Authors: M. C. Beaton
“Yes,” said Agatha slowly. “There must be something fishy in Jill’s background. I’ve asked that private detective of hers to detect for me.”
Mrs. Bloxby looked surprised. “Why did you do that? You have detectives of your own.”
“True,” said Agatha. “I did it on the spur of the minute, but I will need all the help I can get. You see, there suddenly seems to be a great amount of adultery going on, and much as I hate divorce cases, they pay well and we are all stretched to the limit. Now I know you don’t like to gossip, but I have to start somewhere. Who in Carsely has been consulting Jill?”
“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. There is your cleaner, Mrs. Simpson.”
“What! Doris? She’s the sanest person I know. Anyone else?”
“I believe Miss Bannister went to see her.”
“That old cow. I could murder
her
.”
“Mrs. Raisin!”
“Well, she’s the reason I have been stuck in the police station half the night. Who else?”
“Old Mrs. Tweedy.”
“You mean the old girl who lives round the corner from the vicarage. What’s up with her?”
“Nothing more than loneliness, I should think,” said Mrs. Bloxby. Then she added reluctantly, “Mr. Lacey spent a great deal of time with Miss Davent. Of course, there were women from the other villages but I don’t know who they are.”
As Mrs. Bloxby turned the corner into Lilac Lane where Agatha lived, they saw a car parked outside James’s cottage. Bill Wong and detective Alice Peterson were just getting out of it. Bill saw Agatha and signalled to the vicar’s wife to stop. “Don’t go to bed yet,” he said to Agatha. “I want to ask you a few more questions. Mrs. Bloxby, a minute of your time.”
“Do you want me to come in with you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby as Agatha got out of the car at her cottage.
“No, you’ve done enough and thank you,” said Agatha. She had a sudden impulse to hug Mrs. Bloxby, but resisted. Agatha Raisin, somehow, could not hug anyone—handsome men excepted.
Once inside her cottage, she slumped down on her sofa. The cats prowled around her hopefully. Agatha often forgot that she had fed them and would feed them again, but this time, she felt too tired to move.
Her eyes were just closing when she heard the imperative summons of her doorbell. She struggled to her feet, went to open it and stared bleakly at the two detectives.
Agatha led the way to the kitchen. “Have a seat and make it quick,” she said.
“We’ve got to go over it again,” said Bill soothingly. “You should know better than to go around threatening to kill people.”
“I was exasperated,” said Agatha. “How dare she hire a private detective to dig up my background?”
“We will be interviewing Clive Tremund,” said Bill. “Begin at the beginning.”
Agatha did not want to say again that she had initially lied to Jill about her upbringing. Tell a detective that you’ve lied about one thing and they might assume you’re lying about everything else. She detailed the previous day. She had been working on a divorce case and had been out on it with Phil. He had the pictures to prove it. They then had both met with the client’s lawyer and handed over the evidence. Agatha worked late, typing up notes on other outstanding cases, and, as she was heading home, that was when Mrs. Bloxby had called her.
“Why do you call Mrs. Bloxby by her surname?” asked Alice, when the interview was over.
“There was a society for women in this village when I arrived here,” explained Agatha. “We all addressed each other by surnames and somehow it stuck. I know it’s strange these days when every odd and sod calls you by your first name. But I rather like being Mrs. Raisin. I hate when in hospital nurses call me Agatha. Seems overfamiliar, somehow. And, yes, it’s ageing, as if they think I’m in my second childhood.” She stifled a yawn.
“We’ll let you get some sleep,” said Bill.
When they had left, Agatha noticed that a red dawn was flooding the kitchen with light. She opened the garden door and let her cats out. The morning was fresh and beautiful. She went into the kitchen and got a wad of paper towel and wiped the dew off a garden lounger and then sank into it, sleepily enjoying the feel of the rising sun on her face and the smell of spring flowers.
She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Two hours later she was in the grip of a nightmare where she had fallen overboard a ship, and as she struggled in the icy water, above her, Jill Davent leaned over the rail and laughed.
She awoke with a start to find the rain was drumming down and she was soaked to the skin. Agatha fled indoors and upstairs, where she stripped off her wet clothes, had a hot shower, pulled on a nightdress and climbed into bed.
