Pushing Up Daisies

by M C Beaton

  “Because he’s clever and he’ll listen properly.”

  Bill came out of headquarters accompanied by Alice Peterson. They were laughing and chatting until Bill saw Agatha approaching and his face fell.

  “I’ve discovered something important,” said Agatha. “You’ve got to listen.”

  “All right,” said Bill reluctantly. “Out with it.” Gerald came to join them.

  Bill listened intently as Agatha told him about what Mrs. Bull had said. When she had finished, Bill said, “You’ll need to come in with me and make a statement, and then we’ll get onto it right away.”

  “Do I have to see Wilkes?” asked Agatha.

  “No, it’s his day off. I’ll take your statements, and then we’ll go and see her.”

  After they had given their statements and were heading back to Carsely, Agatha said sulkily, “It looks as if we might have solved that murder and the police will take all the credit and Damian will be furious if the killer turns out to be his own mother.”

  “We’ve still got Peta’s murder to solve,” Gerald pointed out.

  “And no one is paying us for that.” She drove down into the village and turned into Lilac Lane. “There’s smoke coming from James’s chimney. He must be home.”

  “And there’s Toni waiting on your doorstep,” said Gerald, smoothing back his hair.

  “Probably wants some girl talk, so you’d better be off,” said Agatha. She was aware that Toni had, in the past, betrayed a liking for much older men. She parked outside her cottage. Gerald nipped out and said something to Toni, who shook her blond head.

  “What was that about?” asked Agatha, after Gerald had left.

  “Wanted to take me out for dinner,” said Toni.

  “Old lecher,” grumbled Agatha. “What brings you?”

  “A quiet Sunday so I thought I’d take a run over to Carsely and see how you are getting on.”

  “Come in and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Agatha had just finished talking when the doorbell rang. It was Simon Black. “Thought I’d drop in,” he said.

  “Meaning you are in pursuit of Toni. Give up, Simon.”

  “Well, if that’s your attitude.… Actually, I’m not. Boring old day.”

  “Oh, come in. She’s in the kitchen.” The doorbell rang again. “Now, who is it?” demanded Agatha.

  This time it was her former employee, Roy Silver, and behind him stood James Lacey. “This is getting to be a party,” said Agatha.

  When they were all seated in the kitchen, she told her adventures over again. “Have the press been round?” asked Roy eagerly.

  “No, Roy, so you’ve had a wasted visit. Is that the reason you came?”

  “I need your help,” said Roy. His pasty face had a new crop of pimples which always happened when he was upset. “Pedman is threatening to sack me.” Pedman was Roy’s public-relations boss.

  “Why?”

  “I punched a reporter on the nose.”

  “Which one?”

  “Bert Cunningham.”

  The top reporter on the Sketch? How come?”

  “I’ve been handling that pop group, Drop Dead Gorgeous. The lead singer, Jez Honor, has been charged with raping a fourteen-year-old.”

  “Pedman should have stopped representing them.”

  “Well, they didn’t, and I got stuck with the damage limitation. I was keeping the press at bay and Cunningham called me a fairy so I punched him on the nose.”

  “But you are a…” Agatha bit her lip. “Have you got what he said on tape?”

  “Yes, I taped what was supposed to be a press conference. He’s suing me, Aggie, and Pedman is furious.”

  “Oh, talk among yourselves, you lot, while I deal with this,” said Agatha.

  She returned to the kitchen after half an hour, saying wearily, “Well, that’s fixed. You aren’t being sued, and you’re to go to work tomorrow as usual.”

  Roy began to sob with relief. He said when he could, “How did you manage it?”

  “I got Cunningham at home and said if he didn’t drop it, I would have him damned as a homophobe. I phoned Pedman and told him Cunningham was dropping the action and he should tell that pop group that as it was all at the moment sub judice, Pedman could not represent them until after the court case. You are to take over Comfy Baby nappies.”

  “Oh, God! Mary Dobbs was doing that. Why am I landed arranging photo shoots with squalling brats and mothers from hell?”

  “Because she handed in her notice, that’s why. Be grateful.”

