Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

by M C Beaton

Roy look at her, puzzled. “What?”

  “Nothing. Yes, I think we’ll go to Portsmouth tomorrow.”

  SEVEN

  AGATHA sat uneasily on the passenger side of her car as Roy hurtled down the motorways towards Portsmouth the following day. She had wanted to leave her cats in the cottage for the day, but Roy had pointed out that the murderer might come looking for her and destroy her cats in revenge, so Hodge and Boswell had been put in their cat boxes and taken round to the cleaner, Doris Simpson’s, for security.

  Agatha realized that all her hurt over Charles had dulled the fact that she might be at risk.

  “Portsmouth’s a big place,” said Roy, “and there must be an awful lot of hairdressers.”

  “We can only ask around a few places,” said Agatha. “Oh, rats!”

  “Rats what?”

  “I forgot to switch on the burglar alarm. I’m always doing that.”

  “Want to go back?”

  “Not now. We’ve already gone miles. Just need to hope everything will be safe.”

  “You know, I think it will be,” said Roy, “now that I’ve had time to think about it.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, how’s our murderer supposed to know you’re ferreting around?”

  “Easy,” said Agatha. “I think it’s one of the ones who were being blackmailed, or someone like Mrs. Friendly’s husband or Maggie Henderson’s husband. Why did you really come to visit me, Roy?”

  “Told you. Had a few days off and wanted to see you.”

  “It’s just when you’ve turned up before it’s mostly been because your boss wants me to do some free-lance work.”

  “Why do you always pin the worst motives on people?” said Roy crossly. “Or is the idea of friendship so foreign to your twisted mind?”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Agatha. “Couldn’t help wondering.”

  “Well, here comes Portsmouth. Park in the centre?”

  “Yes, John would have had somewhere right in the centre.”

  After several frustrating waits in traffic jams, Roy managed to find a place in a multi-storey car-park near Queen Street.

  “Now what?” he asked as they walked out into the morning bustle of shoppers.

  “Find a library or post office, find a business phone directory and start off at the nearest hairdressing salon.”

  They hit gold at the first salon, called A Cut Above. The proprietess had known John Shawpart. Her name was Mary Mulligan. “He had a place round the back of Queen Street,” she said. “Called Mr. John. He and his wife ran it a few years ago. Then the place went on fire. It was arson. The gossip was that they had done it themselves, but John got the money from the insurance. The business was in his name. After that, Elaine Shawpart set up on her own, but she didn’t do very well. He did all right after he’d had the place redone. Then he sold up and disappeared and his wife-they got a divorce by this time-she sold up and went off as well.”

  “Do you happen to know where he lived?”

  “Don’t know. Wait a bit. I’ve got some old phone books in the back. Never throw them away. Might be in one of those.”

  They waited while she went to look. Driers hummed and the air was full of the bad-egg smell of perms. Beyond the plate-glass windows, people went to and fro. Perhaps one of them had been blackmailed by John, perhaps one of them followed him to Evesham.

  “You’re lucky,” said Mary, bustling back. “Here we are. Shawpart. Blacksmith’s End. Number two. Blacksmith’s End is one of those private builder’s projects out on the west of the town.”

  She gave them directions.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Roy, retrieving the car.

  Blacksmith’s End turned out to be a quiet cul-de-sac of stone-built houses, very quiet and suburban with manicured lawns at the front and lace curtains at the windows.

  They walked up the neat path of number 2 and rang the doorbell, which emitted Big Ben chimes.

  A little woman as neat as the house-neat permed hair, neat little features, trim pencil skirt and tailored blouse-answered the door.

  “I never buy from door-to-door salesmen,” she said.

  “We’re simply asking questions about John Shawpart.”

  “But I’ve told the police everything!”

  Agatha felt like the amateur she was. Of course the police would have been checking into his background.

  “I was the person who found him when he was dying,” said Agatha.

  “Come in. I’m Mrs. Laver.”

