Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (13 page)

‘And did Sunday start to blackmail you?’

‘Not exactly. He came round one morning three days later when Giles was over in a neighbouring parish and showed me the photograph. I explained it was just a kiss, but he said my husband
would never believe that if he saw the photograph. I asked him what he wanted. He laughed nastily and said he’d get back to me.’

‘And when was this?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

‘Three days before he was murdered,’ whispered Penelope. ‘He phoned me the day before the protest meeting and said I had to get it stopped or he would send the photo to Giles.
I couldn’t bear it any longer. They always say that blackmailers never go away. So I told Giles.’

Mrs Bloxby said sympathetically, ‘Giles must have been furious.’

‘It was worse than that,’ said Penelope. ‘He laughed and laughed. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘I mean, just look in the mirror. Everyone knows Americans are over
affectionate. I’ll go and see Sunday and we’ll never hear another word.’

‘After the murder, I asked him if he had said anything to the police or if he had gone to see Sunday, and he said he hadn’t had the time to see Sunday and he had no intention of
mentioning the silly photo to the police.’

What have I done now? wondered Agatha miserably. I should have left the photo for the police to find. I believe Penelope. But they would have grilled Giles and checked on his movements. He
wasn’t with the party when John was stabbed.

‘We’ll leave it for the moment,’ said Agatha.

When they left the vicarage, Mrs Bloxby said, ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet. I’m beginning to remember things.’

‘My kitchen is the quietest place around here,’ said Agatha, setting off in the direction of home.

Once seated in Agatha’s kitchen, Mrs Bloxby began. ‘I remember it was last autumn and I remember the visiting preacher. His name was Silas Cuttler. American from
some Episcopal church somewhere. He was a round, jolly man. Around that time, Mrs Timson smartened her appearance and even wore make-up.’

‘Is Penelope Timson verbally abused?’ asked Agatha.

‘Oh, just the usual married stuff. “What’s that muck on your face? You are silly.” Usual things like that. Giles is rather a cold, impatient sort of man.’

‘I think I ought to ask him some questions,’ said Agatha.

‘My dear Mrs Raisin, he would coldly accuse you of withholding police evidence, take it to the police himself and then you would really be in trouble. I am sure Mr Timson can’t for
one moment think his wife is capable of having an adulterous affair.’

‘And I can’t interview the mayor because the police would wonder how I got on to him. Perhaps I’ll just leave it for a few days and then get Patrick to find out from his police
contacts what’s been happening.’ Agatha asked Toni if she would like to go through the applications for the job of trainee detective and pick out a few suitable candidates, but Toni was
still mourning the loss of her friend and so Agatha took a bundle of letters home one evening.

The advertisement had said that applicants must include copies of school certificates and a photograph.

Patrick called at her cottage and followed her through to the kitchen where letters and photographs were spread across the kitchen table. ‘I’m looking for a trainee,’ said
Agatha. ‘But they seem to be a hopeless lot. What brings you?’

‘Good news. Tom Courtney has been arrested outside Washington and has been charged with the murder of his mother. He was living with a woman in Mount Vernon and she turned him in to the
police. She didn’t know he was wanted for murder. She became afraid when he started scrubbing out all her closets and shelves and making her take a shower about five times a day. She asked
him to leave and when he wouldn’t, she called the police. They thought it was just a domestic, but some sharp-eyed trooper recognized Tom from a photo pinned up in the precinct.’

‘When are they going to extradite him?’

‘It’ll take ages, if ever.’

‘At least I don’t need to be afraid of him turning up here. What about sister Amy?’

‘Nothing, and he swears blind he doesn’t know where she is. Husband hasn’t heard from her. Complains she emptied their joint bank account before she cleared off. Anyway, Tom
Courtney says he had nothing to do with the death of Sunday. Of course, at first the police here wanted that tied up, so they didn’t believe him. But when I heard from my contacts that they
found letters and a naughty photo of the mayor under the shed in his garden, they wearily decided to open the investigation again. Tilly Glossop and the mayor say it was a one-night fling after a
boozy party at the town hall and that they weren’t being blackmailed. The e-mails he seems to have stolen out of people’s computers at the office. He used them for power, not money.
Seems to be why he kept his job when there were so many complaints against him.’

‘Sit down, Patrick. A cold beer?’

