The Witches' Tree--An Agatha Raisin Mystery

by M C Beaton

  “Tried to seduce you, I’ll bet,” said Agatha, scraping the side of her car on a lamppost.

  “You’ve just scraped your car!” shouted Charles.

  “I know. What a relief. The trouble with having a new car is one always frets about when the first awful scratch is going to be. Now, it’s happened so I don’t need to worry anymore.”

  “You are stark raving bonkers.”

  “I am still a good detective. While she was waving her knickers at you, I had a look around upstairs. There are posters on the walls, like a teen bedroom. David Bowie, that actor from Poldark with the bare chest and Neil Oliver, that Scottish chap with the long hair. And on the bed are dolls, and teddy bears. Yukk! She’s mad.”

  “Eccentric. Maybe. Look, lots of people have a thing about David Bowie, the Poldark fellow is all the current rage and Neil Oliver means she watches intelligent television. Did you see his documentaries on Scottish explorers? Brilliant.”

  “The whole case makes me feel as if I’m wading through thick mud. You know what? Edward hasn’t paid me a penny so I am going to tear up his contract and leave it all to the police for the first time in my life.”

  “What if it turns out someone actually did kill old Mrs. Smellie?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Tell you what, I’m still quitting. I never thought divorces and missing cats and dogs would look so tempting.”

  “I suppose it’s only natural,” said Charles. “I mean, age creeping up on you.”

  “Like to get out and get a taxi?”

  Agatha was just about to turn in to Beaumont Street and suggest to Charles that they have a drink at the Randolph, when he shouted, “Stop the car!” He got out and before shutting the door said, “I’ll get the train back. Seen a friend.”

  Agatha looked in the rearview mirror. A blonde wearing thigh-high boots with cruising-for-a-bruising high heels was just disappearing inside. She felt diminished. Agatha did not know that the person Charles had seen going into the Randolph was the tubby figure of Giles Mirfett, his next-door neighbour and prosperous landowner. Charles had a bone to pick with him about an encroaching boundary wall. Agatha did a U-turn, deaf to the infuriated honks of the drivers she nearly hit.

  She drove grimly home. Despite a note from her cleaner, Doris, saying that the cats had been fed, Agatha gave them each a lump of chicken liver pate, made by Mrs. Bloxby and certainly not meant to be wasted on cats. Hodge and Boswell. Stupid names. Hodge was something to do with Doctor Johnson about whom Agatha knew precious little except he was one of those literary giants Cotswold people quoted at parties. “And sod them, too,” she muttered, patting Hodge who gave her an almost human glare as if to say, “Can’t you see I’m eating?”

  The wind moaned in the thatch and rain pattered against the windows. Tomorrow, vowed Agatha, she would tell Edward that she was no longer interested in detecting for him.

  * * *

  The morning started badly. Dead leaves had blocked up a drain outside the kitchen door with the result that the kitchen had pools of dirty water just inside the door. She mopped up the water and went outside to clear the drain, forgetting to put a coat on and so got drenched by heavy rain driven in by a cold gale. By the time she set out, she was in a black bad temper.

  Her reception at Edward’s home was not what she expected. His eyes were rimmed with red. “Have you seen her?” he cried. “Where’s Tiffany?”

  She followed him into his sitting room. “I’ve been up all night,” he moaned. “The police have just left but they say it’s too early to do anything about it.”

  “Might she not have gone to visit a friend?” suggested Agatha, but her heart sank as she remembered Tiffany bragging that she knew the identity of the murderer.

  “She would have phoned me,” he wailed. “She didn’t come home last night.” The doorbell rang. He looked out of the window and saw a television van parked outside and a man followed by a boom microphone and a cameraman heading for his front door.

  “It’s the press,” he growled. “I’ll tell them to go away.”

  “Don’t do that,” said Agatha. “We’ll go out there and use them. Tiffany will hear about it and phone you.”

  Agatha led him to the front door and opened it. “My name is Agatha Raisin,” she said. “I am working for Sir Edward here who is worried because his wife has disappeared.” Agatha propelled Edward forward. In a speech, he begged Tiffany to come home because there was a murderer at large. Then he gave a choked sob and hurried back into the house, followed by Agatha.

