Pushing Up Daisies (11 page)

Doris rapidly explained things. She opened a wardrobe and handed Jake one of Charles's dressing gowns and suggested he wash, and leave all his dirty clothes on the bed so that she could put them in the washing machine.

When Jake finally erupted into the kitchen, all shining-morning-face, Agatha winced and felt her age.

“So when do we get started?” he asked eagerly.

“First,” said Agatha, “we find you a flat, and then I'll think up some work to keep you going until you find a proper job.”

He looked almost ludicrous in his dismay. “But I thought I was going to be a detective!”

“But you have no training. And you can't be a detective until you get a certificate.”

“You could take me on as a trainee,” pleaded Jake.

The phone rang. “Answer that, Jake,” said Agatha. “If it's the press, I'll talk to them later. Oh, and if it is someone called Roy Silver, I am out detecting.”

It was Roy Silver. “He always wants to come and visit when he thinks there is a chance of getting some publicity for himself,” explained Agatha. “I'm very fond of him, but if he wants to come this week-end, I don't feel up to it. Tell him I'm up in London somewhere.” Jake conveyed the message.

The doorbell shrilled. “I'll get it,” said Jake.

A tall, handsome man stood on the doorstep. “Who are you?” he demanded sharply.

“I'm Agatha's latest…”

He had been about to say, “detective,” but the angry man made a sound of disgust and strode off.

“Who was it?” asked Agatha.

“Big chap. Asked who I was. I started to say I was your latest detective, but I only got as far as latest when he stormed off.”

“Oh, dear. I've a feeling that was my ex. He lives next door. We'll wait here until Doris comes back with clothes for you. You can pay me back when you get work. I'll need to buy you a cheap car.”

In the early evening, Agatha introduced Jake to her staff, who always reported back before going their separate ways. “He is a trainee,” said Agatha. “He can start off by going out with one of you and observing how it's done. Simon, you've got that supermarket job. Take Jake with you tomorrow.”

Simon noticed the way that Jake kept looking at Toni. Although he had persuaded himself he was no longer interested in Toni, he didn't want to see anyone else snatching her away.

“What do we have to do?” asked Jake.

“We keep an eye out for shoplifters.”

“But supermarkets usually have a security guard,” said Jake.

“This one has. But he's an ex-copper and due to retire in a couple of days' time, and they don't want to spoil his leave-taking by accusing him of incompetence. He's been very good up until recently when his sight began to fail.”

Agatha had been busy that day. She had found Jake a studio flat near the office and had bought him a cheap secondhand car. She brushed aside his thanks, saying that he could pay her off when he found a proper job. She was glad to say goodnight to him. Agatha did not want to be seen around with a handsome young man. She had a cynical feeling that people would not think Jake her toy boy, but more likely, her son. The company of youth, thought Agatha sadly, can be very lowering, bringing on feeling of “been there, done that, felt that, yawn.”

Jake said he would brave a confrontation with his father in order to get his clothes and things from home.

When Agatha returned, she found both James and Charles waiting for her. “Oh, feel free to use my house any time you just want to walk in,” snarled Agatha. “Get me a drink, and then tell me why you are both here.”

Charles fixed her a gin and tonic, and then sat down next to her on the sofa while James stood in front of the fireplace and looked solemnly at her.

“It never works out, you know,” said James.

Agatha glared at Charles. “Didn't you tell him that I have no interest either maternal or sexual in that young man?”

“No, I didn't,” said Charles. “You are always making a fool of yourself over one man or another. Why not this one?”

“Don't be so stupid!” raged Agatha. “He found those diamonds. Maybe there is some connection to Peta. I couldn't just abandon him. He wants to be a detective, so he's working as a trainee. Simon can look after him. I've got to go back to London to see that other man, Peter Welling.”

“Oh, hell,” said Charles. “I suppose I had better go with you. But haven't you noticed how very good-looking young Jake is? And didn't you have enough of good-looking men recently when one tried to murder you? Wonder what Toni will make of him.”

“I would go with you,” said James, “but I have a plane to catch in the morning. Don't do anything stupid, Agatha.”