‘Great. I’m driving but one wouldn’t hurt.’

Although retired from the force, Patrick always looked somehow like a policeman, with his neatly cropped brown hair, lugubrious face, well-pressed clothes and shiny black shoes.

‘Apart from Tilly Glossop, no one else is connected to Odley Cruesis,’ said Patrick. ‘Tilly is still in for questioning and has had to surrender her passport.’

Agatha thought guiltily of the evidence she had suppressed.

She handed Patrick a glass of beer and then sat down at the table beside him and lit a cigarette. ‘Look at these applications,’ she said, sending a haze of cigarette smoke over the
table. ‘Most of them don’t even seem able to write and a lot of them use text messaging language.’

‘There’s one fallen under the table,’ said Patrick, bending down to retrieve it. ‘Oh, look at this. Do you think he escaped from a production of
Il
Pagliacci?’

‘Pally who?’ demanded Agatha crossly, suspecting a dreaded intellectual reference that would show the gaping holes in her knowledge of the arts.

‘The clown in opera. The one who sings “On With the Motley”.’

‘Let me see.’

Patrick handed her a photograph. It was a head-and-shoulders picture of a teenager. He had a mop of thick curly black hair, large hooded eyes, a prominent curved beak of a nose and a long mobile
mouth. ‘Four A-levels,’ said Patrick. ‘Doesn’t want to be landed with a university loan and would like to find work right away. Says he’s intuitive, hardworking and
gets on with people. Eighteen years old.’

‘I’ll have him in for an interview,’ said Agatha. Toni needs someone young to cheer her up.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Simon Black.’

Simon entered Agatha’s office at seven o’clock the following evening. He turned out to be quite small, perhaps just about five feet and two inches. He was very slim
and slight so that his head looked disproportionately large. His eyes under their hooded lids were very large and black and glittered with a combination of humour and intelligence. Agatha thought
that he looked like something that had escaped from
Lord of the Rings.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Agatha.

‘I think you’ll find it’s all in my CV.’

‘Look, dear boy, if you want this job, try to sell yourself.’

‘May I sit down?’

‘Do.’

Simon pulled forward a chair and sat facing Agatha. He was dressed in black: black T-shirt, black trousers, socks and shoes. ‘I’m clever about people,’ said Simon. He had a
slight Gloucestershire accent. ‘I instinctively know when people are lying. I am above average intelligence and—’

‘And you’ve got a very high opinion of yourself,’ snapped Agatha.

‘So you find listening to me selling myself offensive?’ asked Simon. He sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know.

Agatha gave a reluctant smile. ‘I’ve had a bad day. Do you live with your parents?’

‘No, I live by myself. My parents are dead. They died last year in a car crash. I wasn’t left much but debts, even after the house was sold, so I decided it would be better to go out
to work than have the burden of a university loan hanging over me. I’ve had enough of debts.’

The door of the office opened and Toni came in. ‘I left something in my desk,’ she said.

Agatha felt a pang as she looked at Toni’s sad face. She had a sudden idea. ‘Toni, this is Simon Black who will be starting work with us tomorrow. Simon, Toni Gilmour. Are you busy
at the moment, Toni?’

‘Well . . . no.’

‘Get some money from the petty cash and take Simon for a drink and introduce him to the world of detecting. You can charge for the overtime.’

‘All right,’ said Toni listlessly.

‘Simon, report to this office at nine o’clock tomorrow and our secretary will give you a contract to sign.’

‘Thank you ver—’ began Simon but Agatha waved a dismissive hand. ‘Off you both go.’

Agatha waited until they had gone down the stairs and out into the street. She rose and crossed to the window. They were walking along, several feet apart, not talking.

In the George pub next to police headquarters, Simon ordered a beer and Toni a half of lager.

‘Which school did you go to?’ asked Toni.

‘Mircester Grammar.’

‘I could have gone there myself,’ said Toni, ‘but my mother said she couldn’t afford the uniform.’

‘A lot of the kids can’t. That’s why they have a secondhand clothes store in the school.’

‘Well, my mum was having a bit of difficulty then,’ said Toni. ‘Let’s talk about the job. What do you want to know?’

‘I want to know first of all if Agatha Raisin is a good boss. You look downtrodden and miserable.’

‘I lost a friend I used to work with.’

‘That girl, Sharon, who was murdered?’