  Edward was sitting hunched over on a sofa, his head in his hands. Agatha decided it was not the time to tell him she was quitting. But she was suddenly sure that Tiffany would turn up.

  Later that afternoon, two village boys climbed the witches’s tree after school and perched on a low branch. Carl Emery was eight as was his friend, Joe Ash. Carl strapped on his father’s headlamp, used for cave exploring.

  “They do say as how there’s a gurt carp in that pond so I’m gonna shine a light down there and maybe we’ll spot it.”

  “I’m feart the witch might get us,” said Joe.

  “Get out o’ here,” jeered Carl. He had recently discovered that there wasn’t a Santa Claus and this had made him bitterly reject the idea of anything supernatural at all. He fumbled with the switch until a powerful beam shone down into the murky depths of the pond. The pond was covered in choppy little waves caused by the wind.

  “No good,” said Carl. “We’ll come back when the water’s still. Can’t see a blessed thing.”

  “I can,” whispered Joe. “I saw a white face down there.”

  “Idiot,” said Carl. “Mum says to bring you home for tea. There’s apple turnover and cream.”

  They scrambled down from the tree and headed off. Cable reporter, Sam Wherry, watched them go. He had been heading for the pub but had heard the boys by the pond and so had heard Joe’s remark about the face in the pond. Sam Wherry was a dying breed—a real-life reporter of the old school who ferreted out stories where other journalists had given up. So he got into his car and drove to Mircester where he bought a powerful halogen lamp. He called up his photographer who had been sleeping off the effects of the night before’s binge and ordered him to hurry to the pond. He was lucky in that the television news editor had decided they shouldn’t run Edward’s plea until the six o’clock news.

  The photographer, Chris Ramsay, had the hangover of all time and swore at having to wait in the rain and wind while Sam edged along the branch he had seen the boys on and shone his lamp down into the murky waters.

  Holding the lamp steady, Sam peered down into the water. Like a flickering mirage, a white face stared up at him.

  “Come along beside me,” he yelled to Chris. “See if you can get a pic.”

  “You’ll need to move,” grumbled Chris. “What am I supposed to be photographing?”

  “I swear there’s a body down there.” He backed off the low branch, Chris crawled along, Sam went after him and leaned round him to shine the lamp down into the water again.

  “Get off me!” shouted Chris and elbowed him in the ribs.

  Sam lost his balance, clutched desperately at Chris and both fell into the water. The pond was not all that deep. Sam was six feet tall. He found he was standing on something soft and shuddered. He bent down and pulled at what he felt to be cloth. But whatever it was proved to be too heavy for him to lift. Chris had gained the bank and was shouting that his camera was ruined and Sam should pay for it, but Sam barely heard him. Sam got out of the pond and called to some of the villagers who had gathered, attracted by the noise, “Get the police!”

  * * *

  Agatha Raisin was there before the police arrived because Molly had phoned her about the commotion at the pond.

  The fire brigade was the first to arrive. Shivering Sam was given hot sweet tea and wrapped up in blankets because he refused to leave the scene.

  “What’s going on?” asked Agatha, approaching Sam. />
  “Please back off,” ordered the chief fireman.

  “Agatha, I need a camera,” pleaded Sam.

  “Got one in my phone. Here it is. Someone down there?”

  “Saw a face. I think I felt a body. I…”

  “Move away, madam. Now!” shouted the fireman.

  “Talk to you later,” said Sam and he began to photograph the firemen from his seat in the back of a fire truck.

  Although having ascertained from Sam that the water was not all that deep, a fireman put on diving equipment and eased down into the pond. The water only came up to his shoulders. So he bent down with his face under the water and the light from the lamp strapped on his forehead lighting up the murky depths. One thumb was raised. Agatha groaned inwardly. I hope it’s a suicide, she thought.

  He called for cutting equipment and help. Another fireman suited up. To Agatha’s dismay, Edward appeared at the front of a gathering crowd.

  “Oh, hurry up!” Agatha heard Sam say. “The others will be here soon.”

