Like an American swearing the oath of allegiance, Lord Pendlebury put an arm across his chest, no doubt to protect his wallet.
‘I have already given money to Cancer Research,’ he said.
‘But this is Save the Children.’
‘I don’t like children,’ said Lord Pendlebury petulantly. ‘Too many of them. Go away.’
Agatha opened her mouth to blast him, but James Lacey said quickly, ‘Fine-looking stables you have, sir. Mind if we walk over and take a look?’
‘Doesn’t matter if I mind, does it?’ said Lord Pendlebury. ‘A landowner no longer has any privacy. If it’s not busybodies like you, it’s those damn environmentalists, walking over my land with their rucksacks, eating health-food nut bars and farting. Do you know what causes the damage to the ozone layer? It’s health fanatics, eating ghastly bran and nut bars and farting about the landscape. Sending out poisonous gases and wind. Ought to be put down.’
‘Quite,’ said James indifferently while Agatha glared at Lord Pendlebury.
‘You don’t seem a bad sort of chap,’ said Lord Pendlebury, peering at James in the gloom of the study. ‘But that woman looks like one of those hunt saboteurs, slavering on about the darling foxes.’
‘Listen, you,’ said Agatha, advancing on him.
James took her firmly by the arm and guided her towards the door. ‘Thank you for your kind invitation, Lord Pendlebury,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘We shall enjoy seeing your stables.’
‘Rude old bugger,’ raged Agatha when they were out in the hall.
James shrugged. ‘He’s old. Leave him be. We get to see the racing stables and that’s why we came.’
But Agatha was still smarting. She felt she had been grossly insulted. Worse than that, she thought Lord Pendlebury had been able to see right through her expensive sheepskin and sweater, right down into her working-class soul.
‘I’m going to have a firm talk with Mrs Arthur,’ said Agatha as they walked together towards the stable block. ‘She could probably earn more working in a factory or a supermarket.’
‘She and her husband work for Lord Pendlebury,’ pointed out James Lacey. ‘They get a rent-free cottage on the estate and all the free vegetables they want from the market garden. Anyway, you want to persuade Mrs Arthur to leave to get your revenge on the old man because he thought you were a flatulent fox preserver.’
This was the truth, and so Agatha decided James was really quite an uninteresting and charmless man after all.
The other thing that was irritating was that although James Lacey had spent less time in and around the village compared to herself, he seemed to know a remarkable number of people. He hailed Lord Pendlebury’s trainer, Sam Stodder, and introduced him to Agatha.
‘Lord Pendlebury said we could take a look around the stables, Mr Stodder,’ said James. ‘Sad thing about that vet’s death, wasn’t it?’
‘Sad, for sure. Happened right over there. He were doing that operation to stop Sparky roaring.’
‘And no one else was about at the time?’
‘No. Lord Pendlebury had a new filly out in the paddock and took us all off to have a look. We was all talking and smoking and admiring the filly, ’cos it’s not often the old man lets us slack. Devil for work, he is. Then Bob Arthur, him what does for my lord, he strolls off and says he’s going for to see how the vet is getting on and the next thing he comes out, yelling and crying that Bladen is dead. “Looks like someone’s done fer him,” he says, so his lordship says for to call the police.’
‘And it was in here?’ asked Agatha, approaching the right wing of the stable block.
Both men followed her in. There was nothing to be seen. The row of loose boxes stretched off into the gloom, the horses’ heads poking out. ‘Oldest bit of the stables,’ said Sam. ‘In the rest of it, the loose boxes open right out on to the courtyard, not inside like here.’
Agatha stared at the floor, but there was nothing to be seen, not even a sliver of glass.
‘Why did Mr Arthur say that it looked like someone had done for him?’ she asked.
‘Reckon he waren’t none too popular, like. Wizard with horses, mind. Lord Pendlebury thought him a cheeky sort and wanted Mr Rice, Bladen’s partner from Mircester, but Mr Rice don’t like Lord Pendlebury and that’s a fact, and so he do make excuses not to come.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone likes Lord Pendlebury, horrible old man that he is,’ said Agatha.
