M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“I don’t know.”

“He has parents in Mircester, does he not?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “Since he doesn’t want sex with Toni and he’s still in Cambridge, he’s probably shacked up with some bit of tottie.”

Mrs. Bloxby looked quickly at Toni’s downcast face. “You weren’t in love with him, were you?” she asked.

Toni shook her head. ““I was flattered, that’s all.”

“University students are ten a penny,” said Agatha bracingly, “but good detectives like you are very rare. I know. Work might take your mind off it. Let’s go to Comfrey Magna tomorrow and see if we can dig anything up.”

I wonder what it is that Mrs. Raisin wants to take her own mind off, thought Mrs. Bloxby, but she did not say anything.

THE FACT WAS THAT Agatha had forgotten about George turning up half an hour late at the restaurant and that he had ordered her meal. What might have been a squalid night of sex that she would bitterly regret, her romantic mind turned into a dream opportunity that had been missed.

As she parked the car in Comfrey Magna the next morning, she said, “I would like to meet Fred Corrie again. See what you think of her. She’s probably in church. We’ll wait for her.”

“Is that a good idea?” asked Toni. “She might come out with a bunch of people. Did she strike you as the sort of female to go to church?”

“Well, she was running that tombola stand, so probably. I know, we’ll drive along to her cottage and wait.”

The day was unusually cold. There were large heavy grey rain clouds on the horizon. “What a lousy summer it’s turned out to be,” mourned Agatha.

“It really is an odd village,” said Toni. “So quiet.”

“They’re all probably in church.”

“That’s one of the things that’s odd. It seems to me as if only a few old people go to church these days.”

“There seem to be a lot of old people here.” Agatha peered in the rear-view mirror. “Oh, God’s waiting room full of villagers is just coming out.”

“Do you see Fred?”

“Not yet. George is there.” Agatha’s heart gave a lurch. She had a sudden impulse to reverse right back up the village street to the church, but she controlled it.

“I think Fred is at home,” said Toni. “I saw one of the curtains twitch. We’d better go and knock. She’ll be wondering what on earth we’re doing sitting here.”

Agatha experienced a certain reluctance as she got out of the car. She knew Fred’s fey appearance was going to make her feel lumbering and ungainly. If the chemists could ever come up with a bottle of something labelled “Self-Respect” that actually worked, they could make millions, she thought.

The door opened just as they arrived on the step. Fred, as dainty as ever, was wearing an emerald-green smock over white linen shorts, and her feet were bare. Her toenails were painted emerald green.

“Really sorry to trouble you again,” began Agatha, “but I wanted to ask you some more questions.”

“Such as? Oh, you’d better come in.”

Although the windows were open, Toni smelled the faint scent of pot.

“Now what?” asked Fred. Agatha sank down onto a very low sofa and immediately regretted it. She twisted her legs sideways so as not to expose her knickers.

“I keep harking back in my mind to the morning of the fête,” said Agatha. “You were out very early.”

“I told you that,” said Fred in a bored voice.

“Can you remember anything that might help? A sound?”

“Like what?”

“A car moving off, footsteps, someone scrabbling to unfasten the tent flap?”

“Just the usual dawn chorus.”

“Have you lived in the village for long?” asked Toni.

“For five years.”

“I wondered if you heard any gossip,” pursued Toni. “Anything about anyone that might lead you to suspect them of being capable of putting LSD in the jam.”

“I am used to country life,” said Fred. “This is a tightly knit community. Most people are churchgoers. All very respectable.”

“And yet,” said Agatha, “there is a rumour that Mr. George Selby’s wife was murdered by Miss Triast-Perkins.”

“Rubbish! Utter rot! And why are you still poking about? Sybilla committed suicide and confessed.”

“But in her suicide note she referred to one murder, only one.”

“The woman was as nutty as a fruitcake. Are you short of work or something, considering one of your own detectives took the church money and killed Arnold? Just go away and stop wasting my time.”

She watched with cold eyes as Toni helped Agatha out of the depths of the sofa.

After Agatha had parked the car beside the churchyard wall, Agatha asked Toni, “What did you make of her?”

“She smokes pot.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, she had opened the windows, but I could smell it.”

“And to think she got so upset when I wanted to light up a cigarette! I tell you, it’s positively PC these days to smoke pot but not nicotine.”

“Not any longer,” said Toni. “They say the new stuff on the market is so strong it causes things like schizophrenia.”

“If she’s into pot, she could be into something stronger, like acid.”

“A lot of people smoke pot. It’s easily come by,” said Toni.

“I’d send you round the clubs trying to find LSD, but I don’t want you to get into trouble again.”

“It wouldn’t work,” said Toni. “Ever since I was on television on that last case, everyone will know I’m a detective and back off. I can ask my friend, Sharon. I wonder what the life of LSD is. Whether it has a sell-by date?”

“Why?”

“Because it might be an idea to find out if any of the suspects has had a wild youth.”

Agatha frowned in thought. “We’ve got to start somewhere. I know, let’s go to the vicarage and ask if they’ve got a collection of photographs of previous fêtes. See if anyone looks odd. Maybe they’ve got some old photographs.”

“You mean like, say, Mrs. Glarely dressed as a hippy?”

“Something like that. We’ve really got nothing else to go on.”

The vicar himself opened the door to them. “Can I help you?” His voice was unwelcoming. “The case is closed and the money has been returned-money taken by one of your detectives who, no doubt, murdered Arnold.”

“True. But we recovered that money for you,” said Agatha briskly. “We are still trying to find out who killed Mrs. Jessop and Mrs. Andrews.”

“The police say it was probably a youthful prank gone wrong.”

“I’d like to be sure.”

“I do not see how I can be of any help to you.”

“We wondered,” said Toni, “if you had old photographs of the previous fêtes, going back a bit. We might see someone there who shouldn’t be. I mean, all the previous ones must have been very small affairs.”

The vicar hesitated. Then he said reluctantly, “I suppose there is no harm in your looking. You must come and wait. I have boxes and boxes of them in the attic.”

“I’m sure you’re awfully busy,” said Toni eagerly. “Just lead us up to the attic and we’ll do the searching ourselves.”

The vicar looked relieved. When they had reached the first landing, Trixie appeared at the foot of the stairs and called out, “Where are you taking them?”

“Just to the attic. They want to look at our old photographs.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’ll tell you when I come down.”

As in all old Cotswold buildings, the stairs grew steeper as they climbed higher. Agatha’s bad hip gave a sinister twinge, reminding her that the hip injection she had paid for had been responsible for the recent absence of pain, and not, as she had desperately hoped, to the fact that she had not been suffering from arthritis at all.