  “I am. Honest. Thanks, Agatha.”

  “Where’s James?”

  “Gone home,” said Toni.

  Agatha slumped down onto a chair at the kitchen table. “Simon. Fix me a gin and tonic and get something for yourself and Toni.”

  Toni watched Agatha taking out a packet of cigarettes. “Still smoking,” she commented.

  “So bloody what?” demanded Agatha harshly. “This is my first cigarette today.”

  She lit up, inhaled and immediately felt dizzy. Agatha made a promise to herself that she would never go without fags for a long time because the first one always had a bad effect.

  After all, she had tried to give up so many times, and what a waste of space that had turned out to be.

  The doorbell shrilled, making her jump. “That’ll probably be James,” she said.

  She patted her hair in the hall mirror. Even though one had lost interest in one’s ex, it doesn’t do to give them the pleasure of looking frazzled. But her heart sank as she opened the door to be confronted by not only Bill, but Inspector Wilkes as well.

  “This is a serious business,” said Wilkes ponderously.

  “Oh, stop glooming at me on the doorstep and come in,” said Agatha.

  “Mr. Devere will be joining us,” said Wilkes.

  In the kitchen, Agatha said, “Toni, this is going to take some time. Why don’t you and Simon go to the pub?”

  After they had left, Wilkes produced Agatha and Gerald’s statements. At that moment, Gerald walked into the kitchen. “Toni let me in,” he said. “What’s happening?”

  “Just about to find out,” said Agatha.

  “Mrs. Bull has disappeared,” said Wilkes.

  “Are you sure?” said Gerald. “She may have gone to a friend’s house.”

  “Her door was unlocked. All her things are there including her handbag. We interviewed Lady Bellington. She insists the woman was talking rubbish. The week before Lord Bellington’s murder, she was in a rehab in Oxford. No record of her leaving the building. Plenty of witnesses to swear she was there the whole time.”

  “Mrs. Bull got a phone call when we were there,” said Agatha. “When she came back, she looked frightened. You will see from our reports that she had already been threatened.”

  “We’re checking her phone line,” said Bill.

  Roy interrupted them. “I’ve got to go. Bye, Aggie.”

  “Don’t call me … Oh, what’s the use?” Agatha turned to Wilkes. “I can’t think of anything else other than what I said in my statement.”

  “Right,” said Wilkes. “A word with you in private, Mr. Devere.”

  When Gerald had left with Wilkes, Agatha said, “What’s he up to, Bill?”

  “He was grumbling about a detective like Devere working with you. Perhaps he is frightened you will solve the murders.”

  They then sat in silence until Wilkes eventually returned with Gerald and said they were leaving. After they had gone, Agatha asked, “Well, Gerald, what was that all about?”

  “He said he had had a word with the superintendent, and the police would like to employ me on this case in an advisory capacity. So I won’t be working for you.”

  “You signed a contract,” said Agatha. “I’ve a good mind to keep you to it. No, on second thoughts, just get lost!”

  Toni and Simon, instead of going to the pub, had made their way to the allotments to see if they could find out anything. When they
arrived, allotment holders were gathered on the road outside. A full moon lit up the angry faces. Harry Perry was shouting that one of them had stolen his prize marrow. “I blame you, Bunty Daventry,” he was yelling. “You was always jealous of my fame.”

  “It’s only a poxy marrow,” sneered Josephine Merriweather.

  “If you were a man,” raged Harry, “I’d beat the living daylights out of you.”

  “Oh, you would, would you?” Josephine advanced on him, waving her fists.

  “Calm down all of you,” said one of the older members, Fred Palmer. “Fighting ain’t getting us anywhere. Have you called the police, Harry?”

  “’Course I did, and they won’t do anything. I wanted a house-to-house search.”

  “Aren’t we forgetting about Peta’s murder?” asked Bunty.

  “I’m not forgetting,” said Harry. “But she wasn’t much use as a gardener anyway. The theft of my marrow is more important.”

  Toni and Simon walked away from the angry voices. “Allotments seem to bring out the worst in people,” said Simon. “You’d think they’d all be rejoicing now that their precious plots aren’t to be destroyed. Why don’t we go to the pub?”

