Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (8 page)

BOOK: Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body
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‘I didn’t know that,’ said Agatha excitedly. ‘That could mean either Penelope or her husband did it.’

‘Of course we thought of that. But Mrs Timson’s cleaner was ill and she phoned her to see how she was getting on and told her what Miriam had said. The cleaner, a Mrs Radley,
promptly got on the phone to a lot of people in the village. We questioned them all. But the ones she called had in their turn called others. Everyone must have known.’

‘It’s a puzzle,’ sighed Agatha. ‘The two murders seem so different. The killing of John Sunday almost seems like a spur of the moment thing, whereas the murder of Miriam
looks like cold-blooded planning.’

‘That’s a leap in the dark,’ said Bill, ‘and it doesn’t add up. She tells Charles she’s on to something and the next thing, she’s dead.
Sherry?’

‘Please,’ said Roy, who had been wondering whether to tell Bill about Agatha’s mad idea of how to get him away from the Bulgarians.

Bill went through to the kitchen and reappeared with a little silver tray holding three minuscule glasses of sherry. Roy’s face fell. He knew Agatha would not want him to tell Bill about
her plans for the Bulgarians but felt that a stiff drink might have given him the necessary courage.

‘I think Tom Courtney looks suspicious,’ said Roy. ‘I mean, the motive is usually money, isn’t it?’

‘The first thing we thought of, but, like I said, his alibi checks out. And the sister is vouched for by her friend.’

‘It’s a pity,’ mused Agatha, ‘that it couldn’t be either the son or daughter. I mean, how convenient to already have a murder in the village. The police were bound
to think both murders were connected.’

‘We still do,’ said Bill. ‘You’re right, though: the murder of Miriam appears to have been carefully planned. Someone passing the manor saw the lights go out and then the
flickering light of a candle, as if Miriam was going down the stairs to look at the fuse box. The fire was started because when she was struck down, the candle she might have been holding ended up
in a pan of fat.’

‘Can they tell all that? The house was a blazing inferno. I didn’t think there would be any evidence left.’

‘They traced the source of the fire to the stove, analysed the remains of the pan and found evidence of candle grease. The fuse box was nearly intact, being protected by a heavy metal
cover. The electricity had definitely been switched off.’

‘Who was it who was just passing so late at night?’

‘Carrie Brother.’

‘And what’s her reason for being out so late?’

‘She said her little doggie needed to go pee-pee, to quote her words.’

‘I think she’s barmy,’ said Agatha.

Bill shook his head. ‘A bit eccentric, that’s all. Is it any use, Agatha, telling you yet again to keep out of it?’

‘Not in the slightest. I’m employed by Tom Courtney and I need the money.’

‘Do you know anything about Bulgarians in London?’ asked Roy.

‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Agatha. ‘We’ve got to rush. Come along, Roy.’

Roy quailed before the gimlet gleam in Agatha’s bearlike eyes. ‘What Bulgarians?’ asked Bill as Agatha hustled Roy out of the house.

‘Never mind,’ Agatha called back.

Back in Carsely, Roy wandered around the cottage moodily while Agatha composed an anonymous letter to the police. Finally she popped the letter in an envelope. ‘I’d
better not mail this here,’ she muttered. ‘If they see a Carsely postmark, they’ll track me down. Roy!’ she called.

‘What is it?’ he asked nervously.

‘I want you to mail this in London. I’ll put it in a bigger envelope so you don’t get your fingerprints on it. Just take it out and pop it in a pillar-box.’ She stripped
off her gloves and then noticed the look of relief in Roy’s eyes. ‘And don’t think you can tear it up and chuck it away when you get to London. If I don’t see anything in
the news about a raid, I’ll know you’ve weaselled out. It’s for your own good! Now, I would like to have dinner with Tom on my own this evening. I think he rather fancies me and I
may get more out of him. He might remember something about his mother that he hasn’t told me.’

‘He doesn’t fancy you a bit,’ said Roy crossly. ‘I’m your friend. You should be looking after me.’

‘Roy, it’s work. We’re in the middle of a recession and I need this job.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Roy. ‘I’ll maybe go to the pub.’

That evening, after Agatha had departed in a wave of French perfume, Roy, restless, decided to drive over to Odley Cruesis. He fancied himself as a detective. Maybe if he found
out something significant, Agatha would offer him a job and he could escape the PR business.

