by M C Beaton
"You're mad! What is it, dear? The menopause? Or did you forget to take your pills today?"
"Why wouldn't you let Charles look at your mother after she had been taken up to her bedroom? You said she was asleep, but if you had taken a good look at her, you surely would have seen from her colouring that there was something seriously wrong with her. I think your mother had hemlock root in her pocket and with her last bit of strength she took it out and clutched it. I think she knew what had happened to her. You cold-bloodedly went away and waited for her to die."
"What absolute tosh. How on earth could anyone prove that?"
Agatha was struck with one of her rare intuitive flashes of insight. "The police have not really been looking closely at you, Fran. You're not really a countrywoman. You must have been out before the murder, searching for hemlock. Someone must have seen you. I bet the police did not search your house thoroughly. I bet you've got a little hemlock factory there, just in case you needed to get rid of anyone else. You'd have cleaned the place up after your mother's murder, but I bet once the coast was clear you went back to your old tricks. No, I haven't told anyone...yet. But as soon as you leave, I'm calling the police. You attacked me viciously when I said I was sure your mother's death was murder." There was a brief glitter of panic in Fran's eyes. She took a strong pull of her drink. Then she said, "lf that's all the rubbish you've got to say, I'm leaving. But I would like to use your toilet first. The police can search until doomsday, but they won't find anything because I had nothing to do with it."
"Upstairs, on the left," said Agatha, feeling suddenly depressed. She must have imagined seeing that flash of panic.
Fran picked up her handbag and went up the stairs. Agatha waited a minute and then followed, her feet making no sound on the thickcarpeted stairs. The bathroom door did not have a lock, because Charles on one of his visits had broken it and Agatha had not yet had it repaired. She pushed the bathroom door open a crack. Fran had a syringe in her hand and was inserting the contents into a tube of toothpaste. Agatha retreated to the sitting room, her heart beating hard. When Fran eventually returned, Agatha said, "And how were you planning to explain how you poisoned me?"
Fran turned a muddy colour.
"I followed you upstairs. You put something in my toothpaste. I'm calling the police," said Agatha.
Fran flew at Agatha, clawing at her neck. She seemed to have amazing strength. Agatha kicked and struggled, tearing at the hands around her neck.
Then suddenly she was free, and Bill Wong, who had rushed in, forced Fran down on to the carpet and handcuffed her.
Fran lay still and silent. Bill phoned headquarters. He turned to Agatha. "You've put your life at risk again. What happened?"
Agatha explained. She finished by saying, "I don't know what you'll find in that toothpaste, but I bet it's lethal."
"It's a damn good thing Mrs Bloxby phoned me." Agatha sank down on the sofa, her legs weak.
Then she got up again. "I need a pee."
"Then go in the garden or a neighbour's house," said Bill. "You are not to go near your bathroom until a forensic team have taken everything out of it."
Agatha retreated to the garden. It was bucketing with rain and she felt sick and miserable. By the time she returned, Bill had lifted Fran up and thrust her into a chair.
"I had to do it," said Fran suddenly. "You must see that. After Father died, she was awful. She said she never wanted to have us anyway and started tightening the purse strings. It's her fault my daughter is a lesbian. Mother made our lives hell. All that money and she was not going to leave us anything. She had to be stopped"
"What about poor old Fred Instick?" asked Agatha.
"I poisoned one of those bottles in the hope that one of the village people would steal it. Then it would look as if someone outside the family had it in for all of us. It was a justified crime. Fred was old, anyway."
"Did any of the others know you murdered your mother?" asked Agatha.
"Them? Rabbits, all of them. I suggested it and they all bleated, "Don't even think about it." Fools. She had made them suffer and yet they wouldn't do anything about it. Do you know why she kept having children? Father wanted to leave her. Every time he made a move, she'd contrive to get pregnant again. Wouldn't surprise me if at least one of us is a bastard."
