by M C Beaton
That was it! It was his voice that was familiar, not his face! She had never seen his face. He was the man who had been organising the Romanian animal smugglers in the woods behind Eric Collins’s house. He must be the one who’d got away in the Land Rover when Blackbeard and his gang were arrested. She found herself staring at him, and suddenly realised that he was staring straight back at her. From the look in his cold grey eyes, she had no doubt that he knew exactly who she was. He must have been watching when she had stalled Blackbeard by the gates at the farm compound.
“See you later, boss,” Simon said quietly and headed off to climb back aboard the truck, which then rumbled noisily out of Lilac Lane.
“Bill,” Agatha’s phone was in her hand before the truck was even out of sight, “the one that got away in the green Land Rover at the farm is currently driving round Carsely in a bin lorry with Simon on board…”
As soon as Agatha reached the office, she briefed Patrick on the situation with the refuse truck. He in turn informed their client that one of his crews had a wanted man in charge and that the police were after them. She then settled behind her desk with that morning’s Mircester Telegraph to read about the body found in the field off Willow Way. DCI Wilkes was quoted at length, clearly delighted to be getting his name and photograph in the paper. Toni ventured into Agatha’s office when she saw her reading the report.
“Have you seen what Wilkes is saying?” Agatha held up the newspaper. “He told Charlotte Clark that Miss Palmer’s death was ‘a tragic accident involving a vehicle stolen that afternoon in Mircester and later set alight,’ and he’s appealing for witnesses.”
“So I read,” said Toni. “We didn’t get a mention at all.”
“I asked Charlotte to keep us out of it for the time being,” Agatha admitted. “I don’t want the murderer to know that we’re linking this to the death of the Admiral.”
“Surely he—or she—would be silly not to realise that?” said Toni. “We’re not exactly amateurs.”
“No, but our murderer is. Poisoning with weedkiller isn’t an effective way to kill someone—even an eighty-five-year-old. What if the Admiral had survived? What if he’d lived long enough to whisper in my ear who’d done it?”
“I suppose Miss Palmer’s murder is the same. Hitting her with a car couldn’t guarantee she would die straight away, and in fact, she didn’t. The poor thing was able to drag herself away from the hedge. What if she’d still been alive when we got to her? Maybe she’d have told us who was driving the car.”
“Exactly. See if you can dig up a bit more background on Miss Palmer, Toni, and her neighbours in Willow Way. We need to know more about her.”
Agatha spent most of the morning on client reports and on the Deirdre Higginbotham notes, but the murders of the Admiral and Miss Palmer were never far from her mind. After a while, she cast everything else aside and went through Toni’s notes from the meeting with Cathy Nelson. There was something very wrong about the woman, she decided, and she was determined to find out what it was. Before she left for lunch, she asked Toni and Patrick to go door-to-door at the Admiral’s apartment block to see what they could find out about Mrs. Nelson and to dig up whatever they could on the neighbours, especially the one the Admiral had brawled with.
With the weather beginning to brighten and only an occasional shower sweeping across the countryside, Agatha enjoyed the short drive to Ancombe. Mircester wasn’t really such a bad place, and the older part of the town was really quite pretty, but Ancombe was something special. The village was only two miles from Carsely and it was a little-known Cotswolds gem, with its cluster of thatched cottages each competing to surround itself with the best kept garden, its ancient church and its pub, The Feathers. Lunch at The Feathers, renowned for its slightly pretentious but nonetheless delicious cuisine, was always a real treat. The fact that she was lunching with Claudette and that both of them seemed determined to put their friendship back on a firm footing made the anticipation all the more intense.
Just as Agatha pulled into the car park at The Feathers, her phone rang. It was Bill Wong.
“We’ve found the bin lorry abandoned on the council estate outside Carsely,” he said, “and there are traces of what we think is probably cocaine, PCP and a range of other Class A drugs in the cab. Sadly, there’s no trace of the crew.”
