Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham Read online

  “I wish I’d left the burglar alarm on,” grumbled Agatha.

  “I was only joking,” said Roy, suddenly nervous.

  “We’ll go in and check and then go round to Doris Simpson and collect the cats.”

  “You first.”

  “Coward.”

  Agatha walked up the path and then stopped short. Roy collided into her.

  “What’s up?” he hissed.

  “There’s a light on in the living-room.”

  “Then we go and get a copper. Did you leave a light on?”

  “No, honestly. Let’s get Fred Griggs.”

  Following Agatha’s directions, Roy drove to the village police station. It was in darkness, but there was a light on in the flat above. Agatha rang the bell and waited while Fred Griggs lumbered down the stairs.

  “Fred,’! said Agatha when he answered the door. “There’s a light on in the living-room of my cottage. Someone must be in there.”

  “Sure you didn’t leave it on?”

  “No, Fred. What if it’s this murderer waiting for me to come home?”

  “I’ll just pop on my uniform. Wait here.”

  Roy and Agatha waited for what seemed like an age until Fred reappeared.

  “Haven’t you got a weapon?” hissed Agatha.

  “Just my fists. Not even CS gas,” said Fred comfortably.

  They drove him back to Agatha’s cottage. “Look at that!” exclaimed Agatha. “The light’s gone out.”

  “Maybe you imagined it,” said Fred.

  “No, I didn’t, did I, Roy?”

  “Well, you did say you’d seen it, but maybe we imagined it,” said Roy.

  “Can’t wait here all night.” Fred walked up to the door. “Your keys, Mrs. Raisin.”

  Agatha handed him her door keys. Fred opened the door and Roy and Agatha crowded in behind him.

  “Which way’s the living room?”

  “Here.” Agatha pointed to the living-room door. Fred opened it and switched on the light.

  “Look!” hissed Agatha.

  A half-finished glass of whisky stood on a table and a newspaper was dropped on the floor.

  “Not yours?” whispered Fred.

  Agatha shook her head.

  “Wait here.” Fred went off and looked in the dining-room and kitchen.

  He came back. “I’ll just be taking a look upstairs.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Agatha whispered back, not wanting to be left in the hall with only the weedy Roy for protection.

  They followed Fred as he crept up the stairs. He opened Agatha’s bedroom door. Nothing and no one. Then the bathroom door. Sodden towels lay on the floor.

  “I didn’t leave it like that,” muttered Agatha.

  “Last room,” whispered Fred and opened the door of the spare bedroom. He fumbled and switched on the light.

  Sir Charles Fraith lay in bed, fast asleep.

  “Seen ‘im before with you, Mrs. Raisin,” Fred remarked.

  “Oh,” said Agatha, weak at the knees with relief. “It’s only Charles. Just leave him.”

  They backed out and went downstairs. “How did your boyfriend get in?” asked Fred with a grin.

  “He’s not my boyfriend. Just a house guest. I gave him the spare set of keys. Look, Fred, it was very good of you. Roy’11 run you back.”

  “I’ll walk. Nice night for it. Got a full house, hey?” Fred winked at Agatha, slapped her on the bottom and went off whistling.

  “Bang goes your reputation, sweetie,” said Roy. “What a klutz you are! What’s with the baronet in the bed? You never told me about him. I mean, I didn’t know you were close”

  “He’s just a friend,” protested Agatha. “He was staying here for a bit and then he left.”

  “I’ve seen him recently.” Roy frowned. “Aha, he was in that restaurant in Stratford and with some girl and you never said a word.”

  “Can we just leave the whole thing? I’m tired.”

  “Have it your way. What’s the programme for tomorrow?”

  “Nothing. I mean, what’s the point? We haven’t the resources of the police. I’m going to bed.”

  “Come into the living-room a minute and let’s have a nightcap. We have to talk.”

  “I told you, Roy, I’m dropping the case.”

  “Dropping the case,” jeered Roy. “Hark at the great detective. I want to talk about us.”

