by M C Beaton
“Tell him about Mavis,” said Agatha.
Mrs. Bloxby listened intently and then said, “But it does not follow that Harriet was lying. Why should she lie? She paid, didn’t she, and it’s thanks to Agatha that she got that five thousand pounds back.”
“There’re too many suspects,” said Agatha gloomily. “Because of Mavis, I think everyone has been lying to me. When I overheard that woman telling John she would kill him, he said it was the woman in the shop next door talking to her husband, but she said she wasn’t married. So she wasn’t married, but what if John had got his clutches into her?”
“So where do you go from here?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
“I don’t know,” said Agatha wearily.
Charles nibbled on a chocolate biscuit. Then he said, “What about us visiting Bill Wong? He surely knows something about that wife of John’s. In fact, he probably knows a hell of a lot more than we do.”
Agatha brightened. “That’s an idea. Let’s go and see Bill. In fact, I think we’ll do that now. Thanks for the coffee.”
She and Charles got up.
Agatha turned in the doorway. “I quite forgot to ask you: Do you know where Mrs. Dairy came from? Where did she live before she came to Carsely?”
“How stupid of me,” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby. “How could I have forgotten?”
“Forgotten what?”
“Why, Portsmouth, of course. Mrs. Dairy came from Portsmouth!”
EIGHT
“PHEW!” said Agatha. “I’m feeling as if I’ve been just struck by a blinding flash of the obvious.”
“What do you mean?” asked Charles as they walked back to the cottage.
“Why, Mrs. Dairy, of course. She wouldn’t have been clever enough to ferret out anything dangerous about the murderer in such a short time. She must have known Mr. John in Portsmouth! So it follows she probably knew who murdered him.”
“How could she know that?” asked Charles. “She’d just have been in the same fix as we are. All those people being blackmailed. Who to choose from?”
“Stands to reason it must have been someone from Portsmouth.”
“Harriet?”
“I’m sure it’s not Harriet. Damn. Let’s go in and have some coffee and think before we see Bill Wong.”
When they were seated over the coffee-cups, Agatha said, “If only we could find the wife.”
“Maybe the police have already found her. They’re bound to have found her.”
“You see, perhaps we’ve become all messed up by this blackmail business. Perhaps it was just marital hate.”
“Trust me,” said Charles. “When you’ve got a blackmailer in the picture, then someone is going to murder him.”
“Anyway, I think I’ll call on Bill Wong.”
“Shouldn’t you phone him first?”
Agatha hesitated. Then she said, “No, let’s just go. Unless you have anything else planned?”
“No,” said Charles gloomily. “I’m off women.”
Meaning I don’t count as a woman, thought Agatha.
As they drove to Mircester, Agatha admired the autumn colours of the trees. “How quickly the seasons change now,” she remarked. “It seems as if someone drew a line between summer and autumn. Not so long ago we were sweltering and then suddenly, fall fell. Do you think it’s the ozone layer?”
“Probably it’s disintegrating under all the cigarette smoke from people like you.”
“Nasty. I wonder if that hypnotist in Gloucester is any good.”
“You’ll never know until you try.”
“It’s the mean people like you who manage to cut down on their smoking, Charles.”
“You’re just jealous because you’re a confirmed addict. Why don’t you just stop now?”
There was a silence and then Agatha said suddenly, “Why don’t I? When we get to Mircester, I’m going to take the cigarettes out of my handbag and throw them in the nearest rubbish bin.”
“And what about that carton you’ve got at home?”
“We shall burn them ceremoniously on the fire when we get home.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Agatha felt the hunger for a cigarette. She would fight it. It was only a matter of will-power.
They parked outside police headquarters in Mircester. “Probably be out on a job,” said Charles. “We should have called.”
“We’ll try anyway.”
They were in luck. They were shown into a room and told that Bill would be with them shortly.
He arrived and greeted them with the words, “I hope you two have been keeping your noses clean.”
“Yes,” said Agatha huffily. “But we can’t help being curious. We just wanted to know if you’d found Shawpart’s wife.”
“I don’t see that there is any harm in telling you that we haven’t. Why?”
“She could be in Evesham.”
“She was last heard of in Glasgow. A friend of hers got a postcard from her.”
“What friend?” asked Agatha eagerly.
“I’m not telling you. When you call on someone, Agatha, the next thing we know, that person has mysteriously died.”
“Mrs. Dairy was from Portsmouth,” said Agatha eagerly. “That was the connection.”
“Obviously,” said Bill. “But we do not know what she found out.”
“Can’t you give us any help?” asked Agatha.
“I can’t,” said Bill. “You caused enough trouble by masquerading as Shawpart’s sister and then lying about driving past the house. Agatha, please just leave it alone.”
“Well, if you don’t want my help…”
“I DON’T!”
“There’s no need to shout.”
“Look, Agatha, you’ve nearly got yourself killed before and I don’t want to see that happening again.”
But Agatha was deeply offended. “Come along, Charles,” she said haughtily. “Bill obviously doesn’t want to tell us anything.”
Charles winked at Bill and meekly followed her from the room.
