A Spoonful of Poison (20 page)

Roy was startled at breakfast the following morning when Agatha announced that they were going to church.

“Why?” he wailed. “I don’t do church.”

“I want to talk to Mrs. Bloxby.”

“We could go to the vicarage afterwards.”

“I feel guilty about always dropping in on her. Come on. It’ll do our souls good.”

“I didn’t know you had a soul, sweetie.”

Agatha was impatient, her mind racing from one thing that needed doing to another. She found the service interminable. She only relaxed during the long sermon, the vicar’s words drifting in and out of her brain until she fell asleep and was finally awakened by a sharp nudge in her ribs from Roy’s elbow and his voice hissing in her ear, “You’re snoring.”

After the final hymn and the blessing, they filed out of church. Agatha shook hands with the vicar and said, “Fine sermon. Very moving.”

Alf Bloxby replied drily, “But not enough to keep you awake.”

“You must be mistaken. I heard every word,” lied Agatha. She spotted Mrs. Bloxby talking to some of the parishioners and hurried over to her.

“A word in private,” said Agatha, driving off the three women who had been talking to Mrs. Bloxby with a steely glare.

“I hope this is important,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “You interrupted me.”

“Very important. Do you know anything about Trixie Chance?”

“Until her husband approached me about you publicizing the fête, I did not know anything at all about either Mr. Chance or his wife.”

“But you could find out. The clergy gossip to each other.”

“Mrs. Raisin, I will only gossip if it is to a good end. What is your motive?”

Agatha told her about the concert and the tattoos. Mrs. Bloxby frowned. “It is all very thin evidence of wrongdoing, but I will see what I can find out.”

“Thanks!” Agatha charged off, sweeping Roy with her. “We’d better get back home. Patrick should be calling.”

When she got back to her cottage, Agatha checked her answering service. She listened in dismay. Patrick had left a message to say there was no record of the marriage.

Agatha told Roy. “I could go up to London and check at the Records Office,” she said, “but it would take ages. Wait! I’ve an idea. It would be easy if I had an idea of exactly when they got married.”

She phoned Toni. “I want to find out when and where the vicar and Trixie got married. That pig farmer fancies you. Would you mind going to Comfrey Magna and asking him?”

“If his wife’s around, she’ll throw another teapot at me,” said Toni, “but, yes, I’ll try.”

Toni decided to go straight to the pig farm. If Hal’s wife was there, she’d just have to beat a retreat.

As she approached the farm, she saw Hal working in a field near the house. She parked the car, vaulted the fence and went to meet him.

“Well, if it isn’t the prettiest detective in England,” said Hal. “Come to see the pigs?”

“No, I wanted to ask you a question. When did Mr. Chance and his wife get married, and where?”

“Let me see. Must be about ten years ago. We all thought he was a confirmed bachelor. They got married in Moreton Registry Office.”

“Not in church?”

“No, there was something about her having been divorced.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the date?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Give us a kiss and I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me first and I’ll give you a kiss,” said Toni.

“Okay. I remember because it was the day of the
Moreton Agricultural Show and I got first prize for one of my pigs. That would be on the eighth of September.”

“Ten years ago?”

“Right. Now what about that kiss?”

“Another time.” Toni darted away, jumped the fence, got into her car and drove off.

Agatha did not want to wait until the council offices in Moreton-in-Marsh opened on Monday morning, only perhaps to find that all records of marriages had been sent up to London. She travelled up on the Sunday night with Roy and booked herself into a hotel for the night, then set off to the records office in Finsbury Park the next day.

Eagerly she filled out the required forms and then searched until she found the right book and searched through the pages. Arthur Chance had married Trixie Webster. Her home address was given as 4A Puddleton Close, Cheltenham.

Agatha phoned Phil and told him to take his cameras over to Comfrey Magna and try to capture a discreet shot of Trixie. Before she went to Cheltenham, Agatha wanted to have a photograph to show around. As she travelled in a taxi back to Paddington Station, she could not lose the feeling that somehow the magic of London for her had disappeared. She could not get over the sensation that the great city had somehow become grimy, dingy and unwelcoming. Maybe it had always been like
that, she thought, and one actually had to live in the place to like it once more.