  Agatha’s bearlike eyes narrowed. “If you’ve come down here again in the name of friendship to twist my arm into going back into public relations, forget it.”

  “I did come down here just to see you, but Mr. Wilson did happen to mention…” Mr. Wilson was Roy’s boss.

  “I thought so,” said Agatha bitterly. “You’ll need to share a bed with Charles and I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

  She made for the door. “I’m going to get my cats. I’ll run you to the station in the morning. Early train.”

  “But, Aggie…”

  “Good night.”

  After Agatha had seen a still-protesting Roy off on the early-morning train, she returned to the cottage to find Charles sitting in the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing-gown and buttering toast.

  “What the hell do you mean by creeping back here last night,” snapped Agatha. “I thought the murderer had broken in. I summoned the local bobby and he found you fast asleep.”

  “That’s tunny.”

  “It was not funny at all. So when you’ve finished your breakfast, please leave.”

  Charles looked mildly at the flushed and angry Agatha.

  “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

  “You, you insensitive, self-absorbed little bastard. You have sex with me, bugger off and then tell me you’re in love.”

  “Was in love. Was.”

  “Then you couldn’t have been in love in the first place.”

  “You’re probably right. Do sit down. I’ve made some coffee. It’s as hot as the steam coming out of your ears.”

  Agatha’s rage subsided. She felt suddenly weary. She sat down.

  “Did you not think, Charles, that your behaviour towards me was selfish and insensitive?”

  “No, Aggie. I thought we had fun. Then I had these guests and there was this girl, eminently suitable.”

  “That doesn’t sound like love.”

  “It sounds like marriage. I really think I ought to get married. Get an heir and all that.” He waved a piece of buttered toast in the air. “But she didn’t even like me. Met some friend in a restaurant in Stratford and went off with him and left me flat. So I thought, I’d best get back and see what Aggie’s up to.”

  “Just don’t come on to me again!”

  “You, Aggie, were the one who crept into my bed.”

  “For comfort, not sex.”

  “I thought the sex very comfortable.”

  “You’re not only immoral, Charles, you’re amoral.”

  “Perhaps. How’s the case?”

  Agatha sighed. “Dead in the water. I went to Portsmouth.”

  “And?”

  Agatha told him about Harriet.

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t stay on in Portsmouth. It’s probably crawling with blackmailers of the wicked hairdresser.”

  “John’s ex-wife probably knows all about it, but she could be anywhere in the country now. The police have the resources to trace her. I don’t. Oh, and I found out something else.” She told him about Jessie and Mavis.

  Charles listened intently. Then he said, “Run that bit about Mavis past me again.”

  Agatha looked at him in surprise but repeated what had happened during her interview with Mavis.

  “And you believed her?” Charles reached across the table and fished a cigarette out of Agatha’s packet.

  “Why not? She seemed a straightforward, honest woman. Her home was clean and tidy. It had the atmosphere of a happy family home.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  “Why?”

  �
�She just sounds too good to be true.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose you won’t be satisfied until you’ve met her. I never checked to see if you’d packed and taken your clothes away.”

  “No, I rushed off and left them. I’ll go and dress and we’ll be off.”

  “I wonder if she’ll be at home,” said Agatha as she turned off the by-pass and into the Four Pools Estate. “Perhaps we should have phoned first.”

  “Better to surprise her,” said Charles. “Got another cigarette?”

  “We’re nearly there and if you’re going to take up smoking in earnest, then I suggest you buy your own.”

  “Filthy habit. There’s this hypnotist in Gloucester, said to work wonders.”

  “I might try that,” said Agatha. “I heard about him. But if I do give up smoking, I hope to God I don’t turn into one of those morons who goes around making smokers’ lives hell. Here we are. You see, you didn’t have time for another cigarette.”

  As they walked up the path, a curtain twitched. The door opened before they could even ring the bell and Mavis stood there, smiling a welcome.

