The Agatha Raisin Series, page 237
“I’ll leave you to your microwave meals.” Paul laughed and Agatha repressed an impulse to hit him.
Agatha slept heavily and woke to the sounds of cleaning. Doris Simpson, who “did” for Agatha, had obviously arrived.
Agatha washed and dressed and went downstairs just as Doris emerged from the kitchen. “Morning, Agatha,” said Doris, who was one of the very few women in the village to use Agatha’s first name.
“Come into the kitchen and join me for a coffee, Doris. I want to know if you’ve heard anything.”
“I made a fresh pot of coffee.” Doris sat down at the kitchen table. “I let your cats out into the garden.”
“Thanks,” said Agatha. “How’s Scrabble?”
Scrabble was a cat Agatha had rescued during one of her cases. Feeling that three cats were too much, she had given Scrabble to the cleaner.
“Scrabble’s blooming,” said Doris. She helped herself to three spoonfuls of sugar and then a generous topping of milk. “Don’t know how you can drink it straight black like that. What do you want to know?”
“Have you heard any gossip about Mrs. Witherspoon?”
“That old woman that got murdered? She did get murdered, didn’t she? There was a bit in the paper this morning. I didn’t see it, but someone in the village told me.”
“Yes, it came out at the inquest. So, heard anything?”
“Too early yet, Agatha. You see, up till this morning, everyone thought it was an accident. But I’ll ask around. I hear you’ve been seeing a lot of your neighbour.” She tilted her head to one side and peered at Agatha through her glasses.
“I’ve been asking around about Mrs. Witherspoon and he’s been helping me.”
“Doesn’t do to mess with married men.”
“I’m not messing with him,” said Agatha crossly. “And I’ve met his wife.”
“Oh, that Spanish woman. Very rude, she was. Told one of my ladies that Carsely was a living grave and she wasn’t ever coming back.”
“I think she’s very temperamental,” said Agatha cautiously. “She wants her husband to live in Spain.”
“What does he think about that?” asked Doris.
Agatha shrugged. “Don’t believe he wants to, but it’s none of my business.”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Agatha.
She opened the front door to Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. “Official?” asked Agatha.
“Semi,” he said, following her indoors. “I wondered if you had unearthed anything.”
“Nothing much. Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Morning, Doris.”
“Morning, Bill. I’ll get on with my work, Agatha. I was going to feed the cats for you, in case you wanted a long lie-in, but I couldn’t find any tins of cat food.”
“I’ll get some from the shop this morning.”
When Doris had left and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner and was busily cleaning the living-room, Bill said, “She doesn’t know you feed your cats on fresh fish and pté, now does she?”
Agatha turned pink. “I give them a little treat from time to time. So what have you found out?”
“It’s hard to pin-point the exact time of death, but from eight that evening until midnight, Harry Witherspoon was in an amateur production of The Mikado in Mircester. He’s in the chorus. He attended the back-stage party after the show, which went on late.”
“But she was found in her night-gown. It could have happened during the night.”
“From the contents of her stomach, the pathologist suggests she probably died around eleven o’clock.”
“Rats! He never left the theatre?”
“Not according to witnesses. Have you got anything?”
Agatha sighed. “Nothing. We spent a dreary evening at the historical society at Towdey.”
“Why there?”
“Ivy Cottage is an old house. During the Civil War, a Cavalier, Sir Geoffrey Lamont, fleeing the Battle of Worcester, took refuge there. He was supposed to be carrying a fortune in jewels and gold with him. His host, Simon Lovesey, unknown, I suppose, to Lamont, was a Cromwell sympathizer and turned him in. Nothing was ever heard of the fortune. Legend has it that the fortune is somewhere in the house.”
“Sounds like a Boy’s Own story. Hidden treasure!” scoffed Bill. “Anyway, Simon Lovesey probably became richer or gave the booty to Cromwell.”
“I suppose,” said Agatha. “Dead ends all round. But the fact remains that even before her death, someone was able to get into the house. There may even be a secret passage.”
“Agatha! I am sure generations of owners have turned the place upside down looking for the jewels. So if there was a secret passage, they’d have found it.”
“Maybe. But would they talk about it? I mean, if they were looking for jewels and only found an old secret passage, would they bother talking about it?”
“You’re clutching at straws,” said Bill.
“You haven’t even got a straw to clutch at,” commented Agatha, lighting a cigarette. “Nothing from forensics? No footprints anywhere?”
“Nothing of use.”
“What about the daughter, Carol? She needs money. She might have thought she was inheriting something, or maybe she knew she wasn’t and killed her mother in a fit of rage, and she has a key.”
“She’s a sad creature and has been treated badly by her mother but she doesn’t seem the type to plan such a murder. Whoever did this was cold and calculating. Don’t worry. They’re working on it.”
“They? Not you?”
“No, the case is being handled by Detective Inspector Runcorn.”
“Oh, him! Nasty chauvinist.”
“Agatha, it’s no use trying to talk like an old-fashioned women’s libber when you fall for any man who crosses your path.”
“I do not! I have not fallen for Paul!”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” called Doris.
“It’s Mr. Chatterton,” she called.
