A Spoonful of Poison Page 11

  “Can’t you send him away somewhere?” suggested Charles.

  “You might have something there. He’s also got the Tropper case. Mrs. Tropper suggests her husband might be taking his totty to a hotel in Brighton. That’s it. I’ll send him off tomorrow.”

  “What if I take Mrs. Freedman with me for the break-in?” said Patrick. “Jimmy’s some relative of hers.”

  “She’d be too shocked and she might say something to him.”

  “Right. We’ll just send him on his way tomorrow and then decide what to do about it.”

  Agatha could not believe her luck the next morning when she found Jimmy, stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep. The office was full of stale beer fumes. His jacket was hanging over the back of a chair. She felt in the pockets and extracted his keys. Quietly she let herself out and rushed to the nearest key cutters. She looked at her watch. Ten to nine. The shop door was closed. She impatiently rattled the handle. The blind on the door was raised and the shopkeeper mouthed, “Closed,” and pointed to his watch.

  Agatha opened her handbag and took a twenty-pound note out of her wallet and waved it. The door opened. “I need an extra set of house keys,” said Agatha. “Twenty pounds over the price if you do it now.”

  Soon she had the keys copied and hurried back to the office. Jimmy was sitting up, staring blearily around.

  Agatha walked towards her desk and knocked his jacket to the floor as she did so. She slipped Jimmy’s keys on top of the jacket and then rounded on him.

  “What where you doing sleeping in the office?”

  “I had a bit of a bevvy last night,” said Jimmy. “Too many coppers around, so I decided to sleep it off here.”

  “You’d better go home and get a bath and then take yourself off to Brighton. It’s the Tropper case. Mrs. Tropper thinks he’s taking his bit of stuff to Brighton. He told her he was there on a sales conference. Check and see.”

  Jimmy stood up. “I’ll get off. I’ll need an advance for expenses.”

  Agatha unlocked the office safe and took out a wad of notes. “I want you to account for every penny of that.”

  “Sure. See you. Bye.”

  The rest of Agatha’s staff were all out on jobs. She telephoned each of them to say she had the keys and they all said they would come back in for a council of war. She suggested they meet at the Sorrento Cafe in Mircester so that Mrs. Freedman wouldn’t know what they were up to. She phoned Charles as well, but he said he had to go home to deal with things.

  Agatha could only hope and pray that Jimmy would not turn out to be the culprit. Such a scandal would hit the agency hard.

  When they were all seated in the cafe, Agatha said, “Toni and I had better go. We’d be less conspicuous.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Phil. “I could come along as bodyguard.”

  Agatha looked affectionately at Phil’s elderly face and white hair and said, “We’ll be all right. Jimmy’s not going to hurry back from an expenses-paid trip to Brighton.”

  Jimmy’s flat turned out to be at the top end of Port Street near the garage above a small grocery store.

  They were not wearing any disguises. Agatha had said that she had a good excuse. She could say she had forgotten she had sent Jimmy to Brighton and was checking up on him.

  There were two keys on the ring. Agatha correctly guessed that the bigger of the two opened the street door.

  Inside, worn stone steps led up to the floor above. “Good,” Agatha whispered. “Only one door. No neighbours.”

  She unlocked the door and they both went in. “What a tip!” exclaimed Agatha. Empty beer cans lay about the floor. Empty pizza boxes were piled up on the coffee table. “Oh, well, hold your nose and let’s get started. Try to put everything back the way it was. Here’s a pair of gloves.”

  It was only a tiny flat, consisting of one living room, one bedroom and a minuscule kitchen. The bathroom contained a shower so small, Agatha wondered how Jimmy managed to get his bulk into it. They worked steadily, searching cupboards and under the bed, in the bathroom cistern and even making a slit in the side of the mattress in case Jimmy had stuffed the money in there.

  Agatha began to feel quite cheerful. She really didn’t want Jimmy to be the culprit. “Give up!” she called to Toni, who was still searching the bedroom. “I’m beat.”

