Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers (7 page)

‘Sorry,' said Roy. ‘But they're so utterly
devoon
that—'

‘Psychopath,' prompted Agatha impatiently.

‘No,' said Jessica, giving Roy such a dazzling smile that he dropped a biscuit on the floor.

‘Sorry, so sorry. I'll get it,' babbled Roy.

‘Throw it out the back door into the garden for the birds,' said Jessica. ‘Agatha didn't introduce you but I know you. You're Roy Silver. You promoted that band, Get Quick.'

‘Psychopath!' howled Agatha.

They both stared at her. ‘I just want to find out who murdered poor George,' said Agatha.

Roy gave her a hurt look and made for the kitchen door with the pieces of biscuit.

‘No, he didn't,' said Jessica. ‘Did he say whether it was a man or a woman?'

‘As a matter of fact, he didn't,' said Agatha.

‘Then it could be one of the men in the village. George must have caused a lot of jealousy.'

‘I don't really think so, somehow,' said Agatha. ‘The murder was so vindictive.'

‘You don't think much of women,' commented Jessica.

‘Our Aggie is always in competition with the lot of them,' said Roy, returning to the table.

Agatha threw him a nasty I'll-speak-to-you-later look from her bearlike eyes.

‘I am not,' she said. ‘It's just that one would expect a man to kill him with a shotgun or a blow to the head.'

‘What are the names of the women he was having affairs with?' asked Jessica.

Agatha hesitated, and then said, ‘I can't really tell you that at the moment, but if anything breaks, you'll be the first to know.'

Jessica laughed. ‘At least I'm in the clear. I went straight to the ball and left when it was over.'

‘They think he was killed more than a whole day before,' said Agatha.

‘Ah! Where was I? I know. I was on location. I'm supposed to be having an affair with one of the doctors.'

‘I know,' breathed Roy. ‘Giles Deveraux.'

‘That's the one. And I was facing up to a dirty weekend with him at his cottage in Broadwell – you know, the village with the watersplash, just off the Stow road. We were there all day.'

‘But you didn't have the affair,' said Roy, wriggling with excitement. ‘You found out he was married.'

‘You really are a fan,' said Jessica.

‘You were practically drooling,' said Agatha crossly as they walked away from Jessica's cottage some ten minutes later.

‘Well, she's gorgeous, and you can rule her out,' said Roy.

‘Why?'

‘She could have any man she wanted. Only an idiot would want to have an affair with the gardener.'

‘George Marston was a very attractive man,' said Agatha. ‘I'm not writing her off yet. Let's go to Broadwell and ask around.'

But in Broadwell, they found out that the cast of the hospital soap had been there for the whole day, but had packed up in the early evening. ‘That still gives her time,' said Agatha.

‘Use your head,' snapped Roy waspishly. ‘She would need to be carrying a bag of snakes around with her. Anyway, they all drove off back to London. You're letting jealousy blind you, Aggie.'

‘I am not!' raged Agatha, and they quarrelled all the way back to her cottage and they were still quarrelling by the time Roy took his leave.

* * *

Simon had found a cheap room in a bed and breakfast in the village. He said he was spending time in the Oxford-shire villages, claiming London as his home and saying he needed some fresh air. His landlady, a Mrs Greta James, was a cheerful gossipy woman so Simon soon heard all about the pretty new barmaid at the pub. He did not want to ask outright about Fiona Morton, but he had a copy of one of Phil's photographs of her. He was just wondering whether he would ever manage a chance meeting when one morning, he saw Fiona leave her cottage and head for the village store. Simon raced past her, bought a loaf in the store and managed to ‘accidentally' collide with her as she was about to enter.

‘I am so sorry,' he said, ‘but it's not every day I bump into an attractive lady.'

‘Watch where you're going next time,' said Fiona, and made to move past him.

‘Look!' said Simon. ‘I really am most awfully sorry. May I buy you a drink?'

He gazed at her with adoring eyes, hoping he wasn't laying it on too thick. She appeared to survey him properly for the first time, from his thatch of thick black hair to his jester's face and sturdy body.

