Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (12 page)

‘What kind of book was it?’ asked Phil.

‘It was in the non-fiction religious section.’

Outside the library, Agatha said, ‘We’ve got to get back into Sunday’s house and search the bookshelves. What was so important about that book?’

But when they arrived back at Sunday’s house, it was to find a van outside the door bearing the legend ‘Pyrson’s House Clearance’. The door was standing open. Agatha
looked cautiously toward the house next door but there was no sign of the neighbour who had given them the key.

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Phil as Agatha strode up towards the open door.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ said Agatha. She walked inside. Two men were crating up furniture.

‘I’m from Mircester Library,’ said Agatha. ‘The previous owner failed to return one of our books. Do you mind if I take a quick look for it?’

‘Go ahead,’ said one of the men. ‘We ain’t got around to them yet.’

Phil had tentatively followed Agatha in. They both began to search the bookshelves. ‘Puzzles and more puzzles,’ muttered Agatha. ‘Maybe there’s something behind the
books.’ She began to pull them out. Phil was standing on a chair searching the top shelves when he said, ‘Got something here. Yes, this is it. It was down behind the others along with
this.’

‘This’ was a full bottle of whisky. ‘Hey!’ shouted one of the removal men. ‘That there bottle’s part o’ the house contents.’

‘You’re welcome to it,’ said Agatha. ‘All we want is the book.’

They handed over the bottle of whisky and, clutching the book, made their way out of the house.

‘What if that neighbour sees us?’ fretted Phil. ‘You told her we should have been round the corner at another house.’

‘Oh, she’ll just think we’re part of the same business,’ said Agatha airily. ‘Let’s get back to the office and have a good look, although it’s not much
of a book.’
Go to the Ant
was a thin, shabby book with an illustration on the front of a blond and blue-eyed Jesus Christ pointing accusingly, rather in the manner of the First World
War posters that said ‘Your Country Needs You’.

Toni was sitting at her computer typing up notes when they went into the office. Agatha noticed that the girl looked pale and listless. Must hire another young person, she thought. Maybe that
will cheer her up. Agatha knew that the murder of Sharon had hit Toni hard.

‘Stop typing, Toni,’ she said, ‘and help us with this.’ She told Toni about how and why they had found the book.

The book turned out to be a sort of extended religious tract, written in 1926. It was a series of moral tales about unfortunate people who had behaved like the grasshopper and ended up starving
to death or living in the workhouse.

‘You wouldn’t think he was a religious sort of person,’ said Phil. ‘I mean, he made trouble for two churches that we know of. There are no clues here. No words
underlined.’

‘Let me see.’ Toni took the thin book and began to riffle through the pages. ‘I think I’ve got something.’ She ran her hand lightly over one of the pages.
‘There are some pin pricks under some letters.’

‘Good girl!’ Agatha seized a pen. ‘Read them out.’

‘This page has a u and then an n. Nothing next page. Wait a bit. Other page a d and an e.’ She steadily worked her way through the book until she had one whole message. It read,
‘Under the garden shed’.

‘I’d better get back there tonight,’ said Agatha. ‘But why a secret message to himself? If he buried something under the garden shed, then why bother to go through this
elaborate business? Are you game for another visit, Phil?’

Toni saw the reluctant look on Phil’s face and said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Go and get some rest,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll call for you around midnight.’

When she got back to her cottage, there was no sign of Charles. She felt suddenly bereft. Surely she should be used to him dropping in and out of her life? She petted her faithless cats who
wriggled away from her and stood by the garden door waiting to be let out.

She microwaved herself a dish of lasagne and moodily ate it at the kitchen table. Agatha decided to put an advertisement in the papers for a trainee detective. If Toni had a young person to
train, it might take her mind off Sharon. What if, she wondered guiltily, I hadn’t told Sharon to leave Toni’s flat? Would she still be alive? No, she decided, she might even have
started to bring the bikers to Toni’s place and there might have been two dead bodies instead of one.

Agatha changed into dark clothes, set the alarm for eleven-thirty and lay down on the sofa. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered why she had never put a cat flap in the garden door.

Agatha parked her car round the corner from where John Sunday’s house lay and she and Toni made their way quietly along the deserted street. A thin drizzle was falling,
and water was beginning to drip down from the trees that lined the street.

