The Agatha Raisin Series, page 313
She clattered down the wooden stairs and out through the shop. It had begun to rain. Long fingers of rain were trailing across the stubble of the fields.
Agatha cursed herself as she walked to the car. Why had she run away like that? A real detective would have persevered.
Toni looked down from the window of her flat that evening and shrank back as she saw her brother coming along the street with two of his mates. They were glancing up at the buildings, searching for something. She had a sickening feeling they were looking for her.
She took another cautious look. She had phoned a friend, Maggie Spears, earlier and had asked her to come round. To her horror, she saw the three stop and start to talk to Maggie. Maggie said something, tossed her head and walked on. Then, to Toni’s relief, Maggie walked straight past the entrance to the flats.
Five minutes later, Toni’s phone rang. It was Maggie. “That no-good brother of yours was asking where you were. I’ll come back when it’s safe. I told him you lived in Beacon Street, you know, out on the Evesham Road.”
“Thanks, Maggie,” said Toni. “I’ll be glad to see you.”
SEVEN
PHIL DROVE up to the manor, parked discreetly behind the stables as he saw a police car approaching and went in search of the gardener, Fred Instick.
He found Fred, a gnarled old man, sitting on the edge of a wall smoking his pipe, seemingly unmindful of the steady drizzle falling down from the leaden sky above.
“I am a private detective,” said Phil. “Is there anywhere we can talk out of the rain?”
Fred, by way of reply, walked off in the direction of a potting shed at a corner of the garden.
Phil took down the large golf umbrella he had been holding over his head and followed Fred inside.
Fred looked gloomily at his wet pipe, gave it a shake, put it down and drew out a packet of cigarettes.
Phil waited until he had lit a cigarette and then asked, “Do you know of anyone who would be likely to have murdered Mrs. Tamworthy?”
Fred puffed slowly at his cigarette. His face was as dry and brown and cracked as a bed of earth in a drought. “Reckon I might ha’ done it,” he said at last.
“Why?”
“Starvation pension, that’s why. Her said she’d pay me cash. ‘Don’t want to worry about taxes, Fred,’ that’s what her did say. Now she’s gone and them’ll sell up and what’ll I do? They’ll sell my cottage and I ain’t got a pension worth looking at cos there’s no official record of me being employed.”
Phil, who was in his seventies, looked sympathetically at the old gardener. Then he had an idea. Agatha paid him a generous salary and expenses.
“Look here, it’s hard to try to get information about what goes on in the manor. We’d gladly pay you for anything you can find out.”
“You mean like snooping?”
“Hard word, but that’s what detective work is all about.”
“I could do with the money. I’ve had a right hard time of it with the police grilling me and demanding to know if I supplied hemlock by accident along with the other vegetables.”
“Here’s my card,” said Phil. “Any little thing you can think of. Keep your ears open. You’re sure you don’t have any idea who did the murder?”
“I think it were her youngest, Jimmy. The others lived away from the manor, but he were right up the road. Some mother that old woman was.”
“Right, let me know if you think of anything else.”
As Phil left the potting shed, the rain had increased to a steady downpour. He got into his car and drove round to the front of the manor. The police car was still there, but no sign of Agatha’s car. He decided to go back to the office and write up his notes.
Fred made his way up to the manor house with a basket of vegetables. He went in by the kitchen door and laid the basket on the table. He could hear them all talking in the drawing room. He felt sour and bitter. There they all were, having inherited a fortune while he was facing the remainder of his days in poverty.
Some mad impulse made him poke his head round the drawing room door. “Veggies in the kitchen,” he said.
Fran said grandly, “Thank you, Fred, you may go.”
Her lady-of-the-manor attitude made Fred furious. “I know which one of you did it,” he said. White, shocked faces turned in his direction. He grinned and slammed the door. On his way out through the kitchen, he saw bottles of Mrs. Tamworthy’s wine in a rack by the door. He helped himself to a bottle and retreated to his cottage.
Agatha was cross with Charles for disappearing. She was at last fed up with the fact that he had the keys to her cottage and could come and go as he liked.
The following morning she telephoned the security firm that had installed her burglar alarm and asked them to come immediately to change the locks on her door and the code on the burglar alarm.
She telephoned the office and said she would be a bit late.
When the workmen arrived, she said she was going out for half an hour and made her way up to the vicarage.
“I’m getting the locks on my cottage changed,” said Agatha as soon as Mrs. Bloxby opened the door.
“So no more surprise visits from Sir Charles?”
Agatha followed her into the vicarage living room. “I don’t like the way he uses my house as a hotel.”
“Mrs. Raisin, I do believe you are—” Mrs. Bloxby broke off. She had been about to say “growing up at last.” She changed it to “being very sensible. Have you time for a coffee?”
“Yes, please, but only if it’s ready. I can’t be away too long.”
“It’s ready. Won’t be a minute.”
“May I smoke?”
“Not in the house. We can go into the garden. It’s a fine morning.”
“Don’t bother. The table and chairs will still be wet after last night’s rain.”
“It’s all right. I’ve wiped them down.”
