M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“Thank goodness her car is red,” said Agatha. “I wonder where she’s going. She’s heading towards Woodstock. Oh, look, now she’s turning off. I know, there’s an expensive health farm along this road. It’s called Bartley’s. I’ve often thought of going there for a weekend. She doesn’t know us, so we can follow her right in, if that’s where she’s going.”

Sure enough, the blonde turned in at the gates of the health farm. “Right,” said Agatha, when they saw her enter the building. “We’ll give it a few moments and then go in and ask for a tour of the place.”

In answer to Agatha’s query, the receptionist said their public relations officer would be glad to take them around and show them the facilities. Agatha stifled a yawn as they moved from treatment room to treatment room and then studied health food menus. Then Agatha caught a glimpse of George’s blonde, now dressed in a white overall, going into one of the rooms. “Who is that?” she asked. “I think I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

“Oh, that’s Gilda Brenson, one of our masseuses.”

“No, I don’t know her. But is she good?”

“The best. But I fear we might soon be losing her. Gilda is getting married and her future husband is going to set her up in a clinic of her own. Now, if you will just follow me, I will show you our gym…”

At the end of the tour, Agatha said brightly, “It all looks splendid. I shall probably book in for a week before Christmas. But I wonder if I could ask a favour? I really could do with a massage. I would gladly pay you for Gilda’s services if she has a free appointment this morning.”

“Come to the reception desk with me and I’ll see what we can do.”

The receptionist said that Gilda would be free in half an hour, so Agatha and Toni settled down to wait.

Agatha saw a reflection of herself in a mirror opposite where they were sitting. Her skirt was creased and she had a ladder in one leg of her tights. Beside her reflection, Toni glowed with youth and health.

At last, Agatha was ushered into the massage room and told to remove her clothes and lie on the massage table. She winced as she climbed on.

“Trouble with your hip?” asked Gilda.

“No,” said Agatha defiantly. “Nothing up with me at all.” She did not want to admit to having arthritis even to herself.

Gilda was indeed good at her job. Agatha nearly fell asleep but remembered in time why she was there.

“I hear you will shortly be leaving,” said Agatha.

“Yes. I am going to be married and then my fiance says he will set me up in a clinic of my own. There is a good location near the centre of Oxford.”

“That will be expensive,” commented Agatha. “You are lucky to be marrying such a rich man. What does he do for a living?”

“He is a very successful architect.”

“Have you known him a long time?”

“For a few years. He wanted to marry me before, but I always refused. I told him, I need a business of my own for security.”

Agatha fell silent, her brain whirring. Why was George courting rich women? Did he plan to get them so enamoured with him that they would invest in this clinic? A few years? Was he courting her while his wife was alive? She decided she must try to secure another date with George and see if he suggested anything like that. She did not want to ask Gilda any more questions in case she became suspicious. Agatha knew she would have to pay by credit card. She did not have enough cash with her. She could only hope Gilda would not be curious enough to ask at reception for her name. Fortunately, in booking her in, the receptionist had not asked for her name because it was an on-the-spot arrangement.

After the session was over, Agatha paid at the desk and then reluctantly asked Toni to drive her back to Mircester because she was feeling exhausted.

Toni said she was happy to go to work for the rest of the day. Agatha lied and said she had something to check up on, all the while planning to head straight home and go to bed.

When she awoke, she decided to try to get in touch with George.

George Selby sounded at first surprised and then delighted when Agatha invited him out to dinner that evening.

Agatha had chosen Mircester’s most expensive restaurant, Henri’s, for dinner. She hoped the atmosphere of discreet lighting and tables set well apart would set the scene for an intimate conversation, and she cynically guessed that the price of the dishes on the menu would endear her to George.

She brushed her thick brown hair until it shone and made up her face carefully. The evening was not warm enough for a summer dress, so she chose to wear one of rich gold fine jersey, flattering to her figure.

Agatha drove wearing flat heels, changed into a pair of stilettos in Mircester car park and tottered towards the restaurant.

George was already there, and her heart gave a treacherous little flutter when she saw him. She hoped he would turn out to be a really fine person after all. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit, white shirt, and silk tie. Those magnetic green eyes of his lit up when he saw her.

“Your invitation came as a nice surprise,” he said when she sat down. “You are looking very well. What’s this in aid of?”

Agatha fluttered false eyelashes, hoping they would not fall off. “I should have thought asking a handsome man to dinner would not need any explanation,” she said. “Do choose something nice to eat.”

“Shall I choose for both of us?”

Something unholy flickered across Agatha’s bearlike eyes and then she forced a smile.

“Go ahead.”

As she had expected, he started to order the most expensive items on the menu-a dozen oysters each to begin, followed by tournedos Rossini. He ordered a bottle of white wine to go with the oysters and a vintage claret to accompany the steak.

“Now, do tell me about yourself,” said Agatha. “We’ve never really had a chance to talk properly. I’m afraid that last time I did all the talking.”

“Oh, business is very successful,” said George. “I’ve been working hard.”

“I find clever investment is a good idea,” said Agatha. “I mean, it is better to use money to make money rather than leaving it to just lie in the bank.”

“Exactly!” beamed George. “Here are our oysters.”

Agatha fortunately liked oysters, but she could have sworn that George did not. She guessed he was eating them because he thought it the sophisticated thing to do. He was certainly washing them down with a large amount of wine, which suited Agatha, who wanted to keep a clear head. She suddenly wondered if he came from a poor background.

“You were talking about investments,” said George. He had swallowed the last of his oysters with a look on his face reminiscent of a child taking medicine.

“Yes.”

“I have something that might interest you.”

“Do go on.”

“I have a friend who is starting her own beauty salon in Oxford.” George leaned his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on Agatha’s face. “The thing is this. Beauty salons used to be only for the rich, but now there is more money around, all sorts of ordinary people want massage, tanning and non-surgical facelifts. It can’t fail.”

“Sounds good. What is the name of this friend?”

“Why?”

“Simple question.”

“Gilda Brenson.”

“So what is she selling? Shares? If it’s not up and running, she can hardly have floated the salon as a company on the stock market.”

“No, the offer would be this. You would get two per cent of the net profits.”

“Now, that’s not good. I would only be interested in two per cent of the gross. How much would you want me to invest?”