Pushing Up Daisies

by M C Beaton

  “Come up to the house,” he said. “What’s happened?”

  “Tell you when I get there,” said Agatha. She rang off. “Come along, Charles.”

  “Not so fast,” said Wilkes, looming over her. “I need statements from both of you as to why you so conveniently found the missing woman down the well.”

  “I have a job to do as well,” said Agatha. “Charles and I will call in at headquarters and give you a full statement later on.”

  “You do that,” said Wilkes, “and I will have you arrested for impeding the police in their enquiries. Detective Wong! Take their statements … now!”

  Bill was painstaking and meticulous. It took over an hour before they were finally able to leave and go to Harby Hall.

  Chapter Five

  Damian answered the door himself. “So Ma Bull has turned up her toes?” he said cheerfully.

  “No, she is still alive,” said Agatha. “How did you hear about it?”

  “The jungle drums of Harby have been beating nonstop. Although I was told she was dead and buried in the allotment, just like Peta.”

  “Your jungle drums are hitting the wrong beat,” said Agatha. “She was thrown down an old well on the allotments.”

  “Really? I say, what larks. Ding, dong, bell. Bull is in the well. Come in. Don’t stand glaring at me. I never liked the woman. Nasty gossip.”

  He led the way through the house to the garden. “Isn’t there anywhere warmer?” pleaded Agatha. “It’s a cold day.”

  “Oh, well. It’s your age, you know. We’ll sit in the drawing room.”

  “I hate you,” hissed Agatha to his retreating back.

  “Naughty, naughty. In here.”

  The drawing room was as dark as the other rooms because of the ivy covering most of the windows. Damian went around switching on lamps. A badly executed oil painting of the late Lord Bellington glared down at them. “Drink?” offered Damian.

  “Not for Agatha,” said Charles. “She’s driving.”

  “One won’t put me over the limit,” said Agatha crossly. “Gin and tonic, please.”

  Charles said he would have a whisky and soda, avoiding a threatening look from Agatha.

  “Now,” began Agatha, “the police will be here any moment. Think! Why Mrs. Bull?”

  “As I said, she was a malicious gossip. Probably nothing to do with the other murders.”

  “May I remind you that your sister has accused you of murdering your father?”

  “Well, she would, wouldn’t she?”

  “Why?”

  Damian brought their drinks over from an ancient sideboard. “She wants to start a farm for sick donkeys. Asked me for the money. Told her, no. She’s got a large allowance. Says it’s not enough. Screams and jumps up and down with rage. Does that answer your question?”

  “One of them,” said Agatha. “Have the police questioned Lady Bellington about Mrs. Bull’s claim that she caught her down in the cellar with a syringe?”

  “Over and over again. But you see, she was in a rehab in Oxford for months. And everyone down there can testify that she was not allowed to leave.”

  “But why would she say such a thing?” asked Charles.

  “My father was toying with the idea of a reconciliation. He wrote to her. She wrote back that she would never return if Mrs. Bull was still the housekeeper. I am sure the old trout read the letter. She was always reading private correspondence.”

  Agatha felt herself becoming exasperated. Damian seemed perpetually amused by the whole thing. “Haven’t you the faintest idea who might have murdered your father?” she demanded.

  “If I had, I wouldn’t have employed you. Try the villagers. They’re a weird lot. People keep accusing the aristocracy of inbreeding and never take a look at these little villages, buried away from the tourist route.”

  “Well, give us at least a suggestion of where we should start.”

  “Try Mary Feathers at Lime Cottage. She’s the head of the allotments committee.”

  But when they returned to Harby, police were going from door to door. “We’ll come back in the evening,” said Charles. “How are you getting on with Gerald?”

  “He’s a creep. He wanted me to employ him and then was lured away by Wilkes.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t chasing him, Agatha. You have a weakness for creeps.”

  “You mean men like you? Oh, let’s go and eat something.”

  When they returned in the evening, a small moon was shining down on the huddle of houses that made up the village of Harby.

  Lime Cottage was thatched, and brooded beside the village pond, its two small-paned windows at the front like two eyes. Agatha rapped on the brass knocker.

