The Dead Ringer

by M C Beaton

  “And what has our great detective found out?” asked Charles.

  “Someone didn’t want his latest revelation to appear in the local paper.”

  “And who was that someone, Sherlock?”

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha angrily. “But it wouldn’t amaze me if someone were murdered today. Wearing armour to ring bells! They’re still ringing! I’m going back to have a look.”

  The ringers were coming to the end of the peal. Mavis, a grotesque little figure in glittering armour was handling two sallies with ease. Must have muscles like iron, thought Agatha. All had removed their visors, and rivulets of sweat ran down their faces. All had looks of intense concentration. Millicent’s expression could actually be described as exultation.

  The thunder rumbled nearer and a gust of warm heavy wind blew in the open door of the bell tower. The last bell fell silent. The dean came in followed by a buxom woman carrying a large tray with tankards of beer.

  “Excellent,” said the dean. “Here is Gordon Fraser, who looks after the abbey museum, to help you again with the armour. I am sure you will be glad to get it off. And our cook, Mrs. Rudge, with beer to cool you down.”

  “I am surprised you allowed them to wear the armour,” said Agatha. “Must be valuable.”

  “Oh, these are replicas. We look after the originals very carefully. Mind you, these replicas are worth about two to five thousand pounds each. We hire them out for various occasions so they do pay their way. That is why the metal is very much lighter than the original would have been.”

  “Who made them?” asked Agatha.

  “A local man. Forget his name. Dead.”

  “Of what?”

  “What?”

  “What did he die of?” asked Agatha.

  “Botulism. Food poison.”

  “Where from?”

  “The abbey kitchens, if you must know.”

  “Anyone else suffer?”

  “No. Now I’m busy, Mrs. Raisin.”

  A gust of wind sent a shivery sweet single note down from the tenor bell.

  Agatha went outside again and phoned Patrick who said he would chase up some drug dealers. In reply to another question he said no one had been found in connection with the dead policeman’s murder and the pity of it was that Larry had been so unpopular that most people were just glad he was off the planet. Agatha said she could meet him in the bar of the George that evening.

  Large plates of sandwiches had been supplied with the beer which was very strong. Euphoria amongst the ringers changed to fatigue and then sulkiness and complaining.

  “You should ha’ rung my changes,” said Colin. “But not you lot. Crawl to the bishop as usual.”

  “It was stupid Helen fainting that caused the trouble,” said Gloria.

  “Now, then,” said the dean. “Birds in their little nests agree.”

  “And what the fecking ’ell has that got to do with anything, you mad old bastard,” growled Harry Bury.

  “A word, Mr. Bury,” said Gordon, the armourer, leading him off into a corner and beginning to whisper. Harry turned a muddy shade, nodded and went meekly back to join the others.

  It’s like the Mafia, thought Agatha suddenly, with the bishop as the consigliere and the other as his henchmen.

  “Well, you all ought to thank me for saving the day,” said Mavis. “Two bells! Did you see how I handled them?”

  “Beautifully, dear lady,” said the bishop. “Gordon, some more beer for our heroine.”

  A huge buffet of wind blew into the chamber like an enormous sigh. The thunder rolled nearer. Agatha went back outside where the stall holders were busy packing up. “Let’s go back to the vicarage,” urged Mrs. Bloxby. She had a feeling that if Agatha went to her cottage that wretched reporter might be waiting for her. Oh, it was so typical of the Agathas of this world who really did not think much of themselves to have their very first real love blasted on the vine. And there was Charles. He surely felt something for Agatha. Friendship was a safer basis for marriage. She was about to invite Charles to the vicarage as well but found it not necessary as he had obviously invited himself.

  * * *

  Settled comfortably in the vicarage drawing room, Agatha said, “I never want to see that village again. I cannot understand why Helen Toms does not get a divorce.”

  “She wouldn’t have anything left to feel martyred about,” said Charles. “And she would be free to marry Julian and that means sex and she doesn’t like the idea.”

  “How do you know?” demanded Agatha. “Tried it on?”