  She carefully removed two newspapers from a plump armchair and collapsed into it with a sigh of relief. Then she stiffened and slowly stood up. “Toni, come here!”

  “Found anything?” asked Toni, coming through from the bedroom.

  “The big seat cushion on that armchair feels as if it’s stuffed with something.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Toni picked up the huge seat cushion. “It’s been clumsily stitched up at the back,” she said. “I’ve got a pair of nail scissors in my handbag.”

  “If there’s nothing sinister in there, we’re going to have to try to stitch it up again so that it looks the same,” said Agatha.

  Toni took the scissors out of her handbag and cut the threads. “There’s something here,” she said. She grabbed hold of the end of something and pulled. Agatha stared. She found herself looking at a familiar bank bag.

  “We can just take it,” said Toni eagerly, “and give it back to the church. Fire Jimmy and there’ll be no scandal.”

  “Can’t,” said Agatha. “You forget Arnold was murdered. I’ll call the police. I’ll say I had more instructions for Jimmy. He didn’t answer his phone. We came up here and found the door open. No Jimmy. I sat in that armchair and I thought, there’s something in this cushion, and blah, blah, blah.”

  “Sounds thin.”

  “Got any better ideas?” Agatha took out her phone and called police headquarters in Mircester.

  She managed to get hold of Bill Wong and spoke rapidly. When she had finished, Toni said nervously, “Do you think they’ll search us?”

  “Probably not. Why?”

  “You’ve got the keys and we’ve both got latex gloves.”

  “I’ll attach the keys to my own key ring and we’re supposed to carry latex gloves. We’re detectives.”

  “This is Evesham. Won’t it be Worcester police?”

  “It’s Gloucester’s case. I think they’ll come straight here and let Worcester know afterwards. I feel a bit shaky now. Poor Mrs. Freedman. She’s going to be shattered by this bit of news.”

  “I’ve thought of something!” exclaimed Toni.

  “What?”

  “They’ll automatically search the flat for fingerprints.”

  “We were wearing gloves.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s it. Why were you wearing gloves?”

  “Let me think. I know. We found the money right off because I sat down for a rest. We thought we may as well look round while we were waiting.”

  “Won’t work. They’ll know that we’ll know a crime scene shouldn’t be touched.”

  “We’ll tell them we wanted to find out where Jimmy was staying in Brighton, if he had left a note somewhere.”

  “And they’ll say, ‘Why didn’t you phone him?’”

  “Couldn’t get an answer.”

  “What if they check your phone records?”

  “Snakes and bastards,” howled Agatha. “I’m not the villain here.”

  “Mrs. Raisin?” Agatha swung round. Wilkes and Collins were standing in the doorway. Just behind them stood Bill Wong.

  “Where is the money?” asked Wilkes.

  Agatha pointed to the armchair cushion. “It’s in there.”

  “How did you find it? This is Jimmy Wilson’s flat, isn’t it? And he works for you.”

  Agatha told her tale of wanting to get in touch with Jimmy, who was in Brighton. She had sat down in the armchair and had felt all the paper inside it and decided to have a look. “So you don’t know where he’s staying?”

  “I couldn’t get him on the phone,” said Agatha. “Knowing Jimmy, if he thinks he’s richer than he was, he’ll probably be stayi
ng somewhere grand.”

  Wilkes spoke rapidly into his phone, ordering someone at headquarters to contact the Brighton police and arrest Jimmy Wilson.

  “Why did you employ such a person?”

  “He’s an ex-detective. He was one of your lot.”

  “I want you and Miss Gilmour to go directly to police headquarters to be interviewed. Detective Sergeant Wong will go with you.”

  At police headquarters, Agatha and Toni were split up. Agatha was interviewed by the terrible Collins and another detective called Finch.

  The questioning was rapid-fire and bullying. Collins stopped just short of implying that Agatha had been in on the theft of the money and the murder of Arnold.

  Grimly, Agatha stuck to her story, reminding Collins time after time that because Jimmy was a retired detective, she had no reason to suspect him.

  At last, she was free to go but was warned that she had to be ready for further questioning. She found Toni waiting for her.

