by M C Beaton
Agatha submitted herself to a full treatment of non-surgical face-lift, body wrap and leg wax before emerging some hours later feeling rejuvenated. She wandered around Fenwick’s and fell in love with a pink chiffon dress and bought it, despite the warning voices in her head telling her that at her age she would look like the late Barbara Cartland. For once, she enjoyed being back in London, enjoyed the buzz of being in a big city. She secured a table at one of London ’s most fashionable restaurants by dint of booking the table under the name of the Duchess of Cromarty. She finished a lavish meal with a portion of the restaurant’s famous chocolate cream pie and then made her way back to where she had parked her car, feeling that the meal had negated all the good of the body wrap. Her skirt felt tight at the waistband.
On the road home, a horrendous accident resulting in a tailback along the M40 caused her an hour’s delay. All the well-being she had experienced at escaping from Carsely left her. She fretted about her cats. She should never have left them locked up inside all day.
As she turned down the Carsely road, she warred with herself. One part of her mind was telling her to leave well alone. The other part was telling her that if she could find out anything about the murders, then it might cancel out some of the guilt she felt over the blunder of finding the secret passage and cleaning it up and over Robin’s death. As she got out of the car, she noticed that the thick curtains which covered her living-room windows were tightly closed. She must have forgotten to pull them back before she left.
She let herself into her cottage and paused in the darkness of the hall. No cats came to greet her. She put out her hand towards the light switch and then stared in horror at the closed door of her sitting-room. A light was shining from under the door. Terror made her behave stupidly. Instead of retreating to her car, driving off and calling the police, or running next door to get help from Paul, she seized a stout walking-stick from a stand by the door and flung open the door of the sitting-room.
Sir Charles Fraith was curled up asleep on the sofa, the cats on his lap. “How the hell did you get in here?” howled Agatha.
He opened his eyes and smiled and stretched with the same lazy insolence as her cats, who both slinked down from the sofa to wind themselves around her legs. “Don’t you remember, Aggie? I have a set of keys. You gave them to me ages ago. You do look ferocious.”
“Where’s your car? I didn’t see it.”
“Down the lane at the end.”
Agatha sank down in a chair and surveyed him. “You nearly frightened me to death. You look…different.”
The pompous married Charles she had last seen, fat with thinning hair, had disappeared. In his place was the old Charles, neat, slim and impeccably tailored and with a full head of hair.
“Have you had a hair weave?”
“No, I got over the cancer. The chemotherapy was making it fall out.”
“Cancer!” squeaked Agatha in horror. She remembered when James had had cancer and had not told her and her heart gave a lurch. “You didn’t tell me!”
“Didn’t tell most people. They all begin to act funny.”
“Cancer of what?”
“The lung.”
“Blimey!”
“Yes, blimey. But I’m cured and as fit as a fiddle.”
“How’s the wife and children?”
“Can I have a drink?”
Agatha stood up and went over to the drinks cupboard, saying over her shoulder, “Not like you not to help yourself.”
“I meant to. But after I had read the local papers I fell asleep. Scotch, Aggie, a malt if you’ve got it.”
Agatha poured him a generous measure and then one for herself.
“Cheers,” she said, sitting down. “You haven’t answered my question. How’s the family?”
“Gone. All gone.”
“What happened?”
While I was in hospital, she nipped back to Paris and fell in love with someone twenty years younger. He’s French, rich, well-connected. Her family forked out a fortune for the divorce.”
“How dreadful! Your children! How you must miss them!”
He took a sip of his drink. “I have visiting rights and they can come and stay with Papa any time they want. I doubt if they will. Like a couple of little aliens. Very dark and French. Wouldn’t speak English.”
“You must have felt shattered.”
He looked amused. “On the contrary, I thought I was blessed. No more cancer, no more nagging French wife. Goodbye to both.”
Agatha surveyed him curiously. “People who recover from cancer are usually very spiritual. I mean, they feel they have been given a second chance at life, sort of born again.”
Charles looked amused. “Do they? How odd.”
Selfish and self-centred and self-contained as ever, thought Agatha.
“So what brings you?”
“A mixture of curiosity and boredom. My aunt has turned the whole house over to some fund-raising gala for the Red Cross. I’ve got to get out of this, I thought. There’s murder and mayhem been going on over in Aggie’s direction, and I bet myself you were in the thick of it.”
“I wish I weren’t,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell you about it. But first, do you mind if I go upstairs and put on something more comfortable?”
“Not at all.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “I thought you would never ask.”
Agatha went upstairs and put on a black-and-gold caftan she had bought years ago in Turkey and changed out of her high heels and put on slippers. It was nice to see Charles, she reflected. She wouldn’t have to bother about her appearance.
She went back downstairs and called to her cats, filled up their food bowls with some fish she had poached before she left and then opened the garden door so that they could get out after they had finished eating.