  “Agatha Raisin and Roy Silver,” sad Agatha as they followed her into a sparklingly clean living-room: three piece suite in Donegal tweed, glass coffee-table, stereo, television; pot plants everywhere, green and lush.

  “It must have been dreadful for you, seeing him dying like that,” said Mrs. Laver. “But really, I don’t know anything other than we bought the house from him.”

  “Did he live here with his wife?”

  “No, I gather he moved here after they split up.”

  Agatha looked around at the plants as if for inspiration. “Did anyone come calling, looking for him, after you moved in here?”

  “A couple of women-not together-at separate times. They seemed quite distressed.”

  “Did you get their names?”

  “No, when I said he had gone, they asked where to, but he didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  “That’s odd,” said Roy. “What did you do with the mail?”

  “Just marked it ‘Not Known at This Address’ and gave it back to the postman.”

  Agatha noticed a faint flush rising up on Mrs. Laver’s face and the way her hands twisted together nervously in her lap.

  “It must have been a bit of a chore,” said Agatha, “remembering to return all that mail to the postman. I had that to do when I first moved into my cottage. I got so fed up I forgot to return a couple of letters, and after two months, I regret to say I just threw them on the fire. Did you do that?” she demanded sharply.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that. That’s criminal!” cried Mrs. Laver. “But… ”

  “But what?” demanded Agatha eagerly. “You’ve still got one, haven’t you?”

  She flushed again. “It arrived some time after he’d gone from Portsmouth. My husband was away on business and I had the flu, so I put it in the kitchen drawer and thought I’d give it to the postman when I felt better. But then I forgot about it and I was too ashamed to hand it over after all this time.”

  Agatha felt her heart beating hard with excitement. “If you give it to us,” she said, “we’ll give it to the Worcester police. You don’t need to worry. We’ll just say it got stuck under the doormat.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Laver. “People would think I didn’t clean under the doormat in my own home.”

  Agatha looked at her impatiently.

  “Then we’ll say it came through the letter-box and slipped under a crack in the skirting in the hall.”

  “But I don’t have crack in the skirting. This is a very sound house!”

  Agatha felt like tearing her hair in frustration.

  She forced herself to say gently, “Then I’ll just tell them the truth. You were ill. You put it in the kitchen drawer and only remembered it when we called.”

  “I won’t get into trouble?”

  “Not at all. I am very friendly with the police and have helped them on many cases.”

  “Oh, well, I s’pose… ”

  She got up and went through to the kitchen.

  Agatha looked at Roy and rolled her eyes. What if the silly woman changed her mind?

  But Mrs. Laver came back and handed Agatha a thick brown envelope. Agatha tried not to snatch it.

  She stood up. “We’ll be on our way.”

  “Aren’t you going to see what’s in it?” asked Mrs. Laver.

  “No, we’ll leave that job to the police. Come along, Roy.”

  They made their escape. As they were getting into the car, Mrs. Laver c
alled after them, “I’d better take a note of your name and address. You’re Mrs. Anderson, didn’t you say?”

  “Drive off!” hissed Agatha to Roy. “Let the silly woman think I’m Mrs. Anderson in case she calls the police.”

  Roy accelerated off.

  “Now when we’re clear of this place, stop somewhere,” ordered Agatha, “and let’s have a look at what we’ve got.”

  Roy drove for several street and then pulled into the side of the road.

  Agatha took out the envelope, which she had stuffed in her handbag. She was about to open it when Roy grabbed her hand.

  “I don’t like this,” he said. “You’ll get us into trouble. This is police evidence.”

  “I found it, they didn’t,” growled Agatha. “Get off, Roy. I’ll take the responsibility.”

  She opened the envelope. It was crammed with fifty-pound notes. “Must be; blackmail money,” she said. “There’s a letter.”

  She pulled out one sheet of paper and opened it. She read, “This is all I can afford. I think you’re a wicked, evil man. After all we were to each other, I can’t believe you would do this to me. Harriet.” Agatha counted out the money. “There’s five thousand pounds here!”

