M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“I c-can’t s-stand angry voices,” hiccupped Fred.

“Sorry,” said Agatha gruffly. “Got a bit carried away.”

“I f-forgive you.” Fred dabbed at her eyes, but as she lowered the handkerchief, Agatha caught a look of steely venom before she smiled and said, “Silly little me.”

“There, now,” said George. “No one could call you silly.”

The food arrived. Fred talked animatedly to George about people Agatha did not know. The pair seemed to have forgotten her existence.

At least she would have George to herself when he ran her home. Her mind drifted off. She would invite him in for a drink. Perhaps light the logs in the fire. Soft lights. She would be comforting. Get him to talk about his wife. Sit next to him on the sofa and hold his hand, and…

“Oh dear, what’s the matter, George? Are you getting one of your migraines?”

“I think I’ve got one coming on,” said George, “but I’ve got to run Agatha home.”

“I’ll do that,” said Fred. “Off you go and take your pills.”

At that moment, Charles sauntered into the pub. “Hi, Aggie.”

“Oh, Charles,” said Agatha with relief. “Can you run me home? George here has a migraine coming on.”

“What about a drink first?”

“We’ll get one at my place.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Agatha made hurried introductions. Charles smiled at Fred but was soon hustled out of the pub by Agatha.

“What did you do to upset that fair maiden? Her eyes were red,” said Charles as he drove off.

“She was complaining about me wanting to smoke.”

Charles grinned. “And you blasted her?”

“Not quite. There was no reason for her to start to cry. You know, I am sure that one can cry at will. Nasty little actress. Also, she was around setting up the dreary tombola stand at dawn before the fête got started. She could easily have sneaked into the tent and put LSD in the jam.”

“You’re jealous. You are ruthlessly pursuing George and I bet you don’t even know the first thing about him.”

“Talk about something else,” growled Agatha.

“Okay. Don’t you think it’s possible that one of the young people at the show doctored the jam?”

“No. They weren’t interested in any of the exhibits. They all came to hear Betsy. Trust me. It was one of the locals. Anyway, I’ve proof the jam was doctored before the fête opened. I’ve taken on a new detective, Jimmy Wilson. He’s supposed to have good contacts with the police. I’ll ask him to find out if the police know how many were affected with the LSD and who they are. Apart from a few young people who might have got some of the stuff after the word went around, I think we’ll find it was the locals who suffered. Apart from the women who contributed the jam and one pig farmer who loves the stuff and the lady of the manor, I really don’t think anyone else in the village was much interested. It’s more of a hamlet than a village, and I think most of them had something on display at one of the other tents.”

Disappointed and feeling silly over her pursuit of George, Agatha decided to concentrate on work the next day. She gave instructions to Jimmy Wilson to find out who had been affected by the drugged jam. Then she settled down to work on other cases until some of the fuss had died down.

The following day, Jimmy came in with his report. He said, “The police cleared the tent when they heard about the possibility of drugs. They said only six teenagers managed to get hold of seemed to be a bit spaced out. The forensic reports on the jam are not yet in because, despite what you see on TV, it takes ages. But it seems that both Mrs. Jessop and Mrs. Andrews each had a good taste of Miss Tubby’s plum jam. They think there might have been more in that dish than in any of the others, or even that only a few of the dishes might have been drugged.”

“Surely they can find that out quickly,” complained Agatha. “It’s a simple test. Doesn’t need a DNA expert.”

“Well, it may do,” said Jimmy, “if they want to find out who handled the dish.”

Agatha groaned. She began to have an uneasy feeling that this might be the one case she could not solve. She would not admit to herself that her defeatist feelings were because she now felt a fool for having so blatantly pursued George.

That evening, Toni braced herself to clear up matters with Bill. He wanted her to come to his home for dinner, but Toni said she would rather have a quiet drink in a pub because there was something personal they needed to discuss.

Bill met her, looking wary. His previous girlfriends, the few that had been straight with him before dumping him, had always said seriously that they wanted to discuss something personal.

After he had bought them drinks, he said wearily, “Out with it. We’ll always be friends, and yakkety-yak.”

“It’s just that I don’t love you-meaning, I’m not in love with you,” said Toni bravely, “and what’s more, you’re not in love with me.”

“That’s not true!” protested Bill. “Mum and Dad were so pleased. Dad was even going to find a house for us…”

His voice trailed away before the startled expression on Toni’s face.

“Look, Bill,” she said gently, “you can’t marry someone just because your parents like them. And any girl you turn out to be really in love with won’t want your parents butting in to choose where you are going to live once you are married. We’ve never even been to bed together. And that’s because neither of us has been carried away by passion.”

“What do you know about passion?” asked Bill sulkily.

“Nothing. But I’d like to. Think about it, Bill. You must have come across someone at some time you felt you couldn’t live without.”

Bill sat in silence, remembering at least two girls he had yearned after, dreamed about, but somehow, after he had taken them home, romance had died.

“You’ve been trying to suit your parents,” Toni went on. “Next time, try to find someone you want and don’t take the girl home until after you’ve got the ring on her finger.”

“I love my parents,” said Bill.

“And I envy you that,” said Toni. “At least you know who your father is. My mum will never tell me about my father and sometimes I even wonder whether she knows herself.”

“Is she still sober?”

“Yes, and doing very well.”

“Well, that’s that,” said Bill. “I mean-us.”

“I know you don’t want to hear about the friends bit,” said Toni. “But honestly, I think we were really meant to be friends.”

Bill gave a reluctant smile. “Sometimes, Toni, you seem older than Agatha.”

AT THE END of the following working day, Toni was filing her notes on a case, glad it was over. Because of previous successes, she was often given work for women who wanted to make sure their husbands were not having affairs.

Jimmy Wilson strolled in. “Evening, babes,” he said. “Fancy a pint?”

“No, thanks,” said Toni. “Not tonight.” Jimmy was chubby and somehow he seemed to fill the small office with an oppressive, sweaty presence. Toni had already decided she did not like him. Phil Marshall was a gentleman. Patrick Mulligan looked and behaved like the hard-working copper he used to be, but there was something unhealthy about Jimmy. Toni wondered why he had taken early retirement. It was supposed to be because he had contracted cancer, but she felt sure, somehow, it had been because of some other reason. She moved towards the door. He barred her way.

“C’mon,” he said. “Just one drink.”

The door behind him swung open, banging into his back. He stepped aside as Agatha strode in, her bearlike eyes darting from Toni’s embarrassed face to Jimmy’s grinning one.