Agatha Raisin and The Murderous Marriage ar-5

by M C Beaton

"I'm not jealous of that plump frump. We could have been killed last night."

  "Not with a back door to the garden."

  "What if we had both been asleep?"

  There was no answer to that.

  They completed the drive to Mircester in silence.

  There were many questions to answer at police headquarters. Detective Inspector Wilkes was in charge of the question- I ing this time, flanked by Bill Wong. Agatha found herself beginning to sweat. She was terrified either she or James would let something slip and Wilkes would know about their bur-glaring.

  When it was at last all over and they had signed their statements, Wilkes said severely, "I should charge both of you with obstructing police business. But I'm warning you for the last time. We may seem to you very slow, but we are thor- j ough."

  They left feeling chastened. From an upstairs window, Maddie Hurd watched them go. She bit her thumb nail and stared down at them. She had not been invited to join in the interrogation. She had not been asked to do anything further on the case at all. She had been given a series of burglaries to investigate instead. She blamed Bill Wong for turning her superiors against her.

  Although Bill had not opened his mouth, her jilting of him had a lot to do with it. Bill Wong was very popular, Maddie was not. Women, even in the police force, were expected to be womanly. Women in the police force were not expected to jilt fellow officers. So, although Chief Inspector Wilkes did not sit down and say, "We don't want Maddie Hurd on the case because of the way she has treated Bill Wong," he had, without even thinking about it, decided she was not the right officer for the job.

  Agatha completed the business of buying her cottage back, although conscience prompted her finally to offer PS120,000. She felt she had misjudged Mrs. Hardy, that here was a fellow spirit.

  When they were leaving the lawyers', Agatha said impulsively, "Look, there's a dance at the village hall on Saturday evening. Why don't you come with me and James? No, don't refuse right away. I thought I would hate things like that, but they're really rather fun. And it's in a good cause. We're raising money for Cancer Relief."

  Mrs. Hardy gave a weak smile. All her aggression seemed k to have left her. "Well, maybe..." she said hesitantly. "That's the thing. Think about it." Agatha waved goodbye and headed off to the car, where James was waiting for her.

  "Well, that's that," she said cheerfully. "Do you know, she's not that bad? I've asked her to come to the dance with us on Saturday."

  James groaned. "I didn't know we were going'. 'Of course we are. What would a village dance be without us?"

  Agatha put on a chiffon evening blouse and black velvet skirt for the dance on Saturday, wishing the days of proper evening gowns even for a village hop were not gone forever. Full evening dress was glamorous. She was regretting her decision to 'mother' Mrs. Hardy at the dance. And yet surely the: was no one in the village to catch James's wandering eye. An he did have a wandering eye, witness his interest in Helen Warwick.

  He must have meant something hopeful by that 'Give me time'. Perhaps they could go away together to northern Cyprus just for a holiday. It wouldn't need to be a honeymoon. She sat at her dressing-table, a lipstick half-way to her mouth, her eyes unfocused by dreams as she imagined them walking along the beach together, talking.

  Then she gave a shrug and, leaning forward, applied the lipstick with a careful hand. The dream James always talked so well, always said all those delightful things she longed to hear. The real James would probably talk about books or the political situation. She stood up. Her skirt was loose at the waist. No thanks to that brief stay at the health farm. It was a result of living with James and eating James's carefully prepared meals - no fries, no puddings. There was no incentive either to snack before meals because she still felt obliged to ask him for everything, and it was easier not to eat anything between meals than to request something and maybe be damned as a glutton. Her face was thinner and her skin clear. I could pass for forty - maybe, thought Agatha.

  When they collected Mrs. Hardy and they began to walk towards the village hall, Agatha glanced sideways at her and thought she might at least have made some effort with her dress. Mrs. Hardy was wearing a rather baggy green tweed skirt and a black shirt blouse under a raincoat.

  "I don't think this is a very good idea," said Mrs. Hardy. "I don't like dancing."

  "Stay for a bit and have a drink," urged Agatha, "and then, if you still don't like it, you can go home."

  Light was streaming out of the village hall and they could hear the jolly umpty-tumpty sound of the village band. "It'll be old-fashioned dancing tonight, not a disco," said Agatha. "No heavy metal."

