Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (3 page)

Agatha relapsed into a snowbound torpor. She fell asleep on the sofa in the afternoon, only awakening an hour later at the ringing of her doorbell.

On opening the door, she found Miriam Courtney on her doorstep, unbuckling a pair of skis. ‘The snow’s stopped and I thought I’d come and see you,’ said Miriam.
‘The gritters haven’t been out on the village roads but the farmers had snowploughed them so I put on my skis and came over. Thank goodness the snow has stopped. Aren’t you going
to ask me in?’

‘Sorry,’ said Agatha. ‘Come in.’

Miriam propped her skis against the outside wall. ‘Come through to the kitchen,’ said Agatha. She had taken a dislike to Miriam but decided that any company was preferable to none.
‘Coffee?’

‘Sure.’ Miriam took off her padded coat and woolly hat and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘What brings you?’ asked Agatha, plugging in the electric coffee percolator.

‘I heard you have a detective agency and I want to hire you. I’m prime suspect.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was the one person, apart from Miss Simms, who was out of the room for any length of time. Furthermore, I am on record as having called at the offices of the Health and Safety
Board in Mircester and threatened to kill Sunday.’

‘Why?’

‘Because in the summer I open the manor to the public twice a week. It’s an old Tudor building. I get a good number of tours. Sunday said the steps up to the front door made it
impossible for the disabled to have access. I would have to have a ramp. The ramp they suggested was a great metal thing that seemed to stretch halfway down the drive. I said in the past that the
rare visitor in a wheelchair was just wheeled backwards up the very shallow steps. Sunday said that unless I had the ramp, I could no longer open the house to the public. I said I’d kill the
stupid bureaucratic bastard. The police turned up this morning at the manor with a search warrant.’

‘How did they get through the snow?’ asked Agatha, putting down a cup of coffee in front of Miriam.

‘They got through somehow in Land Rovers. Took all my kitchen knives away. I want you to find out who really did it. I’m an outsider in that village. The trouble’s started
already. The two women who clean for me phoned up this morning to say they would no longer work for me.’

‘Why do you need to open the manor to the public? Do you need the money?’

‘Not a bit of it. But I enjoy showing the place off. I’ve done an awful lot of restoration.’

‘I haven’t a contract here but I’ll get the office to send you one to sign,’ said Agatha. ‘Can you think of anyone?’

‘He offended so many people, I can’t suggest where you should start. Listen! That’s the gritter at last.’

‘Good,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve been getting cabin fever sitting here.’

‘Isn’t that someone at your door?’

Agatha went to answer. The muffled figure of Sir Charles Fraith, one of Agatha’s closest friends, stood there. ‘Gosh, I thought I’d never get here,’ he said, stamping
snow from his boots. ‘I had to borrow the gardener’s Land Rover. My drive is like the Cresta Run. I heard about the murder on the morning news.’

Charles followed Agatha into the kitchen and she introduced him to Miriam. ‘A “sir”,’ said Miriam. ‘How grand!’ To Agatha’s irritation, she was almost
coquettish.

Miriam went on to explain the reason for her visit. ‘Oh, Aggie will sort you out,’ said Charles, helping himself to coffee.

Charles was a medium-sized man with immaculately barbered hair and neat features. Agatha often thought he was as self-contained as her cats. He came and went in and out of her life, often using
her cottage as a sort of hotel.

‘You didn’t use your keys,’ said Agatha. ‘Have you lost the keys to my cottage?’

‘No, but you got shirty the last time I just walked in.’

Miriam looked from one to the other, her eyes sparkling with interest. ‘Are you two an item?’

‘No!’ said Agatha. ‘But no time like the present. I’d like to get back to Odley Cruesis and see what I can dig up.’

‘I’ll drive you over,’ said Charles. ‘How did you get here, Miriam?’

‘On my skis.’

Charles laughed. ‘What a lady. I’ve got a roof rack for your skis. We can all go together.’

Agatha turned away quickly to hide the scowl on her face. She had few friends and was jealous and possessive of the ones she had. ‘I’ll just go upstairs and change.’

As Agatha put on warm clothes, she could hear Miriam’s peals of laughter followed by appreciative chuckles from Charles.

I bet the fact she’s employing me is a blind, thought Agatha. I bet she did it. Please God, let Miriam be the murderer.

‘This is my showpiece,’ said Miriam proudly, leading them into the main hall of the manor.