They could hear the sound of approaching sirens. Fran lapsed into glassy-eyed silence. Fran was formally charged and led away while Agatha braced herself for a long night of questioning.
Bill Wong was waylaid the following day by Detective Sergeant Collins.
Agatha, in a rare burst of generosity because Bill had saved her, had credited him with helping her solve the mystery. "Getting kudos all round," sneered Collins. "I heard that Raisin woman's tape. Talk about gifted amateurs. You had sod all to do with it. I'm getting a transfer to the Met."
"Don't invite me to your farewell party," said Bill over his shoulder as he walked off. He had tried to say that discovering the murderer had been all Agatha's work, but his bosses, ever mindful of the press, preferred to give him the credit. Also they felt that Agatha's mad guesswork would not be believed. They made it look as if Bill had arrived at the solution by methodical police work, particularly as a small bottle of distilled hemlock had been found in Fran's kitchen, marked 'Cough Syrup'.
Sir Charles Fraith learned about the solving of the murder on television and deeply regretted abandoning Agatha to go off chasing after Sasha, the psychiatrist's carer.
He decided that for once it might be a good idea to give Agatha a really good Christmas present. He phoned Roy Silver. After listening to Roy excitedly chattering on about the murder case and saying that although Bill Wong got the credit, he was sure it was all Agatha's doing, Charles asked him if he had any idea what Agatha might like for Christmas.
After various suggestions such as a new watch, an evening gown, lingerie, Charles said, "Look, I'll take a trip up to London and maybe we can go round the shops together."
"I was supposed to be out at a photo shoot this afternoon," said Roy, "but it's been cancelled, so I was going to sneak the afternoon off."
"Where do you live?"
Roy gave Charles an address in Fulham. "I'll set off now and pick you up."
But seeing things in the shops did not seem to make a choice easier. They decided to go to a bar in Jermyn Street and think it over.
"I'm intimidated by this famous dinner of hers," said Charles. "She wants it to be so perfect. Agatha's going to such a lot of expense--new oven, chef, caterers. She'll probably spend a fortune on decorations. She even thinks, I'm sure, that in the middle of global warming, it'll snow."
"That's it!" screeched Roy. "Brilliant!"
"What's brilliant?"
"We'll rent a snow machine, a real movie one. She plans to have tables from the dining room through to the sitting room. She'll be at the head of the table in the dining room. I'll nip out into the road just as the turkey is being brought in. You can blow a whistle," said Roy, jiggling up and down in his seat with excitement. "You say, "Look out of the window," and, bam, I'll switch on the machine."
"You mean give her a white Christmas?"
"Exactly. We'll share the cost."
"She'll think we're awfully mean when we arrive without presents. Oh, damn, I've just remembered something. We needn't have bothered"
"Why?"
"Because I've got my invitation already and it says, "No Presents." What a waste of a day."
Roy stared at Charles, an unusually militant gleam in his eye. "It doesn't make any difference. She's our friend. I drop in at weekends, you use her cottage like a hotel, so it's payback time. Don't be so mean. She's going to have snow."
"Oh, very well," said Charles. "It can't go wrong, can it!"
"It'll be perfect."
Alison called on Agatha at her office that afternoon, just as Agatha was thinking of closing up for the day.
"They are all devastated at the news about Fran," she said. "Bert's beg
inning to come round. I pointed out to him that if that clever detective hadn't solved it, we'd all be under suspicion until the end of our days."
Agatha Raisin could not allow that to pass. "I let Bill take the credit," she said, "but it was me."
"How did you suddenly decide it was Fran?"
Agatha told her.
"And it's bound to come out in court that it was me," said Agatha, "because they need to produce that toothpaste as evidence, among other things."
"Haven't you heard? There isn't going to be a court case."
"Why?"
"Fran's dead."
"Did she poison herself?"
"No, she died of a massive heart attack."
"Snakes and bastards," muttered Agatha. She had been regretting letting Bill take all the credit and was looking forward to her day in court.
