment.”
“Oh, you! No romance in your soul. I’d like to search.”
“Well, you can’t. I am not breaking into Ivy Cottage.”
“We might not need to break in. Look, when we go to the funeral, Harry’s bound to have laid on some sort of reception at the house.”
“So?”
“So we join the other mourners and I get the key out of the front door and take it to a locksmiths, nip back and replace the original.”
“I think there’s an easier way,” said Paul. “I’m sure Harry will put the house up for sale as soon as the funeral is over. All we need to do is to wait a few days, find out which estate agent, and say we want to look the house over. In the meantime, it might be an idea to find out more about the history of the house. But don’t go dreaming of buried treasure. If there had been anything, it would have been found ages ago. There might be a secret way into the house.”
“Let’s go and see Mrs. Bloxby and find out if there’s a historical society which might have details about Ivy Cottage,” said Agatha.
“There’s a historical society in Towdey,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Do you know Towdey?”
“I know it’s quite near Hebberdon,” said Agatha, “but I’ve never actually been there.”
“It’s quite big, a bit like Blockley. Used to be a mill town in the eighteenth century. I don’t know who runs the society, but you could drive over there and ask.”
“We’ll do that,” said Agatha. “I suppose we’d best go to the inquest tomorrow. Bound to be a verdict of accidental death.”
But Agatha and Paul were in for a surprise.
The following morning found them both sitting at the back of the coroner’s court in Mircester.
“There’s a jury,” exclaimed Paul.
“Don’t they always have one?” asked Agatha.
“Not always. The coroner summoned a jury, and the very inquest means the police aren’t satisfied about the cause of death.”
“But I thought they always had an inquest when there’s a sudden death and the deceased hadn’t visited their doctor recently.”
“Shhh! Here’s the coroner.”
Agatha stifled a giggle. The coroner looked as if he were dead. He was a tall thin man with a cadaverous face and stooped shoulders. His skin was yellowish and he gave a brief smile to the jury that looked more like a rictus.
The first witness was the policeman who had arrived on the scene at the same time as the ambulance. He said he found the deceased lying at the bottom of the staircase with her head at an awkward angle. She was in her night-clothes. The ambulance arrived at the same time. The body was examined for signs of life. None were found. Mrs. Witherspoon’s daughter had found her mother lying at the foot of the stairs and had summoned the emergency services.
Had the policeman suspected foul play? No, he said. The daughter, Miss Witherspoon, had said her mother suffered from high blood pressure and had probably had a seizure. Mrs. Witherspoon’s doctor, Dr. Firb, had been summoned, but had refused to sign the death certificate.
The next on the witness stand was Dr. Firb. He said that he had refused to sign a death certificate, preferring to wait for the police pathologist’s report. “Did you think the death suspicious?” asked the coroner.
“Not really,” said Dr. Firb. “But the circumstances seemed odd. She was admittedly an elderly lady suffering from high blood pressure, but she was very good about monitoring her blood pressure and taking her pills, and remarkably fit. I could see no signs of a stroke. Her neck appeared to have been broken. I assumed that was because of the fall but I wanted to be sure.”
There were various other questions regarding the late Mrs. Witherspoon’s mental and physical health which the doctor answered at great length while Agatha stifled a yawn. The coroner’s court was hot and dusty. The long Palladian windows looked as if they had not been washed since the eighteenth century and only weak shafts of sunlight penetrated the grime.
Agatha’
s eyes began to droop. Soon she was asleep and only woke when Paul nudged her in the ribs an hour later and muttered, “You’re snoring.”
“Eh, what?” said Agatha loudly.
All eyes turned on her and she blushed. Carol Witherspoon was weeping on the stand.
“I do not want to prolong your ordeal,” said the coroner gently. “I understand you went over to see your mother as usual?”
Carol scrubbed her eyes fiercely with a damp handkerchief.
“Yes, I did,” she said loudly. She glared around the courtroom until her red-rimmed eyes focused on her brother, Harry. “And it’s more than he ever did!”
“To whom are you referring?”
