Agatha rose, clinging to him, and buried her face in the rough tweed of his jacket.
Three hours later Agatha, bathed and wrapped in her dressing-gown, sat in her sitting-room with the cats on her lap, being fussed over by James.
‘Bill Wong will be calling on us,’ he said. ‘Is he grateful to us for having solved two murders for him? Not a bit of it.’
‘Us?’ demanded Agatha. ‘I was the one who found out about Rice.’
‘I had more or less come to the same conclusion,’ said James, ‘although it took me some time to guess Josephine Webster was involved. What put you on to her?’
Agatha told him about finding that shred of dried petal on the doormat.
‘But you should have come to me,’ exclaimed James, ‘or told Bill Wong.’
‘I only thought of the cats,’ said Agatha. ‘Funny, isn’t it? I thought my heart would break when they were taken, but here they are, purring away, two animals to be cared for and fed, and now they just seem like an everyday nuisance.’
‘Though from what you say, Hodge saved your life,’ James pointed out. ‘I wonder if they got Josephine Webster. I wonder if she was still sitting there in the hotel restaurant waiting. Bill and his boss went right there while we had to go to the police station and make endless statements.’
‘So you had worked it all out yourself?’ said Agatha.
He threw another log on the fire and sat down. ‘Once I had written down what everyone had done and said, Peter Rice seemed the obvious suspect. He was strong enough to have dragged Mrs Josephs up the stairs, he knew where Bladen would be on the day he was murdered, he knew about the operation on that horse. One always thinks of murderers as planning everything scientifically, but in Rice’s case it was all panic and then luck. All he had to do was sit tight and let Mrs Josephs make her accusations to the police. The police wouldn’t have thought the philandering and conning tactics of Paul Bladen had anything to do with Peter Rice. I think it was our nosing around that rattled him so badly.’
‘Don’t say that,’ pleaded Agatha. ‘That means we are both directly responsible for Mrs Josephs’s death.’
‘Well, he would probably have panicked anyway.’
The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Bill,’ said James, ‘come to read us the riot act.’
Bill was on his own. ‘An off-duty call,’ he said, sinking down wearily on the sofa beside Agatha. ‘Yes, we got Webster. It must have seemed a lifetime to you, Agatha, when he was trying to kill you, but there she was, drinking martinis, just where he had left her.
‘She denied the whole thing, but when we took her to the station and then told her that Rice had confessed everything to you, she broke down. Cruel thing to say, but we hadn’t yet told her he was dead.
‘She had been having an affair with Rice for a few months, up until Paul Bladen arrived in Carsely. Before her affair with Rice, she had been a virgin. Think of that, in this day and age. I think her affair with Rice made her feel like a femme fatale, and so, when it seemed that Bladen was courting her as well, it went right to her silly head. That snowy evening you were supposed to meet him in Evesham, that was the evening she went to his house and gave him the cheque. So the grateful Bladen took her to bed. Even if it hadn’t been snowing, he probably wouldn’t have turned up to meet you, Agatha. She was the one who answered the phone to you.
‘But Bladen was up to his old tricks. He asked her for more money and she grew alarmed and said she could not afford any more. So he lost interest in her, and the repentant Miss Webster went back to the arms of Peter Rice and told him all about Bladen. So, to Rice, history was repeating itself. He had, I gather from what you said in your statement, Agatha, been deeply in love with Greta. Paul had taken her away. Now Paul was doing the same thing with Josephine. But what put you on to them?’
‘I found a dried-up flower petal on the doormat,’ said Agatha proudly, ‘and realized it had probably fallen out of the note about the cats, and so I knew dried flowers meant Josephine Webster.’
Bill looked puzzled. ‘We wouldn’t have missed anything like that.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said James. ‘Someone brought you a bouquet of dried flowers, Agatha, the morning after, so it probably fell from that.’
