Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (10 page)

‘So what you want of me?’ asked Sally.

‘I thought you might have an idea if Mrs Courtney had any enemies.’

‘Can’t right say she could’ve had any. See, hardly anyone was allowed in the house, and that’s a fact. Didn’t like to take your money for nothin’ but maybe
you’d like to see these. Miz Bairns asked me to burn ’em and I clean forgot. Old family photos. Might help.’

Agatha took out her wallet and handed over a couple of hundred. She knew she probably didn’t have to pay anything for them but there was a beaten-down weariness in Sally’s brown face
that went to her heart.

‘Why do you stay in such a job?’ asked Agatha.

‘Pay’s good. But with this money you just done give me I’m off back home to Atlanta in the morning. I’d rather go back to waiting table than work for her. Been only there
three weeks. She follows me around like a cat. Looks for dirt. Crazy about dirt she is. She pays me end of the week, which is tomorrow. I’ll collect that and then leave her a note. Now, I
best get back.’

‘Who worked for her before you?’

‘Don’t rightly know. I know she’s only lived there a couple o’ months.’

Agatha thanked her and wished her luck. She put the album in her briefcase. Now, she thought, as she headed back to the hotel, let’s see why Amy was so keen to have this lot burned.

Agatha found to her surprise that there was a bowl of fruit and a bottle of sparkling wine on the bedside table. A note said, ‘With compliments’.

Now that’s nice, thought Agatha. How odd that such a functional type of roadside motel should go to such a courtesy.

She picked up the phone and got through to reception. ‘I just want to thank you for the fruit and wine,’ she said.

‘We didn’t give no fruit or wine to your room, ma’am. It’s Mizz Raisin, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe you got an admirer.’

Agatha slowly replaced the receiver. If by any chance the wine was drugged, she could pour some off, then pretend to be asleep and see if anyone came into the room.

On the other hand, that someone might kill her. She did not want to go to the police because it would take ages waiting for the contents of the wine bottle to be analysed, and the American
police would contact Mircester, who would no doubt be furious at her interfering in their investigation.

She went downstairs to reception and said to the clerk. ‘I’m expecting a friend to arrive from England late tonight. May I book another room?’

‘Sure, just fill up the form. There’s one along the corridor from you. That do?’

‘Fine.’

Agatha returned to her room and poured half the bottle of wine down the toilet after rinsing some of it around in a glass.

She made up the bed to look as if someone was asleep in it, finally placing a wig she kept for travelling stuffed with newspapers on the pillow. She opened the bedside drawer and took out a copy
of the Gideon Bible and put it in her briefcase in the place of the photo album.

Then she went out, locking the door and letting herself into the extra room she had booked.

Agatha lay down on the bed and prepared to wait. But she was exhausted and jet-lagged and soon fell asleep, not waking until four in the morning.

She went out and walked slowly along to her old room. There wasn’t any sign of forced entry. She unlocked the door and switched on the light. All seemed to be as she had left it but for
one thing. The briefcase was gone. Gripped by panic, she packed up her few belongings, emptied out the wine in case one of the maids should drink it, went downstairs, paid her bills and phoned her
taxi driver.

He grumbled a bit at being called out in the middle of the night but agreed to come.

When the cab arrived, she told the driver to take her to any large five-star hotel in the centre of the city.

He dropped her outside the Hilton Garden Inn. As Agatha stumbled wearily out of the cab, her handbag opened and the contents spilled on to the pavement. The driver helped her gather up the
contents, including a packet of cigarettes. ‘You won’t be needing those,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘Hotel’s proud of the fact you can’t do no smoking anywhere inside.’

‘Oh, snakes and bastards,’ howled Agatha. ‘Take me somewhere where I can smoke.’

He drove her a few blocks to a boutique hotel called the the Cloche. ‘Wait there,’ ordered Agatha. ‘I want a look at this place first.’

The entrance hall was all mahogany and brass. Yes, said the night porter, he had a smoking room available. Agatha went out and paid off the taxi and then followed the porter, who was carrying
her bag inside. The price was steep but the room she was ushered into was large and comfortable and boasted a small sitting room.

