The Dead Ringer

by M C Beaton

  As the ambulance men arrived, Harry was jerked back to life.

  * * *

  Agatha, Toni, Simon and Mrs. Bloxby sat together in a pew near the entrance to the church as outside the storm yelled and shouted, throwing down sheets of rain, claps of thunder, and a finally great stab of lightning which split one of the old tombstones in half. It bore the legend, HERE LYETH JOHN SOMMER. COME AND GET ME IF YOU CAN, I BE SAFE FROM THE DEVIL, THAT I AM.

  They had all given preliminary statements to the police. Agatha craved a cigarette but she had left them in her car. She heard Mrs. Bloxby murmur, “Very well done, Miss Gilmour,” and forced herself to say, “That was very brave of you, Toni.”

  “The rain’s stopping,” said Toni. “I feel a bit sick. The pub’s open. I could murder a drink.”

  “We’ll all go,” said Agatha. “Simon, go and tell one of those policemen where to find us. Anyone know what the pub is called?”

  “It’s called The Bells,” said Simon. “Tiny place.”

  “Lead the way,” said Agatha.

  “Are you sure?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “Press and television will be arriving soon.”

  “I am like any other small business,” said Agatha. “It pays to advertise.”

  * * *

  But before they reached the pub, they were waylaid by Bishop Peter. He smiled at Agatha and said, “Won’t you introduce me to your daughter?”

  He immediately saw he had made a mistake by the frosty look in Agatha’s eyes. He tried to backpedal by saying he had assumed such beauty came from a beautiful mother and who was more beautiful than Agatha Raisin?

  Toni gave him a warm smile and said, “Oh, do stop digging. You are in the muck deep enough. Come along, Agatha.” And as she walked away, her high clear voice carried back to the bishop as it was meant to do, “The man must be blind. But that’s dirty old men for you.”

  “Now that was too harsh,” said Agatha.

  “He frightens me and I don’t know why,” said Toni.

  Mrs. Bloxby stopped outside the pub. “I would like to go home,” she said. “Perhaps Toni or Simon could drop me off. It isn’t far.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Toni.

  “I’d better,” said Simon. “The press will want to interview Toni and I haven’t told the police where we are yet.”

  They found the pub served soup and sandwiches and decided to stay for lunch. Agatha gave interviews to the local press. She assured Simon afterwards that she was just about to describe Toni’s courage when two reporters from the nationals walked in, one of them saying loudly, “Where’s this gorgeous life-saving blonde?”

  Agatha was forgotten. Peggy had emailed her famous photo of Toni saving Harry to the Daily News who then sold it around the world. Simon had returned and was describing the scene in the crypt as the photographers arrived to join the reporters and soon were busy taking photographs.

  Agatha was just about to suggest they leave when the pub door opened and a tall man slouched in. It transpired that he worked for the Sun because Agatha heard another reporter hail him with, “How’s things at the Sun?” He had been out of town on a story in Cheltenham when he had heard the news on the radio, he said. He paused in the doorway and looked across at Agatha. That was all it took. One long assessing look from eyes as green as grass and Agatha Raisin fell instantly and completely in love for the first time in her life. The others had been obsession. This was real.

  She had never believed in love at first sight. Nor had she ever envisaged being struck down by it after one long look from a tall thin reporter who bore a remarkable resemblance to Buster Keaton. The voices rose and fell about her ears. Toni gave interview after interview, always careful to mention Agatha and the agency. Agatha felt encased in a golden bubble of love.

  Simon watched her out of the corner of his eye. He liked Charles and always assumed that he and Agatha would get married one day. Had she known the chap from the Sun before? But he was soon distracted by Toni’s protests that she did not want to pose for any more photographs. Then Sky news and Midlands Television arrived. Toni looked to Agatha for help but that lady was staring into space with a dreamy look on her face.

  Distraction came in the form of the Dupin sisters. Rattling collection tins and crying, “Money for the Abbey’s Old Folks’ Home,” they circulated the pub.

  Agatha rose to go and Simon felt relieved. She would never have walked out so calmly if she had been at all keen on the fellow.

