by M C Beaton
“You’ve spiked his guns. He’ll probably move to another village and start all over again. Now, I’d better be going. I just came back to give you the photographs.”
“Can’t you stay for a meal?”
“One of your frozen curries? No, thanks. Probably be around later in the week.”
The following day Agatha worked hard, because there was a backlog of unsolved cases. By the time she finished up, it was seven o’clock. She bought a copy of the Mircester newspaper before driving home. Once she had fussed over her cats and settled down at the kitchen table, she opened the newspaper and scanned the items. On page seven, there was a photo of Gilda posed outside the health farm, looking very glamorous. The headline was, “Architect Needs Money Before He Can Wed.” The story said that local architect George Selby was pleading with rich friends to put money into his glamorous fiancee’s venture of opening up her own clinic; otherwise she would not marry him. “‘I think he will get the necessary money,’ said beautiful Gilda Brenson yesterday. ‘He knows I must have my own business before I marry. Careers last, men don’t.’” The story went on to say that Mr. Selby lived in Comfrey Magna, scene of that disastrous fête where two women met their death after sampling jam heavily laced with LSD. It ended by saying that Mr. George Selby was unavailable for comment.
“I bet he is,” muttered Agatha.
There was a ring at the doorbell. Agatha got wearily to her feet and clutched her hip. She didn’t want a hip replacement. Not yet, surely. So ageing. She opened the door.
A furious George Selby thrust her into the hall. “You horrible old bat!” he yelled. “You got that story in the local rag.” He had Agatha by the shoulders and was shaking her.
“Are you going to k-kill m-me the w-way you k-killed your w-wife?” shouted Agatha.
He drew back his fist and punched her hard on the face. “I could kill you.”
Mrs. Bloxby, finding the door opened, had just walked in, clutching a jar of home-made chutney. She rushed forward and brought the jar down on George’s head and he slumped to the floor.
“Mrs. Raisin! Are you all right?”
“Thanks to you.”
Mrs. Bloxby knelt down by George. “Call an ambulance.”
“I’m calling the police as well,” said Agatha.
After what seemed an interminable wait, George was borne off in an ambulance. Two policemen had arrived and were taking notes. One turned to Mrs. Bloxby. “You are to come to the station with us and we caution you that anything-”
“What? Why?” screamed Agatha.
“We are charging you with causing grievous bodily harm.”
“You’re mad. She saved my life!” shouted Agatha and burst into tears.
Wilkes was furious when he learned the news. He knew officers were under constant pressure by the government to meet targets, but he knew the scandal the arrest of Mrs. Bloxby would cause. He had to interrupt Agatha, who was holding a press conference outside the police station about the iniquities of the force, to announce that no charges were being brought against Mrs. Bloxby. He warned Agatha not to say anything about it as, when George Selby recovered from what turned out to be a straightforward concussion, he would be put on trial.
But there was nothing he could do to stop the press from taking pictures of Mrs. Bloxby as she emerged from police headquarters. Bill Wong drove them both back to Carsely. Wearily, Agatha told him all about George’s engagement and how he had been trying to get money to fund Gilda’s clinic.
“Leave it alone,” urged Bill when she had finished. “I don’t think we’ll ever know whether he conspired with Sybilla to kill his wife, but I don’t really see what we can do about it now.”
“Is Mr. Selby going to be all right?” asked Mrs. Bloxby nervously.
“Yes. By the time the ambulance had got him to hospital, he was conscious and phoning his lawyer. You’re a brave woman. Agatha, are you sure you shouldn’t have gone to hospital for a check-up? There’s a huge bruise coming up on your cheek.”
“I’m fine.”
Bill wondered whether to mention that he had received an invitation to James’s engagement party and then decided against it.
When they arrived at Agatha’s cottage, Bill offered to drive Mrs. Bloxby on to the vicarage, but she refused, saying she wanted to talk to Agatha.
“I’ll be off, then,” said Bill. “We’re friends, right, Agatha? So if you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m always there for you.”