  There was a gasp from the crowd as both men, who had bent down under the surface of the water, raised their heads as a body floated up, open eyes staring at the black, heartless branches of the witches’ tree. The paramedics rushed to help Edward who had fainted. A television crew had arrived and much to the fury of the police, the scene was suddenly bathed in bright light.

  Agatha scanned the faces of the watching villagers. There was a group of ten people, bunched together, seven women and three men, and their faces held an unhealthy look of supressed glee. They were on the other side of the pond. One minute they were there, and the next they had vanished. The wind howled and two branches of the tree rubbed to give a groaning sound.

  Agatha pulled her coat tightly about her shoulders. She decided suddenly to call on Molly. Where was the vicar? Surely he should have been at the pond to offer help.

  * * *

  At the vicarage, Molly answered the door. Agatha noticed to her dismay that Molly had been crying and felt a shrinking feeling of uselessness deep inside her. Other women might have given a spontaneous hug but Agatha’s soul had two left feet.

  “I could use a drink,” said Agatha. “Could you?”

  “Yes, I could. Come through to the kitchen. Mrs. Castle has just presented us with two bottles of sloe gin. Fancy some?”

  “Right now. Anything with a kick will do.”

  “I haven’t tried it. The kitchen’s nice and warm. I ran out of Spanish brandy but it does well on slivovitz. Sorry about the smell of paint. I was trying to brighten the place up.”

  One wall had been painted white. “Never say you’re doing the painting yourself,” exclaimed Agatha. “That ceiling is awfully high.”

  “I’m nimble. Sit down. What’s all the commotion out there?”

  “I think they’ve found Tiffany’s body in the pond.”

  “I always thought her unstable.”

  “No, the body was weighted down with something that they had to cut free.”

  “Sit down, Agatha. That purple stuff’s the gin. Help yourself.”

  “I thought that was why you had been crying,” said Agatha bluntly.

  “No, I’ve been getting nasty letters, or rather Rory has. They all say the same thing. I wasn’t raped. I lead men on and then cry rape and so on and on and on. Last night in bed I wanted comfort and he shrank away a bit and then said he was tired. I swear deep down all men think women are asking for it. Pour a couple of glasses.”

  Agatha, mindful that she had to drive home, poured a small measure into each glass.

  “A toast!” said Molly. “To hell with all men. Who needs them?”

  “I wouldn’t mind one right now,” said Agatha. “Oh, someone to dream about and keep the world away.”

  “What an odd woman you are,” said Molly. “But I suppose you have to have a sensitive radar to be a good detective.”

  “Was the rape awful?” asked Agatha and then winced as the fiery gin went down her throat.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Agatha. “I got that from Mrs. Bloxby, the saint of Carsely. Mind if I have some more of that gin?”

  “Help yourself. I never talk about it.”

  “Never! You mean not to a therapist or victim support or Rory?”

  “Talking makes it real.”

  “Talking makes it go away,” said Agatha.

  “Oh, really? When were you last raped?”

  “Don’t talk about it, then,” snapped Agatha. “See if I sodding care.”

  Molly poured more gin. The room fell silent except for the sound of the wind, moaning in the eaves and hissing through the ivy.

  Molly gave a little sob. Then she spoke. Agatha sat and listened, horrified. It was the beastliness of it, the insults, the filth.

  “So that’s it,” said Molly at last.

  “Does it affect your sex life?”

  “No, oddly enough. I think if I even suspected that Rory thought I had even a little bit to do with it, I would freeze up forever. Let’s cheer up. Rory’s brother should be arriving any moment.”

  “Not a vicar a well?”

  “No, he’s an architect.” There was a knock at the door. “That’s probably him now.”

  “You stay. I’ll go,” said Agatha. “It might be the press.”

  She opened the heavy oak door. A tall figure stood silhouetted against the blue lights of television crews. “Are you the brother-in-law?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “A friend. Molly’s in the kitchen.”

  He moved past her. Agatha decided to go home. She needed peace and quiet to think. She longed to walk away from this case, and yet it was the worst one she had ever come across. Bodies everywhere and a village reported to have a coven of witches.