‘Why should you be looking closely at the doormat?’ exclaimed Agatha, exasperated. ‘Your men were searching outside, where whoever delivered the letter had stood, as well as all over the back garden, because whoever took the cats must have got into the garden by the lane which runs between mine and James’s garden. They wouldn’t bother about the doormat.’
‘I think you’ll find it came from the bouquet after all, Agatha. You made a lucky guess, and a near-fatal one for you. I’m not going to lecture you tonight on the folly of amateurs interfering. Goodness,’ he laughed, ‘I suppose it’s a case of rank amateurs setting out to catch a rank amateur.’
Agatha glared.
‘Anyway, I’m glad it’s all over. I’m off on a special training course, so I won’t see you for a few weeks.’ Bill stood up. ‘Has the doctor seen you, Agatha?’
She shook her head.
‘You’d best see him tomorrow. You’re going to be a wreck when reaction sets in.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ said Agatha, giving James an adoring look.
He returned it with a startled one and then stood up and said, ‘Do you want me to get Mrs Bloxby to stay with you, Agatha?’
‘No,’ she said, disappointed that he was not volunteering to fetch his sleeping-bag. ‘I’ll be all right after a good night’s sleep.’
After they had left, Agatha rose and went up to bed, the two cats trotting after her. She smiled before she drifted off to sleep. It was all over. She had survived. She felt great. No need to see any doctor. It would take more than one murderer to get Agatha Raisin down!
Chapter Ten
The next few days were glorious for Agatha, despite the fact that James had sent her a note saying he was shutting himself up to write for a few weeks.
So many people came to call to hear about how Agatha had solved the murders of Paul Bladen and Mrs Josephs, and Agatha stitched away at her story, embroidering the details, so that by the time she gave a talk to the Carsely Ladies’ Society, it had become a real blood-and-thunder adventure.
‘How exciting you make it all seem,’ said Mrs Bloxby after Agatha’s talk. ‘But do be careful. It can take a little time for reality to set in, and then you might suffer badly.’
‘I was not lying,’ said Agatha hotly.
‘No, of course you weren’t,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I particularly liked that bit when you said to Peter Rice, “Shoot me if you dare, you evil fiend.” ’
‘Oh, well,’ muttered Agatha, shuffling her feet and avoiding the steady gaze of the vicar’s wife, ‘a bit of poetic licence is allowed, I think.’
Mrs Bloxby smiled and held out a plate. ‘Have a slice of seed cake.’
From that moment, Agatha began to feel extremely uncomfortable. Her version of events, which had become a highly coloured adventure story, had indeed come to seem like reality. As she walked back from the vicarage, she noticed how dark the village seemed and how the light near the bus shelter had gone out again.
The lilac trees were all out in Lilac Lane, whispering in the night wind, nodding their plumed heads as if gossiping about Agatha as she scurried homewards underneath, thinking that the smell of their flowers reminded her of funerals.
She went inside. The cats did not come to meet her and she let out a whimper of fear and ran to the kitchen. They were curled up together in their basket in front of the stove, happy in each other’s company, fast asleep and not caring about one frightened mistress who wanted them to wake up and keep her company.
She reached out a hand to switch on the electric kettle and all the lights went out.
In blind terror, she stumbled round the kitchen, searching for a torch, until some sane voice in her mind told her it was only another of the village’s frequen
t power cuts. Forcing herself to be calm, she remembered she had candles in the kitchen drawer, found one and lit it with her cigarette lighter. She held it up and found a candlestick. May as well go to bed, she thought.
This was how they had gone to bed in the old days when the cottage was built, people walking up this very staircase with the shadows leaping before them in the wavering candle-flame. So many generations. So many dead. Just think how many had gasped out their last breath in this very bedroom. Her dressing-gown at the back of the door looked like a hanged man. Faces stared at her out of the pretty flowered wallpaper. She was in a cold sweat.
She forced herself to make her way downstairs to the phone in the hall. She put the candle on the floor, sat down on the floor herself, cradled the phone in her lap and dialled James Lacey’s number.
