M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“Mr. Birntweather was old, with a dowager’s hump, thick glasses and dyed brown hair. The impostor looked exactly like that.”

“But how did the impostor get the number of the safe deposit box?” asked Agatha.

“Arnold Birntweather had a card inside his wallet with the number of the box on it. It was conveniently marked, ‘Safe deposit box number eleven.’”

“Snakes and bastards! When I went to see that precious pair, Tolling and Tubby, they told me that everyone in the village knew I had the safe deposit key, which probably explains the break-in at my cottage.”

“Do be careful, Agatha. I’d better get back to work.”

“Wait a bit. What about fingerprints?”

“Everyone knows about fingerprints these days.”

“CCTV cameras at the bank?”

“There’s a thought. You’d better come to headquarters with me and look at the film. See if you can penetrate that disguise somehow and recognize someone from that village.”

At police headquarters, Agatha studied the security tape film. Bill waited impatiently.

“Well?” he demanded at last.

“It’s odd,” said Agatha. “But I really do think that’s Arnold.”

“Mr. Birntweather?”

“Yes. I don’t think any impostor could be that good. Have you any footage of the street outside the bank?”

“I’ll run it for you. Why?”

“Maybe someone was waiting for him-someone who had threatened him.”

Bill slotted in another tape. Agatha saw Arnold climbing stiffly out of his old Morris Minor. “Look!” said Agatha.

“What?”

“Run that again. A car with tinted windows pulled in right behind him.”

“This is a very long shot, Agatha. I’ll check the number plate. Wait there.”

Agatha continued to study the tapes.

Then the door opened and Bill, Wilkes and Collins came in. Bill said, “You’re on to something. That car was stolen during the floods. It belongs to a respectable shopkeeper in Badsey.”

“You can go now,” said Collins.

“No ‘thank you’?” demanded Agatha. “I thought you had gone to Scotland Yard. Did they send you back?”

“Just get out of here!” snapped Collins.

Bill escorted Agatha out. “I thought she’d gone,” said Agatha.

“She did. But for some reason she came back and now we’re stuck with her. Thanks, Agatha. You’re a great help.”

Before she drove off, Agatha phoned Charles on his mobile, but as usual, it was switched off. She couldn’t text him a message because, even though she had a state-of-the-art mobile, not only did she not know how to text, she did not know how to take photographs or send e-mails. She phoned his home and for once she was in luck. Charles himself answered, rather than his man, Gustav, or his aunt. Agatha told him about the latest development.

“Where are you?” asked Charles.

“Just about to leave Mircester.”

“I’ll meet you at your cottage.”

“Thank goodness it’s dry at last,” said Charles. “But it’s cold. Mind if I light the fire?”

“Go ahead,” said Agatha. “Doris has it all set and ready.” Doris was Agatha’s cleaner and about the only person in the village who called Agatha by her first name. “I’ll fix the drinks.”

When Charles was comfortably settled in an armchair, cradling a glass of whisky and watching the flames leap up the chimney, he asked, “Any ideas?”

“My money’s on Trixie.”

“Come on! The vicar’s wife? Can you see her stealing a car and threatening poor Arnold?”

“I’m sure she deliberately tried to spoil the accounts.”

“What’s all this?”

Agatha lit a cigarette, scowled at it and put it out. Cigarettes in the morning tasted great, but later in the day, they’d lost their magic.

“I was with Roy, and Arnold and the vicar were sorting through the accounts at a table in the garden. Trixie arrived with a jug of lemonade and I swear she deliberately tipped it over the papers.”

“And were they ruined?”

“Well, no. It was sunny. Remember sunshine? I suggested we pin them up to dry. Arnold told me they were okay. Now, if Trixie had been squirrelling some of the money away and doctoring the accounts, Arnold might have known about it, but straightened it out with the vicar, not wanting any scandal.”

“I can’t believe it. Look, there were a lot of unsavoury things going on during the floods. Cars left on dry ground were being stolen. The gossip about the safe deposit box could have spread out from beyond the village. Put on the news and see if there’s anything.”

“Let’s see if they’ve done better than their coverage of the floods. Hopeless. I had to turn on the radio to get any proper news. All there was on TV was some reporter’s great face blocking off the screen talking to the man in the studio. And they were all in Tewksbury. It’s the herd instinct. They’ve always had it. One reporter puts on his waders and stands in a flooded street in Tewksbury and the other reporters promptly head for Tewksbury to do the same, along with their cameramen. I’ll try the BBC 24 Hour News.”

They waited patiently through the usual dismal round of international news until suddenly the announcer said, “The village of Comfrey Magna is in shock tonight.” A brief summary of the disastrous fête and the theft of the money. “And now to our reporter, Alan Freeze, in Comfrey Magna, who interviewed the vicar, Mr. Arthur Chance, early this morning.”

“I am here with the vicar, Mr. Arthur Chance, and Mrs. Chance. This must be a sad blow, Mr. Chance.”

“It’s a disaster,” said Arthur Chance. Trixie stood beside him dressed in a long black gown with a low neck.

“I bet those breasts aren’t real,” muttered Agatha.

“I don’t know what to do,” Arthur went on, his voice trembling. “The church roof is leaking and there is no longer any money for the repairs.” He burst into tears. Trixie pressed his head into her bosom and stared nobly into the camera.

“Mrs. Chance?” pursued the reporter.

“I must take my poor husband indoors,” said Trixie. “It is not only the church roof that the money was needed for but for the families of the two ladies who were killed during the fête.” She tossed back her blonde hair but still managed to clutch her sobbing husband to her chest.

Her eyes filled with tears and she said with a little break in her voice, “Please help us.”

Then she escorted her husband into the vicarage.

“And now to the Middle East,” said the presenter.

“Switch it off,” said Agatha. “What a performance!”

“It was pretty moving,” said Charles.

“Oh, the vicar was genuine. But did you see how Trixie said ‘Help us’? Not ‘Help us find who did this terrible murder.’ She’s hoping for donations, and she’ll get them.”

Charles finished his drink. “You’re too cynical. We’ll pop over to Comfrey Magna in the morning.” He stood up and stretched and yawned. “I’m off to bed.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Coming with me?”

“My days of casual sex are over,” said Agatha.

“Didn’t know they’d ever started. Good night.”

After he had gone, Agatha sat looking into the flames, her cats beside her on the sofa. She felt strangely empty and purposeless. For so long, her obsession for James, her ex-husband, had fuelled all her actions. She missed the roller coaster of emotions. She even missed the pain.

“At least I felt alive,” she whispered to her uncaring cats.

The morning was cold, damp and misty as Agatha drove herself and Charles to Comfrey Magna. At one point she said to Charles, “I forgot to find out about Jimmy Wilson.”

“What about him?” asked Charles.

“There’s something unsavoury about him. I asked Patrick to find out why he took early retirement from the police force. He made a pass at Toni.”