Agatha Raisin 04 (1995) - The Walkers of Dembley Read online

  M.C. Beaton

  Agatha Raisin

  The Walkers of Dembley

  The fourth book in the Agatha Raisin series

  1995

  Returning to her beloved Cotswold village only to be coolly received by her attractive neighbor, Agatha Raisin becomes involved in the murder case of hiker Jessica Tartinick, who had incurred the wrath of wealthy landowners.

  One

  Agatha Raisin watched the sunlight on the wall of her office in the City of London.

  It was shining through the slats of the Venetian blind, long arrows of light inching down the wall as the sun sank lower, the sundial of Agatha’s working day.

  Tomorrow it would all be over, her stint as a public relations officer, and then she could return to her home in the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds. She had not enjoyed her return to work. Her short time away from it, her short time in retirement, had seemed to divorce her from the energy required to drum up publicity for clients from journalists and television companies.

  Although she had enough of her old truculence and energy left to make a success of it, she missed the village and her friends. She had gone back initially for a few weekends when she could get away, but the wrench of returning to London had been so great that for the past two months she had stayed where she was, working at the weekends as well.

  She had thought that her new-found talent for making friends would have worked for her in the City, but most of the staff were young compared to her fifty-something and preferred to congregate together at lunchtime and after work. Roy Silver, her young friend who had inveigled her into working for Pedmans for six months, also had been steering clear of her of late, always claiming he was ‘too busy’ to meet her for a drink or even to talk to her.

  She sighed and looked at the clock. She was taking a journalist from the Daily Bugle out for drinks and dinner to promote a new pop star, Jeff Loon, real name Trevor Biles, and she was not looking forward to it. It was hard to promote someone like Jeff Loon, a weedy, acne-pitted youth with a mouth like a sewer. But he had a voice which used to be described as Irish parlour tenor and had recently re-recorded some old romantic favourites, all great hits. It was necessary then to give him a new image as the darling of middle England, the kind that the mums and dads adored. The best way was to keep him away from the press as much as possible and send in Agatha Raisin.

  She went to the Ladies and changed into a black dress and pearls, suitable to foster the staid image of the client she was representing. The journalist she was to meet was new to her.

  She had checked up on him. His name was Ross Andrews. He had once been a major league reporter but had been demoted to the entertainments page in middle age. Ageing journalists often found themselves relegated to reporting on the social or entertainments page or, worse, to answering readers’ letters.

  They were to meet in the City, Fleet Street being no more, the newspaper companies having moved down to the East End.

  She had agreed to meet Ross in the bar of the City Hotel and to eat there as well, for the restaurant was passable and its windows commanded a good view of the River Thames.

  She twisted this way and that in front of the mirror. The dress, a recent purchase, looked suspiciously tight. Too many expense account dinners and lunches. As soon as she got back to Carsely, she would take the weight off.

  As she walked down to the entrance hall, the doorman, Jock, sprang to open the door. “Goodnight, Mrs Raisin,” he said with an oily smile, and muttered under his breath once Agatha was out of earshot, “Rotten old bat!” For Agatha had once snapped at him, “If you’re a doorman, then open the bloody door every time you see me. Hop to it!” and the lazy Jock had never forgiven her.

  Agatha walked along with the thinning home-going crowds, a stocky, pugnacious woman with a short hairstyle, bearlike eyes and good legs.

  The hotel was only a few streets away. She left the evening sunlight and plunged into the gloom of the hotel bar. Although she had never met this Ross Andrews before, her experienced eye picked him out immediately. He was wearing a dark suit and a collar and tie, but he had that raffish seediness about him of a newspaper journalist. He had thinning hair of a suspicious black, a fat face with a smudge of a nose and watery blue eyes. He might have once been good-looking, thought Agatha as she walked towards him, but years of heavy boozing had taken their toll.

  “Mr Andrews?”

  “Mrs Raisin. Call me Ross. I ordered a drink and put it on your tab,” he said cheerfully. “It’s all on expenses anyway.”