His voice when he answered sounded brisk and efficient. ‘James,’ said Agatha, ‘can you come along?’
‘I’m writing hard. Is it important?’
‘James, I’m frightened.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that that reaction everyone’s been warning me about has set in.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Help is on its way.’
Agatha stayed where she was. Her fear had gone now that he was coming, but she decided she had better remain looking as frightened as she had been. Perhaps she might throw herself into his arms. Perhaps he would hold her close, and say, ‘Agatha, let’s give all those gossips a treat and get married.’ Perhaps he would kiss her. What would that be like?
This rosy fantasy went on until she realized that a considerable amount of time had passed. Of course, he was probably packing his pyjamas and shaving-kit, but still . . .
The doorbell rang, making her jump. Yes, she would throw herself into his arms.
Mrs Bloxby said gently, ‘Now, now, Mrs Raisin. I knew this would happen.’
Agatha opened her eyes and backed off in confusion.
She had seen a dark figure on the step and had taken it to be James.
The vicar’s wife was carrying an overnight bag. ‘Mr Lacey phoned me and I came as quick as I could. The doctor’s on his way.’
Feeling almost ill with disappointment, Agatha allowed Mrs Bloxby to lead her to the kitchen. The lights came on again. Everything was normal.
By the time a sedated Agatha was in bed, the doctor had left, and Mrs Bloxby was sleeping in the spare room, she could only reflect woozily that James was a beast and a bastard.
Agatha spent a long and miserable time of panics and nightmares, glad of callers during the day, glad of the members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, who took it in turns to sleep in her spare room during the night. Not one woman mentioned James Lacey and Agatha’s heart was sore with rejection.
And then her fears ebbed away and her mood was improved with long sunny days.
In such a small village it was inevitable that she should meet James again. He smiled at her in a kindly way and asked after her health, he said writing was coming easily and he was working hard. He said they must have lunch sometime, that very English remark which usually means absolutely nothing. Agatha looked at him with bitter hurt in her bearlike eyes but replied politely and coolly, thinking they were almost like a couple who had once had an affair, regretted now on one side.
And then one morning, as lunchtime was approaching, Agatha’s doorbell rang. She no longer rushed to it expecting to see James. Bill Wong stood on the step.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Agatha. ‘You must have been back from that course ages ago.’
‘I was,’ said Bill, ‘but another case came up which involved liaising with the Yorkshire police, so I’ve been travelling a bit. Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
‘Of course. We can have coffee in the garden.’
‘Lacey around?’ he asked as he followed her through the house.
‘No,’ said Agatha bleakly. ‘In fact, apart from little talks like “How are you” and “Isn’t the weather great” over the grocery counter, I haven’t really seen him.’
‘Odd, that. I thought the pair of you were as thick as thieves.’
‘Well, we’re not,’ snapped Agatha. She had bought a new garden table and chairs. ‘Sit down, Bill. I was just going to get a bite to eat. Cold chicken and salad suit you?’
‘Anything. Your garden could do with some flowers. Give you an interest.’
‘I suppose. I’ll get the food.’
Over lunch, Bill told her about the case he was working on and then they finally got around to discussing the case of Peter Rice.
‘It’s odd,’ said Bill, ‘when you think of the pair of them, Rice and Webster. Hardly Romeo and Juliet to look at, but there was passion there, real passion. Take one man who feels he’s too ugly to get a woman and one virgin and that’s an explosive mixture. When Rice found out she’d been sleeping with Bladen, it must have nearly broken his heart. History repeating itself. First Greta, then Josephine. But Josephine is back in his arms again. She’s not shocked he’s killed Bladen. Now they are bound even more closely by the crime and still more after the death of poor Mrs Josephs.’
He looked about him. ‘You wouldn’t think when you drive through one of these pretty Cotswold villages how much terror and passion and anger can lurk beneath the beams of these old cottages. You know, Agatha, Lacey’s an odd bird. Some of these army chaps are. He’s only in his fifties, not dead old for these days.’