“They can’t all have simply vanished,” said Agatha, “and the cab must be covered in fingerprints. You must know who some of them are.”
“We do, Agatha. Most of them are local lads and we’ll round them up quite quickly, I’m sure. The driver, however, is a different kettle of fish. We’ve no idea who he is. I think you’re right about him recognising you from the farm compound. He must have realised the game was up, and that’s why they all disappeared.”
“What about Simon?”
“If he was undercover, my guess is he’s hanging out with one or two of the local lads, or maybe he’s lying low until he can make his way to your office. He wasn’t with you at the farm, so the driver won’t have recognised him. I’m sure he’s fine. It’s you I’m worried about. If Blackbeard’s organisation was involved in smuggling and distributing drugs as well as trafficking endangered species—and it looks like they were—and you’ve brought down both those operations, they’ll be out to get you.”
“Well, I’m not about to let that put me off my lunch.” Agatha said her goodbyes and headed into The Feathers.
“Agatha! I am so happy to see you!” Claudette rose from the table, threw her arms around Agatha and kissed her on both cheeks. “And I adore this place. It is so very English, non? My eyes could not believe it when Sir Charles dropped me off. I think he would stay, but I tell him this lunch is just for me and for you.”
“Good.” Agatha took her seat, careful not to ruck the tablecloth and tip over the sparkling slim-stemmed wine glasses. “That’s exactly as I want it. Have you been able to help Charles with his vineyard plans?”
“A little, maybe. In the Cotswolds there are a few wine houses, you know? Some produce blended wine, some have single-grape varietals; they use Chardonnay and Bacchus and a few others. He really needs to talk to these growers, non? They will share their knowledge, unlike in France, where we keep our wine-making secrets to ourselves!” Claudette laughed, her brown eyes sparkling and her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “In England they will share, because if one has success, it is good news for the others also.”
Once they had ordered, their conversation turned to Ancombe and its famous mineral water spring. That led to Agatha telling Claudette all about how she had become involved with two murders in the village when she had been working as a PR consultant for the Ancombe Water Company. Despite Claudette’s morbid delight in hearing about the grisly deaths, Agatha steered the conversation away from murder and onto the Frenchwoman’s show-jumping exploits. It wasn’t long, of course, before their chat turned to her handsome uncle, Pascal.
“I think he was most fond of you,” said Claudette.
“And I him,” Agatha agreed. “Your wonderful chateau is such a beautiful place that there was certainly romance in the air when Pascal and I sat chatting into the wee small hours, but it wasn’t to be. Too many complications.”
Her phone rang before the subject could be unravelled any further, and she gratefully jumped at the chance to answer it.
“Hello … Aga … news … Simo…”
“Bill, is that you?” Agatha pressed the phone closer to her ear. “You’re breaking up. I’ll call you back.” She turned to Claudette. “I’m sorry, but this might be important.”
“But of course.” Claudette smiled. “We are almost finished, yes? Pascal will be here to pick me up any time now.”
“I can get better reception outside,” said Agatha, heading for the door.
Walking from Carsely to Ancombe had taken James a little longer than he’d expected, but he hadn’t pushed the pace. It had been more of a stroll, if he was honest with himself, not the
marching pace he’d been used to in the army. He had, however, built up a bit of a thirst and paused at the Ancombe fountain, where the spring water gushed out of the mouth of a stone skull. He stooped to rinse his hands and then cupped them under the flowing water to take a drink. It was then that he saw Agatha emerge from The Feathers. He was about to call out to her when a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man approached her. That, he told himself, must be Pascal, the Frenchie she had talked about. He crouched out of sight by the fountain.
“Pascal.” Agatha raised her eyes from her phone when she realised who was standing in front of her. “You surprised me.”
“I am collecting Claudette,” he said, the soft, deep voice heavy with his warm, sultry French accent, “but I hoped I would see you.”
“I … sort of hoped the same,” she admitted.
