by M C Beaton
Charles followed James into his sitting room and hunched down on the sofa. “I looked through the curtains. They weren’t at it. They were just standing there, gazing rapturously into each other’s eyes. The full Tristan and Isolde bit. She’s radiant.”
“I’ll get you a brandy. It won’t last. Agatha instinctively goes for flawed men.”
“Like you?”
“Yes, I suppose like me. After we were married, I wanted her to behave like a little housewife. You could have married her yourself, Charles. Here’s your brandy.”
“We did sort of discuss it one time. It wouldn’t work. Can you imagine Agatha opening fetes and things?”
“Your aunt does that and could go on doing it.”
“My man, Gustav, can’t stand her.”
“If you loved her, it wouldn’t matter what Gustav thought.”
“She wants me to find out more about Bishop Peter and the missing heiress,” said Charles. “I’ll get on with that.”
“Who is this lover boy?”
“Some reporter. Got a press sticker on his car.”
“Young?”
“No, about Agatha’s age.”
“Then he’s married. They always are, you know. Wife tucked away in Orpington or somewhere like that while they are up in London having an affair with a nurse. Just be around to pick up the pieces.”
* * *
It was like living inside a bottle of champagne, thought Agatha during the next few days, as she felt herself sparkle and fizz. Terry went off to find out if there was anything to report and Agatha just stayed in her cottage and waited for his return. She had put Toni in charge of the office, saying that she was unwell. Terry was Australian. He said he would take her back with him in a few weeks’ time to meet his family. To Agatha, it was as if the pair of them had become one person. No more loneliness. No more feeling less than.
Terry had said that he had to go to London for a few hours but that he would be back by the evening. Agatha dimly felt she should use the time until his return by doing a little detecting. But she soon gave up the idea to indulge in that glorious feeling of waiting and waiting for the moment the lover walks in the door.
The doorbell rang at four in the afternoon. Agatha scowled. She wanted to be left alone with this glorious feeling of anticipation. It rang again, shrill and peremptory.
Then she felt a surge of pure gladness. It must be Terry, back earlier than he had thought he would be.
Agatha opened the door. A small woman with blonde hair stood on the step. “May I come in?”
“Who are you?” demanded Agatha.
“I’m Terry’s wife.”
“Come in,” said Agatha, thinking rapidly, I didn’t know he was married. He must have asked for a divorce.
She led the way into the sitting room. Mrs. Fletcher took off her coat. Agatha blinked and then felt as if she had been dropped down a lift shaft because Mrs. Fletcher was about seventh months’ pregnant. Through lips that appeared to have become cold and numb, Agatha said, “You are expecting a child?”
“Yes, it’ll be our fifth.”
“And why are you here?”
“One of the journalists on this story phoned me and told me what was going on.”
Agatha sat down suddenly. She wanted to cry. There was a great hard lump in her throat. Finally, she said in a choked voice, “Has this happened before?”
“Oh, every time I get pregnant.”
“And you forgive him and go and see the other woman?”
“He usually talks to them himself. But in this case, he refused. He said he was taking you to Australia and then he would file for divorce. I’ve never seen him this bad.”
Agatha sat very quietly, her hands in her lap, mentally looking down at the wreck of the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. But he had lied by omission. If he had said he was married, she would never have had an affair with him.
“Would you like something to drink?” she offered. “Don’t worry. I won’t see him again.”
“I would like you to phone for a taxi for me.”
“I’ll drive you to the station.”
“No, Mrs. Raisin, I think you will appreciate the fact that I never want to see you again.”
So, Agatha phoned and they both sat and waited in silence for what felt, to Agatha, like a month but was in fact only ten minutes.
When Mrs. Fletcher had gone, Agatha packed a suitcase with cold and stiff fingers. She dropped her cats off with her cleaner, Doris Simpson, and then drove to the George Hotel in Mircester and checked in.
As she unpacked, she wondered that such glory, such rightness should all turn out to be fool’s gold. One day she would cry, but not yet.
* * *
She ate a solitary dinner that evening. Agatha decided she would never go near that cursed village of Thirk Magna again. Some evil must haunt that place. But it was time she got back to work. She was being paid to find out about the missing heiress. That visit to the parents had been a waste of time. She should have waited until they had finished shouting at each other and asked about Jennifer’s friends.
Agatha sensed she was being stared at and turned round. Bishop Peter Salver-Hinkley was entertaining a couple of elderly ladies. They must be very rich, thought Agatha, to justify a visit to the George.
Peter saw her, said something to his companions and walked across the restaurant.
He must have a hide like a rhinoceros, thought Agatha. He must know by now that I do not like him. Still, he seems hell bent on getting money for that old folks’ home so he can’t be all bad.
“Beautiful as ever,” said Peter, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to her. “But wounded! I can see it in your eyes.”
“Stop talking rubbish,” snapped Agatha. “I am being hired to find out what happened to Jennifer. Any ideas?”
“Yes.” He got to his feet. “Mind your own business. Things could get nasty.”
“Are you threatening me?” demanded Agatha in a loud voice.
The diners stared. He coloured up and leaned over her. “Use your brains for once in your life, dear lady.”
