M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

She went down to the kitchen extension and dialled Bill Wong’s home number.

She prayed his formidable mother would not answer the phone and it was with relief that she recognized Bill’s voice. “Bill, it’s Agatha.”

“Oh.”

“Bill, what happened? You were on holiday and you didn’t phone.”

His voice to her relief sounded amused. “The phone works both ways, Agatha.”

“I thought you’d gone away on holiday until Charles said he saw you in Mircester.”

“A heavy romance, Agatha.”

“And what was all the formality today about? You treated me like a criminal.”

“Just as well, too. I was accompanied by Snoopy Christine and you’ve got me in deep shit already, Agatha.”

“Why?”

“I did not put in my report that you had lied about driving past the villa with Charles. I don’t know why you did that.”

“I was confused.”

“Anyway, Snoopy Christine somehow got hold of my report and felt duty-bound to point out the omission to Detective Inspector Wilkes, who gave me a lecture on the dangers of favouritism. Then you tried to pretend you hadn’t Charles’s number and threw that phone book over the hedge. I’d left that bit out as well. Christine pointed out that omission as well.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, but I felt guilty because of your coldness and about us playing amateur detectives.”

“I know you well, Agatha, and when you said you knew nothing about the fire, I could swear you were lying.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” said Agatha hotly. She knew that if she confessed to Bill that she had actually been inside when the house went on fire, then he would have to report her and she would probably be arrested for arson, along with impeding the police in their inquiries and anything else they could throw at her.

“Keep in touch with me and let me know if you think of anything you might have missed out,” said Bill. “But it’s mostly Worcester’s case. Don’t flap about and get yourself nearly killed like you’ve been doing in the past. And remember that Worcester CID are very clever.”

“There are cases you would never have solved if it hadn’t been for me,” said Agatha huffily.

“I’ve told you and told you, the police always get there sooner or later. Take a break. Relax. Get a hobby.”

“You’re patronizing.”

“I’m cross because I got into trouble trying to cover up for you.”

“Sorry.”

“We’ll meet soon, Agatha.”

“Okay, how’s the romance?”

“Dead in the water. I don’t know what happened.”

“Take her home to meet the parents and all that?” asked Agatha with affected casualness.

“Yes, but it still collapsed.”

Poor Bill, thought Agatha. Mr. and Mr. Wong were enough to scare off any girl. But he adored his parents and she knew that any criticism of them would wound him deeply.

“Isn’t ricin an odd sort of poison?”

“Not all that odd. The murderer could have got away with it. It’s terribly hard to detect, almost impossible.”

“Seems to point to a pretty sophisticated murderer,” said Agatha. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing some ordinary village housewife would use.”

“Why did you say that?” His voice was sharp. “What ordinary village housewife did you have in mind?”

“I didn’t. I mean I just meant that it was a very exotic sort of poison.”

“If you say so.” Suspicious. “I feel there’s a lot you’re holding back.”

Agatha managed a light laugh. “Don’t I tell you everything?”

“Not always, no.”

“We’ll have a drink and a meal soon, Bill.”

“Right. Go carefully. See you.”

Agatha replaced the receiver. Instead of being relieved to find they were still friends, she now felt worried and guilty about lying to Bill.

They made their statements the following day at Mircester police headquarters and emerged from a gruelling session blinking in the mellow sunlight. Good weather had returned, but without the ferocious heat, and there was an autumnal crispness in the air.

“It’s still morning,” said Charles, “and at least you’re still free. Haven’t banged you up yet, which is a miracle. So what do we do now? Confront Mrs. Friendly?”

“Bit early. The hairy husband doesn’t play golf until the afternoon.”

“So let’s try the library and read up on castor-oil plants.”

Mircester Public Library was dark and silent, a marble-pillared, cavernous Victorian place. Agatha’s high heels clicked across the marble floor.

“Where do we start?” she whispered.

“We’11 look up an encyclopaedia.”

They searched along the reference shelves. “Here we are,” said Charles. “R for ricin.”

He flicked the pages. “Nothing here.”

“Try P for poison,” suggested Agatha.

“Right you are. Now let me see. Ah, poisonous plants. Here we go. Listen to this, Agatha.

“ ‘Castor-oil plant. Ricinus communis. Large plant of the spurge family grown commercially for the pharmaceutical and industrial uses of oil and for use in landscaping because of its handsome, giant, twelve-lobed palmate (fanlike) leaves. The brittle spinel, bronze-to-red clusters of fruits are attractive but often removed before they mature because of the poison, ricinine, concentrated in their mottled bean like seeds. Probably native to Africa-’ ”

“Not Evesham, then. Rats,” interrupted Agatha.

“Listen and learn,” he said severely. “ ‘Probably native to Africa, this species has become naturalized throughout the tropical world. The plants are cultivated chiefly in India and Brazil, largely for their oil.’ Aha here we go! ‘In temperate climates they are raised as annuals and grow one point five to two point four feet in a single season.’ There! This is a temperate climate. Ergo, all we need to do is keep looking in gardens.”

He flicked over another page. “Here are the symptoms of ricin poisoning. Burning of mouth, throat and stomach, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal cramps, dulled vision, respiratory distress, paralysis, death.’ ”

Agatha repressed a shudder. “What a way to go! Let’s go and eat and see if we can catch Mrs. Friendly on her own.”

At two o’clock that afternoon, they left the car outside Agatha’s cottage and walked towards the church. “We’ll wander amongst the gravestones,” said Charles. “I’ll look knowledgeable and take notes and you yack away as if you’re telling me the history. Look at this tombstone. Five children, died so young, and they talk about the good old days. Why do people keep talking about the good old days, Aggie?”

“Nostalgia. If people have had a reasonable childhood, then they remember a time when the days always seemed to be sunny and they had no responsibilities, like work or paying the bills, and grown-ups were some sort of know-all superior giants. Funny, that. It even works for me with the recent past. When I’m depressed and things aren’t moving forward, my mind harks back to the London days and what a marvellous time I had, when, come to think of it, I didn’t really have a marvellous time.” Agatha frowned in thought. “I suppose no matter how old one is, one has to always have a goal. Study something. What?”

Charles had muttered a soft exclamation. “I got a glimpse of Mr. Friendly driving off.”

“We’ll give it a few minutes,” said Agatha. “You know, I’m a bit apprehensive about all this. Why not leave it to the police?”

“Solving this murder is your goal, Aggie. We’ll ask a few questions here and there, see how we get on, and when it becomes tiresome, we’ll jack it in.”

“This is just a game for you!”

Charles shrugged. “Why not? Take all this murder and mayhem too seriously and you’ll go barmy. Let’s go and see Mrs. Friendly.”