  “Let’s go for a drink,” said Agatha. “I wonder if they’ve caught Jimmy.”

  Jimmy strolled into the foyer of the Grand Hotel in Brighton. “One of your best rooms,” he said to the clerk.

  “Name, please, sir?”

  “Wilson. James Wilson.”

  The clerk looked across the foyer and gave a little nod. Sweat began to run down Jimmy’s fat face. He was suddenly frightened to turn around.

  “Got that room?” he asked in a quavering voice.

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. A deep voice said, “James Wilson, we are arresting you for the murder of Arnold Birntweather and the theft of funds belonging to the church of-”

  He broke off because Jimmy, who had slowly turned round, was scrabbling at his shirt collar. “Air. Need air,” he gabbled. Then one side of his face slipped and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

  Jimmy died of a massive stroke on the road to hospital. In the following two weeks, Agatha coped with the guilt of Mrs. Freedman and all her fears that her business would slump. The murder of Arnold had been solved as far as the police were concerned, although they had been unable to track down Jimmy’s female accomplice. Comfrey Magna was almost forgotten as Agatha’s staff rushed to wrap up as many of their other outstanding cases as they could to prove their worth. They had even been working through the weekends.

  Agatha at last called a halt. She announced they would all take the next weekend off. Toni received an excited phone call from Harry. He wanted to take her to a production of Prokofiev’s Lady Macbeth of Minsk. A touring Russian company would be performing at the weekend in Mircester. Toni said she would like to go.

  In anticipation of Harry’s visit, she cleared all the women’s magazines she liked to read out of her flat. She felt sure he would not approve.

  Harry then texted her and said he had good seats for the matinee on Saturday afternoon. Toni felt relieved. She had been wondering what to wear. A Saturday-afternoon performance didn’t seem to call for anything too grand. Besides, Harry had said he would have to leave for Cambridge after the show.

  The weather was unusually chilly for summer, so she bought herself a smart dark-blue trouser suit at an up-market thrift shop. She wore a low top under it and three strings of fake pearls bought at the market. She tried out the outfit for her friend, Sharon.

  “You look like a businesswoman,” commented Sharon. “You don’t look like someone going out on a hot date.”

  “I don’t think opera is a hot date,” said Toni. “He’s trying to widen my experience.”

  “What about sex?”

  “Haven’t got round to that yet.”

  “Why?” demanded Sharon. “My latest squeeze can’t keep his paws off me.”

  Toni frowned. “Maybe they do things differently in Cambridge.”

  Earlier that day, Harry had given his Cambridge girlfriend, Olivia, a hearty kiss before getting on his motorbike. Olivia was plump and pretty. Harry considered their current affair to be warm and uncomplicated. Before he drove off, Olivia said, “Remember Pygmalion.”

  “I’m just helping the girl,” said Harry. “I’d make a good teacher.”

  When he reached Mircester, he parked his bike near the theatre and stripped off his protective leathers and helmet. He was wearing jeans and an open-necked checked shirt. He pulled a suede jacket out of his satchel and put it on. As he strolled towards the theatre, he ran into a group of his old school friends, who were just coming out of the pub. “We’re going for a curry,” said a tall gangly youth called Bertie Bryt-Anderson. “Coming?”

  “No, I’m going to the opera. I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “Female friend?”

  “Just a friend. Oh, that’s her. Just about to cross the road.”

  Toni was waiting for the traffic light to change. Sunlight glinted on her fair hair.

  “If that’s just a friend, what about an introduction?” said Bertie. “What a looker!”

  “I’d better go,” said Harry.

  Followed by cheers and wolf whistles, he hurried to meet Toni.

  “What’s that about?” asked Toni, looking towards the group of young men.

  “Idiots! Never mind them.”

  Toni felt a flutter of anticipation as they took their seats in the stalls. This would be her first opera. The conductor arrived, the audience applauded and he raised his baton. After a few minutes, Toni whispered, “Is this it? Has it started?”

  “It’s the overture,” hissed Harry.