  The door opened.

  “Is Mrs. Feathers at home?” asked Agatha.

  “I am Mrs. Feathers.”

  She had two wings of jet black hair tied behind her head. Her perfect face was serene and her eyes fringed with heavy lashes, wide and black. She was wearing a green cashmere sweater over a black velvet skirt. Mrs. Feathers did not look at all like the sort of woman to head an allotment committee.

  Agatha explained who they were and why they had called. “Oh, you’d better come in,” she said.

  She ushered them into a front parlour where a log fire was crackling cheerfully on the hearth. Three of the walls were lined with bookcases. The room was furnished with a comfortable sofa and two wing-backed chairs.

  Agatha was surprised. This was hardly a horny-handed daughter of the soil. In fact, Mary’s hands were soft and white.

  “We want to ask you about the villagers on the allotments,” began Agatha. Charles raised his eyebrows at her because Agatha’s voice had a hectoring note. The fact was that Agatha was feeling diminished by the calm beauty in front of her. She was suddenly aware that she had not repaired her make-up and that the band of her skirt was too tight.

  “I can’t think of any of us who would do such a dreadful thing to Mrs. Bull,” she said.

  Her Gloucestershire accent was soft and caressing.

  “Certainly not you,” said Charles with a smile, and Agatha glared at him.

  “Did Mrs. Bull have an allotment?” asked Agatha.

  “No, but she would often visit and buy vegetables. On Saturdays, various allotment holders set up stands by the road.”

  “Was Mrs. Bull disliked?”

  “To be honest, she wasn’t popular. She liked finding out nasty gossip about people.”

  “Where is Mr. Feathers?” asked Charles.

  “I am afraid poor Roger died three years ago. Heart attack. Very sudden. But you were asking about Mrs. Bull. The trouble is that she annoyed most of the people in the village. But I cannot think of anyone who would murder her. Besides, it surely took more than one person to take her to the well and throw her down,” said Gloria. “Now, Mr. Sanders at Pear Tree Cottage spends most of his time in his shed on his allotment, Charles. I mean, Sir Charles…”

  “Charles, please.”

  “Well, Charles, the poor woman must have been screaming her head off.”

  “I’ve tried Mr. Sanders,” said Agatha. “He slammed the door. Anyone else?”

  “Let me see. Oh, I haven’t offered you anything. Can I get you something?”

  Charles opened his mouth to accept, but Agatha said quickly, “I’m afraid we haven’t time.”

  “You could ask old Mrs. Ryan. Her cottage is at the back of the allotments. She may have heard something.”

  “Great idea!” Agatha got to her feet. “Come along, Charles.”

  Agatha got into the car, but Charles came round, opened the door and said, “Back in a minute. I’ve left something.”

  Oh, no, thought Agatha, watching his retreating back. He didn’t leave anything. He’s going to make a date with her. She peered at her face in the driving mirror. Her eyes looked tired, and there was a tiny wrinkle on her upper lip. Agatha rummaged in her bag and found she had not brought any make-up with her. Gold and red leaves
danced on the road in front of the car, and a half-denuded tree raised branches up to the lowering sky as if mourning the loss of summer.

  The year was dying, and with it, Agatha Raisin’s hopes of ever finding a mate. Now that Gerald had walked out of her fantasies with his clay feet leaving hardly any impression on her mind, she did not even have anyone to dream about. Fickle, faithless Charles, who came and went in her life. But he was all she had left. A great wave of self-pity engulfed her. She shook herself. “Get a grip!” she snarled.

  “Of what?” asked Charles, sliding into the passenger seat.

  Agatha jumped nervously. “I was thinking of something and didn’t hear you arrive. Did you find it?”

  “Find what?”

  “Don’t you remember? You went back to get something.”

  “Oh, that. My cigarette case.”

  “Find it?”

  “No, I must have left it at home.”

  “You went back there to ask her out?”

  “Agatha! What if I did? It hasn’t got anything to do with you, has it?”

