M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

Agatha, finally in bed in her cottage and listening nervously to every rustling in the thatch above, decided to delegate all the agency work and return to Comfrey Magna. Even if someone had meant the LSD to be just a silly joke, two women had died and that meant unsolved murders. She somehow did not believe that Sybilla had been responsible.

THE WEATHER WAS MISERABLE. Ever since the thunderstorm, it had rained steadily, weeping from heavily laden clouds that seemed to sit on top of the Cotswolds hills.

Agatha’s cats, Hodge and Boswell, mewed disconsolately as they stared out at the deluge from the ledge in front of the kitchen window.

Everything felt damp, but the air was not cold; rather it was heavy, hot and humid. Meteorologists said it was the La Nina effect, as opposed to the El Nino, which all seemed to mean that it was guaranteed to rain and rain for weeks to come.

Agatha drove to Comfrey Magna and parked outside the vicarage. She climbed out of her car, unfurled a large umbrella and hurried to the vicarage door, wishing she had worn Wellington boots, for her shoes were soaked by the time she covered the short distance to the shelter of the front porch.

Trixie answered the door, her golden hair cascading about her shoulders. “So what now?” she asked rudely.

“I would like to have a word with your husband,” said Agatha.

“If you must. Come in. He’s in the study.”

Trixie pushed open the door of the study and wandered off. Agatha went in. Arthur was sitting at his desk with George Selby.

Agatha was taken aback at the sight of George. She had forgotten how very handsome he was. “Come in. Sit down,” said Arthur. “Arnold has just left. We have more or less finished working out where the money goes. Do you have the safe deposit key? We are going to transfer the money into an account and then, when the chequebook is issued, we will start sending out cheques.”

“The police have the key,” said Agatha. “Someone tried to break into my cottage, so I thought the key was safer there. If I had thought of it at the time, it might have been more sensible to deposit it in an account right away.”

“We all agreed to the safe deposit box,” said Arthur. “At that time, it seemed more sensible than having chequebooks lying around before we had worked out who gets the money apart from what is needed for the repairs to the roof. So many people seem to just walk into the vicarage during the day. I am sure everyone in the village is honest, but, just in case, we let everyone know that the money was in the safe deposit box. I’ll drive Arnold over to… Mircester, is it?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll pick up the key soon and arrange a time to go to the bank. Is this a social call?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were satisfied that Sybilla Triast-Perkins put LSD in the jam.”

“Alas, yes. I am afraid the poor lady had been behaving oddly these past few months. So sad. But such a relief to have the whole matter solved. I sent you a cheque for your services.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.”

“My dear lady, it is because of you that we will be able to repair the church.”

George’s grass-green eyes fastened on Agatha’s face. Could they really be that green? Or could he be wearing contact lenses?

“Mrs. Raisin…”

“Agatha, please.”

“Agatha. Can it be that you have doubts about the police verdict?”

“Well, I can’t help wondering how Sybilla got hold of something like LSD.”

“Have the police confirmed it was LSD?”

“Wait a minute.” Agatha took out her phone and called Jimmy Wilson on his mobile. “Jimmy, I forgot to ask you, was it LSD in the jam at Comfrey Magna?”

She listened carefully, thanked him and rang off. “Yes, she said. LSD it was. So how did she get her hands on it? If it was a young woman, I could imagine her getting it at a club, although even that’s odd because it’s all Ecstasy and heroin and cocaine these days, not to mention some lethal-type pot grown in greenhouses. She wasn’t a chemist at some time in her life?”

“As far as we know, she never worked,” said George. “But perhaps she had a wild youth and had some left over.”

“But why did her suicide note refer to one death and not two?”

Said the vicar, “She could hardly have been in a normal state of mind when she wrote it. Her sister is at the manor at the moment. You could ask her. But really, Agatha, our little village has settled back into its usual tranquil ways. The funerals of Mrs Andrews and Mrs. Jessop were very moving and yet healing in their way. We were all united in our grief.”

“I think I’ll go to the manor,” said Agatha. “The sister, Mrs. Unwin, might have something interesting to say.”

“Perhaps now might not be a good time,” said George. “The poor woman must still be grieving.”

“Oh, right,” said Agatha.

She left the vicarage and found Charles waiting by her car. “I thought I might find you here,” he said. “What’s all this about suicide at the manor?”

Agatha gave him all the details and her suspicions that Sybilla’s suicide note had been referring to the murder of Sarah Selby rather than the jam at the fête.

“I’ve been warned off at the vicarage against going to see her,” she finished by saying.

Charles grinned. “And that’s not going to stop you?”

“No.”

“Right. Leave your car and we’ll take mine.”

The rain was coming down in torrents by the time they reached the manor. The door was standing open.

“Anybody home?” called Agatha. Rainwater was dripping through the roof into several buckets placed about the hall.

A plump, fussy woman appeared in the hall. “What do you want?”

“Mrs. Unwin?”

“Yes?”

“I am Agatha Raisin…”

“You’re that wretched woman who started all this off by interfering in the village fête! Get out of here.”

“And this,” said Agatha loudly, “is Sir Charles Fraith.”

Oh, the magic of a title, thought Agatha cynically, as Mrs. Unwin visibly thawed. “I suppose it will do no harm to speak to you for a little,” she said. “Come into the drawing room. Would you like some tea or coffee, Sir Charles?”

“It’s all right,” said Charles. “You’ve obviously got a lot to do with all these leaks.”

“That was so like my sister,” complained Cassandra Unwin as she led the way into the sitting room. “Never had any repairs done.”

“Will you sell this place?” asked Charles.

“I’ll need to fix it up. Mind you, a builder would pay a lot for it. Knock down the house and put a housing estate on the land.”

“Wasn’t this your family home?” asked Agatha.

“We grew up here, but I don’t have any happy memories. If Sybilla hadn’t insisted on hanging on to the place, she might have made a better life for herself. But suicide! I can’t take it in. She can’t have been responsible for anything like putting LSD in the jam. Where would she get it?”

“Your sister only referred to one death in her note,” said Agatha, “and yet there were two caused by the LSD.”

“Well, I don’t suppose she was sane when she wrote that.”

“I believe she was very fond of a Mr. George Selby,” said Agatha, cautiously feeling her way through what she saw as a minefield of difficult questions.

“She talked a lot about him. I think she even had a sort of schoolgirl crush on him. Why do you ask?”

Charles saw that Agatha was going to jump in with both metaphorical hobnailed boots, and said hurriedly, “We wondered whether he had called on you. Perhaps he might have a better idea as to your sister’s state of mind.”