“He’s only concerned for you, Aggie,” said Charles mildly when they were outside.
“Tough,” grumbled Agatha. “He can sit there and rot. I shall never offer him my help again.”
“Bit hard. He’s gone out on a limb for you before.”
“Like when?”
“Like when he faxed all that stuff to you in Cyprus. Let’s go back to your cottage and cool down.”
After a late and silent lunch, Charles suddenly said he would go home and check out things there. Agatha could think of nothing to say or suggest to keep him. She heartily wished there could be some way she could find out more about what the police had discovered.
She pottered around aimlessly for the rest of the day, played with her cats and fed them, watched some television, or rather flicked backwards and forwards through the channels, and then decided to have an early night.
But Agatha tossed and turned. She kept going over what she had found out again and again. Faces swam in front of her-Maggie, Jessie, Harriet, Josie and the rest. At last, she felt her eyes close. She would forget about the whole thing, go to that nice hairdresser, Marie, and get her hair done and maybe buy a new dress.
Suddenly her eyes shot open. She could almost hear Marie’s voice talking about the jealousies and rivalries in the hairdressing business. And wait a bit! John Shawpart had said the same thing. And who was it had said that John’s wife had been jealous of him?
Her heart beat faster. And who was it who had turned up in Evesham after John’s death, set up business and taken over his staff?
Eve!
Mrs. Shawpart had been described as blonde and statuesque. But then in these days of clever dying and tinting, Eve could have changed her hair from blonde. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.
The next day she phoned up Eve’s and told Josie she insisted that Eve herself did her hair. Josie sulkily said she could fit her in at three that afternoon, although Agatha was sure that the d
ay was probably full of free appointments.
Agatha felt she should tell someone what she was about to do… well, just in case. If she told Bill, he would order her not to go. But if she told Charles, perhaps he could phone the police.
She dialled Charles’s number. To her relief he answered the phone himself. He listened carefully and to her relief did not tell her she was behaving like an idiot.
“Tell you what, Aggie,” said Charles. “I’ve got a friend in the village who’s a TV sound man. I’ll see if I can get him and bring him over. He’ll put a mike on you and then we’ll wait across the road with the headphones on and if there is even a glimmer that she’s the one we want, I’ll call the police.”
“Don’t be long,” urged Agatha.
She waited impatiently and, as the hands of the clock crept around to two in the afternoon, was beginning to wonder if she should go ahead without them. But suddenly Charles’s car drove up, and Charles got out followed by a tall thin man.
“Right, Aggie,” said Charles when she had let them in, “Brian here will just fix you up and then you can get off.”
Agatha was wearing a trouser suit. The sound pack was clipped onto the waistband of her trousers and the small mike fastened on her collar. “She might see that little black thing,” said Charles. “Have you got a brooch or something?”
Agatha went up to her jewel box and found a gaudy piece of costume jewellery. “That’s quite horrible,” commented Charles, “but it will stop her noticing the microphone.”
They all set off in Charles’s car.
“I never thought about this,” exclaimed Agatha suddenly. “How can I start accusing her of murder in front of her staff?”
“Try anyway,” said Charles. “Say you want a quiet word with her.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
Agatha was feeling nervous on two counts. First, if Eve were the murderess, then she might be in real danger. And second, if Eve were not, Agatha felt she would make a terrible fool of herself in front of this sound man.
They parked and then walked along the High Street. “Now,” said Charles, “we’ll wait across the street in this doorway. Go to it, Aggie, and best of luck.”
The day was sunny and unusually warm. People came and went in the High Street with their amiable, non-threatening Evesham faces. Agatha suddenly felt silly. In the clear sunshine, her idea began to seem mad. All that would happen would be that she would end up with a truly dreadful hair-style.
Agatha pushed open the door and went in.
Josie was painting her nails and did not look up. “I’ve an appointment,” snarled Agatha. “Jump to it!”
Josie gave a stage sigh and said, “Follow me,” and, waving her painted nails in the air to dry them, led Agatha through to the wash-basins. Eve was sitting reading a magazine. There were no other customers.
“That’s all right, Josie,” said Eve, putting down her magazine. “You can take the rest of the day off. I’ll attend to Mrs. Raisin. Would you like a coffee first, Mrs. Raisin?”
“No, thank you.” Agatha did not want to risk getting coffee laced with ricin.
Josie went off Eve unhitched a gown and held it out to Agatha.
“I’d like a word with you first… Mrs. Shawpart,” said Agatha.
“Who’s she?”
“You are the wife of the hairdresser who was murdered, aren’t you?” demanded Agatha.
Eve looked at her in bewilderment. “I never even knew John Shawpart,” she said. “I had a hairdressing establishment in Worcester and moved here. Whatever gave you such an odd idea?”
“Despite the colour of your hair,” pursued Agatha, although she was beginning to feel stupid and acutely conscious of Brian and Charles listening in, “you fit the description given me of Mrs. Shawpart. Your husband divorced you and collected all the insurance from your salon when it burned down. You were jealous of his success.”