‘You’re entitled to your opinion, I’m sure,’ said Sam, ‘but don’t expect none of us here to say a word against the old man. Course you haven’t been as long in these parts as Mr Lacey here, or you’d know that criticism of his Iordship is not welcome; no, that it’s not.’
‘I’ve been here a considerable time longer than Mr Lacey,’ said Agatha huffily.
‘Well, there’s folks that fit in and folks that don’t,’ said Sam. ‘Afternoon.’ He touched his cap and strolled off.
‘What a feudal peasant,’ said Agatha.
‘Sam’s a good man, and we’re the peasants in this case.’
‘What?’
‘Vulgarly poking our noses in where they don’t belong. What on earth are we doing here, Mrs Raisin?’
‘Agatha.’
‘Agatha. The man died because of an unfortunate accident.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Agatha, more out of a desire to be contrary than because she believed it.
They strolled round to the front of the house where Agatha’s car was parked. It looked new and shiny after all the expensive repairs. Lord Pendlebury came towards them.
His tall, thin, heron-like figure loped up to them. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he said angrily. ‘There’s an open day once a year, on June the first; otherwise keep off private property.’
‘It’s us,’ said James Lacey patiently. ‘You gave us permission to go and look at your stables.’
His pale watery eyes blinked at them and then focused on Agatha. ‘Oh, the hunt saboteur,’ he said. ‘The people one has to put up with these days.’
He headed off towards the stables, leaving James amused and Agatha fuming.
‘You’re hardly the flavour of the month,’ said James.
‘The man’s senile,’ snapped Agatha. She had often lingered longingly while on the tour of some stately home outside the roped-off private part hoping a member of the family would recognize her as one of their own kind and ask her to tea. That fantasy seemed totally ridiculous now.
She drove James back to the village, feeling hurt and gauche and inadequate. He glanced at her sideways and something prompted him to say, ‘I haven’t been to the Red Lion for ages. Fancy a drink there this evening?’
Agatha’s spirits rocketed like the pheasant which rose up before the wheels of her car and over the hedge beside the road. But she kept her voice light and casual. ‘That would be nice. What time?’
‘Oh, about eight. I have to go to Moreton for something, so I’ll see you there.’
He was already regretting his invitation, and yet there was no sign of any return of that predatory look he had noticed before in Agatha’s eyes.
Agatha, guessing that he would not bother to change, restrained herself from changing her own clothes. She fed the cats and played with them and tried not to watch the clock. Excitement built up in her as eight o’clock approached. Although she had, with the help of Mrs Bloxby, been training herself to cook, she put a frozen lasagne in the microwave for her dinner so as not to waste more time on elaborate preparations. It tasted foul. How could she ever have eaten such stuff?
As she walked to the Red Lion, a full moon was shining down, washing everything with silver, outlining the skeletal arms of trees against the starry sky. White and pink verbena flowers scented the air, reminding Agatha unromantically of expensive bath soap. At exactly three minutes past eight, she pushed open the door of the Red Lion.
James Lacey was there in the low-raftered pub, standing at the bar, talking to the landlo
rd. ‘What’ll you have?’ he asked by way of greeting.
‘Gin and tonic,’ said Agatha, settling herself happily on a bar stool.
‘I was wondering,’ he began as he paid for her drink. But Agatha was never to know what he was wondering, for the pub door opened and the yapping of a Jack Russell and the heavy smell of French perfume heralded the arrival of Mrs Huntingdon, Carsely’s newest incomer.
To Agatha’s dismay, James said, ‘Evening, Freda. What’ll you have? Do you know Agatha Raisin? Agatha, this is Freda Huntingdon.’
So it was Freda, was it? thought Agatha gloomily. The widow was wearing a cherry-red sleeveless jacket over a black cashmere sweater and short black wool skirt. Her legs in fine black stockings were very good.
‘Let’s sit at that table over there,’ said James after he had bought Freda a whisky and water.
‘Perhaps Freda is meeting someone,’ suggested Agatha hopefully.