  “How nice to see you again!” she cried. “Come in. This your husband?”

  I like this woman, thought Agatha. It was flattering to be considered Charles’s wife, as Charles was much younger than she.

  Agatha introduced Charles and they both followed Mavis inside. Mavis bustled off to make tea while Charles walked around the room, peering at photographs. “Now here’s a thing, Aggie,” he whispered. “Our Mavis was on the stage in her youth.”

  “So?”

  “So her acting abilities might have fooled you.”

  “I’m a good judge of character,” said Agatha huffily.

  “Except when it comes to men.”

  Agatha was glaring at him as Mavis tripped in bearing the tea-tray.

  After she had served tea, Mavis asked brightly, “So what brings you back?”

  Agatha looked helplessly at Charles, who smiled at Mavis and said, “Aggie here told me what you had said and I wondered why you had lied to her.”

  Mavis goggled at him and Agatha stared at Charles in surprise.

  Then Mavis’s face cleared and she laughed. “Oh, all that stuff about my Betty being a drug addict.”

  “No,” said Charles. “I believe that was a lie. But I happen to know that Shawpart was blackmailing you.”

  There was a shocked silence. “Mam!” called a child shrilly out on the street. A car drove past, a gust of wind rattled the leaves of the wisteria outside the window and then the room was quiet again.

  At last Mavis said in a thin voice, “So that letter wasn’t burnt in the fire.”

  Agatha looked to Charles for help, but he was studying Mavis, waiting for her to go on.

  “If my husband finds out,” said Mavis, “it’ll be the end of our marriage.”

  “He won’t,” said Agatha fiercely. “Tell her, Charles!”

  But Charles waited patiently.

  “It was like this,” said Mavis. “He flattered me. He said I should never have left the stage. Oh, he worked on me. He got me when I was feeling down and bored and he supplied a bit of excitement. At first it was just sneaky little coffee meetings and then he said we couldn’t talk freely when we were frightened that someone would see us. He invited me to his house. We drank a lot of champagne and he told me… he told me he loved me. He was so passionate, he seemed so sincere. And I thought I was the actor! So I went to bed with him. I was so infatuated, I was prepared to run away with him.”

  She began to cry. They waited until she had blown her nose and composed herself.

  “Then he did not get in touch with you,” prompted Agatha.

  “Yes, and I was desperate. I thought I had done or said something. I wrote to him. When he phoned and said he wanted to meet me, I was over the moon. Then he told me unless I paid him he would send the letter to my husband.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any money of your own,” said Agatha.

  “I lied. I had a bit put by. But then what seemed like a miracle happened. He was murdered. No, it wasn’t me, although I dreamed of it. Don’t go to the police.”

  “We won’t go to the police,” said Agatha. “And there’s no evidence. All the evidence was burnt in the fire.”

  Mavis’s yes narrowed. “So where the hell do you pair get off, tormenting me?” She stood up. “Get out of here!”

  “We’re only trying to find out who did it,” said Agatha patiently.

  “That’s a job for the police. I’ve a good mind to report you.”

  “If you do that,” said Charles, “we’ll be obliged to tell the police what we know about you.”

  Mavis crumpled. “I’m sorry. But it has all been so horrible. I’m sorry I got angry.”

  “That’s all right. We’ll be off,” said Charles. “Think no more about it.” He stood aside to let Agatha past, and then whipped round.

  “You weren’t ever married to John Shawpart, were you?”

  “No!”

  “Know anything about his wife?”

  “He said something about her being jealous of him. She was a hairdresser as well.”

  They thanked her and left.

  “How did you know about her, Charles?” asked Agatha as they drove off.

  “I didn’t. I just guessed.”

  “Why? How?”

  “Well, Shawpart seems to have been a cunning bastard. If there was no money in it, he dropped them.”

  “So what made you think he hadn’t dropped Mavis? She told me she had told him that she hadn’t any money and I believed her.”

