Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

by M C Beaton

  “When he said he wanted to see me again, I was overjoyed. We met at those tea gardens on the river. He told me he wanted money, five thousand pounds. If I didn’t give it to him, he would send my letter to my husband. I hated him in that moment. I didn’t believe for a minute he would do it. So I told him to do his worst.

  “I felt guilty about the way I had cheated on Pete over this useless, evil man. The next day, the very next day, Pete was off work with a cold. The post hadn’t arrived when I went out to work. So Pete got the letter. John must have posted it right after I left him the day before.

  “When I got home, Pete had packed up and left. My letter was on the table and Pete left me his own letter, calling me all sorts of names… slut, whore.” Her voice broke.

  “I’m so lonely without him. I never thought I would be. I used to dream day and night of getting my freedom and now I’ve got it, and it sucks.”

  She began to cry.

  Agatha handed her a pile of tissues from a box on the dusty table. Maggie blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

  “Where is your husband now?” asked Charles.

  “Over at his mother’s in Honeybourne.”

  “Did either you or your husband go to the police?”

  “Oh, no! I burnt my letter and Pete’s. And when I read about the murder I was frantic. I thought Pete had done it. But it was poisoning and Pete would have been more likely to club him to death. My Pete has a violent temper.”

  “Perhaps we should have a word with your husband,” suggested Charles, thinking of Agatha’s description of the bruised face.

  Agatha expected Maggie to exclaim in horror, but she pressed her trembling hands together and said, “If you could. He won’t speak to me and his mother takes all the calls and refuses to let me speak to him. Tell him I miss him. I mean, he wasn’t much company, but he was good at fixing things.”

  “Give us the address,” said Charles, “and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “It’s ten, Parton Lane, Honeybourne. But you mustn’t tell the police about me! I’m falling apart as it is. All I want is Pete back. You never know what you’ve got until you haven’t got it any more.”

  If only James Lacey thought like that, mourned Agatha.

  As Charles and Agatha got in the car again, Charles looked at his watch and said, “Can’t be too long on this next call. I’ve got to take Josie out for dinner.”

  “We’ve got time,” said Agatha. “Honeybourne’s not far.”

  They found the address quite easily. “Here goes,” said Charles.

  The door was answered by a small, bent woman who peered up at them from under a thatch of grey hair.

  “Mrs. Henderson?” said Agatha.

  “Yes, and I’m not interested in buying anything.”

  “We’re not selling anything.”

  “We’ve come to see your son,” said Charles.

  “Who are you?”

  “Mrs. Agatha Raisin and Sir Charles Fraith.”

  She scowled at them suspiciously and then retreated into the house. There was the sound of some altercation from the nether regions and then a large burly man filled the doorway. “Yes?” he demanded truculently.

  How easy it would be to be a police detective, thought Agatha. Flash the identification and demand that they go indoors.

  “It’s about that hairdresser, John Shawpart,” said Agatha.

  “What the hell’s it got to do with you?”

  “We wondered why you had beaten him up,” said Charles, edging in front of Agatha.

  “You the police?”

  “No, we became involved in the case.”

  Pete Henderson roundly told Charles to go and perform an impossible anatomical act upon himself. The door began to close.

  “Maggie misses you,” said Agatha desperately. “She really does.”

  The door stopped closing.

  “It’s her own fault,” said Pete. “Slut.”

  “It was only one mistake,” cajoled Agatha.

  “Serves her right,” he growled. “Did she think any man would be interested in her? She should have known he was a blackmailer.”

  “But she was tricked,” said Agatha. “Now she misses you and she’s frantic with worry.”

  A gleam of satisfaction replaced the anger in his eyes.

  “I hope she’s suffering,” he said and slammed the door in their faces.

  “Well, what did we get from that?” asked Agatha as they drove off.

  “I think we can be pretty sure he’s the one that beat John Shawpart up. Better run you home, Aggie. Got to meet Josie.”

  “I’ll wait up for you to hear your news.”

  “Well… ”

  “You wouldn’t, Charles! A young girl like that!”

  “Don’t worry. She probably lives with her parents.”

  After Charles had left, Agatha planned to have a peaceful evening but Worcester CID called and took her through her statement, demanding this time to know why she had lied about driving past Shawpart’s house. Wearily Agatha said it was because murder made everyone feel guilty and she had not wanted to sound like one of those ghouls who haunt the scenes of disasters. By the time they left, she felt almost as if she had committed the murder herself.

  She had a hot bath and put on a night-gown and dressing-gown and sat in front of the television set, waiting for Charles to come home. She sometimes wondered if Charles regarded her as anything more than a sort of amusement to enliven his days. He was as neat and self-contained as a cat. Although he had temporarily moved in with her, he did not seem to take up any space at all.

  It was around midnight, when she was just falling asleep in the armchair, that she heard him driving up.

  She struggled to her feet and opened the door.

  “Not trying to seduce me, are you, Aggie?” was Charles’s greeting as he surveyed her plain and serviceable dressing-gown worn over a high-necked cotton night-dress.

  “Come in and tell me about it.”