“I have missed you.”
“Since Saturday?”
“You joke, but yes, since Saturday and since your visit to the chateau. I have thought about you many times. You spread through my mind. I think about you every day.”
“I often think about that first visit to the chateau. There was something very special about it. It was magical. I have missed you too.”
“Then you understand. You know that there was something between us in Bordeaux. I felt it. It was so strong, so powerful. I know you felt it also.”
“Yes, but I—”
He took her in his arms and they kissed, then she pulled away.
“Oh Pascal,” she breathed, an undeniable note of sadness in her voice. “This isn’t meant to be. It isn’t right for me, and if we were to … well, it would be a disaster for both of us.” She threw her arms around him and held him close. “Let’s not spoil things. We mustn’t play with each other’s feelings. That would ruin everything. We must stay good friends.”
“If that is all there is,” he smiled, “then it will be a painful friendship, but a pain I will happily bear. One day, perhaps, the wind will change. It will blow away the clouds in your head and you will see that we should be more than just the good friends.”
He kissed her again, then she smiled, said goodbye and headed for the car park and solid phone reception. Pascal made his way into The Feathers. James stood slowly, turned and headed home to Carsely.
As soon as she was clear of the building, Agatha’s call went through to Bill.
“Agatha, thank goodness,” he said, clearly speaking from a vehicle in motion. “Get down to the hospital in Mircester. Simon’s been hurt.”
“Hurt?” Agatha demanded. “What does that mean? How bad is he? What’s happened to him?”
“No details yet,” Bill reported. “I’ll see you there.”
Agatha dashed to her car and screeched out of the car park, heading for Mircester.
* * *
The air in the small clearing was filled with the robust smell of damp earth and softly decaying leaves. A thin mist of evaporating moisture sown with forest dust turned the momentary cloud-break sunshine that filtered through the trees into beams of light. Vivid colours were revealed where the light played at the base of a tree or pooled on the mossy forest floor. In this place where the sway of branches, the whisper of foliage and the orchestra of birdsong were the elemental background music, the static crackle of an electronic device could not have sounded more alien. Neither did the two human voices have any place in this tranquil setting.
“It all has to shut down. She’s left us with no option.”
“Where did she come from? Why have you let this happen?”
“She blundered in on us when we could never have expected it.”
“Mistakes were made. We made it easy for her.”
“We need to let things calm down, then we can start up again.”
“We must learn from our mistakes, eradicate error.”
“She’s turned out to be our biggest mistake.”
“Then get rid of her.”
There was a click as the caller hung up and the hands-free car phone fell silent. The driver slammed the door, the engine coughed into life and the green Land Rover slithered off up the forest track.
* * *
Agatha dashed from the hospital car park to the Accident and Emergency entrance and was directed from the reception desk along a corridor. The windowless passage seemed endless and, like all hospital corridors, was lit in a way that was so far removed from daylight that it made you feel as if you were in a submarine or a spaceship. At last she turned a corner and saw Bill Wong talking to a young male doctor.
“How is he?” she gasped, rushing up to Bill.
“Looks like he has a broken nose, a fractured cheekbone and concussion,” said Bill. “He’s conscious and the doctor says we can go in to talk to him.”
The doctor showed them into a curtained cubicle, where Simon lay propped up on a bed. He had a bloody gash across the bridge of his nose, which, like his right cheek, was red, swollen and deformed. Black rings were starting to form under his eyes, and he was hooked up to a bedside monitor. An attractive female nurse was gently cleaning caked blood off his chin, but stopped when she saw Agatha and Bill.
“Don’t keep him too long,” she said. “He tires easily and we need to move him up to a ward shortly.”
“Thank you, Nurse,” said Bill.
“Not bad, eh?” Simon croaked weakly once she had gone. “She promised me her number if I behave.”
“Simon,” Agatha said in a remorseful voice. “I’m so sorry. I should never have sent you…”
“Don’t go getting all mushy on me, boss.” Simon managed a thin smile.