Eve looked at her wearily. “You are talking absolute rubbish. Wait a minute.”
She went away and came back with a business card. “That was the business I had last year and I was in business in Worcester for ten years. Ask anyone.”
Agatha dismally looked down at the business card. It said, “Eve’s Hairdressing,” with an address in the Foregate in Worcester.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“Well, we all make mistakes. Come over to the washbasin. What on earth gave you such a mad idea?”
Agatha allowed her to put the gown on and then sat down meekly at the wash-basin.
“I’d been investigating because I was the one who found him when he was dying,” she said. “He was a blackmailer.”
“Never!”
“Yes. So at first I thought that it might be one of the people he had been blackmailing and then I suddenly thought it might be his wife, and since you suddenly appeared and took over his staff, I leaped to the wrong conclusion that you might be his wife. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Lean your head back. Comfy?”
Agatha nodded.
Across the road, Brian and Charles, with their headphones, on looked at each other. Brian removed his. “May as well take these things off.”
“Keep listening,” said Charles. “Poor Aggie. Let’s hear just how much of a fool she’s making of herself.”
“But I tell you one thing,” said Agatha. “I plan to go on and on until I track down the missing Mrs. Shawpart.”
Eve shampooed Agatha’s head with strong fingers. Suddenly those fingers buried themselves in her hair and held her head in a strong grip.
“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” asked Eve.
“No,” lied Agatha.
“Just as well.”
“Why?”
“Because, you interfering bitch, you’re not going to get out of here alive.”
Across the road, Charles whipped out a mobile phone and called the police.
Agatha tried to get up and then yelped in pain as Eve held tightly on to her hair.
“He had it coming to him,” said Eve viciously. “He always said the success of the salon in Portsmouth was due to his talents. I thought, I’ll show the bastard. After the divorce, I set up a rival salon, but he poisoned people’s minds against me.”
Agatha forced herself to remain still, hoping against hope that the microphone was working. “And did you blackmail women as well?”
“I didn’t even know about that, not until just before I left Portsmouth, when some stupid woman came whining to me.”
“You set his house on fire? How come you had the keys?”
“I came back and cosied up to him. John was so vain, he thought he was irresistible. We spent a few nights together for old time’s sake and I got him to give me a set of keys.”
“But why set his house on fire?” Keep her talking and pray to God Charles has phoned the police, thought Agatha. Her knees were trembling and sweat from her forehead trickled down her face.
“Because I didn’t want the police finding our marriage certificate or any papers.”
“But he might have told someone that you were around!”
“He laughed and swore he hadn’t. Liked to keep his ladies thinking there was no one else but them in his life.”
Agatha strained her ears for the wail of a police siren but heard only the drivelling Muzak that was playing in the salon.
“But why didn’t the police find you? If you’ve changed your name by deed poll, they’d have got on to it.”
“Got forged papers in Glasgow. You can always get forged papers if you’re prepared to pay the price. Set up a bank account in my new name. Easy.”
“And where did you get the ricin?”
“When I was married to John, one of our customers gave me some castor-oil beans he’d got in India. He told me about the poison. I put them away in a drawer and forgot about them, until I realized how I could use them. I got another of my crooked friends in Glasgow to extract the poison and put it in a syringe. I simpl
y injected it into the bastard’s vitamin pills and sat back and waited for results.”
“But why?” asked Agatha. “So he was cheating on you. Why kill him?”
“He did worse than cheat on me,” hissed Eve. “He said I was no good as a hairdresser. He took away my customers. No one insults my hairdressing skills.
“You were jealous of him,” said Agatha. “You bloody hairdressers are a lot of prima donnas. You killed him out of jealousy. But you were lucky. You could have been seen in Evesham. You could-”
Eve banged Agatha’s head painfully against the basin. “Shut up. I’m bored with you, you dreary old frump. He got into your knickers, didn’t he?” She banged Agatha’s head painfully again and Agatha yelled.
Keep her talking, thought Agatha although her head hurt and she was terrified.
“So you were never in Worcester?”
“No, I got some business cards printed in a machine, just in case.”
“And what about Mrs. Dairy?”
“The old cow recognised me and-”
Suddenly Eve stiffened. The salon was suddenly filled with the wail of police sirens.
Eve released Agatha’s hair.
Screaming like a banshee, Agatha hurtled out of the chair just as police poured into the shop. She did not wait for all the joy of hearing Eve being cautioned, she went straight out of the shop into Charles’s arms.
“What kept them so long?” she kept sobbing over and over again.
At the end of a long day of police questions and statements, Agatha and Charles finally found themselves alone in Agatha’s cottage.
“And the only praise I got from Bill,” said Agatha sourly, “was that he supposed it took one rank amateur to find another.”
“John’s wife certainly had the luck of the devil,” said Charles, nursing a brandy. “Your head’s still stiff with shampoo. Aren’t you going to wash it off?”
Agatha gave a squawk of alarm. “You should have said something before this. I wonder how she planned to kill me?”
“Well, she was banging your head. Probably meant to keep on banging it until you looked like Mrs. Dairy.”
“And then what would she have done?”