  Toni hesitated. “Maybe I should go back to Agatha.”

  “It’s all right. I’m in love,” said Simon.

  Toni smiled with relief. She had become weary of Simon’s pursuit of her. “All right. The pub it is. Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “Alice Peterson.”

  “Detective Alice Peterson? Oh, Simon. Bill’s keen on her but can’t do anything because of them being colleagues. He’ll be furious. How long have you been dating her?”

  “Well, I haven’t asked her out yet. I’m waiting for the right moment.”

  “Don’t do it. You’ll only hurt Bill.”

  “He can’t do anything about asking her out and I can,” said Simon mulishly. “I know where she lives. I’m going to wait outside her house and just ask her.”

  “Oh, forget about the pub,” snapped Toni and strode off, autumn leaves swirling about her feet in a rising wind.

  Later that evening, like a dog waiting for its master, Simon lurked outside the block of flats where Alice lived. At last he saw her driving up with Bill and moved into the shadows. His heart beat fast as he watched her leaning into the car to say goodnight.

  Bill drove off. As Alice approached the entrance, Simon stepped forward.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Alice looked puzzled for a moment as she studied his face in the entrance light. Then her face cleared. “Oh, it’s you, Simon. Found anything out?”

  “Nothing much,” said Simon. “I wondered if you would care to go for a drink?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m tired,” said Alice, beginning to walk away.

  “Another time?” called Simon. But Alice did not reply. The entrance door slammed behind her. I’d forgotten how late it was, mourned Simon. I’ll send her flowers. That should do the trick.

  * * *

  Agatha was about to set out for Harby Hall the next morning to try to interview Andrea and find out if she had any proof to back up her allegation that her brother had murdered their father. She had not told Wilkes about Andrea’s startling accusation. Maybe Gerald had told them. Agatha did not like the idea of the police knowing absolutely everything. Then she had to find out what had happened to Mrs. Bull.

  Charles appeared as she was about to set out. She wanted to tell him huffily that she did not need his help, but stopped herself in time. She told him instead all she had learned.

  They were just about to leave when Agatha’s mobile rang. It was Bill Wong. “Is Simon Black there?” he asked.

  “He’s out looking for a lost teenager,” said Agatha. “Why?”

  “He’s stalking Alice.”

  “What?”

  “He was lurking outside her building late last night, and he’s just sent her flowers.”

  “Is she complaining about him?”

  “Well, no.”

  “I can’t do anything about it, Bill, unless she’s angry.”

  “Look, we’re friends, Agatha. Tell him to stop!”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll try. Simon gets crushes on women, but it soon blows over.”

  “Why doesn’t Bill ask her out himself?” asked Charles, after Agatha had told him about the phone call.

  “Police regulations.”

  “I’m sure other coppers never bother about them.”

  “I’m sure, even if he did try to date her, that mother of his would soon find a way to put a stop to it.”

  Mrs. Wong was at that moment returning with a shopping bag over her arm. Her neighbour, Mrs. Golightly, hailed her. “Cold day,” she called. “They say it’s going to be a hard winter. Had the grandchildren down for the week-end. Little darlings. You got any?”

  “My son is not married as you very well know.”

  “What a pity. Doesn’t fancy the ladies maybe?”

  “Tcha!” Mrs. Wong marched up the garden path. In the past, she had always felt superior to Mrs. Golightly, whose son had done time for car theft. Her face burned red at the idea that her malicious neighbour might put it about that her precious Bill was … well … the-other-way inclined. Bill would need to get married and as soon as possible.

  What an odd morning, thought Alice. First there was the bouquet from Simon, and Mrs. Wong had phoned to ask her for supper. Alice was terrified of Bill’s mother, and so she had lied and said she had a date. “So you’re that kind of girl,” Mrs. Wong had said. “Bill’s better off without you.”

  Upset, Alice had phoned Bill on his mobile, knowing he had gone to Harby with Wilkes.