Now, that was interesting, thought Agatha. Unless he is guilty about something, there was no need for him to threaten me. All he had to do was say he hadn’t the faintest idea.
But a wave of misery crashed over her as she thought of Terry. He should have told her he was married. Oh, God, it had seemed so right. It had seemed like everything the poets had written about and every pop song had a special meaning. She suddenly thought of Charles. She should not have sent him away. He would be some sort of comfort.
* * *
At that moment, Charles felt he was in need of comfort. His valet-cum-butler-cum-general-servant, Gustav, packed up the account books. “Don’t you keep all that written stuff on a computer?” said Charles.
“Both,” said Gustav. “This way and also on the computer. You are in the red and badly so, sir. I am afraid that you might need to marry Penelope Worth.”
“What makes you think she’ll have me?”
“She’ll have anyone. Ugly as sin, sir. Face like a cow’s arse.”
After Gustav had left, Charles suddenly decided to talk it over with Agatha. He travelled to Carsely and coaxed the news that Agatha could be found at the George from the cleaner.
* * *
He found Agatha brooding over a black coffee. She stared at him in silence. Oh, dear, thought Charles, looking into Agatha’s small bearlike eyes. I could kill the bastard. Do I ask about it? No. Bad idea.
“I need your help, Aggie,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I need money. No, I am not asking you for any. But have you any ideas?”
“Sell land for building. Make a mint.”
“Can’t sell agricultural land. Gustav says marriage is the only answer. Marriage to some fright.”
“Don’t!” said Agatha harshly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t damn some woman because of her appear
ance. God, I am sick of men.”
Agatha signalled to the waiter. “Double brandy,” she ordered.
“And one for me and a coffee,” said Charles.
“For which you will pay?”
“I will pay your whole bill, my angel, if you can think up a scheme to get me out of the red.”
“What about the ghost tours? Why did you stop those?”
“Some local reporter exposed all the special effects.”
“I see you are clutching a computer, Charles. Let’s see the worst.”
They drank brandy and coffee. Agatha automatically ordered more. “Ah, you’ve been fiddling around with lousy stocks. You used to have a good man. What happened?”
“Fellow at the club said Forsyth & Williams were making a mint for him.”
“So, you gave them carte blanche.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“And they were still thinking the dot-com industry was the way to El Dorado. We’ll go up to the city tomorrow and switch things over to my man. Then we’ll get you some sort of bridge loan until you start earning again. But you have to do some work for me. I don’t understand people like Jennifer’s parents. I have a feeling you could winkle stuff out of them. Deal?”
“Deal. Uh-oh! Here comes trouble.”
Agatha did not turn round but she knew it was Terry.
“I must speak to you,” he said urgently.
“Go away,” said Agatha in a thin voice. “Go home. Look after your wife. Never speak or approach me again.”
“Please, don’t mind me,” said Charles.
“Agatha, I’ll get a divorce.”
“Oh, please go away,” said Agatha wearily. “Your duty lies with your children. Shove off.”
“May I be of help?” The three stared in amazement at Bishop Peter who was beaming on the group with an avuncular smile although his eyes were filled with avid curiosity. This Raisin woman must be a hotshot between the sheets.
Charles looked at him in simple amazement. “Peter, you not only take the biscuit but the whole packet of shortbread. Do you usually butt in?”
“When I can see that my pastoral skills may be needed.”
Agatha stared at him. “I think you’re stark-raving bonkers. I’m going to bed. You are all bonkers.” Terry grabbed her arm as she stood up. Enraged with lost love, Agatha punched him full on the nose and then burst into tears.
Charles hustled her out of the dining room and into the lift. “Don’t speak,” he said. “Here’s a hankie. I don’t want to know.”
“You’re damn well not sleeping with me.”
“That is exactly what I am going to do and I mean sleeping. We can then shove off to London in the morning.”
* * *
The first thing Agatha did was go into the bathroom, undress and have a shower where her salty tears mingled with the water, wondering all the while how a love that had seemed so perfect and golden had turned out to be rubbish.
Charles joined her in bed afterwards, but only mumbling a good night and then falling asleep.
* * *
It was too late for a bigger piece to appear the next day in the Mircester Telegraph but there was a short paragraph to say that a reporter, Terence Fletcher, had been arrested for assaulting the bishop of Mircester. The day was grey and humid, suiting Agatha’s mood of numb misery.
She wondered occasionally who had murdered that policeman. Funny how she and everyone else had not really worried about it. He had been killed by a hammer blow, or something like a hammer, to the head. But let the police worry about it. No one was paying her to find out about Larry.
After dealing she thought, efficiently with Charles’s financial problems, Agatha reminded him of his promise to try to get something out of the Toynby parents. Just so long as she kept away from Thirk Magna and concentrated on the missing heiress, then she would feel she could heal and get over the loss of love.
* * *
She did not know that tempers were rising in Thirk Magna, and all fury was directed at Millicent Dupin.
Chapter Five
The annual village fete was to be held in Thirk Magna on the fifth of June as usual. A special peal of bells was to be rung, a peal with a difference. For it had been mathematically constructed by schoolteacher, Colin Docherty. As the peal was only an hour long and not a marathon, the others amiably agreed. That was until Gloria started “stepping out” with a “gentleman friend” who said the peal was rubbish. This paragon, she said, had been at the rehearsal.