“My brother. Harry. Never bothered about her, hardly ever went to see her and she leaves the lot to him! Well, I tell you this. He probably killed her!”
“I understand you are overwrought, Miss Witherspoon, but I would advise you to be careful with what you say.”
A lone reporter from a local paper, who had been yawning on the press bench, straightened up eagerly and began to scribble furiously.
“I’m saying it all looks odd to me,” howled Carol, now beside herself with rage. “His business is on the rocks. Have you found out about that?”
“Remove the witness,” said the coroner.
A policewoman led the enraged Carol away from the witness stand.
“You’ve missed the best bits,” hissed Paul.
The coroner addressed the jury. “You will disregard the accusations of the last witness. You have heard the various reports. It appears that Mrs. Witherspoon, despite her age, was fit and well up until the time of her death. Before that, she had felt herself threatened by mysterious hauntings. The pathologist has stated that the deceased died of a broken neck. This might appear that Mrs. Witherspoon died of a fatal fall down the stairs of her home, Ivy Cottage, in Hebberdon. Nonetheless, there was a black bruise on the front of her neck, commensurate with a sharp blow to that region of the body. The forensic report states that there were no fingerprints on the banister. The steps were thickly carpeted. Had Mrs. Witherspoon fallen, she would surely have clutched at the banisters at some point to try to break her fall. Neither could the forensic team find any marks anywhere on the staircase which might match the fatal wound on her neck. You may retire to consider your verdict.”
The jury took only fifteen minutes to come to their decision. “Murder by person or persons unknown.”
Agatha looked around the court for Harry Witherspoon, but he had disappeared.
“He can’t sell the house now,” whispered Paul. “Not until they find out who did it.”
Back in Carsely, Agatha said, “It’s all so obvious.”
“What is?” asked Paul. “It’s begun to rain and your cats are out in the garden. Will I let them in?”
“Open the door and they’ll come in if they want. They’re odd cats. They like rain. Obvious? I mean, it’s obviously Harry who did it. He must have known he was due to inherit everything. His business is in trouble, Mother is old but looks likely to go on for a good few years.”
“Don’t let it stop us from looking for other suspects.”
“Like who?”
“Percy Fleming.”
“What! The fantasy writer? Why him?”
“Just a thought. Maybe he got carried away with dislike of her and thought he was one of the characters in his books, Thor the Avenger, or something.”
“Wait a bit,” said Agatha. “We’re forgetting the hauntings. I can’t see Harry messing about with dry ice and bumps in the night. Why would he want to drive her out of a valuable property he knew he stood to inherit?”
“Could be he wanted to frighten her to death,” said Paul.
“He knew her. She was his mother. He must have known it wouldn’t be easy to frighten her. I feel restless,” said Agatha. “Let’s have something to eat and drive over to Towdey.” She opened the lid of a large freezer chest and pulled out several frosted packets and tried to scrape the ice of them to see what they were.
“Never mind,” said Paul quickly. He was sure the stuff Agatha was looking at had been in that freezer chest for years. We’ll go now. There’s bound to be someplace in Towdey where we can get a meal. I’ve got a car.”
“I know. The MG.”
“No, I got one for running around.”
The cats came in and wound their wet bodies around Agatha’s legs. “Shut the door before they get out again,” said Agatha. She picked up her handbag. “Let’s go.”
The village of Towdey was buried down in a fold of the Cotswold hills. The sun had come out again and mellow terraces of Georgian houses gleamed in the watery yellow light. Paul’s car, an old Ford Escort, crunched over a mat of straw at the entrance to the village, left there from the days when it had been soaked in disinfectant at the height of the foot-and-mouth epidemic.
Paul followed the sign directing them to the centre of the village. “Oh, look,” he said. “There’s a pub and it’s got a menu on a blackboard outside.”
He parked in front of the pub and they both got out and studied the menu. “Whatever happened to cheap village meals?” moaned Agatha. “It’s got things like sea bass and fillet steak at awful prices. I don’t feel like eating a grand meal.”