“Of course she will,” said Charles cheerfully. “She's not going to change to suit you!”

In the morning, before she left for London with Charles, Agatha took a good look at young Jake. He had thick curly black hair, large hazel eyes fringed with thick sooty lashes, a square handsome face and a strong body with very long legs. Agatha noticed Jake had said something to make Toni laugh, and Simon was looking like thunder. Although Simon was still pursuing Alice, he did not want anyone to succeed with Toni where he had failed. Bill Wong had found a flat in the same block as Alice, and that was making Simon's pursuit of her even more difficult.

The supermarket was within walking distance. As Simon and Jake strolled along, Jake asked, “Has the beautiful Toni got a fellow?”

“No,” said Simon, deciding to lie. “She's a lesbian.”

“What a waste,” said Jake. “What about Agatha?”

“Come on. She's old enough to be your granny.”

“Maybe. Very sexy. Have you noticed her legs?”

“Oh, shut up. We've got work to do.”

Peter Welling turned out to live in a pretty white stuccoed house in Kensington. “Mistress area,” commented Charles. “Back in early Victorian times, they put the other woman out here. Far enough from London then to be discreet.”

Agatha suddenly had a weak hope that Peter would turn out to have left this address or gone abroad or anything to stop her for having to conduct another interview. It was all too complicated. If she had been paid to investigate Peta's murder, that would have been straightforward. But there was the case of Lord Bellington and then Mrs. Bull. Was Mrs. Bull alive? Had she been able to identify her attacker? If that were the case, then her case and the case of Lord Bellington could both have been solved. She stood with her hand on the garden gate and with her mouth open.

“Are you going to stand there in la-la land?” demanded Charles.

Agatha gave herself a mental shake. “Remind me again why I am wasting time on Peta's murder.”

“Because you felt there was a connection.”

“Oh, right. You know, Charles. I'm suddenly weary. I want a fire and … and muffins, and slippers, and…”

“You want escape. Don't we all,” said Charles. “Let's get on with nasty reality.”

He rang the bell beside the black lacquered door. An old wisteria, devoid of its leaves, surrounded the door like withered, clutching hands.

The door was opened by a maid, a tall figure in black dress, white cap and white apron.

Charles introduced them and asked if it were possible to see Mr. Welling. The maid held open the door to a drawing room, which ran from front to back of the house, and told them to wait.

“Odd,” whispered Agatha. “I didn't think anyone had a parlourmaid anymore. It's like finding yourself in the middle of a costume drama.”

The door was held open and a tall grey-haired figure swept in wearing a long lace gown and carrying a glass walking stick.

“We hoped to speak to Mr. Welling,” said Agatha.

“I am he. I think tea would be nice. Jeremy. Tea.”

Jeremy bobbed a curtsey and went out. Two transvestites, marvelled Agatha.

“Mr. Welling…”

“Do call me Peter.”

“We are investigating the murder of Peta Currie,” said Agatha. “I believe you knew her.”

“Oh, Peta. What larks we had. Mind you, when I read about her murder, I was not surprised.”

“Why?” asked Charles.

“She wasn't above a bit of blackmail, sweetie, and so I tell you. You see, my parents were still alive, and if they had known I was a trannie, I would have been disinherited, and this house and all the spondulicks would have gone to creepy cousin Alwin. Peta was fun. She wanted an escort she didn't have to go to bed with for a change, and I wanted a glamour puss to show to the parents. Well, one evening she ups and demands money or says she will go to the parents and tell them, and she's sneaked the photos to show them. I could have strangled the bitch. I mean all I had was a small allowance from a trust and a mews house. She says to sell the mews. So I hold her off by saying I've put it on the market. Then the parents died in that Paris air crash, so I told her to say anything she wanted. I'd never thought of killing anyone before, but I used to lie awake at night and dream of ways to kill Peta. When I read about her murder, I wondered what poor bastard she had driven to do it.

“Ah, tea and muffins. Splendid. And put a match to the logs, Jeremy. It's a teensy bit cold in here.”

Charles wondered uneasily if Agatha were psychic. The only things missing were the slippers put on the hearth to warm.

