The Dead Ringer

by M C Beaton

  “You don’t know what it’s like being a twin,” said Mavis. “Same clothes and hairstyle while we were young. It was me that Peter invited to a party. She drugged my tea and went as me.

  “She shouldn’t have done that. I gave her a chance. I told her if she would swear on the Bible that she would never go near Peter again, I would forgive her. She laughed at me. Enough of this. On your feet and march.”

  Patrick never took his eyes off the hand holding the gun.

  If I come out of this alive, thought Agatha, I am going to get down on one knee and ask Charles to marry me.

  Suddenly the whole scene was flooded with light and a stentorian voice called, “You are surrounded. Put down that weapon and lie on the ground. You cannot escape.”

  Patrick saw his moment. As Mavis raised the gun to Agatha’s head, Patrick grabbed her wrist and broke it. When the gun fell to the ground, he kicked it away, brought out handcuffs, and handcuffed the crying, screaming Mavis.

  * * *

  Charles read about the arrest of Mavis in the English papers which he had bought that morning at a kiosk in Marseilles. His current girlfriend lay sprawled across the bed, snoring gently. She was blonde, curvaceous and quite stupid. Charles judged her to be in her early twenties. Agatha Raisin was middle-aged and intelligent. Forget her. This one was undemanding. On the other hand, Agatha Raisin would not get up during the night and empty most of his wallet. That could be considered demanding. Not that it made any difference because he had got up afterwards and taken it back along with some of her money.

  They hadn’t spoken much the night before. He had picked her up at a fish restaurant on the Corniche. She was English from somewhere in Essex and had boldly asked him if he would pay for her meal because she hadn’t any money. He had agreed although he was sure she was lying. But she smiled a lot. And she wasn’t Agatha.

  He opened the Daily Mail. “Oh, shiters!” yelled Charles.

  “What’s up?”

  She was leaning up on one elbow. “Tell you in a minute,” said Charles.

  The arrest of Mavis Dupin had taken place too late in the day to get much show in anything but the stop press, but now the papers were having a field day.

  “’Ere! Chuck us one of them papers,” demanded the girl. “Wot about breakfast?”

  “Order something from room service … er … Holly,” he said, adding her name as he suddenly remembered it.

  Holly ordered “the full English” and then had to explain what she meant, settling at last for scrambled eggs and bacon and two rounds of toast along with a pot of coffee.

  She picked up a copy of the Sun newspaper. “Wot a bleedin’ cow!” she exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “This detective woman. Says because she lured their chief reporter away from his wife and family, she got him killed. ‘I will never forgive him,’ said his wife. How did she do it? Nasty little eyes, she’s got.”

  “I’ve got to go back to England in a hurry,” said Charles. “I’ll pay the bill here so you can wait in and finish your breakfast.”

  “But you said you loved me!”

  “I know I was drunk but I have never in my life said I loved anybody.”

  Charles began to throw his few clothes into a suitcase. He suddenly felt grubby and cheap. He shouldn’t have left Agatha to cope. But she didn’t need to cope on her own, yelled a voice inside his head. She had all her staff. Ignoring that voice, he left and paid the bill and ran all the way to the station.

  Holly was furious to find that he had not only taken his own money back but some of hers as well. She was about to leave the room when she noticed the sun flickering on a pair of gold cuff links he had left behind. She weighed them in her hand and looked for the gold mark, having been trained in what to look for by her father who was currently doing time in Wormwood Scrubs. Eighteen carats. She had already noticed a pawn broker in one of the narrow lanes off the main boulevard. She found she was still hungry so she stopped in a café and ordered two croissants with butter and jam and a hot chocolate. When the bill arrived, a man at the next table said, “Let me get that for you.”

  Her large blue eyes summed him up. English. Bit old. Not bad looking. Could always run away.

  She batted her eyelashes. “Now, that is sweet of you.”

  * * *

  And Charles, who had been known to brag that he never paid for sex, suddenly remembered those cuff links as the train pulled out of Marseilles. They had been a Christmas present from Agatha. All he needed to do was tell her he had lost them. She would never find out about Holly who was probably already clearing out the wallet of her next victim.