I’m getting countrified, thought Agatha as the train slid out of the station. I have a cottage, I have cats, soon I’ll be wearing tweeds. She had always thought of herself as a sophisticated city person, that her stay in the country was perhaps just a phase. She remembered having voiced this idea to Charles, who had said cynically, “Sophisticated City Agatha was just another mask. People do like to glamorize themselves. It saves them from looking at the person they really are.”

“And who am I really?” Agatha had demanded angrily.

But Charles had laughed and said, “I wouldn’t dare tell you.”

Agatha wished she had brought a book or a newspaper to read on the train. There was something unsettling about being left with her own thoughts as the countryside slid by. She did not want to end her days alone. Perhaps when she decided she had enough money, she should start paying one of those high-class dating agencies or go on a cruise. Suddenly, the idea of a cruise filled her mind, an idea based on old movies where couples stood by the rail in the moonlight. She would get married and send James an invitation and see how he liked that! Damn James, she thought as the bubble of her dream burst.

She went straight to the office in Mircester, took the invitation to James’s engagement party and pinned it up on the noticeboard. Mrs. Freedman trotted over and read
it. “Don’t dare say anything,” said Agatha. “Simply write out a reply and I’ll sign it. Where’s Toni?”

“She’s just phoned. She’s wrapped up a missing-teenager case and is on her way back in. Oh, here she is now. And there are some photographs on your desk. Phil said you asked for them.”

Agatha studied the photographs. There was a clear shot of Trixie leaving the vicarage, and then the photograph had been cropped to show just the head and shoulders.

“Toni,” Agatha hailed her. “I’ve got Trixie’s address from the marriage certificate. She used to live in Cheltenham. Get yourself a coffee while I look up the map and find out exactly where we’re going.”

Toni filled a mug from the coffee machine in the corner of the office. Then she saw the card pinned to the noticeboard. Her first thought was not about how Agatha might be taking the news of her ex’s engagement, but about how awkward it would be to see Harry again. Of course, he might not get an invitation. It was not as if he worked for the agency any more.

“Right,” said Agatha. “We’re off. We’ll take my car. Do you mind driving, Toni? I came straight from London and I’m feeling a bit tired.”

“Sure,” said Toni, reflecting that it was odd of Agatha to let her drive and then wondering for the first time just how badly Agatha was upset by that engagement invitation.

“This could be a wild-goose chase,” said Agatha, settling into the passenger seat and fastening her seat belt. “Maybe it’s because I really don’t like Trixie and I do want it to be her. But what motive could she possibly have?”

“Was that engagement invitation a surprise?” ventured Toni cautiously.

“A bit,” said Agatha gruffly.

After a while, Agatha fell asleep. Toni stopped the car and gently removed a smouldering cigarette from Agatha’s fingers, stubbed it out in the ashtray and then drove on.

Poor old thing, thought Toni. As she approached Cheltenham, she saw a police car driven by a young woman. It would be nice to work with young people for a change, thought Toni, because Agatha’s fifty-something years seemed very old to her.

She nudged Agatha. “Wake up! I need directions.”

“Eh, what? I wasn’t really asleep,” said Agatha defiantly. “Go in on the London Road and then cut up to Montpelier Terrace. Puddleton Close is up the back on the left.”

When they reached Montpelier Terrace, Agatha said, “Turn left here and then third on the right and then left again. It’s a cul-se-sac. Number four-A, which means it’s probably a basement flat. Oh, damn!”

“What?”

“Wait a minute while I phone Patrick. I’ll see if one of his old cop friends can check the police records under her name.”

Toni waited until Agatha had given Patrick his instructions and then asked, “So do we get out and start to question the neighbours?”

“No, I think I’d like to hear from Patrick first, and I’m hungry. The only food I got on the train was one ghastly little dried-up croissant. We’ll leave the car here. There’s an antique-gallery place near here with a cafe.”

Agatha ordered a bacon sandwich and coffee in the cafe. “I wish Patrick would hurry up,” she mumbled between bites.

“Might take all day,” Toni pointed out. “He’s got to find his friend first.”

“Well, we’ll give it another half an hour.”

Toni scowled into her cup of coffee.

“What’s bothering you?” asked Agatha. “Half an hour seems like too long?”

