M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“Please sit down,” said Mrs. Brother.

Agatha’s eyes fell on a large glass ashtray on the coffee table. “Do you smoke, Mrs. Brother?”

“Yes, I enjoy the occasional cigarette.”

Agatha pulled out her cigarette packet and offered her one. I can go on smoking if this ancient lady can still smoke and feel no ill effects, thought Agatha.

Mrs. Brother lit up a cigarette and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. “I shouldn’t really,” she wheezed when she could speak.

Agatha decided not to have a cigarette after all.

“Can you tell me anything about Trixie Webster?”

“I remember her. I was the one who phoned the police. She was squatting with a bunch of hippies in the basement. They played music so loudly that the whole building seemed to vibrate. My husband was alive then and went down to give them a ticking-off. Trixie threw a glass of vodka in his face and I do not wish to repeat what she said to him, but it was mostly four-letter words. When he told me, I called the police. It was hard to get the police to come even in those days, so I lied and said I thought they had guns.

“They raided the place and to my delight, they actually found a gun-a sawn-off shotgun. Mark Murphy-he was married to Trixie at that time-was sent away for a long time because it transpired the shotgun had been used in a bank hold-up. They also found a large quantity of drugs. It was Trixie’s first offence and she got off lightly because she testified against the others. After that, I read in the local paper that she had been caught again for supplying drugs at a pop concert.”

“Do you know she is now a vicar’s wife?”

“What is the name of this vicar?”

“Mr. Arthur Chance. I wonder how she met him?”

“Who knows? Maybe he was prison-visiting. Why are you asking about her? Wait a minute. That fête in Comfrey Magna where there was LSD in the jam?”

Agatha nodded her head.

“And two women dead because of it! Trixie Webster is a wicked woman.”

“I wonder why the police didn’t get on to her,” said Toni.

“I remember she was charged under her married name of Murphy,” said Mrs. Brother. “And I don’t think the police would suspect a vicar’s wife. What will you do now? Have you any real evidence?”

“No,” said Agatha slowly. “But if she testified against one of her former friends and was looking for some acid, they may have heard of it. Can you remember exactly when it was that she was charged with the others?”

“You’ll need to wait a minute. I kept a newspaper cutting in my scrapbook.”

Mrs. Brother stubbed out her cigarette and got painfully to her feet. She was doubled up with another frightening fit of coughing. Must really give it up, thought Agatha.

She seemed to be gone a long time. The flat was very quiet. “Do you think she’s dead?” whispered Toni.

“Don’t even think about it,” Agatha whispered back. “I should never have let her have that cigarette.”

There was at last a shuffling sound and Mrs. Brother came back into the room carrying a heavy scrapbook. Toni leaped to her feet and took it from her. “Put it on the table by the window,” said Mrs. Brother.

She opened the book to where she had marked a place with a slip of paper. “There it is.”

They had all given the Puddleton Close address except one, a certain Cherry Upfield, whose address was listed as 5, Bybry Close, Cheltenham. Agatha took out her notebook and wrote it down. She turned to Mrs. Brother. “If she was Trixie Murphy when she was living here and I asked you about a Trixie Webster, how did you make the connection?”

Mrs. Brother smiled. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The name Trixie and drugs and by the time she was booked for possession, she was booked under the name of Webster. She must have been divorced by then and her picture was in the newspapers. This is all very exciting. Will you come back and see me and let me know what happens?”

Agatha promised but, outside, asked Toni to make a note of it. She did not want to think she might forget her promise.

When they were in the car, Agatha said, “Hand me that map of Cheltenham out of the glove compartment. Let me see, Bybry Close. It’s actually in Charlton Kings. Get back out on the London Road and I’ll direct you from there.”

“Surely it’s quicker from here,” said Toni.

“Probably. But I’ve been lost in Charlton Kings so many times, I prefer to go the way that I know I can find my way round the one-way system.”

“Such a long time,” said Toni. “Fifteen years! She may be long gone.”

“Need to just hope,” said Agatha, reflecting sadly that, to her, fifteen years ago sometimes felt like yesterday.

Bybry Close had an air of genteel decay. Some of the houses were bravely painted in pastel colours, but most had faded dirty stucco fronts and weedy little gardens full of the detritus of old prams and children’s broken toys.

Toni rang the bell. After a few minutes, she said, “I don’t think it’s working,” and knocked loudly at the door.

A woman in her forties answered the door. Toni felt disappointed. Surely this plump little woman with a round rosy face and conservative clothes could not be Cherry Upfield.

But Agatha pushed past Toni and demanded, “Cherry Upfield?”

“Yes. Who wants to know?”

Agatha patiently explained who they were and that she wanted to ask questions about Trixie Webster.

“That cow,” said Cherry vindictively. “I hope she’s dead somewhere with a needle in her arm.”

“Don’t you read the newspapers or watch television?” asked Agatha. “She’s now a vicar’s wife and lives in Comfrey Magna.”

“Was that her? Blimey. I thought she looked a bit like the Trixie I used to know, but I thought she couldn’t possibly be. She was a redhead when I knew her, although, mind you, she dyed her hair. Come in.”

She ushered them into a cluttered living room lined with books. “So what’s Trixie got to do with the goings-on at Comfrey Magna?” asked Cherry when they were seated.

“We don’t know,” said Agatha. Toni was pleased with that “we.” Agatha usually said “I,” as if Toni were not present. “But we’ve just found out her drugs background and that she testified against you and the others. If she wanted to get hold of some acid, who would she go to?”

“I don’t know. I’m long out of the drugs scene. Then, after she testified against us, no one would want to know her. But someone who was really into selling the stuff was Zak Nulty. I saw him the other day going into that pub, the Blodgers, on the Cirencester Road. You could try him, if you can find him.”

“What does he look like?” asked Toni.

“He’s very tall and thin and when I spotted him, he hadn’t changed all that much except he was going bald at the front and had his hair tied back in a grey ponytail.”

“Whereabouts on the Cirencester Road?” asked Agatha.

“Just after the T-junction on the London Road. On the left.”

They thanked her and promised to let her know of any outcome.

At the pub, there was no sign of Zak Nulty, but they realized they were hungry and ordered sandwiches and drinks.

The pub began to fill up with an unsavoury-looking crowd of young people. Several of the men were eyeing up Toni. They probably think I’m her mother, thought Agatha dismally.

After an hour, Toni said, “We may have missed him in the crowd. Let’s look outside. He may have gone to the bar, got a drink and gone outside for a smoke. There are a few tables outside.”

Outside the pub, a large crowd was standing, filling the air with blue smoke. Toni nudged Agatha. Sitting at one of the tables was a tall thin man with a ponytail.

Boldly Agatha walked up to him. “Zak Nulty?”