  “Experience,” said Charles.

  “Unless you plan to stop detecting,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “I think you might be seeing Thirk Magna again.”

  “What makes you say that?” Agatha’s thoughts flew to Terry.

  “Too many tense and emotional people. It is odd because bell ringers are usually very sane people.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Charles. “If I had to memorise all those mathematical changes, I’d go bonkers. Besides, may I point out that sane people do not dress up in armour on a sweaty day to pull sallies in a bell tower. Ah, I have news for you, Aggie.”

  “Don’t call me—”

  “Shut up and listen. On the road here, Gerda the maid called me. She ferreted around Jennifer’s old room and found a phone number written on the wallpaper behind the bed. So, I phoned it before I came in here.”

  “And?”

  “And, my peremptory and bulging eyes sweetheart, I am going to meet her in the George bar at five o’clock. Turns out to be an old friend of Jennifer’s.”

  “I’ll come, too.”

  “No, you may sit in a corner and observe.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Ducksy Devenham. Nickname. Ducksy, that is. I think she’s really called Sophy. I know the family. Very rich.”

  Oh, Charles, thought Mrs. Bloxby, don’t start thinking of marriage, not until Agatha gets over that wretched reporter.

  * * *

  Later on that day, Agatha sat in a corner of the bar while Charles sat up at the bar talking to a leggy blonde. She looked out of the window as people scurried along the street in the driving rain. It was odd how the first six months of the year went galloping past. First it was the boat race, then the Derby, then suddenly the Trooping of the Colour and then people saying, “Aren’t the nights drawing in!”

  Why don’t I just chuck everything up and go to Australia with Terry? People get divorced the whole time. But the children! Can’t do that to the children. A large tear rolled down Agatha’s cheek and dropped into her gin and tonic.

  Ducksy was being helped into her coat by Charles. “So that’s a date,” Agatha heard her say. “Din-dins here tomorrow night.”

  Charles escorted her to the door and then returned and sat down next to Agatha.

  “She is newly divorced,” said Charles, “but is letting out only tiny bits of information about Jennifer because she wants to get married again. I am sure you are very grateful to me for all my detecting,” Charles went on, “but have you forgotten that in Toni and Simon you have two young, clever and eager detectives?”

  “No, of course not,” said Agatha, who had in fact forgotten practically everything in her misery. “I’ll get them to do some groundwork. Patrick will clue them in about the drug scene. If you found out where she went to get the drugs, even if she won’t give you the name of Jennifer’s supplier, Toni or Simon can go along and try to find out and maybe come across some more friends of Jennifer’s.”

  “Mind you,” said Charles, his eyes glinting sideways at Agatha, “if I did marry dear Ducksy, it would be the end to my financial worries.”

  “Why not?” Agatha shrugged. “Thanks, Charles. I am so tired. I am going home.”

  She walked off and Charles stared after her. He suddenly wished someone would murder someone or something would break to get Agatha’s mind off that wretched reporter. The weather seemed set to stay rainy and dull. He knew that Agatha, n
ot getting very far despite his efforts with the disappearance of Jennifer, would become bored with the daily round of missing cats, dogs and teenagers and all the other dreary grunt work of the agency.

  That was the trouble with this thing called love. Whatever powerful chemicals it lets loose in the brain, it could make a saint justify a massacre. I hope it never happens to me, thought Charles. I am too fond of being in control. And yet … maybe just a hint of what that glory would be like. Just a hint.

  * * *

  When Agatha returned to the cottage and let herself in, she found a note from Doris Simpson on the hall table. It said, “These flowers arrived this afternoon. Letter included.”

  Yellow roses, one dozen. She opened the accompanying letter.

  “Darling,” she read, “I am moving back with the family tomorrow evening to Australia. Please see me one more time. Can you meet me at El Vino’s in Fleet Street tomorrow morning, to say good-bye? I love you. Terry.”

  She experienced a feeling of almost sick exaltation. She would go. She was justified in going because it was one last time.