  * * *

  Agatha had told Bill Wong her suspicions that Harry Bury had been involved, not necessarily in committing the murders but by helping to try to hide the bodies. The police searched his cottage and work shed but found nothing incriminating. Harry, it seemed, was nothing more than a simple village man.

  They would have changed their ideas if they could have heard a conversation he was having a week later with his crony, the butcher Joseph Merrydown.

  “Won’t it look a bit off you clearing off to Bulgaria like that?” asked Joseph.

  “Na! They ain’t got nothing. You should come out and see the place. Tidy villa. Just outside Sofia.”

  “Maybe. I’ll lend you my passport in case they’re watching the airports and you can post it back.”

  “Okay.”

  “But why did you help Mavis?”

  “Why not? You should see the money in my account.”

  “But there was no need to kill that reporter. The drinks he bought us!”

  “I didn’t kill him. It was that there Mavis. I didn’t kill nobody. I done served her pa when he was alive. I’ve always served the Dupins and me father afore me.”

  “What you got in Bulgaria?”

  “I got a villa and a good-sized garden. Went on one of those cheap package tours. The property was that cheap. Bought it for a rainy day. And now it’s pouring. Can you take me to the Eurostar?”

  “Sure, as long as you promise me a holiday.”

  “Anytime.”

  * * *

  Agatha Raisin had never felt quite so low. Considering the morals of Fleet Street, she thought the reporters’ attacks on her lack of morals disgraceful. From the days when she ran her own public relations company, she guessed that out of all the press she had entertained, only two had been faithful to their wives.

  Mrs. Bloxby called on her one Sunday evening. “You haven’t attended church for some time,” she said.

  “I hardly ever go,” said Agatha. “I am surprised you even noticed.”

  “I thought you might be in need of help.”

  “This is a bit embarrassing.”

  “I would rather embarrass you, Mrs, Raisin, than see you go under.”

  “I am not going under!” shouted Agatha.

  “Oh, really?” said the vicar’s wife. “Then why are your roots showing? And you have two brown hairs on your upper lip.”

  “So,” sneered Agatha, “you think I should go to church and ask God to dye my hair and shave my upper lip?”

  “Well, why not?”

  The friends glared at each other and then Mrs. Bloxby began to giggle. Agatha took a mirror out of her handbag. “Oh, dear. I have let myself go. My reputation is lower than whale poo. Have a sherry. I’ll have one as well. Okay, I will get to the beautician and hairdresser tomorrow. I thought Charles would be around but Jerry Cranton over in Shipston said he was in Marseilles one evening and Charles was squiring a blonde totty. You know, I had planned to ask Charles to marry me. How odd. He’s only a few years younger and yet I forget all men like them really younger.” A tear rolled down Agatha’s cheek.

  “You need to get away,” urged the vicar’s wife. “Pack up and go for a holiday. I know. Phuket.”

  “And so say all of us,” said Agatha.

  “No, I wasn’t swearing. Phuket in Thailand. Sun and sea. You need to
get away from it all.”

  “I will think about it.”

  * * *

  The more Agatha thought about taking a holiday, the better the idea seemed. She booked up for two weeks in Phuket and felt the tension leave her body for the first time in weeks. Her hair was glossy again and misery had made her lose pounds. At the end of her stay, she was idly listening to two men talking at the next table. It was hard not to listen because they had such loud braying voices.

  “We went out for dinner and she said it was a good restaurant but there was this awful smell of decaying fish. But she led me on and when I went in for the kill, she pushes me away and says she has found God.”

  “That’s a new line in rejection,” said his friend.

  Agatha leaned towards them. “I couldn’t help hearing you. Was the lady’s name Ducksy?”

  “Yes, it was as a matter of fact. Turned out she and her pal live in some sort of commune. There’s a leaflet about it at the hotel desk.”

