M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

George took a deep breath. He leaned across the table and took Agatha’s hand in his. The tournedos arrived. George scowled. “This came too quickly,” he said. “I don’t like it when it comes too quickly. It looks as if it’s been precooked and just waiting in the kitchen.”

“Looks great to me,” said Agatha cheerfully. “Why don’t we eat it first and discuss businesses afterwards? And I can’t eat while you’re holding my hand.”

“Oh, right.”

George proceeded to eat and drink quickly. Between bites, Agatha talked about the weather and the disastrous results of the flooding. When she had finished eating and had embarked on yet another flooding story, George interrupted her by asking eagerly, “So, you would be interested?”

“In what?”

“In investing in this salon?”

“Would you care for dessert?” asked the waiter.

“Go away and give us a break,” snapped George. He turned his gaze back on Agatha. “Well?”

“How much?” asked Agatha.

“Oh, nothing much. Seventy-five thousand pounds.”

“That is actually a lot of money.”

“Come on, Agatha. It’s a great chance for you to make money.” Again he took her hand. “I can see a future for us,” he breathed.

“Together?”

“Why not?”

“And what would Gilda have to say about us being together?”

“Agatha, Agatha, my darling. Poor old Gilda is just a business associate.”

Agatha withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gilda is your fiancee, is she not?”

His mouth fell open.

“You’ve a bit of pureed spinach on your teeth,” commented Agatha. “It matches your eyes.”

He scrubbed his front teeth furiously with his napkin. “How did you know Gilda was my fiancee?”

“I’m a detective. I detect. And you interest me an awful lot. I think you’re in debt and the fair Gilda won’t marry you until you produce the goods. Did you get Sybilla to push your wife downstairs?”

Agatha had read in books of people’s faces going black with fury. Now she knew what the writers meant.

“No, I did not murder my wife,” hissed George. “You are a malicious old trout.”

“Now we’ve settled that,” said Agatha. “What about pudding?”

“Screw the pudding and you!”

George thrust his chair back, stood up and stormed out of the restaurant.

I might have done something dangerous, thought Agatha and called for the bill.

When she entered her cottage, carrying her stiletto shoes, she found Charles in the living room, sitting with her cats and watching television.

“Hot date?” asked Charles lazily. “Those eyelashes are a bit much.”

“I’ve been out for dinner with George Selby. Let me tell you what’s been going on.”

Charles switched off the television and listened carefully. When Agatha had finished, Charles said, “How could you do such a stupid thing? If the man really is a murderer, he’ll come after you.”

“It’s a risk I have to take,” said Agatha. “Aren’t looks so misleading? I don’t think he’ll come after me. Too obvious.”

“If he charmed Sybilla into bumping off his wife, he may get this Gilda to drop by one night and strangle you.”

“Now I’m at dead slow and stop,” said Agatha, sinking down on the sofa beside him.

“What are all those boxes of photos doing on the floor?”

“I phoned Toni before I went to sleep today and told her to go back to the vicarage and collect them. We didn’t really have time to look at them thoroughly.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Someone in former photos whose face doesn’t fit.”

“Aha! Some sinister face holding a dagger.”

“Something like that.”

“So you don’t think it’s a local?”

“Not any more. I can’t think any of them would do it. I’m going to bed.”

“What’s the programme for tomorrow?”

“Office, I suppose. What about you?”

“I feel like a lazy day. I’ll take a look at those photos for you. Did you find anything during the first search?”

“Yes. Maggie Tubby is in one of them, gazing adoringly at George. She’s got money. He took her for lunch yesterday and gave her a passionate kiss. I know what I’ll do tomorrow. I’ll pay a call on Maggie and tell her about George’s fiancee.”

“If she’s promised to invest money and you make her pull back, then dear George is really going to feel murderous. I’ll come with you.”

SHE MAY HAVE PULLED OUT ALREADY,” said Agatha as she parked in front of Maggie’s cottage. “I told Phyllis George had already been romancing me, went and listened outside their back garden and learned that George had previously tried his scam on with Phyllis and that’s when she told him Maggie had the money.”

“Let’s see the reaction anyway,” said Charles. “She’s probably still in love with him.”

“Why?”

“Obsession dies hard, doesn’t it, Aggie? Heard from James?”

“Do shut up and ring the bell.”

Maggie herself answered the door. “What is it now?” she demanded.

“May we come in?” asked Agatha.

“No.”

“Well, I may as well shout it on the doorstep. It’s about George.”

Maggie hesitated. Then she said reluctantly, “Come in, but just for a moment.”

They followed her through to her shed in the garden. “I was working,” said Maggie. She turned and faced them outside the shed door. “What is it?”

“I’ve found out that George Selby is engaged to a certain masseuse called Gilda Brenson. She won’t marry him unless he buys her a clinic in Oxford, so he’s been trying to get money out of us to fund it.”

Maggie put out a hand and leaned on the shed door. Her normally rosy cheeks had turned pale.

“It can’t be true.”

“I’m afraid it is. Did you give him any money?”

“Two hundred thousand,” said Maggie in a hoarse whisper. “He promised to marry me. I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t do that,” said Charles. “There’s been enough killing already.”

“Why don’t you tell the vicar about it?” suggested Agatha. “It may be that George has tried to get his hands on some of the money from the fête.”

“Just leave,” said Maggie. “Leave now.”

Toni received a text from Harry. “In Turkey. Back in week. Want to see u.”

Steeling herself, Toni texted back, “Don’t want see u. Got boyfriend.”

And I hope that’s that, she thought.

Her doorbell rang. At least it can’t be Harry, thought Toni, going to answer it. It was her friend Sharon.

“Feel like going to see the Living Legends?” she asked.

“I thought you were going with Simon.” Simon was Sharon’s boyfriend.

“He’s dumped me, that’s what.”

“Never!”

“Yeah. Got me to get tickets and then told me he was going with Cheryl, her with the big boobs and the nose ring.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Toni, thinking that a pop concert might be a good antidote to the feelings of inadequacy engendered in her by Harry.

While Charles went back to Agatha’s cottage to look at the old photographs, Agatha went to her office to find a local reporter, Harriet Winry, waiting for her. Harriet was a thin, bespectacled girl with bad skin and lank hair. What she lacked in looks she made up for with enthusiasm for her job.

“Nothing to report,” said Agatha curtly. “Get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

“What about that business at Comfrey Magna?” asked Harriet.

“Still investigating. Now, go away… Wait a minute. I might have a little bit of news for you, nothing much.”

“What is it?”

“Handsome widower George Selby is engaged to gorgeous masseuse Gilda Brenson. Not much, but it’d make a nice item for the local gossip column. A photo of Gilda might be worth it. She is very glamorous. Works at Bartley’s Health Farm. She’ll be leaving shortly because George is going to set her up with her own salon. To this end, he’s been begging his wealthy female friends to invest in the salon.”