Toni nodded.

‘Is the job that dangerous?’

‘No. Not often. It’s usually routine stuff – missing pets and children, unfaithful wives and husbands. Sharon got into bad company. Bikers.’

‘Have you been to grief or bereavement counselling?’

‘Nothing like that. I wasn’t family. She was just a friend and a friend I was well and truly fed up with just before she died.’

‘Have you been to Pyrt Park?’

Toni looked at him in surprise. ‘No, why?’

‘They’ve got a truly evil roller coaster. Drink up. That’s where we’re going.’ ‘Why on earth . . . ?’ ‘You’ll see.’

He had a motorbike parked in the square. He handed Toni a helmet and put on his own.

‘This is mad,’ said Toni when they got to the entrance to the amusement park.

‘Trust me.’

‘I’ve never been on a roller coaster before. I might get sick.’

‘You won’t. Follow me.’

When they were strapped in, their chair began to move up and up and up until Toni could see the Malvern Hills in the distance. As they reached the crest, Toni clutched Simon’s arm.
‘I don’t think I can take this.’ The car plunged down and Toni screamed and screamed. She screamed like a banshee through the whole ride and when Simon helped her out at the end,
she felt her legs wobble.

‘What was that all about?’ she asked weakly.

‘It’s scream therapy. I came here when my parents were killed. Don’t worry about the job. I’ll pick it up as I go along. Oh, look. Candy floss. I’ll get us
some.’

He danced off, turning round to grin at her. What an odd boy, thought Toni. Like a jester. All he needs is a cap and bells.

But that night, she slept as she had not slept since the news of Sharon’s murder.

In the morning, Simon signed his contract. He blinked in surprise at the generosity of his pay and looked across at Agatha. ‘I’m taking you on full time. I have a
hunch about you,’ said Agatha. ‘Mind you, you are still on trial. Now, I was going to start you on some of the small stuff but I need a new pair of eyes. Do you remember reading about
the murder of John Sunday?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to read up everything on it. Work all day on it and see if you can come up with any ideas. You’ll find it all on the computer at that desk over there.’

Agatha caught a bleak look from Toni and thought with irritation, yes, I know it was Sharon’s desk but I can hardly lay a wreath on it and burn candles. Agatha introduced him to the
staff.

Simon sat down and got to work. He could dimly hear Agatha discussing other assignments. He concentrated on the files on the computer, shutting everything else out, including thoughts about
Toni. He had been in love, once disastrously, and he never wanted to suffer hurt like that again. Toni, with her fair good looks, intelligence and disarming air of innocence, was danger.

As he read the reports, he tried to conjure up the scene in the vicarage drawing room when the dying Sunday had appeared at the window. Apart from Miriam Courtney and Miss Simms, no one seemed
to have left the room. When he looked up after half an hour, the place was empty apart from Mrs Freedman. ‘Why Miss Simms and Mrs Bloxby?’ he asked.

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Mrs Freedman.

‘No first names.’

‘Oh, they’re members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society. It’s an old-fashioned tradition. They don’t use first names.’

Simon then focused on Tilly Glossop. She was reported to have been having an affair with Sunday. Had he been using that photograph of her with the mayor to get a bit of free sex for himself?

His stomach rumbled and he looked up at the clock in surprise. ‘I’m just going out for lunch,’ he said. ‘Then tell them I’ve gone over to Odley Cruesis to have a
look at the place. Can I get you anything?’

‘No, I had a sandwich at my desk. Don’t you think you should phone Mrs Raisin first and say you’re going there?’

‘I’ll be on a motorbike with my helmet on. I just want to get a feel of the place.’

Simon went to the nearest Burger King and gulped down a hamburger and fries before getting on his bike and heading for Odley Cruesis. He drove carefully right through the village and parked up
on a hill above it.

Visitors to the beauty spot that is the Cotswolds often pass by villages like Odley Cruesis, hidden down in a fold of the Cotswold hills. They go instead to the main tourist spots such as
Chipping Campden or Bourton-on-the-Water or Stow-on-the-Wold.

The village was very quiet. A high wind soughed through the tops of the old elm trees surrounding the small triangle of village green. The little cottages that he could see were all very small
and so covered in creeping plants of various varieties – wisteria, clematis and Virginia creeper – that the houses themselves seemed to have become part of the vegetation.