* * *
Agatha awoke again in the early afternoon and reconnected her phone, which she had switched off before falling asleep. She checked her messages. There were worried ones from her staff and several from the press.
She dressed and went wearily downstairs. Looking through a small opening in the drawn curtains in her front room, she saw the press massed outside her cottage. Agatha went upstairs and changed into an old T-shirt, jacket, loose trousers and running shoes.
Down again and out into the back garden, where she seized a ladder and propped it against the fence. She had somehow planned to heave the ladder up when she was straddled on the top of the fence but could not manage it. She was just about to give up and retreat when James appeared below in the narrow path which separated her cottage from his.
“I’ll get my ladder,” he called up to her.
If this were a film, thought Agatha grumpily, I would leap down into his strong arms. A watery sunlight was gilding the new leaves of the large lilac tree at the front of her cottage, which mercifully screened her off from the press, which might otherwise have spotted her at the end of the passage.
James came through a side gate from his garden carrying a ladder which he propped against the fence.
Agatha climbed down. She smiled up at James and then ducked her head as she realised she wasn’t wearing make-up.
“Come in and have a coffee,” said James. “But I really think you should have a word with the press, even if it’s ‘no comment’ or they’ll be here all day.”
“In these clothes!”
“Agatha! Oh, all right. We’ll climb back over, sort yourself out, and then go out to face them.”
* * *
James waited impatiently in Agatha’s kitchen for half an hour until she descended the stairs, fully made-up and teetering on a pair of high heels.
Agatha went out to face the press. She competently fielded questions while television cameras whirred and flashes went off in her face. Yes, she had spent a long time at police headquarters. Why? Because she was a private detective who lived in the village where the woman was murdered.
And then to her horror, Victoria Bannister pushed her way to the front. “You threatened to kill her!” she shrieked.
“Jill Davent hired a private detective to find out all about me,” said Agatha. “I was annoyed with her. That is all. The question that arises is, why was she afraid of me? What had she got to hide?”
“You’re a murderer,” shouted Victoria.
“And you,” said Agatha, “will be hearing from my lawyers. I am going to sue you for slander.”
Victoria’s wrinkled face showed shock and alarm. “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I made a mistake.” She turned to escape, shouting at the press to let her through.
Agatha’s voice followed her, “There’s one in every village.”
And in that moment, Victoria could have killed Agatha. As she fled up to her cottage, she vowed to find out the identity of the murderer herself. She knew all the gossip of the village. Once inside, she poured herself a stiff sherry and went off into a rosy dream where
she
was facing an admiring press and telling them how she had solved the case.
* * *
“All done?” asked James as Agatha teetered back into the kitchen, sat down and kicked off her shoes.
“I think they’ve gone off to the vicarage to persecute Mrs. Bloxby.”
“Will she be able to handle it?”
“Oh, yes. A vicar’s wife has to be tough. In the past, she’s had to confront several women who developed a crush on her husband. It’s a lousy existence and she’s welcome to it. Half her time is acting as an unpaid therapist. A lot of people take their troubles to her.”
“Including you?”
“I’m her friend. That’s different. I’ll phone Toni to take over tomorrow. I think I’ll go into Oxford and talk to Clive.”
* * *
Clive Tremund’s office was in a narrow lane off Walton Street in the Jericho area of Oxford. It was situated in the ground floor of a thin two-storied building. Agatha tried the handle and found the door was unlocked.
There was a little square vestibule with a frosted glass door on the left bearing the legend
TREMUND INVESTIGATIONS
. She pushed open the door and went in.
Agatha let out a gasp. It was a scene of chaos. Papers were scattered everywhere. Drawers hung open at crazy angles. A filing cabinet had been knocked over onto the floor. She backed slowly out, took out her phone and called the police. Then she went outside to wait.
The cobbled lane was very quiet.
After only five minutes, a police car rolled to a stop and two policemen got out. Agatha quickly told them who she was, why she had called and what she had found. The police called it in. Another wait while two detectives arrived. Agatha had to make her statement again and was told to wait until a forensic team arrived.
