Pushing Up Daisies (19 page)

“Yes,” said Agatha. “No. I might have someone. Call you back.”

When she returned to the table, she said to Olivia, “My secretary is off with shingles.”

“How too utterly ghastly,” said Olivia. “My grandmother had that, right down the side of her face.”

“Are you feeling too awful?” asked Agatha. “Or could you help me out?”

“I say, Charles,” exclaimed Olivia. “Isn't it exciting? I'd like to see the inside of a detective agency.”

Agatha's ex-husband looked at her quizzically. Why was Agatha practically adopting this girl? There weren't any jealous vibes coming from Agatha.

After lunch, which, to the amazement of everyone except Olivia, Charles paid for, Agatha told Olivia to follow her to Mircester. Once in the car park, Agatha urged Olivia into her own car and produced a whole box of make-up and a magnified mirror, telling the girl she would feel better with a bit of foundation and lipstick.

Olivia followed Agatha into the office. The very first person she saw was Jake, sitting at his desk. Her mouth dropped a little open. Before Agatha could even introduce her, she said, “Hi! I'm Olivia, temporary secretary.”

“You planned this all along,” sneered the voice of Agatha's conscience.

“Leave me alone and just bugger off for once in your life,” snapped Agatha, and then turned brick red as she realised she had spoken aloud.

“Sorry,” she said, taking off her coat. “Thinking about something else. Patrick, anything yet on Farraday's death?”

“Not yet. But someone told me the pathologist had found a puncture mark on the arm.”

“He wouldn't let just anyone get into the car beside him and stab him with a syringe full of something, would he? Must be someone he knew. Toni, check up the wife's background. Jake, could you settle Olivia in at Mrs. Freedman's desk? The VAT man cometh. Any good at accounts, Olivia?”

“I'm a qualified accountant,” said Olivia.

“So what were you doing dogsbodying on a fashion magazine?” asked Agatha.

Olivia shrugged. “I thought it would be glamorous, but it was the pits. Lead me to it.”

Agatha reflected guiltily that she had landed lucky with Olivia. Poor Mrs. Freedman was eternally baffled by taxes. Agatha did employ a firm of accountants, but Mrs. Freedman always slowed things up, claiming she was able to do the taxes, so Agatha was often penalised for being late with her returns. In fact, thought Agatha, Mrs. Freedman was not much shakes as a secretary, but as Phil said in his gentle voice, “She useless. But she's
our
useless.”

Jake thought Olivia was a reassuring, familiar type. He had attended parties at the London Season and was familiar with the straight blond hair and hunting shoulders of Olivia's type of girl. Also, he was smarting after a sharp put-down from Toni earlier in the day. They had tracked down a missing child and returned the girl to her weeping and grateful parents. Efficient as ever, Toni made sure the local press were there for the handover.

Jake had used the euphoria of the moment to grab hold of Toni and kiss her. He might just have got away with it had he not thrust his tongue down Toni's throat. So in front of the parents and the press, she had told him savagely to never, ever try that again.

The trouble with Jake, a trouble that his father was well aware of, was that Jake plunged into every new job with great enthusiasm, and then suddenly got bored. Aware that his family were very rich indeed and that he did not really need to work, all Jake wanted to do was slope around London. He suddenly missed London. He had done a bit of the Season because his father had hoped a suitable girl would stiffen his spine, but Jake had spent the time getting drunk at balls and parties and capsizing a boat at Henley Regatta. At the end of the day, he offered to run Olivia home. She said regretfully that she had her car.

Still smarting after Toni's rebuff and longing for a bit of female adoration, Jake invited her for dinner. Olivia accepted. She suddenly wished she were in London at her flat so that her friends could see her escorted by this Adonis. But she always went home when she was between jobs. Jake chose a Chinese restaurant although he would have liked to take her to the George but couldn't afford it. Somehow, when they started talking, they both shared a longing to get back to London, and Olivia said she had a flat in Pont Street.

“So what are you doing buried down here?” asked Jake.

“Oh, my parents found out that our neighbour, Charles Fraith, was unmarried. I think they're brokering a deal.”