“No, I was thinking about sex.”

“At your age, that’s all anyone thinks about,” said Agatha.

“I don’t mean it the way you think I mean it. It all frightens me a bit.”

“You’re a virgin?”

“Yes, still. I got scared off.”

Agatha lit a cigarette, saw the horrified look the waitress gave her, remembered the smoking ban and sulkily stubbed it out in her saucer.

“Tell me about it.”

“It was in my final year at school,” said Toni. “There
was this fellow. All the girls were mad for him and I was flattered when he asked me out on a date. We’d had a bit too much to drink at a club and then he led me down an alley at the back of the club and pushed me up against the wall and began to tear at my clothes. I screamed my head off, pushed him away and ran for my life.

“He put it about the school that I was a frigid lesbian and they all seemed to believe him until he was up in court on a charge of rape. I think I’m too romantic for sex.”

“The fact is,” said Agatha, “that women’s sexual freedom is less than it ever was.”

“What about the pill?”

“Oh, that’s all right. Saves a lot of unwanted children from being born. But now women are expected to perform all the tricks of the brothel, shave their pubic hair and go in for any nasty deviations the men want. That’s not freedom. That’s domination. But stick it out, Toni. You’re a pretty girl and bright. You’ll meet someone nice.”

Agatha’s phone rang. She scrambled in her handbag for her mobile. “Yes, Patrick,” Toni heard her say. Agatha listened intently, a smile spreading across her face. Finally she said, “That’s great work. Type it out and leave it on my desk in the office.” She rang off.

“Listen to this, Toni. Fifteen years ago, the saintly vicar’s wife was booked for possession and for supplying acid at the clubs. Why on earth she married a vicar, I’ll
never know. Let’s go round to Puddleton Close and see what we can dig up.”

“It looks very upmarket,” said Toni as she parked once more outside 4-A.

“A lot of these places have been gentrified,” said Agatha. “Let’s see if there’s anyone at home.”

They walked down the stairs to the basement flat and rang the bell. The door was opened by a slim young man wearing jeans and an open-necked shirt. He had a shock of ginger hair and a pleasant face marred by acne scars.

Agatha explained they were private detectives trying to find out about a certain Trixie Webster who had lived in the flat fifteen years ago.

“No use asking me,” he said. “I only moved in a month ago and I think three sets of people lived here before me. Try old Mrs. Brother. She lives in the top flat and she’s lived there for yonks.”

Agatha thanked him. She and Toni climbed the stairs out of the basement and up to the main front door. Agatha rang the bell marked “Brother.” An elderly voice came over the intercom demanding to know who was there.

Agatha patiently explained her business. There was a long silence while she fretted on the doorstep, and then, to her relief, the door was buzzed open.

Mrs. Brother was waiting for them on the landing
at the top of the stairs. She was stooped and wrinkled and seemed very old indeed, but her eyes were bright and sharp.

“Come in,” she said.

They entered a low-ceilinged, sunny room. Unlike most homes of the elderly, the room was neither over-furnished nor filled with photographs. There was a good landscape over the fireplace. A sofa and two comfortable chairs were covered in faded chintz facing a low coffee table. A Persian rug lay on the polished boards on the floor. There was a small polished round table with three upright chairs by the window holding a little crystal glass of wild flowers.

“Please sit down,” said Mrs. Brother.

Agatha’s eyes fell on a large glass ashtray on the coffee table. “Do you smoke, Mrs. Brother?”

“Yes, I enjoy the occasional cigarette.”

Agatha pulled out her cigarette packet and offered her one. I can go on smoking if this ancient lady can still smoke and feel no ill effects, thought Agatha.

Mrs. Brother lit up a cigarette and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. “I shouldn’t really,” she wheezed when she could speak.

Agatha decided not to have a cigarette after all.

“Can you tell me anything about Trixie Webster?”

“I remember her. I was the one who phoned the police. She was squatting with a bunch of hippies in the basement. They played music so loudly that the whole
building seemed to vibrate. My husband was alive then and went down to give them a ticking-off. Trixie threw a glass of vodka in his face and I do not wish to repeat what she said to him, but it was mostly four-letter words. When he told me, I called the police. It was hard to get the police to come even in those days, so I lied and said I thought they had guns.