  And yet to justify the time off the visit would mean, she telephoned Toni and told her to concentrate of finding out where Jennifer might have gone to get drugs and who her friends might have been.

  She did not feel like microwaving anything for dinner and so she fed her cats and then drove the short distance to the pub. She ordered lasagne and settled down at a corner table, opened a detective story and began to read.

  “I know all about you,” hissed a voice. Agatha found herself looking into the face of Millicent Dupin, a face contorted with hate. “It’s women like you, sluts, who break up marriages. Poor Mrs. Fletcher, and pregnant, too. Thank goodness she called on our dear friend the bishop and he was able to persuade the family to relocate to Australia.”

  “Piss off!” shouted Agatha.

  The pub fell silent. “Get out of my face or I’ll kill you, you nasty interfering bitch. God, I wish you would just drop dead.”

  Sister Mavis came hurrying up. “Leave her alone. Us Dupins do not consort with harlots.”

  “Listen, you dried-up freaky twosome, just go away and in the future mind your own business or I will happily murder the pair of you.”

  They stalked off. I am still going, Agatha vowed. One more time. I deserve it.

  * * *

  But the next morning, with rain weeping and dripping from the thatch, she opened the door of her cottage to face Bill Wong and Alice Peterson.

  “Mrs. Agatha Raisin,” said Bill formally. “You are to accompany us to headquarters for questioning regarding the murder of Millicent Dupin.”

  “What? Why?” I am going to my love, mourned Agatha.

  “Just come with us and everything will be explained.”

  At police headquarters, it transpired that Millicent had told her sister that she was sure she saw someone going into the bell chamber. Mavis said she had already undressed and prepared for bed. Millicent took a torch and the key to the bell chamber and went out on her own. Mavis took her usual sleeping pill and did not awaken until six in the morning, her usual time of rising. The sisters slept together as they had always done and Mavis noticed that Millicent’s nightdress was still folded on her pillow and her side of the bed did not show any signs of being slept in. She said she put on her dressing gown and went through the house calling for Millicent. The kitchen door was standing open and rain was blowing in. She ran to the bell tower and there she found her sister with her head smashed in, lying on the floor.

  She had fainted but when she pulled herself together, she went back to the house and called the police. When they arrived, she told them of Agatha’s threats. Worse was to come for Agatha. Later on, Mavis spoke to the press. The days when reporters would have protected one of their own had long gone. Terry’s infatuation for Agatha was printed for all to see. And what a tacky cheap little affair it looked in black-and-white.

  Agatha wanted to leave the country but the police had her passport. She booked herself into a large tourist hotel in Falmouth and wondered if it were possible to die of shame.

  Agatha had left her address with Doris in the hope Charles might join her but he never even phoned and when she tried to contact him, Gustav blocked all her calls, saying Charles had gone abroad.

  Two days after she had checked into the hotel, on a bleak Saturday with steady rain pockmarking the grey sea, she received a visit from Toni and Simon and Patrick Mulligan as well.

  Agatha escorted them to the glassed-in terrace overlooking the sea and ordered coffees all round.

  “Look!” exclaimed Toni. “A patch of blue sky.”

  And out on the horizon, sure enough, a patch of blue was growing bigger and bigger.

  Agatha felt some of her shame and black misery roll away.

  “First of all,” said Toni, “you are no longer the number-one suspect. It seems that Millicent had a big crush on Bishop Peter and was apt to visit ladies of his parish and threaten them. Like you, they all said things like, ‘Piss off or I’ll cut your head off and feed it to the pigs.’ That was said in the abbey by Mrs. Weld-Pilkingon in front of the congregation. And that is just one example. They all make your threats look weak, Agatha. So, I got your passport back.”

  “I felt such a fool,” muttered Agatha.

  “Then forget about the coffee and have a gin and a cigarette. I bet you’ve been wearing a sort of hair shirt,” said Toni.

  Agatha gave a weak smile. She had done a deal with the God she only half believed in that if he could spare her any more shame and blame, she would give up alcohol and smoking. So, she let Toni order a double gin and tonic for her and gratefully lit up a cigarette. Smoking was allowed on the terrace.