  "You mean 'Pride of Erin' and the military two-step, things like that?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, I can do those," said Mrs. Hardy. "I didn't know anyone did those sort of dances these days. I thought they just took ecstasy pills and threw themselves about like dervishes."

  They left their coats in the temporary cloakroom manned, or 'womanned', by old Mrs. Boggle. "That'll be fifty pee each," said Mrs. Boggle, "and hang your own coats up."

  "It's the first time I've ever been charged for a cloakroom ticket at the village hall," said Agatha suspiciously.

  "You don't think I'm going to do this for nothing," grumbled Mrs. Boggle.

  James paid the money and then led them both into the village hall. "The next dance is a Canadian barn dance," announced the MC, vicar Alf Bloxby.

  James turned to Mrs. Hardy. "Care to try?"

  "I don't know..."

  "Oh, go on," said Agatha, determined to be charitable and reminding herself that she would soon be moving back into her old home.

  James and Mrs. Hardy took the floor. Agatha moved over to the bar, where the publican, John Fletcher, was working, having left his wife and son to manage the pub. "Gin and tonic, John," said Agatha.

  "Right you are. How's that murder investigation going? They caught anyone?"

  Agatha shook her head.

  "It's odd, isn't it? And then the murder of that poor woman in the cinema. Mind you, the police don't think nc that the two murders are related."

  "Since when?"

  "I dunno. Fred Griggs was saying something like that the other day."

  He turned away to serve someone else.

  Agatha found Mrs. Bloxby next to her. "Mrs. Hardy appears to have come out of her shell," said the vicar's wife.

  Agatha turned round and surveyed the dance floor. Mrs Hardy was dancing with unexpected grace. She was laughing at something James was saying.

  "And if I am not mistaken, that's quite a flirtatious look in her eyes. Not," added Mrs. Bloxby hurriedly, "that she is any competition. You are looking remarkably trim and well these days."

  "Must be James's cooking," said Agatha. "We brought along Mrs. Hardy to cheer her up. I only hope now she doesn't cheer up too much or she will decide to stay."

  "But you have your cottage back?"

  "Yes, everything's signed and agreed on."

  "In that case, she can do nothing about it."

  "I hope James is not going to get carried away by my good Samaritan act," said Agatha. "If he asks her for the next dance, I'll murder her...oh, dear, how easily one says things like that. I don't think we're ever going to find out who murdered Jimmy."

  "Let's sit over there in the corner, away from the noise of the band, and you can tell me about it," said Mrs. Bloxby.

  Agatha hesitated. The dance had finished. But James was asking Miss Simms for the next dance.

  "Okay," she said. They carried their drinks over to a; couple of chairs in a corner of the hall.

  "I think a lot of it you already know," began Agatha. "Jimmy, and possibly this Mrs. Gore-Appleton, who ran a dicey charity, stayed at a health farm, found out what they could, and blackmailed some of the other guests. I believe one of them murdered him." She went on to describe all their investigations.

  Mrs. Bloxby listened carefully and then she said, "I would think the most likel
y suspect would be Mrs. Gore-Appleton herself."

  "But they were in it together!"

  "Exactly. But Jimmy went back on the booze and down to the gutter. But he surfaced for long enough to get cleaned up for your wedding. So, say, before that he had some stage where he was relatively sober and needed money. Why should he not seek out his old protector? And think of this. Let's say she wants nothing more to do with him - her miraculous cured alcoholic isn't cured. So she tries to send him packing. But Jimmy has a taste for blackmail, and as he was close to her at one time, he must have known about the fraudulent charity. He knows the police are looking for her. So he says something like, 'Pay up or I'll tell them where you are'? Wait a bit. It could be just before he came down here. He says he's going to be in Carsley. She follows him and waits for the right moment, and what better moment is there than when he is hopelessly drunk and has just had a row with his wife?"

  Agatha looked at her open-mouthed and then said, "That's all so very simple, it could well be what happened. But surely the police can find this woman, with all their resources and all."

  "She could have changed her name."

  "That might be an idea. I wonder if they've checked the Records Office to see if a Mrs. Gore-Appleton changed her name to anything else. Damn, they're bound to have done that."