  Agatha led the way into the living-room and quickly switched off the television, where a rerun of “Star Trek” was showing in case Charles decided to watch it.

  Charles poured himself a drink and sat down.

  “I’ve found out the identity of the slim, rabbity blonde.”

  “Who is she?”

  He brought out his small notebook. “Jessie Lang. Evesham girl. Josie said bitterly that she came in one day and made a hell of a scene.”

  “What about?”

  “Seems he stood her up.”

  “Another unhappily married woman?”

  “No, she works as a dentist’s receptionist, isn’t married and doesn’t appear to be well off.”

  “Got her address?”

  “No, Josie said the police have the old appointments’ book and it only had phone numbers in it anyway. But she works at a dentist’s in the High Street. I’ve got the address. God, I’m tired. We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, our Josie was smitten by her boss, that’s for sure, but I gather she never got anywhere. She seemed ready to turn her affections on me.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I said I loved only you. Fortunately, that was over coffee, for the evening promptly went down the tubes.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Josie had actually exclaimed, “What, that old frump!”

  “What about Portsmouth?” fretted Agatha.

  “It can wait a bit. The action’s here, Aggie.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that! I think the action began in Portsmouth. What if he blackmailed his customers there and one of them followed him up here? Oh, Worcester CID called when you were out. Nag, nag, nag. Same old questions, apart from the fact they’d found out I was lying about just hearing John’s house had gone on fire. Made me feel guilty.”

  “So what should we do at the dentist’s tomorrow?” asked Charles. “March in and question
her there?”

  “No, she’s bound to go out for lunch. We know what she looks like. We’ll go in about lunch-time and waylay her.”

  “She might have lunch at her desk. I suggest I use my charm and invite her out for lunch. You could fill in the time by getting your hair done.”

  “I’ve got an appointment with that Eve person, but it’s for four o’clock, the day after tomorrow.”

  “See if you can change it.”

  “I should think the terrible Josie will delight in telling me that there are no free appointments, but I’ll try. I’ll phone in the morning. Oh, I forgot to check when we got back from Honeybourne if there were any messages.”

  Agatha went to the phone and dialled. She listened and then put down the phone and turned to Charles. “A message from Mrs. Dairy. She says she wants to see me. She sounded like her old self. Nasty and bitchy. I’ll think about it. Maybe call on her when we’ve finished in Evesham.”

  The following day, Agatha left Charles outside the dentist’s and went to the hairdresser’s. Josie was barely polite but reluctantly said there was a cancellation. Agatha had her hair shampooed and was led through to Eve.

  Eve was a tall, stately woman, rather like a figurehead on an old ship, proud bosom, flowing dark hair, rounded arms.

  As she worked away with the drier, Agatha said, “Did you know Mr. John?”

  “The hairdresser who was killed? No. Terribly sad, that,” said Eve. “Lucky for me. I was starting up this business and about to advertise for staff, so I just took his old staff over. I think I’ll just pop some rollers in and put you under the drier. Gives it a firmer set.”

  “I don’t want anything too fussy!”

  “Oh, it’ll look great.”

  “Are you from Evesham, Eve?”

  “No, I moved here recently. Thought it might be a good place for business.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “Worcester.”

  Agatha fell silent as the hairdresser put down the drier and then rolled her hair up and sprayed it.

  “Yvette, put Agatha under the drier,” called Eve.

  “Terrible about Mr. John,” said Agatha to Yvette.

  “Yeah. Want some magazines?”

  Agatha nodded. The drier was lowered over her head. Several copies of last year’s Vogue and Good Housekeeping were plopped on her lap. At first Agatha amused herself by reading last year’s horoscopes to see if they were anything like what had happened to her, but, like most horoscopes, they were so vague you could read anything you wanted into them.

  Time passed. Agatha squinted at her watch. Her hair had been nearly dry when it had been put in the rollers and she had been under the wretched drier for nearly an hour.

  Determinedly she put the magazines on a table beside her, removed her head from the drier and went through to the salon.

  No sign of Eve.

  “Where is she?” barked Agatha.

  “Gone out for her lunch,” said Garry, who was perming a customer’s hair.

  “What kind of place is this?” howled Agatha. “I want my hair finished now!”

  Garry threw her a frightened look. “She’s in the restaurant next door. I’ll get her.”

  Agatha stood and fumed. Eve came hurrying back in.

  “In a rush, are we?” she asked sweetly.

  “I don’t know about you, but I do not like to be kept waiting,” snapped Agatha.

  “Well, I’m here now,” said Eve soothingly. She guided Agatha to a chair and began to remove the rollers. Then she back-combed and smoothed the hair.

  Agatha stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  “That,” she said bitterly, “is the epitome of provincial middle-aged hair-styles. Too bouffant.”

  “It’s the latest style,” said Eve.

  “It was the latest style somewhere around the sixties.”

  “If you would like me to restyle it?”

  “Oh, forget it. Just give me the bill and let me out of here.”

  In a thoroughly bad temper, Agatha went back to the carpark to wait for Charles. Fortunately for her, they had used her car, so she sat and smoked and waited… and waited.