  Agatha picked up a leaflet at the reception desk. It was an advertisement for All God’s Children at eye-watering prices for what it claimed was a road back to the simple life. Agatha called a cab and set out.

  It was nearly thirty kilometres away. The commune appeared to consist of thatched cottages, built round a small lake. Among the cottages was a church and from the church came the sound of voices raised in hymns.

  Agatha sat on a bench outside the church and waited for the service to end. When they started to stream out, Agatha hailed Ducksy. “Do you know, everyone back home has been looking for you? Is Jennifer Toynby here as well?”

  “Yes, poor lamb. She was so pixilated with the bishop, hoping to get hands under the purple but all he wanted was her money. Same with me. He and that dean can be terrifying.”

  “Are they an item?”

  “No. I saw them last week. They were here on holiday. They like very young girls. I mean very young. Jennifer! Over here.”

  After the introductions had been made, Agatha said, “People thought the bishop had bumped you off.”

  “I know, I wanted him to sweat. Money-grabbing rotter. Have you come to join us? God can help with everything.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Agatha, thinking of Mrs. Bloxby and beginning to laugh. “Then she said, “Did he help with new passports?”

  “Actually, our reverend said if I really wanted to disappear, I should claim to have lost my passport and get a new one and hide out until then. Easy-peasy.”

  Agatha looked at them curiously. “But surely you’ve left one lot trying to get your money and landed on another.”

  “But Reverend Sam is genuine. He sees the future. Oh, do go away. You have an unclean spirit.”

  * * *

  A week later, Joseph Merrydown arrived in Bulgaria for a holiday with Harry Bury.

  “Is this it?” complained Joseph. “I mean it’s freezing. I thought it would be beaches and sunshine.”

  “Wrong country,” said Harry. “Come in and see the place. Have a drink.”

  “This ain’t half bad,” said Joseph, looking round a cosy living room with a big log fire. “I envy you and that’s a fact. I suppose I can stay as long as I like, hey? You wouldn’t want me blabbing, now, would you?”

  “I hope that was a joke. Here, have some of the local brandy.”

  Joseph sat in an armchair by the fire, sipping the brandy and wishing he could stay forever. He was only a retired butcher. His wife had died ten years before without leaving him any children. He would give it a week and see how he and Harry got on. Should be all right. They had been friends for years. Lulled by the brandy and the fire, he drifted off to sleep. Harry watched him and fretted. He felt sure he would have a hard time getting rid of him. Had he told anyone where he was going? Harry was sure he had not because he had promised never to tell anyone at all where he, Harry, had gone.

  But it was a risk. He knew that Mavis had not told anyone about his part in the murders or the Bulgarian police would have picked him up by now. Joseph and he looked a bit alike, both having red faces and squat, powerful bodies. If Joseph died, I could take his identity, he thought. Then I could take trips back home. I like it here but I miss England. Yes, that would do it. But I couldn’t go back to Thirk Magna as Joseph. All those ringers would notice the difference like a shot.

  He went out to the garage where he found a bottle of antifreeze. He poured a good measure of it into the decanter which held the local brandy. He knew of old that Joseph liked his drink. He was about to carry the decanter back to the living room when he wondered what he would do about the farm tenancy. He stopped in the kitchen, hit by a sudden thought. Would he be expected to wind it up in person? Or would a letter do? He’d need to forge Joseph’s signature. Leave it till later, he decided. He put the decanter with the mixture of brandy and antifreeze in a cupboard, opened another squat bottle, filled another decanter and carried it into the living room where he found Joseph awake.

  “I wish I hadn’t come by train,” said Joseph. “Right tiring, it is.”

  “Farm as hard work as ever?”

  “No. Turned over the tenancy. Got one of them little alms houses down by the pub. Not much room, mind, but it suits me. Don’t you worry that Mavis might blab?”

  “Not her. Bonkers. Said she’s not fit to stand trial.”

  “Didn’t the authorities get curious when you started moving your money to Bulgaria?”

  “Took it all out in cash. Started hiding it from the day old man Dupin started paying me to cover up.”

  “Cover up, like what?”