  "She was and still is a criminal, Agatha. She could easily get false papers. Apart from her, have you come across anyone during your investigations who might be a murderer or murderess?"

  "It could be any of them. Those men's footprints near the body could be a blind. I have a gut feeling it's some woman. That secretary, Helen Warwick, I don't trust her at all."

  "It would take some strength to strangle a man."

  "Mrs. Comfort said something odd about Mrs. Gore-; Appleton. She said she looked like a man."

  "So she could be a he, pretending to be a woman?"

  "I suppose anything's possible."

  "There you are," said James. "Dance, Agatha?"

  "Sit down a moment," said Agatha. "Mrs. Bloxby's got some ideas." By the time Mrs. Bloxby had finished outlining them, her husband was announcing a ladies' choice, and to Agatha's dismay, Mrs. Hardy came up and tapped James on the shoulder and marched him off rather like a military policeman arresting a deserter.

  "I wish that woman would go back in her shell," muttered Agatha. She was beginning to have that old feeling of being a wallflower, Then she remembered it was a ladies' choice and asked one of the farmers for a dance.

  Mrs. Bloxby watched her and reflected that Agatha was looking almost pretty. Her eyes were too small and her figure, however slimmed down, always appeared a bit stocky, but she had excellent legs and her brown hair shone with health.

  Agatha began to forget about murder and enjoyed the evening. James asked her for the next dance and then they moved to the bar for some companionable drinks. Mrs. Hardy was on her feet for every dance, her face flushed, her eyes shining.

  "Who would have thought that nasty old bat would turn out to be so nice, if you know what I mean," said Agatha.

  The village dance ended as usual at midnight. They said their good-nights, Agatha noticing that old Mrs. Boggle, having collected the money, had cleared off, leaving all the coats unguarded.

  They walked home, Mrs. Hardy hanging on to James's arm, much to Agatha's irritation, and saying what a good evening it had been. They were just rounding the corner of Lilac Lane when a dark figure detached itself from the thicker blackness of the bushes.

  In the dim light from the moon above, they saw with horror that a man was confronting them, a masked man who was holding a pistol.

  "This is a warning," he grated. "Bug out. And just to make sure you know I mean business..."

  The pistol was lowered to point at Agatha's legs.

  For one split second they stood paralysed, then Mrs. Hardy's foot shot out like that of a karate expert and she kicked the gun out of the man's hand. He turned and fled. Mrs. Hardy went plunging after him, but tripped and fell headlong, blocking James's pursuit. He tripped over her and sprawled in the lane.

  Agatha found her voice and began to scream for help.

  More police interviews. Agatha, white and shaking, was somehow more upset to learn that the gun was a replica. Mrs. Hardy was told she had been very brave but very foolish. It could have been a real gun.

  "Where did you learn to kick like that?" asked Bill Wong.

  Mrs. Hardy laughed. "From those Kung Fu films on television. I suppose it was a silly thing to do - it was just an accident that I managed to kick the gun out of his hand."

  "Remember," cautioned Bill, "that if that gun had been real and had been loaded, it could have gone off."

  "Well, I think she was very brave," said Agatha, clutching a cup of hot sweet tea.

  While James and Mrs. Hardy were being questioned again - what had the man's voice sounded like, what height, clothes? - Agatha began to think of Helen Warwick. They had gone to see Helen and then James's house had been set on fire, and now this.

  There must be some connection.

  But when the police had left to join the milling hordes of other police combing the area - armed police, police with dogs, and police with helicopters - and when Mrs. Hardy had finally gone to her cottage, Agatha broached her suspicions of Helen Warwick to James. He shrugged and said, "That's ridiculous."

  "It's not ridiculous!" cried Agatha.

  "You've had a bad fright," said James soothingly. "I've got to go to London tomorrow to see an old friend. I suggest you have a day in bed to recover. No, not another word. You're not in a fit state to think properly."

  Agatha awoke at nine to find the cottage empty and James's car gone. She was suddenly angry. Damn it, she would go to London herself and ask Roy Silver if he had found out anything else from that detective.

  The doorbell rang. She ran to answer it, hoping James had come back. But it was the vicar's wife who stood on the step.

  "Oh, Mrs. Bloxby. Come in. I was just about to leave for London."