Agatha went out into the garden. The air was fresh and scented with autumn flowers. She took a deep breath, thinking how good country air was for her health, and then lit a cigarette.
“I heard on the local radio station,” said Mrs. Bloxby when she returned with two cups of coffee, “that Paul Chambers is out on bail.”
“Damn! I’ll need to keep Toni well away from that village. It’s a pity because the girl has a sharp eye.”
“Tell me how far you’ve got with the case.”
Agatha began to sum up the little she knew. “Dear me,” said Mrs. Bloxby when she had finished, “one would think Mrs. Tamworthy wanted to be murdered.”
“The thing that puzzles me,” said Agatha, “is why was she clutching that hemlock root? I mean, how did she get hold of it? Surely the killer wouldn’t go out of his way to give us a clue as to how she had been poisoned?”
“It’s all very odd,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha looked at her watch and let out a squawk. “I’d better go. They should be finished by now.”
When Agatha finally got to the office, she carefully read the notes from Phil and Patrick. Patrick had written that Alison appeared to have been correct when she said her husband had lost interest in the brickworks. The failure of the brickworks did seem to have been caused by Bert not paying much attention to orders.
Sir Henry Field came as a surprise. He was managing director of a firm that made health-food bars, a small concern. Patrick had gathered that he didn’t have much to do with the running of the firm. The owner liked Henry’s title on their masthead.
Agatha, when she had read Phil’s notes, said, “I find this gardener interesting. I would like to talk to him myself. It’ll keep us clear of the house if the police are still around. Patrick, if you could get back to some of the other cases … We’re getting a backlog. Toni, you go through the cases with him and see what you can do.”
Patrick said, “Agatha, Toni is seventeen. You can drive a car at seventeen.”
“I thought it was eighteen!”
“So did I,” said Toni. “I mean, if you have no hopes of owning a car, you don’t think much about ages.”
“Right. Toni, get Mrs. Freedman to book you up for a crash driving course where you get your licence at the end of the week.”
“I can’t afford a car!” exclaimed Toni.
“I’ll get you an old banger. It’ll be the property of the agency. Get on with it. Come along, Phil. Let’s cross your gardener’s palm with silver and see what he comes up with.”
“Police are still here,” grumbled Agatha to Phil, who was driving.
“I’ll park round the back,” said Phil.
“Do you know where his cottage is?” asked Agatha.
Phil shook his head. “Don’t worry. He’s probably in the garden.”
He parked the car and led the way to the kitchen garden. But there was no sign of Fred.
“I don’t want to go into the house with the police there,” said Agatha. “Let’s go to the stables. That groom, Jill, will know where to find him.”
They met Jill as she was crossing the stable yard. To Agatha’s question, she said, “If you go right round the back of the kitchen garden to where those ruined houses are, you’ll find his cottage just the other side of the ruins.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Mrs. Tamworthy?” asked Agatha.
Jill put down the bucket and ran a hand through her short curly hair. “I’ve only worked here for three months. The previous groom left in a huff. Said she wasn’t being paid enough and there was too much work for one person.”
“And is there?”
“Not now,” said Jill with a sigh. “Several owners have been up with their horse boxes to take their precious animals away. I’m starting to look for another job.”
“They surely don’t think anyone would murder the horses,” said Phil.
Jill laughed. “If you owned several thousand pounds of horseflesh, you wouldn’t be taking any chances either. They say that even if it turns out that the hemlock in the salad was an accident, then it follows that some of the stuff might get into the feed.”
They thanked her and walked back to the kitchen garden, then round it and found themselves facing the field with the ruined houses. “That must be the cottage,” said Phil, pointing to a small building on the other side of the field. “We’ll need to cross the field.”
Agatha was wearing flat sandals. The field was still sodden from the previous day’s rain. She squelched across it following elderly Phil’s athletic stride. Phil was wearing serviceable boots. How does he manage to keep so fit at his age? wondered Agatha. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t smoke. Must stop. Well, maybe tomorrow.
“Here we are,” said Phil. “Real agricultural labourer’s cottage. Cheap brick. Look, there’s even a pump in the garden. Maybe he doesn’t have any running water. I don’t suppose he uses the front door. Let’s try the side.”
Phil knocked loudly on the door. They waited. Somewhere in the distance they could hear the sound of a tractor. Good heavens, thought Agatha. She said she had someone to manage the farming bit. Must find out who that is and where he lives.
Phil bent down and peered through the letter box. “I can hear the sound of a television set,” he said. “Maybe the old boy fell asleep in front of it last night. The curtains on the windows are still drawn.”
“Try the door,” said Agatha.
Phil turned the handle and the door opened. “I don’t suppose he bothers to lock up out here,” he whispered. “What should we do?”
“Let me,” said Agatha, pushing past him. She opened a door to the left off a tiny dark hall. Fred Instick was slumped in front of a small television set.
“Time to get up!” called Agatha.
The figure in the chair did not move.
Agatha swung round wildly. “Phil…?”
“Let me,” said Phil. He went forward and bent over the old gardener. His heart sank. Fred’s eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly at Jerry Springer on the television set. He felt for a pulse on the man’s neck. Then he straightened up. “He’s dead, Agatha.”