  She followed Rory’s brother into the kitchen. A strong draught up at the ceiling was making the single lightbulb sway back and forth on its flex. It cast golden lights in the brother-in-law’s thick white hair. He was tall and he was handsome in a rugged way. He was the knight in armour, the let me shoulder all your troubles type of hero, thought Agatha, feeling dazed.

  “Have you been introduced?” asked Molly. “This is Guy. Guy, meet Agatha Raisin, famous detective.”

  Agatha shook hands with him, feeling bewildered, then elated, then suddenly happy as if coming home to a much-loved country. Charles would have recognised the symptoms. Agatha Raisin’s next magnificent obsession was upon her.

  “What are you two tippling? Sloe gin. I’ll have some of that. What on earth is going on in this village?”

  “I’m tired, Agatha,” said Molly. “You tell him.”

  And so Agatha did, noticing as she talked that he did not wear a wedding ring, but then, a lot of British men did not. His eyes were amazing, almost like jewels. At first they just seemed brown but then she noticed they were rimmed round the iris with gold with flecks of pure green.

  Agatha had just finished her tale when Molly asked, “Isn’t Annie joining you?”

  Radiance left Agatha’s face, like a light being switched off. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  “Annie is history,” said Guy. “You never liked her anyway.”

  “Middle-aged women who think they are wild children are not to my taste.”

  “Annie is forty-three.”

  “That’s ancient!”

  Fifty-three-year-old Agatha winced. “Only according to the Bible,” teased Guy.

  Agatha rose to her feet and staggered slightly. “Oh, dear, too much sloe gin.”

  “Leave your car here and the keys,” urged Molly. “Guy will drive you home. Agatha lives in Carsely. It’s only a few miles away.”

  “Delighted,” said Guy.

  “Thanks for everything,” Molly called after Agatha.

  “What was my sister-in-law thanking you for?” asked Guy curiously, once Agatha was settled next to him in his Range Rover. Agatha had no intention of telling him about the
rape and so she said that Molly had urged her to look into the murders and that was what she had been doing.

  When they got to Agatha’s cottage, she saw to her dismay that Charles’s car was parked outside. She couldn’t ask him in, Charles would say something off-putting.

  But she brightened as Guy said, “Let’s continue this conversation. What about lunch or dinner sometime?”

  “Lovely. Here’s my card with the address of my office. See you, Guy.”

  * * *

  Agatha went into the house, singing. Charles came down the stairs wrapped in a silk dressing gown. “You keep late hours,” he said. “And your mouth is all purple. Been at the true and blushful Hippocrene?”

  “Sloe gin.”

  “And who was that I heard you say goodnight to?”

  Agatha decided to lie. “Just some copper. There’s been another murder.”

  “What! Mrs. Smellie?”

  “No, Tiffany.”

  “Well, she did brag she knew the murderer. What was this copper like?”

  “Who?”

  “The one that drove you home.”

  “Oh, him. They all look alike to me. I’m tired. Can we talk in the morning?”

  Charles was about to ask who it was that had put the shine back in Agatha’s bearlike eyes, but pulled himself up short. Only a husband or lover had that right. He turned and went upstairs to bed in the spare room. But he did not go immediately to sleep. He folded his hands on his chest, stared up into the blackness of the ceiling, and wondered why he felt vaguely sad.

  * * *

  Agatha awoke with a feeling of anticipation. This was the day she might see Guy. She had forgotten all about Charles until she went into the kitchen and found him sitting there with a gleeful look on his face. “A chap called Guy Harris had just been here. Left your car. Says he drove you home last night. Doesn’t look like a copper.”

  “Charles, I was so tired, I couldn’t remember who drove me home. And I have news for you. I don’t want this case.”

  “Not like you to be gutless, Aggie!”

  “It’s known as self-preservation. There is a mad murderer out there. I have been almost buried alive, almost chucked in the Grand Canal in Venice, nearly burnt to death and a lot more. I do not have nine lives. I want to stay alive. Geddit? I am going to have a strong coffee and then I am going to confront Sir Edward and tell him I am retiring from the case.”