“What would I want to cry about?” said Agatha defiantly. “My face isn’t that sore.”
When Bill had driven off, Mrs. Bloxby followed Agatha into her cottage. “The police took away the chutney,” she said. “Good glass. It didn’t even break. Let me make you a cup of tea.”
“I’d like a stiff brandy.”
“Hot sweet tea is better for shock.”
“Brandy is for forgetting. I’ll get it. What about you?”
“A sherry would be nice.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby, after she had taken a little sip of sherry, “I received an invitation today to Mr. Lacey’s engagement party.”
“Oh, I knew all about that,” said Agatha airily.
Mrs. Bloxby studied her friend’s face.
Agatha crumpled. “Well, actually I didn’t know. And, yes, it was a shock.”
“But you didn’t want him any more.”
“I know. But I’m getting on and… and… as long as I thought he still wanted me, it meant there was someone out there who did. I can’t stand the idea of everyone pitying me and thinking I’ll be in mourning. I hate being pitied!”
“No one will pity you if you turn up at that party and give him your blessing.”
“I rather thought of not going.”
“Then everyone will pity you.”
“Snakes and bastards!” Agatha let out a puff of angry cigarette smoke and took a gulp of brandy. “I wonder what she’s like?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Go.”
“I suppose so. I wonder why. I mean, he always struck me as a confirmed bachelor. Even when we were married, he went on as if I were some sort of junior officer. Look, thank you so much for saving me. I wonder if George really would have killed me?”
“He’s a dangerous man,” said Mrs. Bloxby with a shudder. “I’d better get back to the vicarage.”
As she walked through the hall, Mrs. Bloxby said, “A bit of the jar must have broken after all. Look! There’s a bit of glass on the floor.” She bent down and picked it up. “It’s a contact lens, a green contact lens.”
Agatha grinned. “So much for George’s beautiful green eyes.”
When Agatha met Roy as he arrived by train on Friday, she had to endure being clasped to his thin bosom. “You poor, poor darling,” said Roy.
“Get off me!” snarled Agatha. “If you think I am in mourning over James’s engagement, forget about it.”
“There’s no need to be so rude,” retorted Roy angrily. “Really, sweetie, it’s a wonder you’ve got any friends left, the way you go on.”
“I can’t stand the idea of everyone being sorry for me,” said Agatha. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Come along. I’ll take you for dinner.”
Roy was dressed conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt and striped silk tie. “Sticky account?” asked Agatha sympathetically.
“Very sticky. Jason’s Country Clothes. I’ve to make a big push to promote them.”
“Then I would have thought you’d have been kitted out in a Barbour and shooting breeches.”
“I was,” said Roy as they walked to Agatha’s car, his thin face flushed with annoyance. “I even wore a tweed fishing hat and the managing director said I looked ridiculous.”
“You weren’t wearing your gold earring with the fishing hat, were you?”
“Well, I was. I forgot to take it off. I’ve got some casuals in my bag.”
After they had dined and returned to the cottage, Roy asked, “What are all those boxes of old photos doing o
n your kitchen table?”
Agatha told him. “I’ve been through them, and so has Charles.”
“I’m not tired,” said Roy. “Fix me a coffee and I’ll have a look.”
Agatha made him a cup of coffee and took herself off to bed. She was awakened an hour later by Roy shaking her. “Leave me alone, Charles,” she mumbled.
“It’s not him, it’s me,” said Roy.
Agatha switched on the bedside light and struggled up against the pillows. “What’s up? Found something?”
“It’s what I haven’t found which is interesting.”
“That being?”
“It’s what’s not there. There’s no photo of the vicar’s wedding.”
“Well, they’d hardly have it with the rest,” complained Agatha. “I bet it’s framed in silver somewhere in the vicarage. What did you think? They might not really be married?”
“Something like that.”
“Dream on.”
“We could nip over there tomorrow. I didn’t like Trixie.”
“Neither did I. Oh, very well. The vicar might have heard some gossip.”