“You may join us, Jeremy,” said Peter, inclining his head.

“Ever so kind, I'm sure, mum,” said Jeremy. “I'll serve first.”

They were indeed like a pair out of a costume drama, thought Agatha. Peter had a high-nosed aristocratic face, and Jeremy had the harsh plain looks of a downtrodden class.

Charles asked, “Did Peta ever say anything about anyone wanting to kill her husband?”

“Not that I can recall. I read a lot about it in the newspapers. Someone murdering Peta, now, that I can understand. Bellington? I am sure there is no connection. In these cases, it is always about money. Cherchez le dosh, as I always say.”

Agatha suddenly felt claustrophobic. The room, like its occupants, was designed to fit the period. The mantle over the fireplace was draped with gold silk. Stuffed birds in glass cases stood on little side tables. Antimacassars decorated the backs of the sofa and easy chairs.

“I am afraid we must go,” she said firmly, refusing a buttered muffin.

“Call again,” said Peter grandly. “Jeremy, show them out.”

“You know,” said Agatha when they headed for the tube to take them out to where the car was parked, “when I worked in London, I wouldn't have been taken back or surprised by that pair. I've become countrified.”

“Too right,” said Charles amiably, “Nothing like down-to-earth poisons and chucking people down wells.”

Agatha stopped short in the Gloucester Road. “I must phone Patrick. Maybe Mrs. Bull has told them who tried to kill her.”

Charles waited while Agatha talked urgently into her phone. When she had rung off, she said, “Mrs. Bull says she bought a bottle of beer from the local shop, drank it, and that's the last she remembered until the pain of being chucked down the well. Once the grill had been wrenched off the top, it seems that slab was propped to one side and could easily have been levered up and onto the top.”

“But if someone drugged her beer, it must have been someone who called at her home,” said Charles.

“She says no one called, but the police think she may be too frightened to mention any name. I now wonder if that business with the diamonds has anything to do with the murders. Patrick said it's all gone hush-hush.”

“Oh, the dark corridors of power will be diplomatically sorting that out. But they'll need to produce a murderer because it's been all over the newspapers. I've just thought of something, Aggie. What do we know about Gerald? We know he worked for Scotland Yard, but that doesn't make him a saint. What if Peta had something on him? Maybe she knew him from her days in London? And why settle in the Cotswolds?”

“I've been interviewed by detectives from Scotland Yard before, including this last lot,” said Agatha, “and I can't think of even one who was in any way friendly. Signed the official secrets act and threatened. I know the crime reporter of the
Sketch
. Let's go and see him. Taxi!”

Agatha phoned from the taxi and found that Alex Cameron, the crime reporter, was drinking in El Vino's, that favourite watering hole of journalists in Fleet Street.

He was on his own, sitting at a table with a bottle of wine in front of him. He was a squat, paunchy man with a face criss-crossed with little red broken veins, a loose mouth, and dyed-brown hair combed over a freckled scalp.

They sat down at his table, and he eyed them blearily. “Fleet Street's not the same since all the newspapers left,” he said. “This is the last bit of it. If you want a drink, buy your own.”

“Just a bit of info,” said Agatha. “Ever hear of a detective inspector called Gerald Devere?”

“Something there. Need to get back to the old files. Can't be bothered.”

“I'm officially investigating Lord Bellington's murder,” said Agatha. “You help me, and I'll make sure you'll get an exclusive.”

“Now, you're talking. Let's go.”

Agatha was amazed at the seemingly small number of staff in the offices of the
Sketch
and commented on it. “Not like the old days,” said Alex. “Most done by agencies and freelancers. I'm for the chop soon. I know it. Got me a cubicle. Can't call it an office. Squeeze in.”

“Don't you keep everything on a computer?” marvelled Agatha as the old reporter scrabbled in a large filing cabinet. “Could never get used to the things,” he grumbled. “I'm a paper man, me. Ah, here we are. I 'member him now. Had to give that one backhanders for every bit of information.”

He heaved his bulk onto a small typing chair and opened a dusty file. “Ah, knew there was something. You heard of Mad Max?”