The day was becoming darker and a damp gusty wind promised rain. Agatha retreated to her car and lit a cigarette, noticing that her fingers were shaking. Where was Clive? What had happened to him? She felt in need of support. Agatha noticed that neighbours were emerging from the surrounding houses. She phoned Toni and asked her to join her, saying, “Pretend to be a curious onlooker and question the neighbours before you come and talk to me.”
A forensic team arrived and suited up before going into the office. The morning dragged on. At last Toni arrived and Agatha could see her questioning the neighbours. Then Toni finally walked off and disappeared around the corner into Walton Street while Agatha fretted. Where on earth was she going?
After ten minutes, Toni returned, carrying a large brown paper bag. She slid into the passenger seat of Agatha’s car.
“Coffee and sticky buns,” said Toni, opening the bag.
“You’re an angel. What did you get from the neighbours?”
“Not much. He lived upstairs.”
“Oh, snakes and bastards!” howled Agatha. “I didn’t even think to have a look. He could be lying dead up there.”
“Don’t think so. No ambulance. Have a bun.”
“Ta. So what else?”
“Didn’t speak to the neighbours. His clients mostly called in the evenings. Yesterday evening, one young woman, blond, slim, that’s all the description.”
“Could be you,” said Agatha gloomily.
“Two men at different intervals, both looking like middle-aged businessmen, one tall and thin and the other small and tubby. Not much to go on.”
“I should have looked for a client list,” mourned Agatha, “instead of rushing out to phone the police. But you know how it is, one fingerprint and they’d haul me in for breaking and entering. I’ll come back when things have quietened down and try the next-door neighbours. The police are already knocking at doors.”
“That’s why I couldn’t try them myself,” said Toni. “All I could do was to pretend to be one of the crowd. Have another bun. They’re very comforting.”
“Oh, well, why not?”
There came a rapping on Agatha’s window. The detective who had interviewed her earlier said, “You are to come with me to Thames Valley Police to be interviewed. Leave your car here. An officer will drive you back. Who is this young lady?”
Oh, to be young and beautiful, thought Agatha grumpily. The man’s practically leering.
“Miss Toni Gilmour,” said Agatha. “One of my detectives.”
“She’d better come with you. I don’t want anyone messing up this crime scene.”
* * *
Agatha made her statement again to a refreshingly young and efficient female detective. She was just about to leave when the ax fell. She was told that she had to recover her car and then drive to Mircester police headquarters and make another statement, and Agatha knew that Wilkes’s idea of an interview could run into hours.
There was no sign of Toni. Agatha got into her car and phoned her.
“I got chased away,” said Toni. “I’ll come back this evening, if you like.”
“Let me think about that. Do you know if they’ve found Clive?”
“Not a sign of him. A friendly policeman told me his flat was empty before he got reprimanded.”
“I hope to God he’s all right,” said Agatha. “I’ve got to go to Mircester to make another statement. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Agatha knew the rush-hour traffic would be building up and so she decided to drive to the Botley road and exit Oxford by the ring road.
But as she got to the bottom of Beaufort Street, the traffic slowed to a stop and she could see police erecting a barrier.
She swung off into the Gloucester Green car park and then made her way on foot to the barrier. “I must get past,” she said to a policeman on duty. “My train’s about to leave,” she lied, quickly thinking of an excuse to find out what had happened.
“All right. But keep clear of the police activity on the canal bridge. There are enough rubberneckers there already.”
Agatha hurried down Worcester Street to Hythe Bridge Street. “What’s up?” Agatha asked a man.
“Body in the canal,” he said.
With a feeling of dread, Agatha elbowed her way to the front, ignoring angry protests. A weak sun was gilding the black waters of the canal. As Agatha watched, the sun shone down on the dead face of Clive Tremund as his body was dragged from the water.
She realised that if she was spotted by any detectives who had been at Clive’s house, then there would be more questions, and so she shoved her way back through the crowd.
* * *
Agatha felt miserable as she drove to Mircester. Clive had been her one hope of getting a break in the case. Once she got to Mircester and before she went into police headquarters, she phoned Patrick Mulligan and briefed him on what had been happening. “See if your old police contacts can tell you anything,” said Agatha.