Authors: M. C. Beaton
She finally rang off and said that Mrs. Danby was still alive.
Simon took the plunge. “What do you do in your spare time?” he asked.
Ruby flashed him an amused look. “Are you chatting me up?”
“Trying to,” said Simon.
There was a rap at the car window. “Detective Inspector Briggs, Mr. Black,” said a man, leaning in the passenger window. “Have you made a statement?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you are to go directly to Mircester police headquarters and tell them what you’ve been up to.” Off with you.”
When he had left, Simon groaned. “They’ll probably keep me up all night. Do you have a card?”
Ruby smiled and handed one over.
“Thanks,” said Simon. “I’ll be in touch.”
She isn’t wearing any rings, he thought happily, as he drove off to Mircester.
* * *
Unaware of what was going on, Agatha sat in her own cleaner’s cosy parlour and asked, “Why did you consult Jill Davent? I would have thought you were the last person to need a therapist.”
“I met her in the village shop,” said Doris Simpson. Her cat, Scrabble, jumped on her capacious lap and settled down to sleep. “I had been suffering with pains in my shoulders. She said it was tension and she could take the pain away. Well, the doctor couldn’t find nothing wrong so I thought I’d give it a try. She massaged my shoulders and said she was taking all my tension away. Then she not only made me cough up sixty pounds but charged me twenty for the massage oil.”
“If you are suffering from tension, you’re worried. Out with it.”
“I’m right ashamed. We decided to buy this council house, but I was overambitious, like. I’m behind with the payments and the bank is threatening to repossess.”
Agatha thought rapidly. The council houses were good solid property.
“Who would you have left it to, if you had succeeded in buying it?”
“We haven’t even made a will, Agatha. We couldn’t have children and there’s no one close.”
“Well, here’s what we’ll do,” said Agatha. “I’ll buy it, but you live in it till the end of your days. I’ll put a codicil in my will to that effect. We’ll see the lawyers and bank tomorrow.”
“But your job is dangerous! What if me and hubby outlive you? You won’t get any benefit.”
Agatha hadn’t thought of that. On the other hand, Doris was a superb cleaner and she looked after Agatha’s cats when Agatha was away.
She shrugged. “Oh, let’s go for it. Deal?”
“Oh, Agatha! You’re a saint. May you live forever.”
But out in the nighttime darkness of the Cotswolds, someone was already planning to send Agatha Raisin to an early grave.
Everything seemed to grind to a halt. Spring moved into summer. Agatha could not find out the results of Mrs. Danby’s illness, except that somehow it was because she had picked up a leaf. But what type of leaf? Agatha could not understand why it was taking them so long to identify it.
The fact was, as Patrick Mulligan was at last able to find out, that the leaf had somehow become lost in the forensic lab. How?
A young forensic scientist who had gone on holiday was eventually tracked down to one of the Greek islands. At first she claimed to know nothing about it, but under the grilling of two Thames Valley detectives, who were determined not to find out that their journey had been unnecessary, burst into tears and confessed she had opened the lab window to call down to her boyfriend and several bits and pieces had blown out.
A hurried and frantic search of all the debris below that window at last revealed the little envelope blown up against a wire fence.
This Simon was also able to tell Agatha because he was in constant touch with Ruby, although, so far, he had not persuaded her to come out on a date with him.
The leaf was at last identified as coming from monkshood, a deadly killer of a plant. It was once used to kill wolves and mad dogs and was then called wolfsbane. All parts of the plant are poisonous and it doesn’t even need to be taken by mouth; the poison can be absorbed through the skin. It looks like a delphinium and the most common colour is purple.
“So are they going to exhume Herythe’s body?” asked Agatha one morning as he staff were gathered in the office.
“No point,” said Patrick. “It’s the perfect killer and the poison doesn’t stay in the body. But the police are regarding it as murder and Charles has been pulled in for questioning.”
“Why Charles, of all people?”
“Someone tipped off the police that he was heard threatening to kill Herythe in the bar of the George.”
“I’d better get round there and see if there’s anything I can do,” said Agatha.
She was about to leave when there came a tentative knock on the door. Agatha opened it and found herself faced with a small boy carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Are you Mrs. Raisin?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“These are for you.”
