M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

Agatha scowled. “Something like that.”

“You’ll just have to be a big girl and go. Wish him well. Be a lady.”

“Oh, all right. That must be why Roy is coming down this weekend. He must have had an invitation as well. Probably thinks my hand needs holding.”

“That’s what friends are for. Are you any further forward with finding out who put acid in the jam?”

“Not a clue. But I’m beginning to wonder a lot about George Selby.”

“You’ve spiked his guns. He’ll probably move to another village and start all over again. Now, I’d better be going. I just came back to give you the photographs.”

“Can’t you stay for a meal?”

“One of your frozen curries? No, thanks. Probably be around later in the week.”

The following day Agatha worked hard, because there was a backlog of unsolved cases. By the time she finished up, it was seven o’clock. She bought a copy of the Mircester newspaper before driving home. Once she had fussed over her cats and settled down at the kitchen table, she opened the newspaper and scanned the items. On page seven, there was a photo of Gilda posed outside the health farm, looking very glamorous. The headline was, “Architect Needs Money Before He Can Wed.” The story said that local architect George Selby was pleading with rich friends to put money into his glamorous fiancee’s venture of opening up her own clinic; otherwise she would not marry him. “‘I think he will get the necessary money,’ said beautiful Gilda Brenson yesterday. ‘He knows I must have my own business before I marry. Careers last, men don’t.’” The story went on to say that Mr. Selby lived in Comfrey Magna, scene of that disastrous fête where two women met their death after sampling jam heavily laced with LSD. It ended by saying that Mr. George Selby was unavailable for comment.

“I bet he is,” muttered Agatha.

There was a ring at the doorbell. Agatha got wearily to her feet and clutched her hip. She didn’t want a hip replacement. Not yet, surely. So ageing. She opened the door.

A furious George Selby thrust her into the hall. “You horrible old bat!” he yelled. “You got that story in the local rag.” He had Agatha by the shoulders and was shaking her.

“Are you going to k-kill m-me the w-way you k-killed your w-wife?” shouted Agatha.

He drew back his fist and punched her hard on the face. “I could kill you.”

Mrs. Bloxby, finding the door opened, had just walked in, clutching a jar of home-made chutney. She rushed forward and brought the jar down on George’s head and he slumped to the floor.

“Mrs. Raisin! Are you all right?”

“Thanks to you.”

Mrs. Bloxby knelt down by George. “Call an ambulance.”

“I’m calling the police as well,” said Agatha.

After what seemed an interminable wait, George was borne off in an ambulance. Two policemen had arrived and were taking notes. One turned to Mrs. Bloxby. “You are to come to the station with us and we caution you that anything-”

“What? Why?” screamed Agatha.

“We are charging you with causing grievous bodily harm.”

“You’re mad. She saved my life!” shouted Agatha and burst into tears.

Wilkes was furious when he learned the news. He knew officers were under constant pressure by the government to meet targets, but he knew the scandal the arrest of Mrs. Bloxby would cause. He had to interrupt Agatha, who was holding a press conference outside the police station about the iniquities of the force, to announce that no charges were being brought against Mrs. Bloxby. He warned Agatha not to say anything about it as, when George Selby recovered from what turned out to be a straightforward concussion, he would be put on trial.

But there was nothing he could do to stop the press from taking pictures of Mrs. Bloxby as she emerged from police headquarters. Bill Wong drove them both back to Carsely. Wearily, Agatha told him all about George’s engagement and how he had been trying to get money to fund Gilda’s clinic.

“Leave it alone,” urged Bill when she had finished. “I don’t think we’ll ever know whether he conspired with Sybilla to kill his wife, but I don’t really see what we can do about it now.”

“Is Mr. Selby going to be all right?” asked Mrs. Bloxby nervously.

“Yes. By the time the ambulance had got him to hospital, he was conscious and phoning his lawyer. You’re a brave woman. Agatha, are you sure you shouldn’t have gone to hospital for a check-up? There’s a huge bruise coming up on your cheek.”

“I’m fine.”

Bill wondered whether to mention that he had received an invitation to James’s engagement party and then decided against it.

When they arrived at Agatha’s cottage, Bill offered to drive Mrs. Bloxby on to the vicarage, but she refused, saying she wanted to talk to Agatha.

“I’ll be off, then,” said Bill. “We’re friends, right, Agatha? So if you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m always there for you.”

“What would I want to cry about?” said Agatha defiantly. “My face isn’t that sore.”

When Bill had driven off, Mrs. Bloxby followed Agatha into her cottage. “The police took away the chutney,” she said. “Good glass. It didn’t even break. Let me make you a cup of tea.”

“I’d like a stiff brandy.”

“Hot sweet tea is better for shock.”

“Brandy is for forgetting. I’ll get it. What about you?”

“A sherry would be nice.”

“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby, after she had taken a little sip of sherry, “I received an invitation today to Mr. Lacey’s engagement party.”

“Oh, I knew all about that,” said Agatha airily.

Mrs. Bloxby studied her friend’s face.

Agatha crumpled. “Well, actually I didn’t know. And, yes, it was a shock.”

“But you didn’t want him any more.”

“I know. But I’m getting on and… and… as long as I thought he still wanted me, it meant there was someone out there who did. I can’t stand the idea of everyone pitying me and thinking I’ll be in mourning. I hate being pitied!”

“No one will pity you if you turn up at that party and give him your blessing.”

“I rather thought of not going.”

“Then everyone will pity you.”

“Snakes and bastards!” Agatha let out a puff of angry cigarette smoke and took a gulp of brandy. “I wonder what she’s like?”

“There’s only one way to find out. Go.”

“I suppose so. I wonder why. I mean, he always struck me as a confirmed bachelor. Even when we were married, he went on as if I were some sort of junior officer. Look, thank you so much for saving me. I wonder if George really would have killed me?”

“He’s a dangerous man,” said Mrs. Bloxby with a shudder. “I’d better get back to the vicarage.”

As she walked through the hall, Mrs. Bloxby said, “A bit of the jar must have broken after all. Look! There’s a bit of glass on the floor.” She bent down and picked it up. “It’s a contact lens, a green contact lens.”

Agatha grinned. “So much for George’s beautiful green eyes.”

When Agatha met Roy as he arrived by train on Friday, she had to endure being clasped to his thin bosom. “You poor, poor darling,” said Roy.

“Get off me!” snarled Agatha. “If you think I am in mourning over James’s engagement, forget about it.”

“There’s no need to be so rude,” retorted Roy angrily. “Really, sweetie, it’s a wonder you’ve got any friends left, the way you go on.”

“I can’t stand the idea of everyone being sorry for me,” said Agatha. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Come along. I’ll take you for dinner.”

Roy was dressed conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt and striped silk tie. “Sticky account?” asked Agatha sympathetically.