“And you're going along with it? A gorgeous creature like you!” exclaimed Jake.

Olivia could feel her cold retreating as a warm pink glow suffused her body. No one had ever called her gorgeous before.

“Well, you know how it is,” said Olivia. “No one else had come along, and the parents were fretting about not having grandchildren and the line dying out and all that yawning stuff. Charles is cute. Mind you, he's a lot older than me, and his mansion is really ugly. He's got a sort of butler, Gustav. Scary. Slab of a Swiss like something out of the Addams Family.”

“But you're not engaged?”

“No,” said Olivia. “Maybe I'll chuck Agatha's job and go back to London and have a think. Once I'm away from the family, I can think clearer.”

“Wish I could go with you,” said Jake.

“Why not? I've got a spare room. Gosh! What larks! What will we tell Agatha?”

“Don't need to tell her anything. I got keys to the office. We can go back and leave them on her desk with a note. I'll say I've gone back to Pa, and you can say you're too ill, and your cold has got worse.”

“I'll meet you in London. Wait till I scribble the address,” said Olivia. “Just wait till my friends see you!”

Agatha read Jake's note in the morning. She thanked her stars she had got him a service flat, to be paid on a weekly basis. She would always think of Jake as That Great Big Red Herring. Of all the red herrings she had encountered, she thought, Jake took the biscuit. Before, all murders had been somehow connected, but not the one of Toby Cross. Then she saw another note from Olivia, cursed, and phoned an agency for a temp.

Then she sat down and scowled horribly. Would they have gone off together? She felt a sudden sharp pang of guilt. She must stop interfering in Charles's life. Although she was sure it was because Olivia's family was rich and Charles, she knew, was mercenary, he had seemed genuine.

She heaved a sigh. She would go and talk to Jenny Coulter again and then go to Harby. There was nothing she could do but keep ferreting away. Mrs. Bull was still in hospital and still protesting that she could not remember anything about her attacker.

She longed to take one of her detectives with her for company, but she had a heavy workload, so after telling Toni to take over and allocate the jobs, Agatha set out to see if Jenny was at home.

 

Chapter Ten

Jenny was at home. Women like Jenny offended Agatha in an odd way. Why should she, Agatha, diet and spend a fortune at the beauticians to hold the years at bay whereas women like Jenny, opening the door wearing a tracksuit and slippers and shaped like a cottage loaf, saw no reason to bother.

“Oh, it's you again,” said Jenny. “But make it quick. My latest is due here soon.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, dear, so hurry up.”

“Can you think of anything at all to help me?” pleaded Agatha. “Can you think of any little thing? You know Farraday's been murdered?”

“He's no great loss, and his wife is a bitch. I gather from the news this morning he told her where he was going.”

“Yes, but she was seen at that sale of work all day,” said Agatha.

“Find out how heavily he was insured,” said Jenny. “Look, there was nothing in Bellington to arouse sexual passion. It's all about the money. Who stands to gain? Damian. Or the only sexual motive might be because the wife gets back in again with her beloved son. Something of Oedipus about that pair.”

Agatha's education on the ancient Greeks was sadly deficient, but no one watching television could avoid having heard of an Oedipus complex. There were even dreadful puns from comedians—“Have you given the Oedipus his milk, dear?”

“Don't let yourself be rushed or pushed,” said Jenny. “Go down to that dreadful hall and say you want a room to look through your notes and see if you can pick something up from the atmosphere.” All at once, Agatha realised Jenny's charm. She cared about people. She had a strong maternal streak. Smells of fresh coffee and something baking came from the kitchen.

As Agatha left, a man was arriving, a middle-aged business man, expensively tailored and barbered. He had a pleasant face, thinning hair and not much of a paunch. He was carrying a bouquet of a dozen red roses.

When did any man last bring me roses? Agatha fought off a wave of self-pity.

On the dashboard of her car, within reach, was a supply of e-cigarettes, Agatha deciding that if she couldn't stop, less was at least better, and if she smoked fake cigarettes when she was driving, then maybe she might come to prefer them.