They opened the gate quietly and made their way along a brick path at the side of the house, which led to the back garden. Agatha risked flicking the thin beam of light from a pencil torch round
the small area of garden. There was an unkempt lawn, several laurel bushes and the black silhouette of a small shed in the far right-hand corner.

Agatha flicked her torch on again and shone it on the door. ‘There’s a padlock,’ whispered Toni.

‘I thought there might be,’ said Agatha, opening up a carrier bag and hauling out a pair of bolt cutters. ‘Soon get this open.’

‘But what if the sister finds the broken padlock and reports the shed has been broken into?’

‘I brought another padlock,’ said Agatha cheerfully. ‘No one will know the difference.’

She cut through the padlock and opened the door. The shed had a wooden floor. Agatha handed Toni the torch and said, ‘Your eyes are better than mine. Crouch down there and see if you can
find any marks where something might have been hidden. We don’t want to smash up the whole floor.’

Toni crawled around and then shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘We’re going to have to try and lift all the planks up.’

‘Wait a bit.’ Toni sat back on her knees. ‘This shed is raised up a bit from the ground. What if all we have to do is go outside and have a look underneath?’

‘Great! Let’s try it. I’ll put this new padlock on just in case anyone comes after us and we have to make a quick getaway.’

Toni lay down on the wet grass and shone the torch under the shed. ‘There’s something here,’ she said.

A voice sounded from next door. ‘I assure you, officer, I heard voices coming from Mr Sunday’s garden.’

‘Snakes and bastards,’ muttered Agatha. ‘Grab whatever it is and we’ll run.’

Toni pulled out a small metal box. They ran to the end of the small garden, Toni vaulted over the gate clutching the box, Agatha threw her carrier bag over and heaved herself over the wooden
gate and fell in a heap in the lane outside.

‘Quietly,’ hissed Toni, feeling that Agatha charging off down the lane was making as much noise as a stampeding elephant.

With relief, they reached the safety of Agatha’s car and drove off.

Once back at the cottage, Toni put the metal box on the kitchen table. ‘It’s locked,’ she said. ‘Now, what do we do?’

Agatha opened a kitchen drawer by the sink and took out a chisel. She also handed Toni a thin pair of latex gloves and put a pair on herself. She wedged the end in the slit by the lock and
prised down hard. There was a loud snap and the lid flew back.

There was a package wrapped in tough white plastic. Agatha took the kitchen scissors and cut it open. There were photographs and letters. ‘Look at this!’ exclaimed Agatha.
‘That’s a naked Tilly Glossop on top of some man, but who’s the man?’

‘It’s hard to see his face, all contorted like it is. But it looks suspiciously like the mayor of Cirencester. I’ll look him up on your computer and get a
photograph.’

‘You go ahead. I’ll look at these others. Oh, my!’

Toni paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, what?’

‘It’s a photo of Penelope Timson necking passionately with some fellow who isn’t the vicar. The dirty little man must have been blackmailing people.’ As Toni went through
to the computer, Agatha studied the few letters. They were passionate love letters from people she did not know and written to people she did not know either.

She lit a cigarette and wondered what to do. Toni came back in. ‘Yes, it’s the mayor all right. Shall we go and confront him tomorrow?’

‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘He’ll call his lawyer. The police will be called in. Where did we get this? Why were we withholding evidence? Penelope Timson is a friend of Mrs
Bloxby. I’ll keep that photo back. We’ll wipe everything we’ve touched carefully and send the package to the police. No, that won’t do. They’ve got to find it
themselves. Damn, we’ve got to put it back.’

‘What about the broken lock?’

‘I’ve got a metal box just like it. I used to keep jewellery in it until I got a proper jewel case. I’ll get it, we’ll pop the stuff in and back under the shed it
goes.’

‘And how do the police find it?’

‘I’ll call them from a phone box. I’ve got this nifty little machine. It’s a portable voice distorter.’

This time they were able to enter and exit the garden without being heard. Agatha made the phone call to police headquarters and then they drove to an all-night restaurant out
on the motorway for an early breakfast.

After a breakfast of sausage, bacon, egg and chips and two cups of black coffee, Agatha said, ‘First, we should both get some sleep. I think I’ll talk to Mrs Bloxby about Penelope
and suggest we both approach her. Now, the big question is Tilly Glossop. She and Sunday may have been blackmailing the mayor together. I mean, someone had to be on hand to take that
photograph.’