  Toni blushed miserably. The curtain rose on a large cage which dominated the stage. Toni tried to enjoy it, but it all seemed brutal and violent. The female worker the other workers tried to rape on the stage was actually stripped naked. She gave a sigh of relief when the interval arrived. “Do you know Stalin walked out when he first saw this opera?” said Harry eagerly as he ushered her to the bar.

  “Really?” Toni miserably felt she might have done the same thing if she had been on her own.

  Harry got himself a beer and Toni a glass of orange juice. He was just about to explain more about the opera to her when he found himself accosted by his former English teacher, Mark Sutherland.

  “How’s Cambridge?” asked Mark, his eyes fastened on Toni.

  Mark was a tall, rangy man in his forties with a prominent nose and bright blue eyes.

  “Going all right. Oh, Toni, this is my former English teacher, Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Sutherland, Miss Toni Gilmour.”

  “Call me Mark. We’re not in school now.” Mark had taken Toni’s hand and was holding on to it. “Where did you find this beautiful lady?”

  “Toni works for the detective agency that I used to work for.”

  “Indeed! How fascinating. I’ve always wanted to write a detective story. Perhaps, Toni, we could meet for a drink one evening and you can tell me about your work.”

  “Mark?”

  He swung round impatiently and then his face fell. “May I introduce my wife, Pamela? I thought you didn’t want to come to the bar, dear.” Pamela was small and thin and dressed in a floaty Indian gown which sparkled with little bits of mirror. She had a thin, avid face and glittering black eyes, which she fastened on Toni.

  “Well, here I am, dear. You introduced me but not them.”

  “Oh, sorry.” As Mark had finished the introductions, the bell went, calling them back to their seats.

  Toni sat down again. She felt terribly out of place. She did not understand the music and put it down to her lack of proper education in the arts.

  Because of the time factor, there was only to be one interval, so she decided to sit back and think of other things until it was all over.

  Harry glanced from time to time at her serene face. Her eyelids were lowered and he noticed how very long her eyelashes were.

  When they at last emerged from the theatre and stood blinking in the sunlight, Toni turned round and, to Harry’s surprise, shook him firmly by the hand. “Thank you very much for a most interesting experience. Gotta run.”

/>   And run she did, her slim figure weaving in and out of the pedestrians. Well, thought Harry, I did tell her I had to go straight back to Cambridge after the show. He had known she was pretty, but he had been so busy playing Pygmalion, “moulding her mind,” as he described it to himself, that he had never rightly taken in that Toni could be someone that men of all ages might desire.

  He also knew he should never have tried to show off by taking her to a Russian opera that quite a number of people might find difficult to listen to when they heard it for the first time.

  And she had so firmly shaken his hand! Just as if he were some elderly uncle! Nobody shook hands much these days.

  He drove off and Mircester receded behind him. By the time he reached the flat fields of Cambridgeshire, he felt himself somehow growing smaller in stature.

  Toni wondered whether to go round to one of the discos that evening to dance the memory of that opera out of her head. But instead, she got into her car and headed for Carsely.

  Agatha was rummaging in her deep freeze to see if she could unearth something for dinner. Most of the packets were frosted over and she scraped busily at some of them, trying to make out what they were. The doorbell rang. Agatha brightened. She belonged to that generation of women who still considered it a sign of failure to be alone on a Saturday night.

  “Oh, it’s you, Toni,” she said on opening the door. “Come in. What’s up?”

  “Something’s bothering me.”

  “Well, come in. Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe we’ll go to the pub. I keep throwing stuff into the freezer and then I can never figure out what the stuff is. Yes, let’s go to the pub and get a plateful of comforting cholesterol and you can tell me about it.”

  “Oh, they’ve got salads now,” said Agatha, when they were seated in the pub. “Maybe… maybe not. Comfort food is what we need. What about steak and kidney pie and new potatoes?”

  “Sounds good,” said Toni.

  “That’s a very smart suit,” commented Agatha, “but not like the things you usually wear. Sort of thing one wears for a job interview.” Agatha’s small eyes bored into Toni’s face. “Not looking for another job, are you?”