  Agatha reflected that quite a number of journalists were expert at putting in fake restaurant bills for clients they should have entertained and never did, pocketing the money themselves. But when it came to anyone else’s expenses, it seemed to be a case of no holds barred.

  She nodded and sat down opposite him, signalled to the waiter and ordered a gin and tonic for herself. “Call me Agatha,” she said.

  “How are things on the Daily Bugle?” she continued, knowing that it was pointless talking business until the journalist considered he had sunk enough booze to warrant a few lines.

  “On the skids, if you ask me,” he said gloomily. “The trouble is that these new journalists don’t know their arses from their elbows. They come out of these damn schools of journalism and they’re not a patch on the likes of us who had to learn to fly by the seat of our pants. Come back off a job and say, “Oh, I couldn’t ask him or her that. Husband just dead,” or some crap like that. I say to them, “Laddie, in my day, we got it on the front page and the hell with anyone’s feelings.” They want to be liked. A good reporter is never liked.”

  “True,” agreed Agatha with some feeling.

  He signalled the waiter and ordered himself another whisky and water without asking Agatha if she was ready for another drink.

  “It all happened when they turned the running of the newspapers over to accountants, seedy jealous bods who cut your expenses and argue about every penny. Why, I remember…”

  Agatha smiled and tuned him out. How many times had she been in similar circumstances, listening to similar complaints? Tomorrow she would be free and she would never go back to work again, not as a PR anyway. She had sold her own PR firm to take early retirement, to retire to the Cotswolds, to the village of Carsely, which had slowly enfolded her in its gentle warmth. She missed it. She missed the Carsely Ladies’ Society, the chatter over the teacups in the vicarage, the placid life of the village. Keeping a practised look of admiration on her face as Ross wittered on, her thoughts moved to her neighbour, James Lacey. She had had a drink with him on her last visit to the village but their easy friendship seemed to have gone. She told herself that her silly obsession for him had fled, never to return. Still, they had had fun solving those murders.

  As Ross raised his arm to order another drink, she forestalled him by suggesting firmly that they should eat.

  They walked into the dining-room. “Your usual table, Mrs Raisin,” said the maître d’, showing them to a table at the window.

  There had been a time, reflected Agatha, when being known and recognized by maître d’s was gratifying, underlying how far she had come from the Birmingham slum in which she had grown up. No one said ‘slum’ these days, of course. It was Inner City, as if the euphemism could take away the grime, violence and despair. The do-gooders chattered on about poverty but no one was starving, apart from old age pensioners who were not tough enough to demand benefits owing to them. It was a poverty of the very soul, where imagination was fed by violent videos, drink and drugs.

  “And old Chalmers said to me when I came back from Beirut, “You’re too
wily and tough a bird, Ross, to get kidnapped.””

  “Absolutely,” said Agatha. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Mind if I choose? I find the ladies know nothing about wine,” which Agatha translated into meaning that the ladies might order inexpensive wine, or half a bottle, or something unacceptable. She thought, he will choose the second most expensive wine, being greedy but not wanting to appear so, and he did. Like some of his ilk, he ordered in the way of food what he thought was due to his position rather than because he enjoyed the taste of it. He did not eat much of it, obviously longing for the brandy at the end of the meal and for someone to take all the expensive muck away. So he barely ate snails, followed by rack of lamb, followed by profiteroles.

  Over the brandies, Agatha wearily got down to business. She described Jeff Loon as a nice boy, ‘too nice for the pop world’, who was devoted to his mother and two brothers. She described his forthcoming release. She handed over photographs and press handouts.

  “This is a load of shit, you know,” said Ross, smiling at her blearily. “I mean, I checked up on this Jeff Loon and he’s got a record, and I mean criminal record. He’s been found guilty on two counts of actual bodily harm and he’s also been done for taking drugs, so why are you peddling this crap about him being a mother’s boy?”