With a sigh of pleasure, she lit a cigarette, realizing she had not had one since leaving England. It tasted foul. Agatha studied the packet with narrowed eyes in case the cigarettes should turn
out to be the contraband sweepings off some Chinese factory floor, but everything seemed correct. ‘Rats!’ she said to uncaring walls and went to bed instead, not waking until noon.

After showering and dressing, she ordered coffee and sandwiches and sat down to inspect the photograph album. She stared, puzzled, at various photographs. Someone appeared to have been cut out
of quite a lot of them. There was Tom with his arm around someone who had been snipped out of the photograph; the same thing had been done to several of the others. There were a few of Miriam with
her husbands on her wedding days.

‘None of Amy,’ said Agatha to the coffee pot. ‘I wonder why.’

When she had finished her light lunch, she phoned her taxi driver. When she gave him the address of Camden Court, he looked puzzled. ‘Don’t you know it?’ she asked
impatiently.

‘Sure, but you now being in this classy hotel and wanting to go to a place like Camden Court set me back a bit for a moment.’

‘Why?’

‘Bit out of town in the projects.’

‘I’ve got to get there.’

‘Okay, lady. You’re the boss.’

Curious, very curious, thought Agatha. What is a frigid, rich queen like Amy doing with a pal in the projects? You’d think the very sight of a cockroach would make that sterile bitch
faint.

The projects were not as insalubrious as Agatha had feared. She found number five and knocked at the door. The door was opened by a tall, tired-looking motherly woman with a bad perm and swollen
ankles showing above scuffed slippers.

‘Harriet Temple?’ asked Agatha.

‘I ain’t buying.’

‘And I’m not selling. I am a private inquiry agent working for Mr Tom Courtney.’

‘Mr Courtney? You’d best come in.’

Agatha walked through to a cluttered living room. The furniture was shabby but there was an expensive flat-screen TV on one wall.

‘I gather Mrs Bairns stayed with you at the time of her mother’s murder?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you an old friend of Mrs Bairns?’

‘Used to be. My husband was a doctor but he lost his licence and was sent to prison for supplying drugs. Still Amy would visit from time to time. She bought me that TV there. Right
generous.’

‘This may seem odd but do you have any photographs of Mrs Bairns?’

Harriet laughed. ‘Amy asked me that, too. I only had the few and I gave them to her. Mind you, I kept the one of my wedding ’cause she was my maid of honour. I didn’t want to
let go of that one.’

‘May I see it?’

‘I’ll get it.

She came back with a framed photo and handed it to Agatha. ‘Where is Amy?’ asked Agatha.

‘Oh, of course she had all that cosmetic surgery. That’s her.’

Agatha stared in amazement. Amy could almost have been her brother in drag. ‘Are she and Tom twins?’

‘Yes, identical. Mind you, it wasn’t only her appearance that got changed. She just wasn’t the same old Amy. Fussed about bugs and infections the whole time. Of course, she and
Tom were always a bit like that.’

Agatha sat silently and then said slowly, ‘Do you have a passport?’

‘You know, Amy asked me that. I said I hadn’t. So she said maybe she’d take me on a trip somewhere to make up for my man being in prison. Gave me that TV. She said if I gave
her my birth certificate and everything, she’d fix it up for me. But I never heard no more about it. I want to see her – it must have been after she got all that cosmetic work and, I
swear to God, I’ve never seen such a change in anyone.

‘Didn’t even ask me to sit down. Said she had her position in local society to think of, and having a friend whose husband was a criminal wouldn’t do her any good. She asked me
not to come back. I was so hurt I went home and cried my eyes out.’

Agatha took a small powerful camera out of her handbag. ‘If I could just photograph that picture?’

‘Well, I promised Amy I’d got rid of all of them . . . but what the hell? She isn’t a friend any more. Go ahead.’

‘You gave her an alibi for the time of her mother’s murder. Did she really stay with you?’

‘Of course,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m not a liar. Now, do you mind just getting out?’

A day later, Inspector Wilkes walked into Mircester police headquarters to be told by the desk sergeant that Mrs Raisin was waiting to speak to him. Wilkes swung round. Fast
asleep on a hard plastic chair was Agatha Raisin. Her mouth was open and she was snoring gently.

‘Tell her I’m still out,’ said Wilkes curtly.

‘Sir, she said something about having solved the murder of Mrs Courtney.’