‘Well,' she said, suddenly coy, ‘I suppose one little drink would start the day. I don't usually go there. Full of rough types. Everyone's talking about some new barmaid.'

‘Let's go anyway,' urged Simon. ‘I'll protect you.'

She took his arm and smiled at him. They walked together into the pub. Behind the bar, Toni glowed in the dimness of the old pub. Fiona looked as if she had suddenly sucked several lemons. ‘So that's the new barmaid,' she said. ‘I believe she is considered beautiful. Can't see it myself.'

‘No use asking me,' said Simon cheerfully. ‘I prefer maturity. What'll you have to drink?'

‘Vodka and tonic, please.'

Simon held out a chair for her in a corner and then went to the bar. ‘A half pint of lager and a large vodka and tonic, miss,' he ordered.

‘Right, sir, coming up,' said Toni. She murmured, ‘That her?'

‘In the scrawny flesh.'

‘Be careful.'

‘Meet me later. We need to exchange notes.'

‘Don't get off until eleven in the evening. Where?'

‘Have you seen that ruined church just outside the north of the village?'

‘I know the one.'

‘I'll be there just after eleven.'

During this conversation they had barely moved their lips. Simon returned with the drinks.

‘I'd better introduce myself. I'm Simon White.'

‘And I'm Fiona Morton, but my friends call me Fee.'

‘Fee it is,' said Simon.

‘And what brings you to our little village?'

Simon talked about wanting to get out of London for a break. ‘I'm in advertising,' he lied. ‘Very stressful. Too many boozy lunches. I'm a copywriter. Are you a lady of leisure?'

‘For my sins. Dear Papa left me quite well off. But I am very involved in village activities.'

A ray of sun penetrating through the dusty window sent prisms of light sparkling on Fiona's diamond ring.

‘Oh, you're engaged,' said Simon. ‘Who's the lucky fellow?'

‘It's a great tragedy. He loved me so much and now he's dead.'

‘I am so sorry. What did he die of?'

‘He was murdered!'

‘No! How ghastly. How did it happen?'

‘His name was George Marston. He had moved to a Cotswold village to prepare a home for us when he was struck down.'

‘You mean a blow on the head?'

‘I do not know yet how he died.'

Nothing about adders, thought Simon. But there had been nothing about that part of the murder in the newspapers.

‘You must be devastated,' he said.

‘I am. I have cried and cried until I can cry no more.'

Her eyes were really beautiful, thought Simon. Green like large emeralds. Pity about the rest of her.

‘Another drink,' he offered.

‘Just a little one.'

The pub was filling up. Toni had been joined behind the bar by the landlord and it was he who took Simon's order.

When he returned with the drinks, Fiona gave him a watery smile. ‘I've been having a teeny sob,' she said. ‘So hard to get over.'

‘When did you last see George?'

‘Why do you ask?' she demanded, her eyes suspicious.

‘My dear Fee,' said Simon earnestly, ‘I have no desire to pry into your personal life. I know. Why don't I take you out for dinner to cheer you up? Is there anywhere good near here?'

‘How very kind. There's nothing in the village, of course, but Chez Henri is only twenty miles away. Have you heard of it?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Simon. Chez Henri was a restaurant run by two French chefs and set in an old manor house in the Oxford countryside. He had heard it was very expensive. Still, all in a good cause.

He smiled at her. ‘I'll book a table if I can get one. Eight o'clock?'

‘Wonderful. I'll point out my cottage to you.'

Simon phoned Toni as soon as Fiona had gone and cancelled their appointment for that evening.

Agatha sat in her garden that evening before going to bed. Simon had phoned her earlier about his dinner engagement. She could only hope it would turn out to be worth the expense. She felt uneasy. She had gone to the village shop earlier that evening to buy some cat food and had been made aware of a hostile attitude towards her from the customers there. Nothing was said but she received some nasty looks.

She stifled a yawn and decided to go to bed. She noticed her cats had not touched their bowls of cat food. They had been thoroughly spoilt and obviously expected their usual diet of fresh fish or liver.

‘I haven't time to pamper you,' said Agatha. ‘Try to eat the stuff.' And avoiding her cats' accusing eyes, she went up to prepare to go to bed.