  “Do you want me to stay?” asked Simon.

  “I don’t think Toni will be allowed any freedom for a while so you’re on your own, but try to find out when Larry was last seen around the village. He must have been trying to dig up some muck about the bondage games to flog to the press. He must have been killed, say, yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “Flies,” said Agatha. “The weather has been stinking hot since he disappeared. You’d think he’d have been crawling with maggots by now.”

  “Wrong way round,” said Simon. “Maggots turn into flies after about four to six days.”

  “Whatever.” Agatha hated to be corrected. “No, you are the one who is wrong. Flies lay eggs on the dead body. Okay? They lay eggs. Then eggs to larvae sometimes in as little as twenty-four hours. The maggots feed for about five days, then the pupa cases and then buzz, buzz, buzz. Like me. I’m buzzing off.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  Go home and dream and wait, was what Agatha should have said if telling the truth. But instead she said, “I am going to call on Mrs. Bloxby. I think the trouble all started with Mrs. Toms.”

  * * *

  It was only when she had reached the outskirts of Carsely that Agatha began to shiver with delayed shock. She sadly decided that one glorious glimpse of love had been a false defence against the horror she had just witnessed. So, she decided to make sure Mrs. Bloxby was all right.

  When the vicar’s wife answered the door, she looked flustered and upset. “I feel very selfish,” she said. “Mrs. Toms wanted me to go and comfort her and I just can’t. Something about the police having found out she was possibly the last person to see that policeman before he was murdered. Oh, do come in. Sherry?”

  “Yes, please.” Agatha slumped back against the old feather cushions on the sofa and stared at the flickering flames of the fire. Why had Mrs. Bloxby lit a fire on a summer’s day? The sun was shining through the window, bleaching the flames. Shock, decided Agatha. We are all cold with shock.

  When Mrs. Bloxby returned with two glasses of sherry and sat down beside Agatha, she said, “There are times, you know, when one just has to be selfish. Now, if I believed that Mrs. Toms was genuinely in need of help, of course I would have gone. But there was something in her voice that seemed to suggest she was enjoying the drama. How is Miss Gilmour? Perhaps we should not have left her.”

  “Simon is with her. Oh, dear. That is not enough. I’ll phone Patrick Mulligan to act as watchdog.”

  Mrs. Bloxby waited until she finished talking to Patrick. Then she said, “I thought Sir Charles might have been there.”

  Agatha shrugged. “He comes and goes. It’s all money with Charles, you know. Every time he disappears, it’s because he is romancing some deb who has bags of money. Now, I am sure Roy Silver will arrive shortly.”

  Roy, a public relations officer, was a former employee of Agatha’s when she ran her own publicity business. Although his job was to get publicity for clients, he craved the limelight for himself and Agatha’s past cases had meant that he had sometimes been filmed talking to the press.

  Agatha tilted her glass and watched little rivulets of sherry running down the inside.

  “Tell me, do you believe in love at first sight? Across a crowded room and all that jazz?”

  Must have happened after I left, thought Mrs. Bloxby. Aloud, she said, “Of course. I saw Alf at the May Ball in Oxford and that was that.”

  “So happily ever after?”

  “Only in fairy stories.
Real love comes along after a couple of years. You know, kindness, tolerance and caring.”

  Goodness, that sounds boring, thought Agatha. Where’s the pizazz?

  “Was he in the pub?”

  “Who?” asked Agatha.

  “The man who started you thinking about love at first sight.”

  Agatha’s bearlike eyes studied the faded wallpaper, then the fire, and then she shrugged. “I must go. I keep forgetting that Julian is paying me to find out what happened to the missing heiress. I may as well visit her parents.”

  So, there is someone, thought Mrs. Bloxby sadly. Poor Charles. But maybe Charles would not really care. Agatha was a rich woman but not rich enough for mercenary Charles.

  * * *

  Agatha’s grandmother had come south from the highlands of Scotland to find work in one of the Birmingham factories. Perhaps Agatha had inherited her intuition. She had a sudden acute awareness that he was waiting outside her cottage. The strength of her feelings frightened her. To surrender to such a love would mean losing control.

