M Beaton: A Spoonful of Poison

At Comfrey Magna, George drove straight along the main street and parked outside Mrs. Cranton’s home. Mr. Cranton answered the door. He was a small waspish elderly man. “Evening, Mr. Selby. The missus is right upset.”

“I would really like to have a word with her,” said George soothingly. “It won’t take long. You must see that it’s important to find out who did this dreadful thing.”

“Okay, but don’t spend too long. Her be fair shook up.”

Mrs. Cranton was sitting in a stuffy cluttered front parlour, drinking tea and eating biscuits. “Why, Mr. Selby,” she said. “How nice of you to call.”

“I was worried about you,” said George.

A cynical little voice in Agatha’s head said, “He can turn that charm of his on and off like a tap.”

“This is the detective, Mrs. Raisin. Mr. Chance has employed her to find out who did this dreadful thing. How are you now?”

“Not so bad. I only had a little taste of the awful stuff. I ’member it was Miss Tubby’s plum jam. Last year she left stones in it. I said to Doris-that’s Mrs. Glarely-let’s make sure she hasn’t done that again. We take our jam making seriously in this village, but Miss Tubby and Miss Tolling go on as if it’s all a joke. So I tasted a little and then Doris did and then we came over all funny.”

“When was this?” asked Agatha.

“Why, it were right before the tent was opened. The vicar and his wife and you, Mr. Selby, and, oh, Miss Triast-Perkins and Mr. Bassett had just left.”

“So someone could have crept in while you were off for breakfast?” said Agatha.

“But the marquee was closed. We tied the flap over the entrance.”

“Someone could have untied it. I mean, was anyone else about so early?”

“I saw Mr. Selby here. Then Miss Corrie was setting up the tombola stand. Let me see… no, can’t remember anyone else.”

“We won’t trouble you any further,” said George. “We’ll leave you alone.”

Mrs. Glarely’s husband delivered himself of a tirade against hippies and druggies, leaning on two sticks and glaring at them. George listened carefully and then said, “Of course you are upset. But the sad news is that the jam seems to have been poisoned before any of the visitors arrived.”

Mr. Glarely was a tall thin man with an old face marred by a lifetime of discontent. “S’pose you’d better talk to the wife,” he said reluctantly.

Another front parlour. Mrs. Glarely was drinking a clear liquid, which, from the smell, Agatha judged to be neat gin. She gave them a bleary glance. She looked like a twin of Mrs. Cranton-grey hair, tightly permed, wrinkled face, pale eyes.

George explained what they had learned from her friend and then asked, “So when you were both leaving after setting up the exhibits, did you see anyone about?”

But Mrs. Glarely had only seen Miss Corrie at the tombola stand.

“I suppose we’d better call on Fred Corrie,” said George when they left the Glarelys’ cottage.

“I thought she was a Miss Corrie.”

“Oh, Fred’s her name. Short for Frederica. Great sport.”

Agatha groaned inwardly. She pictured a sturdy, hearty woman with a tweedy brain. “Just a few doors along,” said George.

But the woman who answered the door was elfin, something straight out of The Lord of the Rings. She had long silvery straight hair, a sweet face and a perfect figure shown off to advantage in a clinging dress of white Indian muslin.

She stood on tiptoe and kissed George on the cheek. “Do come in. Who is this?”

George introduced Agatha. Fred led them through her cottage to where a large conservatory had been built on the back. It was furnished with cane-backed chairs and sofas with plump cushions. A few exotic-looking plants rose up out of ceramic pots.

It was very quiet except for the evening song of a blackbird perched on a lilac tree in the garden outside.

“I wonder if you can help us,” said George. “Mrs. Raisin here is trying to find out who doctored the jam. You were up very early setting up the tombola stand. Did you see anyone?”

“I saw those two ladies, Mrs. Cranton and Mrs. Glarely, leaving the marquee. I wasn’t really paying much attention. I had had a restless night, so I got up early to put out the goods and then decided to go back to bed and try to get some sleep.”

“Weren’t you frightened someone would pinch some of the prizes?” asked Agatha.

Fred gave a tinkling laugh. “No, it’s always the same old rubbish except for a bottle of whisky and a bottle of gin and I didn’t leave them out. And nobody was going to run off with the tombola wheel. Once the visitors started to pour in, I sold tickets very quickly, turned the wheel and I managed to get rid of everything, even that tin of sardines in tomato sauce that turns up every year.”

“Maybe if you could think about the early-morning bit again,” said Agatha. “You saw the two organizers leaving the tent and walking off home. After that, did you even hear anything?”

“Only a cat yowling. I thought there was some animal in pain. It was coming from the churchyard. So I went over and searched, but I couldn’t find the animal.”

“So someone could have slipped into the tent while you were away,” said Agatha eagerly. “Did you try the jam yourself?”

“No, I was too busy turning the wheel and getting rid of the usual old dreck.”

Agatha’s stomach rumbled. She looked hopefully at George. “Gosh, I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” said Fred, “and I don’t feel like cooking. Let’s all go to the pub and get something.”

Agatha groaned inwardly. Gone were her hopes of a dinner date alone with George.

The small pub only had two customers when they walked into the low-ceilinged barroom.

“What have you got on the menu tonight, Bruce?” asked Fred.

“Wasn’t expecting folks, but I’ve got a rare bit of ham. You could have that with an egg and chips.”

“Great,” said Fred. “We’ll have three of those.”

Agatha wanted to say pettishly that she would select her own food, but, then, there didn’t seem to be anything else on offer.

They collected their drinks and sat at a round table which was scarred and stained with years of use. To Agatha’s delight, there was a large glass ashtray in front of her.

With a sigh of relief, she pulled out a packet of Benson &Hedges.

“You’re never going to smoke!” exclaimed Fred.

Agatha lit up and sighed with pleasure. “Too right, I am.”

“Well, I’ll be relieved when the smoking ban comes into force,” said Fred. “Do you not worry about passive smoking, because I do.”

“The pub door is open,” said Agatha. “Fresh air is whizzing all around us. I notice a Range Rover parked outside your cottage. Your carbon footprint is a whopping great size twelve. Mine is only a toe mark.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very rude woman?” said Fred.

“Maybe. But no one has ever accused me of interfering with anyone’s liberty. Oh, belt up, do. I know what the trouble is. Did you used to smoke?”

“Yes, but-”

“Thought so,” said Agatha gloomily. “You lot are like converted Catholics. I’m not having any fun any more, so you’re not going to have any either. Take this global-warming scam. They say we are taxing your hide off to save the planet. Bollocks! It all goes into that black hole called the Treasury and disappears forever and bugger-all is done to save the earth.”

To Agatha’s horror, large tears appeared in Fred’s eyes and rolled with crystal purity down her cheeks.

“Now look what you’ve done,” said George angrily. He put a comforting arm around Fred’s shoulders and handed her a clean handkerchief.