"I'll settle up my bill with you," said Alison.
"Mrs Freedman's gone home. I'll get it sent to you tomorrow. Do you know, Phil Marshall got me to consult a police psychiatrist, a retired one, and the old boy told me Phyllis had committed suicide in such a way as to bring misery on her children. He's just sent me his bill. Eight hundred pounds. Cheeky old sod. He can sue me for it."
Next day, Toni arrived outside her flat to find George Pyson waiting for her. "Thought you might like to come for a drink," he said.
Toni agreed nervously. He must be keen on me, she thought. He hasn't made a move, but if he does, then what do I do? I owe him so much.
But George was his usual amiable self. It turned out he wanted to know all about Fran.
Toni told him all that Agatha had described to her in the office after Fran was arrested.
"It was on the news," said George. "Fran had a massive heart attack and died."
"Pity," said Toni. "I know Agatha was looking forward to her day in court."
"Why?"
"She let Bill Wong take all the credit but it would have come out in the evidence in court that it was she who solved the whole thing."
"Strange woman," mused George. "Agatha, I mean. The way she crashes around, one wouldn't credit her with having one intuitive thought."
"She's very kind and generous. She's done a lot for me. You've done a lot for me. I don't know how I can ever thank you, George."
"You can thank me by forgetting about the whole thing. Managing things is my job and my weakness is managing other people's affairs."
A youth stopped at their table. He had gelled hair, a weak white face and was dressed in a denim jacket and torn jeans. "Hiya, Tone," he said.
"This is Pete Ericson," said Toni, introducing him to George. "We were at school together."
"How you doin', Tone," said Pete. "I hear you're a tec."
"Right, Pete," said Toni desperately, "and I'm on a case."
"Okay." Pete slouched off.
"Ashamed of me, Toni?" asked George.
"I never liked him and it was the easiest way to get rid of him," said Toni, feeling caught between two worlds. She wondered what Pete had been doing frequenting one of the smarter watering holes in Mircester.
They were not to be left alone. A hard-faced woman, elegantly dressed and expensively blonded, rushed up to their table and air-kissed George. "Darling, where have you been?" she screamed above the noise of the pub. "And who's this? Your niece?"
"This is Toni Gilmour, a friend of mine. Toni, Deborah Hasard."
"Pleased to meet you," mumbled Toni.
"I've left my drink on the bar. I'll just get it and join you," said Deborah. The minute her back was turned, George hissed, "Let's go before she comes back."
They hurried to the door and out on to the street. "Old girlfriend of yours?" asked Toni.
"No, just a terrible bore. I'll get you home. How's the new car?"
"I love it. I take it for runs in the country, just like a dog."
"Perhaps you'll give me a run one day?"
"Sure. Here's my flat. Goodnight," said Toni firmly, "and thank you for the drink."
Later that evening, Toni looked down from her window and saw a group of her ex-school friends, chattering and laughing and obviously heading for the disco at the end of the street.
I've left them behind, thought Toni, and yet I feel I don't belong anywhere now. And what am I going to do about George?
Mrs Bloxby called on Agatha that evening. "I really feel you should take a rest after all you've been through, Mrs Raisin."
"No, I'm all right. I wonder if the Tamworthys will ever sell that estate. I think they were born unlucky and that they're doomed to be unlucky."
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"There was a little bit in the local paper. I brought it along." Mrs Bloxby fished a newspaper out of her capacious handbag. "Here we are. Olde English Theme Parks are making an offer. They want to turn it into a theme park."
"What? Roundabouts and roller coasters and things like that?"
"No, they plan to turn it into an old English village with the locals dressed up in Georgian dress. The manor house will be demodernized and will serve old English teas. The great thing for the villagers is that they will live rent-free and be paid by the company to do things like spin wool and shoe horses."
"That jammy lot," howled Agatha. "They don't deserve it."
"Even Jimmy Tamworthy's shop is to be turned into an old-fashioned store."