  Agatha got into her car outside the vicarage and looked up the address of Jennifer Toynby’s parents. They lived in a house called The Beeches and it lay some miles out of Moreton-in-Marsh, just off the Fosseway.

  The first star was appearing in the evening sky as she turned in at the gates of The Beeches and rolled along a short drive.

  * * *

  Charles got out of his car in front of Agatha’s cottage. A tall slim man was leaning on the gate.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Charles.

  “Reporter, Sun, Terry Fletcher,” he said laconically. “You?”

  “Charles Fraith. Why are you here?”

  “To get her reaction.”

  “To what?”

  “Where have you been? To get her reaction to finding a dead body in the crypt of the church in Thirk Magna.”

  “First I’ve heard of it,” said Charles. He walked up to the door and put a key in the lock and let himself in.

  Terry watched him go. Then he went to his own car, got in and drove off.

  * * *

  The Beeches was of red brick, more like the houses of Warwickshire than the mellow golden stone ones of the Cotswolds.

  Despite the warmth of the evening, Agatha felt cold and wished she had brought a cardigan or jacket. Her reaction to that reporter, she decided again, had been caused by shock.

  She rang the bell. A thin woman in denim overalls answered the door. “You vant?” she asked. From the height of her cheekbones and the mid European accent, Agatha guessed she was the maid.

  “Mr. or Mrs. Toynby at home?”

  “Vich wan you want?”

  “Either?”

  “Vat?”

  The maid leaned against the doorpost, took a cigarette packet out of her pocket, fished out a cigarette, lit it, took a puff and smiled at Agatha.

  Agatha took out one of her cards. “Please tell the Toynbys I wish to speak to them. And do it now!”

  “Gerda!” came a sharp voice. “Who is it?”

  The maid flicked her cigarette out into the drive and turned and handed Agatha’s card to, what Agatha supposed, was Mrs. Toynby.

  “I can’t read this,” she complained. “Come into the drawing room.”

  She led the way into one of those peculiarly soulless rooms, the result of a professional interior decorator. The main colour themes were green and brown.

  “Oh, you are one of those!” cried Mrs. Toynby. “She’s one of those, Arthur.”

  A head peered over the back of a green silk-covered armchair. “Hooker?”

  “Don’t be silly. She’s a detective.”

  “I’m not being silly. Gerda lets everyone in these days. Do you remember—”

  His wife interrupted harshly. “I haven’t any time for you,” she said to Agatha. “We hired detectives when our poor baby disappeared. Waste of space.”

  She was a small woman with lank brown hair highlighted with violet streaks. Her round face was covered in thick makeup and her thin lips were painted bright orange. In all, she looked like a badly painted sunset.

  Wonder how they made their money, thought Agatha. They’re not posh. Pair of pseuds. Should have looked that up instead of dreaming of love striking across a crowded room and all that jazz. I am a disgrace to feminism. I don’t care. I want to end my days in the arms of some man.

  Aloud she said, “Someone has hired me to look into the disappearance of your daughter.”

  “You don’t expect us to pay anything?”

  “Not a penny.”

  “Oh, do come and sit down. Turn your chair around, Arthur. Someone else is paying her to find our baby.”

  Arthur, who had been staring out of the window, walked his chair around because it was on castors. He was wearing a cravat and a sports jacket tailored in the noisiest tweed Agatha had ever seen.

  Mrs. Toynby sat in another armchair after placing an upright chair facing her and it was into this chair she urged Agatha to sit. Then she yelled, “Gerda!”

  The maid slouched in. “We’ll have coffee, Gerda.”

  “Evening off, missus.”

  “Oh, push off then. We’ll have drinks instead. You can’t have any, Raisin woman, because you are driving. Get me a large Scotch, Arthur.”

  “Get it yourself, you lazy bitch.”

  “How dare you talk to me like that? HOW DARE YOU? I’ll fix you. You’ll see.”