  Bill adored his parents. He had hitherto been blind to his mother’s habit of driving girlfriends away. Because of his Chinese father and his own slightly Asian appearance, he had been bullied at school. Having a poor opinion of his looks, he assumed that, after a visit to his home, previous girlfriends had gone off him because of his lack of attraction. But now Bill, who had long adored Alice, was furious. He phoned his mother and said he was moving out to a flat of his own. If she had cried, he might have relented. But she cursed him for being an unnatural son, and so he cut her off in mid-rant and vowed to find a place to live as soon as he could. He then phoned Alice and apologised for his mother’s behaviour and said he was moving out.

  Alice, who had once had a miserable supper with the Wong family, was sympathetic. “There’s a flat in my block available,” she said. “I’ll speak to the landlord today.”

  And Bill, who had been sent to the village of Harby to search for the missing Mrs. Bull, was elevated to a dream of living next door to Alice. Wasn’t there a song about that, he wondered dreamily.

  “Have you found her?” asked the familiar voice of Agatha Raisin behind him. He swung round to see Agatha and Charles.

  “Not a sign of her,” said Bill with a wide grin.

  “So why are you looking so happy?”

  “It’s a lovely day to be out in the country.”

  Agatha looked up at the lowering black clouds and then at the falling leaves driven by a brisk cold wind and said, “It’s miserable. Never mind. Is Wilkes up at the hall?”

  “Yes. He’s interviewing Andrea.”

  “We should have beaten him to it, Charles,” said Agatha. “I bet she denies the whole thing. So let’s get back to Mrs. Bull. Say, she’s been bumped off. Where would you dump a body, Bill?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “What about the allotments?” asked Charles. “I saw them at the edge of the village.”

  “I’d better go on my own,” said Bill. “If Wilkes turns up and finds you with me, he’ll be furious. Oh, Lord, here come the press.”

  “You deal with them,” said Agatha quickly. “Let’s go, Charles.”

  Agatha and Charles drove to the allotments. Unlike the ones in Carsely, several of the plots were vacant and covered in weeds. There was no one in sight. They wandere
d through the allotments, looking to right and left. There were no signs of freshly turned earth: nothing that looked like a grave. The wind moaned through the trees bordering the allotments.

  Agatha drew her fake fur coat tighter about her and shivered. “This place gives me the creeps. I seem to hear someone shouting, ‘Help!’”

  “There’s an old well over in that far corner,” said Charles.

  “Looks as if it hasn’t been used for a century,” said Agatha. “I’m cold and hungry, and a gin and tonic is calling to me.”

  But Charles walked over to the well. It was covered with a stone slab. He leaned down and pressed his ear against it. Then he straightened up and called, “Get a tyre iron out of the car, Aggie! I swear I heard a moan. Bring a torch as well.”

  When Agatha came back, Charles inserted the tyre iron under the edge of the slab and heaved. The old slab split in two. He grasped the edge of one of the pieces and hauled it onto the grass. Then he took the torch from Agatha and shone it down into the well. The white face and terrified eyes of a woman stared up at him.

  “I think we’ve found her,” he said. “Phone Bill. Have a look. Is that Mrs. Bull?”

  Agatha looked down at the terrified face. “It’s her.” She took out her mobile and called Bill. Then, leaning over the well, she shouted down, “Help is on its way. Who did this to you?”

  But Mrs. Bull had relapsed into unconsciousness.

  They were soon joined by Bill and several policemen and then by Wilkes. Before a fire engine arrived, Agatha fretted. If Mrs. Bull had been thrown into the well, she must be suffering from broken bones.

  At last the firemen arrived. It was decided that the thinnest of the firemen should be lowered down with a canvas hoist to put around Mrs. Bull. An ambulance rolled up, and paramedics stood by.

  At last, Mrs. Bull was slowly hoisted to the surface. She gave one long scream of agony and then fell silent.

  Oh, let her stay alive, prayed Agatha as Mrs. Bull’s white-and-blueish face appeared over the parapet of the well. Police had cordoned off the allotments, keeping the press at bay.

  She was tenderly placed on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over her face and a drip in her arm.

  Agatha scrolled down her phone until she found Damian’s number. “I’ve got to speak to you. It’s urgent.”