Outside, at the end of Lilac Lane, Mrs. Davenport walked away. Agatha had re-entered the living room and drawn back the curtains. Earlier, Mrs. Davenport had seen a man let himself in. In her handbag, she had Juanita’s address. She had got it by being in the general stores at just the right time. It had transpired that Juanita was extremely fond of the local fudge and had written to order a box of it. “I’ll send her one as well,” Mrs. Davenport had said. “I had her address but I’ve lost it.” Having secured the address, she had written a letter to Juanita to inform her that her husband was having an affair with Agatha Raisin. She did not sign it. No reason to let the formidable Mrs. Raisin know that she was the one who had informed on her.
Agatha sat down. “That’s better,” she said. “I like the curtains open when I’m at home. I only close them when I go to bed.”
“So tell me all about it,” said Charles.
Agatha began at the beginning and went on to the end, soothed by Charles’s capacity for listening.
“What a mess,” he commented when she had finished. “Before I give you my views, what about Paul? Am I interfering in your love life?”
“He’s married. Anyway, how could you interfere?”
“I took the liberty of unpacking my things in the spare room.”
“You do assume a lot, you cheeky sod. All right, you can stay. So what do you think of the murders? I cannot believe for a moment this Harry Witherspoon is the murderer.”
“Why? He’s the only one who stood to gain from her death.”
“I know, I know. I can imagine him doing the first one but not the second. He and his sister asked Paul and me to find the murderer of their mother.”
“You left that bit out.”
“Sorry.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“I’m sure he’s been with the police for a long time. We could try tomorrow. It would be only polite to tell Paul and see if he wants to go with us.”
There was a sharp ring at the doorbell.
“It’s a bit late for anyone to be calling,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “Hope it’s not that awful Runcorn. I don’t feel up to him tonight.”
She
opened the door. Paul stood there. “I saw your car,” he said.
“Come in,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a friend here.”
She led the way into the living-room and introduced Charles. “Charles helped me on a lot of previous cases,” said Agatha.
“We thought we’d go and see Harry Witherspoon tomorrow,” said Charles. He yawned and stretched. “You tell him about it, Aggie. I’m off to bed.” He walked towards the door and then turned and smiled at Agatha. “Don’t be long, dear,” he said.
There was an awkward silence.
Then Agatha said, “It’s not what you think. Charles is just a friend.”
“A pretty intimate one, it seems to me,” said Paul. “I’d better go.”
“Don’t you want to come with us to see Harry tomorrow?”
“No, I’ll be off. Three’s a crowd.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly. I’ll send Charles away.”
“No need for that. I’ve got work to do anyway.” Paul left, looking decidedly huffy.
He returned to his own cottage. Two of the ladies of the village who had tried to court his company when he had first arrived had warned him about Agatha Raisin. They had hinted she’d had affairs. This had intrigued him and it was what had prompted him to approach Agatha in the first place. He had been quite disappointed at first to find himself faced with, not a femme fatale, but a prickly middle-aged woman. After he had got to know Agatha, he had admitted to himself that there was something very sexy about her, but the fact that he sensed the vulnerability under the hard shell had kept him from making any serious advances to her. He suddenly missed his volatile wife. He reached out for the phone and then decided against it. She would say the usual thing-if he loved her he would live in Spain -and they would end up having a row.
He did not feel sleepy. He switched on his computer. He would type out everything they had found out about the case and see if he could find a lead. It would be nice if he could solve the murders himself.
Agatha marched into the spare bedroom where Charles was lying, reading. “Did you have to go and imply we were having an affair?” she demanded.
“Bit of fun, Aggie. Anyway, he shouldn’t be sniffing around. You said your Watson was married.”
“He’s not all that married,” said Agatha sulkily.
“Married is married. Anyway, he’s a geek. A handsome one, I grant you, but a geek all the same. Not much personality.”
“Jealous, Charles?”
“Me! Never. Come and join me.”
“Don’t you ever give up?”
“Worth a try,” said Charles, stretching lazily.
Agatha went out and banged the door.
She awoke early next morning to the sound of frying bacon. She rose and washed and dressed and went down to the kitchen. “I was just about to call you,” said Charles, standing at the stove. “Breakfast’s nearly ready.”
“Do make yourself free with my groceries,” said Agatha.
“I have done. One egg or two?”
“One.
“I don’t usually have breakfast, as you know,” said Agatha, sitting down at the table. “I usually just have a cup of coffee.”
“This’ll do you good.” He slid a plate of sausage, bacon and egg in front of her.
“I feel guilty about Paul,” said Agatha, poking at her food. When Charles turned back to the stove, she lifted a rasher of bacon and dropped it down on the floor for her cats to eat.
Charles helped himself to a plate of food and sat down opposite her. He was wearing casual dress-casual for him-a checked blue-and-white shirt with dark blue chinos.
“What I cannot understand,” he said between bites of food, “is why the unfortunate Robin was killed and not you. You’ve been poking around asking questions about the murder and so far you haven’t been threatened.”
“All it means was she was close to something I missed.”
“I wonder what that could be? I’d like to meet this rector at Wormstone. Ask him a few more questions. There might have been something or someone she’s been involved with. Did you ask him whether she had any relationships with men?”