“Let’s try it anyway,” said Paul. “Maybe they’ve got a bar menu inside with simpler things.”
The pub was Tudor, older than the surrounding eighteenth-century buildings. It was low-beamed and dark inside. A barman with an accent like Inspector Clouseau asked them what they wanted. Paul explained that they wanted a light snack and they were told to go through to the public bar, all with that hard-eyed look and slightly curled lip that the French do so well.
The public bar was across a stone-flagged passage from the lounge bar where the “posh” meals were served.
The lounge bar had been empty but there were a good few people in the public bar. It was a long low room with a bare wooden floor and several tables and chairs. There was no one behind the bar but there was a bell on it with a little sign saying RING FOR SERVICE. Paul rang. Inspector Clouseau appeared.
“Ye-e-es?” he drawled.
“The cheap menu, please,” said Paul, becoming irritated.
A plastic laminated card was handed to him. Paul read out the brief menu: “Cod and chips, lasagne and chips, egg and chips or chicken curry.”
“Prices?” asked Agatha.
“Extraordinary.”
“High?”
“Very high for the junk listed here.”
Paul handed the menu back. “Forget it,” he said.
Clouseau flounced off.
“We’ll get somewhere else later,” said Paul.
“How on earth can they survive?” demanded Agatha angrily as they walked outside. “I mean, the pub isn’t even on the tourist route.” She half turned back. “Maybe it’s a front for something.”
“One case at a time,” said Paul, drawing her away. “Let’s walk along a bit. There might be a shop and we can ask about the historical society.”
They walked along past rows of cottages. There were no gardens at the front but there were climbing roses hanging in front of the doors of some, growing out of tubs.
“There’s a shop,” said Paul. “Towdey Grocery and Post Office.”
But the shop was closed. “Must be half-day.” Paul peered in the window. “Aren’t some British shopkeepers amazing. They seem to have learned nothing from the Asians.”
“Look!” Agatha pointed to one of the cards in the window.
Among cards offering gardening services, baby-sitting, second-hand lawn-mowers, washing machines and bicycles was a neat card headed TOWDEY HISTORICAL SOCIETY. Underneath was typed: “Roundheads and Cavaliers. Historical discussion on the royalist connections of Towdey in the Seventeenth Century. Meeting: Wednesday evenings at 7:30P.M. in the Church Room.”
“And that’s this evening,” said Paul with satisfaction. “May as well go to our respective hom
es and get something to eat.”
“He might at least have offered to whip me up an omelette,” grumbled Agatha to her cats as she defrosted a microwave meal and hoped it was something she felt like eating. The frost had been so thick that she could not read the label.
She felt uneasily that they were wasting time going to this historical society. Ten to one, Harry Witherspoon had murdered his mother.
Five
AGATHA Raisin lay in a scented bath and wondered whether it was all worth getting out of it, getting dressed, and going to the Towdey Historical Society. This was not because she was sure Harry was the murderer, but rather because she felt a need to relax-a rare need. Normally Agatha never felt comfortable just sloping around, doing nothing. The fact was she was fed up with herself for always going to endless lengths to prepare herself and dress up for men who were not worth the effort. Paul is married, remember that, she told herself severely.
Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, sat on the edge of the bath and stared at her solemnly as if agreeing with her thoughts.
Hidden treasure and secret passages. It all reminded her of the comics she had read as a child. Still-someone had got into that house…
With a sigh, she rose out of the now tepid water and dried herself. She then studied her body in the mirror. Her breasts were still high, and she had no cellulite or stretch marks. But there was a slackening of the skin at the waist, at the stomach, and under her chin. She decided to do some waist exercises the following day. She had always had a thick waistline. No sense in letting it get worse.
She rebelled against the idea of wearing pretty underwear. Why bother when she was going out with a married man? She put on a pair of white cotton knickers and a white cotton bra and then went through to the bedroom and selected a comfortable linen trouser suit and white blouse. Agatha resisted the temptation to put on high heels. She was just making her way downstairs with the cats running in front of her when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch. Paul was right on time.