Wilkes scowled horribly. He hated to admit that Agatha had helped him in the past. But he decided he’d better wake her up and hear what she had to say. He shook her by the shoulder. As
Agatha blinked up at him, he demanded, ‘What’s all this about you having solved the murder?’

‘Get me a strong black coffee and I’ll tell you all about it,’ said Agatha.

Fortunately for Agatha, Sergeant Collins was out on a job, so it was Bill Wong who sat with Wilkes as Agatha began her story. She described how Amy Courtney had changed her
appearance drastically but that before that she had been a mirror image of her twin, Tom. Agatha theorized that it was Amy dressed as Tom who had gone to the Cayman Islands, that Harriet had been
heavily bribed to say that Amy was staying with her, and that Amy had given Tom Harriet’s birth certificate and all necessary details. Tom had made himself up as a woman and secured a
passport in Harriet’s name, flown to London and murdered his mother for her money.

‘This is all very far-fetched,’ said Wilkes.

‘I bet you didn’t check to see if someone called Harriet Temple had entered the country,’ said Agatha.

‘But why would this Harriet Temple continue to lie?’

‘Check the airport and then ask her. If she thinks she’s in danger of being accused of murder, she’ll soon tell you. And I think Amy got all that cosmetic surgery in time for
any police questions just in case someone should notice the likeness to her brother. But why should they? The murder was in England in a village where there is still an unsolved murder. She was
just covering all the bases.’

‘Well, keep away from Tom Courtney and that village until we check this out.’

Agatha called on Mrs Bloxby that evening to tell her the latest news. ‘Do you really think they would go to such elaborate lengths?’ asked the vicar’s
wife.

‘Yes, I do. There’s evidently a great deal of money involved. And what better place to commit a murder than in some small English village that already has had one?’

‘You don’t think that the murder of Sunday was to set the scene?’ said Mrs Bloxby.

‘No, I have a feeling that the murder of Grudge Sunday had nothing to do with the Courtney murder. Where is Tom Courtney? Does anyone know?’

‘Yes, he called this morning looking for you. Said he was off to the States for a few days.’

‘I’d better tell Wilkes. If he is guilty, he might make a run for it and Harriet Temple may need protection.’

‘Use our phone.’

‘I thought your phone was the sole property of your husband.’

‘Oh, Alf won’t mind.’

Mrs Bloxby went off to her husband’s study. Agatha grinned as she could hear the vicar’s voice raised in anger. ‘This is not a detective agency and yet you involve yourself
with that woman and her folly.’

Agatha took out her own phone and dialled Wilkes. She was told curtly that he was too busy to speak to her.

‘Sod them all,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m taking my jet lag home to bed.’

The first thing she saw when she drove up outside her cottage was the crumpled figure of Toni sitting on her doorstep.

Agatha hurried out of her car. Toni, my dear. What is the matter?’

‘It’s Sharon. She’s disappeared.’

‘Oh, no. Come in.’

‘Where have you been?’ wailed Toni.

‘I’ve been in the States. Come through to the kitchen and tell me about Sharon.’

‘She came round to my flat a few days ago and said you’d fired her and she wanted a place to stay. Honestly, I couldn’t bear the thought of her mess again so I said she’d
best go. She burst into tears. Why did you fire her?’

‘I accused her of being on drugs. She told me to sod the job and a few choice insults and stormed off.’

‘I’ve gone looking for her round the clubs,’ said Toni. ‘She’s been hanging around with a lot of bikers. They’re bad news. There’s one in particular,
Jazz Belter, and he’s ancient!’

‘How ancient?’

‘In his forties.’

Agatha winced.

‘With a balding head and a ponytail. Real stereotype. I think he’s the one who’s been supplying her with drugs. They hang out at the Shamrock pub out on the bypass.’

‘Toni, I’ll give Sharon her job back again but she’s got to get herself cleaned up.’

‘But I can’t find her!’

‘Have you told the police?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Make some coffee, will you? I’ll phone them right away. Wait a minute! Surely her parents have reported her missing?’

‘No, she told them she was living with me.’

‘I’ll call Bill.’

Bill was at the station and listened to Agatha’s story about the missing Sharon.

‘She’s been found,’ said Bill in a quiet voice.

‘Oh, that’s great. Poor Toni’s been going out of her mind with—’