Agatha was just reaching for the bouquet when Toni shrieked, “Don’t touch it. You, boy, drop it on the floor.”
Startled, the boy did as he was told.
“Look at the flowers,” said Toni. “That looks like monkshood.”
“Who gave you those flowers?” asked Agatha.
The boy was small and fair-haired. “It was a big chap. He gave me ten pounds to deliver them.”
The flowers were wrapped in gold paper. “Did you touch the flowers anywhere?” Patrick asked the boy.
“N-no.”
“The stems are wrapped up so he should be all right,” said Patrick. “I’ll call the police.”
“What’s your name?” Agatha asked the boy.
“Jimmy Martin, miss.”
“Look, Jimmy, go into the toilet over there and wash your hands thoroughly. That bouquet may be poisonous. You’ll need to wait here. The police will want to interview you.”
“Like in the fillums?”
“Just like that.”
“Wicked!”
* * *
There was a long delay, waiting for the boy’s mother to arrive before he could be interviewed. His description of the big man who had given him the flowers was vague. But it had taken place at the corner of market square, which was covered by a video camera. Not for the first time, Agatha fretted at not having the powers of the police. She would dearly have loved to have a look at the videotape.
When it was all over, and the boy had been taken home by his mother, Charles strolled in.
Agatha told him about the latest development. The usually urbane and unflappable Charles looked worried. “So you’re the killer’s new target. You’d better take a holiday, Agatha.”
“Not me,” said Agatha. “Patrick, take money out of the petty cash and stand drinks for your old police buddies and find out what’s on that video.”
“Too soon,” said Patrick. “Give it a few hours. I’ll get on with that divorce case and then I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“So, Charles,” said Agatha, “how did you get on?”
“Wilkes was really nasty,” said Charles. “The press are breathing down his neck. He all but accused me outright. Come on, Aggie. I could do with a drink.”
“Too early.”
“The sun is over the poop deck or whatever.”
“Wait until I arrange things here. What have we got, Toni?”
“Simon and I have that missing girl. Patrick’s got his divorce case and Phil is going with him to take pictures. And you forgot about yourself. So you have some free time.”
“All right, Charles,” said Agatha. “One drink and then I’ll get back here and go through my notes.”
* * *
In the pub, Agatha surveyed Charles over the rim of her glass. There he sat, impeccably tailored and barbered, as if they had never known a few nights of passion. Agatha’s hands began to shake and she carefully put her glass down on the table. “Take a deep breath,” said Charles. “It’s not every day someone tries to kill you, although it sometimes begins to look like that. Be sensible. Go away for a long holiday. Leave it to the police for once.”
“It would haunt me,” said Agatha. She carefully lifted her glass again and took a swig of gin and tonic. “There must be something in Jill Davent’s past. I find my mind has been blocked by Gwen Simple. I want her to be guilty. I feel she got away with murder. So who else have I got? There are the ones in the village who consulted Jill. Bannister’s a vicious old bitch but I can’t see her as a murderer. Doris wouldn’t harm a fly and Mrs. Tweedy’s too old. I took a note of Jill’s old address in Mircester. I think I’ll go there and ferret around. There must be some reason she moved to Carsely. Why leave a big town where she could have found many more clients? She paused. “Why were the police questioning you?”
“I threatened to kill Herythe and was overheard.”
“Why?”
Charles didn’t want to tell her that he had lost his temper when Herythe had threatened to seduce her. “Oh, he got on my nerves. I had forgotten how waspish he could be. Take someone with you to Mircester,” urged Charles. “I’ve got to go home. Got a meeting with the land agent.”
“I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll be safe now.”
“But for how long?” asked Charles. “What about your cats?”
“What about them?”
“You get your milk delivered, don’t you? Little bit of poison injected into the bottle.”
“All right. I’ll take them to Doris. I swear they like her better than me. I forgot to ask you. How did you get on with the Bannister woman?”
“Nothing but spite and malice. Two sandwiches short of a picnic.”