  Mrs. Toynby went to a trolley at the side of the room that contained an assortment of bottles. She poured a full glass of whisky, carried it to her husband and poured it over his head. He spluttered, dried his eyes, jumped to his feet and hit his wife on the nose.

  She screamed in pain as Agatha rose and quietly retreated to the hall where she phoned the police and reported a “domestic.” Then she retreated to her car and lit up a cigarette.

  It was half an hour before a police car rolled up. “It’s not my fault if he’s killed her,” complained Agatha. “What kept you?”

  “A real murder,” said one. “Village where a body was found in the crypt.”

  “Oh, that. I was there,” said Agatha. “I’ve given my statement so get in there and stop that war.”

  * * *

  Agatha returned home, feeling weary. Neither of the Toynbys was prepared to charge the other, and, as no bones had been broken, the police had left them to it.

  Charles was sleeping on the sofa, the cats sprawled on top of him.

  Agatha poured herself a gin and tonic and switched on her laptop to look up the Toynbys. Probably made their money from lavatory seats or something really awful, thought Agatha.

  But it transpired the Toynbys’ grandparents had not only been of the landed gentry but had made a fortune buying up villagers’ cottages because they saw that one day most people would own a car and cars meant trips to the picturesque Cotswolds and a desire to retire there. Last week, one of their “bijou” cottages had sold for half a million pounds.

  The difficulty of finding out anything about Jennifer, thought Agatha, was that her parents were so weird, she doubted if she could get a sensible word out of either of them. Now, Peter, the bishop, he has to know something. Surely her home life must have been a misery if ma and pa spent their days assaulting each other. But Bishop Peter might talk to, say, Charles. She woke him up. The cats slid onto the floor, looking up at her sulkily.

  “Where have you been?” asked Charles.

  Agatha swung his legs onto the floor and sat down next to him on the sofa. She told him about the Toynbys and then suggested he tackle the bishop about Jennifer’s home life. Afterwards, Charles was to blame himself for turning her down.

  “Stop using me as an unpaid detective,” he said.

  Agatha was tired and disappointed. Love at first sight had not happened. Most of the press knew where she lived and he hadn’t been waiting for her, that reporter with the green eyes. There was just Charles in her life now, who came and went just as he pleased.
>
  Well, no longer! “Charles, I want my keys back. In other words, I want my privacy back. I don’t want you wandering in and out when you feel like it.”

  Agatha had demanded her keys back several times before. Charles usually just found a way of getting them copied.

  “I’ll come back when you’re in a better mood.” Agatha heard the front door close and for the first time in her life knew what it was to be completely alone. She had felt lonely before, but it had always been a fleeting feeling. But now it was as if the long years of life to come, entirely on her own, had entered into her mind and body and wouldn’t go away.

  The cats tried to climb onto her lap but she shoved them away. “You always prefer someone else,” she shouted. “Sod off or tomorrow, the pair of you are fur slippers.”

  She hugged herself and shivered. I am going bonkers, she thought, and all because of some fantasy about a man with green eyes. My poor cats. I’ve got a bit of lamb’s liver. I’ll cook it up for them.

  She was walking towards the kitchen when the doorbell rang: sharp, shrill and imperative. Agatha slowly opened the door.

  A pair of green eyes looked down into her own. “I’m Terry Fletcher, reporter for The Sun, and you are Agatha Raisin. Now do we faff about? Or do we go to bed?”

  * * *

  Charles drove back to Agatha’s cottage. He realised now that she had looked unusually sad. He would offer to see the bishop for her. As he got out of his car, he noticed another car parked in front of the house with a press sticker in the window. The curtains in Agatha’s sitting room were not quite drawn closed. Something prompted him to go quietly up to the window and look inside. What he saw made him slowly back away.

  He went to James Lacey’s house next door and rang the bell.

  “What is it?” demanded James when he opened the door. “I was just about to go to bed.”

  “It’s Agatha.”

  “Oh, come in. What has the wretched woman done now?”

  “She’s fallen in love.”

  “Well, she used to be in love with me,” said James, “and yet now she is totally indifferent to my charms. Charles, she’s been in and out of love several times.”