She had just put on her nightdress when she heard her cats begin to howl and hiss.

‘Snakes and bastards,' shouted Agatha. ‘It's cat food, not poison.'

She decided to go downstairs to see if she could calm them down. Hodge and Boswell were sitting staring at the door, their cries rending the air.

‘What?' began Agatha, and then she became aware of an evil smell. She looked down and noticed a pile of what looked like excrement that had been shoved through her letterbox. All of it had fortunately landed on the doormat. Agatha got a strong rubbish bag and tipped the doormat into it and then got spray cleaner and cleaned the letterbox and what was smeared inside of her front door.

She dumped the rubbish bag in the bin at the bottom of her back garden. When she returned to the house, she found her hands were shaking. Agatha phoned the police and sat down and waited.

Bill Wong was just about to go off duty when he heard of Agatha's call. ‘I'll see her,' he said, and set out for Carsely.

Agatha let him in. ‘There's something going on, Bill,' she cried. ‘I was at the store earlier and you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. I can't phone Mrs Bloxby because it's too late.'

‘Normally, we wouldn't do anything about this,' said Bill, ‘as we haven't the resources. But as this is a murder enquiry, I'll send forensics along in the morning to see if they can get any fingerprints off your front door. Was the shit human or animal?'

‘Don't know,' said Agatha. ‘Smelled dire.'

‘Where did you dump it?'

‘It was practically all on the doormat so I scooped up the doormat, put it in a rubbish bag and dumped it in the bin.'

‘Show me.'

Agatha unlocked the kitchen door and led him down the garden to the bin. The garden was fragrant with all the flowers George had planted. She had a sudden vivid picture of him working away.

Bill opened the bin, shone his torch into it and sniffed.

‘Pooh! That's pig manure, Agatha. Someone could get it anywhere around here. Lock up and go to bed and we'll see what we can do for you tomorrow.'

After an uneasy night's sleep, Agatha phoned Mrs Bloxby and explained what had happened. ‘I'll be round right away,' said the vicar's wife.

While she waited for her, Agatha phoned the office and told them why she would be late that day.

When Mrs Bloxby arrived, Agatha said, ‘Who on earth would do such a thing?'

‘I sometimes think when something riles the villagers up, they go back mentally two hundred years,' said Mrs Bloxby.

‘Let's sit in the garden so I can smoke,' said Agatha. ‘Tell me what you mean. I was down in the village store yesterday and was treated like Typhoid Mary.'

‘There are nasty rumours,' said Mrs Bloxby cautiously.

‘About me?'

‘Do you know Mrs Arnold, an elderly lady who does the flowers in the church?'

‘I've seen her around. What about her?'

‘I met her in church yesterday and she told me I ought to keep clear of you. She said she had it on good authority that you had killed George Marston yourself. I said that was ridiculous. Mrs Arnold said that everyone in the village knew that even if you hadn't killed Mr Marston, you had brought evil to the village because of your record of hunting down murderers.

‘The trouble about these Cotswold villages, even though they are full of newcomers, I swear there is something in the very stones that make people revert to witch-hunting.'

‘Did she say who the good authority was?' Agatha asked.

‘She said she had never been one to gossip.'

‘Typical,' snorted Agatha. ‘How do I counteract this? It's going to make interviewing people in the village almost impossible.'

‘You are the public relations expert. If you were advising a client, what would you tell them to do?'

Agatha scowled in thought. Then her face cleared. ‘The press, of course. They'll be interested in anything to do with the murders.'

‘That might make it worse,' said Mrs Bloxby cautiously.

‘How?'

‘Naturally reporters will want to interview the villagers. You might be handing some nasty people a free platform.'

‘Damn! I'll face them down myself. I'll run off flyers on my printer and call a meeting in the village hall this evening.'

‘Will they come?'

‘When I say on the flyer it's about the murder of George Marston, they'll come, all right.'

The village hall was packed that evening as Agatha stood up before the microphone. She had been disappointed the police had not found any fingerprints on her door. Whoever had put the pig manure through her letterbox had worn gloves.