Outside the pub, Charles paused for a moment and watched Agatha as she walked to her car. She was wearing a short linen skirt, which showed her excellent legs to advantage. He had begged Wilkes to give her police protection, but Wilkes had said brutally that he had no intention of wasting manpower on a woman who had chosen a dangerous job. Charles decided to call on her that evening, although he rationed his visits to Agatha. It was, he told himself, no use becoming overfond of a woman who was a walking obsession constantly searching for a host. Agatha’s habit of falling in love with highly unsuitable men had irritated him in the past. He wondered gloomily who the next one would be.
* * *
What had once been Jill’s consulting rooms was now a handbag shop. A man with a thick moustache and an even thicker Eastern European accent approached her and asked if she would like to see any of the bags.
“No,” said Agatha. She handed over her card. “I’m interested in the therapist who used to have an office here. Did you buy the premises from her?”
“No, I rent, see. Don’t know no therapist.”
“Who do you rent from?”
“Harcourt and Gentle.”
“Where can I find them?”
“In the shopping arcade.”
* * *
Mircester’s shopping arcade was an uninspiring place, half full of closed shops. The other half boasted chain stores and the estate agent.
Agatha pushed open the door and went in. A tall woman was sitting at a desk. She had grey hair and was wearing old-fashioned harlequin glasses. Agatha thought she looked remarkably like Dame Edna Everidge.
“Take a seat, dear,” said the woman. “You can call me Jenny. What can I do you for? That’s my little joke. We like to put our customers at ease. Some poor souls are forced to downsize and Jenny’s here to hold their poor hands. Why I remember, just the other day—”
“Stop!” commanded Agatha. “I am a private detective and would like some information about one of your previous clients.”
“Naughty, naughty! Jenny does not give out information about clients.”
“And Agatha would like to point out to Jenny that this client was brutally murdered.”
“Oh, Jill Davent! Such a tragedy. I wept buckets. I’m ever so sensitive.”
The door opened and a tubby, balding man bustled in. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “Thanks for minding the shop. You can go home now. Ah, here’s your nurse.”
A muscular woman came in and led Jenny away. “I’m James Harcourt,” said the man, sitting down in the chair his mother had vacated. “I don’t know how Mother got the key to this place or how she got out of the home. I locked up and went out for only ten minutes.”
“Which home is your mother in?” asked Agatha.
“Sunnydale. So what are you looking for?”
Agatha handed over her card and explained the reason for her visit.
“I really can’t tell you anything,” he said. “She took a short lease for only six months.”
“Where was she before that?”
“Some address in Evesham.”
“Would you please let me have it?”
“I gave all the documents to the police. You’ll need to ask them.”
* * *
“Snakes and bastards!” muttered Agatha outside the estate agent’s. “Fat chance of the police letting me see anything.”
A mother walking past pulled her child away. “I’ve told you. Don’t stare at crazy people.”
That’s it, thought Agatha. I’m sure Jenny Harcourt is only eccentric. Sunnydale. I’ll give it a try.
She checked on her iPad. Sunnydale was situated a few miles outside Mircester. Agatha got into her car and drove there. As she stopped in the car park, she wondered how to introduce herself. She doubted very much whether they would let a detective interview a mentally disabled patient.
At the reception desk, she said she was Mrs. Harcourt’s cousin. A male nurse behind the desk looked at her doubtfully. “Mrs. Harcourt went wandering off today. She has her good days and bad days. Wait here.”
Agatha took a seat and looked sadly around. We all live so long these days, she thought, that unless you’re very lucky, you can lose all your marbles. What would I do? Would I even know I was dotty?
The nurse came back. “I think it’s all right. Mrs. Harcourt will be pleased to see you.”
* * *
This is not bad, thought Agatha. Mrs. Harcourt had a sunny room with a view of lawns and trees. There were a few pieces of antique furniture she had been allowed to bring with her.
“How nice to see you again so soon,” said Jenny Harcourt. “Jenny was talking about Jill Davent.”
“Why are you not allowed to leave the home?” asked Agatha
“I have a little problem, but we won’t talk about it. Ah, poor Jill. She came here, you know. My son sent her. We had lovely chats. She wanted me to leave her that little desk over there in my will. But it’s George II and I told her she couldn’t have it because I am leaving everything to my son and she never came back. Sad.”