  The pleasant middle-aged woman that had been his impression of Agatha Raisin disappeared and a hard-featured woman with eyes like gimlets faced him.

  “And you cut the crap, sweetie,” growled Agatha. “You know damn well why you were invited here. If you had no intention of writing anything even half decent, then you shouldn’t have come, you greedy pig. I’ll tell you something else: I don’t give a sod what you write. I just never want to see your like again. You chomp and swig like the failed journalist you are, boring the knickers off me with apocryphal stories of your greatness, and then you have the cheek to say that Jeff is a phony. What about you?”

  “Oh, it’s not on for PRs to complain, but hear this! I’m going to break the mould. Your editor is going to hear all your stories, verbatim, and get it along with the price of this evening.”

  “He’ll never listen to you!” said Ross.

  She fished under the napkin on her lap and held up a small but serviceable tape recorder. “Smile,” said Agatha. “You’re on Candid Camera.”

  He gave a weak laugh. “Aggie, Aggie.” He covered her hand with his own. “Can’t you take a joke? Of course I’m going to write a nice piece on Jeff.”

  Agatha signalled for the bill. “I couldn’t care less what you write,” she said.

  Ross Andrews had sobered rapidly. “Look, Aggie…”

  “Agatha to you, but Mrs Raisin will do now that we’ve got to know each other so well.”

  “Look, I promise you a good piece.”

  Agatha signed the credit card slip. “You’ll get the tape when I read it,” she said. She got to her feet. “Goodnight, Mr Andrews.”

  Ross Andrews swore under his breath. Public relations! He hoped never to meet anyone like Agatha Raisin again. He felt quite tearful. Oh, for the days when women were women!

  Far away in the heart of Gloucestershire in the market town of Dembley, Jeffrey Benson, seated in the back of a schoolroom which was used for the weekly meeting of the rambling association, the Dembley Walkers, was thinking pretty much the same thing as he watched his lover, Jessica Tartinck, address the group. This feminist business was all very well, and God knew he was all for the equality of women, but why did they have to dress and go on like men?

  Jessica was wearing jeans and a workman’s shirt hanging loose. She had a pale scholarly face – she held a first in English from Oxford – and thick black hair worn long and straight. She had superb breasts, large and firm. She was rather thick about the thighs and did not have very good legs, but then the legs were always in trousers. Like Jeff, she was a schoolteacher at the local comprehensive. Before she had somehow declared herself leader of the Dembley Walkers, they had been a chatty, inoffensive group of people who enjoyed their weekend rambles.

  But Jessica seemed to delight in confrontations with landowners, whom she hated like poison. She was a frequent visitor to the Records Office in Gloucester, poring over maps, finding rights of way which, buried in the mists of time, now had crops planted over them.

  Jessica, on arriving to teach at the school a few months before, had immediately looked around for A Cause. She often thought in capital letters. She had learned of the Dembley Walkers through a fellow teacher, a timid, fair-haired girl called Deborah Camden who taught physics. All at once Jessica had found her cause, and in no time at all, without any of the other ramblers’ knowing quite how it had happened, she had taken over. That her zeal in finding rights of way for them across private land was fuelled by bitterness and envy and, as in the case of her previous ‘protests’ – she had been an anti-nuclear campaigner on Greenham Common – by a desire for power over people, never crossed her mind. Jessica could find no fault in Jessica, and this was her great strength. She exuded confidence. It was politically incorrect to disagree with her. As most of the genuine ramblers who just wanted a peaceful outing had left and been replaced by ones in Jessica’s image, she found it easy to hold sway. Among her most devout admirers, apart from Deborah, was Mary Trapp, a thin, morose girl with bad skin and very, very large feet. Then there was Kelvin Hamilton, a professional Scot who wore a kilt at all times and made jokes about ‘saxpence’; he claimed to have come from a Highland village but actually came from Glasgow. There was Alice Dewhurst, a large powerful woman with a large powerful backside, who had known Jessica during the Greenham Common days. Alice’s friend, Gemma Queen, a thin, anaemic shop-girl, did not say much except to agree with everything Alice said. Lastly were two men, Peter Hatfield and Terry Brice, who worked at the Copper Kettle Restaurant in Dembley as waiters. Both were thin and quiet, both effeminate, both given to whispering jokes to each other and sniggering.