Roy and Agatha set out next morning for Comfrey Magna. Roy was wearing a white silk blouson with skintight blue velvet trousers and ankle boots with stacked heels. Agatha reflected that the jeering comment that some man looked like a big girl’s blouse could certainly apply to Roy, but she held her tongue. If she criticized his dress, she was sure he would sulk for the rest of the day.
Agatha had phoned the police earlier that morning to say she would not be pressing charges against George. She had no desire to appear in court to be ripped apart in public by some defence counsel.
Arthur Chance opened the door to them himself. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Do come in. I am so sorry about Mr. Selby. The poor man must have been terribly overwrought, but all things end happily.”
“Really?” Agatha and Roy followed him in. “How happy?” asked Agatha when they were seated in the vicarage living room.
“Mr. Selby-George-called on me this morning. He checked himself out of hospital. He gave me the glad news.”
“That he and Gilda are to be married?”
“That was merely a fabrication of the press. No, he is to be married to Miss Frederica Corrie.”
“What! That’s sudden.”
“Evidently they had been courting for some time.”
“And you believe that rubbish?”
“She doesn’t want to,” came his wife’s amused voice. “She’s jealous.”
“Rubbish,” said Agatha. “I’ll bet dear Fred is rich.”
“Pots of money,” said Trixie.
“Well, there’s your answer.”
“Please leave,” said the vicar. “I don’t like your unchristian comments. You have brought nothing but tragedy to this village.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t spike the jam. I didn’t steal the money.”
“You heard hubby,” said Trixie, her eyes sparkling with malice. “Take your toy boy and shove off.”
Agatha opened her mouth to blast her, but Roy pulled at her arm. “Let’s just get out of here,” he said.
Outside the vicarage, Agatha said, “We’re going to see Gilda. I wonder if she knows the news.”
They drove to Bartley’s Health Farm. “I assume she works on Saturdays,” said Agatha. “Wait here. I’ll ask at the desk.”
After a few minutes,” Agatha came hurrying back. “She’s at home. I know where she lives.”
They drove into Oxford and managed to squeeze into a parking place outside Gilda’s house.
Gilda answered the door and stared at Agatha. “So it’s you. The private detective. George told me about you.”
“Do you know he is engaged to a certain Frederica Corrie?” asked Agatha.
“I am not surprised. I visited him in hospital and told him we were no longer engaged. I have been ridiculed in the press as a gold digger. Now go away.”
“What will you do now?”
“Find a really rich man who does not have to chase after silly rich women to get money for me.” And with that, Gilda slammed the door in their faces.
“She can’t have cared a jot for him,” said Agatha as they both got in the car.
“It doesn’t solve a thing,” complained Roy, “unless you suspect her of having pushed George’s wife down the stairs.”
“If only I could get a break,” mourned Agatha. “Just one little clue.”
The Living Legends were holding their pop concert in a manor house field outside Mircester. Young people were flooding in to the event, Toni and Sharon amongst them.
Toni felt elated being surrounded by crowds of her peers. When the band swung into their opening number of “Rock It Hard,” she screamed her delight and waved her arms with the rest of the crowd. At the interval, she turned a glowing face to Sharon. “This is great. This is grand, to be among young people. Sometimes I feel like a child at that detective agency.”
“They’re not all young. Get a look at someone’s mummy over there.”
Toni’s eyes followed Sharon’s pointing finger. She let out a little gasp. “You’re not going to believe this, but that’s the vicar’s wife-you know, the one from Comfrey Magna. What’s she doing here?”
“Having a rave,” said Sharon. “I noticed her during the first half.”
The band started up again. This time Toni kept her eyes on Trixie. The vicar’s wife was alone. She was wearing a white short-sleeved blouse tied at the waist and very tight jeans and high-heeled boots. She swayed to the music like one possessed.
Then at one point, as if conscious of Toni’s gaze on her, Trixie turned and saw her. Sharon grabbed Toni’s arm and shouted in her ear, “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Yes,” Toni shouted back. She turned back and looked for Trixie, but the vicar’s wife had disappeared.