Bill grinned as Agatha squawked and ran for the stairs. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
When Agatha came back to join them, Bill noticed the pretty summer dress and the newly applied make-up.
“It’s seems no one’s getting anywhere,” said Paul. He turned to Bill. “Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”
“Not my case. I’ve no doubt Runcorn, who’s in charge of it, will be there.” Paul flashed a warning look at Agatha. How could they steal the house key and not be observed?
“I’d better get on,” said Bill. “If I hear anything interesting I’ll let you know.”
“That’s odd,” said Agatha after he had left.
“What’s odd?”
“Usually he warns me to stay clear and leave it to the police.”
“Then take it as a compliment to your detective abilities.”
“My detective abilities are not doing much for me in this case.”
“What can we get that the police can’t?” said Paul. “I’ll tell you. Gossip. I think we should drive over and see the neighbours again.”
“You mean Greta and Percy?”
“Yes, them.”
“Worth a try, I suppose.” She raised her voice. “I’m going out for a little, Doris.”
“Don’t forget to get food for the cats.”
“I won’t. Come on, Paul.”
As they drove into Hebberdon, Agatha said, “We should remember that Greta threatened to stick a bread knife into Mrs. Witherspoon.”
“You’ve met Mrs. Witherspoon. Seems just the sort of thing a lot of people must have said to her. But saying and doing are two different things. Oh, look at the roses!” He pointed to where rambling roses in pink and white tumbled over the doorways of two cottages. “It’s almost as if God is compensating us for the dreadful autumn, winter and spring of rain and more rain.”
Agatha grunted. She always felt uneasy when people mentioned the God word. But she had to admit to herself that she became so used to the beauty of the Cotswolds that she was apt to take it all for granted—except two days after a visit to London.
“Well, here’s Pear Cottage. Let’s start off with Greta.”
Greta answered the door to them, wearing trousers and a sleeveless shirt. Agatha was struck anew at how muscular Greta was. Although small and round, there seemed to be no spare fat on her figure.
“Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “So it’s murder. Not surprised. Could have murdered the old bird myself. Come in.”
They followed her into her living-room and sat down.
“The police seem to think that her son Harry did it,” said Paul.
“That little pussy-cat! Know why he kept away from her? She terrified him. Old folks round here say she beat him when he was a boy. That’s why he turned out the way he is.”
“What way?” asked Agatha.
“Well, he’s a poof, isn’t he?”
“Do you mean he is homosexual?” said Agatha.
“Stands to reason. Not married.”
Agatha suddenly thought of James, who had remained a bachelor until his middle age, when he had married her.
“The fact that he is not married,” said Agatha in a cold voice, “does not mean that he is homosexual. Furthermore, if he is, it does not mean that he is either lacking in brains or courage.”
Greta snorted with contempt. “You’re one of those bleeding-heart liberals.”
Paul suppressed a grin. He wondered if Agatha had ever been accused of such a thing before. But seeing that Agatha was about to renew the attack, he said quickly, “Did you happen to hear any stories about a secret passage to Ivy Cottage?”
“Not that I ’member. Why?”
“Someone was trying to frighten her. I mean, we spent the night there and there was carbon dioxide gas coming under the door.”
“Did that herself to get the attention.”
“Maybe,” said Paul. “On the other hand, if someone else was doing it, there may be a secret way in. And what about this old story about treasure being hidden in the house?”
“That’s all it is. Just an old story.”
“On the night she was killed,” Agatha put in, masking her dislike for Greta, “you didn’t see or hear anyone around? Any strangers reported in the village?”
“You should leave detecting to the police. Don’t you think they’ve asked around? They’ve had men going from door to door.”
Agatha had had enough. She stood up. “Thank you for your time. Come along, Paul.”
Paul meekly followed her out.
“Bitch!” said Agatha loudly.
“Shut up. She’ll hear you and we might need her again.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Agatha. “Anyway, I’ve got a good idea.”
“Like what?”
“Like Harry is now prime suspect, alibi or not. I bet the police still think he might have sneaked over to Hebberdon when no one was looking.”
“What? Dressed as a citizen of Titipu?”
“Say the show finished at ten. He’d still have time to get his make-up off and drive over and then nip back again in time for the party.”
“What’s all this about, Agatha?”
“He might be glad of our help. If he wanted our help, he might let us search the house.”
“Long shot.”
“Maybe. But I’ll ask him at the funeral tomorrow.”
“I think your timing’s wrong.”
“Why? He must have hated his mother after the way she brought him up.”
“Not necessarily. Mothers are mothers.”
“And by all accounts, this one was a right mother, as they say in New York.”
“Tut, Agatha. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Why not? I’m just joining the legions who haven’t a good word to say for the old bat. Let’s see if Percy is in his shed.”
Percy Fleming was delighted to see them. “A real-live murder and practically on one’s doorstep,” he said cheerfully. “Are you sleuthing? The police have been round but I couldn’t really tell them anything.”
“We were wondering whether you knew of any hidden passage in Ivy Cottage,” said Paul.
“I’ve heard about the treasure but never a word about a secret passage.”
“And you didn’t hear or see anything or anyone around on the night of the murder?”