‘Do you want me to try Tilly?’

‘I think maybe Patrick might be a better idea. He still looks like a cop and he might frighten her into some sort of confession or slip-up.’

Agatha snatched a few hours’ sleep and turned up in the office at nine the next morning to brief Patrick. Then she told Mrs Freedman to put in an advertisement for
another detective. ‘A trainee, mind,’ cautioned Agatha. ‘Some student in his or her gap year would do. I’m off to see Mrs Bloxby about something. Seems a quiet morning. Want
to come, Toni?’

Toni agreed. She still mourned her lost friend, Sharon, and felt the vicarage and Mrs Bloxby’s quiet presence would be very soothing.

Despite the loud protests from the study from the vicar, shouting, ‘This place is getting like Piccadilly Circus,’ Mrs Bloxby settled them in the vicarage drawing
room. Rain was falling steadily outside. ‘They said it was going to be a barbecue summer,’ said Agatha. ‘Such a shame for all the families who booked their holidays in Britain
this year.’

‘Amazing thing, British tourism,’ remarked Mrs Bloxby when she returned from the kitchen with a laden tray. ‘People flit by air to countries and never really understand other
races or cultures, like dragonflies flitting over a pond. Can’t see the murky depth underneath. You are looking unusually serious, Mrs Raisin.’

Agatha opened her capacious handbag and drew out a white envelope and handed it to the vicar’s wife. ‘Before you look at that, I’ll tell you how we came by it.’

She described how they had found the box under Sunday’s shed. ‘I extracted the one photo in that envelope, which is withholding evidence from the police, but I wanted to consult you
first.’

Mrs Bloxby took out the photo and slowly sat down. ‘Oh, dear. What shall we do?’

‘I thought as you knew her, we might go over there and have a quiet word. I cannot for a moment think that Mrs Timson was ever involved with anyone capable of murder. If you think for one
moment she might have got involved with some sort of villain, I can post this anonymously to the police.’

‘Have some tea and scones,’ urged Mrs Bloxby. ‘Tea and scones are very mind settling.’

‘Have you ever heard any gossip about Mrs Timson?’ asked Toni.

‘Nothing at all,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Oh, dear, perhaps it might have been better if you had both left the matter to the police. They would probably send along a policewoman and
. . .’

‘They would probably send along Detective Sergeant Collins, who would frighten her to death and no doubt lead her off in handcuffs in front of the whole village,’ said Agatha
harshly.

Mrs Bloxby sighed. ‘I might as well go with you. Dear me, what sinks of iniquity these little villages can be.’

The rain had stopped as they drove in Agatha’s car to Odley Cruesis. Sunlight gilded the puddles of water on the road and glittering raindrops plopped from the branches
of the overhead trees. As they climbed out of the car in front of the vicarage, the air smelled sweet and fresh.

Penelope answered the door and smiled when she saw them. ‘Please come in. My husband is over at the church.’

‘Good,’ said Agatha, ‘It’s you we want to see.’

‘Come through. Coffee?’

‘No, we’ve just had some,’ said Agatha. She opened her handbag, took out the envelope and extracted the photograph, which she handed to Penelope. Penelope sank down on to a
corner of the sofa and hunched herself up and wrapped her arms around her thin body. Mrs Bloxby sat beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘Mrs Timson, Mrs Raisin has taken
a great risk in not showing this photo to the police. Was Mr Sunday blackmailing you?’

Penelope gulped and burst into tears. Toni fetched a box of tissues from a side table and handed it to her. Agatha waited impatiently, hoping the vicar would not walk in on the scene. At last
Penelope gave a shuddering sigh. ‘Yes, he was.’

‘Who was the man?’ asked Agatha.

‘He was a visiting American preacher. Giles asked me to show him around the Cotswolds. We became friendly. He was a widower. He told a lot of very funny jokes. Giles never tells jokes.
Jokes can be very seductive,’ she said plaintively.

‘So you had an affair!’

‘Oh, no!’ Penelope looked shocked. ‘It was the morning before he left. We were in the churchyard and he thanked me for taking care of him and he swept me into his arms and
kissed me. Then he laughed and said, “I shouldn’t have done that.” I said, “No, you shouldn’t,” and he patted me on the shoulder and went in to say goodbye to
Giles.’