Charles looked around at the gleaming suits of armour, the long refectory table, the crossed halberds on the wall, the tattered battle flags, and the imitation gas-fired flambeaux and suppressed
a smile. He doubted if there was one authentic piece in the room. But Agatha was obviously jealous of Miriam and he felt like winding her up further. Maybe Agatha might begin to recognize some of
her worst qualities, such as pushiness, in Miriam and tone down a bit.

‘Lovely!’ he exclaimed.

Agatha felt it all looked like a stage set. ‘Now, can I get you something to drink?’ asked Miriam. ‘I feel we are all going to be great friends.’ But she turned her back
on Agatha as she said this and smiled broadly at Charles.

‘I think it would be a good idea if we got started,’ said Agatha loudly. ‘Let’s begin at the vicarage.’

A mobile police unit had been set up in the little triangle of village green in the centre of Odley Cruesis. Police tape fenced off the front of the vicarage. A policeman stood
on guard outside the door.

Agatha ducked under the tape, followed by Miriam and Charles. ‘You can’t come in here,’ protested the policeman.

‘The murder took place outside,’ said Agatha, pointing to the tented-off French windows. ‘We are making a social call.’

The policeman looked across at the mobile police unit as if for help and then to the tent where shadowy figures moved under halogen lights. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered and strode off
towards the police unit.

As they shivered in the snow and waited, Agatha asked Miriam, ‘What brought you to the Cotswolds?’

‘I came here on a holiday years ago and never forgot it. So beautiful and peaceful. Well, up till now, that is. Oh, here’s the copper.’

‘You can go in,’ said the policeman. ‘Mrs Courtney?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘You’re to come with me to the police unit for more questioning.’

‘Really!’ complained Miriam, exasperated. ‘You’ve already kept me up most of the night. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer as soon as he can get through the
snow.’

She walked off with the policeman and Agatha went up to the door of the vicarage and rang the bell.

Penelope answered the door. She was wearing the same outfit as she had done the night before. Agatha wondered if she had slept in her clothes. Penelope blinked at them myopically ‘If you
are the press,’ she said, ‘I have nothing to say.’

‘I’m Agatha Raisin,’ said Agatha, ‘and this is my friend, Sir Charles Fraith.’

Penelope beamed. ‘I am so sorry I didn’t recognize you, Sir Charles. I attended a fête in the grounds of your beautiful house last year. Do come in.’ She seemed to have
forgotten Agatha’s existence.

The drawing room of the old vicarage was colder than ever. A two-bar electric heater had been placed in front of the ash-filled hearth. A tall thin man came into the room. ‘This is my
husband,’ said Penelope, making introductions all round. He shook hands with them.

‘I’m Giles Timson,’ he said in a high, reedy voice. ‘Bad business, heh? Do sit down.’

‘I am a friend of Mrs Bloxby,’ began Agatha, settling herself in an armchair beside the heater. ‘I run a detective agency. Mrs Courtney has hired me to investigate.’

‘Why?’ he asked. He looked like a surprised heron looking down at an odd fish in a pool as he stood over Agatha. He had grey hair and a long thin nose.

‘Miriam seems to be considered number one suspect.’

‘I’m sure the police will find the culprit,’ he said.

‘So distressing,’ fluted Penelope. ‘I mean, it’s not a case of who would have wanted to murder John Sunday, but who wouldn’t?’

‘My dear . . .’

‘Well, Giles, you yourself said you would like to murder the little man.’

‘What prompted that?’ asked Charles.

‘I don’t think . . .’ began the vicar nervously, but Penelope said eagerly, ‘Oh, you remember, he objected to candles in the church. He said they might fall over and burn
someone. You were so angry, Giles. “I could kill you, you little insect,” that’s what you said. Giles has quite a temper.’

‘I am glad they don’t have hanging any more,’ said the vicar, ‘or my dear wife would have me on the scaffold. I’ll be in my study if anyone wants me.’ His
pale grey eyes raked up and down his wife’s thin figure. ‘Didn’t you change your clothes this morning?’

‘There wasn’t time. The police were here all night and I slept in the armchair by the fire.’

‘Tcha!’ said the vicar and left the room.

‘Was there anyone here last night who might have a reason to kill Sunday?’ asked Agatha.

