M Beaton - A Spoonful of Poison

“Why didn’t we see that before?” he asked.

“It fell out of the canvas when they were taking the marquee down,” said Toni.

“You’d best come back with me and make a statement. Don’t let Collins fluster you. She’ll probably suggest you put it there yourself!”

TRIXIE’S QUITE ATTRACTIVE,” commented Charles as he and Agatha walked along the village street.

“If you like ageing hippies,” said Agatha waspishly.

“She has beautiful hair, you must admit that. Like Rapunzel?”

“Who?” demanded Agatha. Fairy stories had not been part of her deprived childhood.

“Never mind. Who’s this George character?”

“Just some villager who was helping out with the fête,” said Agatha casually, aware of Charles’s searching eyes on her face.

“Single?”

“Widower.”

“Aha!”

“Aha what?”

“You’re off again.”

“I don’t know what you mean. There’s the pub. It looks like a converted shop. No wonder I didn’t notice it before.”

“And here’s Rose Cottage. Ring the bell.”

“There isn’t one.”

“So knock the knocker.”

Agatha seized the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth and rapped hard.

A lace curtain beside the left-hand window twitched. Agatha waited impatiently for what she envisaged as a couple of elderly spinsters.

The door opened and a young woman stood there, hands thrust into a pair of worn jeans. She had a round rosy face and glasses and short hair in a gamine cut.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for Miss Tubby and Miss Tolling,” said Agatha.

“I’m Maggie Tubby. What do you want?”

“My name is Agatha Raisin. This is Sir Charles Fraith. I am a private detective who has been asked by your vicar to investigate what happened at the fête. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“You’d better come in. We’re in the garden.”

She led the way through the small cottage to a long garden at the back where a woman was weeding. “Phyllis!” called Maggie. “Visitors.”

Phyllis straightened up and stood wiping her hands. Agatha guessed she was in her thirties. She was tall with prematurely grey hair and a catlike face. What a lot of grey hair there is around this place, thought Agatha. Do they never think of getting their hair tinted?

Maggie explained the reason for the visit. Phyllis indicated a garden table and chairs. “Let’s sit down,” she said.

“I gather you both contributed jam to the tasting,” said Agatha.

“Yes, plum jam. It’s our speciality.”

“Did you taste any of the exhibits?”

“Oh, yes,” said Maggie. “What a trip!”

“Which one was it?”

“It was Miss Triast-Perkins’s marmalade. Everything went funny. I began to see flashing lights.”

“Didn’t you think to warn anyone?”

“I just thought the jam was badly preserved-like some people we know.” Maggie shot a sly look at Phyllis. They both looked at Agatha and giggled.

I wish you precious pair had jumped off the tower, thought Agatha.

Charles asked, “Have you any idea who might have done such a thing?”

“Of course,” said Phyllis.

“Who?” demanded Agatha eagerly.

“Why, none other than Sybilla Triast-Perkins.”

“What proof have you?” asked Charles.

“Only that she has murdered before, so it was probably easy for the unhinged creature to murder again.”

“Murdered who?” Agatha almost shouted the question.

“Sarah Selby, poor little thing.”

“George Selby’s wife? The one who fell downstairs?”

“Pushed,” said Maggie.

“Then why wasn’t she arrested?”

“No actual proof, and she’s a friend of the chief constable. She was visiting at the time. She said that Sarah had gone up the stairs to fetch the breakfast tray. George always gave her breakfast in bed. She tripped, said Sybilla, and tumbled down onto the stone flags of the hall and broke her neck. But here’s the thing. According to the rigor mortis, Sarah had been lying there dead for an hour before Sybilla called the ambulance and police.”

“What was her excuse for not calling them immediately?” asked Agatha.

“Sybilla said that she fainted with shock and when she came to, she felt dizzy and sick and it took about an hour for her to get the strength to phone,” said Phyllis.

“Why would she want to kill Sarah Selby?” asked Agatha.

Phyllis and Maggie exchanged glances. Phyllis said, “She was crazy about George. Always visiting his house on some pretext or other, but before that fatal visit, she never called except when George was at home. He has an office in Mircester, though sometimes he works from home. He’s an architect.”

“Does everyone in the village suspect her?” asked Agatha.

“No, only us. They’re all a bit backward in this backwater. You know, tug their forelocks to the lady of the manor. Some lady. Okay, the Triasts were upper crust, but old man Perkins made his money out of biodegradable cats’ toilets.”

“Place looked a bit run-down,” said Agatha.

“She’s mean, that’s why,” said Maggie.

“So why doesn’t she sell off that lodge house, for example?”

“Blessed if I know,” said Maggie. “Maybe she concocts poisons there.” She and Phyllis laughed heartily.

“And what do you do for a living?” asked Agatha. “Manufacture LSD?” She had not forgiven them for that “badly preserved” remark.

“I paint,” said Phyllis, “and Maggie throws pots. Don’t you feel a bit guilty? If it hadn’t been for your grandiose ideas about the fête, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you think it was Sybilla who did it,” said Agatha, “then it really doesn’t matter how many people attended the fête.”

She and Charles took their leave. As they walked back, Agatha plunged into a rosy dream. She would solve the case of Sarah Selby’s death. She would break the news gently to George, holding his hands and gazing into his eyes.

“Thank you,” he would breathe. “Now I have closure. I thought poor Sarah could never be replaced, but now…”

“Wake up, Aggie,” said Charles. “You’re wandering along with a silly smile on your face.”

“I was thinking about the case.” Agatha was angry at having her dream interrupted. As they came in sight of the vicarage, Agatha saw George saying goodbye to Trixie. She laughed at something he said and kissed him on the cheek.

Hair extensions, thought Agatha. That’s it. I must get hair extensions.

Toni came running to meet them and told Agatha about finding the phial. “Who ever put the LSD in the jam must have thrust the phial into one of the seams of the canvas,” she said.

Agatha heard herself being hailed and turned round with a smile to greet George. “I’m very worried about all this. Have you any clues?” he asked.

“Got quite a few,” said Agatha. An idea struck her. “Look, I’m busy at the moment. Here’s my card. Why don’t you come to my cottage in Carsely this evening for drinks, say at seven, and I’ll fill you in.”

“Right,” said George, tucking the card into his top pocket. “I’ll see you then.”

Now, thought Agatha, I’ve got to get rid of Charles.

Agatha decided to call it a day. She told Toni and Charles that with all the press haunting the outside of the village and police crawling all over the place, it would be better to come back the following day, when things might have cooled off a bit.

Scouts were dumping bags of all the refuse they had collected outside the mobile police unit, and a squad of tired-looking policemen were starting to go through the bags.