“Not a thing. But I have a Theory.”
“That being?” asked Agatha.
“The daughter did it. Yes, she found the body. But what was she doing on the night of the murder? I asked one of the coppers. He said she was home all evening. Neighbours say her lights were on and heard her television going on until late. But I say, what’s to stop her from leaving the lights on and the telly on and nipping over to Hebberdon?”
“I didn’t see a car,” said Agatha. “How did she normally get over here?”
His face fell. “She took the bus, which arrives here in the morning, stayed with her mother and then took it back again at two in the afternoon.”
“But the buses don’t run in the evening, do they?”
“No. But she could have hired a car.”
“So she could,” said Agatha, suddenly weary. It was hot inside the shed and Percy was wearing a very strong aftershave. “Well, thanks for your help.”
“Waste of space,” grumbled Agatha as they walked back to the car. “What now?”
“Nothing till the funeral tomorrow.”
Six
A light drizzle was smearing the window-panes when Agatha woke up the next morning. She struggled out of bed and began to rummage through her wardrobe to find something suitable to wear for the funeral. Church of England meant all black was not necessary, but bright colours might be regarded as offensive. Then she had to wear suitable gear for any nimble action, such as stealing the key and rushing off to get it copied. She opted finally for a dark brown silk trouser suit and a white blouse. She could wear heels with it but carry flat shoes with her in a bag.
She peered anxiously at her hair. A line of grey was showing at the roots. Agatha let out a squawk of dismay. A picture of Juanita with her long black hair rose unbidden in her mind.
She went into the bathroom and rummaged along a shelf of hair conditioners, shampoos and dyes. Forgetting that she had found in the past that to colour her own hair instead of going to the hairdresser was often a mistake, she found a packet of brunette colour shampoo rinse and began to apply it.
Agatha was just reaching for the hairdrier when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch and found the time was ten-thirty. Must be Paul. Rats! She wrapped a towel around her head and put a dressing-gown on over her underwear and ran down and opened the door.
“Won’t be a minute,” she said to Paul.
“You look like more than a minute. Hurry up.”
Agatha ran back upstairs and dried her hair and brushed it into a smooth bob, scrambled into the trouser suit and blouse and surveyed herself in the mirror. The rain had stopped and a watery shaft of sunlight shone in and lit up her hair. She now had red roots.
“Agatha!” shouted Paul impatiently from the bottom of the stairs. Agatha seized a brown suede hat with a floppy brim, jammed it on her head and ran downstairs.
“You look like an agitated mushroom,” commented Paul. “I assume you’re somewhere under that hat. Let’s go.”
As he drove them towards Towdey, he glanced sideways at her. “The sun’s out and it’s quite warm. Women don’t really need to wear hats to funerals any more.”
“I like this hat,” said Agatha truculently. “It’s the height of fashion.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Are you always this rude?”
“No, but you’re a good teacher.”
They both relapsed into silence until they reached the church.
Paul parked beside the church wall and they got out and walked through the graveyard. “Don’t suppose she’ll be buried here,” said Paul, looking around.
“Why?”
“No room left. Have you noticed when anyone’s buried on television it’s usually in some old English churchyard? Doesn’t happen these days. The places are fairly walled up with the English dead.”
A mischievous breeze danced across the churchyard and whipped Agatha’s hat from her head and sent it flying. “I’ll get it,” said Paul and set off in pursuit. He returned with a sodden hat. “You can’t wear it. It ended up in a puddle.” He looked at her hair. “Quite fetching, you know. Brown hair with red roots.”
Agatha angrily took the wet hat from him and placed it on top of a gravestone.
“There’s Runcorn just going into the church,” hissed Paul.
“And Carol,” said Agatha in surprise. “She looks quite smart and cheerful. Let’s see who else has turned up.”
They entered the gloom of the church. It was quite full. Agatha saw Greta Handy and Percy Fleming sitting side by side. She assumed the rest were curious villagers.
“Peter Frampton has just come in with that peculiar girl, Zena,” whispered Paul.
Agatha and Paul had selected a pew at the back of the small church so that they would have a good view of everyone present. Peter walked up the aisle with Zena on his arm. She was wearing a dull red dress of Indian cotton and long wooden beads with clumpy boots. Her hair was worn down and brushed straight and nearly reached to her bottom. She turned her head and looked back down the church. Her make-up was brown with purple eye-shadow and purple lips.
“Odd couple,” murmured Agatha. “Could be his daughter.”
“Doubt it,” said Paul. “Hey, what if there isn’t any reception?”
“Drive to Ivy Cottage afterwards and hope there is.”
“I wonder whether they still begin with ‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together…’ and so on. Probably not. I hate these modern translations of the Bible. They lack the beauty of language in the King James’s Version and the absolute faith that underlies the words.”
Solemn music from the organ sounded out in the church. The coffin was carried in. Harry was one of the pallbearers. The others looked as if they had been supplied by the undertaker.
The service began. It was simple and dignified. The vicar gave a short sermon. Old-fashioned hymns were sung. No one read a eulogy. There was no one evidently hypocritical enough to praise the dear departed.