  Jessica looked particularly attractive that evening because she had found fresh prey. There was an old right of way across the land of a baronet, Sir Charles Fraith. She herself had surveyed the territory. There were crops growing across the right of way. She had written to Sir Charles herself to say that they would be marching across his land the Saturday after next and that there was nothing he could do about it.

  Deborah suddenly found her hand shooting up. “Yes, Deborah?” asked Jessica, raising thin black eyebrows.

  “C-couldn’t we j-just once,” stammered Deborah, “j-just go for a walk like we used to? It was fun when old Mr Jones used to lead us. We had picnics and things and…”

  Her voice trailed away before the supercilious expression on Jessica’s face.

  “Come, now, Deborah, this is not like you. If it weren’t for rambling groups like ours, there wouldn’t be rights of way at all.”

  One of the original pre-Jessica ramblers, Harry Southern, said suddenly, “She’s got a point. We’re going back to Farmer Stone’s land this Saturday. He chased us off with a shotgun a month ago and some of the ladies were frightened.”

  “You mean you were frightened,” said Jessica haughtily. “Very well. We will put it to a vote. Do we go to Farmer Stone’s this weekend or not?”

  As her acolytes outnumbered the others, the vote was easily carried. Even Deborah no longer had the courage to protest, and after the meeting, when Jessica put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug, she felt her doubts ebbing away and all her usual slavish devotion returning.

  POETS day in the City, the acronym standing for Piss Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday, had arrived at last. Agatha Raisin cleared her desk. She had an almost childish desire to erase all the telephone numbers of contacts on the Filofax to make it harder for whoever replaced her, but managed to restrain herself. Outside her door, she could hear her secretary singing a happy tune. Agatha had gone through three secretaries during her short stay. The present one, Bunty Dunton, was a big jolly county girl with a skin like a rhinoc
eros, and so Agatha’s often virulent outbursts of temper had seemingly left her untouched. But she had never sounded so happy before.

  It would be all right when she returned to Carsely, thought Agatha. She was popular there.

  Her office door opened and Roy Silver edged in. His hair was slicked back with gel and now worn in a pony-tail. He had a spot on his chin and his suit was of the type where the jacket appears to be hanging off the shoulders and the sleeves are turned back at the cuff. His silk tie was broad and a mixture of violent fluorescent colours which seemed to heighten the unhealthy pallor of his face.

  “Off then?” he asked, looking poised for flight.

  “Oh, sit down, Roy,” said Agatha. “I’ve been here six months and we’ve hardly seen anything of each other.”

  “Been busy, you know that, Aggie. So have you. How did you get on with the Jeff Loon account?”

  “All right,” said Agatha uneasily. She was beginning to wonder why she had gone over the top like that. Not that she had actually taped the creep. She just happened to have had her tape recorder in her handbag and had taken it out while he was absorbed in bragging about himself and put it on her lap under her napkin to trick him.

  Roy sat down. “So you’re off to Carsely. Look, Aggie, I think you’ve found your niche.”

  “You mean PR? Forget it.”

  “No, I meant Carsely. You’re a much easier person to know when you’re there.”

  “What d’you mean?” demanded Agatha truculently. She held up a silver paper-knife she had been about to drop into a box on her desk along with her other belongings.

  Roy cringed but said firmly, “Well, Aggie, I must say you’ve been a success, back on your old form, rule by fear and all that. I’d got used to Village Aggie, all tea and crumpets and the doings of the neighbours. Funny, even murder in your parish didn’t bring out the beast in you quite the way PR has done.”

  “I don’t indulge in personality clashes,” said Agatha, feeling a tide of red starting at her neck and moving up to her face.