M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

“How come?”

“Well, how’s our murderer supposed to know you’re ferreting around?”

“Easy,” said Agatha. “I think it’s one of the ones who were being blackmailed, or someone like Mrs. Friendly’s husband or Maggie Henderson’s husband. Why did you really come to visit me, Roy?”

“Told you. Had a few days off and wanted to see you.”

“It’s just when you’ve turned up before it’s mostly been because your boss wants me to do some free-lance work.”

“Why do you always pin the worst motives on people?” said Roy crossly. “Or is the idea of friendship so foreign to your twisted mind?”

“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha. “Couldn’t help wondering.”

“Well, here comes Portsmouth. Park in the centre?”

“Yes, John would have had somewhere right in the centre.”

After several frustrating waits in traffic jams, Roy managed to find a place in a multi-storey car-park near Queen Street.

“Now what?” he asked as they walked out into the morning bustle of shoppers.

“Find a library or post office, find a business phone directory and start off at the nearest hairdressing salon.”

They hit gold at the first salon, called A Cut Above. The proprietess had known John Shawpart. Her name was Mary Mulligan. “He had a place round the back of Queen Street,” she said. “Called Mr. John. He and his wife ran it a few years ago. Then the place went on fire. It was arson. The gossip was that they had done it themselves, but John got the money from the insurance. The business was in his name. After that, Elaine Shawpart set up on her own, but she didn’t do very well. He did all right after he’d had the place redone. Then he sold up and disappeared and his wife-they got a divorce by this time-she sold up and went off as well.”

“Do you happen to know where he lived?”

“Don’t know. Wait a bit. I’ve got some old phone books in the back. Never throw them away. Might be in one of those.”

They waited while she went to look. Driers hummed and the air was full of the bad-egg smell of perms. Beyond the plate-glass windows, people went to and fro. Perhaps one of them had been blackmailed by John, perhaps one of them followed him to Evesham.

“You’re lucky,” said Mary, bustling back. “Here we are. Shawpart. Blacksmith’s End. Number two. Blacksmith’s End is one of those private builder’s projects out on the west of the town.”

She gave them directions.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Roy, retrieving the car.

Blacksmith’s End turned out to be a quiet cul-de-sac of stone-built houses, very quiet and suburban with manicured lawns at the front and lace curtains at the windows.

They walked up the neat path of number 2 and rang the doorbell, which emitted Big Ben chimes.

A little woman as neat as the house-neat permed hair, neat little features, trim pencil skirt and tailored blouse-answered the door.

“I never buy from door-to-door salesmen,” she said.

“We’re simply asking questions about John Shawpart.”

“But I’ve told the police everything!”

Agatha felt like the amateur she was. Of course the police would have been checking into his background.

“I was the person who found him when he was dying,” said Agatha.

“Come in. I’m Mrs. Laver.”

“Agatha Raisin and Roy Silver,” sad Agatha as they followed her into a sparklingly clean living-room: three piece suite in Donegal tweed, glass coffee-table, stereo, television; pot plants everywhere, green and lush.

“It must have been dreadful for you, seeing him dying like that,” said Mrs. Laver. “But really, I don’t know anything other than we bought the house from him.”

“Did he live here with his wife?”

“No, I gather he moved here after they split up.”

Agatha looked around at the plants as if for inspiration. “Did anyone come calling, looking for him, after you moved in here?”

“A couple of women-not together-at separate times. They seemed quite distressed.”

“Did you get their names?”

“No, when I said he had gone, they asked where to, but he didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“That’s odd,” said Roy. “What did you do with the mail?”

“Just marked it ‘Not Known at This Address’ and gave it back to the postman.”

Agatha noticed a faint flush rising up on Mrs. Laver’s face and the way her hands twisted together nervously in her lap.

“It must have been a bit of a chore,” said Agatha, “remembering to return all that mail to the postman. I had that to do when I first moved into my cottage. I got so fed up I forgot to return a couple of letters, and after two months, I regret to say I just threw them on the fire. Did you do that?” she demanded sharply.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. That’s criminal!” cried Mrs. Laver. “But… ”

“But what?” demanded Agatha eagerly. “You’ve still got one, haven’t you?”

She flushed again. “It arrived some time after he’d gone from Portsmouth. My husband was away on business and I had the flu, so I put it in the kitchen drawer and thought I’d give it to the postman when I felt better. But then I forgot about it and I was too ashamed to hand it over after all this time.”

Agatha felt her heart beating hard with excitement. “If you give it to us,” she said, “we’ll give it to the Worcester police. You don’t need to worry. We’ll just say it got stuck under the doormat.”

“Oh, you couldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Laver. “People would think I didn’t clean under the doormat in my own home.”

Agatha looked at her impatiently.

“Then we’ll say it came through the letter-box and slipped under a crack in the skirting in the hall.”

“But I don’t have crack in the skirting. This is a very sound house!”

Agatha felt like tearing her hair in frustration.

She forced herself to say gently, “Then I’ll just tell them the truth. You were ill. You put it in the kitchen drawer and only remembered it when we called.”

“I won’t get into trouble?”

“Not at all. I am very friendly with the police and have helped them on many cases.”

“Oh, well, I s’pose… ”

She got up and went through to the kitchen.

Agatha looked at Roy and rolled her eyes. What if the silly woman changed her mind?

But Mrs. Laver came back and handed Agatha a thick brown envelope. Agatha tried not to snatch it.

She stood up. “We’ll be on our way.”

“Aren’t you going to see what’s in it?” asked Mrs. Laver.

“No, we’ll leave that job to the police. Come along, Roy.”

They made their escape. As they were getting into the car, Mrs. Laver called after them, “I’d better take a note of your name and address. You’re Mrs. Anderson, didn’t you say?”

“Drive off!” hissed Agatha to Roy. “Let the silly woman think I’m Mrs. Anderson in case she calls the police.”

Roy accelerated off.

“Now when we’re clear of this place, stop somewhere,” ordered Agatha, “and let’s have a look at what we’ve got.”

Roy drove for several street and then pulled into the side of the road.

Agatha took out the envelope, which she had stuffed in her handbag. She was about to open it when Roy grabbed her hand.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “You’ll get us into trouble. This is police evidence.”

“I found it, they didn’t,” growled Agatha. “Get off, Roy. I’ll take the responsibility.”

She opened the envelope. It was crammed with fifty-pound notes. “Must be; blackmail money,” she said. “There’s a letter.”

She pulled out one sheet of paper and opened it. She read, “This is all I can afford. I think you’re a wicked, evil man. After all we were to each other, I can’t believe you would do this to me. Harriet.” Agatha counted out the money. “There’s five thousand pounds here!”