M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

Phyllis answered the door. “Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “Who’s this? The office boy?”

“Roy Silver is a friend of mine,” snapped Agatha. “We want to talk to Maggie.”

“Come in and get it over with. She’s in her shed in the garden.”

They followed her through the cottage into the garden and to a large shed at the end. The door was open and Maggie could be seen working at a potter’s wheel. When she saw them, Maggie switched off the wheel, leaving an as yet unshaped lump of clay on it.

She looked amused. “What now?”

“It appears as if your plum jam had the most LSD in it,” said Agatha.

“These are gorgeous,” exclaimed Roy, examining a bench laden with coffee cups, bowls and vases, all in beautiful coloured glazes. “You could sell them at the top shops in London.”

“I already do,” said Maggie.

“Really? How much is this bowl?”

“About two hundred pounds.”

“Blimey,” said Roy. “You should have a flat in Kensington instead of living in this poky cottage.”

“We are perfectly happy living in this village, thank you. Or rather, we were before a serpent called Agatha Raisin came into our lives.”

Agatha said loudly, “Can we get to the point? Why had your jam got such a lot of the drug in it?”

“Blessed if I know. Maybe it was the first to hand. I mean, if someone was trying to drug people, they wouldn’t be too careful about delicately measuring out the drops. Now would they?”

All Agatha’s resentment and dislike of Trixie switched to these two women. She suddenly wished the murderer would turn out to be one of them, or both. She felt like throwing some sort of bomb into what she damned as their smug, patronizing lives.

Phyllis, who had been standing behind Agatha, said, “Perhaps you should go back to murder number one.”

Agatha swung round. “Mrs. Andrews?”

“No, Sarah Selby.”

“Why her?”

“Well, dear George was in need of funds, Sarah Selby was heavily insured. Sybilla Triast-Perkins was besotted with George. Work it out.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with this case,” said Agatha.

“Why?”

“Mr. George Selby seems genuinely to be grieving the death of his wife.”

“That’s what he would like everyone to think.”

Agatha was exasperated. “Have you any proof?”

“Just intuition. I am not dazzled by George’s green eyes the way you seem to be.”

“I am a hard-working detective. I am not dazzled by anyone. I’ve been trying to find out why Maggie’s jam sample seems to have contained the most of the drug.”

“Then find out who did it and you’ll get your answer. Please leave.”

Toni was at that moment walking slowly home, feeling that at her age she ought to have a date for Saturday evening.

She heard herself being hailed and swung round. Harry Beam, Agatha’s former young detective, came running up to meet her. “How are things?” he asked.

“I suppose they’re pretty much what they were when you were working for Agatha,” said Toni, “except for the village drugging case.”

“I’d like to hear about that. Got time for a drink?”

“Sure. There’s a pub over there. But it’ll be noisy. I tell you what, come up to my place. We could buy some beer at the corner shop.”

Soon they were ensconced in Toni’s flat. After throwing out the shabby bits of furniture that had come with the flat, Toni had set about buying her own. It was a pleasant mixture of cheap assemble-it-yourself pieces and two Victorian and Edwardian ones that Toni had picked up at junk shops. A Victorian wide-seated chair was covered in chintz to disguise the fact that it had only three legs, with a sawed-down broom handle making up the missing fourth. The Edwardian bureau had water damage but had been polished to a high shine to hide its deficiencies. The only new item was a small two-seater sofa, sold cheap because it was in a brilliant shade of purple.

“This is nice,” said Harry, looking around.

“Agatha found the flat for me. She’s awfully generous.”

“You must be a very good detective,” said Harry cynically. “She’s just protecting her assets. She probably hopes you’ll be so grateful, you’ll never leave. Do you live rent-free?”

“No, she bought it for me, but I’m paying her rent each month.”

Harry was casually but expensively dressed. He had stopped shaving his head and wearing studs and earrings. Toni noticed that the jacket he had taken off and slung over the back of the sofa was of fine soft suede and his sweater cashmere.

He was tall with a strong pleasant face.

“I never really got a chance to talk to you at Agatha’s Christmas party,” said Toni, handing him a bottle of beer. “Has the university term finished?”

“Not yet. I’m home for the weekend to see my parents. Tell me about this village case.”

Toni succinctly told him everything they had found out so far.

Harry seized on one fact when Toni had finished. “You mean to say Agatha’s got the key to the strongbox?”

“So she says.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Do you think so? I think the money will be quite safe. I think some loony put LSD in the jam and won’t try anything again.”

“Look here. I’d like to see this village. I’ve got my bike parked in the square. Why don’t we take a trip over?”

“All right,” said Toni. “Maybe we’ll find out something.”

TONI ENJOYED HER RIDE on the back of Harry’s motorbike. He parked beside the churchyard wall.

“That was ace,” cried Toni, removing her helmet and handing it to Harry.

“It’s a good way of getting around Cambridge,” said Harry. “The traffic can be awful. Goodness, it’s quiet here. You’d never think it was a Saturday.”

The cobbled village street led down from the churchyard, the cottages on either side leaning towards the road, like so many elderly people, looking for support. Somewhere up on the hills surrounding the village came the sound of a tractor. A dog barked from the other end of the street. But all those sounds seemed to do was intensify the silence. It was very hot despite a little breeze.

“Where do you want to start?” asked Toni. She turned round and saw Agatha’s car. She suddenly did not want her day with Harry to be spoiled by encountering Agatha.

“I know,” she said quickly. “Back on the bike. There’s this pig farmer, Hal Bassett. He likes me. I think there’s a lot more he can tell us. It’s straight down the main street and up the hill.”

“Isn’t that Agatha?”

“Don’t let her see us,” urged Toni. “Bassett doesn’t like her and he won’t talk freely.”

They put their helmets on and raced off down the village street. “Morons,” grumbled Agatha as they roared past, not recognizing either Toni or Harry in their helmets.

The farmer seemed delighted to see Toni again. “The wife’s over in Mircester,” he said. “Who’s this?”

“Harry Beam,” said Toni.

“This your fellow?”

“Harry used to work for Agatha Raisin. He’s now studying at Cambridge,” explained Toni.

“Got away from the old bat, did you? You should do the same, Toni.”

Toni was about to flare up in Agatha’s defence but stopped herself just in time. Arguing with Hal wouldn’t elicit any information.

“Come into the house,” he said. “And we’ll have some tea, unless you would like something stronger.”

“Tea’s fine.”

They followed him into the kitchen. Harry looked around. “Your kitchen’s cool,” he said.

“It’s the stone flags and the thick walls that keeps it that way,” said Hal, not recognizing the slang. “Sit down. What brings you?”