“Heart attack?”
“Look, there’s a bottle of wine nearly empty on the little table beside his chair.”
“We’d better not touch anything,” said Agatha. “Let’s get out of here and call the police.”
Outside the cottage, Agatha took out her mobile phone and called the manor. Alison answered. “You’d better tell the police that the gardener, Fred Instick, is dead,” said Agatha. Phil could hear the tones of Alison’s shocked voice squawking down the line. Then Agatha said, “I know he was old, but the circumstances are suspicious. I think he was poisoned.”
Agatha rang off and said, “Now we’re in for a day of questioning. And I meant to go over to Blertyn’s today.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re the builders. The ones who were going to build on that ruined-houses bit. Oh, here comes that bitch with Wilkes.”
Detective Sergeant Collins came marching across the field towards them, followed by Inspector Wilkes.
When they arrived, Agatha said curtly, “Living room on the left as you go in.”
“Wait here,” snapped Collins. “We’ll need you for questioning.”
It was a long dreary day. First Agatha and Phil waited at the manor while a forensic team and pathologist arrived. Then back came the mobile police unit and parked outside the manor.
Finally Bill put his head round the drawing room door and said, “Mrs. Raisin?”
As soon as they were in the hall, Agatha complained, “You said you were coming to see me to take my statement last time.”
“Wilkes countermanded that,” said Bill. “He wanted to interview you himself.”
“Was Instick poisoned?”
“It looks like it. The top brass are coming to deliver a rocket to the forensic team. They were supposed to have examined everything in that kitchen.”
The door opened and Collins stood there. “We are waiting to interview Mrs. Raisin,” she said harshly, and then turned on her heel.
“Why not you?” asked Agatha.
“Collins is Wilkes’s pet.”
“Good God!”
“You’d better go. I will try to call round.”
Agatha marched out towards the mobile police unit. It was going to be a long day.
She stopped just outside the unit and phoned Patrick. “Could you drop what you’re doing and go and interview Blertyn’s, the builders? They’re in Mircester. Take Toni with you.”
Patrick and Toni drove to Blertyn’s offices out on the industrial estate. Toni was hugging herself with excitement. Mrs. Freedman had booked her a crash driving course for the following week.
“Here we are,” said Patrick. “Let’s see what they have to say for themselves.”
The receptionist looked up in surprise as they walked in. “Toni!” she cried. “Wot you doin’ here?”
“I’m a private detective,” said Toni. “We’re here to interview your boss.”
“Go on!”
“Fact.”
“Well, I never did. I s’pose you want to speak to Mr. Trump himself? He’s the manager.”
“That would be great, Sharon.”
“What’s he done? Cheating on his wife?”
“No, nothing like that. Just a routine inquiry. Tell you what, you get him for us and give me your phone number and we’ll get together one evening.”
“Great. Hang on. I’ll get him.” She picked up the phone.
“Just say,” said Toni quickly, “that a Mr. Mulligan wishes to talk to him about a building plot.”
“Got it, Sherlock. Take a seat.”
Sharon made the call. That could have been me, thought Toni, working in a dead-end job like Sharon’s. I’d be having fun if only I didn’t feel so dreadfully grateful to Agatha.
“Better make like I don’t know you,” said Sharon, replacing the receiver. “His secretary’s coming to get you and she’s a tartar.”
The door to the inner office opened and a tall thin bespectacled woman said, “Mr. Mulligan? If you will follow me.”
Mr. Trump, who rose to meet them as they entered his office, obviously had nothing to do with the manual side of the job. He was plump and well tailored with a round bland face and thick grey hair.
“Please sit down,” he said, indicating two chairs facing his desk, “and let me know how I can be of assistance.”
He began to look like a petulant baby as Patrick explained the reason for their visit.
“I’m a busy man,” he said crossly. “Mrs. Tamworthy was interested in selling me a plot of land for building development, but she would never close the deal although I offered her a good price. One day she would say that she was coming into the office to close the deal and then she would phone later to say she had changed her mind. I thought she’d gone senile. You’d be better off having a talk with her factor, George Pyson.”
“Where do we find him?”
“He’s got a small office in College Street. Number ten. I called on him one time to see if he could talk some sense into the old girl’s head.”
Patrick and Toni parked in the centre of Mircester and walked along College Street. Number ten was a small old former shop with bottle-glass windows. Patrick rang the bell and they waited.
The door was eventually answered by a tall man with a thick shock of black hair. He was wearing a checked shirt and green corduroy trousers. His face was handsome in a craggy way. He was younger than Patrick had expected. Patrick placed him as being somewhere in his thirties.
“Are you George Pyson?” asked Patrick.
“That’s me.”
“We’re private detectives investigating the murder of Mrs. Tamworthy at the request of her family.”
“You’d better come in. Who’s this?”
“Miss Toni Gilmour, also a detective. I am Patrick Mulligan.”
The small office had a desk and hard chairs. A map of the Tamworthy village and estate was pinned to the wall behind the desk.
“What precisely is your job?” asked Toni.
“I run the estate, collect the rents, do the farm books and hire the help.”