  “Is there an address?” asked Roy.

  “Yes, 14A, Hanson Street, Portsmouth.”

  “I’d better stop at a stationer’s and get a street map.”

  When they had found a map, Hanson Street turned out to be a small street running off London Road in the centre of the town.

  “Back to that car-park,” grumbled Roy, “and let’s hope there’s a space left.”

  They had to wait a frustrating half an hour for a car to drive out and leave them a space. They walked to Hanson Street. Fourteen A turned out to be the basement of a shop.

  “Doesn’t look very prosperous,” said Agatha as they walked down the steps.

  Roy rang the bell. A tired-looking middle-aged woman answered the door.

  “Harriet?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, who are you?”

  “We’ve brought you this.” Agatha handed her the envelope full of money.

  Harriet turned a muddy colour.

  “Are you the police?”

  “No,” said Agatha. “Just a couple of people trying to make sure that blackmailing bastard doesn’t continue to ruin people from beyond the grave. Can we come in?”

  Clutching the envelope tightly, Harriet led them into a large room strewn with coloured fabrics and dominated by a sewing machine.

  “You’re a dressmaker?” asked Roy.

  “Yes, it’s a living,” said Harriet wearily. She seemed drained of energy.

  She sat down and said, “You can’t blackmail me as well. It was all for nothing.”

  “We’ve only come to help you,” said Agatha. “We should have given that money and letter to the police. But we didn’t.”

  “Thank you. I could do with the money.”

  “Let’s introduce ourselves,” said Agatha briskly. “I’m Agatha Raisin and this is Roy Silver. I found John Shawpart’s body and decided to find out what I could. You don’t want us to tell the police about you and I don’t want you to tell the police about me. I’ll tell you what happened.”

  So Agatha told her all about Evesham, about the house being burnt down, about the other women who had been blackmailed.

  “Why didn’t I even guess he was so evil?” sighed Harriet. “Move some of those fabrics and sit down. I’m Harriet Worth.”

  “So how did he get his claws into you?” asked Agatha.

  “In pretty much the same way as he got hold of those other women,” said Harriet. “I went to the salon to get my hair done. Unlike those other women, my marriage was happy. Luke’s got a good job with a computer company. Mr. John asked me out and of course I refused. But he laughed it off and he was a wizard at doing my hair and Luke liked my new appearance so I kept going.

  “Then John started to look at me in a sort of pitying way and I asked him sharply what was up. At first he said, nothing, but I insisted. He said with a great show of reluctance-he knew what Luke looked like because Luke had called in for me a couple of times at the salon-that he had been out the evening before at a restaurant and had seen Luke with a young blonde. He then made me promise not to tell Luke anything and I did. But I began to get suspicious. It was coming up to Christmas and Luke was often late at the office. He said they were all working flat-out on a new game.”

  Harriet heaved a deep sigh. A truck rumbled past on the road above their heads and a child ran a stick along the railings at the top of the steps.

  Harriet went on. “I called up at the office one evening. I never usually went there; in fact, come to think of it, I had only been there once before when I forgot my keys. Luke had a new secretary, a pretty young blonde. When I walked in, they had their heads close together and were laughing about something.

  “After that, I waited outside the office one evening. I saw them come out together and followed them. Luke and his secretary went into a pub.

  “I was devastated. When he at last came home, I asked him why he was so late and he said as usual, pressure of work. I told him I had seen him go to the pub with his secretary and he told me with a sheepish laugh that they had both been working so hard, they had just dropped in for a drink before they both went home.

  “I must have gone a bit mad with jealousy because I agreed to go out with John. We had an awful lot to drink. John said, ‘You can’t go home in that state; the salon’s just round the corner, I’ll make us some coffee.’ But once in the salon, he took me through to the back and began to take off my clothes and I was so drunk, it all seemed to be happening in a dream. I let him make love to me and then I passed out.”