  "I keep telling you to call me Margaret. And shouldn't you be resting?"

  "Have they caught anyone?" asked Agatha over her shoulder as she led the way through to the kitchen.

  "Not a sign. They're still searching. The woods above the village are full of men and dogs. Was the man wearing gloves?"

  "I think so. Why?"

  "Well, fingerprints."

  Agatha seized the coffee-jug from the machine. Her hand suddenly shook and she dropped the coffee-jug, which did not break but bounced across the floor, spreading coffee and spattering the cupboards. Agatha sat down and burst into tears.

  "Now, then," said Mrs. Bloxby, guiding her to the table. "You just sit down there and I'll clean up this mess."

  "J-James is so-so persnickety," sobbed Agatha. "He'll be furious."

  "By the time I've finished," said the vicar's wife, taking off her coat, "he won't know anything has happened."

  She opened the cupboard under the sink and took out cleaning materials and a floor-cloth. While Agatha sniffed dismally into a handkerchief, Mrs. Bloxby worked calmly and efficiently. Then she put on the kettle, saying, "I think tea would be better for you. Your nerves are bad enough. I am surprised James has left. Why?"

  "He said he had to see an old friend." Agatha, who had temporarily got a grip on herself, found she was beginning to cry again. "But I don't think he's gone to see any old friend, I think he's gone to see that murderess, Helen Warwick."

  "I'll make us a cup of tea and you can tell me about it."

  When they were both seated at the table, Agatha described the visit to Helen Warwick and how, after that visit, someone had tried to burn them to death, and then, last night, the masked man had been about to shoot her in the legs if Mrs. Hardy had not kicked the gun out of his hand.

  "I heard about that last night. Very brave of Mrs. Hardy. But it all goes to show, Agatha, that your Christian act in taking her to the village dance had its reward. It always reinforces my belief in
the fundamental goodness of people in the way that a little bit of kindness engenders such a reward."

  Agatha managed a watery smile. "Doesn't seem to work with the Boggles."

  "Oh, them, well...There is always an exception. But surely James's interest in Helen Warwick is simply to do with the case?"

  "James has quite dreadful taste in women," said Agatha gloomily. "Remember Mary Fortune?" Mary Fortune, a divorcee who had been murdered, had enjoyed a brief affair with James before her death.

  "You were away then," pointed out Mrs. Bloxby. "Have there been any reporters, asking questions?"

  "About the attempted shooting? No. I think the police want the press out of their hair and that they have somehow managed to keep it quiet for the moment. The villagers are tired of the press as well, so none of them is going to phone up a newspaper. I'll go to London and see if Roy Silver has found out anything. I've something in mind. I may stay the night. I'd best leave a note for James."

  "Hadn't you better stick around? The police will surely be back to see you."

  "They can talk to the Hardy woman. I want a change of scene anyway."

  "I do feel you should take care, Agatha. Someone appears to be more afraid of your investigations than they are of the police."

  "I'm beginning to think that someone is mad. Look, it was a man who held us up last night. Mrs. Comfort said something about Mrs. Gore-Appleton looking like a man. Perhaps there never was a Mrs. Gore-Appleton. Perhaps there was a Mr. Gore-Appleton. Perhaps some man pretended to be a woman as part of that charity scam."

  "I still think you should stay here and rest, Agatha."

  "No, I'm going. I'll feel better once I'm out of the village." But Agatha forgot to leave a note for James.

  But once she reached London, Agatha found herself driving towards Kensington, to the Gloucester Road. She had to reassure herself that James had really gone to see a friend and that the friend wasn't Helen Warwick. As she drove along the Gloucester Road towards the block of flats, she kept looking at the parked cars. Of course, James could be parked anywhere. It was difficult to find a parking-place in Kensington at the best of times. His car could be tucked away in Cromwell Gardens or Emperor's Gate or somewhere she could not see it. But suddenly, there it was, on a meter, a few yards from Helen's building. And as a final nail in Agatha's coffin, there, just leaving the flats, came James and Helen, laughing and talking like old friends. The car behind Agatha, who had been driving at about five miles an hour, hooted impatiently. Agatha speeded up. She longed to turn the car around, catch up with them and hurl abuse at James from the window.