  “Like when he got that simple kid, Florrie, pregnant. I was the one who paid the family to shut up and get an abortion. Dirty old bastard he was. Think his wife died o’ disgust. So Mavis knew where to go for help. Terrified o’ prison. Thousands she paid me.

  “Come through to the kitchen. Got a bit o’ stew for dinner.”

  The stew was delicious. “Never knew you could cook like this, Harry,” said Joseph.

  “I can’t. There’s a woman down the village who does takeaway meals.”

  Joseph wanted another drink but Harry had only served water with the meal. As Harry put things away in cupboards, Joseph saw that decanter of brandy.

  * * *

  Later that night, Joseph lay awake, listening to the wind and longing for a drink. It had strangely enough not seemed all that bad back in England when Harry had first confessed to helping Mavis. But here in this foreign country, it felt sinister and dangerous.

  He remembered that decanter. Just one drink.

  * * *

  Harry awoke in the morning, opened the shutters and found snow had been falling all night. His thoughts of the previous evening of killing Joseph and taking his identity seemed madness. He opened the cupboard to get that decanter out and empty the contents down the sink, and saw, to his alarm, that it wasn’t there anymore.

  Swearing under his breath, he went into the living room. Joseph was lying back in the armchair, his face an odd pinkish-purple colour. The decanter was empty. He had doctored another decanter just in case but it was still in the kitchen cupboard.

  Harry sat down suddenly. If he reported Joseph dead, the British embassy in Sofia would investigate as well as the local police. It was doubtful if they would come to the right conclusion because Harry had watched enough crime documentaries to learn that they do not usually hit on the right answer. But he could get rid of Joseph’s body and claim he had left—that was if anyone was curious enough to ask or even knew he had arrived in Bulgaria.

  There was an old well in the courtyard. Harry rose stiffly and went out of doors. He heaved the thick teak covering from the top of the well. He threw a stone down. It was a long time until heard a splash. He took a wheelbarrow through to the living room and loaded Joseph’s stiffening body onto it, wheeled the body back to the well and tipped it in.

  That’s that, he thought. I’ll stay on here as me and travel as old Joseph, use his passport, and stop worrying that
Mavis has recovered her wits enough to blab.

  But he felt suddenly lonely and for the first time, longed to go home again and never come back.

  * * *

  Agatha had never been without Charles’s company for so long. She missed him, but the scandal about her affair with Terry and his subsequent murder had died away and she was busy with the usual bread-and-butter round of divorces, missing people and animals and industrial espionage. James was always travelling. His divorce was due any day now.

  Toni came to Agatha’s desk one morning and said, “Read that little paragraph.”

  Agatha read, “‘British home owner found dead with another Britisher in a Bulgarian village, Saint Gregory. Cause of death appeared to come from a dead body found down a well which supplied the water to the house. The dead identified as Harry Bury and Joseph Merrydown, both from the Cotswold village of Thirk Magna.’ Remember them? Two of the bell ringers.”

  “Yes, I do. You would think a countryman would know where his water supply came from,” said Agatha. “And what were they doing in Bulgaria? I am going over to Thirk Magna to find out.”

  “You know,” said Toni, “the Cotswolds are so well run and so picturesque that people have got used to all the same amenities they have in the cities. Harry probably thought his water came off the mains.”

  “The body down the well is interesting. It really does look as if Mavis may not have bumped them all off.” Agatha hesitated in the doorway. “Anyone heard from Charles?”

  “Not a word,” said Toni.

  Agatha found out from Helen Toms who said, “Harry Bury had finished his farm tenancy and disappeared one day and after getting an alms house, too! Then his best friend, Joseph Merrydown left, saying he was going on holiday but not where, and for the first time we have not enough bell ringers.”

  All in that moment, Agatha decided she must go to Bulgaria. How awful it would be if Mavis was not the only murderer.

  “Why bother?” asked Toni. “Leave it to the police.”

  But Agatha felt that if she could prove something that the police had missed, she might be able to restore some of the pride she once had in her detective abilities.