  “If it has nothing to do with me,” growled Agatha, “why lie?”

  “Listen! Are we going to talk to this old girl, Mrs. Ryan, or not?” demanded Charles.

  Agatha opened her mouth and shut it again and drove off in the direction of the allotments.

  Mrs. Ryan was a very old lady with pink scalp showing through wisps of grey hair. The skin of her face was like crumpled tissue paper, and her eyes were pale grey. She put her head on one side as Agatha and Charles introduced themselves, and then said, “Please step in to my parlour.” Agatha ignored Charles’s murmur of, “Said the spider to the fly,” and followed her in to a dark little room where a four-bar electric heater shone a red light into the gloom. The room was crammed with upright hard chairs, spindly bamboo side tables bent under their weight of framed photographs, and a large table by the window holding sheaves of paper and a battered old Olivetti typewriter.

  Mrs. Ryan looked at it and said, “I’m writing my life story. I’ve had a very interesting life.”

  Poor woman, thought Agatha cynically. Unless you’re a celebrity, no one is going to want to know.

  “On the night Mrs. Bull was pushed down the well,” she began, “did you hear anything?”

  “As a matter of fact I did. I was going to tell those policemen. They were about to come to the door, but that old bitch, Mrs. Andrews, next door, she says, ‘I wouldn’t bother her if I were you. She’s senile.’ I would like to see her face when she gets my lawyer’s letter. I am suing her for defamation of character.”

  “Good for you,” said Charles. “So what did you see?”

  “Well, at first … Oh, can I offer you something?”

  “NO!” shouted Agatha. And then said mildly, “Sorry I shouted, but I am desperate to find anything out.”

  “It’s the menopause, dear,” said the old lady. “Plays merry hell with your hormones at your age.”

  Warding off an explosion of wrath from Agatha, Charles said quickly, “Do tell us what you heard or saw, please.”

  “It must have been about four in the morning. I’m a light sleeper. I heard a creak, creak sort of noise from the allotments. I looked out of the window. There was this dark figure pushing a wheel barrow right up to the old well. Got the top off the well and heaved something down. I didn’t know it was a body. I thought it was someone dumping their rubbish, and I meant to complain about it.”

  “Was there a scream or anything like that?” asked Agatha.

  “No. That’s why I thought it was rubbish. I meant to tell the police, and I was waiting for them to call until that fiend from hell next door told them lies about me. I didn’t like to tell them anything after that because they would think, because of her slander, that I was making the whole thing up.”

  “Can you describe the figure of whoever it was pushing the wheelbarrow?” asked Charles.

  “It was too dark. Not tall. I think he must have been wearing black clothes.”

  “It looks as if Mrs. Bull must have been drugged first,” said Agatha. “We’ll pass on your information to the police and assure them that you are perfectly sane.”

  “Come back anytime, particularly you, Sir Charles.” She turned to Agatha, a sudden flash of malice in her old eyes. “Is he your…?”

  “Don’t even go there,” said Agatha.

  Mrs. Ryan gave a little shrug. “Off you go, and let me get on with my writing.”

  Outside, Charles said, “She was only going to ask you if we were an item. So why did you look at her as if you could kill her?”

  But Agatha was not going to tell him that she had been sure the malicious old woman had been on the point of asking if Charles was her son, even though Charles was only six years younger than herself.

  “The heat in that room was getting to me,” said Agatha. “We’ll drive back to the village. I’m sure Bill will be somewhere about.”

  In the village, they saw Bill, Wilkes, Alice, two other detectives and two policemen having a conference on the village green.

  They got out of the car and went up to them. “Here comes the dynamic duo,” said Wilkes. “Shove off and let us get on with some real police work.”

  “So you don’t want to hear anything about how Mrs. Bull was drugged before she was dropped down the well?” said Agatha. “Come on, Charles.”

  “No! Wait!” shouted Wilkes. “What have you got?”

  “Say ‘pretty please,’” said Agatha.

  “You tell me right now,” roared Wilkes, “or I’ll have you up on a charge of impeding the…”

  “Oh, well, shut up and listen,” said Agatha, and told him what they had just learned.