  Eventually Charles turned up.

  He burst out laughing when he saw Agatha’s hair. “Oh, shut up,” snarled Agatha. “I’ll never go there again. Take her for lunch while I sat here and starved?”

  “No, our Jessie was very frightened. Said she had not known our Mr. John, refused to talk about him.”

  “So what kept you?”

  “I went for lunch.”

  “Why didn’t you come looking for me?”

  “I didn’t think. I was hungry.”

  “I’m going straight home to brush out this wretched style and eat. You can do what you like.”

  “Since you’re driving,” said Charles mildly, “whither thou goest, I goest.”

  Agatha grumbled the whole way back to Carsely about the sheer selfishness of men.

  Once home, she was restored to good temper by two chicken sandwiches and a cup of soup and by brushing her hair smooth.

  “Now what?” she asked. “Perhaps I should have been the one to have a go at Jessie Lang.”

  “You can have a try. What about Mrs. Dairy?”

  “God, I’d forgotten about her. Let’s take a walk up there. She’s probably regretted telling us anything.”

  “All right. You know, Aggie, if that ricin was put into his vitamin pills, it could have been done at any time. All the poisoner had to do was wait. You know what I mean? Poison two of them and you could be out the country by the time he got to them.”

  Agatha sighed. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever find out who did it.”

  “Anyway, let’s see what Mrs. Dairy has to say for herself.”

  The day was cold and grey as they walked through the village. The first leaves of autumn twirled down at their feet. “All that that seems so far away now,” said Agatha. “I don’t like the winter in the country. You really never notice it in town. Afternoon, terrible weather, isn’t it?”

  “Who was that woman you just spoke to?”

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha. “Apart from the women who go to the ladies’ society, I don’t really know that many people in the village. In Carsely, we all say ‘Morning’ or ‘Afternoon’ to each other, whether we know each other or not.”

  “What about the community spirit?”

  “I think it went when everyone got cars,” said Agatha. “The children are bussed out to schools and a lot of the parents work up in Birmingham or Worcester and commute. Here we are now. I can’t help hoping she’s not at home.”

  The little cottage lay dark and silent. “That’s her car,” said Agatha. “She’s probably walking the dog. Don’t peer in the window, Charles. I tell you, she’s out. Charles!”

  He turned round and looked at her, his face strangely pinched and drawn.

  “Aggie, there’s a pair of feet sticking out from behind the sofa.”

  “She’s must be ill. Let’s try the door.”

  Agatha turned the brass handle on the front door. It swung open. Agatha rushed into the living-room. Mrs. Dairy lay stretched out behind the sofa. Blood from a terrible wound on her head spread out on the carpet. Beside her lay the corpse of her little dog, and beside both lay a blood-stained brass poker.

  Charles knelt down beside Mrs. Dairy, feeling for a pulse and finding none.

  He shook his head dismally. Agatha dialled 999 and asked for the police and an ambulance.

  She turned to Charles. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Better go outside on the road.”

  Agatha fled. She was thoroughly sick. She tried to brace herself to return to Charles but found she hadn’t the courage to go back into the house of death. Somehow it was the memory of the little dog with its head smashed in as well that made the picture that was imprinted on her mind so full of horror. It had been murder done in a vicious rage. Murder done in Carsely. Murder c
oming closer to Agatha Raisin.

  Fred Griggs, the village policeman, came hurrying up. Agatha told him in a weak, faltering voice what had happened. He went into the house.

  Then two police cars arrived; Bill Wong, Detective Inspector Wilkes and various other plain-clothes detectives and police officers. Then the ambulance.

  Agatha waited, shivering.

  At last Bill Wong came out. “I’ll take you home, Agatha. You look awful.”

  “It’s my hair,” babbled Agatha insanely. “That wretched hairdresser ruined my hair.”

  “Get in the police car. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a cup of tea.”

  Back at her cottage and despite her protests that she couldn’t drink anything, Bill made her a cup of milky sweet tea. “Try to get it down you. You’ll feel better.”

  “If only I’d gone to see her last night,” mourned Agatha.

  “Why? Why last night? What do you know?”

  “I may as well tell you now she’s dead. She was being blackmailed by that hairdresser, Mr. John.”

  “Drink some tea and begin at the beginning.”

  Agatha did as she was bid and then in a halting voice told him about Mrs. Dairy.

  When she had finished, he demanded, “Did you tell Worcester CID any of this?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not? Perhaps she would still be alive if you had. I’ve warned you and warned you about the danger of playing amateur detective.”

  “It was told to me in confidence.”

  “Is there anything else you haven’t told the police?”

  Agatha longed to unburden herself, but she could not betray Liza or Maggie. Besides, would either woman have been capable of committing such a savage and violent act of murder?

  “No,” she lied. “Nothing.”

  A voice in her brain screamed that any woman frightened of exposure as a murderess might kill again in a frenzy of rage, but she hung her head and stared at the floor.

  “I’ll need to get back,” said Bill. “We’ll be along later to take a statement. Why did you call on her?”