The weather had continued hot, sunless, close and humid. The Dupin sisters began to see cracks in Colin’s programme. They had always rung the Thirk Triples and tradition surely must count for something. Helen Toms said that something new was nice and Julian agreed. But the others were swinging back to tradition and Colin was shouting and yelling when Bishop Peter made a surprise appearance.
He said he would talk to the sisters alone.
They retreated for the drawing room. The sexton, Harry Bury, fully recovered, rounded on Colin. “Couldn’t you just have left it alone?”
He was backed by the butcher, Harry Bury.
At last the sisters and the bishop reappeared. For the sake of peace and quiet, Millicent explained, they were going to revert to tradition and play Colin’s ring on the following Sunday. Colin stamped off in a rage. Julian ran after him. The Dupin twins beamed all round and proudly announced that they would be ringing the bells in armour and would be photographed in all the locals and Midland Television as well.
The bishop’s collection of armour was famous. They were all invited the following day to the palace to get fitted out.
“It’ll be very hot,” said Helen Toms.
“Thought about that,” said the butcher. “We’ll put them on for the photos but not the actual ringing.” They were all seduced into friendly behaviour by the thought of the joys of dressing up and getting their photographs in the local newspapers.
* * *
The following day, Mrs. Bloxby was trying to persuade Agatha to join her at the celebrations in Thirk Magna. “The press have all gone apart from the locals,” said the vicar’s wife. “I did promise Mrs. Toms I would go. It is on a Saturday, after all, and you have stopped working on Saturdays. I am truly sorry about your affair but life must go on.”
Agatha heaved a sigh. She began to wish she had never told her friend about the affair. She did not want to confess that she was actually considering hunting Terry down and saying that she would go to Australia with him. They could send money to make sure the children had every comfort.
But he would not be there and Julian was beginning to demand some sort of results. Charles seemed to have disappeared so she did not know if he had found anything out. Agatha suddenly wished she could just get in her car and keep on driving and driving, away from her memories of golden love, away from duty and work, driving until she was exhausted and couldn’t think anymore.
Mrs. Bloxby silently prayed, “Oh, dear God, send her another man,” and then blushed at what she thought must be the most idiotic prayer she had ever uttered.
“All right. I’ll go with you,” said Agatha. “But you mustn’t let Helen Toms take up so much of your time. She is a professional martyr.”
That maybe makes two of us, thought Agatha miserably. Why am I still longing for a cheat and a liar?
It certainly was not suitable weather to wear armour and ring bells while wearing it. But this was glory for the bell ringers of Thirk Magna as local press and television photographed the grotesque sight of eight bell ringers in full armour. But the demonstration only lasted ten minutes because Helen Toms fainted and fell with a crash to the floor of the bell chamber. Mavis raised her visor, her face contorted with rage, a rage fuelled by the sight of the bishop and Julian Brody bending over Helen.
Only when Mavis and the others realised that a television crew was recording every angry syllable did they begin to behave themselves. Agatha, one of the small audience who had managed to get
a place in the chamber, felt weak with laughter, almost cleansed of the episode with Terry.
Colin perhaps was the angriest of all because it was his changes that should have been chosen. Helen was led away by her husband who had been summoned to help. Mavis said she could handle both sallies and seized Helen’s abandoned rope. Outside, the villagers set up a ragged cheer as the noisy—cacophony to the uninitiated—music of God to any campanologist—started up again. The bell-ringers had silently agreed to keep the armour on, seduced by the idea of watching themselves on television.
Agatha and Mrs. Bloxby strolled round the fete afterwards. Usual stands. Bring and Buy. Tombola. Secondhand books, one small pile to be signed by a local author whom most people snubbed to show they were not impressed in the slightest. Skittles, hamburger stand, swings and roundabouts, all the fun of the fair.
Bishop Peter and his dean, Donald Whitby, were passing out fliers for the abbey’s old folks’ home. Agatha raised her eyes at the prices. A month’s stay cost nearly seven thousand pounds. And that was only for the basics. How many relatives visiting their nearest and dearest in one of those homes longed to stage a fall down the stairs or something like it to put an end to this awful drain on the money they hoped to inherit.
“She was a druggie.”
Agatha started and swung round. Charles was standing there. “You mean the heiress?” said Agatha. “How did you find out?”
“Entertained the maid, Gerda, on her evening off. You will get my bill. Yes, she had some dealer in Mircester. Know any?”
“I’ll get Patrick onto it. Was Jennifer still seeing the bishop when she disappeared?”
“Nope. Told Gerda our bishop was a money-grabbing pillock.”
“There must be some good in him. He is collecting as much as he can for some old folks’ home.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. “I wonder…” Mrs. Bloxby stared vaguely around her.
“Wonder what?” asked Charles.
“That dead policeman. Murdered. But everyone seems to have forgotten him and no one asks why he was killed.”
“I’ve been working on it,” lied Agatha, who did not want to admit to any flaw in her detective powers.