‘No,’ she said in a husky voice, ‘all on my lonesome. Thought I might find you here, James. How’s the writing going?’
James! Freda! Rats! Agatha plumped herself down at the table by the log fire and tried not to let her bitter disappointment show on her face.
‘The writing’s not going at all well,’ said James. ‘I look for every excuse not to get started. This morning I defrosted the fridge, and this afternoon Mrs Raisin –’
‘Agatha, please.’
‘Sorry, Agatha and I went to see Lord Pendlebury.’
‘Isn’t he an old duck?’ murmured Freda. ‘Quite one of the old school.’
‘How do you know him?’ asked Agatha.
‘I talked to him outside the church last Sunday,’ said Freda. ‘I found him quite charming.’
‘I don’t think Agatha found him at all charming,’ said James. ‘He mistook her for a hunt saboteur.’
Freda Huntingdon laughed merrily. Her dog peed against the leg of the table and she said ‘Tut-tut’ and picked up the revolting yapping creature and cuddled it on her lap.
‘Have you seen the latest Russell Crowe movie, James?’ asked Freda. She lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in Agatha’s direction.
‘I haven’t seen any Russell Crowe movie, let alone the latest,’ replied James.
‘But you should! They’re tremendous fun. The new one’s on at Mircester. Tell you what, come with me tomorrow.’
At that moment, Agatha saw Jack Page, the farmer, come in. She felt she could not bear any more of Freda and James. She rose and picked up her unfinished drink.
‘Just going to have a drink with Jack.’
Jack Page hailed her. ‘Nights are drawing out, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Be spring before you know it. Sorry to hear about that crash you had.’
He was a cheerful man with an easy manner. Agatha told him at length about her crash. He bought her another drink. Agatha sat down on a bar stool next to him and tried to forget about the pair in the corner.
‘Bad thing about that vet,’ said Jack.
‘You went to him, didn’t you?’ said Agatha. ‘I saw you there the first time I took my cat along. What did you make of him?’
‘The surgery was handy to nip down to and get antibiotics and things,’ said Jack. ‘Never thought about him much one way or t’other. Then I heard what he done to poor Mrs Josephs’s cat, so I stopped going. That was right cruel.’
‘You don’t think someone bumped him off, do you?’
‘Ah, you’re looking for another murder to solve,’ he teased. ‘Sad accident, it were. Funeral’s next Monday in Mircester, at St Peter’s.’
‘I might go,’ said Agatha.
‘Was you friendly with him then?’
‘Had dinner with him one night,’ replied Agatha, ‘but not really friendly.’
He drained his tankard and set the empty glass down on the bar. ‘I’d best be getting back. I told the wife I’d only stop for the one. Why not come back and say hello?’
Agatha had a sudden longing to turn round. But Mrs Huntingdon let out a trill of laughter and her dog gave a volley of barks.
‘I’d like that,’ said Agatha, picking up her handbag.
She turned at last and gave a casual wave to James before leaving with the farmer.
James Lacey watched her go with some surprise. And he had thought she was pursuing him!
Chapter Four
Snow was falling as Agatha entered the church of St Peter in Mircester the following Monday. She was already wishing she had not come. A doggedness to find out something about the vet’s death had prompted this visit. So long as she was worrying about the vet’s death, Agatha did not need to worry about James Lacey.
The church was very old, with fine stained-glass windows and a dreadful seventeenth-century altar of some dark wood. Agatha took a pew at the back, unhitched the hassock from its hook, knelt in pretended prayer and then studied the congregation. But all she saw was backs of heads. There seemed to be quite a number of women present. One turned her head. Mrs Huntingdon! And then Agatha recognized the solid bulk of Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, two pews in front of her. She changed her seat and went to sit next to her.
Mrs Mason was clutching a damp handkerchief in her hand. ‘So sad,’ she whispered to Agatha. ‘Such a fine young man.’
‘Hardly young,’ said Agatha and received a look of reproach.