  Wilkes listened carefully to Agatha’s report and then swung round angrily to the two policemen. “Weren’t you told to interview the women in those two houses next to the allotments?”

  “Yes, sir. But the woman next to Mrs. Ryan said the old girl was senile.”

  “Is she senile?” Wilkes demanded.

  “Sharp as a tack,” said Charles.

  “Wong and Peterson, get there immediately and take her statement.”

  “A thank you would be nice,” said Agatha.

  Wilkes turned to one of the detectives. “Blenkinsop. Take this pair into the police car and get their statements. Good day to you, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “Oh, fry in hell,” muttered Agatha.

  When their statements were taken, Agatha said, “I could murder a gin and tonic.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” said Charles. “You’re driving. Take me back to Carsely. I want to go home.”

  “Oh, suit yourself,” grumbled Agatha.

  But back in Carsely when Charles had left, Agatha fought down a feeling of loneliness and compensated for it by hugging her cats. It was a pity, she thought, that she had felt obliged to give such a precious piece of information to Wilkes. But she did not have the resources of the police, and now, at the hospital, they would take samples of Mrs. Bull’s blood and search for drugs.

  She gave her cats a final caress and put them aside. Something was niggling at the back of her brain. Agatha got to her feet and began to pace up and down, scowling horribly. Then her face cleared. That stone cover on the well. It had taken the use of the crowbar and all Charles’s strength to break it so that the pieces could be lifted off.

  She looked up Mary Feathers’s phone number and rang her up. “It is late,” grumbled Mary.

  “I want to ask you about the covering of the well,” said Agatha. “Was it a stone slab?”

  “No. It was a rusty old grill. Must have been put there about early in the nineteenth century, I suppose.”

  Agatha thanked her and rang off. So where did that stone slab come from? Was it already lying around? Who would have the strength to drug Mrs. Bull, get her into a car, unload her onto a wheelbarrow and bring a stone slab as well?

  The phone rang, the shrilling of the bell breaking into her thoughts. It was Nigel Farraday. �
�I’ve just looked at the clock,” he said. “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, it’s all right,” said Agatha.

  “I was wondering if we could share a spot of dinner tomorrow evening?”

  Agatha hesitated for only a moment. “Yes, that would be nice. When and where?”

  “The La Vie En Rose in Mircester? French place. Just opened. Next to the George Hotel.”

  “Lovely. I’ll be there.”

  When Agatha rang off, she reflected that, much as she disliked Farraday, he might come up with something else about Peta’s background.

  The next day was taken up by working on all the bread-and-butter stories which kept the agency going: missing teenagers, missing pets, shoplifting and divorce. Agatha decided to take a day off from the Bellington case and help her staff get through the workload.

  It was only at the end of the day that Agatha realised she had no time to go home and change for dinner. And she was wearing flat-heeled boots. Even if she were meeting a man she did not much like, Agatha felt demoralised in low heels. She redid her make-up, rushed out to a nearby shoe shop and bought a pair of high-heeled black patent-leather shoes.

  Nigel Farraday rose to his feet as Agatha entered the restaurant. He smoothed back his white hair and said, “You are much too glamorous to be a detective.”

  Agatha gave a weak smile and sat down. She surveyed the restaurant. “I haven’t been here before,” she remarked. The lighting was so dim she wondered if she would be able to read the menu.

  “It’s the latest ‘in’ place,” said Nigel.

  But to Agatha Raisin, there were no ‘in’ places outside London.

  “What will you have as an aperitif?” asked Nigel.

  “I would like a gin and tonic?”

  “My dear lady,” said Nigel, “the wine here is very good. You might ruin your taste buds.”

  Agatha ignored him and turned to the waiter and said firmly. “Yes, gin and tonic.”

  “I’ll wait for the wine,” said Nigel. “Now, dear Agatha. What would you like to eat?”

  Agatha’s heart sank as she read the menu. It seemed pretentious to her experienced eye. She decided to keep it simple and ordered smoked salmon to begin followed by moules marinière.