  There was a long silence. Agatha and Roy sat amongst the bright swathes of fabric and waited, although both knew in their hearts what was coming. How could I even have let that bastard touch me, raged Agatha inwardly.

  “I told my husband I had gone out with my friend, Julie, to a hen party and had drunk a bit too much and stayed at her place. Then a week later-I’d stopped going to John to get my hair done-he phoned me. He said we had better meet. There was something threatening about his voice. I met him at the salon after hours. He had taken photos of both of us naked-awful photos. He must have set up the camera after I passed out. He said if I paid him five thousand pounds, he would let me have the negatives.”

  “Did you have any money?” asked Agatha.

  “I had just a little over that in my bank account. Of course I paid, but he didn’t let me have the negatives. I was nearly ill with fright. He said coldly he needed more money. One more payment would do it. So I sent that money, the money you brought back to me. I took out a personal loan.”

  Agatha looked around. “Is your husband at work?”

  Tears welled up in Harriet’s eyes. “That’s the bloody tragedy. After I’d paid that last instalment, Luke left me-for that secretary. The house was in his name. Oh, I suppose I could have got a lawyer. But I was so crushed I just let it all happen.”

  “You know Shawpart was murdered?” asked Roy.

  “Yes, and when I read it in the papers, I thought if I ever met the woman who did it, I would shake her hand.”

  “Might have been a man,” suggested Agatha.

  “I’m sure it was a woman.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “They split up just after I started going to Mr. John.”

  “What was she like?” asked Agatha.

  “Well, she wasn’t a very good hairdresser, although she didn’t know it. She thought she could start up on her own, but her own business soon failed.”

  “What did she look like?” asked Roy.

  “Blonde, lots of hair, sort of statuesque.”

  “Do you think she was in on this blackmailing racket?” asked Agatha.

  “I don’t know. He only started on me after the divorce.” Harriet clasped her hands and looked at Agatha beseechingly. “I kee
p having nightmares about those negatives.”

  “I think they were burnt in the fire,” said Agatha soothingly. “If they hadn’t been, the police would have been on to you.”

  “Someone’s coming,” said Roy as the figure of a man descending the area steps could be seen through the window above.

  “I’m not expecting a customer,” said Harriet. She rose and went to the door just as a sharp knock sounded on the outside.

  “Luke,” exclaimed Harriet, falling back a step.

  Agatha moved like lightning. She picked up the envelope full of money and thrust it into Harriet’s open handbag and clicked the clasp shut. She picked up a swathe of material and draped it around her. “What do you think?” she was asking Roy as Luke walked into the room.

  Agatha had imagined that someone called Luke-a romance name, a cowboy name-would be a brooding sort of man with saturnine good looks, not this tubby little bespectacled man who stood blinking at them in the gloom of the basement.

  In a trembling voice, Harriet introduced Agatha and Roy.

  “I see you’re busy,” said Agatha. “I think this red would be nice.”

  “Too ageing,” said Roy and Agatha threw him a filthy look.

  “We’ll be on our way,” said Agatha briskly. “I’ve left that payment in your handbag.”

  …

  “So what d’you think?” she asked Roy outside. “Reconciliation?”

  “Poor woman. I hope so. What do we do now?”

  “I’m tired of Portsmouth and we haven’t eaten. I suggest we drive home and stop off on the road and eat some lovely, greasy, cholesterol-laden food.”

  “But we haven’t really got anywhere,” said Agatha, exasperated.

  “Don’t know what else we can do. John’s dead, we don’t know where the wife is. But the police will know and they’ve probably interviewed her. I’ve a feeling we’re at a dead end, Aggie.”

  Agatha was suddenly engulfed by a wave of weariness. Was she really interested in this case? Or was she always searching for something to take her mind off James-and now the humiliation of Charles?

  Finally comforted by a large, greasy plate of sausages and chips, she slept fitfully on the drive home.

  “Hope you haven’t had a visit from the murderer,” said Roy cheerfully as they drove up to Agatha’s cottage.