M Beaton: A Spoonful of Poison

She saw two elderly women being led to the police unit. “That’s Mrs. Glarely and Mrs. Cranton, I think,” said Toni. “I’ll phone Bill tonight and see if he’ll tell me what they said.”

Agatha was just steeling herself to say something to Charles when he said, “I’ve got to go out tonight. Maybe see you later or tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to do anything more today?” asked Toni. “Or will I stay here and scout around on my own?”

“See if you can collar Bill and get anything out of him,” said Agatha, now anxious to leave and begin beauty preparations for the evening ahead.

But duty nagged and she knew she had better call in to her office before she went home.

Motherly Mrs. Freedman was serving a man with coffee and biscuits when Agatha arrived. “This is ex-Detective Sergeant Jimmy Wilson,” she said. “Jimmy, your boss, Mrs. Raisin.”

Jimmy was a medium-sized, pugnacious-looking man. He had a round face with small eyes and a squashed nose above a pursed mouth. To Agatha’s relief, he seemed to be in his early fifties.

“Did you take early retirement?” she asked.

“I had cancer,” said Jimmy. “By the time I got over it, I felt like taking a long break, so I resigned. But I’m fit and ready for work now. I’ve got good contacts with the police.”

“We’re overloaded with work,” said Agatha, “but Mrs. Freedman will give you some jobs to get started on. Did you sign a contract?”

“Yes, my cousin here gave me all the papers.”

“Cousin?” queried Agatha, scowling at Mrs. Freedman.

She blushed. “Well, you needed someone and I knew Jimmy here was a good detective.”

“We’ll see how you go,” said Agatha. “I may want you to check with your police friends to find out anything you can about this business at Comfrey Magna. But we’ll deal with that when you’ve cleared up some of the backlog. I’ve got to rush. I’ve got an important interview to do with the case I’m on.”

Agatha had just removed a face pack and was washing her face when her doorbell rang. She cast an agonized look at her watch. Six o’clock. It couldn’t be George. She towelled her face dry and ran downstairs and opened the door. It was Mrs. Bloxby.

“Oh, come in,” said Agatha. “I’m expecting someone this evening for drinks and I was just cleaning myself up. Coffee? Sherry?”

“Nothing for me,” said Mrs. Bloxby, following Agatha through to the kitchen. “You were asking about George Selby?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “In fact, he’s coming here this evening for drinks.”

“Why?”

“Because he wants to know how I’m getting on with the case,” said Agatha tetchily.

“Do you know how his first wife died?”

“Yes, she fell down the stairs. A Miss Triast-Perkins was there, but evidently too shocked to phone for an ambulance until after an hour had passed.”

“It’s all gossip, of course,” said Mrs. Bloxby reluctantly, “and you know how unreliable gossip can be.”

“I heard about Miss Triast-Perkins having a crush on George.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that. The rumour is that Mr. Selby encouraged her attentions.”

“How Victorian you sound! Encouraged her attentions, indeed.”

“If you don’t want to hear it…”

“Sorry. Yes, I do. Why should he encourage her? She’s hardly a glamour puss.”

“Miss Triast-Perkins is very rich. She does not like spending money, but it seemed that Mr. Selby had encouraged her to let him draw up plans to rebuild the lodge and make expensive alterations and repairs to the manor. She then used this as a sort of bait to keep him calling, dithering and delaying. Miss Triast-Perkins did not call when Mr. Selby wasn’t at home, and it is certainly odd that she called that day and so early in the morning, as it was just after Mr. Selby had left. Also, at that time Mr. Selby was in financial difficulties. He had just completed an expensive job for someone who then went bankrupt and couldn’t pay. His wife’s life was heavily insured. Village gossip, which can be very spiteful, as you know, was that George, having become impatient at getting the contract out of Miss Triast-Perkins, had more or less promised to marry her if he were free, therefore encouraging her to push his wife down the stairs. Oh, is that the time? I really must get on.”

And having delivered herself of that bombshell, Mrs. Bloxby hurried off.

“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha, fleeing upstairs again. “Can’t be anything in it.”

But her anticipation and excitement over the evening ahead had dwindled somewhat. She knew she had the reputation of being a very rich woman. She would see. If George started suggesting that he could remodel her cottage, she would be prepared.

By seven o’clock, Agatha was ready for her visitor dressed in a very short skirt, sheer stockings, white silk blouse and very high heels.

When she opened the door to George, she found to her dismay that he was casually dressed in an open-necked striped shirt, well-worn sports jacket and chinos. She invited him into her sitting room, fixed him the whisky he requested, poured a gin and tonic for herself, and then wondered where to sit. She should never have worn stockings with a short skirt. If she sat on the sofa or armchair, her skirt would ride up, exposing stocking tops. Agatha settled for a seat on a hard upright chair.

George sat on the sofa and cradled his drink in his hands. “This is a bad business,” he said moodily. “Any suspects?”

“At the moment, there’s just one,” said Agatha.

“Who?”

“Sybilla Triast-Perkins.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sybilla wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“She was in the tent before the exhibition was officially open. Her marmalade was one of the ones we know was laced with LSD.”

“I was in the tent as well. She did not go near the jam.”

“Wait a bit! We’re forgetting the tent was empty. They set it up at six in the morning and then went off for breakfast! Anyone in the village could have sneaked in then. I know they had pinned cloths down over the jam, but it would be so easy to lift the cloths and put the LSD into the jam.”

“Mrs. Raisin-”

“Agatha, please.”

“Agatha. I myself was out at dawn checking all the marquees and making sure they were secure. I hoped you might have some hard news, but all this is the same old speculation.”

We forgive beauty such a lot, thought Agatha suddenly. If he was a little balding man with thick glasses, I might get a bit tetchy.

“But this is the way cases are solved!” she said. “You talk and talk and turn it over. The main clues are often in the characters of the suspects. What about Trixie?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Trixie! Really, Agatha. That is just too far-fetched.”

“Why?” demanded Agatha stubbornly.

“Because she is a charming lady and the vicar’s wife.”

He looked quite cross, so Agatha hurried on. “What about the organizers? Mrs. Glarely and Mrs. Cranton?”

“Innocent ladies. Do a lot of good work in the village. Nothing sinister there.”

Agatha sighed. “Can you think of anyone at all?”

“Somehow, I think it must be one of the outsiders.”

“But none of the visitors had any opportunity.”

“They may have.”

“The thing I must find out,” said Agatha, “is when exactly Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop sampled the jam. My assistant, Toni, tried to talk to the organizers, but their husbands chased her off. Now if you were to ask them…?”

He suddenly smiled. Agatha blinked at him, dazzled.

“There’s no time like the present. Why don’t we drive over there and I’ll see what I can do.”

Agatha felt elated as they drove off in George’s BMW. As his car purred through the Cotswold lanes, she felt the countryside had never looked more beautiful.