He drove off through the leafy lanes with the car window open, breathing in the scents of the country evening. He noticed there were lights on in the church hall, a square building next to the
old Norman church. Roy parked the car and went into the hall. A bingo session was underway. Villagers were crouched over their cards while Penelope Timson read out the numbers in a high
strangulated voice.

Roy took a seat at the back of the hall. When Penelope finally called a break for refreshment and everyone rose to hurry over to a side table where there was a tea urn and plates piled high with
sandwiches and cakes, Roy had a brilliant idea. He was addicted to watching the television series
Poirot,
based on the books of Agatha Christie. He particularly liked the bit where the great
detective accused one after the other in the last scene before unmasking the murderer. He ran quickly up to the microphone and called out, ‘Your attention, please!’

Faces turned towards him. ‘I am Roy Silver,’ he announced, ‘and I am investigating these murders. I know who did it. I shall wait outside. All the guilty person has to do is
come to me and confess. I will intercede with the police to help ease the sentence. Thank you.’

Roy left the hall amid a startled silence. As he waited outside, he was very pleased with himself. Of course he didn’t expect the murderer to approach him. But he did expect the villagers
to crowd round him and discuss the murders. Maybe he could pick up some information that Agatha had missed.

After half an hour, he could hear Penelope’s voice inside the hall once more raised as she called out the bingo numbers.

He was beginning to feel silly, but decided to wait on. He stood beside his car in the darkness. The village had gone ‘green’ by opting to have the street lights switched off. The
silhouettes of the old cottages crouched around him in the dark, hunched and sinister.

Roy doggedly waited for the bingo session to finish. At last it was over and they all filed out. No one spoke. Not even to each other. They spread out towards their various homes as if he
didn’t exist. When the last one had gone and he saw Penelope locking up the hall, he approached her. ‘Mrs Timson!’

She started and swung round. Penelope looked at him severely. ‘That was a silly joke.’

‘Wasn’t a joke,’ protested Roy shrilly.

‘Oh, just leave, young man,’ said Penelope wearily.

Roy walked slowly back to his car. A small moon was riding high above, casting black shadows across the road in front of him. A breeze had risen and the sounds of it in the leaves of the trees
sounded like whispering, menacing voices. He gave himself a shake. The country life was definitely not for him.

A savage blow from behind struck him on the back of the head. He fell forwards. As he fell, his fluorescent phone slipped out of his jacket pocket and lay on the road in front of his dimming
eyes. With his last bit of strength, he pressed the number three, where he had Agatha’s phone number logged. ‘Get help,’ he croaked. ‘Murdered.’ And then he lost
consciousness.

Tilly Glossop phoned Mrs Timson. ‘That peculiar young man is lying on the road beside his car. Do you think there’s something up with him?’

‘Drunk,’ said the vicar’s wife succinctly. ‘Leave him to sleep it off.’

Agatha was aglow with alcohol and lust. Tom had paid her many compliments so that she felt young and attractive again.

Over coffee, he said, ‘I have some very good brandy in my room. Why don’t we go up there?’

This is it, thought Agatha. Now or never. Just once, just once, before I’m very old. Take mental inventory. Legs shaved, armpits ditto. Should she have got a Brazilian? Too late now.

When they entered his hotel room, she did wish he would just take her in his arms and kiss her. He poured her a measure of brandy and then one for himself and sat next to her on a slippery sofa
in the small sitting room of his suite. He smiled. ‘To us and to the night ahead.’ They clinked glasses.

‘I do like to get certain things out of the way first,’ he said. ‘Have you ever had any sexually transmitted diseases?’

Agatha looked at him with eyes of stone. ‘Anything else or do you have a very long catalogue?’

He grinned boyishly. ‘Don’t know how it is, but I never could bear pubic hair on a woman.’

‘Neither can a paedophile. Listen, Tom, this is one horrible mistake. If you want to lay down terms like this, I suggest you go somewhere and pay for it. Now, if you don’t
mind—’

Her mobile rang. She was later to thank God for the crassness of Tom’s approach or she might never have answered it. She listened in alarm to Roy’s message.

‘It’s Roy! He’s hurt.’

She called the police, she called the ambulance, and then got to her feet and hurried to the door. ‘You’ve been drinking. You can’t drive,’ exclaimed Tom.

‘Oh, bug off, nancy boy,’ hissed Agatha and ran out of the room.