“Don’t think I did.”
“Well, there you are. Her murder might not have anything to do with this first one.” Charles finished his breakfast and stood up. Hodge, the cat, slid past him out into the garden, followed by Boswell. Hodge was holding a sausage in his mouth.
“Waste of food,” said Charles crossly. “After all my hard work you’re not supposed to feed your breakfast to the cats. So let’s go.”
Harry Witherspoon’s shop was closed and there was a FOR SALE sign in the window. “Hope he’s at home,” said Agatha. “It’s not far from here.”
Harry answered the door to them, blinking in the sunlight. “Oh, it’s you,” he said ungraciously. “Come in. Who’s this? Where’s the other fellow?”
“This is Sir Charles Fraith, who has helped me on cases before.” Oh, the magic of a title, thought Agatha, as Harry smiled and began to fuss. “Must offer you something. Too early for a drink?”
“Nothing for us,” said Agatha firmly. “What about this Robin Barley business?”
“I can’t understand it,” said Harry, looking bewildered. “She was an infuriating woman. But to kill her, and in such an elaborate way!”
“And you weren’t at the theatre?” asked Charles.
“No, thank God. At the time she was being murdered I was over in Broadway in a pub having drinks with this chap in the antiques business who is going to offer a good sum for my stock and may take over the shop as well. I need some ready cash. The lawyers say they can advance me money on Mother’s will because I haven’t been charged with anything, but I want to have the whole thing settled.”
“Did Robin have any lovers?” asked Agatha.
“I don’t know. She went around in the company of a lot of young gays. Then she was friendly with her local rector. We all rather kept clear of her.”
“I want to ask you about that secret passage,” said Agatha. “When Paul and I wanted to search the house, you refused permission. Why? Did you know about the passage?”
He shook his head. “You’ve no idea what our upbringing was like. After school we were sent up to our rooms and locked in, only to be let out for half an hour for supper and then locked in for the night. I often climbed out of the window and escaped, just to get away. Mother found out and said Carol had told her. When I got into trouble, she always said it was Carol who had told her. Now, I see it was never Carol, it was just her way of divide and rule.”
“But your mother must have known about the passage.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, when that ghost business started, if she’d known, she would have told the police. I know she once told me that when she’d bought the house there was a lot of old junk left in the cellar and she should really get someone to take it off to the tip. But she was penny-pinching, so I guess that was why she left it there.”
“I wonder if the two murders are connected,” said Charles.
“I can’t see that they are.” Harry gave a weary shrug. “Mind you, Robin infuriated a lot of people.”
“Not much there,” said Charles, as they drove towards the village of Wormstone. “Let’s hope the rector, Mr. Potter, can come up with something.”
Mr. Potter was welcoming but puzzled to find that Agatha should think he had anything to add to what he had already told her.
His housekeeper served them tea in the rectory garden, a peaceful place with apricot trees growing against a mellow stone wall and a large round pond where water-lilies opened their waxy petals to the sun. Agatha, looking at Mr. Potter’s mild, tranquil face and then round his peaceful garden, experienced a pang of envy. How pleasant it would be to be comfortable in one’s own skin, to be free of worries and inadequacies.
Charles said, “Perhaps there might be a clue in any relationships Mrs. Barley might have had?”
“I don’t really know of any. She was always bu
sy. You would have thought her art and the theatre would take up all of her time, but she was always organizing something new.”
“Like what?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, so many things. Plays in the church. The village fête-provided she opened it. She had boundless energy.” His face suddenly creased in a smile. “I thought she was going to be killed once.”
Agatha, who had been lounging in her chair, sat up straight. “Tell us about it.”
“She had been over at Stow once, where the Sealed Knot were re-enacting the Battle of Worcester. Mrs. Barley decided we were going to outdo the Sealed Knot in a re-enactment. She divided up the villagers into Roundheads and Cavaliers. It was that very hot summer four years ago. I tried to point out to her that this is a very small village and we hadn’t really enough people to play the parts, but she was determined because she said Midlands Television was going to film it. As I said, it was a very hot summer and she had made the mistake of supplying the ‘troops’ with a plentiful amount of mead and cider. Instead of making everyone cheerful, the drink made a lot of people tetchy, and what with the heat and a general dislike of being bullied into things by Mrs. Barley, tempers began to run high. We had to wait about because no television camera appeared. At last, she shouted to them to go ahead, and the battle began to get nasty. I said to her I was frightened someone would get hurt.
“She strode into the midst of the battle, shouting, ‘Stop it! You are behaving like children.’ She jumped back to avoid being trampled by a horse, tripped and sat down on a cow-pat. The whole crowd erupted into laughter. It was very cruel of the villagers, but it restored good humour. Poor Mrs. Barley just walked away. Her face was scarlet and she was nearly in tears.”
“She would need advice to get it right,” said Agatha slowly. “Did she have some sort of historical expert to help her?”
“Mrs. Barley might have had. But if she had, she didn’t tell me.”