 

Chapter Eleven

Usually one associates blazing autumn colours with somewhere like New England, not the British Isles, but the trees and hedgerows were blazing scarlet gold, purple and even green, the oak trees being the last to turn. Agatha thought gloomily that there was something almost frightening in all this beauty. Would people one day be saying, “Do you remember that glorious autumn we had right before World War Three?”

Her thoughts got gloomier. What happens after death? Are we recycled? What if it should turn out like
Groundhog Day
, and just before you were reborn, you would know that you were being sent back the same person again into the same background to see if you did any better the next time around?

I wouldn't be ambitious, went her thoughts. I'd find a decent fellow and have children. Oh, yeah? said a voice in her head. With your track record, you wouldn't know a decent fellow if he leapt out of your soup and bit you on the bum.

Agatha saw the sign that said
HARBY
approaching. She wished with all her heart that Damian would sack her. For the first time in her career, Agatha felt defeated. It would be wonderful to leave it to the police. But she sighed as she turned in at the gates leading to the hall.

Agatha's dress betrayed her feelings. She was wearing thick black tights with low heeled ankle boots, black trousers, black sweater and a dark green Barbour. She parked at the front of the hall and hesitated before she rang the bell. What did they do all day? Damian usually looked as if he did nothing. Andrea, when not plunging her hairy body in the pool, was off on some wildlife venture. Their mother flitted here and there, looking busy, but not actually doing anything.

Agatha finally rang the bell. Damian answered the door himself. “Any news?”

“No. I wanted to sit in the hall and go through my notes so that you could all be on hand if I think of asking something I may have overlooked. I know you've got loads of spare rooms untouched by the human duster.”

“Yes, lot of them are locked up. Better find one where the central heating still works. I know. There's one at the end of the west corridor where we keep some junk. Don't scowl. It's got heat and a chair.”

The wind whistled round the hall. Agatha looking out a window saw the rising wind sending multicoloured leaves flying off the trees. “Here you are,” said Damian, pushing open a door and switching on the light. “Have fun.” He went off, whistling.

The room was lit by one dusty naked light bulb which swung in a draught from a badly fitted window. Crowded into the room were many animals and birds in glass cases. There was one battered leather armchair. Stacked along one wall were paintings in ornate frames. Like most of the public who watch the
Antiques Roadshow
, Agatha was persuaded that she would recognise a real master if she saw it. She began to tilt the paintings forward to examine them. But they were all dirty and looked like badly executed family portraits, none of which was recognisable as any of the Bellingtons. Probably, thought Agatha, they had belonged to the previous owners of the hall, who had left them behind with all the Victoriana in the shape of all those creatures under glass.

She opened up her iPad and began to read through all her notes. The wind outside was growing in strength. The light above flickered but stayed on. Agatha shivered, despite the fact that the room was fairly warm. There was something unnerving about all those glass eyes, staring and staring out of their glass prisons. She was about to continue going over her notes when her eye caught a movement over on the wall behind the stacks of paintings. Because of the shadows, she had not noticed it before. It was a dusty greyish-white curtain, the colour of the walls, and it was slowly moving in a draught. Like a child looking for any excuse not to do homework, Agatha got to her feet and began to drag the paintings aside. That achieved she tried to pull aside the curtain until she saw it had simply been nailed to a strip of wood. She lifted the curtain to one side and looked in. There was nothing in the alcove but an old-fashioned Bath wheelchair. It was one of those she had seen in old prints of the town of Bath where invalids went to take the waters. It was made of basket work, a long seat lined with faded and tattered plum-coloured silk. It had a long handle at the front for the invalid to hold on to, or to enable it to be pulled from the front, and a big one at the back for pushing. Agatha shrugged. This wasn't getting her anywhere. Back to the notes. “
Wooooo!
” screamed the wind, making her jump.

She settled back in her chair and began to read. The voice of her ex-husband sounded in her brain. “The trouble with you, Agatha,” she remembered James saying, “is that you solve your cases by ending up a sort of tethered goat. The murderer realises you are on to him, and he decides to bump you off.”