‘Thank you,’ said Agatha drily.
‘If he’d been married, he might be an easier mark, but these army bachelors, well, it’s as if they’ve come out of the monastery. Play it cool and he’ll come around.’
‘I have no interest in him,’ said Agatha evenly.
‘I think you have too much interest in him and that’s what frightened him off,’ said Bill.
‘Oh, really, so young and so wise. What’s your love life like?’
‘Pretty good. You know the Safeways supermarket in Mircester?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a pretty girl called Sandra works at the check-out. We’ve been dating.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Agatha, who felt obscurely jealous.
‘So I’d better go. Keep away from murders, Agatha!’
After he had left, Agatha drove down to the Batsford Garden Centre at the bottom of Bourton-on-the-Hill and looked at flowers and plants. They also had full-grown trees. Instant garden, that was the answer. But just a little to start. Something for the borders round the grass at the back and a hanging basket of flowers for the front of the cottage. She bought some Busy Lizzies and pansies and decided she would get started by planting them.
The work was relaxing and the cats played about her in the sunlight and she was so absorbed in her work that it took her some time to realize her doorbell was ringing.
If only it would be . . .
But Agatha recoiled a step when she opened the door. Freda Huntingdon stood there.
‘What do you want?’ asked Agatha crossly.
‘To bury the hatchet,’ said Freda. ‘Come along to the pub. I feel like getting plastered. I’m sick of men.’
Curiosity warred with distaste in Agatha’s mind and curiosity won.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Come to the pub and I’ll tell you.’
Only the idea that it might have something to do with James drove Agatha into accompanying Freda.
Freda bought them both large gins and they sat down.
‘I’m thinking of selling up,’ said Freda. ‘Nothing’s gone right since I came here.’
‘You mean Bladen?’
‘That and other things. You see, George, my husband, was much older than me, but oodles of money. We used to travel a lot, go to exotic places. But George kept a strict eye on me and I used to think of all the freedom I’d have if he dropped dead and left me the money.
‘Well, he did. I had a couple of unfortunate affairs, and so I thought to hell with it; I’ll move to the Co
tswolds, get myself a dinky cottage and look around for another husband. I got my eye on Lacey. Sorry I was such a bitch, but I really fancied him, but not a hope there. That business with Bladen threw me. I really believed he was head over heels in love with me. I really believed all that rubbish about that hospital. When George was alive, I thought I was the clever, worldly, shrewd one, but it was George who had the brains. Then Tony came along. That chap you saw me with in the pub. No Adonis, but good business, Gloucester way. His wife called on me yesterday. His wife! And he swore he was a widower.’ Freda snivelled dismally. ‘I’m just a stupid old tart.’
‘You need another big gin,’ said Agatha, ever practical.
James Lacey read over again what he had written and groaned. Thanks to his experiences in the Bladen case, he had thought he would write a mystery story. How easily the words had come. How rapidly the thousands of little green words had built up on the screen of his computer. But it was as if a mist had cleared. He was looking down at pages of total rubbish.
The windows of his cottage were all open because it was a hot day. From next door, he could hear the sound of voices and the clink of glasses and china. He went out into his garden and peered over the hedge. Bill Wong and Agatha were sitting having lunch and absorbed in conversation. He wished he could go and join them, but he had been cool to Agatha, had snubbed her, and now he had cut himself off.
He returned to the house and pottered about miserably. Later he heard Bill leave and shortly after that, he saw Agatha driving off.
He went back out into his garden in the afternoon and began to weed the flower-beds. He heard movement from Agatha’s garden and once more looked over. She was planting a row of pansies. He was sure she didn’t know anything about gardening. If he hadn’t been so stupid, he could have strolled over for a chat. But really! All those women expecting him to propose! And Agatha herself, the way she had looked at him.
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet Page 16