M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

Fred sank slowly down onto the bed. Her knees were trembling. She remembered the article about Gilda. She remembered all the awful rumours about the death of George’s last wife. She thought about the wills they had made out and how they had insured each other’s lives. She began to burn up with a furious rage.

“Hullo, darling,” said George as Fred walked into the bar. “You look a bit pale. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Ready for our walk?”

“Don’t you go near the cliffs tonight,” warned the barman. “It’s blowing up something rough and it’s all dark out there.”

“We’ll be fine,” said George, taking Fred’s arm. “We’ll probably walk down to the village.”

If he goes to the village, thought Fred, I might begin to think I imagined that message. He must love me!

But George said, “Look there’s a moon. And I do like to walk the cliffs and see the giant waves pounding at the foot of them.”

“Let go of my arm,” said Fred. “I want to swing my arms as I walk. It’s a bit cold. Let’s go back in.”

“Just a bit further,” said George. He walked to the cliff’s edge, his thick fair hair blowing in the wind. “Come and look at this. The waves are enormous.”

Fred felt a numb, blank misery. Like a sleepwalker she advanced on her husband, who was peering over the edge. With all her strength, she gave him one almighty push. The tussocky grass under his feet was slippery with recent rain. He skidded right over the edge, his cry of despair being lost in the roar of the waves and the screech of the wind as he plunged downwards.

Fred sat down on the wet grass behind a large outcrop of rock and opened her handbag. She took out a packet of skunk, and sheltering it from the wind by opening her coat, she rolled a joint and lit it. She breathed the smoke deep into her lungs.

She smoked on until the whole episode began to seem like a bad dream. Poor silly George, she thought. Gone forever. I’ll give him a nice funeral if they ever find the body.

She peered round the rock and let out a scream. A head and shoulders were appearing above the cliff. George had fallen onto a ledge below. He was bruised, battered, frightened and furious.

Fred ran forward and began to kick at his face. He grabbed one of her ankles. She stamped down ferociously on his other hand. He lost his grip and plunged backwards, taking her with him. Still struggling and cursing, they spiralled down and disappeared beneath the boiling sea.

A day later, Agatha answered her door early in the morning to find Mrs. Bloxby on her doorstep. “Have you seen the news this morning?” cried Mrs. Bloxby.

“No, I’m just up. Come in and tell me about it.”

“It’s about Mr. Selby,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Gorgeous George. What about him?”

“He’s dead!”

“How?”

“A local at that place in Cornwall where they were on honeymoon was walking his dog along the cliffs when he heard cries and shone his torch. He saw a man hanging onto the cliff edge for dear life while a woman was stamping on his fingers. He said the man had the woman by the ankle. He ran forward, but they both plunged into the sea. The coastguard are out looking for the bodies. The witness said it looked as if the man had already been over the cliff and was trying to get back up. What do you think of that?”

Agatha sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. “It looks as if Fred got wised up to him some way. It really looks now as if George might have wound up poor Sybilla to kill his wife. Maybe Fred knew about it and tried to get him first. I never liked that girl, but now I’m heartily sorry for her, and I hope somewhere up in heaven the first Mrs. Selby is having a good laugh.”

“That’s sacrilegious, Mrs. Raisin.”

“That’s human, Mrs. Bloxby.”

A GATHA RAISIN SAT HUNCHED up in a first-class railway carriage as the London-to-Mircester train ploughed on through the fog. Why couldn’t this be the night when the trains were cancelled? she thought. I don’t want to go.

She was heading for James’s engagement party after a rigorous makeover in London. Her hair extensions fell to her shoulders in soft waves. Her face was cleverly made up by an expensive beautician. She had been dieting ferociously and the highly expensive midnight-blue silk dress she had spent a fortune on was extremely flattering.

The train, which was often late, perversely drew into the Gothic splendour of Mircester Station exactly two minutes early.

Agatha longed to forget about the whole thing and go home, go to bed and cuddle up to her cats. But everyone would feel sorry for her and she couldn’t bear that. Toni had said their new premises would be opening with a party in a week’s time. Agatha didn’t want to go to that either.

Agatha took a cab to the George, changing on the short journey out of a pair of flat shoes into a pair of high-heeled sandals.

“Here we go,” she muttered. “Rehearsal’s over. Onstage at last.”

A couple leaving the George gave her a nervous look.

She glanced at the noticeboard in the foyer. “Engagement Party-Betjeman Suite.”

The Betjeman Suite was so called because the famous poet and lover of Victoriana would have adored it. From its faux medieval ceiling to the enormous marble fireplace at one end, it had not been changed since the hotel was built in 1875.

Agatha left her red cashmere cloak in the cloakroom outside the suite, took a deep breath and made her entrance. She was surrounded by familiar faces and cries of “Agatha, you look fabulous!”

Nervously her eyes scanned the room. Charles came to join her. “Where’s James?” asked Agatha.

“He’ll be here shortly. They got held up by the fog. Have a drink.” Charles grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and handed it to her.

Agatha looked round. Toni was wearing a skimpy black dress with thin shoulder straps. Her fair hair was piled up on her head and shone under the lights from the huge crystal chandelier above her. I’ve lost a good detective, thought Agatha bitterly. I’ve always prided myself on being a good businesswoman and not letting personal feelings get in the way. What went wrong? And so ran Agatha’s troubled thoughts, unaware that her whole life had been propelled by emotion.

A cheer went up and Agatha slowly turned round. James stood beaming in the doorway, Felicity Bross-Tilkington on his arm.

Agatha felt any confidence she had left seeping out through the soles of her shoes. Felicity was exquisite. She had wide-spaced grey eyes in a tanned face. Her thick brown hair cascaded down on her shoulders in an artful arrangement of waves and curls. Straight hair, as Agatha knew, had just been damned as passe. Her figure was slim and showed no signs of rigorous dieting. She was wearing a low-cut gold evening top which showed off the smooth perfection of her genuine tan and the stunning necklace of old gold and rubies around her neck.

James looked as proud as Punch as he gazed down at his fiancee. He never once looked at me like that, thought Agatha, but let’s face it, I never once looked like that. James led Felicity straight up to Agatha and introduced her. “I am so pleased to meet you,” said Felicity. “Goodness, after all James told me about you, I expected to meet someone quite ferocious.”

“Here, have another glass of champagne,” said Charles at Agatha’s side. James introduced him to Felicity. “Come and talk to me, Felicity,” said Charles. “I think we know some of the same people.”

James smiled at Agatha. “You look great. Long hair suits you. So what do you think of Felicity?”

“She is certainly very beautiful,” said Agatha. “Where did you meet?”