M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“Very sticky. Jason’s Country Clothes. I’ve to make a big push to promote them.”

“Then I would have thought you’d have been kitted out in a Barbour and shooting breeches.”

“I was,” said Roy as they walked to Agatha’s car, his thin face flushed with annoyance. “I even wore a tweed fishing hat and the managing director said I looked ridiculous.”

“You weren’t wearing your gold earring with the fishing hat, were you?”

“Well, I was. I forgot to take it off. I’ve got some casuals in my bag.”

After they had dined and returned to the cottage, Roy asked, “What are all those boxes of old photos doing on your kitchen table?”

Agatha told him. “I’ve been through them, and so has Charles.”

“I’m not tired,” said Roy. “Fix me a coffee and I’ll have a look.”

Agatha made him a cup of coffee and took herself off to bed. She was awakened an hour later by Roy shaking her. “Leave me alone, Charles,” she mumbled.

“It’s not him, it’s me,” said Roy.

Agatha switched on the bedside light and struggled up against the pillows. “What’s up? Found something?”

“It’s what I haven’t found which is interesting.”

“That being?”

“It’s what’s not there. There’s no photo of the vicar’s wedding.”

“Well, they’d hardly have it with the rest,” complained Agatha. “I bet it’s framed in silver somewhere in the vicarage. What did you think? They might not really be married?”

“Something like that.”

“Dream on.”

“We could nip over there tomorrow. I didn’t like Trixie.”

“Neither did I. Oh, very well. The vicar might have heard some gossip.”

Roy and Agatha set out next morning for Comfrey Magna. Roy was wearing a white silk blouson with skintight blue velvet trousers and ankle boots with stacked heels. Agatha reflected that the jeering comment that some man looked like a big girl’s blouse could certainly apply to Roy, but she held her tongue. If she criticized his dress, she was sure he would sulk for the rest of the day.

Agatha had phoned the police earlier that morning to say she would not be pressing charges against George. She had no desire to appear in court to be ripped apart in public by some defence counsel.

Arthur Chance opened the door to them himself. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Do come in. I am so sorry about Mr. Selby. The poor man must have been terribly overwrought, but all things end happily.”

“Really?” Agatha and Roy followed him in. “How happy?” asked Agatha when they were seated in the vicarage living room.

“Mr. Selby-George-called on me this morning. He checked himself out of hospital. He gave me the glad news.”

“That he and Gilda are to be married?”

“That was merely a fabrication of the press. No, he is to be married to Miss Frederica Corrie.”

“What! That’s sudden.”

“Evidently they had been courting for some time.”

“And you believe that rubbish?”

“She doesn’t want to,” came his wife’s amused voice. “She’s jealous.”

“Rubbish,” said Agatha. “I’ll bet dear Fred is rich.”

“Pots of money,” said Trixie.

“Well, there’s your answer.”

“Please leave,” said the vicar. “I don’t like your unchristian comments. You have brought nothing but tragedy to this village.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t spike the jam. I didn’t steal the money.”

“You heard hubby,” said Trixie, her eyes sparkling with malice. “Take your toy boy and shove off.”

Agatha opened her mouth to blast her, but Roy pulled at her arm. “Let’s just get out of here,” he said.

Outside the vicarage, Agatha said, “We’re going to see Gilda. I wonder if she knows the news.”

They drove to Bartley’s Health Farm. “I assume she works on Saturdays,” said Agatha. “Wait here. I’ll ask at the desk.”

After a few minutes,” Agatha came hurrying back. “She’s at home. I know where she lives.”

They drove into Oxford and managed to squeeze into a parking place outside Gilda’s house.

Gilda answered the door and stared at Agatha. “So it’s you. The private detective. George told me about you.”

“Do you know he is engaged to a certain Frederica Corrie?” asked Agatha.

“I am not surprised. I visited him in hospital and told him we were no longer engaged. I have been ridiculed in the press as a gold digger. Now go away.”

“What will you do now?”

“Find a really rich man who does not have to chase after silly rich women to get money for me.” And with that, Gilda slammed the door in their faces.

“She can’t have cared a jot for him,” said Agatha as they both got in the car.

“It doesn’t solve a thing,” complained Roy, “unless you suspect her of having pushed George’s wife down the stairs.”

“If only I could get a break,” mourned Agatha. “Just one little clue.”

The Living Legends were holding their pop concert in a manor house field outside Mircester. Young people were flooding in to the event, Toni and Sharon amongst them.

Toni felt elated being surrounded by crowds of her peers. When the band swung into their opening number of “Rock It Hard,” she screamed her delight and waved her arms with the rest of the crowd. At the interval, she turned a glowing face to Sharon. “This is great. This is grand, to be among young people. Sometimes I feel like a child at that detective agency.”

“They’re not all young. Get a look at someone’s mummy over there.”

Toni’s eyes followed Sharon’s pointing finger. She let out a little gasp. “You’re not going to believe this, but that’s the vicar’s wife-you know, the one from Comfrey Magna. What’s she doing here?”

“Having a rave,” said Sharon. “I noticed her during the first half.”

The band started up again. This time Toni kept her eyes on Trixie. The vicar’s wife was alone. She was wearing a white short-sleeved blouse tied at the waist and very tight jeans and high-heeled boots. She swayed to the music like one possessed.

Then at one point, as if conscious of Toni’s gaze on her, Trixie turned and saw her. Sharon grabbed Toni’s arm and shouted in her ear, “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” Toni shouted back. She turned back and looked for Trixie, but the vicar’s wife had disappeared.

Toni tried to enjoy the rest of the concert, but her mind was racing. At the end, she said to Sharon, “Are they selling drugs here?”

Sharon looked alarmed. “Don’t go down that road, Tone.”

“No, I just wondered if anyone could buy acid at one of these gigs.”

“Heroin, cocaine, skunk, but I don’t think acid. Why?”

“I’d better get to Carsely. I’ve got to tell Agatha about the vicar’s wife.”

“Oh, forget it. You’ve got to get some time off.”

“I’m sorry, Sharon. I’ve really got to go. I’ll drop you off in Mircester.”

Sharon sulked the whole way back into town. But Toni was determined to get this latest piece of news to Agatha.

Agatha was just preparing for bed when the doorbell rang. She wondered whether to answer it in case it was another visit from George. She peered through the spyhole and was relieved to see Toni’s face. She opened the door. “What’s up? Come in.”

In the kitchen, Toni told Agatha about Trixie being at the concert.

Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “Was she on her own?”

“Seemed to be. Then she got me looking at her. I turned away and when I turned back, she’d gone.”

Roy appeared in the kitchen wrapped in a Chinese silk dressing gown. “What’s going on?”

Agatha told him and then said, “We’ve got to find out her name before she was married. It’s probably in the church register. Then we’ll need to find out what sort of background she came from.”