M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“Oh, go for it. What about a name?”

“She wants me to call it Spring, as in youth.”

“We can’t have that. What about Gilmour Detective Agency?”

“I suggested that and she turned it down.”

“She is jealous. Let me think.”

“Why not just call it The Detective Agency?” said Sharon.

“Oh, I like that,” said Harry. “She’ll go for it because it sounds modest at first. When we get set up, we’ll put the The in italics. Now, we need a secretary.”

“I could do that,” said Sharon. “I’m good on computers.”

“You’ve got the job,” said Toni quickly because Harry was looking doubtfully at the appearance Sharon made that evening. She had dyed her masses of hair blonde with aubergine streaks, and her plump figure was encased in tight jeans torn at the knee and a pink sequinned crop top showing a bulge of fake-tanned midriff.

“What about Betty Talent?” asked Sharon. “You know, Miss Iron Knickers, the school swot. Ever so clever she was.”

“She’s probably at university,” said Toni.

“No, she went abroad for a gap year and got some sort of tropical bug. She’s been recovering. I’ve got her number.”

“Why? You were always jeering at her,” said Toni.

“When I heard she was ill, I felt sorry for her,” said Sharon. “I was sure nobody would go to see her, so I took her a box of chocolates. She’s pretty nice when you get to know her.”

“Everyone, including me, will need to be on trial,” said Harry. “You’d better warn her. She may not want the job.”

“I’ll phone her.” Sharon retreated to a corner of the room.

“Look,” said Toni. “Agatha’s paying for all this, so she’ll probably want a say in what we call the agency.”

“I’ll fund it,” said Harry. “An uncle of mine died recently and left me a lot of money. You make it pay and I’ll get my money back.”

Charles, who had turned up unexpectedly, was sitting at the moment with Agatha in the village pub, the Red Lion, listening as Agatha tried to justify setting Toni up in her own detective agency.

He waited until she had finished and then said carefully, “You’re hoping it’ll keep her out of the limelight.”

“How dare you! I’m not petty.”

“Just jealous.”

“Well, if this is going to be the general reaction,” said Agatha huffily, “I’ll cancel the whole idea.” Agatha reflected that the only person these days who seemed to be pleased with her was old Mrs. Brother, whom she had phoned earlier to give her a full report of the arrest of Trixie. Her phone rang. “Yes, Toni,” Charles heard her say and then watched with amusement the growing dismay on Agatha’s face. Then he heard her say, “And you’re going to do the whole thing yourself? Find premises? If I’m going to pay for this, I should at least have a say… What? Harry is going to fund it? My Harry? Harry Beam? Oh, well, if that’s the way you feel. Good luck.”

She rang off and stared at the table, looking moodily at the cigarette burns and remembering the glory days when she could light a cigarette.

“So Harry Beam is going to run the show?” asked Charles.

“Yes, it’s a good idea,” said Agatha, struggling to be fair. “I’m sure they’ll make a go of it.”

“You know, Aggie, if she’d been a failure, you’d have hated yourself. Let it go. What ever happened to that drug pusher, Zak somebody?”

“The police got him.”

“I heard he got out on bail.”

“Oh, God. He said he would break my legs.”

Betty Talent seemed a quiet, dowdy girl. She had no-colour hair scraped back from a small neat face. She was very thin. Her one beauty was her eyes, which were very large and brown flecked with green. She was wearing a long jacket over a straight skirt, a white blouse buttoned up to the neck, and flat shoes.

But when it came to costing what they would need to set up the business, Betty turned out to be a genius. As she crunched the numbers, her eyes began to glow with enthusiasm.

“This is great,” said Harry. “When we get some money in, we’ll start to buy surveillance equipment. I think we should start off with just us-that’s Toni Gilmour as boss, me, Harry Beam, Sharon…?”

“Gold.”

“Sharon Gold and Betty Talent.”

“I’ve got a bottle of champagne a local newspaper gave me,” said Toni. “Let’s drink a toast to The Detective Agency.”

When she came back with the bottle and glasses, Betty said, “You said you would fund this, Harry. Will you have to get the money from your father?”

“No, an uncle of mine died and left me a lot. No worries.”

On the Saturday morning Agatha received a visit from Mrs. Bloxby. “I wondered if you would like to come with me to Comfrey Magna,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I feel poor Mr. Chance could do with some consolation.”

“He’ll hate me,” said Agatha. “I’m the one who got his wife banged up.”

“I think it would help if you could explain to him what actually happened. If he still believes his wife innocent, he could be in great pain.”

Curiosity got the better of Agatha. “Right, I’ll go.”

There was a faint mist curling around the boles of the trees and coloured leaves sailed lazily down onto the road. As she drove the now-familiar road to Comfrey Magna, Agatha wondered what to wear for James’s engagement party. Then she thought of hair extensions. Trixie had looked good with them. But not blonde, thought Agatha. I tried blonde once and it didn’t work. I wonder what his fiancee looks like. Please, God, let her look like a bag.

Agatha parked in front of the church. As they walked across the graveyard, she remembered the first time she had seen George. What a terrible mistake it had been to fall for good looks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t much help to you in finding out about Mrs. Chance’s background,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “but I did try.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” said Agatha. “I wonder if George is still around.”

“No. That bit of news I did hear. He married Miss Corrie and they have gone to Cornwall on their honeymoon.”

“Good luck to her.” Agatha rang the bell.

To her surprise, the door was answered by Phyllis Tolling. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What do you want?”

“We have called to see Mr. Chance.”

“It’s hardly a good time. The poor man is still in shock.”

Then Agatha heard Arthur’s voice raised in song.

“When he thinks that he is past love ,

That is when he meets his last love ,

And he loves her like he never loved before.”

A smile crossed Phyllis’s face. “Come in,” she said.

Arthur was in the living room, surrounded by packing cases. “Hullo!” he hailed them. “Just packing away Trixie’s things. I don’t think she’ll be needing them for a long time. Tea?”

“That would be nice,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“I’ll get it, darling,” said Phyllis.

“Oh, you are good.” Arthur blew her a kiss.

Agatha decided that Arthur did not need any consoling words, so instead she asked, “I often wondered how you met Trixie.”

“It was just after my second wife died,” said the vicar.

Mrs. Bloxby looked at him nervously. “What did your wives die of?”

Arthur roared with laughter. “Frightened I bumped them off? No, Jane, the first had cancer and Cressida, the second, had a stroke, poor thing. I was holidaying in Brighton and I met Trixie by chance in the hotel lounge. She told me she was just divorced and began to cry. One thing led to another and we got married. Oh, tea. Splendid, splendid.”

“I’ll be through in the bedroom,” said Phyllis, putting down the tray. “I’ll go on packing up the clothes.”