‘Oh, dear. I mean, I don’t think anyone would have
murdered
him, but the reason for the meeting was that everyone had run foul of the dreadful man at one time or
another.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Mrs Carrie Brother was charged by him because her dog fouled the village green. Mr and Mrs Summer and Mr and Mrs Beagle – they usually decorate their cottages with Christmas lights
but have been stopped this year. All those regulations.’

‘Where were they seated?’ asked Agatha.

‘It’s so hard to remember. I think the Beagles were by the fire and the Summers over by the door. But it would need to be someone who left the room, wouldn’t it? There’s
only Mrs Courtney and Miss Simms. Perhaps Miss Simms?’

‘Did she voice a dislike of Sunday?’

‘Well, no, but I mean, she is not really quite what one would expect at a ladies society.’

Agatha bristled. ‘Miss Simms has been a very good secretary for some time.’

‘I don’t think it can be Miriam,’ said Charles with a sideways glinting smile at Agatha. ‘She seems such a jolly, straightforward sort of person.’

‘Exactly,’ said Penelope. ‘And she has done so much for the village. Such a generous contribution to the church restoration fund and she always makes the manor available for
village parties and events.’

Again that stab of jealousy hit Agatha. Would anyone praise her in such a way? Sometimes she felt she was living
on
the Cotswolds rather than
in
the Cotswolds. Her work at the
agency meant she was often out of the village for long periods of time. In the past she had fund-raised for various charities but certainly not of late. And the recession meant that people were
always arriving to take up the houses the new impoverished were leaving, so few people would remember her actually doing anything to help the village of Carsely Agatha wished she had paid more
attention to the people in the room the previous night.

‘Did John Sunday have a love life?’ asked Charles.

Penelope removed one pink slipper and meditatively scratched a big toe. ‘Chilblains,’ she said. ‘There was a rumour .. . oh, but I never pay attention to gossip.’

‘Try to remember,’ said Agatha eagerly.

‘I shouldn’t . . . and Giles would be furious if he knew I had been passing on malicious gossip, but I did hear that Tilly Glossop and he seemed to be close.’

‘And where does this Tilly Glossop live?’

‘On the other side of the green. It’s a little cottage called Happenstance.’

‘That’s an odd name,’ said Charles.

‘She is rather an odd woman. Quite gypsy-like. I don’t think she has any gypsy blood in her but she wears bangles and shawls and thingies.’

Agatha got to her feet. ‘No time like the present. We’ll go and talk to her.’

‘Dear me,’ fluttered Penlope. ‘You won’t say I—’

‘No, no. Won’t breathe a word. Was she here last night?’

‘No, she wasn’t. She doesn’t go to church either.’

‘Does anyone these days?’ asked Agatha cynically.

‘My dear Mrs Raisin. Most of this village attends on Sundays.’

As Agatha and Charles, hanging on to each other, staggered through the snow to the other side of the green, Charles said, ‘You’re slipping, Agatha.’

‘I know I am. These boots were not made for walking.’

‘I don’t mean that. There was another person out of that room last night surely?’

‘Who?’

‘Was the vicar there?’

‘Well, no.’

‘And he’s got a bad temper
and
he threatened to kill the little twat.’

‘I thought of him,’ lied Agatha huffily, ‘but I thought I would explore that avenue later.’

‘Says you!’

‘Says I. Here we are,’ said Agatha.

Happenstance was a very old cottage, which leaned towards the garden under a heavy snow-covered thatched roof. Two front windows looked like eyes.

‘The air’s suddenly turned warmer,’ said Charles. ‘Everything’s beginning to drip. And the sun’s coming out.’

Agatha rang the bell. No one answered. ‘Maybe the bell doesn’t work,’ said Charles. ‘Give the door a good bang.’

Agatha hammered on the door. But her banging precipitated a small avalanche of snow from the roof which cascaded down on them.

‘Snakes and bastards,’ howled Agatha.

‘Let’s give up,’ said Charles. ‘Damn, I’ve got snow down the back of my neck.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded a voice behind them.

They both swung round. The round figure of a woman muffled up in a coat and two shawls with a woolly cap pulled down over her face stood glaring at them.

‘We just wanted a word with you,’ said Agatha. ‘I am a private detective working for Miriam Courtney. This is Sir Charles Fraith.’

‘Oh, if you’re working for Miriam, you’d best come indoors. But leave your coats in the hall. You’re covered with snow.’