  One of the elderly residents glared at Agatha, and muttering under her breath opened one of the windows. A frisky warm little breeze danced in, bringing with it the sound of the waves.

  “How is Charles?” Agatha asked.

  “He found out that Jennifer had fallen for some American preacher before she disappeared. That friend of Jennifer’s, Ducksy, said she was crazy about him and that the bishop was a phony and that this man really believed in God.”

  “And so Charles is following that lead up?”

  “There was an awkward silence and then Simon said, “We thought you would know. It’s in the papers this morning.”

  “Never tell me he’s engaged to that Ducksy creature!”

  “Well, he was worried about money. These estates eat money and then with Brexit, he doesn’t know if he’ll still get any farm subsidies. We are all invited to the wedding.”

  “This is all very quick. I dealt with his debts. I helped him!” Agatha’s voice had risen at the end. She flushed and said in a lower tone of voice, “He might have told me.”

  Then she gave a mental shrug. It was time to revert to being Agatha Raisin again, successful businesswoman. But were women always cursed somewhere in their DNA with a longing for a man to look after them?

  “I think I’ll check out and go back to Mircester at the same time as you,” she said. “What are they saying about Millicent’s murder? I mean, I don’t even know how she was murdered.”

  “A simple bash on the head with a blunt instrument. They think it was a hammer,” said Patrick. “Same sort of thing that killed Larry. The trouble with Larry was he couldn’t keep it in his pants and it turns out there were a lot of men on and off the force who would have liked to see him dead.”

  “I haven’t been working hard enough,” said Agatha. “My mind has just not been on work lately. Anyway, how’s James? Don’t tell me he’s getting married as well.”

  “Not him,” said Patrick, flashing a warning look at Simon. Patrick had heard from Phil who lived in Carsely that James had been dating a newcomer to the village but he felt that Agatha had borne enough for one morning.

  “I came with Simon and Patrick,” said Toni, “but why don’t I travel back with you, Agatha, and we can sit in your cottage and
go over your notes. We might hit on something. Or visit Mrs. Bloxby. People do talk to her.”

  Agatha told herself that she felt saner than she had done for days and days. All the rapture she had felt over her affair with Terry seemed like a burst of madness.

  * * *

  She collected her cats from Doris’s husband and let herself and Toni into her cottage, glad to be home and to believe herself cured.

  Let Charles do what he wanted. She had wasted too many thoughts on that feckless man.

  She smiled and stretched. Toni’s voice came from the kitchen. “I’ll just let the cats out into the garden.”

  “I’m having a G and T,” she called. “What about you?”

  “Vodka and orange if you have it.”

  “Coming right up.”

  There was a silence and then Toni heard broken sounds and no no nos whispered over and over again.

  She ran to the sitting room. Agatha was blocking the doorway, whimpering and shaking.

  Toni pushed past her and stared in shock at the scene that met her eyes.

  She recognised Terry Fletcher, despite the fact that his face was a mass of blood. He had been pointed out to her. He was still clutching a bouquet of yellow roses and one dead green eye stared mutely into space, the other having been drowned in a little river of blood from a savage wound on his head.

  Chapter Six

  Charles Fraith was not a happy man. His study at Barfield House was his favourite refuge, but now it had been invaded by his bride-to-be. Their respective lawyers were shortly due to arrive to discuss the marriage settlements.

  “I’m bored. I’m going to turn on that telly,” said Ducksy. “There’s an Australian soap I want to see. Have you seen it? It’s called Live the Life. There is this too-gorgeous surfer. My dear. Such pecs. Where’s the remote?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charles, rustling his newspaper. “Gustav hid it.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s another thing, my precious. We need to talk about what happens to Gustav.”

  “Here’s the remote,” said Charles, fishing it out from under a cushion next to him where he had hidden it.

  “Ta. There’s about ten minutes’ news first. So dismal. I’ll leave the sound off. Wait a minute. I saw that woman in the bar of the George the first night I met you. Hey!”