  “It was a lucky guess. I thought it was worth a try. I mean, she did tell him all those lies about herself to get his interest. She must have told him the one about her drug-dealing daughter was a lie or he wouldn’t even have bothered bedding her. He’d just have used that.”

  “Let’s go back and make some notes,” said Agatha.

  “Interested again?”

  “Sort of. There might be something I’ve missed.”

  “Now,” said Charles, sitting over a sheet of paper at Agatha’s kitchen table half an hour later, “let’s see what we’ve got. We’ve got Mavis Burke. She could have put ricin in his vitamin pills. Then there’s the receptionist, Josie. She was in love with him. Mr. and Mrs. Friendly. Maggie Henderson or her brutal husband. Harriet of Portsmouth or her husband.”

  “But Harriet’s husband left her for the secretary.”

  “So she said. Could be another liar. She could have looked shocked when Luke turned up on her doorstep, not at seeing him again but in case you guessed she’d been telling a pack of lies. Anyone else?”

  “Jessie Lang, but that’s a non-starter.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair. “Yes, let’s think about Jessie Lang. Why would our philandering blackmailer waste his time on a bit of crumpet with no money? Not his scene.”

  “I’m sure she was telling me the truth,” said Agatha hotly. “You think she’s lying because I got a lot more out of her than you did!”

  “It’s a thought all the same. Then there’s Mrs. Shaw-part.”

  “But we don’t know where she is!”

  “Don’t we? We don’t know how long any of the married women suspects have been married. Could be Mavis.”

  “Who miraculously produces a teen-aged daughter and son after about a year?”

  “Did you see any photos of her children? I didn’t. I don’t trust Mavis one bit.”

  “We’re forgetting Mrs. Dairy,” said Agatha. “Poor Mrs. Dairy. What on earth could she have possibly found out that we didn’t?”

  “That’s a point. Why don’t we trot along to the vicarage and ask Mrs. Bloxby for some gossip?”

  As they approached the vicarage door, Agatha found herself hoping the vicar was not at home to start shouting in front of Charles about “that dreadful woman.”

  But Mrs. Bloxby answered the door with her usual glad smile of welcome. Agatha knew her
to be a busy woman and yet she never appeared to be flustered by the unheralded arrival of visitors.

  “This is nice,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Come into the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee ready.”

  Agatha sat down at the kitchen table and half-closed her eyes, letting the peace of the vicarage wash over her. Why did she always create such an insane world for herself, she wondered, where the totally unacceptable became the acceptable? What was she doing sitting here companionably with Charles? She should have told him to get lost, she should have said she would never see him again. And, what was even more important, she should stop this silly business of pretending to be a detective and let the police get on with it.

  Mrs. Bloxby put down thin china mugs of coffee in front of them and a plate of chocolate biscuits before sitting down herself. “You were away yesterday, Agatha?”

  “Yes”

  “The press were suddenly all over the place. You know, there were only a few directly after the murder. The police must have released that there was some connection between Mrs. Dairy and the murder of the hairdresser, although they appear to have released nothing about John Shawpart’s blackmailing activities. You see, there wasn’t much of a fuss before because the press thought it was just another murder of a pensioner in the Midlands. How awful that sounds! Just another murder. But there are so many. The longer people live, the more pensioners there are, and the more that get murdered. They’re such an easy, vulnerable target.”

  “Someone will be after Aggie next,” said Charles.

  “I’m not a pensioner,” snapped Agatha.

  “So were you investigating yesterday?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

  “Went to Portsmouth.”

  “With her toy boy,” murmured Charles.

  “Now why does that ring a bell? Portsmouth,” mused Mrs. Bloxby, ignoring Charles.

  “That’s where John Shawpart came from,” said Agatha.

  “So it is. But there’s something else… Never mind, it’ll come to me. So how did you get on?”

  Agatha told her about Harriet. “That poor woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby.

  “If she was telling the truth,” Charles put in. “Aggie here is very gullible.

  “I think that remark was uncalled for,” said Mrs. Bloxby.