M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

Just as the long interrogation was coming to an end, the detective constable entered and quietly handed Brudge a receipt. Agatha stiffened and looked wildly at Charles. It was an Asprey’s receipt for those cuff-links. Then she began to relax again. She could say she had bought them for Charles and Charles would be quick enough, she was sure, to agree.

Brudge moved out into the hall with the receipt. She then heard him talking into his phone but could not make out the words.

He came back in holding the receipt and sat down.

“This is a receipt for a pair of very expensive cuff-links, Mrs. Raisin, gold cuff-links.”

“Yes,” said Agatha easily. “I bought them as a present for Charles here.”

He looked at her steadily for a few moments and then he said, “In the part of the living-room of Shawpart’s house which survived, we found a box containing a pair of gold cufflinks from Asprey’s. I think you bought them for Shawpart, Mrs. Raisin, and it is no use denying it because we can easily check.”

“I bought those for Charles,” protested Agatha.

“Who can no doubt produce them?”

“It’s no use, Aggie,” said Charles. “Why lie when we have no reason to? I urged her to buy Shawpart some expensive present to get close to him.”

“Why?”

“I told you. It was a game. We were sure he was up to something fishy.”

“An expensive game. You have both gone on about finding out about this hairdresser for fun, because you were bored. I find that hard to believe. You initially lied, Mrs. Raisin, although Sir Charles here says you have nothing to hide. I find that very suspicious. You will call at Mircester tomorrow and sign your statements. You are not to travel abroad until this investigation is completed.”

“I’m sorry I lied,” said Agatha, “but I feel embarrassed about wasting so much money on him. And I wasn’t to know he would be murdered.”

“So you say. I have yet to read the Gloucester report. I hope you have not been lying to them as well.”

Agatha thought about her saying that someone had told her the villa had burnt down and then found out Charles’s car had been spotted. She groaned inwardly.

“We are taking some things,” said Brudge. A policeman held out a box containing a few bottles of vitamin pills and aspirin. “We will give you a receipt for them.”

When they had all left, she said to Charles, “What a mess.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not very.”

“Let’s go along to the Red Lion and get a sandwich.”

“All right. Give me a moment while I change. I feel all sweaty.”

She went up to her bathroom and stripped and had a quick shower and put on a clean blouse and skirt.

She looked out of the window. Charles was playing with her cats in the garden. He had made a ball out of kitchen foil and was throwing it in the air while the cats leaped up to catch it.

Did he ever worry about anything? Probably just as well if he did not. She herself was worrying enough for the whole of the Cotswolds.

The lounge bar of the Red Lion was smoky and dim. A fire had been lit and little puffs of grey smoke escaped from it and lay in bands across the low-beamed room.

They collected gin and tonics and ham sandwiches and retreated to a far corner.

“So what do we do now?” asked Agatha.

“We go on. For a start we’ve got to try to get the Friendly woman on her own.”

“How do we do that?”

“You’re all kerfuffled and discombobulated these days, Aggie. You put me up for the night and then we watch her house and see if Mr. Friendly leaves.”

“How can we do that without being too obvious?”

“The cottage is opposite the churchyard. You take me on a tour of the graves. I’m a historian. I make notes. Even if he doesn’t leave, surely she goes out shopping. Then we should get to a library and read up on ricin. Are there any castor-oil plants outside Kew Gardens in this country, for example? If not, which of our suspects has been abroad lately?”

“I don’t think we’ve really got any suspects.”

“Wake up! Of course we have. We have the hairy Mr. Friendly. We have the woman Maggie. We’ll start with them.”

“We can’t haunt the Friendlys tomorrow morning. We’ve got to go to Mircester.”

“So we have. After, then.”

“I’m still hurt by Bill’s behaviour,” fretted Agatha. “Badly hurt. First, he’s on holiday and doesn’t phone, then he’s on duty and treats me like Suspect Number One.”

“Why don’t you just phone him? You’ve got his phone number.”

“I don’t want to,” mumbled Agatha.

“You’re frightened he’s gone off you because of some deep unlikeable flaw in your character, so you prefer to be miserable. Tell you what, I’ll go home and pack a bag. I’ll be staying with you.”

Agatha raised a smile. “No funny stuff.”

“Did I ever? See you back at the ranch, Aggie.”

He went off. She finished her drink, but instead of going home, walked to the vicarage and rang the bell.

“Christ!” came the unholy voice of the vicar. “It’s that woman again.”

“Don’t blaspheme, Alf, and get on with your sermon,” came Mrs. Bloxby’s calm voice.

“I always call at the wrong time,” said Agatha ruefully as Mrs. Bloxby opened the door.

“Pay no attention to Alf. He’s the same with everyone. I keep telling him he’s too antisocial for a vicar. Come in.”

“If you’re sure… ”

“Quite sure. Tea? Coffee?”

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

“Come into the kitchen.”

The kitchen was warm and welcoming. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling and shining copper pans gleamed against the old stone walls. “I’ve got some ready,” said Mrs. Bloxby, pouring two mugs.

Agatha said, “Can we take this into the garden? Then I can smoke with a free conscience.”

“Certainly, although I hope you don’t find it too chilly. It’s got quite cold since the weather broke.”

“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby when they were both seated, “I know the police were at your cottage and all because of that hairdresser. I wish I had never recommended him. Is it murder?”

Agatha described all the things she had done and left undone. A large bam owl, ghostly in the dark, swooped over their heads, and sleepy birds chirped lazily in the surrounding trees.

“I’ve been so very stupid,” commented Agatha when she had finished her tale.

“I think all the effort you went to on Mrs. Friendly’s behalf,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “shows a noble spirit. Perhaps you should tell her. She must be dreadfully frightened that the police may have found something.”

“So you do think she could have been a victim of blackmail!”

“Just an idea.”

“Does Mr. Friendly go out? I mean, is she ever on her own?”

“He plays golf practically ever afternoon between two and five.”

“Thank you,” said Agatha. “I don’t feel so silly now.”

“In the meantime, I shall ask around about a woman called Maggie and give your description. The joy about being a vicar’s wife is that I can ask questions about people and no one thinks it suspicious.”

“I’d better go. Charles will be back any minute. He’s staying the night. I mean, you know, I don’t mean… ”

Mrs. Bloxby laughed. “Off you go. And phone Bill Wong. There’s bound to be a simple explanation.”

“So what’s happened to you?” demanded Charles as she let him in. “All calm and smiling now. Been at the Prozac?”

“Been seeing Mrs. Bloxby.”

“Ah, confession is good for the soul.”

Agatha led him up to the spare bedroom.

“While you’re putting your things away, I’ll make a phone call.”