“I do not get ‘mushy.’” She bristled.
“That’s better,” he replied, and Agatha smiled, shaking her head. Even from his hospital bed he was managing to wind her up. “It was my job, boss. Now listen. I get a bit dizzy and woozy … bit sleepy … concussion. The driver … he’s the main man.”
“What’s his name?” asked Bill.
“They call him Carver … green Land Rover…” said Simon.
“From what we’ve discovered,” said Bill, “it looks like their customers were taping payment envelopes inside the bin lids, and received their deliveries in return the same way.”
“Correct…” Simon made a little clicking noise in his cheek, moved his hands in an attempt to clap, then let them fall back on the bed. Agatha hated that game-show-host move, but wished with all her heart that he’d been able to do it. He let out a shallow breath and his eyes closed.
“Nurse!” Agatha screeched, and the pretty nurse rushed back in. She felt Simon’s pulse, checked the monitor and relaxed.
“He’s sleeping,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Best thing for him right now. He needs rest. I’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry.”
Agatha and Bill left the cubicle and made their way towards the exit.
“What happened to him, Bill?” Agatha asked.
“He was found under a hydrangea bush in a garden on the outskirts of Carsely. Clearly he’d been hit pretty hard in the face, and a shovel was found nearby with bloodstains. I think Carver must have seen him talking to you and figured out that he was a plant working for you. He smacked him with the shovel and drove off quick as he could to find a place where they could abandon the truck and scarper.”
“I’m going to get this Carver bloke,” Agatha swore. “I’ll make him wish he’d never clapped eyes on me!”
* * *
Agatha returned to her office and phoned Claudette to explain her abrupt departure. The young Frenchwoman’s voice was full of concern for Simon. She said she had decided to extend her stay for a few days and hoped they would have the chance to meet again before she returned to Bordeaux. Struggling to concentrate on any work, Agatha turned away from her desk to look out of the window and saw two familiar figures in the street, looking up at her and waving. It was the Swinburns. She waved back, signalled to them to wait, and trotted downstairs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Swinburn.” She tiptoed across the cobb
les and greeted them with handshakes. “How nice to see you.”
“We wanted to talk to you, Mrs. Raisin, but I wasn’t sure I could manage the stairs,” said Mrs. Swinburn. “It’s too important for the telephone.”
“Really?” said Agatha. “Why don’t we walk down the lane here? This is the nicest part of old Mircester, and there’s a lovely tea shop near the abbey.”
“We know it,” said Mr. Swinburn. “It’s our favourite.”
“They do a lovely Chelsea bun,” added Mrs. Swinburn. “We usually share one between us.”
They sat at a round table in the multi-paned bow window of the Abbey Tea Shop, looking out at the towering stone walls of Mircester’s medieval abbey, which dominated this part of the town.
“Now, what did you want to talk to me about?” Agatha asked, as a waitress appeared with a laden tea trolley, setting china cups and saucers on the table.
“It’s about the Admiral,” said Mrs. Swinburn. “Everyone at the bowling club read what you said in the Telegraph. You said you thought he was murdered.”
“That’s true.” Agatha took a sip of tea. “I do.”
“Well, what with that and what happened to Miss Palmer,” said Mr. Swinburn, “it’s got people at the club talking, and some of them are saying that we killed both of them!”
“Surely not,” said Agatha. “Why would they think that?”
“Because we’ve known them both for years,” Mrs. Swinburn explained. “Miss Palmer—Dorothy—used to work for us.”
“We had a lovely little business.” Mr. Swinburn beamed with pride. “Not so little by the time we sold up and retired. Car repairs and servicing. Always an honest job and everyone knew they could rely on us to—”
“Yes, yes, not now, Charlie,” his wife interrupted him. ‘That’s not what we’re here to talk about. Let me tell Mrs. Raisin—you’ll just get it all wrong.