"I wonder if those poxy villagers realize they have to be nice to the tourists."
"Maybe the tourists will think their sour faces are in period."
"Well, I never want to see any of them again. Anyway, I've got more important things on my mind."
"Such as?"
"Christmas."
Chapter Twelve
Agatha's Christmas dinner was to be held on the eighteenth of December. In the days leading up to it, Toni had been taken off detective duties to prowl the shops with Agatha picking out Christmas decorations and choosing the perfect tree.
Mindful of the fact that her cats loved real trees but shied away from fake ones, Agatha reluctantly settled on a fake Douglas fir.
Then there was a trip to a shop in London which made fake holly that looked exactly like the real thing.
The seating plan caused Agatha a lot of headaches. She would put James on her left and Charles on her right. Then she changed her mind. Charles might do something to irritate James. She would give Patrick the honour of sitting next to her. Would the women of the Carsely Ladies' Society mind be relegated to the far end of the table in the sitting room? Mrs Bloxby must have pride of place in the dining room. Agatha hoped her husband, the vicar, would not be too sour. Then would Doris Simpson not expect a good place, and if she didn't get one, think it was because she was only a cleaner?
"Why don't you sort out the important people," suggested Toni, who was seated at the kitchen table with Agatha, helping her with the plans. "You could put Charles in the hall to host that table and Mr and Mrs Bloxby in the sitting room. Put Doris and her husband next to Charles. Is your ex going to turn up?"
"He sent me a letter. I got it last week. He said he would arrive on time. What about you, Toni? After all your work, I feel you should get to choose your place. Next to George?"
Toni hesitated. "Is there going to be anyone young there?"
"There's Miss Simms. But you want a man. I've got it. I've invited my ex-detective, Harry Beam. You'll like him and he's not that much older than you."
"Then you could put both of us in the hall with Charles and Doris and her husband and that would get rid of the least favourite place. You're going to have trouble with the fires."
"Why? I want one log fire in the dining room and one in the sitting room."
"But there's not much space once the tables are set up and whoever is sitting with their back to the fire is going to get scorched."
"Rats! I'm beginning to regret the whole thing."
"You could get those fake logs and have them burning when the guests arrive and by the time they have their welc
ome drinks, they'll have burned down."
"Fake this, fake that. It's not really the way I imagined it. I must have real mistletoe. Where should I hang it?"
Well away from me and George, thought Toni. "Why not above your chair at the head of the table?"
"Good idea. That'll stop me being kissed by a lot of odds and sods."
"What are you going to wear?" asked Toni.
"Something sexy."
Toni blinked. She thought women of Agatha's age should be past wanting to be sexy.
Toni said suddenly, "But that table across the hall means they will have to edge round it to leave their coats, and then if they are going to stand around with their drinks before dinner, there won't be any room."
"That's the curse of these small cottages," mourned Agatha. "I will not be defeated. I know: I'll have a marquee in the garden."
"Won't that be cold?"
"No, not these days. They put in heaters. I'll have clothes rails for the coats and a bar. They can't go through the kitchen. I'll have some sort of canvas tunnel up the side of the house which will lead straight into the marquee."
"This is all going to cost you a fortune," said Toni. "You could have hired a suite at the Hilton for less."
"It's going to be Christmas in my home, and that's that."
George Pyson was, at that moment, pacing up and down his mother's drawing room. "Out with it," she said at last.
"It's this girl." George ran his hands through his thick hair. "I'm keen on her but she's very young."
"How young?"
"Just newly eighteen."
"That is an age difference. Now if you were forty-five and she was thirty, it really wouldn't matter. But eighteen! What's her name?"
"Toni Gilmour."
"Antonia Gilmour. Is she one of the Guiting Power Gilmours?"
"No, she is one of the council estate in Mircester Gilmours and I'll bet she was actually christened Toni."
"Does she work?"
"As a detective for Agatha Raisin."
"That woman who gets herself into the newspapers? What's she like, this Raisin woman?"