When Agatha got to Odley Cruesis, she saw the police were already there and Roy was being loaded into an ambulance. She saw Bill Wong and hurried towards him. ‘Is Roy
alive?’

‘Just. It’s a bad blow.’

‘I’ll go in the ambulance with him.’

‘Agatha, you’ve been drinking.’

‘So what? I’m not going to drive the ambulance.’

Agatha waited miserably at the hospital and was soon joined by Toni and Sharon. Bill had phoned Toni. ‘Any idea who did this?’ asked Agatha.

Toni shook her head. ‘But it seems that Roy went to a bingo meeting at the village hall and claimed he knew the identity of the murderer and the murderer should speak to him outside and
confess all.’

‘I should never have given him that boxed set of
Poirot
for Christmas,’ mourned Agatha. ‘What on earth came over him? And which of the murders was he talking about? It
must be the first one because he knew I was having dinner with Tom.’

‘Here’s Bill,’ said Sharon.

‘It’s bad,’ said Bill. ‘There’s bleeding in the brain. They’re operating now. You may as well all go home. There’s nothing more you can do
here.’

‘Will he live?’

‘They don’t know. But evidently, for such a weak-looking fellow, he’s got a skull like iron and that might save him.’

‘Didn’t anyone see anything?’

Bill told her about the call to the vicar’s wife.

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘Roy tells them he knows the identity of the murderer, then he’s reported lying on the road and no one thinks they should
go and have a look at him?’

‘According to village report, they estimate he was drunk and sleeping it off.’

‘Any idea what struck him?’

‘Blunt instrument. Maybe a hammer. I don’t like Sergeant Collins but I was glad of her because she ripped into all these villagers, banging on doors, waking them up, shouting at them
– it would have done your heart glad, Agatha. Now, go home.’

‘Maybe I can sit by his bed,’ pleaded Agatha, ‘and, you know, talk to him.’

‘Agatha, it’s not a soap. He’s not in a coma. He’s under anaesthetic on an operating table getting a couple of holes drilled in his head. You’ll maybe be able to
see him in the morning. Go home and get some sleep.’

Agatha was just wearily climbing into bed when the door opened and Charles strolled in.

‘Roy’s been hit on the head,’ said Agatha. ‘He might not live.’

She burst into tears. Charles sat down on the bed and hugged her until she had finished crying. ‘Now, tell me all about it.’

So Agatha did. When she had finished, Charles said, ‘I’ve been wondering about Tom Courtney.’

‘Why him?’ asked Agatha. ‘Anyway he was having dinner with me while someone was trying to kill Roy. And why would he want to kill John Sunday?’

‘Oh, I just thought that maybe he had already planned to bump off mum and torch the place and wanted Grudge out of the way before any objections to an expensive building site started up.
So he was having dinner with you and you’re back at dawn still smelling of Mademoiselle Coco. Did you get seduced?’

‘The call about Roy interrupted dinner, thank God. Do you know he asked me if I had shaved?’

Charles ran a hand over Agatha’s face. ‘Smooth as a baby’s bum. Oh, you mean the other end. What larks! What a chat-up line!’

‘Leave me alone now, Charles. I’ve set the alarm. I’ve got to get back to the hospital first thing. And then there’s Sharon’s eyes.’

‘What about them?’

But a gentle snore was the only reply.

Three hours later Agatha was back on the road to Mircester Hospital with Charles driving. ‘I don’t suppose you want to work for Tom again,’ commented Charles.
‘Do look at these stupid wood pigeons. All over the road.’

‘Not really,’ said Agatha. ‘But he may be connected to the murders somehow or he may know someone who is. I’ll forget about last night and go on as usual.’

‘What about Sharon’s eyes? You mumbled something before you fell asleep.’

‘Oh, that. Maybe it was because we were all so upset last night but the pupils of her eyes looked like pinpricks. I’ll get Toni to find out how she’s doing.’

‘Do you ever think about that jolly fling we had in the south of France?’

Agatha glanced quickly at Charles but his face was calm and neutral.

She manufactured a little laugh. ‘From time to time. I was so glad to escape from my dreadful fiancé.’ Agatha had been briefly engaged to a villager who had taken her on
holiday to Normandy. But he had turned out to be so awful that Agatha had had to phone Charles to come and rescue her. Then she and Charles had driven down to the south of France for a brief
holiday.

BOOK: Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body
8.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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