The coffin was carried in and placed in the aisle in front of the altar. ‘That’s Mr Rice, Mr Bladen’s partner,’ said Mrs Mason. ‘The one on the left at the front.’ Among the men who had carried in the coffin, Agatha saw a burly middle-aged man with curly ginger hair.
‘Who is here from the village, apart from us and that Mrs Huntingdon?’ asked Agatha.
‘Over there to the right, Mrs Parr and Miss Webster.’
Agatha leaned forward. Both women were crying. Mrs Parr was small and quite pretty and Miss Webster of an indeterminate age, possibly late thirties. She recognized Miss Webster as the woman who ran the dried flower shop.
‘I’m surprised you are all so upset,’ whispered Agatha, ‘after what he did to Mrs Josephs’ cat.’
‘What he did was right,’ muttered Mrs Mason fiercely. ‘That cat was too old for this world.’
‘I hope no one thinks that about me,’ said Agatha.
‘Shhh!’ said a man in front waspishly.
The service began.
Mr Peter Rice paid a tribute to his dead partner, the vicar quoted St Francis of Assisi, hymns were sung, then the coffin was raised up again and the congregation filed out after it to the graveyard.
It was strange, thought Agatha, but one never thought of people being buried in old church graveyards any more. A short service in a crematorium was more what was expected. She had always wondered about those churchyard graveside scenes in television dramas and had assumed that the television company had paid a nice sum to the church to dig up an appropriate hole for the show. One always assumed that the old churchyards of England had been full to bursting point since the end of the nineteenth century.
Snow fluttered down among the leaning gravestones and a magpie swung on the branch of a cedar and cocked a curious eye at the proceedings.
‘That’s his ex-wife,’ said Mrs Mason. A thin, grey-haired woman with a weak face was looking bleakly straight in front of her. She was wearing a fox coat over a red suit. No mourning weeds for her.
But the graveside service was so moving and so dignified that Agatha thought there was a lot to be said for staking your claim to your six-by-four in a country churchyard. When the service was over, she muttered a goodbye to Mrs Mason and set out in pursuit of the vet’s ex-wife, catching up with her at the lych gate.
‘My name is Agatha Raisin,’ she said. ‘I gather you are poor Mr Bladen’s wife.’
‘I was,’ said Mrs Bladen a trifle impatiently. ‘It is really very cold, Mrs Raisin, and I am anxious to get home.’
‘My car is just outside. Can I drop you somewhere?’
‘No, I have my
own car.’
‘I wonder if we could have a talk?’ said Agatha eagerly.
A look of dislike came into Mrs Bladen’s eyes. ‘My life seems to have been plagued by women wanting to talk to me after my husband had dumped them. It is just as well he is dead.’
She stalked off.
I seem to be getting snubbed all round, thought Agatha. But there’s one thing for sure: our vet was a philanderer. If only I could prove it wasn’t an accident, that it was murder, then they’d all sit up and take notice!
Carsely had frequent power cuts, some lasting days, some only a few seconds.
James Lacey pressed Agatha’s doorbell the following day. He did not know there was one of the brief power cuts because one could not usually hear the bell ringing from outside.
He glanced down at the front lawn. There was a lot of moss on it. He wondered if Agatha knew how to treat it. He bent down for a closer look. Agatha, who thought she had heard someone outside, put her eye to the spyhole, but not seeing anyone, retreated to the kitchen. James Lacey straightened up and pressed the bell again. By this time the power had come back on but Agatha had found crumbs on the carpet and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen at the back.
James retreated, feeling baffled. He remembered all the times he had pretended to be out when Agatha had called.
He went into his own cottage, made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He switched on his new computer and then stared bleakly at the screen waiting for it to boot up, before finding the right file and flicking his written words up on to the green screen. There it was. ‘Chapter Two’. If only he had written just one sentence. Why had he decided to write military history anyway? Just because he was a retired soldier did not necessarily mean he was confined to military subjects. Besides, why had he chosen the Peninsular Wars? Was there anything to add more than what had been already written? Oh, dear, how long the day seemed. It had been fun going to see Pendlebury. Of course it had been an accident. And yet there was that bump on the back of the head.
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet Page 5