Toni tried to enjoy the rest of the concert, but her mind was racing. At the end, she said to Sharon, “Are they selling drugs here?”
Sharon looked alarmed. “Don’t go down that road, Tone.”
“No, I just wondered if anyone could buy acid at one of these gigs.”
“Heroin, cocaine, skunk, but I don’t think acid. Why?”
“I’d better get to Carsely. I’ve got to tell Agatha about the vicar’s wife.”
“Oh, forget it. You’ve got to get some time off.”
“I’m sorry, Sharon. I’ve really got to go. I’ll drop you off in Mircester.”
Sharon sulked the whole way back into town. But Toni was determined to get this latest piece of news to Agatha.
Agatha was just preparing for bed when the doorbell rang. She wondered whether to answer it in case it was another visit from George. She peered through the spyhole and was relieved to see Toni’s face. She opened the door. “What’s up? Come in.”
In the kitchen, Toni told Agatha about Trixie being at the concert.
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “Was she on her own?”
“Seemed to be. Then she got me looking at her. I turned away and when I turned back, she’d gone.”
Roy appeared in the kitchen wrapped in a Chinese silk dressing gown. “What’s going on?”
Agatha told him and then said, “We’ve got to find out her name before she was married. It’s probably in the church register. Then we’ll need to find out what sort of background she came from.”
“The church is open during the day,” said Toni, “but we’ll need to slip in after the morning service.”
“The book’ll be in the vestry,” said Roy. “I wonder if they keep it locked.”
At that moment, Charles wandered in, having let himself into Agatha’s cottage with his own set of keys. Agatha looked at his concerned face and said, “No, I am not dead yet. I have more important things to think about.”
She told him about Trixie, ending with, “I’d better get Patrick to go. No one knows him.”
“There’s something else I just remembered,” said Toni. “Trixie had these ta
ttoos down her arms.”
“You’re sure?” Agatha frowned. She had never seen Trixie’s arms uncovered. Even the leotard that Trixie had been wearing the first day Agatha had met her had been long-sleeved.
“Did you see what they were like?” asked Roy.
“Yes,” said Toni. “Midlands TV was there and they had this white light panning out over the audience. The tattoos were blue, all blue, like ink.”
“By all that’s holy,” breathed Agatha. “Prison tattoos.”
Chapter Ten
THE PROBLEM WITH THAT IS,” said Toni, “a lot of young people these days have fake prison tattoos.”
“Yes, but she’s not young,” said Agatha. “We must find out what her maiden name was. I’ll phone Patrick.”
She retreated to the living room. “Aggie’s always been determined to make Trixie the villain,” said Charles. “I hope she doesn’t get too carried away.”
Agatha came back saying, “Patrick’s going over to the church tomorrow. Now I suggest we all go to bed. Charles, if you’re staying, you’ll need to sleep on the couch.”
“It’s all right. I’m going home. I’ll drop by tomorrow to see if there’s any news.”
Agatha slept uneasily, waking several times during the night, worrying about George. She felt he would never forgive her and dreaded that he might try to attack her again. She also worried about Monday morning in the office, when she would need to tell her small staff about the invitation to James’s engagement party. Agatha hated to be pitied. She wanted to be feared, admired or loved, but she did not want to be the object of anyone’s pity.
Roy was startled at breakfast the following morning when Agatha announced that they were going to church.
“Why?” he wailed. “I don’t do church.”
“I want to talk to Mrs. Bloxby.”
“We could go to the vicarage afterwards.”
“I feel guilty about always dropping in on her. Come on. It’ll do our souls good.”
“I didn’t know you had a soul, sweetie.”
Agatha was impatient, her mind racing from one thing that needed doing to another. She found the service interminable. She only relaxed during the long sermon, the vicar’s words drifting in and out of her brain until she fell asleep and was finally awakened by a sharp nudge in her ribs from Roy’s elbow and his voice hissing in her ear, “You’re snoring.”